by Adrianne Lee
“It’s a damned good thing you can.” Her father patted her hand. “There’s no excuse for these racks being in such shameful condition.”
Karl’s face flushed as red as the blood seeping into Cynthia’s hankie. He pointed his finger at August and his ice blue eyes were constricted to twin orbs of indignation. “Hey man, you were told!” He dropped his arm and stormed out with his mother on his heels.
The outburst surprised April so much she forgot about the pain in her back. But before she could ask what had brought it on, Cynthia pressed harder on the wound and instantly received her rapt attention. “Sugah, we’d best get you upstairs and see to this nasty cut.’
“Lordy, girl,” March grumbled. “I never knew anyone to be so much trouble—one crazy stunt after another. It’s a good thing July was spared this. She had enough scare for one day.
“Why, Aunt March—it was an accident.” Incredulity swam in Vanessa’s green eyes. She shrugged. “Anyone can have an accident.” But was it an accident? Spencer wondered, as he followed the others upstairs.
* * * *
An hour later, April was still wondering the same thing. Clean, and sporting numerous bandages in varying sizes, she leaned against the stacked pillows of her bed, picking at the delicious array of salads and meat slices Helga had provided for her.
Cynthia had pronounced her injuries minor, except for the gash on her shoulder, and even that had been subdued with a giant butterfly bandage. Professing relief, the rest of the family had headed to their own rooms for the night, all but her stepmother.
She hovered about as though she had something to say, but wasn’t certain how to begin.
Finally April could stand the weighted silence no longer. “Would you like to sit down a minute and visit?”
Nodding, Cynthia seemed relieved. She pulled up the room’s single pine, straight-backed chair, sat, and folded her hands in her lap. For several more seconds she watched April eat, then at last said, “I think we got off on the wrong foot, sugah, and I’d like to try and clear the muddy waters between us.”
The statement surprised April. Somehow she managed to swallow the wedge of cheddar in her mouth as though her throat hadn’t constricted. Which it had. Was Cynthia actually trying to apologize for her less than cordial treatment of April since her return to Calendar House? As amazing as that seemed, April felt she might be. It was a pity that a few sessions nursing someone’s injuries didn’t wash away distrust.
“Tonight’s accident made me admit somethin’ to myself. I’m ashamed to say, I’ve been a tad bit jealous of you.”
“Jealous—of me?” No wanting to appear too eager to hear this explanation, April concentrated on folding a piece of Swiss cheese with a slice of turkey. Slowly, she glanced at her. “Why?”
Cynthia drew a deep breath. Her fingers automatically sought the ever-present gold cross. Inexplicably it was not there. She made a self-conscious gesture and dropped the hand back into her lap. “Your daddy loves you very much and I’m afraid I saw that as a threat—to July and me—especially since you look so awfully much like Lily.”
Adding this admission to the memory she’d had in the basement earlier, April concluded she’d been right about Cynthia’s feelings for Lily. “I may look like Lily, but I’m not like her.”
“I know that. You were nothing like her as a child. I should have remembered…” Tears stood in Cynthia’s eyes. “I’ve watched you with July, Honestly, those awful earrings she picked out—and you wear them every chance…just to please her. You’re kind and lovin' and generous to a fault. I haven’t been the least bit fair. I hope you’ll accept my apology.”
At a loss for words, April bit into the turkey and cheese, but the unexpected lump in her throat made swallowing impossible.
Her stepmother continued. “I’m not expectin' instant approval. But, I love your daddy very much. I hope someday you and I might be friends—for the sakes of the loved ones we share.”
It was quite a speech, April allowed, one she would dearly love to believe. However, at this stage, she didn’t trust her own judgment enough to be certain she wasn’t being naively drawn into the wrong web. Every internal sensor she owned had to be set on alert and kept there until her memory block was penetrated. The incidents in the garage, the basement, and the wine cellar could not be shrugged off. Someone had been trying to get rid of her.
At the moment, all she could offer Cynthia was a nod and a smile.
“Sugah, might I ask you a large favor?”
A favor? Was that what this was all about, Cynthia wanting something from her? There was an odd twitch in her stomach. Disappointment? “What favor?”
“Please don’t be angry, hon. March told me you’d found some old poems?”
“What about them?” She braced herself for whatever was coming.
“I’m askin’ you not to mention them to anyone else. If certain people—like your daddy—found out about ‘em, they’d be ever so hurt.”
“You know who wrote those poems, don’t you?”
Cynthia’s hand went for the missing cross again, came up empty again, and went instead to her dark brown hair. She loosened a pin from her chignon, reanchored it, then bent her head and stared at her folded hands. “Yes, yes, I do know who authored that dreadful prose.” There was a genuine touch of shame in her voice.
April’s pulse surged unsteadily. “Tell me.”
Her stepmother’s head lifted with aching slowness until their eyes were on a level. “Only if you promise to forget they ever existed.”
Put like that, April knew it was a promise she couldn’t make, let alone keep. However, she could agree not to mention the poems again to another soul. “I can promise that daddy will never learn of their existence from me.”
Cynthia studied her face for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I believe I can trust you.”
April’s mouth felt as dry as ashes. Somehow she managed to ask, “Which one of the twins wrote them?”
Chapter Thirteen
Cynthia’s deep set eyes widened. “So, you know that much, do you?”
And more, April thought, but didn’t say it. “Yes, I know that much.”
“Then may I assume you also know a little somethin’ about your mama?”
April nodded. The dryness in her mouth worsened. “I won’t be shocked by whatever you have to tell me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
For a long moment, Cynthia studied her with appraising eyes. “No, I don’t suppose you would after all the truths you’ve had to face. I was terribly wrong to ask you to lie to July about the sanitarium. My reasons were purely selfish, and considerin’ my background, not well thought out, but I swear I won’t put that kind of burden on you again.”
“Thank you.” April took a swallow of water from the glass on her bed tray, then tried to steer Cynthia back to the subject. “About the poems….”
“Before I explain about those, I think there are a few other things that need clarifyin’.” She leaned into the chair’s back, locked her arms across her chest, and sighed. “My sister Davina had been friends with your mama in the years before Lily became famous. They stayed close even afterward, and when Lily realized the nature of her illness, Davina was one of the few people told the truth. That’s how I came to be at Calendar House, through Davina’s recommendation. At the time, I’d been widowed less than a year—my boys were three-years-old—and I’d nearly depleted the piddly insurance compensation awarded by their father’s death. I was desperate for anythin’ that would give the boys and myself a home.”
“I know all that.” Impatience slithered through April and into her voice.
Cynthia unlocked her arms, hunkered forward and swiped her palms on her red skirt. “And I dare say you believed I was only your mama’s social secretary.”
Taking a bite of potato salad, April nodded.
“Well, it wasn’t the whole truth.”
April continued chewing, grateful that the food gave her an excuse not to talk.
“I was, in fact, a registered nurse hired to look after Lily and later, you.”
Surprise brought April’s full attention to the woman seated across from her. A registered nurse? How easily the pieces of a puzzle fell into place when you held the right framework. She’d been a fool not to see it herself considering how often in the past few weeks she’d been subjected to Cynthia’s gentle nursing, her knowledge of first aid.
And a woman with Lily’s debilitating illness, a woman emotionally incapable of caring for her child had definitely needed the services of a nurse. Thinking back, April realized what a good cover the social secretary guise had been. Lily hadn’t needed constant watching or nursing, but she had thrown loads of parties, sent tons of invitations and answered all fan letters.
She finished the bite of salad without tasting it. How strange it felt to view someone in a whole new light, to have everything you thought you knew about them wiped away in one sweep. “I didn’t know.”
“Few did, hon. The greatest role your mama ever played was pretendin’ she’d chosen to retire at the peak of her success rather than fade into obscurity portraying agin’ matriarchs as other film legends had. It couldn’t‘ve been easy—makin’ like Farraday Island was her idea of heaven on earth when it must’ve felt like a prison, one she couldn’t even fake the courage to escape. Eventually, it got to the point where she couldn’t step outside the door. Do you remember?”
April nodded. The twinge of sympathy she’d felt for her mother the other day in the attic came again, harder. “I’m only starting to appreciate the horror of it. Do you know how restrictive even a house this size would seem?”
Cynthia nodded. Her smile was mirthless. “It was why both wings of the house were kept open, although there was no need for all that space. And, Lordy, how she came to resent others’ ability to come and go as they pleased. I will give her credit though—she was sly enough not to take her anger at her sickness out on her friends. They wouldn’t have returned. Instead, Lily vented her spleen on you and me.”
She reached to touch April. April flinched and Cynthia pulled back. Lacing her fingers together, she laid them in her lap. “Oh, how I pitied you. I was an adult with some good ole Southern steel in my spine. Your mama couldn’t bend, much less break me, but you were a different matter, sugah.”
Anger as old as her childhood and as fresh as her memories flooded through April, washing away every ounce of compassion. Why didn’t realizing her mother was ill alleviate the impotent rage she felt whenever she thought about the way Lily had treated her? Her stomach contracted. The savory aromas rising from the food on the bed tray suddenly sickened her. April grimaced, and attempted to lift the tray from her lap.
Leaping to her aid, Cynthia placed the tray on the dresser, then returned to the chair. This time there was no hesitancy when she reached for April’s hand, and April made no attempt to pull free from the comforting touch. The three people she loved best in the world adored this woman. So why hadn’t she even looked for any redeeming quality in Cynthia, instead of automatically condemning her like some jealous fourteen-year-old who'd lost her father to his new wife…?
The thought gave April serious pause, and as she studied Cynthia’s concerned expression, she realized her stepmother wasn’t solely responsible for their getting off on the wrong foot. She also had been jealous, jealous of all the yeas Cynthia had had with her father and Spencer. Years she could never retrieve.
Cynthia said, “I can only guess at the emotional scars your mama inflicted on you, but surely in therapy you discovered what a sick woman she was?”
Until this moment, she had discussed this aspect of her past with no one but Dr. Merritt. The thought of opening herself up to someone else felt alien, and yet the time seemed right. “I tried to be so good, to do everything she wanted me to do, thinking that would make her love me. But I was never quite good enough, or smart enough, or pretty enough.”
“Sugah, you’re wrong. You succeeded and then some. That was the problem. Lily didn’t just suffer from agoraphobia you know; she also had the actor’s disease: fear of growin’ old. To Lily, every candle on your birthday cake was like a nail in her coffin, an annual party in honor of her dead reign as queen of the cinema. As you entered your teens and your potential beauty began to emerge, Lily grew obsessively jealous of you. Why do you think she insisted you wear those silly clothes that were years too young for you?”
And undermined my confidence at every turn? And brainwashed me into thinking you—who had probably changed my diapers and rocked me to sleep—were worthy of nothing but my scorn? April stung with self-contempt.
“Don’t blame yourself, hon. Can’t do anythin’ but pity an actress who believes she’ll forever be able to play ingénues.” Cynthia patted her hand, then brushed an errant strand of hair from April’s eyes. “Once, I actually screwed up the courage to confront your daddy about the way she was treatin’ you, but he—well, you know how he is. He spent every possible minute in that workshop of his. In his own way, he was in as severe a state of denial as Lily.”
For some unfathomable reason, April couldn’t stir up any anger at her father. Perhaps because he’d been as much a victim as she, or perhaps because even in his normal preoccupied state, he’d always managed to convey his love for her. Tears stung the back of her eyes, but she willed them not to fall.
“August has lived to regret his inaction more than you know, hon. In one fell swoop, he lost both Lily and you. He blames himself for your illness. And deep down inside I can’t say he’s wrong. Perhaps you might have withstood the shock of your mama’s death if you’d had your daddy to lean on.”
April felt the heat drain from her face. If she’d killed Lily, all the support in the world wouldn’t have helped. She sank back on her pillows and stared at the ceiling. She could hardly tell Cynthia that. However, if she kept on indulging this new found vulnerability she might divulge more than was wise. “Could we get back to the poems?”
“Certainly, I didn’t mean to get so carried away.” Cynthia sounded hurt.
April instantly regretted her bluntness and the necessity of it, but offered no excuses or apologies. She didn’t dare.
Her stepmother was once again seeking and not finding the gold cross. More than ever, it struck April that she relied on the thing for emotional support.
Twin dots of color stained Cynthia’s cheeks. “Agoraphobia is extremely destructive on a person’s self-confidence. And to that Lily’s fear of agin’ and you’ve got trouble in capital letters. Lily needed constant reassurance of her attractiveness to the opposite sex. At first she encouraged the flirting of her friends’ husbands, but then a couple of the women refused invitations to other parties and she smartened up.
“She turned her attention to the men who did the maintenance work Jesse Winston couldn’t handle, or the appliance repairmen, and I had my suspicions about a couple of your father’s business associates. I don’t know how many of these flirtations went beyond the battin’ eyelashes stage. I can only speak of one such case with any authority.”
The way she said that, April knew she meant one of the twins. Her heart crawled into her throat and dread pressed in on her.
Gazing at the floor, Cynthia seemed to be speaking to herself. Resentment and pain vied for dominance in her deep set gray eyes. “He was only eighteen-years-old. What young man at that age wouldn’t be flattered by the attentions of a beautiful older woman? A movie star, no less! Poor Thane, he never knew what hit him.”
Thane, not Spencer. Oddly, knowing the truth did nothing to ease the tightness in April’s stomach. After the memory of Spencer’s betrayal with Lily, learning he hadn’t written the poems felt anticlimactic.
Unexpectedly, Cynthia laughed, a nervous laugh. “Well, you read those sappy poems. I don’t need to tell you how hard Thane fell. But after a few weeks of thinkin’ with the wrong end of his anatomy, he realized how much August would be hurt by his actions. It shamed him back to his senses
. Lily was furious enough to smack him. The ring she was wearing left a tiny crescent shaped scar near his left eye—a permanent reminder of the harm lust can inflict.”
“Did you know about the affair while it was going on?”
“No. Thane told me about it afterward.”
April shook her head. “I can’t believe she had the nerve to carry on right here inside Calendar House. Are you certain Daddy didn’t know?”
“About Thane? My husband is a gracious person, but I can’t honestly believe any man who held such knowledge about another would treat the offender with the love and respect August shows my sons.” Only someone listening as closely as April was would have detected the quaver of worry in Cynthia’s confident tone. Cynthia added, “As to any other affairs Lily might have had, well, we’ve never discussed it.”
“Even if there had been others, and even if Daddy had found out, I don’t suppose he’d have divorced her?”
“Probably not. With her illness, Lily would’ve ended up in an asylum. And in those days, society and industry alike would’ve shunned August for not standin’ by a mentally ill wife. Plus, he had you to consider, and I suppose he figured any mother was better than none.”
He’d been wrong. April felt certain Cynthia thought the same, although they were both too polite to say it aloud. Weariness seemed to seep into her every pore. She tried and failed to stifle a yawn.
“You’d better get some sleep, hon.” Rising, Cynthia turned off the bedside lamp, fetched the tray from the dresser and left.
* * * *
Spencer crossed the basement room slowly, forming impressions, memorizing details. At the wine cellar, he found the door wide open with a box levered against it, the same as when they’d discovered April amid the carnage a short while ago. The light was still on, but cast questionable illumination through the ruby-colored wine splatters wreathing it.
Before entering, he considered the cellar with a critical eye born of a calmness that had been absent earlier in his anxiety over April. How had this terrible thing happened? He wanted answers. Accident or negligence or treachery? So unsettled were his thoughts, he barely registered the chill in the earthen room. If someone had deliberately tried to harm April—mightn’t they have shut the door, turned out the light? They might. Unless…they meant it to look like an accident.
