by Lorenzo, DD
The proximity Declan maintained was meant to be a silent message of support, but their emotions were creeping through the coldness. Guilt was the first to strike the blow for him; after all, Marisol was the evil he had brought into their world. The thought made his mouth go dry.
Sorrow hit Carter, and he simply hung his head.
As the two quietly struggled, it was finally Declan’s voice that reverberated determination and strength. His voice was still rough from the decimation of the whiskey he had earlier consumed.
“If it’s her,” he said, looking at Carter, “if it’s Marisol…”
A grotesque sneer spread across his face, getting Carter’s attention.
“…Then, let’s get the bitch…”
Declan returned to his office after walking Carter out, his thoughts incoherent. The combination of Carter’s revelation, his own emotions, and the alcohol were wreaking havoc with his mind. He could no longer trust all of his memories, and obviously, after believing some of Marisol’s lies, he couldn’t trust his judgment. There was only one immediate person he felt that he could trust—his brother…
In the days following the accident, Marisol had begun to visit him in the hospital. She constantly worked with him to remind him of the life he had before he was injured. She brought magazines, newspaper clippings, and cards from friends that they had done photo shoots with and for. She endlessly told him how much she cared for him—how she wanted to help him in his recovery. He didn’t quite understand why she’d go through so much trouble, or why she always came when Aria wasn’t there, but she was patient with him, and behaved kindly. She told him how supportive she had always been of his dream of owning his own business.
Recanting to him how thrilled she was for the opening of The Studio, she reminded him that they had argued the night of the gala over a trivial matter. She had gone back to New York— and he had begun to have casual dates with Aria, whom he met at the beach while working on his project. While she knew that Aria visited him in the hospital, Marisol said that she respected Declan’s privacy to handle the matter, and also understood that the girl had deeper feelings than he did. She told him she’d trusted him to end things in his own time—that she’d been patient.
As he downed two more whiskies—one for believing her lies, and one for being such a fool—he tried to decipher what was fact and what was fiction.
His memories were returning gradually and he combined them with what he overheard in conversation.
Their friends, and even Carter, told a different story of his life—one that better congealed with his mental images. They said that he had been in love with Aria; that Marisol had been the one to cause most of the arguments between them and that she was the catalyst for the events of the accident. It was this that he’d come to believe most of all, because somewhere deep inside, his gut told him it was the truth.
As days and weeks turned into months, his memory grew stronger. Fiction blended with fact until his recollections had concocted a scenario he could tolerate. His anger grew from the physical pain along with the belief that he had to get rid of Aria because she’d be better off without him—that she deserved better. The few times he had encountered her, or happened to see her, would bring a solid fist to his gut, and he knew that there was more unresolved love—yes, love—that he’d have to deal with. It made him angrier still. He almost hated admitting that he loved her because in loving her, what he once thought of as his strength had now become his total weakness. Foolishly, he treated it like today; in many, measured shots.
As his conversation with Carter had continued today, he gave his brother complete loyalty and support. No matter what role in which Marisol portrayed herself, he knew Carter could always be trusted to tell him the truth. Unfortunately, as he threw back yet another shot, the truth was the current demon in his head.
How could he have been so stupid to have brought someone into their world that would do something so horrible or as inconceivable as murder?
Although more evidence needed to be found and a case had to be built, murder was what Marisol committed. The minute that Carter held out the paper with her likeness, he knew something evil was about to unfold. He could feel it. Not certain what he was proposing, when Carter revealed his suspicions, it was only the effects of the alcohol that kept him somewhat in check. The image of Carter’s tortured face would forever be in his brain as he spoke about Lacey alone, broken, and suffering on the road—and it just about crushed him. He had learned he could withstand his own pain, but the sight of his brother broken and tortured twisted his insides.
At the moment, the only bright spot of his day was that he’d agreed to have the benefit for Lacey at The Studio. Somehow, he hoped it softened the blow and would prove to be something constructive to ease his brother’s pain.
Declan made his way, stumbling, to his car. He wasn’t thinking clearly. As he drove, rain had begun to fall, adding fuel to his current dark mood, and his thoughts returned to Marisol. Why had she played him?
He’d kill the bitch if it was proved that she hurt Lacey. The mental image of snapping her in two provided a satisfying and pleasurable sensation. Lacey was everything right and good in the world. Her virtue went far beyond her outer beauty—it permeated her soul. She would have been a wonderful mother, would have welcomed growing old with Carter—and would certainly have gotten on his ass about feeling sorry for himself.
Declan’s hands gripped the steering wheel, and he felt the wetness creeping down his face. He couldn’t think straight.
He could be the one responsible for leading them into this disaster. Had he been involved with Marisol enough to lead her to follow him? Was his gut telling him the truth all along? Was it Aria that he was truly in love with? Was Marisol playing things her own way—as well as him?
He beat his fist on the wheel as he realized his pride was partially to blame. He could have reached out for help instead of becoming a cold and callous bastard. He didn’t trust anyone, not even himself, after the accident. He hated himself for his mistake, especially when that mistake allowed someone malicious further into their lives—someone who possibly was a killer.
The rain became torrential. The reverberating sound of it on the roof of the car was deafening, and the sheets of water on the windshield were blinding. His concentration annihilated as he was pelted with thoughts of Marisol, Aria, Carter, and the devastation that was caused…Lacey, the accident, his leg…relationships that had suffered…his, Carter’s, Aria’s…physical…mental…all the pain…
Grinding his teeth in anger, he hit the gas as all of his memories of Aria surfaced and pulverized him. All tolerance for his behavior toward her eroded as his speed increased. There was little traffic, and his velocity played to the tune of the storm. He hated himself—in fact, he loathed himself. What he had accomplished with The Studio was nothing in comparison to what he had lost. Memories were not clarified, nor trusted, but his instincts were rarely wrong. He knew there was something special with Aria, and he threw it away.
He was such a fool!
The highway rushed toward him as new, clearer memories of her began to emerge.
What had brought this clarity? Carter’s revelation or his willingness to crucify his pride?
With fingers flexing in concert tighter and looser on the wheel, he damned himself for becoming so egotistical that he pushed away the one thing—the one person—that mattered most, and under the influence, he snarled like an animal as he thought of how he and Carter could exact revenge if the person suspected was proved responsible.
Water jumped up onto the windshield and his vision rapidly became impaired. The highway could no longer be seen, so he swiftly slammed his foot down, hard, on the brake. Then all hell broke loose. Careening out of control, the car whirled and twirled, spinning wildly in a circle, fishtailing on the wet surface. Anger was mixed with panic as Declan fought for control, gripping the steering wheel with superhuman strength. It fought and screeched like a crazed be
ast, and in a matter of seconds, that felt more like hours, he twisted and turned, wrestling with tons of metal as they both spiraled out of control amidst the drowning blacktop.
Finally, they came to rest…
He gasped for breath as if he had been drowning. The only sound that could be heard was the slapping motion of the windshield wipers and the hard drops against the metal. Every muscle in his body shook violently, alerting him to the terror which had just taken place. His left eye twitched as he attempted to regain focus, and he sluggishly attempted to peel his fingers from their death grip on the wheel. His right leg, not yet fully functional, trembled the most in protest.
With urgency, he attempted to regain his bearings, but his body reacted in slow motion. He didn’t know if he was in the middle of the highway or off to the side, and he realized that he could be in harm’s way.
Sitting up, he restarted the car, which had given out in reluctance of the topsy turvy course. With the car now back in proper motion, he looked around to find his location.
As he looked across the street, and spotted the frilly sign, he felt the rumble start from very low. It made its way up through his belly, encompassing his chest and gripped his throat—and he began laughing. The laugh came more from irony than pleasure. He was sitting across from a spot that could only have been determined by fate, God or both.
Sitting across from where the car came to a stop sat a place—and possibly a person—where he could go to receive an honest answer for an honest question—Sandy Ann’s.
The water dripped heavily, puddling around his feet as he stared at the small white building for several minutes. Apprehension filled him, making it a bit uneasy to enter. Although the sign said “Welcome,” he didn’t believe that sentiment applied to him at the moment—and rightfully so. Although fate had directed him here, he had no delusion that Jeannie would kick him out on his ass the moment she saw him.
Why would she be tolerant to him when he had behaved so badly to her only child?
Jeannie had shown him nothing but kindness and caring, and he had repaid her by treating her daughter with contempt and hurt. The apprehension kept him immobile for a few minutes, standing outside the door in the downpour.
Drawing his attention away from thoughts of himself and back to images of Aria, he noticed the building. It had her signature in all of the details. She had created this little place of beauty with her mother’s taste in mind. That was Aria’s specific talent—creating a space to reflect the personality of another. He should know; he was reminded of it every day when he entered The Studio.
The particulars in this building brought a smile to his face. The off-white cedar shake siding, the dark green canopies, and the window boxes filled with flowers—they all so reflected Jeannie—it instantly gave him a feeling of love, and of loss. He had grown to care for her—love her, in fact—and hoped that the damage he had done to both she and Aria was not irreparable.
Gathering his nerve, he pushed the door and heard a bell go off, the type that would indicate someone had entered the premises. A warm feeling enveloped him, reminding him of Jeannie, as fragrances of flowers and chocolate invited him further in. A shadow rounded the corner, and a momentary flutter of fear gripped as shock and recognition showed on Jeannie’s face. She stopped to stare, as did he.
Seconds passed as quickly as judgment when Jeannie realized who walked through her door. This wouldn’t be an easy visit—for either of them.
Declan was unable to form coherent words, so he said nothing. Too many thoughts and emotions poured into him at once, and the only function he served was to swallow and breathe. Jeannie gave him a harsh look, and he turned to walk out the door, saving them both a disastrous situation.
“I wondered if you’d ever come to see me, Declan,” came the soft voice.
He stopped, looking down at the floor in resignation and slowly turned toward her. Now that she’d addressed him, he couldn’t simply walk out. It was his day of reckoning, but he suddenly didn’t want to face her.
“I’d understand if you didn’t want to talk to me,” he said with a rough and shaky voice.
Sensing his hesitation, Jeannie took a bit of pity on him. She knew how hard it must have been for him to come and see her.
“I have to be honest,” she said. “I have mixed emotions about you being here, but since you are, you may as well stay.”
He had always been a confident man in business, but he struggled for the right words.
Taking a deep breath, he managed to speak some truth as he lay his guard down for the second time in one day.
“I wouldn’t want you to be anything other than honest, Jeannie. I’d understand it if you kicked me right out the door.”
He moved toward the counter just a few steps.
Jeannie shifted uncomfortably. Although she’d rehearsed it in her mind, she wasn’t prepared for this conversation.
“You hurt the person I love the most in this world. I’m not certain I know how to react,” she said. “She loved you, and because of that, I loved you.”
Declan hung his head, shaking it in shame and apology. Lifting his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, his head felt ready to explode now that the hurt that was breeching through both sorrow and alcohol. All he could do was avoid her eyes.
“You hurt her,” Jeannie continued, “and because of that, I want to hurt you. That’s about as honest as I can be…”
Declan stood still and took in her words. Jeannie lived through her daughter’s loss. It now appeared that she was witnessing the toll which the ordeal had taken on him.
“Aria went through hell, Declan—all because of you…”
She paused as she saw the effect of her words hit him like a physical blow—and it broke her heart.
“…but then, I guess, so did you…” she said more softly.
She walked closer to him, hearing him struggle, composing his breathing as he attempted to keep his emotions in check, and she smelled the whiskey on him.
“There’s a part of me that wants to remember how devastating this was—and I can see now that it still is—for you.”
She came closer to him.
“You have to understand, though, the mother part of me wants to hurt you for hurting my baby so badly.”
He nodded in agreement, surprising her.
“I understand that, Jeannie,” he said, his voice broken like ground glass, “and if I were honest, I’d have to say that I agree with you.”
Her eyebrow raised and her expression changed. She motioned for him to sit, encouraging him to continue.
With sincerity, he spoke low, “I know that I hurt Aria, but I wasn’t really trying to.”
She scoffed at his statement, mocking him, “Your state of mind now would make me think that time and distance have given you some clarity, but I don’t know if I believe that, Declan! At the time, you did a pretty damn good job of tearing her apart every time you could—every time she extended love or kindness to you!”
He could hear the anger rising in Jeannie’s voice. He wanted to make her understand, but he wasn’t certain if he could explain himself.
Searching to find the words, his subconscious kicked in, making him unsteady on his feet with the events of the day, and his leg began to throb with pain.
Jeannie saw the anguish rush over his features, and reached her hand out.
“I’m fine,” he strongly said, shocking Jeannie with his abrasiveness.
Noting his tone, he softened and was immediately repentant.
“I’m sorry, Jeannie. I’m still not used to this,” he said as he drew her attention to his incompetent limb. “It’s hard for me to accept help—from anyone—not just you…”
Jeannie pulled out a chair from one of the small tables.
“Put it up!” she ordered.
Walking over to the door, she locked it and turned the sign over to indicate “Closed”. The downpour continued outside, and there wasn’t a single soul to be found on the
wet street.
Turning back, Jeannie settled herself across from him. It seemed to be a good day for a long chat.
She noted that Declan still wasn’t comfortable making eye contact, and she decided that if there were to be anything constructive coming from this visit, she’d have to help him break the ice.
Declan’s closed fist rested on the table, so in a kind gesture, Jeannie reached over, picked up his hand, and placed it in hers.
He opened his fingers as if he’d been given back a lifeline.
“There was a reason you came here today.” Jeannie smiled.
He looked up at her with eyes of exhaustion and sorrow.
“I’ll hear you out, Declan,” she said, “but I can’t promise more than that.”
He nodded. It was what he had struggled with for months, yet never gave himself permission to do with anyone, and he hoped that he’d be able to make her understand something that he didn’t fully understand himself.
“I’m going to try to tell you my side,” he said, “if that’s even possible.”
Jeannie sat back, attempting patience. She hoped he’d do the same.
“I’ll hear you out, sweetie…and I’ll keep your confidence,” she assured him and watched as his big shoulders relaxed.
He knew she spoke the truth or she wouldn’t have made the statement at all.
With eyes that pleaded for forgiveness, he struggled to begin. Anguish strained his voice, and at first, he sounded like he swallowed grit.
“First…you have to know that I TRULY didn’t intend to cause Aria pain.” His expression was restless and tight. “You have to believe me…”
There wasn’t an ounce of dishonesty in his eyes and a veil of understanding washed over Jeannie as she listened to him speak. Déjà vu registered as she noted that she’d heard these words before. Her hand began to tremble slightly, as did her bottom lip. Conflict came into play, and it filled her. No one in pain ever intends to hurt their caretaker, a lesson she had learned all too well.
