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Idiot, he thought and flicked a glance at the rearview mirror, catching sight of his own gaze. Troubled hazel eyes glared back at him.
The restaurant was closing down. He could tell as the final patrons were leaving, the parking lot thinning out.
Lights were dimming in the diner, and the SORRY, WE’RE CLOSED sign was visible. Ten minutes passed. He flipped on the wipers again, then cut the engine. Another five minutes and then he saw her, the woman he thought was Anne-Marie, as she headed to an SUV, an older model Chevy Tahoe. He watched her climb inside. The headlights flashed on, the engine sparked to life.
He waited as she drove out of the parking lot, then pulled out when another car was between them, following a couple blocks behind.
The streets of the godforsaken little town were nearly empty, only a few cars moving cautiously around corners or along the storefronts. He didn’t bother with headlights until he was certain that, if she had been looking in her rearview, she wouldn’t notice him joining traffic about the same time. He kept his truck behind the car between them, a Volkswagen Beetle that had seen better days. When the Bug turned a corner and only the snowy street stretched between their vehicles, he lagged back until she, too, turned off, heading out of town away from the businesses and through a residential district with widely spaced houses on large lots. At one stoplight, two vehicles turned onto the street behind her, pulling between them. One was a bulky delivery truck and he couldn’t see around it for a time, but it turned onto a side street. The other was a smaller compact that didn’t block his view and he could easily keep her in his sights.
Eventually the compact turned onto a residential street but Anne-Marie kept on, leaving the residential district and turning onto a county road that wound its way past farms with large snow-covered fields and into the hills where the farmland gave way to wooded foothills.
He smiled to himself. For once, rather than hide in the throng of a city where she could get lost in a crowd, Anne-Marie had chosen isolation. Her mistake. Though he had to slow down and make certain the curtain of snow between them hid his vehicle, sometimes losing sight of her, it was still better that she was away from prying eyes.
Few cars drove in the opposite direction, nor did he see a glimpse of headlights in his side mirrors. The snowfall became thicker, visibility lessening. As he crested a rise, he caught a glimpse of red taillights, burning brighter for a second, then the road dipped again and they disappeared. When he reached that next hillock, the lights were nowhere to be seen. He hit the gas and drove a little faster, hoping to close the distance, to catch another glimpse of her. As he rounded a corner, he expected to see a hint of red through the thick snow, but there was nothing. Just curves and bends making it difficult to speed in that section of the forest. Gritting his teeth, he pressed down on the accelerator, feeling his tires slip a little as the truck rounded the sharper curves. Still, no hint of her Tahoe.
He drove another four miles, but had the sinking sensation that she’d gotten
away.
“Damn it,” he muttered, traveling another mile even faster, his tires struggling for purchase. Finally, he realized he’d lost her. He ground his teeth. Rather than drive endlessly on the road, he turned around in a wide spot in the road and with the wipers flicking off the snow, retraced his tracks. No cars met him on the way back. The woods were dense, only a few lanes veering off the main road. He slowed when he thought he’d come near the spot where he’d seen her brake lights flash, squinting into the darkness, searching the snow pack.
The ditches on the sides of the road were buried, brush barely visible in the mounds of icy white powder. There were no mailboxes. He’d thought he’d lost her for good when he noticed a drift and then another, realizing that they were actually ruts in the snow, fresh tire tracks, with only a trace of fresh snow covering them.
Bingo, he thought but kept driving, making note of the landmarks, a split tree across the road, the snag knifing upward, and a huge boulder about a hundred feet closer. He also pressed the button on his odometer so he could track the distance to his room at the River View, then he made a note of the location on his GPS and cell phone. He’d come back once he was sure that she was at work. There was no reason to confront her now.
Not until he was certain that she was, indeed, Anne-Marie.
He had work to do.
“I really have to go,” Pescoli said. She was lying in Santana’s arms, his naked body spooned against hers in the downy folds of a sleeping bag in the master bedroom of their new, unfinished house. The musky scent of their recent lovemaking still hung in the air and perspiration was evaporating on her skin.
He gazed out the French doors to the night beyond. It was peaceful there. Serene. Snow falling, the lake a mirror, the world and all its problems seeming far away. “I’d argue with you, but I’ve tried that before.”
“And?”
“I’m not saying you’re mule-headed . . .”
“But,” she prodded.
He chuckled deep in his chest, kissed the back of her head.
“So you are saying it.”
“Maybe.”
Twisting in the bag so that she faced him, she said, “So . . . there’s something I need to tell you.”
“Shoot.”
His eyes, dark with the night, held hers. Unflinching. His lips had twisted into that sexy smile that had a way of burrowing into her heart.
“I’m pregnant.” She let the words hang in the air and the silence was suddenly deafening.
He was still as stone. “You’re kidding.”
“As serious as I’ve been about anything in my life.” Clearing her throat, she added, “I haven’t been to the doctor yet, but I took an in-home test a while back and then, of course, three more. They all turned out positive. We’re going to have a baby.”
His gaze searched her face and she knew he still didn’t believe her. They’d been lovers for years and had always been careful. Though they’d never discussed children, the unspoken understanding was that they weren’t going to be parents, at least for the present. All that had changed, of course. For a second, he didn’t say a word. She was aware she was holding her breath and her heart clutched.
