Chapter Thirteen
Alex crept out of the bedroom and sank onto the window seat in the living room. Two little furry buddies jumped up next to him, ready to watch the dawn arrive. They’d been doing this for almost a week now—ever since he’d found out about Fogarty leaving no descendants. But no great knowledge arrived with the light; no insight on how to live with the lie.
“Still pretty dark out,” he told the cats, but neither paid him the slightest attention. They were concentrating on the scene outside. Some of the early birds were already singing out their announcements for the coming day.
Soon other birds, louder and more numerous, joined in the wakeup chorus. He felt—rather than saw—the agitation growing in the cats as they glared outside, but he doubted they would want the birds to disappear. Cats always hated birds. They were products of their genetic history.
Just as he was?
“Can’t sleep again?” Fiona was in the doorway.
“I’m sorry,” Alex said. “Did I wake you?”
He could hear Fiona padding across the rug and closed his eyes, clenching his fists as he waited for her to flop down into his lap. His natural inclination was to fold her into his arms and it would take all his willpower to keep from holding her. But thankfully she just sat in the recliner.
“I didn’t hear you get up,” she said. “I just sort of felt you were gone.”
He suddenly felt nauseous, wishing the earth would open up and swallow him. Oh, Lord, what had he done? He’d made himself a part of her life, taken someone nice and good and kind and made her care about him. Why couldn’t he have stayed out of Fiona’s life? There was a good reason for his being a loner. He’d never brought anything good to anyone yet.
“Alex?”
The tension in his own body seemed to have been absorbed by Fiona. She was sitting up straight, her back stiff as a rod. The increasing light from outside was chasing the dimness of the night to the far corners of the room. He could see dark clouds of concern filling her eyes and wished the darkness had stayed.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“Why do you ask that?”
Damn, but he was a coward. Not only wouldn’t he tell her the truth but he wouldn’t tell her anything. He ought to get out of her life before he really hurt her.
“You haven’t been your usual self,” she said.
He’d been moody, slogging about in a deep, dark depression and not wanting to talk to anyone. Just wanting to run away and be alone. Hell, that was his normal old self. It was the other Alex who had been the fake. The happy, always smiling, wisecracking character had no relationship to the real Alex Rhinehart. There was a slight physical resemblance, but beyond that—nothing.
“You’re usually joking around and making everyone laugh.” Fiona leaned forward so she could reach him, her fingers playing gently with the hair by his left ear. “And now I have to fight to get the teeniest smile out of you.”
The good humor was a facade; a shield he used to keep the rest of the world at bay, a mask he hid behind. But he couldn’t do that to Fiona. He wanted to be honest with her. He’d asked her to bare her soul and he wanted to do the same. That was the only way to have a relationship. That was one thing his life’s experiences had taught him.
They’d also taught him that he wasn’t suited to relationships. Why hadn’t he listened?
“I just have some stuff on my mind.”
He was a damn coward. A dirty, rotten, low-down, sidewinding chickenly coward.
“Got a problem at work?”
Shame washed over his heart and soul, filling every crevice in his being. Damn it all to hell. Why couldn’t he just face up to things and tell Fiona the truth about Fogarty?
Because he was a coward. Because, although he knew that she had every right to the truth, he was afraid that once he told her she would be devastated. The very foundation of herself as a person would be destroyed. And then she would hate him for the rest of her natural life. It wouldn’t be the first time that the recipient of an unpleasant message killed the messenger.
“I know that you don’t like to talk about your work,” she said. “And I know how devoted you are to client privilege and all that kind of stuff, but sometimes you have to let things out.”
The only thing he’d like to let out right now were tears. Big, huge, crocodile tears, because he was about to lose the only beautiful thing that had ever walked into his life.
“You try and keep things bottled up inside and you’ll just explode,” she said.
“Bloods and guts all over the walls and ceiling.” He made a face and shook his head. “Ugh. That would be a mess.”
She laughed softly, deep in her throat, and kissed him on the side of his neck. “That’s my guy,” she whispered in his ear as she slid into his lap, letting her arms slide around him.
He couldn’t fight it. He let his arms wrap themselves loosely around Fiona. It wasn’t right for him to take advantage of her warm, loving nature, but he was only a man.
“Want to go back to bed?”
Her teeth were nibbling gently on his earlobe now, making his body silently scream out the pain of his desire. Alex wanted to scream along with it, a primeval sound that the first man must have made when the first woman smiled at him.
“And I don’t mean to sleep,” she murmured, the huskiness in her voice only hinting at the passion in her heart.
Yet, as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t. His body grew tense again, his agony overflowing his loins and filling his soul. If he couldn’t be open and honest with Fiona, there was no reason for him to enjoy the fruits of her love. To do that would be to cheapen something more precious than life itself.
“I need to get back to Chicago.” His throat was filled with pain and it was hard to get the words out. Kind of like pushing a banana through a window screen. “Things are sort of piling up.”
He forced himself to look into her trusting eyes. The only thing that was piling up was the crap he was putting out. He needed to either tell her the truth or get out of her life. And he knew which would hurt Fiona the least.
“This just isn’t working,” he said.
“What isn’t?” she asked. “Us? Or trying to work so far from your office?”
“Both.”
A shadow filled Fiona’s eyes and, although she hadn’t moved out of his arms, he could feel her drawing away from him.
“I guess I was stupid to think it would,” he said, as he slowly let his arms slip down and off her body.
Getting him out of her life would be the best thing in the world for Fiona. The longer he stayed around, the bigger the chance that he would hurt her.
“I see.” She slid off his lap. “So this is it?”
“I wanted it to work,” he said, although it sounded as lame as could be. “I thought maybe I could beat the odds.”
“And just what’s convinced you you can’t?” she asked. Her voice was quiet, as was everything about her.
He shrugged. He didn’t want to get into any of this, but he owed her some sort of explanation. “I know myself. Let’s leave it at that, okay?”
“Maybe I don’t want to leave it at that,” she said, her voice rising. “I have a right to know if I did something.”
“For God’s sake, Fiona, everything isn’t your fault,” he snapped. “It’s me, okay? Just me.”
“It can’t be just you.” Her voice was quivering and he could see her fighting to regain control. “If it’s not something I did, then it must just be who I am.”
“There’s nothing the matter with who you are,” he said. Damn it, anyway. She ought to slug him, not be so civilized. “I know that if I stay, I’ll only bring you pain. And I don’t want to do that.”
She got to her feet, not looking at him. “It’s all right. You don’t have to make excuses. I never thought it would last anyway.”
He got to his feet also, wanting to take her hand for one last time, but he couldn’t. “You’re a very specia
l woman,” he said softly. “One of these days you’ll find that right man. I wish it could have been me.”
“Better be careful, Mr. Honesty,” she said, her back to him. “Now’s not the time to start lying.”
It wasn’t a lie. He truly did wish he had been the one for her, but to protest would only mean more explanations. Best to let her think him a cad, than the alternative.
“I’ll be out of here in a few minutes,” he said.
“Fine.”
“So, Fiona!” Mrs. Torcini shouted from her front window. “Ain’t it a beautiful day?”
Fiona would have preferred to hurry down the sidewalk and be on her way, but she couldn’t ignore her neighbor. “It’s just great,” she agreed. “After being cooped up in the classroom all week, I couldn’t stand another minute inside.”
That was certainly true. Although the beautiful spring weather wasn’t the real reason she was out taking a walk. What she really couldn’t stand was another minute inside, alone in her apartment.
Of course, she wasn’t really alone. Elvis and Prissy were there. But, unfortunately, so were all sorts of memories. Of Alex. Of Kate. Of a time when she hadn’t been alone.
Why had Alex left? She’d thought they were on the verge of something really good. She’d thought everything had been going along wonderfully. Showed how stupid she was about relationships. If she only knew what had happened…
“Where’s that young man of yours?” her neighbor asked.
Fiona’s stomach took a little twist but she fought to keep her smile in place. “He went back to Chicago a couple of days ago.”
“Ah.”
“He has a lot of work to catch up on.” The old stomach twisted around even more. “That’s the joys of being selfemployed,” Fiona replied. “You have to work when there are things that need doing.”
Mrs. Torcini just nodded.
“He’s a private detective,” Fiona said.
Her neighbor nodded again.
“Sometimes he has to travel.” Fiona shrugged helplessly, wishing she could walk away from her neighbor’s knowing stare. Wishing she’d never got so involved with everyone here so that they all knew her business. “And he doesn’t always know from one minute to the next where he might be.”
This time Mrs. Torcini only blinked. Fiona had steeled herself for some more probing questions, but an odd look came into the old woman’s eyes. And suddenly Fiona had to look away. She was prepared to handle anything—the old woman’s “I told you so” or another lecture on the wanderings of men—but not this. Not the pity she saw filling her neighbor’s eyes.
“So,” Fiona said. “Is Robbie coming to take you out for Mother’s Day?” Mrs. Torcini’s favorite nephew was always a good source of distraction.
“Oh, yes!” Mrs. Torcini shouted. “He said he’d take me anyplace I want to go. I was kind of thinking of the Wagon Wheel in Warsaw, but I don’t remember how to get there.”
“You can take my atlas,” Fiona said, starting back up the stairs to her apartment. “It’s got a good state map in it.”
“You’re such a good girl,” Mrs. Torcini said and disappeared from the window. A moment later she was at Fiona’s front door. “Your young man was a fool to leave, but he’ll be back.”
“Sure.” Fiona just unlocked the door and let the woman inside. Alex was about as likely to be part of her life as she was to be twenty again. As she was to swim the Atlantic. As she was to kick that home run in kickball. “It’s just over here.”
She got the atlas from the shelf, but as she pulled it out a paper fell from it, fluttering to the ground.
“Losing your laundry list?” Mrs. Torcini called out.
Fiona stooped to pick it up. “Nope, it’s directions to someplace.” In Alex’s handwriting. “I wonder where to.”
“Well, you got the map in your hand,” the old woman said loudly.
True enough. Fiona opened the book to the Indiana map and traced the route. Route 31 south to Route 30 east. Through Etna Green.
“Mentone?” Fiona said. “What’s in Mentone?”
“Maybe your young man,” Mrs. Torcini replied. “You said he travels.”
“I kind of doubt it,” Fiona said. “Here’s the atlas. Keep it as long as you need it.”
“He left ‘cause men ain’t got the sense of melted ice cream!” the old woman shouted. “That’s why God made women. Somebody’s got to take care of things.”
After Mrs. Torcini left, Fiona just sank into the nearest chair, too weary to resume her walk. Why had Alex left? She suspected he had more intelligence than melted ice cream, but he really hadn’t told her anything.
If he’d just said that he hated the shirt she’d bought him. Or thought her cats were pesty. Or that she was too clingy. She could deal with that. Maybe not change it, but she could at least deal with it. Now, she was left with nothing. Nothing but doubts.
And the directions to Mentone. Why in the world would he have gone there?
Rather than her thoughts eat away at her, Fiona grabbed up the newspaper. A church on the south side was having a garage sale. She made a face and went on. Samantha liked that kind of thing. Maybe she ought to get out of the house before Sam came and dragged her down there.
A nature preserve, just over the line in Michigan, was conducting a signs-of-spring hike on its grounds. Plants and nature were Cassie’s thing. Double reason to get out of the house. If Samantha didn’t get her, Cassie would.
Fiona tossed the paper aside and picked up the directions to Mentone. Why not? She’d never been there—had barely heard of the place—and it was a beautiful day for a drive. If she stayed home, she’d just spend her time brooding about it being Mother’s Day tomorrow. Better to get out than to ponder on all she had lost in the past few weeks.
Fiona grabbed her purse. “Bye, guys,” she called to the cats, who ignored her.
The day was perfect for a drive. It was sunny, spring was bursting out all over the place, and the roads were empty. She sped south past farm fields being awoken from their long winter’s sleep and pastures of frisky horses. She couldn’t stop her hope from building until a smile was on her face. Maybe she would find out the truth. And maybe it would be something she could fix.
Etna Green was a tiny little place that she zipped through in half a blink. After a few miles of flatter-than-flat fields, she was in Mentone. Now what?
She drove slowly along Main Street, finding a giant stone egg at one end and a concrete chicken at the other, with a handful of stores in between. What would Alex have been doing here? There were hardware and feed stores in Mentone, not to mention family-run restaurants. There were no billboards proclaiming Alex’s mission. Gloom settled back over her shoulders as surely as if the sun had hidden behind storm clouds. It had been stupid to come here. Stupid to think she was going to find an answer.
He probably had a client here, or was sent here by a client. It probably had nothing to do with her.
Up ahead was a gas station. As good a place as any to grab a soda and stretch her legs before heading back. She pulled into the lot and sauntered inside. They had a lunchroom counter on one side, tires and batteries on the other. Behind the counter were hundreds of pictures taped to the wall in a collage effect. Athletic teams and people with trophies. Multigenerational photos and posed pictures of beauty queens. A guy with a helicopter and—
Great-great-grandpa Horace.
“Is that a picture of Horace Fogarty?” she asked the cashier, pointing to the one she meant.
The man turned around. “Ain’t too many that recognize him,” he said slowly, staring at the picture himself. “Been kinda forgotten about. But the man was born here.”
“He was? I thought he—” What had she thought?
“He lived out east nearly all his life, but was born here, all right,” the man went on.
“Of course, that makes sense,” she said. Why else would his descendants have settled around here?
The man gave her an od
d look as he moved over to take care of a customer. She waited as he rang up a young man’s purchase of corn chips and soda. She was on to something; she just knew it.
“Is his house still standing?” she asked, once he was through with the transaction. “Does he have any relatives around?”
The man just shook his head. “Best check at the library. Alma MacAllister knows about that kind of stuff.”
Alma MacAllister not only knew about that stuff, but she was willing to share her knowledge. The older woman pulled out large notebooks with newspaper clippings and copies of family photos. Fiona glanced through them, eagerly looking for a sign of his family. She found none.
“His family’s been kind of ignored,” Fiona said as she closed the last book. “I was hoping to see pictures or mention of his children or grandchildren.”
“He had no children or grandchildren,” the woman replied.
Fiona felt her mouth go dry. “But…”
The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I have to tell you the same thing I told that young man last week. Horace Waldo Fogarty never sired any children.”
So she wasn’t a descendant. Fiona tried hard to remember just how she’d come to believe she was and, though she had vague memories of her father talking about Greatgrandpa Horace, she didn’t think her father’d ever said his great-grandfather had been that Horace Fogarty. No, she’d jumped to that conclusion somewhere along the line when she’d felt particularly alone.
So all her pride and belief that she was somebody, that she had inherited his writing talent, was all a lie. But her mind barely registered the fact as the woman’s words sank in. “What young man?”
“I don’t remember if he gave me his name,” the woman answered. “But he discussed the very same thing with me. It was as if he’d already had Mr. Fogarty the father to a horde of children and couldn’t accept the fact that he left no heirs. On either side of the blanket.”
“I see.” Somehow Fiona must have thanked the woman for her help and managed to walk outside to her car, but she had no recollection of any of it.
On Mother's Day (Great Expectations #1) Page 21
