I Think I Love You

by Stephanie Bond

  “She used to.” She pushed aside thoughts of her sisters and busied herself making a tray for Cissy.

  Mitchell walked the perimeter of the kitchen. She didn’t have to look to know that he was studying the crush of bric-a-brac on the walls. Decorative statehood plates, chalk fruit plaques, metal signs advertising food products, antique calendars, and so much more. All hung against a busy floral-patterned wallpaper.

  “Blinding, isn’t it?”

  He laughed. “Lots of tchotchkes. But it seems homey.”

  “There are some wonderful pieces in the house; it’s just a matter of finding them. I thought we’d work from the attic down to tag items for the auction.”

  “Won’t this be hard for you?”

  She carefully cut an orange into wedges. “Before I came home, I thought it would be. But I’ve come to terms with the fact that this house will never be a gathering place for a cozy family.” She turned to look at him. “Despite appearances, it isn’t ‘homey.’ There are no family heirlooms here, just an accumulation of other people’s family heirlooms. And at the moment, I have bigger things to worry about than hanging onto my childhood canopy bed.” She hadn’t meant to sound so grim, but there it was.

  He studied her for a moment, then angled his head and wagged his eyebrows. “Canopy bed, huh?”

  She smirked, grateful for the levity. “Is that all you ever think about?”

  “Pretty much. Especially lately.” He moved to stand next to her and put his hand on her waist. “Look, Regina—”

  She pulled back. “Don’t, okay?”

  He assumed a hands-off position. “I was only going to say that I’m sorry you’re going through such a rough time. It’s obvious how much your family relies on you, and it doesn’t seem fair for you to shoulder all this alone.”

  She remained silent.

  He sighed. “I’m offering you a shoulder, that’s all.”

  She lifted a disbelieving eyebrow. “That’s all?”

  A mischievous grin crept over his face. “Well, the shoulder bone’s connected to the backbone, and the backbone’s connected to the hipbone—”

  “Stop.” But she smiled, exasperated. “I’m taking this upstairs. How about if I meet you on the landing in fifteen minutes and we’ll get started?”

  “I’ll get my laptop.”

  The doorbell rang as they were walking through the entryway.

  “Maybe Dad’s turned up,” she said, her heart pounding. Please be alive; this family can’t take that kind of a hit. She set down the tray and steeled herself as she rounded the corner, but her shoulders fell in relief at the sight of the man on the other side of the screen door, dressed, as always, in a suit. “Uncle Lawrence.”

  He smiled back. “Hello, my dear. I came to check on your mother and you girls.”

  She lifted the latch, then opened the door. “I thought you’d left town.”

  “When the hearing in Charlotte was postponed, I decided to get in a few days of R and R. Might be my last chance before the election.”

  She sobered. “Uncle Lawrence, I’m so sorry about the hearing. We didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

  “Cissy told me how you girls were dragged into this mess. I’m sorry you had to see such a terrible thing all those years ago.” He gave her a sad smile. “Don’t worry your pretty head; I’m a survivor. And now I’m glad I stayed in town. Dreadful business about the Haviland boy.”

  “Yes.”

  “Any news from John?”

  She shook her head. “I’m worried, Uncle Lawrence.”

  “Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

  “No—you know yourself that Dad hasn’t left the county in years.” He and Cissy used to take vacations all the time, but after the wedding debacle, John seemed to have packed it all in. In hindsight, she realized it had been a big blow for him, losing Mica and Dean. And eventually Justine. “Dad’s family is gone, but can you think of anyone he might have known in Virginia from school? An old friend, maybe?”

  He thought and shook his head. “That’s too many years ago. But he’ll turn up.” He patted her hand; then he looked Mitchell up and down.

  “Uncle Lawrence, meet Mitchell Cooke, the appraiser I told you about. Mitchell, this is Lawrence Gilbert.”

  The men shook hands, but Lawrence seemed wary. “I understand you’re also an attorney, Mr. Cooke.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “With ties to another Cooke in Charlotte.”

  Mitchell inclined his head. “Also correct.”

  Her uncle looked back to her. “I guess now I know why his name seemed so familiar to me that day you first mentioned it.” From his expression, he wanted to take back his flirting recommendation.

  She spoke to smooth over the awkward moment. “I was just on my way up to see Mom, Uncle Lawrence, if you’d like to come with me.”

  “You go on up, dear. I’d like a moment with Mr. Cooke.”

  “Oh.” She looked at Mitchell, and he looked back.

  “I’ll meet you upstairs.”

  “Okay,” she said, retrieving the tray and trying not to feel left out.

  The men’s voices were a solemn murmur as she climbed the steps and walked down the hall to Cissy’s room. She knew her mother was awake because she’d seen a light under her door when she passed by earlier. She rapped. “Mom? It’s Regina.” She heard her mother’s voice, so she opened the door and stuck her head inside. “I have breakfast.”

  Cissy was sitting up in bed, surrounded by a mountain of pillows and a box of Kleenex. “I’m not hungry, but juice sounds good.”

  “I brought coffee.”

  She wrinkled her petite nose. “Did you make it?”

  “No, Mitchell did.”

  Cissy sniffed. “He’s here early—did he stay last night?”

  “No.” Sometimes she wished her mother weren’t so liberal-minded. “We moved the appraisal to the house.” No need to mention that the shop was sealed tight with yellow crime scene tape. “We’re starting in the attic.”

  “Forget the attic,” Cissy said with a wave. “Your father cleared everything out of that oven long ago. Nothing up there but bats.”

  Regina smiled wryly to herself—Justine’s favorite threat had been to put bats in their beds if they didn’t do something she wanted them to. Worked every time.

  Cissy fell back against the pillows. “Sell it all—it’s just a bunch of stuff.” She burst into tears. “I’ve made so many mistakes, Regina.”

  Her mother couldn’t have said anything that would have shaken her more. Her parents weren’t perfect, but hearing it come out of Cissy’s mouth… no child wanted to listen to that kind of admission. She set the tray on a nightstand and sat down on the side of the bed.

  “Mom, everyone makes mistakes.”

  “But these were whoppers. I misjudged your father. Not only has he betrayed and bankrupted me, but now he goes and shoots our son-in-law.”

  “We don’t know that he shot Dean,” Regina soothed. “And Dean wasn’t your son-in-law.”

  Cissy blew her nose. “Dean was as close as we were going to get. And now your father will go to prison—”

  “Mom, don’t say that.” Regina stood and walked over to raise the window shades. “Dad could be somewhere sleeping off a hangover.”

  “Regina, I know you love your father, but I think this time even you need to face facts.”

  She turned back. “Even me?”

  Cissy sighed and reached for her cup of coffee. “I know you’ve always held out hope for a happily-ever-after for me and your father.”

  “And what’s so bad about that?”

  “It’s unrealistic, dear. Especially in light of everything.”

  Regina’s gaze landed on the broken leg of a chest of drawers. Holding it level was a dusty copy of Your Emotional Checklist, the book she’d dedicated to her mother. Nice.

  She looked up and crossed her arms. “I’m not giving up on Daddy.”

&n
bsp; “Your father isn’t the man you think he is.”

  “Mom, I know you’re hurting and confused—”

  “He had an affair with your Aunt Lyla.”

  Regina literally took a step back. “I… don’t believe it.”

  “I didn’t either, at first, but I came to believe it. And it’s eaten at me for almost twenty years.”

  Regina closed her eyes briefly. “So that’s why you and Dad are splitting up.”

  Cissy nodded.

  “I’m not trying to make excuses for him, Mom, but that was twenty years ago.”

  “I don’t care. When John and I committed to each other without a marriage license, it was a symbol of the faith and trust that we had in each other. Your father violated that trust, and I can never forgive him.” She shook her finger. “I told you this because I thought you should know, but you can’t tell anyone.”

  Regina swallowed the lump of emotion in her throat. No wonder her family was crumbling—it was built on a foundation of lies and fantasies. “I won’t.”

  Cissy patted the spot next to her on the bed, and Regina sat. “Prepare yourself, sweetheart, for further disappointment in the people around you. I wish, for your sake especially, that we could have been a more normal family. Mica and Justine didn’t need normal, but you did.”

  Her mother made it sound like such a shortcoming.

  Cissy sighed. “This is a double tragedy for Mica and Justine, losing Dean and their father. How are they?”

  “They’re, um, each dealing with their grief in their own way. Why don’t you get dressed and come downstairs? Uncle Lawrence is here.”

  Her mother smiled sadly. “Lawrence is taking a big risk being with us during a time like this—his political reputation could suffer by association.”

  “He cares about you.”

  Cissy nodded and smiled with genuine fondness. A light knock sounded at the door.

  “And there he is, I’ll bet.” Saved. “See you later?” She gave her mother a kiss, then went to the door. It was Lawrence, all smiles as he greeted his sister. Regina left them and closed the door, reeling over the news that her own father had slept with Lyla.

  She remembered Lyla flirting with John, touching him when they talked, winking. But her father had never shown Lyla any special attention, except maybe the time she and Justine had argued over that broken vase and he’d taken Lyla’s side.

  That had happened a few weeks before she was murdered, because Justine had still been paying off that vase when it happened. Which might mean that their father had been fooling around with Lyla during the time she was murdered. A cold hand of fear clamped down on her heart.

  Or fooling around with Lyla during the exact moment she was murdered.

  Chapter 25

  For a great aerobic workout, DO jump to conclusions.

  Regina’s knees weakened. Was it possible that her father had killed Lyla all those years ago and had killed Dean too? Now she understood why Cissy didn’t want her to tell anyone about the affair—if Bracken’s attorney got wind of the fact that the father of the girls who had witnessed the murder not only was sleeping with the victim but also had access to the murder weapon….

  “Are you okay?” Mitchell asked.

  She whirled around and resisted the overwhelming urge to confide in him. “Yes.”

  He seemed dubious but indicated his laptop. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

  She nodded and led the way down the hall. “The attic is empty, so we’ll start in one of the bedrooms. There’s a great Chippendale chest-on-chest in the rear guest room.”

  “Can’t wait to see it,” he murmured, but she could tell he was preoccupied.

  “So,” she said, trying to sound casual, “what did Uncle Lawrence want to talk to you about?”

  “He just wanted to reiterate his belief that the right man was behind bars and how he didn’t want to see you girls dragged through the mud.”

  Was Uncle Lawrence, too, protecting John for Cissy’s sake? Assuming he knew about the affair. She tried to put aside her worries as they set about tagging the items in the rarely used guest room. Mitchell was intrigued with the chest-on-chest and with an art glass lamp. After they finished, they moved down the hall to the next bedroom.

  He made a humming sound. “White canopy bed—this must be your room.”

  She nodded. “For eighteen years.” She pivoted, looking at the furnishings through his eyes. White, feminine furniture with pastel linens. Lazy ceiling fan. Two sets of tall bookshelves and a step stool.

  “Looks girly,” he observed. “I assumed you were more of a tomboy.”

  She laughed. “I was, but Cissy was determined to make me into a lady.”

  He walked over to her bookshelves. “Nancy Drew. Complete set?”

  “For that particular edition, except for number twenty-one, The Secret in the Old Attic.” She smiled, fingering the spines. “I’d like to buy them back from the estate, if that would be possible.”

  He frowned. “They’re your books—take them.”

  “Is that allowed?”

  “Sure. The bank isn’t interested in auctioning off every last matchstick. Besides, I’d venture you’ve more than earned back your own books with all the hours you’ve put in.”

  She lifted her hands. “As you can see, there’s nothing much of real value in here, except perhaps the desk. From the hand-painted scenes, I believe it’s Edwardian.”

  He ran his hand over the wood and nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “Nice piece.” Then he looked down at the papers spread across the surface of the desk.

  Too late, she realized the manuscript she’d been reading in her spare time lay there.

  He picked up a sheet and read the page heading: “‘I THINK I LOVE YOU: Relationship DOs and DON’Ts for Grown Women.’”

  He looked at her, and even though she fixed a nonchalant expression on her face, she felt her neck grow hot. “It’s a manuscript I’m considering.”

  One side of his mouth pulled back and he continued to read from the page he was holding. “Don’t be too available, especially after you sleep with him.” He looked up briefly, then resumed. “You should ration intimacy because when it comes to sex, men are like cattle, which, if led into a field of green clover, will eat until they founder themselves and die. In short, men and cattle must be domesticated for their own survival.” He looked over the top of the page. “You’re not really going to print this, are you?”

  She bit back a smile. “It’s supposed to be funny.”

  “Well, it’s not.”

  She laughed. “I think it is.”

  He flipped his finger against the page. “It’s this kind of propaganda that keeps men and women at odds.”

  “No, I think that’s plain old biology.”

  He smirked and returned the piece of paper to her desk, then walked the perimeter of the room. “This room smells like you.”

  “Is that good?”

  “Yeah. Unless you’re trying not to notice.”

  She watched his back, trying not to notice a few things herself.

  He stopped at the closet door. “Any goodies in here?”

  “A few old linens—Mom got on that kick in the early eighties and we suddenly had tablecloths coming out of our ears.”

  He opened the door and hanging on a hook was her “How to Sleep Alone” nightshirt. Great.

  “What is this, your armor?”

  She bristled. “No. It’s… none of your business.”

  He rummaged through the tablecloths. “Tell me—do you ever get the idea that people don’t want to be happy?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I think sometimes that people are afraid to be happy—afraid that it’ll feel good, but it won’t last, and then they’ll feel worse than they did before.”

  She squirmed. “I don’t think that’s a conscious decision to not be happy; I think that’s self-preservation.”

  He rummaged. “Doesn’t sound
like much fun.”

  She studied his profile, alarmed at how appealing it had become in such a short time. “Not everyone’s top priority is fun.” And to her abject horror, she teared up.

  “True,” he said mournfully, then closed the door. “We can bundle the linens—” He stopped when he saw her face. “Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you. I was talking off the top of my head.”

  She turned her back and wiped her eyes. “It’s not you—it’s… everything. God, what a train wreck.”

  He came up behind her and more tears squeezed out. “Let’s take a drive,” he said. “I think we could both use some fresh air, and I have something to show you.”

  She relented, mildly curious, and happy for a change of scenery. Outside, Mitchell slid back the side door of the van and whistled for Sam, who happily jumped in. Regina climbed into the bucket seat on the passenger side and rolled down the window. Mitchell dropped into his seat and started the engine with practiced ease.

  She hadn’t told anyone that she was leaving, but she was pretty sure they’d never miss her.

  At the end of the driveway sat Pete Shadowen in his cruiser. He got out and put on his hat, then waited for them to drive up. Today the bottom half of his uniform was short pants, undoubtedly in deference to the temperature. Indeed, he seemed to have some kind of heat rash between his knees and the tops of his white tube-top socks.

  “Cute,” Mitchell mumbled.

  “Be nice,” she said, then smiled at Pete when he walked up to the driver’s side. “Hey, Pete.”

  “Hey, Regina. Cooke.”

  Sam bared his teeth and snarled. Mitchell snapped his fingers and apologized. “It’s the uniform,” he explained.

  Pete frowned slightly. “No word from your dad, Regina?” The toothpick bobbed and he scratched heartily below her line of vision.

  “No.”

  “Where are you two headed?” He sounded a tad accusatory, as if they were on their way to a torrid tryst. Or maybe she was simply projecting.

  “Running errands,” she said. “There’s going to be a memorial service for Dean tomorrow night at Williams’s if you’d like to come. I don’t suspect there’ll be much of a crowd.”