Rochelle asked Ruth to drop her off at the bank where a bright, shiny new blue sedan sat in the parking lot. She smiled, happy to have her own transportation even though after five years of not having driven a car, she would have to learn all over again. The car would allow her greater sense of freedom to come and go as she chose. Windy Point was quickly becoming home as she established roots with her car, a home, and… she was thinking of Michael.
Dare she hope for a normal life, considering Tobias was always in the background of her thoughts and fears?
When Rochelle went into the bank, she looked around for Michael. Not seeing him, she inquired at the nearest teller window.
“I need to see Mr. Matheson, please.”
“Yes, Miss Rathbone. Just a second, please.” The teller picked up the phone, pushed a button, and spoke briefly into the phone to announce Rochelle. “Mr. Matheson said for you to come to his office.”
“Hi,” she said when he opened the door for her. “Your tellers are very courteous. They're even calling me Miss Rathbone now.”
He trained an amused grin on her. “Don't laud them too much. I hear they are making bets about us. We have become reason for a great deal of speculation. I hope you don't mind.”
“It sounds innocent enough. I think it is rather amusing.
Everyone treats me very special after seeing you accompany me these several times. Why would I mind that?” She gave him a warm intimate smile.
Michael closed the door behind her, and recklessly drew her against his hard chest, the professionalism temporarily put aside.
“You feel so good,” he said, brushing his lips against her cheek.
Then as she turned her gaze up to meet his blue eyes, he covered her lips with his in an exploration of the familiar territory he had so enjoyed last night.
When he let her go, Rochelle's knees were weak. Taking a big breath, she lowered herself in the chair next to his desk.
“Did you find a house?” he asked with mild interest.
Before she could answer, his phone rang, and he lifted it to his ear.
“Yes,” he said, his attention seeming to perk up at hearing the voice of the person calling. He listened for at least two full minutes before he said anything else, and when he did, all he said was, “I see.” Then he listened some more, his proud face oddly composed until it transformed with a deep, inexplicable regret. “I see,” he said again. Then, “Thanks for telling me.” He hung up the phone.
Rochelle saw the tiredness in his face, the regret in his eyes, and suddenly she wanted to give comfort. She rose from her chair and went to him. “Michael, is something wrong?” She laid her hand upon his arm.
He turned away from her, oddly distant considering he just held and kissed her. “I understand you learned a great deal about me today,” he stated with an injured air.
The remark sounded accusing.
Rochelle flinched at his tone. When he turned to face her again, she saw he was angry and disturbed. “I suppose I did,” she maintained calmly.
“And?” It came out in a sharp retort, his eyes darkening with challenge.
“And what? What are you asking me?”
“I suppose you've formed a few opinions,” he accused brusquely.
He turned his back to her again, his attention seeming to take in the framed enlargement of the glass and steel building on his wall as if studying it. Rochelle went up behind him, reaching around to touch his arm. “Michael, I don't know any more than everyone else in this town, and if you think it changes my opinion of you, then you're wrong.”
He did an about face, nearly unbalancing her. His brows knitted close together. “I was charged with murder, Rochelle. Doesn't that bother you?” His voice took on an edge of contempt, and Rochelle could not decide if it was toward her or the memories of his father and stepmother's deaths, which brought him up on murder charges.
Rochelle stared at him, knowing she had done nothing to provoke such animosity. Why should he be so angry with her, displaying an attitude as if she betrayed him in some way?
Then recalling how evasive he had been to all her questions in the three days she had known him, she knew why he was angry.
Ruth had furnished her with information that gave her a close look into his life, and to him it bordered on an invasion of his privacy. He could have been angry with Ruth for betraying his confidence, but he wasn't. Instead, he was angry with Rochelle for knowing more than he wanted her to know.
“No, Michael, your having been charged with murder doesn't bother me, but I can see it bothers you.”
“Did she tell you I slept with my stepmother?”
Rochelle felt the blood rush to her head. Was it an admission or question? “No, she didn't tell me that. She said Wayne accused you.
Did you sleep with her, Michael? Is that why you're so upset by my knowing?”
His lips curled, and his fine, proud features became corrupted by whatever venom boiled inside him. “Is that what you think?” he demanded, and his voice bore no resemblance to the tender man whose kiss she enjoyed just a few moments earlier.
She should have known what was happening inside him, should have suspected it right away since she had suffered from the same pain, anguish, and humiliation so many times herself. It was frustration turned to anger, and anger turned to hostility over circumstances that caused him to lose control of his life. She knew a person could never be free so long as they lived under any suspicion or threat—she was a good example of that. Even if a court of law did find Michael not guilty, until the police caught the real murderer, he would feel the weight of public opinion from now on—just as he was assuming that Rochelle believed the worst about him.
Rochelle should have understood, but at that moment, all she saw was his anger directed toward her and it hurt her feelings.
“I don't think anything about you and your stepmother, Michael.
Would it matter if I said I could never believe those things about you?”
She became quiet a second or two, and when he failed to reply, she continued. “This is obviously a bad time. If you'll just give me my car key, I'll leave you alone with your distorted view of what I think!”
He snatched the key from his pocket and threw it upon his desk, his eyes looking as dangerous as Tobias had looked many times.
Rochelle's face must have reflected her disappointment as she grabbed up the key and sped from his office, forcing herself to keep a lady-like pace through the bank lobby. She looked neither left nor right, but headed straight for the door that led to the parking lot to her new car.
Her hands were shaking, her mental state still precarious at best with all the drudgery of the past and fear of Tobias finding her. A sudden rain of angry tears blinded her as she started to put the key in the ignition. With an aggressive thrust, she shoved the key in the hole and turned it. The engine started up immediately, purring just as new engines were supposed to do. She put the gear in reverse and flew backwards—her actions reminiscent of the time when she had run into Tobias's car—unmindful that her foot was pressing on the gas pedal when she changed gears. She hit the brake, coming to a sudden stop that threw her forward then backward. As the car settled, she froze in her seat in a stiff upright pose, her face suddenly contorting into an exasperated expression with moisture clouding her eyes.
“Is there a problem, Miss,” a customer coming out of the bank asked after tapping on the car window.
Shamed by her display, Rochelle quickly brushed at her eyes and shook her head, feeling suddenly ridiculous. “No, no problem.
This is a new car and I'm just trying to get used to it. Thank you,” she said, keeping her head turned aside to hide her tear-stained eyes.
With a shrug, the man gave her a sympathetic look and walked away.
In the meantime, her unskilled driving ability suddenly struck her as funny, and she burst out laughing. She imagined how she must appear to that kind old man while she tried to back her car out, bawling like a kid because she could not get the knack of it.
Finally, concentrating intently, she touched her foot to the pedal very gently, her other foot riding on the brake, and backed up at a snail's pace. After she safely backed up enough, she put the gear in forward, wheeled it around and continued to move at a snail's pace until she was out on the street. By the time she pulled in the parking space at the motel, she was breathing more normally again, and believing she might still know how to drive after all.
Her elation was terribly lacking, however, where her and Michael's confrontation was concerned.