Both Richard and his sister were the epitome of All American, looking very collegiate long before graduating high school. Perfect teeth, braces on at twelve, off at fifteen. And they were both quite athletic. Richard lettered in every sport he participated in, and his sister of course, was a cheerleader. They both served on the yearbook committee, wrote for the school paper, sat on the debate team, and never once had to pack their lunch because there was no money in the house.
Christine had been a cheerleader also, and she and Julie the best of friends, so it came as no surprise to anyone when she and Richard became friends, steady dates, and later, husband and wife. They were inseparable. Richard idolized Christine and put her so high on a pedestal, that even he found her out of reach at times. She was so perfect, so sophisticated, she made him feel childish without even trying. When he asked her to marry him and she said yes, along with the excitement he felt, came a loss of breath, as if he'd just been kicked in the stomach. There was something about the look in her eyes that made him think he'd let her down someday, that he would never be able to live up to what she saw in him.
Evidently he'd been right. Though what had actually caused him, a man with seemingly everything, a loving, beautiful wife, an adoring daughter, a successful career and an iron-clad future, to chuck it all for a colorless liquid with a hypnotic acidic bite, would take years to realize.
Richard was not your typical alcoholic, at least that's what people who knew him thought, perhaps a bit confused with what typical was. He didn't drink from sunup to sundown, didn't drink everything he could get his hands on, he was particular in his taste, and never woke up in a strange place let alone a gutter or an alley. He was never abusive, offensive, or loud. And his appearance, gait, and manner when drunk, seemed to defy alcoholic gravity.
It just never really occurred to Richard not to drink. His father was a social drinker. He always had a highball or two to unwind from his day at the office, while his mother nursed a glass of white wine, and it seemed only natural to follow that trend. But the problem, the difference between him and his father, was there came a time when just one or two didn't satisfy Richard anymore. Faced with it later and told that alcoholism was an inherited disease, he felt sure when his ancestors handed it down, they bypassed his father, and dumped on him with a vengeance.
Richard never had blackouts, though actually at times he would have welcomed them. His memory was all too vivid. Not only did he remember the nights, he remembered the lies and alibis, and the trusting look in Christine's eyes each time he dished one out.
Then came that day, the day he broke her heart and shattered their lives forever. He'd awakened hung over as usual, with the events of the night still fresh in his mind. Christine had already gone to work and had left him a note of her day's schedule on the bedside table. Hard as he tried to focus, he couldn't make out a single word. He coughed all the way to bathroom, attempting to clear his throat of phlegm, and after almost gagging himself, looked in the mirror. A man he didn't recognize stared back at him. A man much older than he was and whose eyes were a different color. He shivered. This was the same way he'd greeted the day before, and the day before that. And the only thing that made things right, was the poison that put him there. He couldn't keep doing this. He just couldn't. He had to stop.
He turned and staggered to the closet, stared at all his suits, hanging neatly, and thought of lunch. Not that he was hungry. The thought of food nauseated him. He was thinking of the two or three drinks he'd have, and if he could only make it until then. He hadn't given thought to his client, his case, where they'd be meeting, or even the reason for the meeting. All he could think of was the gin and tonic.
Richard didn't go to the office that day, giving in to self-doubt and bordering on hysteria, he cried, until he couldn't cry anymore. Then he called Christine home, packed some clothes, and went out on the porch to wait for her, clutching his suitcase as he sat on the steps, shivering.
He will never forget the look in Christine's eyes as he bared his soul to her, confessing everything. Nor will he forget the endless tears that trickled down her face as she drove him to the hospital, or the way her hands were trembling as they walked down the corridor together.
A gray-haired woman peered over her glasses and offered them assistance. Richard had to clear his throat several times before he could speak. "My name is Richard Morrison," he said. "I need some help. I think I'm an alcoholic."
* * *
Physically, Richard was exhausted, and dozed off and on for hours after he was admitted. His symptoms of withdrawal were mild compared to most. But by evening, he wasn't sleepy anymore, and could think of nothing but the outpour he'd laid on Christine. And her silent acceptance. Routine tests were ordered, and the more he was wheeled from floor to floor, examined, prodded, and pricked, the more convinced he became. This was a mistake. He'd over reacted. He had obviously been under too much stress, enough to make him shaky, but certainly not enough to put him in a hospital. He didn't belong here. He wanted to go home. He had to patch up his marriage, and it couldn't wait.
He rang the buzzer for the nurse. If he could check himself in, he could just check himself out. But he needed his clothes. He would use this as a warning, and never push that hard again. He'd turn over a new leaf. He'd be faithful and never hurt Christine again.
That thought scared him. Because he couldn't figure out why he'd been unfaithful in the first place. Why would any man, with a wife as perfect and loving as Christine, be unfaithful? And what had made him turn to barroom pickups instead, women he never even cared to see a second time?
He rang the buzzer again. Where the hell was the nurse? He started pacing the floor, in a sweat, and was about to go screaming out into the hall for her, when in she came, with Matt Campbell right behind her.
"I want my clothes!" Richard shouted at them. "I want my clothes, and I want out of here!"
Matt looked him right in the eye. "No, Richard," he said sadly. "What you want is a drink."
Richard was discharged three and a half weeks later. His therapy had been intense, stripping him of any dignity he'd had left, with the family sessions being the hardest to sit through. Christine left each one feeling numb. And Bethann, frightened. For the first time in her life, she was seeing her father mad, angry. And her mother, withdrawn.
One morning, a little more than two weeks into his hospital stay, Richard faced what would be the beginning of his recuperation. He was an alcoholic. And he would always be an alcoholic. But as long as he never forgot that, or denied it again, he could fight the disease and win.
He returned home with Christine and Bethann, continued his therapy, and gradually resumed a full work schedule. Within weeks, at the office, it was as if he'd never been gone and nothing whatsoever had happened. While at home, and having settled into the guest room, absolutely nothing would ever be the same again.
CHAPTER NINE
Klaus was relentless in his efforts to keep the Maple Dale development project moving ahead. He'd instigated action to invalidate the Coroner's report on Leah's death, citing the imprecise time as grounds. When that proved futile, he raised questions about the exact time of his father's passing. He threatened a scandal, insinuating the patients at the nursing home went hours between checks, even hinting at neglect. When no one seemed ruffled by those bullying tactics, he set out to try and invalidate his father's will on grounds of incompetence. But this too became an effort in futility. The will had been drawn up years earlier, at a time when his father's mental health was above reproach.
As a result of this obsession, he was spending a lot of time accomplishing nothing, to the point where he was beginning to lose touch with his other business holdings. He was determined to find a way. A loophole. He was positive there had to be one. And he wasn't going to stop until he found it.
* * *
Bethann was having trouble sleeping through the night and had begun to have a recurring nightmare. She would wake frightened, positive
the dream had been the same, but within seconds, wouldn't be able to even remember who was in it, let alone what it was that had made it so frightening.
Bethann had always enjoyed school, her favorite subjects being English Literature and American History. She also liked Math, though not as much. She was a good student, but not the kind that didn't have to work hard. She loved sports and took great pride in her perfect attendance at all the football games. She and her best friends Stacy and Jessica went rain or shine. They even attended one in a blizzard, where they almost froze, huddled under the blanket her mom insisted they take. It snowed so hard they couldn't see the players and afterwards had to ask who won. But they were there. Most important. And they had a blast.
Stacy and Jessica didn't mind Bethann's stuttering. In fact, since as a rule she stuttered less around them, little attention was paid to it unless Bethann brought it up herself. Stacy thought it was definitely better than being flatter than a pancake, and Jessica thought it beat having acne, which was something she knew all about. The three of them were practically inseparable, roaming the halls together at school and almost always having a crush on the same boy, who generally never paid attention to any of them. Yet, despite this closeness, Bethann kept what was going on with Leah's will to herself.
Growing up almost overnight, it seemed, Bethann now took things much too seriously. She was determined to ensure Leah's memory be a part of Maple Dale, but didn't know how, and it was constantly on her mind.
In the midst of all of this though, there was something good happening as far as she was concerned. Something really good. Her mother and father seemed to be smiling more lately. She held her breath just thinking about it. And they seemed happier together. Not quite like before, but happy nonetheless.
Much to everyone's surprise, her mom had begun a ritual of early morning walks with Shad. She'd also given in to his pleas whenever she was about to leave the house, and now took him with her. She'd spread a blanket on the passenger seat of the Seville, since he shed so much, and always had to help him up and in, but he'd become her constant companion. She'd even take him with her to the grocery store, where he'd wait patiently in the car, dotting the lowered windows with nose marks that he would then lick off, almost indignantly. And judging from the way he thumped his tail as they rode along, it appeared he'd even developed an appreciation for her classical music.
Bethann was waiting for them to return from their morning exercise, ready to go to Manchester for her riding lesson when the phone rang. It was Stacy.
"You'll never guess what Jessica heard."
"What?" Bethann said.
"It's so cool! She just called. She told me that her cousin Char, you remember Char?"
"Yes."
"Well, she told her that last night her and her boyfriend Randy were up at Maple Dale, you know, messing around, and said they saw someone. Like they lived there."
Silence...
"You there?"
"Y-Yes," Bethann said. "Who w-w-was it?"
"Who knows? They said it looked like a bag lady."
"A w-wh-what?"
"A bag lady! Can you believe it?" Stacy laughed. "A bag lady! Isn't that wild?"
Bethann shook her head and sighed, sounding distant and sad. "What else d-d-did she s-s-say?"
"Nothing, that was it. I guess a lot of kids are gonna go up tonight to see for themselves. I wish we could go."
Bethann didn't say anything.
"Anyway, I just wanted to tell you, with the way you used to ride up there and all." Stacy laughed again. "Can you imagine your riding instructor finding an old bag lady in one of her barns? Oh God!"
Bethann remained silent. Stacy had no way of knowing that she was still tied to Maple Dale and that none of this seemed funny to her. After all, it had been almost three months since Leah died.
"Well, I gotta go," Stacy said. "I'll call you later."
Bethann hung up the phone and stared out the kitchen window, so preoccupied with her thoughts, she didn't even see her mother and Shad coming up the sidewalk.
Christine held the door for Shad and was sort of coaxing him along as Richard walked into the kitchen. He'd slept in after being up well past two working on some research he'd brought home, and was headed for the coffee pot.
"How was your walk?" he asked, patting Shad on the head. Christine's new routine was refreshing. He was glad to see her enjoying herself.
"Good!" Christine said, bending and stretching from side to side. "It was great! Shad stayed up most of the time. We only had to stop once for a rest."
Richard smiled.
"And believe me," Christine added, "When he sits down to rest, he sits down to rest."
Richard pictured I; Shad planted stubbornly with Christine tugging and tugging at his collar, and started to laugh. Christine laughed as well then, and neither noticed how distracted Bethann was, off in a world of her own.
Christine reached past her into the cupboard for the box of dog biscuits; low-cal treats for the mature dog. She tossed Shad one, he caught it, and she turned to Richard. "I think he really likes these. He had three last night and gulped them right down."
Richard smiled, about to tell her giving him that many was defeating the purpose, when all a sudden, Bethann spoke up. "There's a b-b-bag lady at M-M-Maple Dale."
"A what?" her parents said together.
"A b-b-bag lady." Bethann told them about Stacy's phone call and surprised herself by also telling them about how the kids were going to go back up there tonight. It seemed a little like squealing, but her loyalty was to Maple Dale.
Richard sipped his coffee, listening. "Maybe we'll ride up after your lesson and take a look. We need to take up some more cat food anyway."
Christine frowned. "Shouldn't we call the police?" She imagined a lice-ridden, gray-haired old lady up there, shotgun in hand and with her front teeth missing.
"Oh, I wouldn't worry," Richard teased. "I don't think the old girl's going to hurt us, at least not without a good fight."
Christine chuckled self-consciously.
"Besides," he said. "We don't want to get her in trouble, we just want her to leave. We'll just inform her that the landlord would kindly like her to vacate the premises." He winked at Bethann upon saying this, and got her to laugh too.
"You th-think she'll still b-b-be there?"
"Nah, she's probably long gone. The kids probably scared her off."
* * *
Richard parked between the barn and arena, swung the twenty-five pound bag of cat food onto his shoulder, and headed for the barn. Christine and Bethann took off in the opposite direction. Though months had passed, the air was still filled with the ominous odor of burnt wood; foreboding, yet somewhat enticing, like the smell of burning leaves.
Richard put the food in the corner of the first stall, split it open, and started searching the barn. The tack room was empty, as was each stall, the feed room and the pump area, no signs of anyone having been there. He even checked the garbage cans. He climbed the ladder to the hayloft then. It was empty as well, aside from some chaff on the floor and a lot of pigeon mess and feathers. He hesitated looking up. There was something eerie about the open beams of a barn. It was as if he expected to see a body dangling from a rope. He raised his eyes slowly and let out a sigh of relief. Nothing. Not even a bat.
He walked over to the loft doors, opened them, and gazed out. From this vantage point, he could see practically the entire estate, even the lake up on the north end. It mesmerized him, the sheer vastness of it all, the shimmering... When he heard a noise behind him and turned, his heart skipped a beat.
The arena doors were stuck, so Christine and Bethann had to wait for Richard, and were just starting to get worried, when he came around the side of the barn. With a couple of good shoves, he had the door unjammed, and slid it open.
At first glance, Christine wasn't sure what bothered her most, seeing the jumps still in place or seeing all the equipment gone. Bethann, however, liked it just th
e way it was. She had a big smile on her face as she walked into the center and took a look around. She could imagine being on Persian Son, with Leah standing right where she was standing. She could see it all. She closed her eyes for a moment, and doing so, could almost hear the familiar sounds of horses, and laughter. And Leah's voice.
She glanced at her mother and father, standing in the doorway with the sun behind them. Their shadows were touching. It was like magic. Still smiling then, she turned and hopped over the first jump, headed toward the next, when all of a sudden she stopped dead and almost fell to her knees.
"Th-These jumps are d-d-different! They've b-b-been moved!"
Richard stared, suggesting, "Maybe they just got bumped." Christine nodded, agreeing with him. But another look around, and Bethann started to cry.
"No! Th-They've been m-m-m-moved They've b-b-been moved! This is L-L-Leah's beginner's course!"
Richard walked over and put a sensible arm around her. "Honey..."
Bethann pulled away, holding her hands out and shaking her head emphatically. "This is L-L-Leah's beginner's c-c-course! It is!" Tears streamed down her face. "Daddy, it is!"
Richard pulled her close, hugging her tightly as he looked at Christine, helpless to offer any explanation. And from less than a hundred yards away, Leah watched. She wondered if Bethann had fallen. She wondered why she was crying. And where was Persian Son? Had he run out of the arena? If he had, why wasn't someone going after him? And why wasn't Bethann wearing a hard hat?
Maple Dale (Maple Dale Series) Page 7
