Frannie was trying to stop the spinning. Her stomach was churning now. Burning inside. She pressed her hand against her stomach as if to quell the fire.
“Go home, Laurel. Go home and start packing. I’m putting the house on the market.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I’ve already spoken with the attorney.” She didn’t need to tell her the exact details of the conversation. Let the implication stand on its own.
“Honesty. Is that what you said? Honesty? Truth?” Laurel’s usually flawless complexion flushed a deep, ugly maroon.
She spit the words out. “You’ve gone behind my back taking the good things I’ve tried to do for you and throwing them into my face or using them against me. You think you know so much? You might as well know this, too. That day when Frances came to the house, she wasn’t alone. There was someone else with her. A child.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“I’m no one’s fool. I wasn’t about to raise another of that woman’s children. You needn’t stare at me like that.” She pointed her finger in Frannie’s face.
“I did right by you. You were never easy. Always clinging to your father and disrespectful to me. No matter how I tried to help you develop social skills or to conduct yourself with any degree of dignity.”
Frannie had stopped hearing. She was still stuck on the words about the child with Frances.
“Who was she? Or he?”
“Who? Frances?”
“The child? Who was she?”
“I presume the child belonged to her. Only heaven knows who the father was.”
“Is. Is. Not was!” She couldn’t stop saying it over and over. “Is.” She reached up and pulled on her hair, seeking pain, anything to interrupt the rage building in her head. “That child was, at the least, my half-sister or brother. Frances died soon after. What happened to the child?”
“How would I know? I was already bringing up someone else’s child. One was enough. The rest wasn’t my business.”
Frannie swept the items on the counter off with one rough swipe. “Get out.”
Objects sailed. One hit Laurel’s arm and she screamed out, “There’s my proof. Everything I’ve said about you is right. You try to get me out of the house, and we’ll see what the courts have to say about it, and about you and your competency.”
Laurel was no more than a blur as she went to the door.
It was as if Frannie could see that child standing alongside the woman, a sickly woman with a child no one wanted.
She ran to the door, flung it open and chased Laurel down the stairs. “Wait. Wait! Was the child a boy or a girl? What was the child’s name?”
She saw in Laurel’s face that she was considering not answering.
“Tell me.”
“They all look alike at that age.” She got into the car and slammed the door.
It. Was. IS.
Deep night dwelled inside Frannie’s head. It was a cave void of light and feeling, for good or ill. She pulled herself back up the stairs and slammed the door. She scrambled down the hall running her hands along the wall to steady herself and found her way into the bathroom.
She tried splashing cold water on her face, but ruthless spasms gripped her stomach. She held on to the sink and lowered herself to the tile floor, leaned over the toilet and lost every bit of barbecue and hush puppies still in her system, and then some. She retched long after there was nothing more to give, and her stomach, her whole body, felt twisted and battered.
When she was done, it was no longer black in her head, but the room was dark. This was a natural dark. She lay down on the floor and curled up, her face resting on the small, cotton bath mat, and she cried.
Later, dazed, seeking normalcy in simple, everyday acts, she rinsed her face and mouth, and dragged a brush through her hair. It didn’t work. She did manage to successfully complete an important task, but only because he didn’t answer the phone and she could leave a message.
“Mr. Hamilton? This is Frannie Denman. I’ve learned that Frances Cooke may have had another child. If so, it would have been born a few years after me. Not many. Maybe two to five years after. Laurel, my stepmother, saw the child with Frances when I was seven. I don’t know whether it was a boy or girl, and I don’t know if Frances was using Denman as her last name, or Cooke, or some other name. Sorry, that’s all I the info I have. Will you look into it? Thanks.”
Outside was the night. Stars hung suspended above, and darkness filled in and all around, like being in a well, a well of cold, brisk air. It washed against her face and cooled her pounding head. Anger, base anger, even if it was righteous, was a poison—if that kind of base, dirt-throwing anger could ever be righteous.
With the sofa blanket around her shoulders, she left the porch and climbed the outside stairs toward the points of light overhead. She could almost reach those beacons by standing on the deck above the house, leaning against the railing and straining, reaching heavenward. They tantalized, just beyond the tips of her fingers. A deep night beneath a vast sky, somewhere in which to hide. From others, from herself? Alone, lost in the dark belly of night, only to find she’d taken her faults with her. It was true.
She was ashamed. Per her usual style, she’d handled a delicate situation with a nuclear strike. She had no right to be so critical of Laurel when, she herself, was so far removed from common sense and objectivity, or from a reasonable response, from actions that were appropriate to the situation.
Or hypocrisy. She’d been busy re-making her uncle’s home, without asking him, assuming he’d be pleased if he made it back home, and if he didn’t it would be easier to sell. Talk about cold practicality.
She’d meant well. She didn’t think she could say the same for Laurel.
Admitting her errors didn’t change that she was right about a few things, like living on her own. The relationship between them was toxic. Time and distance might improve that. Might not. But only the attempt would answer that question.
She drew her hands back and crossed her arms, wrapping then in the blanket, holding them tightly to her body. She shivered, but her brain was regaining its better nature, so she lingered.
Starlight ruled above. Below, a few ships’ lights dotted the black water. No contest. God in his universe. A touch of God. A desperate yearning that in times of anger and frustration, she would remember God. Guilt that she often forgot to turn to God when things were good.
She didn’t need to be alone. She didn’t need to try to manage alone.
Frannie knelt at the railing. The wood was damp and cool against her forehead. Who was up there among the stars? Her father? Frances, the mother who wasn’t? Here on earth? Laurel. No wonder she, Frannie, was so screwed up. She laughed and then realized she was crying instead, huddled in her blanket on Uncle Will’s cold, exposed, beach house version of a widow’s walk.
No father, no mother. Who else? A sibling? A sister or brother? Whether half or whole, there was a sibling. Hopefully, one who was still earth bound. She needed more than Laurel, and even Will, to claim as family.
“Fran? You okay?”
She hadn’t heard the stairs creak. She pushed her hair back out of her face with her forearm.
“Yeah. I’m good. I was out here admiring celestial bodies, Orion and such.”
He knelt next to her. “You’re cold.”
She pulled the blanket tighter. “I was, but I think it’s actually warming up out here.”
“You’re too cold to feel it now.”
Brian stood, somehow pulling her to her feet along with him. It was a graceful act and it amazed her, as did his presence.
“Where’d you come from?”
“From down there with the rest of the mortals. Nothing celestial about me.”
“I mean, why did you come back?”
“Let’s call it curiosity.”
“If you say so. How did you know I was up here?”
“Your front door was wide open. You weren’t inside and
your car was still parked out back.”
He put his arm around her in a brotherly way. She didn’t want to make more of it than that.
“Now I’m warmer.” And she was. That tiny snide voice of Laurel’s tried to weasel in. She refused to allow it. “Did I really leave the front door open?”
“Yes. I shut it. I left it unlocked.”
“Good. I didn’t bring a key with me.”
How quickly could a person’s world shift? This quickly? Could it be true? Or was she about to be slapped down again? She felt good, really good, tucked into the crook of Brian’s arm.
“Did you come back tonight because you thought I might have chucked Laurel off the widow’s walk?”
Brian laughed. “Observation deck, it’s called. Although, there’s a certain kind of symmetry to Laurel and a widow’s walk.” He looked up at the stars and laughed. Frannie laughed with him.
“You know what this really is?” she asked. “Feel the wind against your face. Hear the ocean. Smell the salt. It almost feels like we’re moving. This is Will’s deck. His ship. His Captain’s Walk.”
He didn’t speak, but tightened his arm around her.
Encouraged, she looked up into his eyes and said, “Brian, there’s something I want to tell you. Will you stay with me awhile?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
It was late and he’d found her freezing up on the observation deck, had barely figured out she was all right, and now she had ‘something to tell him’? Those words had the quality of an understatement.
She added, “But first, before I step inside with you, into the light, I need to go wash my face again and maybe do a better job with the hair brush. It’s been a rough afternoon and evening. I don’t think my ego can survive lamplight without a little help.”
“By all means, go ahead.”
“You’ll wait for me?”
“If you’ll let me in the house where it’s warmer, yes, I’ll wait.”
She went in ahead of him and disappeared down the hallway. The blanket swept the floor like a long cape.
He sat at the table, then half-stood when he thought he heard a loud cry. He listened intently and hearing nothing else, he settled back into the chair.
When she returned a few minutes later, she still looked tired and her eyes were faintly red, but there was a smile on her face and she moved with confidence.
She busied herself at the counter. “I’ll make us some tea.”
“No, thanks. A glass of water, maybe.”
Two mugs and a clear glass pot of some kind were on the counter. Frannie poured the hot water over some bits of tea that looked like scraps of dried weedy stuff.
“We have to let it steep for four minutes.” She laughed softly. “Don’t worry about this tea. It doesn’t have any caffeine in it. It won’t keep you awake tonight.”
He opened his mouth to say ‘no’ again and then closed it.
She placed the mugs of tea on the table.
He looked down at his, doubtful. Tea.
“I’m not much of a tea drinker. Hot, anyway.”
She smiled. “I know, but please try it. This is a different blend than what you had before. You can decide whether you like it while I tell you a story.” She pushed the cup around by its handle. “I like you. A lot. You were very kind to come back here to check on me. I’m glad you didn’t arrive sooner, though, because I was a mess.” She brushed at the blanket. “I mean worse than when you found me.”
“Much later and you would’ve been frozen.”
“Not quite. It was cold, but not that cold.”
“No offense, Fran, but I think you’re crazy.”
It was a throwaway line. People were always calling other people crazy. So why did she get that pale, rigid expression and then slosh her precious tea onto the table?
“It’s an expression. I’m sorry. I’m not a sensitive kind of guy.”
She shook her head. “No, unfortunately, I think you may be right.”
“There you go. That’s what I like about you. Your sense of humor. Your contagious optimism.”
Now she looked confused. She’d smiled before so what was the deal? She wouldn’t have smiled if she thought he really meant it, literally meant it. Right?
“I’m not crazy, but I have a nervous disposition. Sometimes, in stress, that sort of translates into crazy.”
“You’re a woman. Don’t nervous and moody come with the territory?”
This time she did giggle. It contrasted oddly with her still red eyes. “Only in the land of generalization.”
“So let’s talk about crazy. Let’s talk about Laurel.”
Fran laughed. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? You refuse to let me be morose or tied up in knots.”
He shrugged.
“Why? You can be arrogant and rude, but also very kind. Why are you so kind to me?”
He didn’t answer. He wasn’t a rescuer or a fixer. That was Maia’s shtick. He tried to think of something to say, something that would change the direction of this awkward conversation. He said, “I don’t think Will would mind if I told you.”
Her eyes, so dark they looked almost black, stared. He forced himself to look away.
“He showed me the verse you brought him.”
“Yes?”
“He was always around other people in the navy, and his family before that. When he retired, suddenly he was alone. He’d get down or gloomy. When a verse would catch his attention, he’d write it down and hide it around the house. Sometimes he’d happen upon one of those verses. It gave him something to think about, something outside of himself.” He shrugged. “That’s it. Not a big mystery.”
Frannie opened her mouth to speak and then shut it. Finally, she shook her head and said, “We need cookies. Excuse me.”
What? Well, maybe cookies would be good. He watched her limp across to the kitchen cabinet, rumpled and still clutching the blanket trailing under her feet. She returned with a tin of some kind of girlie cookies. Tea cookies? She tucked the blanket under her arm while she worked the top off the tin. No Oreos or chocolate chips here. Nope. She pushed the tin closer to him.
“Thank you for telling me about Will and the verses. I understand about getting gloomy. Tonight I was upset about Laurel. I’ve told you some already, but there’s more wrong with us than that, always has been. You know, like chemistry? Bad chemistry. We never mixed well even when we tried. We haven’t tried in a very long time.”
“It was bad when your dad was alive, too?”
“Probably, but less noticeable then. I got older and more stubborn. I’m not a good daughter.”
“Judging by how you looked at her when she showed up this afternoon, I’m not surprised to hear you say it. What I don’t get is why you two live together? Why not live your own lives? Why force yourselves on each other?”
“I agree.” She sighed. “Oh, Brian. I’ve tried, but not hard enough.”
He took a small bite out of one of the cookies. Not great, but it was okay. He popped the rest of it in his mouth and reached for another. Not exactly satisfying, but they made the tea taste better.
“No matter what, it seems like I always get drawn back to the house and Laurel. I don’t blame Laurel for that. The fault for that lies with me.”
“So, it’s simple. Move out.” He waved his arms around at Will’s kitchen and living room. “Hey, you’re already on your way to being gone from there. You’re here.”
“You think like a guy.”
“I hope so.” He thumped his hand on the table.
“Believe it or not, Laurel depends upon me, more, I think, than I depend on her.”
“By the way, Laurel wasn’t what I was expecting. Nice looking woman. Looked more like Glenda than the Wicked Witch of the West.”
“Hmmm. Well, I understand what you’re saying. I wish I had her smoothness, dignity. Maybe her ability to wound with a simple word and look innocent while doing it. Not that I’d want to hurt anyone, b
ut you know what I mean?”
“How’d she get you back home before?”
“She didn’t. Actually, she helped me. Allowed me to return home. I could say she almost rescued me. She certainly says it often enough.” She looked at the ceiling and then across the room before she continued. “It was a bad relationship, a boyfriend who didn’t work out. We had a bad breakup and then, well, he tried to intimidate me. He was a bully. Even after he was gone, my nerves got the better of me. I started imagining things, but they seemed so real, you know?”
“Like what?”
“Like noises. Outside. At the windows. I felt followed. At first, I thought it was real, it felt real, but then, after a while, as my nerves got worse and I couldn’t sleep properly and all, I lost my job. Laurel persuaded me to move back in with her and everything calmed down right away. That’s not a coincidence. Some people aren’t good alone.”
He couldn’t decide how to express himself on this. He didn’t want to belittle her. Her confidence sucked as it was, but honestly, this was too much.
“I don’t understand women. I tell Maia the same. Why isn’t a noise, a noise? Because there’s nothing there, doesn’t mean there wasn’t something there. Well, you know what I mean. Like a logical cause.” He broke a cookie in half and pushed the crumbs into a little pile. “You girls get all worked up over those things. If something is scaring you, then call the cops. If not, then move on. Get stronger locks. Cut back the bushes. You get the idea.
“Like that gull that hit your door. If you were scared enough to sit up half the night, why weren’t you scared enough to call the local police?”
“Because I knew I’d look silly. I kept my phone with me. I would’ve called for help if anything else had happened. How did you know about that?”
“Juli told me.”
“Oh.”
“They don’t do that.”
Beach Winds Page 20
