“We did steal you from him. There was no way in hell Lily and I would ever have let you go back into that house.”
“How did you get him to agree?” Maggie asked.
“I told him you’d be staying with us from then on or I would kill him.”
“Dad, really?” Jackson asked.
“Really. I had a revolver I’d inherited from my dad. He was a marine, you know, and I pulled it out of a drawer and went to his house and shoved it in his face.”
“I can’t imagine you doing that,” Maggie said. Gentle Doctor Waller shoving a gun in her father’s face. The image, although surprising, gave her a rush of satisfaction.
“It’s not something I’m terribly proud of, but I had to protect you,” Doc said.
“But you could’ve gone to jail. What good would that have done?” Maggie asked.
“I knew it would never come to that. Bullies are innately scared. I figured he’d back down if he thought I was serious. Which, he did. He never said one word about wanting you back. He got to keep your mother’s house. After what he did, that was bad enough.” Doc raked a hand through his hair. “The moment Zane told us you were alive, I knew exactly why he did it. I can’t help but feel partially responsible. Maybe I shouldn’t have tried so hard to prove his guilt and he wouldn’t have felt compelled to take you from us.”
“Doc, this was no one’s fault but my father’s,” Maggie said. “He insists that Mama slipped.”
Doc nodded. “I think it’s possible that your mother did slip. She’d just given birth and had lost a lot of blood. But, regardless, he beat her and chased her to the end of the hallway. Whether she slipped or not, he killed her. As far as the baby goes, I don’t know what he did exactly. He’s always stuck to the same story. He came home and found Mae covered in blood, having obviously given birth, but there was no baby.”
Maggie glanced over at Jackson. His expression was impassive, but she knew differently. He was remembering the horror of that night.
“When Jackson and I came into the house, my mother screamed. Not like earlier when I heard her in labor. This was like someone ripping her heart out—a cry of mental anguish, not physical. I believe that’s the moment she discovered what he’d done to the baby. And, I know what I saw. He had something wrapped in a burlap sack in his arms when he came down the stairs and ran out the front door. That was my sister’s body in the sack.”
“I agree,” Doc said. “However, there was no trace of the baby’s blood or DNA anywhere other than in the bathroom of your house. Not in his truck. Not in the driveway or sidewalk. I had the authorities dig up every inch of your backyard. They couldn’t find anything. We even had trained dogs comb the streets and beach. Nothing. Without a body, it was hard to prove your dad had anything to do with it.”
“Do you have any idea who my mother’s lover was?”
He shook his head no. “Honestly, I have no idea. It might have been anyone.”
“I don’t understand why he never came forward.” Maggie said.
“Maybe he didn’t know? Lily always assumed it was someone she met away from here because otherwise he would’ve known she was pregnant. Or, maybe he was married too? Or, maybe he didn’t want to get involved in the investigation?”
“The night before she died, she told me she loved the father of the baby and we were going to be a new kind of family, but that it had to wait until her divorce was final. She may have thought she would get the divorce first and then tell him. Unless, she thought he was something special or serious and he was a jerk. Mama didn’t have the best taste in men.”
“I don’t know. Lily said Mae was so happy that year your dad was in Texas. We both knew she was pregnant, since I was her doctor, but she never said anything to either of us about it being another man’s baby. We suspected it, obviously, given the timing. I don’t suppose there’s any way we’ll ever find out.”
“There might be. I saw a photograph on my father’s mantel.” She explained her theory about Darla. “I have something to bargain with now. Either she tells me what she knows, or I go to the police about her mail tampering. It’s a federal offense, which means federal prison.”
Doc’s face scrunched up for a moment. “She was there. Shoot, I never thought of that. I thought at the time that maybe he had help, but there were no leads to prove that to be true.”
“They pretended that she moved to town after my mother’s death. But the photograph proves otherwise,” Maggie said.
“When did she start working at the post office?” Jackson asked.
“I don’t remember,” Doc said. “I didn’t realize she was with your dad until quite a while after Mae died. Why?”
“No reason,” Jackson said. “All I know is that Maggie has a way to get the truth out of her.”
“I have to take it,” Maggie said.
“She’ll bite,” Doc said. “There’s no way she’s risking federal prison.”
Chapter Twelve
Jackson
* * *
LATER THAT EVENING, Jackson and Maggie walked barefoot across warm sand as the sun slowly lowered over the horizon. Groups peppered the beach, preparing cookouts and picnics. The air smelled of grilled hotdogs, sunscreen, and the sea. Tireless children still played near the shore with buckets and shovels.
They headed south, hugging the shoreline and leaping from an occasional far-reaching wave. Maggie hadn’t said much since they left the house. “You all right?” He reached to take her hand, but she pulled away.
“When were you planning on telling me you were engaged?”
“Oh. That.”
“You should’ve told me,” she said. “It’s more than just being involved with someone.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right. You know why I didn’t tell you,” Jackson said. “Are you mad?”
“I’m not mad. But it makes me feel even more guilty.”
“Which is why I didn’t tell you.”
“I’m aware of why you didn’t tell me.” She covered her mouth with her hand, trying not to laugh. A nervous laugh escaped anyway. “It’s not funny. I’m not laughing because it’s funny.”
“I’m aware of that.” He grimaced. “More than aware.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her I couldn’t in good conscience marry her when I have feelings for someone else.”
Maggie didn’t say anything, just stared up at him with eyes cast in shadow.
“I have no business marrying her when I’m in love with you,” he said. “And I told her that.”
“Jackson, I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That you’ve made a mistake,” she said. “That you’ll regret it.”
“I’ve lived with regret for twelve years. This decision will not lead to regret. Whatever it takes to win you back, I will do. No more regrets.”
“But we don’t have any idea what’s going to happen,” she said. “My life’s in complete chaos. I can’t live here with Zane indefinitely. I need a job and money and a plan. You had a plan with someone else.”
“And I blew it up. I’m not letting you go without fighting this time. You can count on it.”
“There’s no work for me here.”
“What about Hollywood?” He hated to ask, but for her sake, he must. Whatever her answer, he was prepared to fight for her. He would leave Cliffside Bay and move to L.A. if he had to. “There’s opportunities there, right? You don’t have to be a dancer in television or film.”
“That’s true,” she said.
“Maybe your agent in New York could hook you up with the right people.”
“That’s not really how it works. Regardless, I’m not sure Hollywood’s the answer for me. I’m tired. An acting life is like an endless interview process.” She brushed her fingers on his forearm. “Let’s stop and watch the sunset.” They found a large piece of driftwood big enough for two and sat. Orange rays of sun glistened in her hair and on the water. What he would give to
have a lifetime of sunsets.
“I’ll go with you wherever you want,” he said.
“You can’t do that.”
“I can.”
“But your dad and the practice—you can’t just bail on them,” she said.
“Then stay here. Just long enough to decide if you want to be with me,” he said.
She poked the stick into the sand. Her shoulders rose and fell. “I wish I’d come home triumphant.”
“Would you agree to stay then? If you’d accomplished what you’d wanted?” he asked.
“I think so. I love it here. I’ve been so homesick. You have no idea.”
“I do. I felt that way the entire time I was gone,” he said.
“See, right there. You can’t leave. Not after all your hard work.”
He picked up her hand and placed it in his lap. “Let me be clear. I’ll give up anything to be with you.”
“I want to stay. I just don’t know if I should.”
“What gives you joy?” he asked.
“Dancing. Music.” She leaned her head against his shoulder, like she used to when they were kids. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Please,” he said.
“I’ve been writing songs. Pop songs.”
“Why’s that a secret?”
“Because I’m too scared to sing them for anyone. Only Lisa knows. She thinks they’re good, but she loves me, so who knows.”
It took him a second to remember who Lisa was—the roommate and best friend. So much about her life that he had missed. But you have her back. Focus on that.
“Would you play one for me?” he asked.
“Maybe.” She laughed when he turned to look at her. “Not here. I need my guitar.” She picked up a stick and drew a circle in the sand. “I have an idea of something I might try—I haven’t told anyone, but I’m thinking maybe I could…write songs and sell them. Does that sound ridiculous?”
“Why would it sound ridiculous?” he asked.
“Because it’s almost impossible.”
“Almost impossible, which means it is possible.” Jackson squeezed her hand. “And I don’t have to hear your songs to know they’re great. I remember the ones you wrote in high school. They were fantastic then.”
“You’re ridiculous,” she said, her voice soft as velvet. “I do have a few connections from college that might be able to help. And I have about twenty-five songs written with the music transcribed. I’d need a demo tape and a bunch of other stuff that I can’t pay for. Seriously, it’s a long shot.”
“But you have me and Zane and my dad. We’ll help you. You’re not alone,” he said.
She shifted to look him in the eye. “Am I crazy to think I could resume a life here?”
“You know what I think.”
“I’ve not hoped for anything in a long time. Not since I blew out my knee. It scares the heck out of me to let go and want this.” She gestured toward the ocean before turning back to him. “And music. And you.”
“I’ll never let you down again.” He dropped to the sand and knelt before her. “I know we have a lot of time to make up and I know it can’t happen overnight, but I’d like permission to court you.”
“Court me?” She laughed. “That makes you sound a hundred years old.”
He smiled as he took both her hands. “What I mean is, I’d like to win you back the right way—remind you of the reasons we were so madly in love. Remind you that we’re soulmates.” The skirt of her sundress shifted in the breeze, revealing the scar on her left knee. He placed his hand over the scar. “There’s a second act for you, Maggie. I know there is. Whatever you’re meant to do next will reveal itself. You have my word. I’ll never ask you to give up your dream again.”
“What if it’s just our memories fueling these feelings?” she asked. “What if we discover that we’re not soulmates? What then?”
“The only way to find out is to spend time together. You’re here for a few weeks at least. Give me that time to remind you of what it feels like to be an ‘us.’ I know, like I’ve never known anything in my life, that everything we once felt is still part of our story. We will be an us, once again. Wherever our love and your next dream lead us, I’m ready. If not—if your fears prove to be true—that we don’t belong together—then we’ll part knowing the truth. At least then we can finally move on with our lives.”
She ran her fingers along his cheekbones, as if reading braille. “I give you permission to court me. Even though I think we’ve both gone crazy.”
“There’s another way to test my theory,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Let me kiss you.”
He felt her shiver.
“May I kiss you?” he asked.
“You don’t have to ask,” she whispered. “You’ve never had to ask.”
With his hands in her hair, he lowered his head and brushed the spot just below her ear with his lips. She drew in a sharp breath. “You smell…like every good thing,” he said.
“You do too.” Her fingers dug into his shoulder blades. The tension in her body was like a coiled spring. What would set her free to love him?
He traveled the length of her jawline, leaving soft kisses along the way until he reached her mouth. “The prettiest girl in the world.” He touched his lips to hers and kissed her as soft as the sea breeze, hoping she would respond. She did, opening her tender mouth to him—a gift that only she could give. When he deepened his touch, she pressed her torso against him and wrapped her arms around his neck like someone who had found something they’d lost and would never let go of again.
They remained intertwined, kissing like the teenagers they once were, as the very last of the golden light disappeared from their small section of the ever-spinning world. Somewhere else the sun rose, and lovers kissed good morning. In another place, they danced under a black, starry sky. But here on this patch of sand and under this sky that transformed above them into an inky purple, a sliver of moon rose like a smile. The first audacious stars appeared. And he kissed the only woman he’d ever loved.
A shift inside him happened as fast as the speed of sound. Twelve years ago, the news of her death had shattered his heart. Now, her kisses pieced together the broken bits.
His Bird had returned to him.
This, right here, right now, I will remember for the rest of my life.
And it seemed to him, there amongst the smiling moon and the first brave stars, that the meaning of life was found in the moments where love stretched and breathed like a living creature. It was in these brief snatches of time that one’s whole life made perfect sense. Love given and received gave our toiled years meaning. Love told the story of our life.
Because at the end, when all that remained were the memories captured in paintings hung on walls, or photographs in a box, or merely flashes of moving pictures behind our eyes, it would be a moment such as this that whispered our life’s story. This is your glory, your meaning, your purpose.
“I’ll never give up on us,” he said when they finally came up to inhale the briny sea air.
“Us.” She buried her face in his neck. “My favorite word.”
Chapter Thirteen
Maggie
* * *
THE NEXT DAY, Maggie watched from just inside the front door of Miss Rita’s studio as little girls in pink tights and leotards formed two lines in front of the full mirror. Miss Rita was as slim and straight as a pencil. Dressed in a black leotard and tights, she called out commands in time to piano music. “First position. Plié. That’s it.” Clusters of mothers huddled in corners. A few rocked baby carriers with their feet. Several toddlers sat against the wall looking at a book and eating graham crackers.
Maggie breathed in the familiar scent of hairspray, leather dance shoes, and Miss Rita’s perfume.
White streaks ran through Miss Rita’s tight bun. Fine lines were imprinted onto her gaunt face. When Maggie took her first class at three years old, Miss Rita was in
her early thirties. Not much older than I am now. This studio had been her work for over thirty years. After a short career with a professional ballet company, Miss Rita had moved here with her husband Alec. They’d never had children of their own, having to settle for the countless little girls and a few boys who had danced over this very floor.
As Maggie watched the little girls, she traveled back through the years, remembering her own time here. She’d gripped her mother’s hand that first day, frightened to join the group of girls gathered in the middle of the floor. Miss Rita had reached out her hand and Maggie was swept away from her mother to the magical place of dance—emotion and expression through movement.
It wasn’t until she went to live with the Wallers after her mother’s death that she discovered she had a beautiful singing voice. Lily Waller had loved music. There was always something playing on her stereo—everything from pop music to show tunes. Lily had insisted she take lessons from the local teacher, Miss Hillary. Miss Hillary insisted she learn an instrument. There was a guitar at the Wallers—a birthday present for Jackson who had shown no interest or aptitude. It sat in the corner of his bedroom for a year before Maggie presented it as an option to Miss Hillary.
Could I play a guitar?
That’ll do just fine. For now.
Miss Hillary had smelled of patchouli and wore thick black glasses. She dressed in long skirts and blouses with no bra. She stuffed carrots and tomatoes into her juicer for meals. Despite the lack of protein, the woman was a taskmaster. Every week Maggie was given new chords and exercises. Calluses developed on her fingertips. Like dance, it was hard work, but, unlike school, which often bored her, music filled the empty spaces left by her mother’s death.
She knew now that self-expression through dance and music healed her—allowed her to live in the world without her mother. Without it, she shuddered to think what she might have become. An empty shell of a person who simply goes through the motions of life with shuttered eyes? That she could not have done. Even knowing the outcome. She would not dance again. But she had. She’d danced and danced and danced.
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