A Son's Tale. Tara Quinn Taylor
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saw the message in his in-box that Joy had sent the day before, confirming their date the night before. She’d said she had something to speak with him about. He’d thought she wanted to deepen their relationship with spoken commitment. To talk about some kind of future.
It hadn’t gone that way… .
“Hi, hon. How was your day?” he’d said as he’d met her outside the restaurant. He’d bent down for a kiss, which she’d returned as though everything was fine. It hadn’t been until later, back at her place, that she’d let him know how she was really feeling.
He’d pulled her into his arms. She’d pushed him away.
“I don’t want to do this, Cal,” she’d said. “It’s like I’m on your list of things to do, not like I’m the person you need in your life. When you kiss me…I don’t know…I don’t feel like I do it for you anymore.”
“It’s not that,” he’d hastily assured her. “I want you.”
“I’m not talking about sex, Cal. All your working parts are in perfect order, as I’m sure you’re fully aware. You’re the best lover I’ve ever had and then some.”
“So what’s the problem?” His tone was purposefully light. But he knew. In the end, the story was always the same.
“You don’t give enough of yourself, Cal. You bring gifts. You take me to concerts and the theater. You’ve introduced me to some great restaurants that I’d never been to even though I’ve lived in Tennessee my entire life. You entertain me. You bring me physical pleasure I didn’t even know I could feel. But you never talk to me. I know more about what’s playing and who’s cooking than I do about you.”
Different words, but same story. As he’d predicted.
“What’s there to tell?” he’d asked, as much out of habit as anything. And he’d waited for her answer with more curiosity than hope. Would her answer be any different than any he’d ever heard before?
“If I knew that, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“Did it ever occur to you that you know what there is to know?”
“It did. But I don’t believe that. You have too much insight, too much consideration and too much understanding to ever pass for a shallow man.”
Her words made him uncomfortable. “You get more of me than anyone else in my life gets.”
She’d wanted more.
He wasn’t going to give it to her.
Her next words replayed themselves loud and clear—their echo joining the chorus of others in his mind. “I think we need to start seeing other people, Cal.”
“You’re breaking up with me.”
“Were we ever really going together?”
“I was seeing you exclusively. You know that.” He only had exclusive sex.
She’d paused.
Two months prior they’d had “the talk.” The one that said she was important to him. As he was to her.
And what more was there? They’d established in the very beginning that neither was interested in marriage or family.
None of the women Cal dated were. That criteria was at the top of his list when considering whether or not he should ask a woman out. “I know you care about me, Cal. And I’ll always care about you,” Joy had finally said. Then she’d added, “And no, I’m not saying I don’t ever want to see you again. I just think we need to see other people, too. You know, to keep things from getting too…personal.”
They were done sleeping with each other. “I understand.”
“We’ve had some really good times.”
“Agreed.”
She’d offered him coffee to sober up so he could drive. He’d had several cups. The silence had gotten awkward.
Then he’d stood.
“Call me, okay?” she’d said, standing there in her banker’s conservative shirt and jacket, her arms wrapped around her middle.
He’d pulled the knot on his tie up. “I will. You do the same.”
“Of course.”
He’d left her house pretty certain that he and Joy would never speak again.
There was another message from her in Friday morning’s incoming email. She was sorry for how things had gone the night before. But she really thought their decision was for the best. She hoped he understood that she wouldn’t be referring any more of her clients or associates to him for his fundraising efforts. And she wanted the earrings back that she’d left in his car the previous week.
Cal would have been a lot more bothered about Joy if he’d known that Sammie Lowen was with his mother, safe and sound.
CHAPTER THREE
SHEWASLIVINGa nightmare. She’d wake up any second.
Longing for the quilt on her bed, to be able to pull it up over her head and warm her freezing body, Morgan sat in the chair at the police station and waited for her parents to arrive.
She’d already answered all of the officers’ questions.
“Let’s go over things one more time, Ms. Lowen.” The female detective sitting across from her in the little room with only a table and four chairs emanated sympathy. About ten years older than Morgan, Elaine Martin didn’t look any more like a cop than she did. She wasn’t even in uniform.
“The smallest things can make a difference,” Detective Martin said. “Tell me again everything you can remember about this morning.”
“I got Sammie up at seven, just like always.”
“Did he get right up? Or did you have to nag him?”
Was the woman calling her a nag? Did she think Morgan wasn’t a good mom? That she’d somehow failed her son? Failed to see that someone was watching him? Out to get him? Or…
“Ms. Lowen? You okay?”
Morgan focused. Detective Martin’s brow creased with concern.
No, I’m not okay. How can I possibly be okay? My son is…where? What are they doing to him? God, was Sammie even still alive? Or…had he run away? Was he that unhappy with her? Was he in with a bad crowd and she’d somehow missed evidence of that fact? “Yeah. I’m fine.”
The detective covered Morgan’s hand with her own. “We’re going to find him,” she said. “Stay with me, okay?”
Morgan nodded “He got right up. He always does. Sammie’s like me. A morning person.”
“Then what?”
“I got his breakfast. Rice Krispies with milk.”
“Did he eat it all?”
“Yes.”
“Does he always?”
“Yes.”
“What about toast? Or fruit?”
“No. He hates fruit.” And she didn’t make him eat it. Did that make her a bad mother? Did they think Sammie’s missing was her fault? That she had something to do with this? They were asking her so many questions over and over and…
“Just cereal,” she said, meeting Detective Martin’s gaze again. “He went upstairs to dress. I heard him brushing his teeth. He left the cap off the toothpaste just like always. And he spit six times…” Her eyes welled up. She’d limited Sammie to six spits and, bless his heart, he always complied.
She smiled, not seeing anything