Not a Moment Too Soon. Linda O. Johnston
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story had spewed from her fingertips, a tale as unbidden as the ones that had driven him away. As unbidden as the one she had written today. As unbidden as so many of them…
In that one, her father had died of cancer.
She hadn’t been able to help Hunter before. Or her dad. Not even herself.
Now she had the resources to at least try to make it a little less agonizing for Hunter.
“Okay,” she said. “We’ll talk.”
He stood still until she had passed him. After all this time, she was finally so close to Hunter that she could have touched him. Wanted to…but didn’t. He followed her down the hall. For an instant, panic throbbed through her. She felt trapped. She couldn’t get out.
But then they reached Elayne’s cheerful, bright kitchen. She had remodeled it since Shauna had last visited her. The painted cabinets along the wall had been replaced by light pine ones that didn’t quite reach the ceiling. Along their tops was a collection of antique pans. The new kitchen table was pine, too, with matching chairs on wheels pushed under it. The refrigerator was the same as before—a gold side-by-side.
On the new tile counter closest to the table, framed photographs, some of Hunter, were arranged in irregular rows. Nearest Shauna was a picture of an absolutely adorable cherub, a small girl with hair as dark as Hunter’s and as curly as Elayne’s. This had to be Andee. Her eyes were the same shade of green as her father’s and grandmother’s, too.
Shauna looked away quickly, her eyes dampening again. Her attention landed on Hunter. He was watching her. She turned away quickly, to help Elayne with their refreshments.
Soon all three sat at the table. The herbal tea Elayne and she had sipped earlier as they had talked had been refreshed several times, so Shauna opted to join Hunter in drinking fresh-brewed, strong coffee from large mugs.
And mother and son, black haired and with symmetrical facial features that resembled each other, trained similar emerald eyes on Shauna.
She looked back. Waited. Made herself remember every iota of her training as a psychologist. Compassion, yes.
But also detachment. Distance.
Please…
“Tell me more about this story you called me about,” Hunter commanded.
“All right,” Shauna began. “It came unexpectedly.” She watched those brilliant green eyes study her critically. Otherwise, he seemed emotionless. Cool.
Cold.
“They’re always unexpected, aren’t they?” Elayne asked. “This kind of story.”
“Pretty much so,” Shauna acknowledged, looking at her friend’s pale face instead of at Hunter.
Elayne, at least, believed in Shauna, for they had first met when a story had, long ago, caused Shauna to contact Phoenix’s Human Services Department. Elayne, a social worker, had been Shauna’s contact, and her kindness and curiosity had led Shauna to let down her guard and reveal—accidentally—the source of her knowledge about domestic violence in a child’s home.
Which was what had made it particularly hard to call Hunter’s mother today. Shauna hadn’t divulged the story’s contents over the phone but had come right over to be with Elayne. To stay with her.
To get Hunter’s current phone number from her so she could call him, for she alone had to be the one to relay this horrible news to him.
Even though she knew full well, because of the way he had acted in the past, that he wouldn’t buy it. Or at least he wouldn’t want to.
“Where were you when this story came to you?” Elayne asked.
“Better yet, why don’t you just tell us what it said?” Hunter’s arms were folded as he sat back on his chair. His blunt chin was raised belligerently. Talk about expressive body language. Shauna sighed inwardly. Sure, he would listen to her, but he would fight any belief in what she said with all his innate stubbornness. That, apparently, had not changed.
Trying for therapeutic distance, Shauna briefly responded to Elayne’s question first, needing to work into the rest. She explained that she’d sat down at her computer fully expecting—hoping—to write something especially for one of the kids who frequented the story time at her family restaurant, Fantasy Fare.
Instead, that hellish narrative had spewed from her fingers.
Looking unwaveringly into Hunter’s skeptical stare, she finally responded to his demand. She described the story but only sketchily.
“I realized at once who the kidnapped child was,” she finished, “and knew I had to notify you.”
“The story said she was my child?”
“Not exactly.” She had kept up with what was happening in Hunter’s life in a manner she did not want to mention, so she didn’t explain how she knew who Andee was. Instead, she asked questions for which she already knew the answer. Otherwise, why would Hunter have come here? “Hunter, have you called whoever’s supposed to be watching your daughter in L.A.? Maybe this story is wrong.” From experience, though, she knew better. “Do you know where she is?”
His strong features went as blank as if he had suddenly turned to stone. “She was with her mother. We’re divorced. I have primary physical custody, but Margo watches Andee when I travel. And yes, I’ve spoken with Margo.” His tone sounded bleak. “But no, I don’t know where Andee is.” He paused as if marshaling his internal forces, then demanded, “Is there anything helpful in your story, like something to identify the kidnapper?”
“There’s one thing,” she said slowly, rehashing the narrative in her mind. “The person—a man—thinks of himself as ‘Big T.’”
“That’s all?” Hunter sounded scornful. Damn, but his scorn, the same derision he had leveled on her just before he had exited her life for what she had believed would be forever, still had the power to wound her. “It’s got to be a pretty short story. I want to see it.”
“No, you don’t,” she replied quietly.
She hadn’t intended to injure him by a thrust of her own, but pain briefly shadowed his face, and Elayne’s, too.
“Shauna, don’t you think—?” Elayne murmured.
Her son interrupted. “Did you arrange to have Andee taken so you could impress me, after all this time, by proving one of your damned stories was coming true?”
Shauna’s sudden intake of breath was echoed by Elayne’s gasp. Another direct hit, right to her gut.
Similar accusations had been hurled at her by strangers when she issued warnings about other situations she had written about. She was a psychologist. She understood that people lashed out in fear and hurt. She had remained calm and soothing and understanding.
But seven years had passed since her last confrontation with Hunter. Seven years, two months, and—
Enough.
She stood. “Why on earth would I? I wouldn’t do anything to hurt a child. Or you, for that matter. Not now. And certainly not Elayne.” Hunter opened his mouth as if ready to interrupt, but she pressed forward, not letting him. “I know you didn’t believe in my stories years ago, and what I did at the end wouldn’t exactly encourage you to trust me. But I didn’t set out to write a story that’d come true this time, any more than I did then. I never do. This one involved you and your daughter, so I had to let you know. That’s all. Except that I’m very, very sorry.”
Hunter also rose. “Hell, me too. I was out of line.” He shook his head slowly. “I only wish the solution was that easy. If you took my daughter, I could just ask you to give her back.” The anguished smile he gave Shauna nearly broke her heart.
“You know I would if I could,” she responded softly, her voice hoarse with the moisture she