by Liz Crowe
“The first day,” he said, slowly. “That weekend you took off out of here like a bat out of hell, leaving my sons at your friends’ house and not answering me when I called Kathy’s number a million times. That first day?”
She put her hands on her hips, deciding to play the one card she’d kept tucked away for the past two and a half years. “Why, yes, Anton that would be the first day I had access to the money my famly left me. I decided to accept it after I was privileged to watch you get your dick sucked by that whore, Isabella Josefi. In our brewery no less.”
Anton’s mouth dropped open.
She clenched her jaw, trying to figure out a way to make him believe that she honestly had not touched the money, and had every intention of using it for the boys’ college educations … something they would never, ever be able to afford otherwise.
“I’m … Isabella … it’s …”
Lindsay held up a hand. “No, I don’t need explanations. I know you fired her when I asked you to. Of course, what I don’t know is how many times you fucked her before I caught you, and if she’s still sneaking into the brewery, angling to take you from me.”
Anton’s brow furrowed. The paper with the cold, hard facts of what else she’d done that weekend crumpled in his closed fist.
He swallowed. She waited.
“I’m sorry for that. It was wrong and I know it was and I …”
“I said, I don’t require your explanations.” She slipped the bankbook into her jeans pocket. “I haven’t used a thin dime of Halloran money on anything here. Just like I promised you I wouldn’t when we first got notice of it. It’s safe in the bank, drawing interest, and will be there for the boys when they need it, come college time. That’s it.”
“No, actually, that’s not it. I grabbed the mail before I left the brewery and only now had time to read this.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and she caught sight of an official-looking letterhead. Her heart seemed to stop, then pounded in her ears.
It had to be Joe. He’d sent Anton a dang letter to tell him what they’d done. She’d only seen the man once, at the pub, while she was hugely pregnant with Aiden. He’d let his gaze flicker down her swollen form, then up to her eyes. He’d not been around at all after that.
She took the paper with trembling hands. But it wasn’t from Joe. It was from some attorney’s office in Louisville, and had a bunch of legal mumbo-jumbo about the Love Brothers Brewing Company’s re-incorporation, with the mystery investor listed as a fifteen percent owner. She glanced up at Anton. His face was stony, his jaw set. His body seemed to quiver with rage.
She kept reading, trying to sort out what the problem was. She saw it at the bottom where the angel investor was to sign his name. The words: “JHJ Investments” were right above “James R. Halloran, Jr., President.” She stared at her brother’s name on the paper. “I … didn’t know.”
“Stop lying to me, God damn you.” He roared at her, lunging across the small room and grabbing her arms so hard there’d be bruises. She tried to wrench out of his grasp, but he wouldn’t let go. “I am just some kind of charity project for you still, aren’t I Lindsay? Miss Halloran?” He shook her, which pissed her off.
“Do not manhandle me, Anton.”
“Shut up. Just shut up and listen to me.”
“I won’t listen as long as you’re shaking me like a little kid. I mean it.” She glared at him. He dropped his arms to his sides and regarded her with an ice-cold stare.
“Fine. So here’s the deal. You have two choices.” He held up a finger. “One. Tell your brother to work out terms with me so I can pay him back. Then close that account in Louisville and return that money to him—that should be a start on it.”
She frowned. He loomed over her again. So close she could smell the wood smoke, brewery odors, and raw fury pouring off him in waves. “Two. Keep your goddamned Halloran money for yourself, pack a bag and leave.”
“That’s ridiculous, Anton.” She put some distance between them, legs shaking, terrified he might ask her about the real reason she had a piece of paper with blood types on it. “James is … I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm. He wanted to help.”
“He wanted to help you. Not me. He doesn’t give a shit about the brewery.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” Anger at his presumptive attitude was making her see red along the edges of her vision. “Huh? What in the name of all that is holy is wrong with my brother wanting to help me? It’s what brothers do, Anton. Remember? It’s what your family did for you. Taking out a loan for this place without telling me was no problem. Why are you being such a … such a …”
He glowered at her. “So you’ve made your decision then.”
She blinked. “No. I’m … it’s … it’s not that simple. Honey, listen.” She was getting nervous. Anton Love did not make idle threats. That much she knew for a fact. She reached for him. He jerked away from her. “Please, Anton, let’s talk about it. I’m not doing anything against you. It’s all for our family, our sons.” The panic blossomed into legitimate terror. She’d made peace with what she’d chosen—no, that she’d engineered for herself. She loved Anton and this life. She was not about to walk out now.
“I told you more than once. I will not accept Halloran money. And now …” He snatched the legal document out of her hand. “And now, thanks to you and your damn brother, I’ve been forced to, without even knowing it.”
“Wait, you think I knew about this? You’re calling me a liar, right now to my face?” She grabbed his arms. “Apologize, Anton.”
He remained silent.
“I hate you,” she whispered. “I hate your damn fool stubbornness so much it’s … it’s not right Anton. You have to let go of it.”
“Suitcase is right over there.” He didn’t move. “It’s your chance to escape this shitty life, Lindsay. Go on. Run to your brothers and your money and leave me and my boys to ourselves. We will be just fine without you.”
“I think my Daddy was right about you,” she said, angry tears streaming down her face.
“Oh? Well, what a coincidence ’cause I know my Mama was right about you.”
She lashed out before she could stop herself, slapping him hard, twice before he grabbed her wrist. They froze in this position.
“I’ll bet she’ll be real happy to see that whore Isabella in my house, in my kitchen, taking care of my sons.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Like as not. Since it means we’ll maybe eat decent meals and the house might be a little cleaner.”
She tugged her arm out of his grip. The memory of Joe, of what she’d done of her own free will that night, almost blinded her with remorse at that moment. “Better blow jobs too, huh?”
He didn’t respond. He’d closed down, she knew. He’d never show her another lick of emotion now. And she was half to blame.
Dazed, she turned from him. He grabbed her arm. Relieved, thinking they could maybe get past the ugly words, she opened her mouth to speak—to tell him everything she’d done the weekend she’d accepted her family’s money, so there were no more secrets between them.
But he held out the little ragged, hard-sided suitcase she’d used that very weekend. She took it and stomped up the steps and all the way to her bedroom. Dropping onto the bed in tears, she tried to think of a way out of this.
She couldn’t just give the money to her brothers. That was the dumbest thing ever. She’d go for a day or two and let him try and manage this pack of heathens. If he did indeed bring that wop bitch into her house, she’d find herself the best lawyer her money could buy and snatch the boys away from him. Divorce was something so utterly foreign to him and his family, she wondered how he could be so angry that he’d suggest it. It was the opposite of everything he was raised to believe.
With a sigh, and a plan for the few days ahead, she started dumping underwear in the suitcase. As she stood contemplating her closet full of frumpy mom-wear, a gut-wrenching scream hit her ears. Ru
nning out to the hall, she met Anton, who shoved his way past her and threw open Dominic and Aiden’s bedroom door. Aiden was sitting up, thumb in his mouth, staring across the room at his brother. Dom was screaming as if the very hounds of hell were gnawing on him. He thrashed and kicked, pounding the wall with one small fist.
Lindsay stopped in the doorway, horrified, and at a total loss. Anton tried to pick him up, but the kid was stiff as a board, lashing out with his fists and feet. When he had to drop the boy onto the bed with a grunt of pain after a direct blow to his balls, Anton turned to Lindsay, the terror on his face matching hers.
She marched past him, sat on the bed, put her hand on her son’s flailing leg and started singing. She sang hymn after hymn. “The Old Rugged Cross.” “Shall We Gather At the River.” “Blessed Be the Tie That Binds.” Anything and everything soothing she could remember.
Dom finally stilled, opened his eyes, and blinked up at the ceiling. When he turned to face her, his shock at seeing her there was clear. Tears spilled down his flushed cheeks and he launched himself at her, his sweaty little boy body clinging to her, arms and legs tight. She got up and moved to the rocking chair she’d left in the room, a vestige of Aiden’s few late-night nursing sessions.
“Mama,” he croaked out. “Bad dream. Really bad.”
“It’s all right, honey. Mama’s here. Shush, now.”
She glanced up and caught Anton’s eye. He had Aiden in one arm and was staring at her with the strangest look on his face—somewhere between sadness and abject terror. “I’ll put him in the other room,” he whispered, taking Aiden and shutting the door behind him.
She and Dom rocked and cried together until he dropped off again and became a lead weight she lugged to his bed. When she discovered he’d been so upset he wet himself, and she’d mistaken the dampness on her front for his usual sweatiness, she placed him on Aiden’s bed and stripped him out of his clothes. His arms were streaked with red marks, as if he’d been scratching himself in his sleep. She touched them, pondering the mystery of this particular boy, and wondering where his road would lead him, while she dressed him in clean underpants and tucked him under Aiden’s blankets. Then she stripped Dom’s bed and took the wet things to the basement, stuffed them into the washing machine along with her shirt, and stood up, noting the crumpled paper containing the evidence of her betrayal still on the floor.
She threw it in the trash, grabbed a clean T-shirt, and headed slowly upstairs. Anton was in their room, staring out the window at the blowing snow. When he turned to face her, she saw his tears. Without a word she walked to him, unbuttoned his shirt, unzipped his jeans, shoving them down to his ankles and gripped his cock. It stiffened quickly while she stared at him.
When she dropped to her knees and took him in her mouth, she prayed harder than she ever had in her life that they might figure out some way to get past this together.
He tugged her hair, grunting and thrusting, making her nearly gag, but she kept going, sensing him on the edge. But before he finished, he yanked her up, covered her lips with his, unzipped and shoved her jeans down as he lifted one of her legs so he could slide into her. She exhaled at the blessed familiarity, still erotically perfect, and wrapped her arms around his neck, meeting him thrust for thrust up against the bedroom wall, all without saying a thing.
“I love you,” he finally whispered into her neck. “Oh, God, Lindsay, please …”
“Come, Anton.”
He groaned and gave a last hard shove, then shuddered all over, spilling into her. She held on to him for dear life, whispering, “I’m sorry,” in his ear until he pulled out of her, picked her up and carried her to their bed.
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed into his chest. “I love you, Anton. I didn’t, at first, you were right, but now I do … so much. Please, please don’t make me leave.”
“Shhh, honey, it’s fine. It’ll all be fine.”
Nine months later.
Lindsay stared down at the sleeping baby in her arms. Her lips were full, her hair jet black in a way Lindsay knew would grow in dark. It had been two full days since the girl’s violent birth, after which Lindsay had been out of it, floating along on strong painkillers, antibiotics, and hydration, long enough that when she woke she’d almost forgot why she was in the hospital in the first place.
Her arms seemed heavy, her heart slow to beat, her reactions off as she studied her pink-swaddled daughter, Angelique Brianna Love. The girl gave a little newborn startle, her dark eyes flying open and her tiny body tensing up. Lindsay watched as if she were observing someone else holding this baby while she put the girl to her breast, only to have her fail to latch on.
Tears rolled down her cheeks as she offered comfort the only way she knew how, by feeding the girl from her body. But it didn’t work. Her milk had dried up or failed to come in at all from a combination of late pregnancy stress and three days of hard labor, culminating in an emergency C-section.
She’d not been allowed to hold Angelique right after she was born, since her own condition had been precarious, and the doctors wanted to make sure she was stable.
So “Angel,” as her father and brothers now called her, had been held for almost two days straight by her father, who couldn’t take his eyes off her. She’d been fed chemically processed, nourishing fluid from a bottle, as Lindsay had learned when she finally awoke from her morphine-induced stupor.
She had no need of Lindsay’s milk.
A nurse came in and clucked-clucked over Lindsay’s sobs, which had set the baby off on her own crying jag. “Here, honey, you rest some more, poor thing.” She took the baby and gave her to Anton. “Go to Daddy, there’s a sweetie.”
Lindsay watched Anton feed the girl a bottle, burp her, change her tiny diaper, and then hold her for hours while Lindsay recovered, or convalesced, or whatever it was she was doing. She spent a lot of time staring at the walls of her hospital room, trying to recover her equilibrium, but it eluded her. Tears flowed non-stop. She couldn’t choke down any food, even favorites her friends brought her. They’d ooh and aah over her daughter’s perfection, then pat Anton on the shoulder, and practically give the man a gold medal for “helping out.”
Finally, the doctors claimed her medically healed and sent her home. She spent a week in her room, crying, sleeping, or staring the small TV Anton put in there for her, while her husband and her boys took care of the infant. Lindsay rarely heard a peep out of her, which meant she hardly was ever put down.
“You’re spoiling her, Anton,” she’d say, angry and not understanding why. “Go on. Leave me be.”
She stared at the ugly, re-opened scar on her lower stomach, recalling the time Anton had kissed it after Dom’s birth, and their physical reconnection after that. The doctors had, without her knowledge or permission, rendered her sterile while they “had her open” after Angelique’s birth.
“It was best,” one of them, a smirking young man barely out of medical school, declared. “Another pregnancy could kill her,” he’d claimed to Anton as a way of scaring the poor man into signing the paper for a tubal ligation. She was no longer capable of conceiving. Which, on the one hand was a relief, but on the other, also gave her another excuse to cry and ignore how much her family needed her.
That was what did it. Those words, coming from her best friend’s mouth. Both Tanya and Marianne were patient with her at first. They took turns with the boys, helping so Anton could work a few hours a week. Lindsay’s brothers took them, too, sometimes overnight, or on elaborate fishing and camping trips she heard about after the fact from Kieran, who spent hours at her side. Antony, Dominic and Aiden avoided her bedroom, as if they were afraid of what they’d see.
During Lindsay’s seventh week home, on a bright Sunday morning, Tanya marched in and threw open the shades, making Lindsay protest and cover her face.
“Honey,” her friend said, “this is the day the Lord has made for Lindsay Halloran Love. Your family is out there, dressed for church. I’m in here
to get you up, into a shower and some decent clothes. Let’s go. I’m through babying you.”
Lindsay glared at her. “You don’t get to boss me.”
“I’m not bossing you. I’m simply no longer enabling you to ignore the fact that all your boys, and that precious baby girl, are in desperate need of their mama. Come on, now.”
Tanya smiled and held out a hand. Lindsay took it, let herself be pulled up and out of bed and back where she belonged, anchoring the Love family. Which she did, but from a different perspective, and at somewhat of a distance, managing everything she could and praying over the rest.
Part Two
Chapter One
Angelique’s Story
Lucasville
Seventeen Years Later
I’m not sure of the exact moment I realized my mother hated me.
The fact could easily have been absorbed through my skin over the course of my life. Perhaps my brothers talked about it, and I overheard them at some point when they thought I wasn’t listening or couldn’t understand them. I know no one ever actually said anything about it to my face.
In our small town, our family’s circle of friends was tight, collected mostly from the few remaining small business owners and church—Sunday mornings, Wednesday evening youth group, youth retreats, and outings. The crap I stopped attending the second I realized my mother wouldn’t fight me if I rebelled against it.
That was probably the moment.
My senior year of high school, I lay in bed on a Sunday morning, furious, seething … over what, exactly, I’m not sure anymore. It was a seething time of my life. When my mother knocked on the door and gave me the usual “Up. Church,” good morning message, I raised both my middle fingers at the closed door, rolled over, and pulled the blanket over my head.
She came in once to check on my progress. I said I was sick. She left the room without a word.
