"When was that?"
"That night," she said, patting her child's head as he stood at her knee solemnly watching Cole. "Right when it happened."
"But you didn't stay."
She shook her head. "What could I do? I mean, I don't know first aid. And the one man was so badly hurt-"
"The one who died?"
She nodded. "And I needed to get home to my kids."
"What about the other driver?"
She looked up at Cole. "Oh, I remember him real well. He kept saying it was all his fault. And he staggered around like he was drunk, yelling and carrying on."
Cole figured shock, more than being drunk, could have been at the root of Zach's behavior.
"Do you think he was impaired?"
"Drunk?"
Cole nodded.
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
She stared beyond Cole's shoulder a moment, then said, "Yeah. He staggered when he got out of the car-"
"Was he injured?"
"Not that I could see." She met Cole's gaze. "He didn't look hurt, okay? He looked ... drunk. He acted drunk." If it walks like a drunk, talks like a drunk, it must be a drunk, Cole thought, following her line of reasoning.
"After waiting-why come forward now?" Cole asked.
She met his gaze briefly, the glanced down at her children. "It could have been me-or my kids-instead of that man. I had to do something."
In the quick conversation that followed he learned she worked nights as a desk clerk at a big hotel, that she had been divorced for a year, and that she was genuinely convinced of the truth of her beliefs. She was likeable and credible, and had no personal link to the case.
Cole thanked the woman for her time and headed back into town. Stopping at a convenience store, he called Myra. When his own recording came on, he glanced at his watch and discovered the time was well after five. Time to pick up the basket for his picnic supper with Brenna.
Cole pushed aside the afternoon's complications and the pall they had put on his mood. Time to focus on the evening ahead with Brenna, he thought. He intended to make it romantic and memorable.
On the way to the market, he stopped on impulse at the Tattered Cover and bought a book of Shakespeare's sonnets. Old-fashioned, traditional, and a memento of a memorable day, he thought. He grinned, imagining how she might tell their grandchildren someday how she had been wooed with yellow roses, poems of love, and a romantic picnic. Cole picked up the picnic basket, and by six o'clock he was waiting for Brenna under the wide branches of an elm tree near the pavilion at Washington Park.
The moment Brenna returned home, she called Cole's office again, hoping he had checked in. He hadn't, but she left a message with his secretary. Then Brenna called Cole's house. He didn't answer there, either.
She was positive he had not said where they would go for dinner, or what time he would pick her up. But he had promised they would do something special.
She went through her closet twice, trying to decide what to wear. Finally, she chose a pale aqua sundress that reminded her of the color of the pond at the ranch just before sunrise.
She fidgeted as she waited, impatient to have the moment she told him she could not read behind her. He would either understand, or he wouldn't. She hoped with all her heart that he would. He had sent her flowers, not just any flowers-but roses. And he had told her that he loved her. Surely, those things counted for something.
The minutes dragged by, becoming one hour, then another. She fretted. Why hadn't he called?
Still later she decided the interview that Myra told her about must have taken longer than he had anticipated. Urging her vivid imagination to take a rest, she took the card that accompanied the roses from her pocket, smoothing her fingers over the words. "He loves you, Brenna," she said out loud. "And, it's going to be okay."
Brave words. She worried anyway.
By the time seven o'clock rolled around, Cole had to admit to himself that Brenna wasn't coming. He glanced again at his watch, the slow passage of time gnawing at him. Where was she? Had she misunderstood the place? Had she even received the flowers so she knew to come? Was she okay?
After fifteen more minutes passed, Cole gathered up the picnic, neatly packing the food back into the wicker basket with the napkins. He tucked the book of sonnets into the side of the basket and put everything into the Jeep. There, he waited ten minutes more, watching each person who came down the path, positive the next would be Brenna.
Myra had been after him to install a cellular telephone in his car, and he now wished he had done so months ago. A simple telephone call would confirm whether she was on the way. As it was, he had no choice but drive to the apartment and hope he didn't miss her on the way. Even so, he drove slowly, half expecting to see her hurrying down the sidewalk.
At the apartment, Cole got out of the Jeep and strode to the door, worried that something had happened to her. He rang the bell, then paced the narrow width of the front stoop.
When Brenna came to the door, the worry he saw in her expression was a mirror of his own feelings.
"Where have you been?" he asked, his voice harsher than he intended, reflecting his frustration and disappointment. "I waited, but-"
"Waited?" she echoed. "But I've been waiting."
"What do you mean you've been waiting? You were supposed to meet me." He stepped through the open door and the screen slammed behind him.
"Where?"
The constriction around his chest eased. "I should have figured you didn't get the flowers." He stepped
close and brushed a soft kiss over her trembling mouth. "I had a wonderful picnic all planned for us, but if you didn't get the flowers, you wouldn't have known to come."
"The yellow roses are beautiful, Cole."
"You got them?"
"Yes. They're beautiful."
"Then the card must have been missing."
Brenna reached in her pocket and pulled out the card. She stared at it a moment, and when she looked up at him, her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
"No," she said finally, her voice husky. "The card came with it."
"Then you were late getting home and you couldn't get hold of me," Cole said, trying to find a logical explanation, sensing that she was on the verge of crying. "It's okay, fair lady. We can still have our
picnic."
"You don't understand," she said.
He took her hand. "Then explain it," he said, bewildered by the conflicting emotions that chased across
her face. The Brenna he knew was direct. No evasions, no omissions, no matter the cost to herself.
A hysterical bubble of laughter escaped her lips. She held the card out to Cole. "I-"
He glanced at the note, saw his instructions to meet him were clear. "Brenna?"
"I didn't know I was supposed to meet you."
Cole frowned. "But it says-"
"I can't..." She closed her eyes and tears squeezed out beneath the lids.
"Brenna, what's happened? Something with your father?"
She shook her head.
"What then?"
"I thought you'd call me."
"What does that have to do with this? I wrote you a note instead." She nodded, her gaze diverted. He
lifted her chin with his finger, and instead of meeting his gaze, hers slid past his shoulder. More puzzled than ever, Cole watched her. She had always been direct with him-it was one of the qualities he most admired about her.
"Brenna? Has something happened since this morning?"
"No," she whispered.
"No." Her evasiveness set off terrible warning bells that rang through his head. The tenuous hold he'd
had on his temper since talking with the D.A. hours ago began to evaporate. All the day's frustrations
piled one on another. He stepped away from her, raking his hands through his hair. "Let me see if I've got this straight so far. You got my flowers. You got my note. You weren't home late from work. And nothing has happened since this morning. But you're upset, and you didn't come to meet me."
She stared at the floor a long moment, then lifted her gaze to him. The anguish Cole saw there slipped past his frustration and made him reach for her. Just as he would have touched her, she stepped back.
"Fair lady, we can't solve this unless you tell me what's going on."
She swallowed convulsively and wrapped her arms around herself as if to ward off a chill. The silence stretched tautly between them.
"Maybe I should go," he said. "If you're not ready to talk, I guess the least I can do is give you some time." Gently, he touched her cheek with the side of his finger and turned around. He was halfway to the door when her anguished whisper reached him.
"I can't read." Cole stopped midstride and shook his head.I can't read . Slowly, he turned around to look at her. Shestood motionless where he had left her. The card from his flowers was gripped tightly in her hand.
Suddenly, her fist opened, and the rumpled card fluttered to the floor. He felt an absurd desire to pick it up and smooth out all the wrinkles.
"What did you say?"
Another long moment passed, one that reminded him of the interminable time it took her to answer
questions at the trial.
"I can't read," she said, finally, her voice devoid of emotion.
A dozen incidents sped through Cole's mind, each one reinforcing an inescapable conclusion. Brenna knew how to read. She was one of the most articulate people he had ever met. Of course, she could read. He knew she could.
She held out her hand. "I can't. Cole, honestly, I can't."
"I don't know why you would tell me such a thing," he said. She watched his expression close into the granite hardness of the man she had first known, watched the metallic glitter appear in his gold-flecked eyes.
"It's the truth," she said, unable to hold his gaze, dropping her own again to the floor.
"The truth?" Cole closed the gap between them and lifted her face with his hand. "The truth, Brenna, is not this. The Brenna James I know looks me in the eye when she tells the truth. No evasions."
Her eyes closed, tears seeped beneath the lids. Cole waited until she opened them again.