Wishes At First Light. Joanne Rock
was safer. If a little tougher on the ears of unsuspecting neighbors.
Holding the last note of a sixties folk tune that Bob Dylan made famous, Clay debated going inside for the night. With his feet propped on the narrow porch rail and his back jammed into a corner on the wooden chair heâd borrowed from the dinette set inside, his joints had gone stiff from staying in one position for too long. Or from the cold. He pulled his feet off the railing just as a car turned off the interstate and into the parking lot.
The white Ford sedan had out-of-state plates. A rental, he guessed. And since there werenât many guests staying in the motel cottages, he paid attention to who stepped out of the vehicle and under a streetlamp.
Gabriella.
âAre you going to play anything or is that just for show?â she called as she strode his way, a warm smile on her face.
She looked pretty. Dressed up a bit, like sheâd been out to dinner with friends. Pale hair skimmed her shoulder where it fell loose from a ponytail. She wore a long gray dress belted over dark tights, plus a lightweight trench coat. Shiny earrings bobbed in the porch light as she leaned on his railing.
âI guarantee that if I play for you, itâll be the last time you ask me to play.â Setting the guitar aside, he clapped a hand on the arm of the wooden rocker. âYouâre welcome to have a seat if itâs not too cold for you.â
He asked because it was the neighborly thing to do. And because he was more than a little curious about her. But he was surprised when she joined him without hesitation.
âThank you.â Stepping up onto the narrow planks, she seated herself carefully. There was a slow deliberation in the way she moved, as though she never rushed into anything. âIâm glad for the fresh air. I went to a Salon Night in town for a bunch of the women who are giving testimony in the Covington trial and itâs good to clear my head from the scent of fingernail polish.â She waggled her shiny nails, studying the pink polish. âIâm not usually one to spend time in a salon, but it was fun.â
She wore no ring. Heâd noticed that over breakfast, too. And it occurred to him he wasnât usually the kind of guy whose eye gravitated to a womanâs left hand.
âPretty,â he observed lightly. âAnd probably a good distraction tonight when everyone is keyed up before the trial.â
âAbout that.â She tugged on the cuff of one loose sleeve of her coat, fingering the dark button that decorated a taupe-colored strap. âIâm definitely keyed up, which is part of the reason I ran out at breakfast this morning. Iâm so sorry about that.â
She sounded both genuine and distressed.
âNo need to apologize. It wasnât a big deal.â He didnât want her to worry about it. Hell, heâd rather have her thinking about reliving happier times whenâheâd thoughtâtheyâd been on the verge of acting on an attraction.
âBut I was actually planning on seeking you out tonight to tell you the other reason I left the table abruptly this morning.â She bit her lip, her pale forehead furrowed. âItâs awkward. And embarrassing.â
A breeze toyed with the loose strands of hair around her face, and his hand itched to smooth away the silky pieces. Put her at ease somehow.
âI wish it didnât have to be. Are you sure you donât want to sit inside where itâs warm?â The motel cabins were tiny, but each unit had a kitchenette. A small sofa.
âIâm fine.â She shook her head, but wrapped her arms around herself, hugging her coat tighter to her body. âI wouldnât mention this at all, but I hoped if I talked to you about it, maybe it would put some unsettling parts of my past to rest for me.â
Concern rooted him to the spot. âYouâre worrying me. I hope I donât have anything to do with unhappy parts of your past, Gabriella.â
Beyond the parking lot, a tractor trailer whizzed past, rumbling the whole porch under his feet and sending the foliage of a few overgrown bushes whipping against the small cabin.
âNot through any fault of your own.â She shook her head slowly.
Sadly.
âI donât understand.â Defensiveness fired through him. Heâd been a perfect gentleman where sheâd been concerned. âWe were young. What we shared was perfectly innocentââ
âWas it?â She asked the question as if she really needed to have it confirmed. As if she didnât already know the answer.
âHell, yesââ he started, sitting forward in his seat.
Gabriella laid a hand on his arm, a new confidence radiating from her that had been missing this morning. She seemed calmer tonight. Maybe the Salon Night was her equivalent of guitar picking.
âBecause, Clay, I thought I had a lot of not-completely-innocent conversations with you online that summer in chat rooms.â Her clear blue eyes were focused on his as he felt the floor drop out from under him.
âWhat?â He shook his head. Confused.
âAnd it turned out,â she continued, barely pausing to take a breath. âThat night I was attacked? I thought Iâd spoken to you online just before the incident. It was you I was planning to meet in the quarry.â
The revelation seemed to hang suspended in midair between them, not really permeating his brain. Heâd heard the words. But they made no sense.
âGabbyâI sent you a couple of emails that spring, I remember. I know you got them, because you answered them.â Theyâd spoken about it during a math tutoring session. Sheâd sent him some sample problems that way. âBut I donât think I even knew how to find a chat room back then.â
Unlike most of his generation, the techno-revolution had missed him. Heâd been poor to start with, so it wasnât like his parents had bought him laptops or game systems at Christmastime. Heâd been lucky to get new socks. A sweater, maybe. Later, when his alcoholic mom had run off and his alcoholic father had given up completely on parenting, Clay had moved into nicer foster homes with access to more technology, but heâd been low in the pecking order of kids waiting to use an internet connection for homework.
Gabriella folded her arms across her chest, hugging herself as she stared up at the fat full moon overhead for a long moment. There was something so vulnerable about her and strong at the same time. Willowy slim, she had a delicate, feminine grace, but the determined set of her chin and shoulders suggested she would walk through fire if the need arose.
âI knew, of course, that you couldnât have been the person I communicated with that night.â She blinked and drew a deep breath before continuing. âThose messages came from the man who attacked me. He was just pretending to be you when he sent them, so I believed that it was you who wanted to see me.â
He wondered what the exchange had been about that it had drawn a sixteen-year-old girl out of her home late at night. And damn, but it sent a surge of cold fury through him to think her attacker had impersonated Clay to get at her.
âThat night wasnât the only time you thought we exchanged messages online?â He had all new reasons to attend that trial for Jeremy Covington tomorrow.
Seized with the need to see the man pay for his crimes, Clay wondered if it was too late to charge him with impersonating Clay in addition to the long list of felonies that including numerous counts of cyber stalking, stalking, assault, sexual molestation, soliciting a minor and attempted kidnapping. Clayton remembered there was at least one impersonation charge on the long list heâd read in the paper, but that had been in conjunction with another incident involving a local