Climbing Heartbreak Hill Page 10

  “Yeah, they’re—” What could he say? Too painful? Like having his Achilles slashed every time he looked at them. Would Mr. Tubbs even understand when he only saw the triumph? “Maybe they’ll inspire someone else.”

  Mr. Tubbs laid the medals reverently on his blotter. “That they will. Thank you for sharing them with us.”

  Ryan couldn’t bear to listen as Mr. Tubbs reminisced. He didn’t want to hear about the things he couldn’t do anymore. Tubbs shuffled through the medals until his fingers grazed a bronze one in the shape of Michigan. He cradled it in his palm.

  “Sometimes you see athletes work hard and do pretty well around here and then there’s a kid like you. They have the extra drive, the extra talent to do something special. This race—” His lips tightened and his voice caught. “This race was when I knew you were going to do great things.”

  Ryan frowned at the bronze. A third place at his first state finals. His nerves had been so whacked, he’d thrown up in the warm up area. He’d run two laps before his stomach settled and the urge to heave dissipated.

  “You looked so green on the starting line, I thought you were going to lose your lunch, but you held it together and came through the race strong. Kids need to see a hero overcome their nerves. It isn’t always about winning these big races. It’s about keeping your gut together.” He closed the bronze in his fist. “I heard about your injury. What will you be doing now?”

  Besides walking like an octogenarian for the rest of my life? Ryan scratched his nails into the rubber handle of his cane. “I haven’t given it much thought. Until Monday I thought I would be running again in a few weeks, but now… I don’t know.”

  Mr. Tubbs dangled the bronze between them. “If you’ve got some time on your hands,” Mr. Tubbs said slowly, “Coach Chambers could use some help. He’s got eight girls who thought track would be good conditioning for soccer and the football team has a chance at winning state next year.”

  Translation: Chambers hasn’t got any time for the girls. “Are the girls any good?” Ryan asked. Why did he care? They wanted to play soccer not run track.

  “I think there might be some potential there. Chambers wouldn’t know, but one of the girls never seems to get winded. She’s not breaking any speed records, but—” He tapped his finger by the Michigan medal. “She reminds me of you.”

  Everything inside Ryan snarled that being near the track team was a bad idea. How could he watch them run when he couldn’t? Still he said, “I’ll have to think about it” instead of flat out refusing.

  “I’m afraid there isn’t much time. There’s only a month left in the season. These girls could use your help now.”

  Ryan held his cane upright between his knees, smoothing his hand over the grip.

  “I can’t pay you this year. Nothing in the budget, but Chambers has been talking about cutting back. I may be able to work out something for you next year if you stick around.”

  “You really know how to sweeten the deal. I can’t run with them. How am I supposed to coach them?”

  “Chambers follows them on their runs in his station wagon eating a box of donuts. Whatever you can do wouldn’t be worse.” Mr. Tubbs rolled his eyes.

  Ryan remembered the runner, circling the track. He didn’t have the ability anymore, but he could share his wisdom and prevent the overtraining that caused his injury. But could he stand to be so close to his beloved sport without participating? It was the only way to get his running shoes on the track again, but he still couldn’t say yes.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Charles swaggered out of his office, sliding his trench coat on his shoulders. “Any plans for this evening?”

  “Just me and this computer,” Tara said. He couldn’t be leaving for the day. It was barely three-thirty. But if he wasn’t, he was doing his own errands. Leaving was much more believable.

  “The string bean dumped you, eh?”

  Tara debated whether it was worth her energy to bite back at Charles or if she even had the energy to spare. She supposed ‘string bean’ referred to Ryan, though how Charles had surmised she and Ryan were anything, she didn’t know. Even if he did know about their kiss, one kiss — no matter how earth-shattering — did not a relationship make. She narrowed her eyes. Her nerves were twisted so tightly they were snapping like the cords of a suspension bridge during an earthquake. Charles wasn’t worth it.

  It was Friday night. The office was open for four more hours, and he was cutting out early. They still had customers flowing in and a stack of returns to finish and send. Ryan was coming after they closed to do some work on the servers. She hadn’t had time to think about what their kiss meant. Was it only a kiss or something more? Did she want something more? Questions, questions, questions.

  “I see,” Charles said, jerking her out of her musing. “You dumped him.” Charles tied the belt of his coat and picked up his briefcase. “Wanted a chance at something better.” He winked. “I’ll give you an audition later.”

  Tara rolled her eyes. She was too exhausted for his tired innuendos this afternoon. She hadn’t had time for any of the pranks she and Ryan had talked about. Charles had almost pulled his weight today, but now he was bugging out early. She clenched her mouse and rolled her chair closer to her desk. If you’re going, just get. Charles had rounded her desk and towered over her. She tugged on the lapel of her jacket, but she could still feel Charles’s eyes crawling on her skin. It wasn’t pleasant.

  “Too bad I’m taken. At least for tonight. You were a couple hours late.” He placed his hand on her desk and leaned over her shoulder. So close she could see the handprint of cologne he splashed on his chin. The fragrance choked her.

  “You’re just a pretty face with big boobs and neither of those is going to help you out much longer.” His mouth was so close she could smell the unpasteurized cream from his coffee. The puffs of air tickling her face had her itching for disinfectant. “Your bookkeeping skills wouldn’t last a day in the big city firms. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a date who knows how to use her assets.” He tapped her on the shoulder, then squeezed it, before moving away and leaving behind a fog of cologne. He opened the door and left. Cool air tumbled in, dispelling his haze.

  Tara stared at her computer screen, fighting the sting in her eyes. She was never going to overcome her lightweight image. Everywhere she went professionals would see her as the has-been cheerleader with nothing to recommend her but her implants. She looked down at her chest. If these were all she had to plan her future on, why should she kill herself trying to go college? No one but Leslie would ever take her seriously.

  The next client arrived, and Tara tried to shove the thoughts of inadequacy aside, but they nipped at her anyway. First, she brought up the wrong file and almost verified someone else’s social security number. Then she transposed numbers on their income, potentially costing them a hundred dollars in extra taxes. She pressed her thumb and forefinger against the bridge of her nose. The customer probably thought she had started her five o’clock somewhere a little early. She had to get a hold of herself. This was basically an EZ form. She could do this. She had to do this. Leslie trusted her. Giving the customer a weak smile, she tiptoed through the return, finally passing the refund sheet across the table for a signature.

  Another two hours of customers, then she could lock the doors. She could survive. What she would do after closing… well, she would worry about it then.

  The door opened and the wind caught the loose receipts in front of her computer. She flung herself across the desk as the papers floated away, knocking her cup of cold coffee over the side. The brown liquid splattered on the tile, but a masculine hand snatched the cup before it smashed on the tile.

  Her eyes traveled up the hand, past the red windbreaker to meet Ryan’s. She wanted to wrap her arms around his neck, snuggle into his chest and block out everything else. Their kiss flashed through her mind. Oh, she shouldn’t think about it now. She’d never get back to work. It was too tem
pting to flee as quickly as Charles had.

  Ryan juggled the cup and placed it on the edge of her desk. “Hey.”

  “What are you doing here?” She lifted herself off her desk and tugged her jacket back in place from where it had bunched up over her chest.

  “Am I too early? To work on the server?” He shifted his weight and tapped his cane against his toe. Was he nervous? “Is that still all right? I mean after…”

  Tara stared at him for a moment, trying to collect her thoughts. His boyish awkwardness was rather cute. “No, I mean, yes. That would be great. It’s been a long day.” She didn’t know what to do with her hands. Clasping them in front of her seemed school-girlish. Tucking them under her elbows, defensive. She grabbed her coffee cup and gestured for Ryan to follow her. “Thanks for coming. Charles was his usual self, then he cut out early. I’ve got at least half-a-dozen returns to finish and file tonight.” She rubbed her hand over her forehead and smoothed some flyaways. “Probably should grab some paper towels for the spilled coffee too.”

  Ryan passed a look over the computer, then turned back to Tara. “I’ve got this. Go do what you need to do.”

  Tara hesitated, while Ryan shucked off his coat and slung it over the back of the chair by the server station. She should say something about last night, but what?

  He reached out and touched her arm. “It’s okay. Go finish your work. I’ll be fine.”

  She nodded, blinking back tears. Ryan and Charles treated her so differently. Ryan so gentle, encouraging. Maybe there was one male who thought she wasn’t a bunch of fluff. “Thanks,” she murmured before hurrying back to her desk. She’d bury herself in her work and that would keep the tears at bay.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tara ended the final appointment of the day and sank back into her chair. This was quite possibly the longest Friday ever, and she still wasn’t done. She had to file the day’s returns with the IRS and wait for the acceptance verification.

  The hands on the clock had whizzed past nine o’clock. If she was lucky, she would be home by ten-thirty and could start forgetting this day ever happened.

  She clicked the send button to file the returns with the IRS. The status bar and the estimated time remaining appeared. It claimed nine minutes, but it was never right. It would more likely be thirty or more. While she waited, she straightened her desk and pulled the files for the next day. She set Charles’s files on his desk. No matter how much she disliked him, she needed his help with several returns. At first, he complained about her loading his desk with files every night, but now he seemed as grateful as he was capable. She liked being more familiar with the client’s history so she didn’t miss any obvious deductions or credits.

  The send/receive status was still crunching along when she finished, so she straightened up the toys and watered the plants before she tackled the mountain of backed up filing. As she retrieved the watering can from under the sink in the break room, she asked Ryan how things were going. He was paging through lists of file names on the screen.

  “Not bad. I’m clearing out the temporary files bogging things down. It should speed things up.” He let go of the mouse and leaned back in his chair.

  She sighed. “Sounds good. Hopefully it will stop Charles from complaining about the computer system.” She might be able to close up and sink into her bed within the hour. The computer chimed the transaction was complete. It had taken forty-five minutes. She clicked ‘okay’ to view the rejected returns. Only one. Thank goodness. Hopefully, it’d be a quick fix. She could resend it and get out of here.

  She matched the number to her list of returns and pulled the file. It was one of Charles’s. She groaned. Unless it was an easy error, she wouldn’t be able to resend it tonight. Charles would have to go over it in the morning. She pulled out the paper file from her stack and started with verifying the social security numbers.

  Ah, there was the problem. The last two numbers of the spouse’s number had been transposed. She could correct it and resend and still make her appointment with her bed. She made the changes to the computer file and then went to make a note on the printed file about the error and the resend.

  This year’s return was not on the top of the file. Maybe Charles put it on the bottom. She checked. Not there either. What would Charles have done with it? He could simply have forgotten to print one out. Did he stick it in the wrong file? Nope. A quick glance through the rest of the folders didn’t reveal it, but none of them had the most recent return in them. It was hard to believe he was doing that much work. He must hunker down and plow through the returns while she skipped around town on his errands.

  But what was he doing with the returns? He could be giving that copy to the client. She shrugged. It didn’t matter. She’d have to print out new ones, which she might as well do now while she was thinking about it. She clicked print on the current file, then accessed the rest of them and sent them to the printer as well. As she collected the sheets spewing from the printer, she realized he probably did the same thing for every return he did. She’d have to check them all.

  She groaned. So much for getting home at a decent hour. She started to make a list of the files she’d need, cursing Charles with every name she added to it. After finishing the list, she kicked off her shoes. Then she remembered something Leslie had said about being able to print multiple files at once. Tara selected the files and hit print. Paper shot out of the printer and landed in the tray. All she had left was stapling and shoving them in the appropriate folders. She made a quick trip to the bathroom and returned to find the papers tumbling from the printer and spewing to the floor like a tornado propelled them.

  Crap. Now she’d have to match the pages of each return. She’d be here until midnight.

  She hitched up her skirt and knelt on the floor to sort the papers. She had finagled three full returns out of the whirlwind when she noticed something funny about them. All the addresses for the refund were using post office boxes. A few people did that, but definitely not all of them. She shifted to plant her butt on the floor and studied the returns. The post office box was an hour away. Few people in town would drive out of town for their mail, and she knew these three households didn’t. She stared at the papers in front of her. The box numbers were all the same. Wasn’t there a lawyer who put estates in an escrow account? That could explain it. She scrambled through the papers and found three more with the same address.

  There was no way that was right. These three individuals didn’t even speak to each other let alone share a post office box an hour away. And they weren’t dead.

  Tara found the second page of the remaining 1040s. Each one listed the same mailing address.

  Her heart pounded in her chest. This was a big error. Charles must not have updated it. Her hands shook as she laid the papers down in front of her.

  No, that wasn’t right. The address information pulled directly from their client files. They shouldn’t have to update anything unless the client had moved.

  So what was going on? It couldn’t be a mistake. She grabbed one of the returns and checked the name. Cliff Simons. Didn’t he die two years before? Tara scrambled for the files on her desk and searched for Cliff’s. Second to last, of course, but she weaseled it out and flipped the file open. The last return was two years old. By the staple at the top of the last refund was a scrap of pink paper. The paper they used to note the client’s file was closed because he or she had died. That notice had been torn out.

  Charles had filed a return for a dead person? Then she gasped. Charles had filed a return using a dead person’s social security number. The check would go to the P.O. box; Charles would pick it up, and sail away with some extra cash. Just a little identity theft and a dash of tax fraud.

  Tara crouched back on the floor by the other returns. Would he do something so easily found out? He had done little to hide his tracks.

  He wasn’t the sharpest saw in the shed. Most of these refunds were only a few hundred dollars, not
enough to draw the IRS’s attention, but altogether, it was quite a sum of money. Of course, if he hadn’t transposed the numbers, she wouldn’t have found the theft until the IRS came knocking on the door. He would be sunning himself on a beach somewhere by then.

  What could she do? He hadn’t actually stolen any money yet. None of the refunds would have arrived at the P.O. box. She did, however, have proof of fraud. This would be a way to get rid of him.

  She started to organize the returns, mentally preparing a list of what she would need to present the police. Then she noticed one other number was the same on all the returns.

  She slumped back against the side of the printer station.

  Crap.

  She obviously wasn’t cut out for this. Charles had been right.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Tara slouched against the printer stand in front of a splash of papers when Ryan sauntered out of the server room. He rolled the tight muscles in his shoulders and heard several satisfying pops. He tapped on the wall with his knuckle to get her attention and Tara flinched. Her eyes flared and she gasped for air. Thankfully, she recognized him right away. He was afraid she might scream.

  “I can’t believe this.” Her voice trembled. Was she close to tears?

  Ryan cocked his head to see what the papers on the floor were. Tax returns, he guessed from the 1040 on the top, but beyond that he didn’t see the problem. “What’s going on?”

  Tara shook her head. Her blond hair was slipping from its tight knot. Tendrils fell around her face, but he realized they hadn’t come naturally loose. She had been digging her fingers through it. “I made a huge mistake.”