Where Truth Lies

by Lynn Bulock

  After a fitful night’s sleep, Miranda sat with a cup of tea at the breakfast table hoping that she could have a quick, quiet meal and slip off to her study. Winnie normally took her own breakfast in the sitting room in her suite and sometimes Miranda joined her. But after last night’s encounter with her father, she had felt more like hiding out on her own and trying to recapture the peace she’d felt in the rose garden.

  Trying to write anything new had proved as fruitless as every recent attempt. She’d taken dinner alone just to avoid Ronald, even though it meant missing out on the company of the rest of the household, which might have cheered her.

  Reading after dinner with soft music on the CD player had worked for a while, but in a short time Miranda could feel the tension building in her and the need to pace or just do something for the sake of doing it.

  Normally in that mood she visited her grandfather. But when she’d gone to the door of his quarters, it was closed and her knock answered only by Peg Henderson opening the door the slightest crack. “Oh, dear, he’s still just not up to company yet. He even shooed Sonya away when she came with his tea a little while ago,” Peg told her, genuine worry apparent in her blue eyes.

  After that the evening turned hopelessly dull, no matter what Miranda tried. Several times she found herself staring at the phone, wondering if she called Unity’s office the message there might give her a way to reach Gregory Brown at home. It was almost possible to convince herself that the company she wanted from him was nothing more than pastoral counseling.

  In the end she resisted her desire to make the phone call. Surely the pastor was so busy that he didn’t need to be bothered with her problems. He had the entire congregation of the largest church in Stoneley to minister to, and compared to that Miranda felt like a drop of water in a pond.

  With those thoughts swirling around her, sleep had felt as if it took forever to come. Now morning found her grumpily facing a rapidly cooling English muffin while she watched the birds outside the window, all of whom seemed annoyingly cheerful in the late-spring sunshine.

  “That’s no proper breakfast,” her father said, setting down a cup of coffee and his Wall Street Journal at an empty place at the table, making Miranda wince. “Why don’t you let me tell Andre to make another one of his special omelets for you and we’ll eat together?”

  “Thank you, but I prefer something other than those egg-white-and-spinach monstrosities, no matter how many nutrients you say are in them.” Miranda started to rise from the table, but the wounded look in her father’s eyes made her sit back down.

  “Even if we can’t agree on breakfast, I suppose we could sit together for a while,” she said, wondering why she bothered.

  The man actually gave a half-friendly smile and sat down. “Good. I feel we got off on the wrong foot last night and hoped that I could make a fresh start this morning. I even cut my workout short in hopes that I could get down here and catch you.”

  Miranda studied him as he unfolded his newspaper. The figure in front of her looked like her father, white shirt spotlessly crisp and dark suit pants creased to perfection. Some companies might have gone casual for their executive staff, but Ronald Blanchard didn’t believe in such things. He certainly didn’t sound like the father she expected. “What did you want to talk about?” she asked, trying to keep her tone friendly.

  “Anything but where I’ve been since the police picked me up,” he said, scanning the headlines. “I still can’t believe they expected to hold me on such ridiculous charges.”

  “Is it so ridiculous to think that a man who was capable of faking someone’s death for over twenty years wasn’t capable of causing a death as well?”

  “Yes, Miranda, it is.” Ronald’s black eyes flashed as he looked up at her. “You have to believe that I was doing what was best for you after Juliet was born. I would never intentionally have done anything that caused your mother that sort of harm. I only wanted her out of our lives where she couldn’t hurt you.”

  “The way she hurt you,” Miranda said softly, aware that her hands shook as she put down her china teacup.

  He winced. “I suppose you’re right. Trudy was the love of my life and she betrayed me in ways that tore me apart. I had to take action.” His dark eyes looked past the breakfast table and for a moment Miranda felt a pang of empathy.

  It lasted only a few seconds before anger flared to replace it. “What you did damaged all of us far more than allowing Mama to stay ever would have.”

  “Oh, be reasonable. You were a child of ten, incapable of seeing how ill your mother was and how deceitful she’d been.”

  “That’s true. I only knew that overnight the one person I loved more than anyone in the world, who would have given her life for me if necessary, vanished without even saying goodbye.” She couldn’t meet his face again, not with her eyes this full of tears. Staying at the table to talk to her father had been a huge mistake.

  “Didn’t I provide for all of you, even Juliet? Have you ever lacked for anything here in your grandfather’s house?”

  “We’ve never lacked for the material. You and Grandfather certainly wouldn’t have let that happen as it would have been a reflection on your place in Stoneley society. What we lacked was a mother’s love and care. And a father’s as well, because you certainly didn’t provide that. It’s too late to think that a little chat over breakfast can make any amends for the years of neglect in that department.” This time she found the strength to rise from the table to leave.

  “And I’ll regret that until I go to my grave,” Ronald blurted, startling her into stillness next to her chair. “You can’t believe how many times I’ve asked God to forgive me in the last few weeks for abandoning my children. I think that He can forgive me, Miranda. The question is, can you?” He grasped her wrist for a moment until she shook off his touch.

  “I honestly don’t know, Father.” Miranda bolted up the back stairs toward her room, determined that whatever happened Ronald wouldn’t see her crying one more time because of him.

  Miranda felt like a butterfly pinned to velvet, drowning in the red plush, dark wood and gilt trim of the dining room of the manor as it closed in around her. If her father hadn’t come home yesterday, the rest of them would probably be having a relaxing dinner in Winnie’s library instead. All he’d done since he got home was cause trouble and stir up her life.

  With Ronald home to preside over dinner, nothing would do except the cold, muffled silence of the dining room. Watching her father and Tate Connolly glare at each other across the table, she could barely choke down a spoonful of soup.

  “The gazpacho is delicious, Winnie,” Tate said, never taking his eyes off Ronald. It made Miranda think of two big cats stalking each other. Her father was as sleek as a panther, while Tate bristled like a shaggy white tiger. “Knowing your green thumb, I imagine you have hothouse tomatoes someplace on the property that went into the making of it.”

  “It needs a little cilantro. And some pepper sauce,” Ronald complained. “You shouldn’t have had Andre tone it down for our unwanted guest.”

  “Now don’t go aggravating your sister. It’s fine just the way it is, Ronald.” Tate patted Winnie’s hand as he stared down her brother. “You’ve just burned out your taste buds with a few days of jail food.”

  Winnie put down her soup spoon forcefully, tossed her crisp linen napkin beside her plate and stood up at her place at the table. Being gentlemen, both men rose with her. “That will be enough out of both of you. Either be civil and pleasant, or don’t say anything. You two are going to have to learn to at least co-exist for my sake.” Winnie shook her head. “Honestly, you’d think that you were both raised in a barn.”

  Miranda looked from Tate to her father. Neither of them made a move to say anything to the other, or answer Winnie for a very long moment. “Excuse me, Connolly,” Ronald finally said. “Our mother brought me up better than my actions are showing tonight. While we may have our differences in business, I’m
willing to leave all that outside.”

  His statement made Miranda’s eyes widen. Perhaps the reawakened faith he claimed was actually making a difference in his behavior. First he’d tried to mend fences with her this morning and now he had actually apologized to Tate.

  Connolly’s gray eyes flashed, and then he lowered his gaze ever so slightly. “I’ll accept your apology for Winnie’s sake. And for her only, I’ll go along with that idea to keep our business competition out of her home.”

  Winnie sat down with a sigh and settled back into her place at the table. Wordlessly, the two men sat at the slowest pace possible, still staring each other down. The silence stretched to an uncomfortable length, broken only by the occasional faint chink of a silver spoon grazing porcelain.

  Sonya had removed the soup bowls and brought in the poached salmon with new potatoes and fresh garden peas before anyone else made any conversation. She stood stiffly behind Winnie for a moment, watching her serve the delicate salmon fillet in dill sauce. “If there’s nothing else for the present, I’ll take Mr. Howard his tea,” she said. Not waiting for an answer, she exited to the kitchen.

  “How is your father, Winnie?”

  Miranda knew that Tate didn’t truly care about her grandfather’s health himself. Given their history she’d even wondered briefly if Tate could have somehow had a hand in the poisoning that had left the older man so ill. However, watching Tate with her aunt in the past few weeks, she’d decided that while Connolly might wish to ruin Blanchard Fabrics as a company, he wouldn’t stoop to injuring a sick old man who had so little time left on earth.

  Winnie sighed before answering. “He is still recovering very slowly from that drug reaction.” For the most part the family had chosen to gloss over the various ways that Howard could have been administered so much of one of his prescription drugs, bringing him to the brink of death. “I think his nurse, Peg, blames herself for his overdose, but I’ve told her that she can’t be expected to monitor him every second.”

  “I don’t know. We certainly pay her enough,” Ronald groused, sounding more like the father Miranda expected to hear. “Whatever the cause, the old man is slipping a little more every day. I tried to visit with him this afternoon but it was hopeless. He kept asking me about my trip to Chicago.”

  “Ah. That’s probably my fault,” Winnie said, looking down at the tablecloth, her cheeks flushing. “I felt it was better not to upset him with the truth of your absence. The one time he asked where you were I told him you were away on business.”

  “It’s good of you to protect your brother that way, Winifred. But then, you’re the most goodhearted person I’ve ever known.”

  Miranda could hardly believe the tenderness that sprang to Tate’s steel-gray eyes when he looked at her aunt. Maybe she would be inheriting Winnie’s title as the family spinster quicker than she’d imagined.

  “At least somebody is sticking up for me,” Ronald said with a huff, breaking the light romantic mood Tate had managed to create.

  Miranda could feel her chest tightening in the grip of mounting panic. How much longer could she stave off an attack with all this tension swirling around her? Was removing her growing anxiety one of those things that Greg Brown would term possible for God? She could hardly imagine that asking God to help her with her panic could work, but she prayed silently about it anyway. At this point she had nothing to lose.

  Her prayer at least pulled her attention away from the contention at the table for a short time. She picked at her salmon, tried to regulate her breathing and prayed silently even though she felt terribly rusty at it. Before she knew it, Sonya had returned, removing the dishes. “Shall I serve the coffee and dessert in here, Miss Blanchard?” the housekeeper asked.

  “Not just yet, Sonya. It’s such a nice evening I was thinking we might move to the garden room,” Winnie replied.

  The more intimate space toward the back of the house had a pleasant view of summer sunsets, making Miranda almost wish she planned to stay. Instead, she rose from her place at the table. “I hope I won’t disturb your plans too much if I excuse myself, Aunt Winnie. I got a call this afternoon from Fiber Arts in town that the flax twine I special ordered is in. The manager said she’d keep the store open until eight so that I could pick it up and I don’t want to disappoint her.”

  “How about disappointing me?” Ronald grumbled. “If you have to make these silly little handmade books, can’t you at least use products from Blanchard Fabrics to tie them together with, or whatever you do? At least we’d get a little free publicity that way when one of your weird poet friends has a reading.”

  Winnie looked at her brother, her lips pursed in disapproval. “Honestly, Ronald. Can’t you just try and be pleasant to everyone for a while?”

  Ronald made a disgruntled sound but had the decency to refrain from responding with one of his cutting remarks.

  After a moment of oppressive silence, Winnie turned to her niece and smiled. “What your father doesn’t seem to understand is the individual nature of what you do, Miranda. But then, he wouldn’t normally know individuality if it bit him in the ankle.”

  Miranda felt a little of her discomfort slip away.

  “In fact, why don’t you go up to my room and get the keys to my car. It would be a lovely night for a drive into Stoneley.”

  Normally Miranda relied on one of the family cars with a driver, but she realized with a start that since she hadn’t told anyone of her plans before this, no one would be available at this time of night. Sonya and Peg were the only staff members that always stayed at the manor; even Ronald’s driver wasn’t at his beck and call twenty-four hours a day.

  “That’s kind of you, Aunt. I think I’ll take you up on your offer.” Miranda said her goodbyes to her father and Tate Connolly and went up the broad front staircase to Winnie’s rooms on the second floor.

  She was in her own bedroom gathering up her purse, the solid weight of Winnie’s keys in her left hand, when the feelings ambushed her, driving her to her knees on the plush rug. Suddenly there was no air in her lungs, and a cold sweat beaded her forehead. The keys slipped from her hand as she gasped, trying to focus her blurred vision.

  “But I prayed!” she accused out loud. “Gregory said nothing is impossible for You. What did I do to deserve this?” She gave in to the tears then, sinking down on the rug, gripping tufts of it in her shaking fingers. For what seemed like half an hour she fought the anxiety, willed her chest to expand and let in air and heard her father’s words ring in her ears. Words like “silly” and “disappointing” and “weird” that were all she’d come to expect from Ronald for the past twenty years.

  As a young teen she’d come to terms with the knowledge that her father would never give her the love and approval most fathers had for their children. As the years went by she’d taken it more and more upon herself to be the target of his disdain, protecting her sisters from him when she could. Of course rebellious Delia rebuffed her efforts most of the time and the twins turned to each other.

  Even when her sisters had all left Stoneley behind, Miranda had stayed, kept there now not just out of habit and custom but by the panic attacks like this one that blindsided her. She’d never be able to function on her own like this, and things weren’t getting any better.

  Weeping in frustration now over the sorry state of her life, Miranda acknowledged that she wouldn’t be going anywhere tonight. Again. When she calmed enough to get up and wash her face she slipped down the hall to Winnie’s room and put her keys back where they belonged. Taking the back stairs to avoid any contact with the household, Miranda went up one more floor to her studio.

  Once there she didn’t even turn the lights on; the wan moonlight felt like more than enough. Over in the far corner she sank down on the austere wooden bench she kept there, and leaned her back against the cool gray wall. She’d begun humming her mother’s lullaby even before she’d totally settled onto the bench.

  Cool and silver, the essence o
f the room surrounded her, letting the melody envelop her as she sought calm. It had been so long since she’d really had a mother to hum this familiar tune to her. When her mother was alive and with her, Miranda remembered having confidence and an adventurous spirit that had dwindled through the years until there was nothing left of it.

  Resting her cheek against the cool wall, she sang the melody out loud now, not with words, but just sounds, as she remembered her mother doing to calm Juliet, who’d been a colicky, fussy newborn. She could see them in her mind’s eye, the tiny infant restless in her mother’s arms, the blond woman looking beautiful and tragic at the same time, walking up and down, patting the baby’s back while she sang.

  At the height of the melody Miranda broke off her singing, embarrassed by her need to make this memorial to her mother out loud. Trudy was still alive somewhere, she hoped. But if that was true, how would they ever find her? Miranda could feel tears on her cheeks. Ronald was right: she was silly and weak. The melody echoed in her head even after she’d stopped singing it.

  At first she thought the cold that traveled through her spine was only her reaction to the chilled plaster under her damp cheek. In seconds, though, she shivered uncontrollably as she realized that the voice she heard wasn’t a memory, but a real, human voice humming the lullaby where she had left off.

  “Mama,” she whispered almost inaudibly. Pressing her palm flat against the wall, she tried to feelthe sound, find it for certain. When that didn’t work and she was abruptly faced with silence again, she sprang up on the bench, rapping on the wall. “Hello? Who’s there? Who’s singing?”

  For a few minutes she alternately rapped and listened until she became aware of her surroundings in a new way. She was standing on a bench in the dark, pounding on a wall while trying to communicate with a dead woman.

  Suddenly fear swamped her in a way it had never done before. Panic under intense stress was one thing, but this was totally another. Ronald had always maintained that madness ran in the Hall family. Now Miranda felt faced with solid evidence of that. For what could this episode be but hallucination brought about by dwelling on her mother’s memory?