The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(19)

He didn’t make her wait long. He swung the truck to the curb in front of her house. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’ll stick around. The house could use a few more repairs. The Marines aren’t expecting me for a few weeks.”

Not ever, actually. But he didn’t say that.

He waited for her to say something. The dog shifted in the back and the truck rocked on its springs. He hadn’t been this close to such a vivid, lovely woman for a long time. He suddenly wanted to touch her. But he wouldn’t, of course. She was Jimmy’s wife. Even if Jimmy was dead.

He kept his hands on the steering wheel, feeling the faint vibration from the big V-8, a slow, gentle thrum as it idled, perfectly tuned. You’d never know the power in that engine until you stepped on the gas.

Peter felt his own heart beat, slow and patient.

He said, “Dinah, this is serious. Four hundred thousand dollars’ worth of serious. Let me help. Jimmy would do the same, if it was me who died over there. You know he would.”

She looked at him then, her eyes suddenly direct. He was aware of the grace in her long neck, the strength of her capable hands. The curves of the lines bracketing her mouth. She nodded once. “All right,” she said. “Thank you, Peter.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he said. The truck rocked again as the dog moved restlessly. “I need to let the dog out.”

—

The beast was waiting for him at the door, gently nosing his face, then bonking his head with the piece of wood still tied into its mouth. It whined softly and pushed against his shoulder. The wood was chewed down even farther now. He let the leash go and stepped away to see what would happen.

The dog jumped down and made a leisurely tour of the neighboring yards, peeing on the stunted trees and a chain-link fence, trailing the rope behind. Peter took a cured sausage from the cooler, then sat on Dinah’s new porch steps with a knife and cut pieces into a small paper bag. He made sure they were small enough for the dog to swallow without having to chew.

Dinah sat beside him, their shoulders almost touching. Peter could feel her proximity like something tangible.

She said, “Are you trying to rehabilitate that ugly dog?”

Peter shrugged. “He’s not that bad.”

She said, “Maybe some things are too bad to save.”

He looked at her. “We’re not still talking about the dog,” he said. “Are we?”

She looked at the ground for a moment, then right back at him.

“My mama was the steady one,” she said. “She taught fourth grade for thirty years, and ran her life like a Swiss watch. My dad was the opposite.” A thin smile. “He never seemed to have a job, but he always had money in his pocket. He came and went without warning. He taught me to ride a bike and throw a baseball. One night, just after my thirteenth birthday, he went on an errand and came home covered with blood that wasn’t his. He burned his clothes in a barrel in the backyard. Then he left. We waited, but he never came home again. Finally we just gave up. And I knew that I would not marry a man like my father.”

She wiped her face. “James was different. A good man. Maybe the war did something to him. Damaged him. But at least he was a working man, not a crook, not a killer. Then I find that he’s left a suitcase full of money under my porch. And I don’t know what to think.”

Peter watched the dog water a tree.

People changed, he thought. Made mistakes. Did things they weren’t proud of, maybe things they were ashamed of. Peter certainly had. Jimmy had been one of the best people he had ever known. A better person than Peter, that’s for sure. He didn’t know what to think, either.

“Dinah,” he said, “you’re a nurse, raising two great kids and working your way forward. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

She shook her head. “We shouldn’t have bought this house,” she said. “Do you know what an adjustable-rate mortgage is?”

Peter nodded. He’d studied economics, and even if he hadn’t, the financial crisis had given everyone a crash course in mortgage basics.

Dinah kept talking. “We got one seven years ago, and now it’s coming due. I have to pay the house off or refinance. Everyone thought their houses would be worth more, so it wouldn’t be a problem. Well, now it’s worth half what I owe on it. I can’t pay the house off. And I can’t qualify for a new loan, not without James’s income. If they’d even give me a loan. I have a good job, but it’s not enough. Do you know how much those boys eat?” She shook her head again. “We should not have bought this house.”

“You’ve got a bag full of money,” said Peter. “Why not start over somewhere else? Move to Chicago. Or Seattle.”

“I can’t just leave,” she said. “I have obligations. My grandmother lives eight blocks from here.”

Peter nodded. He understood that. The dog ranged around, following its nose.

“So stay,” he said, “and be careful with it. Don’t attract attention. Anybody shows up, you say, What money? Do I look like I found four hundred grand?”

“I can’t—” She stood up and walked three steps, spun on her heel, and walked back. “I can’t take that money,” she said. “It’s bad money.”

Peter smiled gently. “No such thing as bad money. It’s just money. Comes in handy sometimes.”