Powers of Arrest (Will Borders: Cincinnati Casebook 2)

Shillito-Rikes over on Seventh. They had been so full of magic and big-city bustle, especially at Christmas. Now all that was left was the little Macy’s west of the square, a concession to Macy’s headquarters city and plenty of city subsidies. South of the Carew Tower, he could make out the lit whiteness of the 1913 PNC Tower, still the Central Trust Tower to natives, with its Greek temple at the top.

“Will, I’ve lied to you.”

She took her hand away from his and faced toward the glassy front of the Westin across Fifth.

“You’re married?” He tried to make light, but the change in her voice made him uneasy.

“Just hold me.”

That was easy. He wrapped his arms around her and she leaned into him. He could barely hear her when she started talking.

“When I said I didn’t have children, that was a lie. I’ve been telling that lie for so long that it comes naturally…”

She clutched him back tightly.

“I had a daughter. She died. She was born with a bad heart, and when she was three…I couldn’t stop it. Her name was Carla Beth and today is her birthday and she would have been eighteen years old…”

All this came tumbling out at a speed to match the cascade of the fountain. He held on and kissed the top of her head. Her hair was very soft.

“I can’t explain to you why I told this lie,” she said. “There’s no good reason. I loved that little girl so much. She was mine. And the grief was mine. Now I realize she didn’t belong to me. She belonged to God, and if she had lived she would have made her own decisions. But for so many years I couldn’t let go. I didn’t want to try to have another baby because I couldn’t stand another loss…couldn’t face it again…and I never found the right man. But I had my grief… It was easier to wear this disguise. I don’t want that with you.”

For the first time in so long, his mind wasn’t regretting the past or fearing the future. He was there in that space and moment, under the golden light of the fountain, feeling her heart beat wildly inside her chest.

She raised her head and looked at him straight on. Her eyes were wet but fierce. “Don’t make me regret that decision, Will Borders.”

He pulled her in and held her close, whispering, “Never…never going to hurt you…never going to let you down…” again and again. The splash and murmur of water, the song of this river city, under the statue’s outstretched arms, consecrated their moment.

Chapter Twenty-five

They walked back to his car in silence, still holding hands. Cheryl Beth felt strangely free and light after telling him. She felt safe with him knowing. It was as if a new world had opened at her feet. He started slowly up Vine Street, past Piatt Park where the murdered President James Garfield looked out on the city from his statue, past the public library and Scotti’s Italian restaurant with its red-and-green neon sign and red door. After Central Parkway and the monotonous Kroger tower, Vine would enter Over-the-Rhine and then climb into Clifton, back home.

“Let’s go to your place.” Her voice sounded normal again.

“Do you think that’s a good idea?”

She put her hand on his knee. “Yes. It’s a wonderful idea.”

“Me, too.”

She had never even seen the little street that held Will’s townhouse. It was a block from the mishmash of wide Liberty Street, but it was quiet and secluded. The townhouse itself must have been more than a hundred years old and yet it looked to be in good shape. The interior was completely restored and modernized, even if the granite kitchen countertops weren’t quite to her taste.

“Is this your son?” She held up a photo of a tall, dark-haired young man. He smiled awkwardly at the camera.

“Stepson,” Will said. “His biological father showed back up, rich in Boston, and now my ex has remarried. The kid doesn’t want for fathers.”

She liked it that he had an old Baldwin upright piano, a bookshelf with titles that looked as if they had actually been read, and on the wall was a framed movie poster from The Violators. Will explained how he had bought the townhouse from a P&G guy who had done the rehab as he showed her though the downstairs.

“Play something for me.”

“I can’t really,” he said, embarrassment clouding him. “I tilt now.”

“I’ll sit next to you.”

So they did. His fingers tentatively began The Blue Danube, gathering confidence as he went. It was all wrong: he couldn’t use the pedals. “I played this by ear when I was six. It made my mother think I was some kind of musical genius. Hardly.”

“I love it,” Cheryl Beth said.

Then he tried “Isn’t It Romantic” from memory. She leaned into him. It felt like magic.