From Ashes to Honor Page 5

  If he’d read her address correctly, she lived on Merchant’s Row, an easy commute to I-83 by way of Fleet and President Streets. Making a part-time job of getting lost? It seemed the only trait Mercy shared with other gals he’d known. “How do you get to work?”

  “Boston Street to Dundalk Avenue to Holabird.”

  “Ah, and then a quick shot to Delvale … .”

  “Right.”

  What in the world had gotten into him? He could count on one hand the number of times he’d wasted this much breath on small talk—especially with a woman—and have fingers left over. Since his days in therapy, he’d become a bit of an armchair shrink, and now he blamed his behavior on the emotions aroused by seeing her in person after so many years of picturing her in his head.

  She unlocked her driver’s door and opened it. One foot in and one out of the car, she said, “See you over there, then.”

  Mercy didn’t wait for him to find his pickup. Instead, she headed for the exit like a woman being pursued by a bad guy.Is that how she saw him, thanks to those borderline temper tantrums in her office?

  Borderline, my big fat foot, he thought, pocketing both hands as he headed for his truck. Everyone, it seemed, from his folks to his twin and now his coworkers had found occasion to accuse him of making mountains out of molehills. So maybe he was reading too much into the look on her face, the one that wavered between regret and concern. Construction on I-95, or traffic between here and her house could just as easily have inspired it as the invitation—and his acceptance of it.

  Stomach grumbling as he turned over the engine, Austin wished he’d taken a few minutes to grab a bite, because those corn flakes he’d wolfed down at breakfast didn’t have much sticking power. Should he stop and pick up something on his way to Fells Point, save her the bother of heating up the leftovers? Couple of crab cake sandwiches sure would hit the spot. Then again, what if Mercy hadn’t gone as nuts over the traditional Maryland staple as he had? What if she was one of those unlucky people with seafood allergies? Better to play it safe, he told himself, and grab a pizza. And he knew just the place to get one, too.

  8

  Rather than wait twenty minutes for the deli to bake a fresh pizza, Austin bought one of the cheese-only pies, already warming under a heat lamp. The scent of spicy sauce and yeasty crust assaulted his nostrils during the final miles of his drive. He hoped he wouldn’t have to park too far from her townhouse, because he might just devour it before he got a chance to ring her bell.

  He’d half expected that Mercy would live in one of the old row houses that resembled New York’s brownstones. Austin did a double-take when he read the address above her bluepainted steel door. The porch light illuminated six matching concrete steps, and lit a chrome buzzer, as well. He pushed it, then leaned his backside against the black wrought-iron railing, his gaze scaling the three-story brick façade. Tall, many-paned windows—trimmed in the same shade of steely blue—sparkled in the warm glow of the street lamp. Evidently, she’d entered the house by way of the garage, because mail poked out of the mailbox.

  He’d barely plucked it from the box when the door swung open as if propelled by a fierce wind. In the enormous slate—

  floored foyer, she looked tinier and even more like a kid than she had before.

  “Thanks for grabbing my mail,” she said, tossing it into a big oval bowl on the narrow table against the wall.

  He held out the pizza box. “To save you the trouble of dirtying a pot and plates … .”

  “Wow. Heroic, and thoughtful, too.” Shoving the door closed with her keister, she relieved him of the box. “What’s your preference, living room sofa or kitchen table?”

  Austin shrugged, feeling like a red-faced schoolboy on his first date. “Your house, your choice.”

  Mercy led the way into the kitchen, her flip-flops slapping the soles of her feet with every tiny step. After plopping the pizza box onto a four-by-six-foot slab of black granite that topped a cherry cabinet, she said “Let me grab some plates and napkins and something to wash the pizza down, and we can watch the news while we eat.” Almost as an afterthought, she tacked on, “Unless you’d rather watch something else—”

  “News is about all I watch,” he admitted. Then, “Wow. This is some room. Did you design it?”

  Her laughter echoed in the big space. “You must have me confused with someone who understands color and layout. I bought the place furnished, sight unseen—unless you count photos on the Internet. All I had to do was unpack my clothes and a few personal things, and voila, home.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  She grabbed a couple of bottles of mineral water from the restaurant-sized fridge and stood them beside the pizza.“Going on three years, now.” She flipped open the lid, then took a spatula from the row of utensils hanging beside the sink. “I had an apartment before this.”

  As if on cue, his stomach growled.

  “Help yourself,” she said. And as she padded down the hall, tossed over her shoulder, “This was really nice of you!”

  She sounded surprised that he could be anything but surly and sarcastic. But rather than dwell on it, Austin dogged her heels. He stood for a minute, waiting as she grabbed a tiny remote. One button turned on the overhead lights; another raised a wide flat-screen from a box made of the same burled wood as the foyer table. Flopping onto the middle curve of the black leather sectional, she kicked off her flip-flops. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

  “So … ,” he said, biting off the point of his pizza, “what made you leave New York?”

  She’d fixed her attention on Channel 13 as anchorman Vic Carter announced the latest item about a former child star’s latest prison sentence. Unscrewing the cap of her water bottle, her gaze slid to Austin’s. “I’ll tell you if you’ll tell me.”

  “Ladies first,” he agreed.

  Mercy took a dainty sip of her water and took her time putting the bottle on the table in front of the sofa. Crossing her legs Indian style, she wrapped a ribbon of cheese around her forefinger. “Too many bad memories up there.” A long pause followed her statement. “First, the …” She sighed, shrugged, and popped the cheese into her mouth. “After my father was killed,” she said around it, “I really had no reason to stay.”

  Killed? He wanted to ask how the man had died, but her dour tone and the sadness that tinged her big dark eyes kept him quiet.

  She brightened slightly to say “Your turn.”

  Nothing Austin could say about his reasons for moving to Maryland would surprise to her, so he began where the two of them had left off. “My mom and I held a memorial service for Avery about two weeks after 9/11. And about two weeks after that, she was diagnosed with cancer. Fought like a trooper for years, but eventually I had to put her in hospice.” He could have given her a list: No job to speak of, no family, no real friends, so why stay? Instead, Austin repeated, almost word for word, what she’d said a moment ago.

  “After she died, there wasn’t anything to keep me there.”

  From the look on her face, he expected her to say something sweet and sympathetic. Last thing he’d wanted was for her to feel sorry for him, so he quickly added, “Besides, I was getting bored, living off the money my rich uncle left me.”

  His flippant remark more than lightened the mood.

  “You have a rich uncle?” She slid one cushion closer to his and snickered. “Do tell … .”

  Oh. Right. Like the gal who could afford these digs is impressed by a guy with money in the bank. Austin looked into her warm, smiling face and thanked God that the cold, clinical psychiatrist had left the big city. If she’d been a little more like this back then …

  What a ridiculous thought. Of course things would have turned out exactly the same way. And he had no room to complain.His life here in Maryland had been better in every way than the one he’d left behind. If it took leaving the police force to make him admit that, so be it.

  He remembered the dozens of
times he’d considered calling her to say how bad he felt about the many out-of-line things he’d said and done. Why not now?

  But the anchorman launched into a story about the upcoming tenth anniversary of 9/11. Images flickered on the screen, each with a different angle of the pillars of smoke, black and threatening and taller than the towers had been. The footage was followed by the image of the bright white beacon, rooted at Ground Zero and stabbing into the heavens like a silvery sword, a symbolic promise that on this hallowed ground newbuildings would rise in honor of those who died on that history-making date.

  “What a load of crap,” he snarled, tossing his empty paper plate onto the coffee table. “Do they really think any of us are buying this baloney?”

  “What baloney?” She scooted closer still.

  Austin pointed at the TV, where tourists waited in long lines to catch a glimpse of the flattened plot that had once housed two of the most impressive structures ever built. “That baloney. Nothing will bring back all the innocent people who were slaughtered that day. What a colossal waste of electricity, lighting up the sky with that … that baloney. Like we’re a bunch of colicky babies who can be pacified by the sight of a bright light.” He balled up his napkin and tossed it onto the table beside the plate.

  During the silence that followed his tirade, he drove both hands through his hair and braced himself for the psychobabble that would no doubt spew from her lips.

  “You’re right.”

  Well, he certainly hadn’t expected that. Nor had he expected the simple report to stir up a myriad of emotions—from anger to pain to bitter regret—that pinged from his heart to his head to his soul. He’d pushed himself hard, and because he had, Austin could finally ride an elevator and climb long flights of stairs without breaking into a sweat. He held tight to the hope that one day, news like this wouldn’t wake hard memories, either. “If you’re wondering if it’ll ever go away, completely,” she said quietly, “I’m afraid it won’t. The pain gets dimmer, but gone?” She shook her head. “Nope. Never.”

  She said it like someone who’d lost a loved one during the bedlam. The notion knifed through him, making him feel guilty and ashamed and selfcentered. Why hadn’t he considered that possibility before? She’d said her father had been killed. Had he died on 9/11? It surely went a long way to explain why she’d seemed impatient as he struggled to cope with his losses. No wonder she’d written him up as a head case for storming out of her office after just six sessions of the mandated ten, angrier than when he’d first entered it. During those few hours with him, Mercy came to know him better than he knew himself, yet he didn’t know the first thing about her, and he felt regretful about that.

  He sat forward and assumed what she’d once termed his “analysis pose,” elbows on knees, hands clasped in the space between. “I’m sorry, Mercy,” he said, meaning it.

  “Sorry? Whatever for?”

  He hung his head. “I always knew that the cops and firefighters who survived Ground Zero walked away carrying some heavy emotional baggage. But until now, I never gave a thought to how it might have affected you.”

  When Austin met her eyes, it stunned him to see tears rolling down her cheeks. “Aw, jeez,” he said, “what did I say? Whatever it was, I’m sorry. Honest.”

  Using her free hand, she blotted her eyes on a paper napkin.With the other, she massaged her temple. Lips trembling, she whispered, “It wasn’t you. It’s just—” She groaned and shook her head. “What you’re going through is perfectly normal. I just want you to know that.”

  Pain had stolen the music in her voice and left her brow furrowed.He wanted to give the comfort she seemed to need— and absorb some, too—by holding her close. But what if, by opening his arms to her, he unearthed memories she’d hidden deep in her heart, instead?

  She heaved a huge sigh. “I suppose it can be said that the two of us are resilient, if nothing else.”

  He mirrored her smile. “Oh? How so?”

  “We aren’t the type to wallow in self-pity.” She grinned and held out her hands, palms up. “Just look how fast we straightened ourselves up after our little pity party. I’d say that’s a good thing, wouldn’t you?”

  She blew her nose, and it made him chuckle that someone as petite and delicate as Mercy could produce a sound on a par with a Mack truck’s horn blast.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Well, you didn’t hear me trying to mimic a foghorn.“Eyes wide, she gasped, then got onto one knee to look behind him.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Looking for your mean streak, that’s what. I would have bet my fancy remote control it was back there, and every bit as wide as your back, too.”

  Kneeling on the cushion beside him that way, she was close enough to kiss. Austin grabbed both slender shoulders and gave her a gentle shake, and stared deep into those amazing green-flecked brown eyes. “Mercy, Mercy, Mercy,” he breathed, closing his own. He’d almost kissed her that day in her office, and unless he’d been seriously mistaken, she would have let him. If he had a lick of sense, he’d plant one right on those oh-so-perfect lips, right now.

  But common sense rose above manly urges and warned him that only an idiot would start up a relationship with his former shrink. Think of all the ammunition she’d have in her arsenal, using your own words against you every time we have a disagreement. And history told him there would definitely be disagreements!

  “So … tell me,” he said, releasing her, “how’d you get a name like Mercy? And,” he added, looking around, “where’s this cat of yours?”

  9

  Mercy bounced over to her original sofa cushion and cut loose with a high-pitched whistle that made Austin cup both hands over his ears. “Holy moly, woman! I hope that mouth of yours is registered as a deadly weapon!”

  “Sorry, but you know what they say… .”

  “What who says?”

  “The sages.”

  “About …?”

  “Careful what you ask for.”

  “Now I’m the one who’s sorry.”

  She grinned. “Why?”

  “Because I’ve completely lost my train of thought.”

  “That’s what happens,” she said lightly, “when you have a one-track mind.”

  A fat orange stripe-tabby waddled into the room, leaped onto the couch, and headed straight for Austin.

  “Meet Woodrow, who comes when whistled for and enjoys welcoming guests to our humble home.”

  After sniffing Austin from ear to elbow, Woodrow swaggered to Mercy and climbed into her lap. Amid her cooing and petting, Austin noticed a four-inch scar that started at the pad of her left thumb and ran halfway up her arm. He leaned forward to see if she had one to match it on the other side, because if she did … .

  During his career as an EMT, he’d rushed nine patients to the ER—females, except for one—who’d attempted suicide with a slice that ran crosswise on their wrists. If they’d slashed a bit deeper, or had been left alone longer, they might well have died at their own hands. Only one had been determined enough to succeed, mostly because of the elongated cuts she’d carved into her forearms.

  It almost seemed that Woodrow had repositioned himself on Mercy’s lap for the sole purpose of giving Austin a clear line of vision to his mistress’s right arm. Sure enough, an identical white line ran the length of that one, too. He’d read someplace that of all the professionals who commit suicide, psychiatrists were at the top. He remembered that day in her office when the tower of books toppled to the floor, and, thinking it had been a test, he’d blasted her. His roaring had triggered a memory of some kind, and in place of the condescending, long-suffering look he’d expected to see, pain glittered in her dark eyes.

  Austin was reminded again that he knew next to nothing about Mercy Samara, police department psychiatrist turned high school guidance counselor. During the seconds that passed as she cuddled and cooed to her cat, his mind went to war with his heart.

  Everythi
ng about her appealed to him, yet he felt a powerful urge to turn tail and run. For one thing, he’d barely come to terms with his own gloomy past. For another, she seemed at peace with her new life, despite the tell-tale white scars. What if running into him after all this time had opened Pandora’s box, and reminded her of the reasons she’d picked up that blade in the first place?

  Back off, he told himself. Just back off and give the poor woman some space. God knew she deserved a better man than the likes of Austin Finley. Besides, what made him think she had so much as an inkling of interest in him!

  She looked up and caught him staring. Flustered, Austin chuckled nervously. “So, before you tell me how you got your unusual name, how ‘bout telling how your fat cat got his?”

  Her left brow lifted slightly, the way it had during sessions, a sure sign that what she said and what she thought were two completely different things. OK, so you do know a thing or two about her. But that doesn’t mean—

  “Woodrow is a small hamlet in Amersham. Sounds stuffy, doesn’t it? And when I first met this big ball of fur, that’s how he struck me.” She stroked the cat’s nose and said “Stuffy.“Then, “My mother was born there.”

  “Amersham? As in England?”

  Mercy nodded. “She spent the first fifteen years of her life there, dreaming of ways to escape Buckinghamshire.”

  Interesting, Austin thought. “But she took you there, for family visits, right?”

  A strange expression flickered across her face. Regret? Resentment? His questions were answered by the brittle edge to her voice when she said, “Mother died when I was ten, before I was old enough to figure out that she didn’t want to go back. Ever.”

  He didn’t see himself as the curious type, but Austin found himself considering all the ways Mrs. Samara might have died, especially after hearing that Mercy’s father had been killed.Woodrow ambled across the couch cushion between his mistress and her guest, and promptly made himself comfortable in Austin’s lap. Grinning, he scratched behind the cat’s ears.“Now that the story of how this guy got his name has been told, why don’t you tell me how you got yours.”