“I do,” he agreed easily. “It’s a sideline, though. I could sell more if I had time to make it.” He shrugged.
“Mark has really enjoyed the lessons you’ve given him,” her father put in.
“He has a knack,” Gabe said. “He has great concentration and memory, and is careful with tools.”
In obvious pride, Mark seemed to hold himself straighter. “It’s fun. Gabe’s good with math, too. He helps me when I don’t understand something. And he’s teaching me to ride. His horses are trained for cutting cows. I told you that, right? Someday I’m going to do that.”
His grandmother chuckled, and his grandfather said, “I have no doubt, if you put your mind to it.” His eyes smiled.
Gabe came to the surprising conclusion that he liked her parents. Maybe they were judging him, but if so, it wasn’t overt.
“Does Bridget live with you?” he asked.
“Yes.” Janet’s expression remained placid. “We’ve looked into group-home situations, but until recently we hadn’t found anything that seemed quite right. She does go to a day care with other autistic adults that’s given her the opportunity to have friends, and outings that make her feel more independent.”
“Until recently?” Ciara cut in, her surprise obvious.
“Yes, we’ve been talking to the parents of several of her friends and are considering going in together to create and staff a home for them,” her father said. “Workers at the day care have come and gone, but a woman in her forties has been on staff for, oh, close to two years now. We really like her, and she’s interested in initially, at least, taking charge in the home.”
“We were planning to tell you what we have in mind when there was a quiet minute,” her mother added, sounding apologetic. “You know we’ve never wanted you to feel as if someday...” She broke off with a glance at Gabe, as if she’d just remembered he was there.
“You’ve said you didn’t expect me to take Bridget,” Ciara said slowly. “That’s why you want to be sure you have something set up.”
Again her mother glanced somewhat uncomfortably at him. “That’s right.”
He wondered if he ought to be excusing himself, but Ciara bounced up from the table and said, “Ready for dessert? Cherry pie. Let me see if Bridget wants some.”
Bridget did. She came back to the table and wolfed her pie à la mode. Well, they all did. Ciara was a hell of a good cook, and an even better baker.
He drank his coffee faster than usual, and then suggested he ought to be getting going. As he pushed back from the table, he was surprised when Ciara did the same.
“I think I’ll walk Gabe partway home. Mom, if you wouldn’t mind clearing the table? I can load the dishwasher when I get back.”
“What,” her father complained good-naturedly, “you don’t think I’m capable of carrying a dirty dish into the kitchen?”
She kissed his cheek. “Carry away.”
A smile aimed at her parents didn’t reach eyes darkened by some anxiety when she looked at him, Gabe saw. His stomach clenched on too much good food.
Predictably, Mark wanted to walk with them, but Janet had him helping clear the table instead as Gabe and Ciara let themselves out the front door.
“Good dinner,” he said, as they started down the front steps.
Her “Thank you” was stilted.
He’d have reached for her hand if he hadn’t seen the careful distance she maintained from him. Noticing that didn’t help his roiling tension. He shoved his hands into his pockets instead.
She didn’t say anything until they’d left the porch steps and were crossing the lawn that was turning brown and crunchy underfoot. The sun was still high in the sky, with the days so long right now.
“Now you’ve met my family,” Ciara said suddenly, her tone sharp, even hostile.
“I have,” he agreed after a moment.
“My sister has dominated my life.” The sharpness was still there. Bitterness? “Bridget has always been my parents’ focus. They’re good with her.” Her head turned. “You saw.”
“They seem like nice people,” he said mildly, guarding his expression when he didn’t know what she was looking for on his face.
“Nicer than I am.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
They stopped at the fence. The horses grazed not far away, the soft sound of their teeth grinding grass the only sound.
He might as well not have said a word, for all the attention she took.
“Do you know what it’s like, having a sister who constantly throws screaming tantrums? Oh, and throws food, too? If we went to a restaurant and she didn’t like what was brought to her, she’d heave it at the waitress. These awful, guttural bellows...” A shudder shook her. “Everywhere we went, people stared. Half the time, she had bruises, and then I could tell they were thinking awful things.” Even in the darkness, the rigid way she held herself could be seen. “When I was little, my parents insisted on bringing her to see me if I was in a school play or getting an award. ‘Because we’re a family,’ they’d said. So I quit doing plays and made sure I didn’t get any awards.” Defiance formed a glaze over murkier emotions. “I didn’t want anyone to know she was my sister. I didn’t invite friends home, because she was always there. My parents wouldn’t—” She choked on what she didn’t say.
Hide her. My parents wouldn’t hide her. Make sure sometimes she wasn’t there.
Gabe wondered if they’d had any idea what they were doing to their older daughter. But how could they not?
“Ciara...”
She ignored him. “Mostly, people don’t even know I have a sister.”
Another puzzle piece fell into place. “But your husband did. You pretty much had to introduce him to her, didn’t you?”
“She came to my wedding. Of course she had to be at my wedding.”
The way she said that could have been bitterness or simple matter-of-factness. Gabe couldn’t decide.
“He was repulsed by her.” More softly, “I didn’t blame him.”
Oh, Christ. His chest felt as if she was tearing it open. But when he reached for her, she backed away.
“That son of a bitch—” he began.
“No! Listen to me.” Her intensity felt like a live wire. “This is who I am. I have spent a lifetime ashamed of my sister, who can’t help herself. That’s who I am,” she said with self-loathing. “Not...not whoever you imagine I am.”
And, before he could say a word, she bolted.
“Damn it, Ciara!” He was two steps too slow. She stumbled up the steps before he reached the foot of them. Gabe stood rooted where he was as she let herself inside and slammed the front door behind her.
He waited for...he didn’t know what. One of her parents to come out? Raised voices from inside? But nothing happened. He suspected she’d torn upstairs and hidden in her bedroom to cry. He also guessed she wouldn’t be fooling either of her parents when she reappeared after an interval with puffy eyes.
Or maybe he was wrong. They might genuinely be oblivious to Ciara’s complicated feelings about her sister, and therefore about herself. They’d raised an autistic child and devoted a substantial share of their lives to her with admirable love, kindness and loyalty. Had that blinded them to Ciara’s conflicts?
Both thoughtful and disturbed, he walked back toward the pasture. When he reached the fence, he gave one last, frowning glance back toward the house. He didn’t like knowing he wouldn’t be able to talk to her until tomorrow, at the soonest, about the destructive feelings she’d been harboring.
How could she believe herself to be a terrible person, when her feelings were likely commonplace for kids with a seriously disabled sibling? Or did she hate herself because as an adult she hadn’t instantly sought a warm, close relationship with her sister?
Striding through the pasture, he found his footsteps slowing. No, I’m missing the point, he thought. Had to be. As an adult, Ciara wouldn’t be embarrassed by her sister anymore. This evening, her interactions
with Bridget had seemed comfortable, kind. Natural.
The poisonous witch’s brew that had just bubbled forth, he knew suddenly, wasn’t about Bridget at all. Or, at least, not directly about Bridget.
Mark had a whole lot to do with it.
* * *
WHEN THE DOORBELL rang the next morning, Ciara was in the living room with a dust rag in hand. Her heart squeezed tight. She hadn’t heard a car engine. Unless this was one of the Ohler boys, it had to be Gabe.
“I’ve got it,” she called, when she heard a thunder of footsteps upstairs.
Gulp. Open door.
Gabe stood on her coir mat, looming over her, even though he was a step lower. He looked...handsome, she thought weakly, contradicting that long-ago first impression. The blunt angles and planes of his face were strong and interesting. She wished suddenly he hadn’t shaved off his beard. She hadn’t adjusted to the change yet. This man felt too much like a stranger.
“Gabe.”
He inclined his head. “I wanted to talk to you.”
Mark came galloping down the stairs accompanied by Watson. “Gabe! Cool. I didn’t know you were coming.”
He stuck out a foot to foil the dog’s dart for the opening to the outside and repeated, “I wanted to talk to your mom about something.”
By this time, Bridget and Mom had appeared from the kitchen. Only Dad was missing. If she wasn’t mistaken, the audience was making Gabe uneasy.
“Fine.” Ciara dropped the dust cloth on a side table and said, “Let’s go outside. Unless you’d like a cup of coffee?” The last was hopeful.
A twitch of one eyebrow suggested he knew she sought a reprieve. “No. Thank you.”
Everyone was still staring, Mark with mouth agape, when she stepped out on the front porch and shut the door in their faces. Oh, God—what did he want to say? Would he tell her she’d been ridiculously melodramatic? Or that she’d shocked him? Or...what?
“Enjoying your company?” he asked politely,
“Yes, of course.”
“Why don’t we walk around back?” Gabe suggested.
She nodded. She had an awful feeling they were being watched from the house. The whole family would probably run from window to window and try to lip-read.
“I think you stunned Mark,” she said, going for light. “You’re supposed to be his friend.”
Lines gathered on his forehead. “Do you think he’s jealous? Is that part of the reason you didn’t want him to know we were...seeing each other?” The pause was almost infinitesimal, but she heard it.
“No. I mean, I don’t know how he’d feel about us being involved.” Funny that she hadn’t worried about it. Because she’d never expected them to get to a point where Mark had to know? “He...seems happy when we’re all together,” she said stiffly.
They rounded the back of the house. The day was hot and dry, the sky a pale blue arch.
They were still walking, still both looking ahead, when Gabe said, “Mark isn’t Bridget. That’s what’s been eating at you, isn’t it?”
Her feet stopped. “What?”
“You couldn’t admit Mark had a problem at all, because if you did, you were afraid you knew what it would be.”
Aghast, horrified, angry, she could only stare at him.
“When you looked at Bridget, and then you looked at Mark, you were afraid, so it was easier not to look at Bridget at all.”
She backed away from him, stumbled, but took another scrambling step when he reached out for her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said breathlessly.
“Maybe this is a mistake to say—” Gabe sounded weary “—but I think somebody has to. Ciara, I know you love Mark. He’s a good kid because you’re a good mother. But he’s not Bridget.” Intensity vibrated in his voice. “You’re acting as if he is. Like your parents do with your sister.”
“That’s not true.” Her voice shook, as did all her certainties.
“He won’t need you forever, the way she needs them.” Every line in Gabe’s face deepened, making him look older. “Not if you let him grow up. Take some knocks, learn to stagger to his own feet instead of you picking him up.”
“You think I’m...I’m...”
“You’re trying to protect him.” There was that kindness, but this time it seemed mixed with pity and...something else. “To keep him safe, you’ve got him wrapped so tight he can’t...” Gabe hesitated.
Ciara didn’t let him finish. “You don’t know what it was like for him!” she yelled. Oh, God, she sounded vicious, hateful. “You don’t know anything!”
“Breathe,” he said quietly, although anger had sparked in his gray eyes, too. “He can’t breathe. You’re smothering him. Which is fine if what you really want is to devote the rest of your life to him—”
Feeling sick, she stumbled back a few more steps. A hot fire burned inside her. I loved this man. I do love him. And this is what he thinks of me. Then the irony struck. She’d been so afraid he would despise her, and here it turned out he did. Just not for the reason she’d thought.
“How can you say things like this?”
“Tell me, Ciara.” His voice was hard now. “If I hadn’t been around, would you have taken one single step since you arrived to give Mark a chance to meet other kids? To join an activity, play a sport, learn anything you didn’t teach him?”
No. The answer hit her like a blow. No. But because she’d been afraid, not because she wanted to coddle Mark or...or keep him to herself. Give herself a reason for living. That’s what he was suggesting, wasn’t it?
“I don’t mean this the way you’re taking it.” Compassion looked different with his face shaved clean. “This is why I keep my mouth shut most of the time. I’ve made it sound—”
“You said what you thought.” She sounded almost calm, although her fingernails bit into her tightly crossed arms. “I suppose I should say thank you, because it’s Mark you’re worrying about.”
He looked at her with resignation. “But you’re not going to, are you?”
“I...have to think. Please leave now.”
“Ciara.” The way he said her name, a husky plea, shattered what was left of her composure, but she wasn’t going to run away from him again, not the way she had last night. “What you said last night—”
“You’ve said your piece,” she interrupted. She could not bear to hear what he thought about last night’s admissions. “That’s what you came for. Now I’m asking you to go.”
Muscles flexed in his jaw. “All right. For now.” After a last, long look, he walked away, disappearing around the corner of the house.
Ciara, unmoving, heard voices, both male. Mark? Or had her father come out to talk to him? She couldn’t face either. She turned and hurried the other way, through the open woods. Not until she was close to the creek did she finally hear the murmur of it, so low now in midsummer that much of the rocky bed was dry. Sunlight refracted off the rippling ribbon, momentarily almost blinding her.
You’re smothering him.
She thought of her terror when Mark disappeared, that first time, to ride his bike down to Gabe’s. And all the terror since—when she knew he was using power tools, when he went in the pasture for the first time, first got on horseback. Left her side to hang out with the group of kids at the cutting-horse competition. Was invited to go trail riding.
You were afraid.
Of so much. A keening sound left her throat. So much.
Was what she’d done really so terrible? Weren’t parents supposed to keep their children safe?
Of course they were. But they had another imperative: to teach those same children to fly, so that when the time came they could go confidently into the world. Even her parents were doing their best to find a way for Bridget to do that.
He won’t need you forever, the way Bridget needs your parents.
That’s not what she’d wanted. It wasn’t.
She stood there dry-eyed, and tried to understand her most corrosive
fears, the ones whose existence she’d never let herself admit.
And, like Gabe, she finished the experience not much liking herself.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“WOULD YOU LIKE me to make you a pillow?”
Bridget rarely wanted anything new, but she was showing unusual interest in the pictures of custom pillows that Ciara had hung on a giant corkboard on the wall as well as using on her website. Bridget had already fingered fabrics and said she thought the pillow Ciara had just finished was ugly.
Privately, Ciara agreed. Sentiment did not always equate with beauty, especially when that sentiment was felt by a customer who knew exactly what she wanted and wasn’t interested in suggestions.
But business was business.
“I like this one.” Bridget stared at the photo of an over-the-top mass of satin and frills and seed pearls created from a wedding dress with a few embellishments thrown in. The bride had loved her pair of pillows. Ciara hoped the groom didn’t have to actually rest his head on either of them.
“I still have most of those fabrics,” she said. She usually hung on to bits and pieces left over. Who knew when they would be perfect for another project? “The lace, too. Let’s see.” She opened a drawer that held some of her collection of lace.
Bridget grabbed. “There it is.”
“Yep.” Ciara hoped her sister didn’t tear it. That was bound to result in a record-breaking tantrum.
Or maybe not. Bridget had done astonishingly well during this visit. Tolerance was still not her way; she hadn’t liked a sandwich Ciara made for her yesterday, so she’d grabbed it, stomped out of the kitchen and thrown it on the floor in front of an astonished and delighted Watson, who gobbled it up.
“There!” Bridget had declared. Her eyes had narrowed when Ciara laughed, but even then, no tantrum.
And giving the sandwich to the dog beat having it smack her in the face, Ciara had decided.
“Tantrum? Oh, she still has them,” Mom said later, when Ciara commented. “Just not as often. And she seems embarrassed afterward.”
“Embarrassed?” Ciara refrained from snorting. Barely. “Bridget?”
Her mother chuckled. “I did qualify it with seems. But really, I think she’s starting to measure her behavior against her friends’. Sometimes she’ll definitely be disapproving when somebody disrupts an outing she’d looked forward to.”
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