Evergreen Falls

by Kimberley Freeman

  “Put them in some water,” she said in a thick voice. “Genevieve, get the nurse to put them in water. They’ll die otherwise. I don’t want them to die. Young Lauren has brought them for me.”

  “Don’t worry, Mum,” Genevieve said, taking the flowers and laying them on the bedside table. “I’ll ask the very next nurse who comes in.”

  “The operation all went well?” I asked Genevieve. She was one of those striking women in her late forties who looked good in silk scarves. I had never been able to wear a silk scarf without looking as though I was drowning.

  “She came through it brilliantly. She’s in such good health for her age. We’re all so pleased.”

  “Are you talking about me?” Lizzie said, but her eyes were closed.

  Genevieve shrugged. “She’s not really with it.”

  “I might go, then.”

  “Would you mind waiting ten minutes? I’m dying for a coffee, or what passes for coffee at the cafeteria here. I’ll get a takeaway and come right back.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Thanks.” Genevieve hurried off, and I took her place in the pink chair, leaning across to touch Lizzie’s hand.

  “I’m so glad you’re okay, Lizzie,” I said.

  “Life in the old bird yet. Not like my mother. She lay down like this, and she didn’t get up,” she slurred, then fell quiet. I sat with her, listening to her breathe, assuming she had fallen asleep, but then she suddenly started talking again. “Genevieve, I have to tell you something.”

  “I’m not Genevieve, I’m Lauren,” I said.

  But she paid no attention. “Your granddad: he wasn’t my real father. It kills me. I wish she’d never said anything.”

  “Who said—” I started, then stopped when I realized the message wasn’t for me. “Lizzie, it’s not Genevieve. It’s Lauren. Genevieve has gone to get a coffee, and she’ll be back in a minute, so you can tell her then.”

  Lizzie cracked open one eye and looked at me. “Lauren. You’re a good girl.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Get those flowers in water.”

  “I will.”

  She fell silent again, and this time tuneful snores told me she’d fallen asleep. He wasn’t my real father. It kills me. Poor Lizzie. She’d always spoken so fondly of her father. I promised myself, though, that this time I wouldn’t interfere. Lizzie was old and deserved privacy.

  Genevieve returned soon after. The smell of cigarette smoke told me she’d gone for more than a coffee.

  “Doesn’t she know you smoke?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “She’d be so disappointed.”

  “But she used to smoke.”

  “Did she?”

  I put up my palms. “I’ve said too much. Not my place to share family secrets. While you were gone, she thought I was you and tried to tell me something about your granddad.”

  “Oh, yes. We already know. On her deathbed, Grandma confessed to Mum that Granddad was not her biological father. I’m afraid she took it very badly and has never really got over it. She doted on Granddad. She told us as though it was a big secret, something to be ashamed of. None of us know who the ‘real’ father was. Of course we don’t mind. Funny that she should bring it up now.”

  “Well, if it’s something she’d rather keep secret, I can pretend I never heard anything.”

  “Thanks. That would mean a lot.”

  I left the hospital and headed out into the cool glow of the late afternoon, hoping Tomas wouldn’t be too tired for company tonight.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Work was crazy-busy the next morning. A busload of Romanian tourists turned up unannounced at ten o’clock, and Penny and I ran ourselves ragged making coffee and toasting banana bread for them. In the middle of it all I heard my phone ring and I knew it was my mother, and I suddenly felt unspeakably angry with her.

  Always. Ringing. Me.

  I ignored it and made a promise to myself that I would tell her that it was no longer okay for her to call me all the time. I had a life, and she was interfering with it.

  When I checked my phone in a quiet moment I saw that it hadn’t been her at all. It was a number I didn’t recognize, and the caller had left a message. I pressed it to my ear to listen.

  “Lauren,” a smooth voice said. “It’s Anton Fournier. I’m heading off to Hong Kong the day after tomorrow, but if you can be at my house at eleven o’clock tomorrow, I will talk to you. I hope to see you then.”

  Eleven o’clock. I was rostered to work. I didn’t want to call him back and try to bargain on the time in case he got spooked and told me the deal was off. So, instead I went to Penny and begged.

  “Please, please, please can I leave at ten thirty tomorrow? I’ll be back at twelve or twelve thirty at the latest.”

  “But we’ve been so busy. What if we get more tourists?”

  “I don’t know what to say. A man who holds the key to a family secret has offered to meet with me, and I don’t think the appointment’s negotiable.”

  “Is this Anton Fournier?”

  I nodded.

  “Do it,” she said. “I’ll cover for you. It can’t possibly be worse than today.”

  I knew one last thing I had to do before I went to see Anton. I had to give my mother a final chance to tell me her version of what had happened. On my break, I slipped outside and sat on a bench looking up at the hotel, and called her.

  “Mum, it’s me,” I said.

  “Is everything—”

  “Everything’s okay,” I said quickly. “But I need to tell you something.”

  “Yes?” she said slowly, warily.

  “I’m meeting Anton Fournier tomorrow.”

  “The man who harassed you? Are you out of your mind?”

  “He didn’t harass me. If anything, I harassed him. He had to kick me off his property. Last chance, Mum. Tell me what happened.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Then her voice changed, became plaintive. “If you loved me, you wouldn’t go. You wouldn’t meet with him.”

  I exhaled loudly and turned my eyes up to the rooms in the hotel, the old west wing. In there, something happened many, many years ago, and Flora Honeychurch-Black had refused to talk about it. Her granddaughter Terri-Anne was still trying to figure it all out. Lizzie’s mother had revealed her daughter’s paternity on her deathbed, and Lizzie still carried the pain and shame of it. Family secrets had such power, and I wasn’t going to let Mum bury ours. A flock of birds arrowed overhead, and I watched them, waiting to see if Mum would relent.

  “I always did what was best for you and Adam,” she said at last.

  “What you thought was best,” I said.

  “You’re fine, aren’t you?” Her voice was defensive now.

  “I don’t know. Am I? I’m nearly thirty-one and I’ve never had sex and I can’t drive a car. Is that fine?”

  A hot silence. She was angry.

  “Mum?” I said, trying to sound conciliatory.

  “Meet with him, then. See if I care,” she snapped, then the line went dead.

  I pocketed my phone, taking big gulps of the fresh mountain air. The guilt wouldn’t work this time. I was determined to know the truth.

  * * *

  Tomas, recovered from jet lag, was at my door at seven. I’d cleaned the flat, baked a pie (steak and mushroom), lit a scented candle, dressed in a pretty new cotton blouse and my best jeans, and brushed my teeth two or maybe three times (in my anxiety, I’d lost track). Because this was it, this was the big one: our third date.

  “Come in,” I said, trying to sound worldly rather than freaked out. We’d had such an odd start to our relationship, and I wanted very badly for everything to go well from now on.

  He kissed my cheek and handed me a bottle of wine. “Don’t drink it all at once,” he said with a little smile.

  “Very funny,” I replied, following him in and putting the wine on the kitchen bench. “You look rested.” He looked ver
y fine indeed, in dark gray trousers and a chambray shirt.

  “I feel fine. I functioned normally at work today, which is always a good thing.”

  “Any more news on the west wing?”

  He shook his head. “There won’t be until next January. It’s only two months before I’m done with the east wing and they send me home for the year.”

  My mood deflated. He had warned me, but I’d conveniently forgotten. I smiled brightly to cover it up. “Glass of wine?”

  “Good idea.”

  We both reached for the bottle at the same time, and managed to bump it off the bench and onto the kitchen floor. With a smash, red wine began to spread across the tiles.

  “I’m so sorry!” he exclaimed, dashing to the sink for a cloth.

  I crouched and began to pick up the pieces of broken glass. “Gosh, what a mess,” I said.

  “Here, let me help.”

  As he crouched next to me, our knees bumped.

  And something happened. I can’t explain it, but with that small physical touch, a flame lit inside me. I was such a stranger to desire, that now it hit me I almost didn’t recognize it. I experienced it first as apprehension: my go-to emotion. But he had felt it, too, and he was looking at me intently. The cloth was in his hand, the broken bottle was in mine.

  Then, with quiet agreement, we both dropped those things and reached for each other. His fingers moved to my cheek, pulling me towards him, kissing me as we stood and then fumbled our way over the spilled wine and out of the kitchen.

  We fell onto the couch together, me on top of him, lips locked. I could hardly breathe, but I didn’t care. His mouth, his teeth, his tongue—I explored them all with passionate abandon.

  My hands moved to his chest, and I began to unbutton his shirt. That’s when he gently pushed me back and met my gaze. “Are you sure?” he said quietly.

  “I am so sure.”

  “I know it’s your first time. I don’t mind if you want to wait a bit longer.”

  “I’m thirty. How much longer should I wait?” I laughed.

  He pulled me down into his warm arms. The steak-and-mushroom pie ended up burned, but neither of us really minded.

  * * *

  The next morning, I woke up before Tomas and propped myself up on my elbow, watching him sleep. I had never woken up next to somebody before. My eyes pricked, like I might cry. It seemed such a simple thing to have missed out on for so long.

  As though he sensed I was watching him, he began to stir. His eyelids flickered and then opened, and he saw me looking at him. As recognition and remembrance dawned, tenderness—vulnerability—came over his expression, and it induced in me a feeling of falling. Falling somewhere warm and soft.

  “I love you,” he said, in a croaky morning voice.

  “I love you, too,” I replied.

  * * *

  I stood outside Anton Fournier’s gate ten minutes early. I didn’t want to go in and knock in case it annoyed him that I had arrived before our agreed time, so I hung about on the footpath under the shade of an oak tree. I measured my heart rate. A hundred beats per minute. Anxiety had me in its prickly grasp.

  I took a few deep breaths, checked my watch again. Only two minutes had passed.

  “Are you going to come in?”

  I whirled around. Anton stood at the gate, his dogs by his side.

  “I saw you from the house,” he said, and he gave me half a smile.

  “I didn’t want to bother you if you weren’t ready for me.”

  “Come in,” he said. “I’ll make us something to drink.”

  I followed him up the long front driveway. Romeo and Juliet sniffed me and then ran about before coming back and sniffing me again. We walked up the front stairs and through the open door.

  “Oh, wow,” was all I could think to say when I saw the inside of his house. The entire back wall was glass, and it gave an uninterrupted view of the valley.

  “Yes, I love it,” he said. He wore a loose cotton shirt, cotton pants with the cuffs turned up, and no shoes. “When a storm comes in, it’s the best place in the world to be. Pity I travel so much.”

  “Somebody said you were a record producer.”

  “Nothing so exotic,” he said, padding across to his open-plan kitchen. “Head of Asian marketing. I’m practically tone deaf.” He switched on his kettle. “I don’t drink anything caffeinated, I’m afraid. How about fruit tea?”

  “I’m willing to try it.”

  He found a canister in the pantry and placed it on the marble island bench between us. The sound echoed through the living space, right up to the high ceiling. While he prepared the teapot, I gazed around. Art on the walls, mostly abstracts. Stylish, modern furniture. Bookshelves crammed with paperback thrillers.

  “You look nothing like Adam,” he said to me, studiously avoiding my eyes.

  “No. He looks more like Mum.”

  His mouth pulled into a line, and I knew that it was my mother who had upset him. But then, I’d already guessed that.

  “I mean looked like Mum,” I corrected myself. “I still talk about him as though he’s here.”

  “I can’t believe he’s gone. Your letter was beautiful.”

  “Thanks. It was from the heart.”

  The kettle began to whistle. “Please, make yourself comfortable. Sit down. This needs a few minutes to brew.” He filled the teapot and placed it on a tray with cups, a jar of honey, and slices of carrot cake. I chose to sit where I was sure spillage wouldn’t stain—so, not the white couch—putting my back to the beautiful view. One of the dogs curled up on the floor at my feet.

  “She likes you,” he said, placing the tray on the coffee table between us. “That’s a good sign.”

  “It is?”

  “You could do worse than trust a dog’s opinion of a person,” he said. “I’m sorry I was rude the first time we met. I didn’t know how involved you’d been in what happened.”

  “What did happen?”

  He sat opposite, fearlessly on the white couch. “You’re sure you want to know from me? You could just ask your parents.”

  “I tried that. Mum clammed up. At first she pretended she didn’t know who you were.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Of course she did,” he said.

  “So, tell me. Everything. Please.”

  “Okay. Well, where to start . . .” He poured tea and handed me a cup. It tasted sublime; like hot strawberries with a twist of lime. “How well did you know Adam?” he asked.

  “Really well.”

  “I mean . . . did you know anything about his love life?”

  I shook my head. “Well, no. He didn’t really have one after he got sick. I suppose he would have liked a girlfriend but—”

  “No,” he interrupted. “He wouldn’t have.”

  I looked at him, puzzled. Then he put down his teacup and spread his hands apart. “Lauren, Adam was gay.”

  “He was?” Then it all fell into place. “Oh. You and he were . . .”

  “In love, yes. Mad love. Teenage love, I suppose. We were so wrapped up in each other. It was one of the most beautiful times of my life. He was my soul mate.” His face worked against tears. “He was a special, special lad. Good God, I still miss him.”

  I sat motionless, gobsmacked. I’d had no idea, not even the slightest inkling, that my brother was gay. How was that possible? I would never have judged him for it; why didn’t he tell me?

  But of course I knew why. My mother. My interfering, overly anxious mother.

  “What did she do to you?” I asked.

  “Your mother? Adam told her,” he said. “She went ballistic. She told Adam it was a phase he was going through. She thought I had him under a spell of some kind. She said he’d never have a normal life if he stayed with me and that she just wanted things to be easy for him. She did everything in her power to convince Adam not to be gay.” He shrugged. “Like trying to convince the tide not to come in. Your family cut off contact with him, and Adam was
bereft. I told him to go and see them in person and sort it out with them. So he did. That was the last time I saw him.” The pain in his voice was raw.

  “He got sick.”

  “Yes, he got sick while he was down in Tasmania with you all. I phoned every day, but your mother wouldn’t let me speak to him. She said she wouldn’t even tell him I called and just to leave him alone. I wrote letters. I don’t know what happened to those.”

  “She intercepted them,” I said. “Back then, the mail service was shocking. We had it all diverted to the post office in the village, and Mum went in every day to pick it up. She never let anyone else do it.”

  “There. One mystery solved. Finally, I caught a plane to Hobart and I hired a car and I just showed up.” He stopped for a moment, sipped his tea. The other dog hopped up on the couch near him, and Anton took a few seconds to pat his side, gather his breath. “Your father answered the door. He was in on it. Your mother came out. I tried shouting out for Adam, but I don’t know if he heard. They told me he didn’t want to see me, that he had to focus on getting well and I was making that hard on him, that I was not and never would be welcome in your family.”

  These were hard truths for me to hear. I was so disappointed in my parents, especially my father.

  “I came home. I sent more letters, phoned less frequently. After a year, when I still hadn’t heard a word from him, I started to think maybe they told the truth. Maybe he didn’t want to see me. Maybe I was being a crazy stalker. So . . . I let him go.”

  “You let him go.”

  “Yeah.” He sagged forward.

  I could see it now: those first few years of Adam’s illness, his sadness, his perpetual air of being lost, wasn’t just about being sick. It was about being brokenhearted. “That is . . . really awful,” I said.

  “Yes. It is. But, please, don’t see me as a tragic figure. I got on with life. I met Peyton; we have two spoiled dogs. It’s Adam who’s the tragic one. He probably thought I’d abandoned him when he got sick. It was the last thing I would have done. The very last thing. I wanted to be there. I wanted to nurse him. I wanted to hold him when he was frightened. I got to do none of those things, give him none of that comfort.”