Never Say Goodbye

Clare’s frown deepened. “Well, it’s been three years, Jess,” she said carefully. “And prison is a hard place, from what I’ve read. It can…do things to a person. Change them. Did he sound angry, or threatening?”

Jess thought back to the few words Scott had spoken on the phone. There had been absolutely no hint of anger or threat in his voice. On the contrary. He’d sounded anxious. And shaky. And…hungry.

Now it was Jess’s turn to frown. Hungry. What an odd word to pop into her mind. And yet it was accurate, she realized. There had been a raw need in his voice when he’d spoken her name. As if he had to hear her voice, to connect with her in some tangible way. It was an oddly disconcerting realization.

“Jess?”

Her mother’s anxious voice brought her back to the present, and she summoned up a reassuring smile. “No, Mom. He didn’t sound angry. He sounded…the same.”

“I can’t believe he called you,” Frank said, a thread of anger still running through his voice. “Why would he do that, when you made it clear you never wanted to see him again?”

“I don’t know, Dad.” Her own voice was suddenly weary.

“Well, let’s forget about it as best we can and enjoy our dinner,” Clare suggested, forcibly lightening her tone as she sent a “let-it-drop-for-now” look to her husband. “Your dad’s right, honey. Hanging up on him was the best thing you could have done. He’s a smart man. He’ll get the message. You’ll probably never hear from him again. Now, how about another biscuit?”

As Jess took the proffered breadbasket, she hoped her mother was right about Scott. But she wasn’t optimistic. She’d heard his voice. And she didn’t think he was going to give up until she talked with him. Which was something she did not want to do.

Maybe a restraining order was in her future after all.

A gust of frigid air whipped past, and Scott turned up the collar of his denim jacket before jamming his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He was chilled to the bone after waiting at the bus stop for thirty minutes, and the inadequate heater on the public conveyance had done little to dispel the numbing cold. The greenhouse looming in front of him promised a haven from the freezing temperatures, and he quickened his pace, breathing a sigh of relief as he stepped into the balmy oasis.

For a moment Scott just stood there, letting the welcome warmth seep through his pores as he scanned the interior. The facility was well maintained, with half of the space devoted to row after row of tagged trays containing tiny seedlings, while larger pots of healthy-looking perennials occupied the other half. Large rubber hoses lay neatly coiled at periodic intervals, and hanging pots were spaced methodically above the seedlings. The operation appeared to be orderly and well run, Scott noted with approval.

“You must be Scott.”

At the sound of the gravelly voice, Scott turned. An older man had entered the greenhouse by a side door and now stood observing him from several yards away. Make that “assessing him,” Scott thought wryly, as the man’s shrewd, slightly narrowed eyes studied him. Scott took the opportunity to look him over, as well. An unlit cigar was clamped between his teeth, and his fists were planted on his hips. His white hair was closely cropped in a no-nonsense style, and his attire—worn jeans that molded comfortably to his lean frame, and an open fleece-lined jacket that revealed a T-shirt containing the words Lawson Landscaping—spoke more to practicality than style. His stance and tone were definitely intimidating enough to scare off most potential job applicants.

But Scott wanted this job. Reverend Young, one of the local clergy who volunteered as a prison chaplain, had warned him when he set up the interview that Seth Lawson was a fair but hard taskmaster. That he expected a lot and cut no slack. But that was okay with Scott. He wasn’t looking for any favors. He just wanted a chance to start over. And as an ex-con himself who had served time for armed robbery many years before, Seth was sometimes willing to give newly released prisoners that chance. Which was more than could be said for a lot of employers. Or people in general. Even though ex-cons had served their time and paid their debt, society was often unwilling to take them back. So the odds were stacked against them.

But Scott didn’t intend to become another statistic. With the help of people like Reverend Young and Seth Lawson, he would make it. He straightened his shoulders and gazed steadily into the older man’s razor-sharp, intensely blue eyes. “That’s right. I’m Scott Mitchell.”

Seth studied Scott for another moment, then nodded toward the rear of the greenhouse. “Office is back there. Let’s talk.”

He led the way to a compact but well-equipped office furnished with three unoccupied desks, several filing cabinets, a fax machine and a copier. Instead of sitting behind one of the desks, however, he continued toward a small conference room at the back, pausing as he passed the coffeemaker.

“Want a cup?”

Scott nodded, trying not to appear too eager. He was still trying to shake the February chill, and coffee would help. “Thanks.”

“Cream?”

“Black.”

Seth poured two cups, then moved into the conference room, shrugged out of his jacket and sat down at the round table. Scott followed suit—but he left his coat on.

“So tell me why you want this job,” Seth said without preamble, chewing on his cigar.

Scott wrapped his hands around the coffee cup, letting the warmth seep into his numb fingers. “I need a job,” he said honestly. “More than that, I need a chance to start over. I know something about horticulture, and I don’t want a job with walls. This sounded perfect.”

“It’s far from perfect,” Seth replied bluntly. “Most guys don’t last more than a few weeks. It’s hard work. Dirty work. And the pay’s not great.”

“I’m not afraid of hard work. Or dirt. And I don’t need much money.”

Seth considered that answer for a moment. “You have any family?”

A spasm of pain ricocheted through Scott’s eyes. “I have a sister and brother-in-law in Chicago. And three nephews.”

Seth glanced pointedly at the wedding ring on Scott’s left hand. “That it?”

Scott drew an unsteady breath. “I also have a wife. In name, at least. She doesn’t believe in divorce. But she never wants to see me again.”

“Too bad. It helps to have family and friends around when you get out. But a lot of people can’t handle the stigma of being associated with an ex-con.”

“Jess isn’t like that.”

Seth’s eyebrows rose. “But she never wants to see you again.”

Scott swallowed past the lump in his throat. “For good reason. I made some bad mistakes.”

“You also paid for them.”

“In the eyes of society, maybe. I’m not sure about in the eyes of God.”

Seth considered that for a moment. “How long were you in?”

“Three years.”

“What did you do before?”

“I was in marketing.”

When he named the company, Seth’s eyebrows rose. “Were you in for one of those white-collar crimes?”

Scott frowned. “Didn’t Reverend Young tell you?”

Seth shrugged. “Didn’t ask. Doesn’t matter. I judge people by who they are now, not what they did years ago. I was just curious. Don’t get too many guys in here with your polish.”

Scott took a sip of the scalding liquid, which suddenly tasted bitter on his tongue. “I’m surprised there’s any polish left,” he said quietly.

Seth looked at him shrewdly. “It’s rough in there, all right. Takes a lot out of a man.”

“Yeah.”

“You have any money?”

Scott frowned again. The conversation was all over the place and he was having a hard time keeping up. “No.”

“You’re still married. Anything still in your name?”