Pulling Home (That Second Chance)

by Campisi, Mary

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Really,” Audra reassured her. “I’ll be fine.” She grabbed the knob, turned it and flung open the door.

  “Sonofabitch! Goddamnit get the hell out of here you—”

  The swearing halted the second he saw her. He was a tall, muscular man with a shock of black hair and equally dark eyes that pierced her as he skirted stacks of books and journals to make his way toward her. Was this man her father? Audra took in the lanky walk, the tapered fingers, the full lips. He reminded her of an older Daniel Day Lewis. She could see how a sixteen year old might lose her head and her virginity under that brooding stare.

  “Who are you?” he demanded. He stopped a foot from her, lifted a lock of her hair and sifted it through two fingers.

  “My name’s Audra.” The words tumbled out in a mix of nerves and anticipation. There was a slight resemblance in the shape of his forehead and cheekbones. Maybe in the arch of his eyebrows, too. Her gaze skittered to his ears. Yes, hers were small like his.

  “What the hell are you staring at?” He swiped a broad hand over his face and hair.

  “You remind me of someone.” A half truth. She told herself it didn’t matter if he was her father or not, she only wanted his medical history. But deep down she knew that wasn’t totally true. After years of wondering, it would be a relief to finally know.

  “You remind me of someone, too.” He spattered more French, ending in Mon Cheri. He touched her cheek, traced a finger along her jaw.

  “Corrine Valentine?”

  Malcolm Ruittenberg snatched his hand back and cursed again. “You knew Corrine?” His dark eyes narrowed. “You’re the daughter.” He turned away and reached for a pack of Lucky Strikes on the coffee table. “You look like her,” he said, his voice suddenly languid and far away. “It’s in the eyes. And the shape of your mouth. And the nostrils. If I weren’t under the influence, I would have noticed sooner.”

  Influence probably meant drugs as there wasn’t a bottle nearby, and drugs probably meant illegal, if the man’s past meant anything. “That’s why I’m here, actually.” She fingered the paper in her right pocket. “Because of my mother.” And my sick child.

  “What do you want with me?” He waved his hand around the room. “An ex-con who’s snorting or screwing away his parents’ millions?”

  “I heard you knew my mother in high school.”

  “So? Lots of men knew Corrine.”

  Was that a shred of pain laced in those words? Maybe Malcolm Ruittenberg really had loved her mother. Maybe Audra was his daughter. Maybe he’d want to know about her. She took a gamble with her next words. “You and my mother shared something special, didn’t you?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed and his Adam’s apple convulsed with obvious agitation. “I am not your father. Not that I wouldn’t have welcomed the task, but that’s a sin you can’t pin on me.”

  A surge of relief mixed with disappointment filled her lungs. “Do you know who else I can talk to?”

  The man who wasn’t her father slid into a leather chair with the grace and fluidity of a panther. The smile he bestowed on her spoke of skill and debauchery, with a mix of hopelessness. “Of course, I do. Hated the guy because he took something I wanted.”

  “Can you give me his name?”

  “Hell, why not? Name’s Henry Stivett. He runs the local Shell station. You can’t miss him. He’s the grease monkey with two fingers missing.”

  Audra thanked him and hurried out, passing the French maid who had changed into a Geisha and was busy wrapping her waist-length hair into a bun.

  The drive to the Shell station took less than ten minutes but she had her answer to her parentage in five. She barely had time to step out of the car when a tiny woman in a mechanic jumpsuit barreled toward her waving a wrench in her hand. “Get out.”

  “Excuse me?” Under smudges of grease, the woman looked to be about forty-five. A no-nonsense type with cropped hair and a square jaw.

  “I don’t want my brother to see you.” She stepped closer, her lips flattening over two rows of tiny teeth. “Leave. Now.”

  Audra touched the paper with the names on it. This could be the one. “I’m here to see Henry Stivett. Is he here?”

  “Leave now, or I’ll call the cops.” The woman tightened her grip on the wrench.

  “Please—”

  “You Valentine’s think you can walk all over people, don’t you? Henry never got over your mother, do you know that?” She pulled out the last word as if it were poison. “When she died, I thought he’d die, too. He still brings fresh flowers to the cemetery every month. What did she give him other than heartache? She didn’t deserve that kind of devotion. What kind of girl won’t let a boy kiss her open-mouthed and then lets another one knock her up?”

  “I…” Audra backed away, trying to block out the next words.

  “I’ll tell you what kind,” the woman went on, “a tramp. That’s right. A no good tramp.”

  Audra sped away but the words stayed with her. She’d heard them her whole life. Wasn’t that part of the reason she’d wanted to escape to California and start a new life where nobody but Christian knew the truth? Yet, here she was, sixteen again, with people whispering behind her back, telling her she was just like her tramp mother.

  She glanced at the last name on the list. She had hoped to avoid this one for a myriad of reasons. Now, it looked as though she had no choice but to make this last visit. Doris insisted the man knew something, said she’d seen his face grow mottled then pasty when she mentioned Corrine Valentine’s name. Audra hadn’t been back to this place since Grandma Lenore died and she didn’t want to be here now, but if she could find answers, it would be worth it. She rang the bell and waited.

  When Father Bartholomew Benedict opened the door, his angular face blotched with pink then paled. The priest opened his mouth to speak, coughed, and after two efforts managed to get out a hoarse, “May I help you?”

  He’d offered her no more than a few cursory words at Christian’s funeral but at the time, she’d thought the priest was merely showing respect and deference to a family he’d known for decades. Now, she saw the truth draining from his face. He’d intentionally avoided her because she made him uncomfortable. The only question was why? “May I come in?”

  The paleness seeped from his skin. “Of course.” He’d been blocking the door and after a second’s delay, moved aside and ushered her in. “Please. Come in.”

  Despite years of praying the rosary and attending Mass with Grandma Lenore, Audra’s relationship with God took the form of casual conversation in the dark or heart-filled questions on long walks. No holy structures. No holy men.

  Father Benedict led her into his office, a well-lit room filled with dark cherry and rows of leather-bound books. “May I offer you something to drink?”

  She wanted a scotch, but shook her head. “No, thank you.”

  He nodded and sat behind the same enormous desk she remembered years ago when Grandma Lenore sought him out to buy Masses for dead friends. “I heard about your daughter, Mrs. Wheyton. I’ll keep her on our prayer list.”

  “Thank you.”

  “God hears those who pray,” he said. His face had regained a hint of color and when he spoke he didn’t plunge into a coughing frenzy.

  God hears, she wanted to say, but He doesn’t always answer, does He? “I’d like to ask you about my mother.” His face shifted from pale to pink in five seconds. “Father Benedict? Are you all right?”

  He turned away and reached for the crystal decanter behind him. His fingers shook as he removed the top and poured a drink. When he’d drained the glass, he sucked in a breath and faced her. “The loss of your mother was tragic.” He shook his gray head and repeated in a voice torn with grief, “Tragic.”

  “You knew her well?” Well enough for her to confide the father of her child?

  “She came to me for a period of time.” He clasped his hands and stared at the picture of Pope
Benedict XVI on his desk. “She was having issues, temptations of the flesh, if you will, and she needed strength to deal with them.”

  “So, she confided in you?” Doris was right—the priest knew something.

  “She tried.”

  Audra crumpled the paper in her pocket. She was so close. “Father Benedict, my daughter has a disease that could be genetically linked. The more I know about her family history, the better chance she’ll have. I know you have confidentiality issues, but we’re talking about a life here.”

  “You don’t understand—”

  “I do. Trust me, I appreciate your vows, but this is my child. If you know who my father is, I need that information. Please. For Kara’s sake.”

  He fell against his chair and clutched the arms so hard he left marks in the leather. “When she came to me, she was chaste. I tried to help her but I’m only a man, weak in flesh, plagued by original sin.”

  The room started spinning, the oxygen dissipating. “My God,” Audra croaked, “what are you saying?”

  “Forgive me. Please forgive me for that which I cannot forgive myself.” His voice grew dim, dimmer still as blackness enveloped her. Seconds before she slipped into oblivion, his final words pierced her brain. “I kissed your mother with the lust of a sinner and the heart of a man in love. One kiss, I swear on our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  Chapter 20

  “But I think it only fair to warn you I don’t like to lose and I usually don’t.”—Grant Richot

  “Dad, Jack’s giving a talk at the Kenston Civic Center next weekend.” Leslie leaned over and stroked Jack’s cheek. “He’ll be discussing treatment for Pediatric Congenital Anomalies.”

  “That’s a real honor, Jack,” August Richot said, raising his wine glass. “I’m proud of you.”

  He wondered how proud the man would be if he knew what had happened in the supply closet six days ago. “It’s the least I can do.” The least I can do as penance for banging my dead brother’s wife. Just thinking about it made him hard. Deranged didn’t even begin to cover what he was. He’d tried to convince himself what they’d done had been the body’s response to a near death situation, nothing more than an adrenaline jolt to his dick.

  But that was such bullshit. He’d wanted to get in Audra’s pants the second he spotted her sitting all prim and aloof next to Aunt Virginia. And that really was a problem, that and the fact that despite Leslie’s tempting body and varied bag of sexual tricks, he hadn’t been able to get hard. Expecting Leslie to go without sex for six days was like asking a surgeon to turn in his scalpel.

  Besides, she’d started watching him a bit too closely, like bacteria under a microscope. It wouldn’t be long before the interrogations started, then the accusations, and she might even put the pieces together, like Bernie had. Jack needed to perform damage control before the whole situation imploded. The hell of it was he couldn’t stop thinking about Audra and her sweet body. How sick was that?

  “I think Jack needs your ‘Take time to smell the roses’ sermon, Dad,” Leslie said, sliding a glance Jack’s way. “He’s been so busy lately he doesn’t have time for the basics of existence.”

  There it was—sex.

  Pastor Richot smiled. “You need the basics, Jack. For sustenance.”

  Sex. Sex for sustenance. Jack attacked a slice of chicken with his knife. He’d had sex six days ago and look where it had gotten him? Mutilated. Confused. Destructive.

  “Yes, hear that, honey?” Leslie inched her bare foot along Jack’s leg. “Sustenance is essential to life”—she licked her lower lip—“and love.”

  “Amen.” Leslie’s father raised his wine glass and saluted. “To the two of you. May you be blessed with a long and prosperous life.”

  Leslie’s foot found Jack’s crotch. “Amen,” she whispered against his cheek.

  Not knowing what else to do, Jack raised his glass and echoed, “Amen.”

  Leslie’s cell phone rang just then, putting an end to the Amens and comments on the necessity of sustenance. “Hello? Hi, Grant. When? Now?” She glanced at her father and smiled. “Sure, he’d love to see you. He was just saying he hasn’t seen you in forever. Who? Oh, of course. Bring her along, too. We have plenty of chicken. Okay, bye.” She flipped the phone shut and announced, “Grant’s on his way.”

  “I gathered that,” her father said. “I also gathered he has a woman friend with him?”

  A secret smile stole across Leslie’s face. “He does. And Jack knows her.”

  He was not in the mood for one of Leslie’s twenty-five questions but at least she wasn’t hounding him about sex right now, so he decided to play along. “The brunette from Peds. Patricia something or other with the nose stud.”

  “No.” And then. “You think she’s pretty?”

  A guy could not win. “I think Grant would think she’s pretty.” There. Diplomatic as hell.

  Leslie liked that answer. “Guess again.”

  “The new anesthesiologist, Amanda whatever.”

  “Who?”

  “You know, long braid, big, brown eyes, big”—he caught himself and corrected, “teeth. Big eyes, big teeth.”

  “Sounds like you’re talking about the big bad wolf. And it’s Amani, anyway. No, this one doesn’t work at the hospital. As a matter of fact, she doesn’t even live in this state.”

  Jack tried to keep his expression neutral as the image of a woman wrapped in honeysuckle bombarded his senses. “Surely, you can’t mean my sister-in-law?” He could manage better when he didn’t have to say her name.

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” She pushed back her luxurious hair and laughed. “I for one, think it’s wonderful. They’ve both experienced horrible tragedies and honestly, unless you go through something like that, you just can’t relate.”

  “Leslie—”

  “I know what you’re going to say, Jack. It’s too soon, she’s still grieving, yada, yada, but seriously, they’re perfect for each other. And Grant loves children.”

  Jack struggled to form a sentence. Audra and Grant. No. Never.

  “Dad?” Leslie jumped from her chair and rushed to her father who had turned three shades lighter than his white button down. “Are you okay?” She checked his pulse, examined his pupils, and placed her hand on his forehead. August Richot clutched his stomach and took several deep breaths.

  “That’s it. Breathe. Nice and easy.”

  Leslie glanced at Jack who had been observing her father. The man might look fit and trim for his age but maybe his insides weren’t quite so spry. “It’s okay,” Jack said. “Just take it easy.”

  August Richot searched his daughter’s face and said in a strained voice, “They’ve both suffered enough. It could never work. Please. Don’t encourage it.”

  Jack blew out a long breath. Amen to that.

  ***

  What started as a simple cup of coffee with Grant Richot turned into a long drive and a request to stop by his father’s house. How could she refuse when they’d just spent two hours swapping stories about grief, loss, and moving on? He’d told her about the accident that stole his surgical skills and his wife. She told him of the afternoon’s desperate search to find her real father. The words flowed, easily, swiftly, gladly. When he asked about visiting his father, she agreed. Pastor Richot had always been the one people went to with their troubles, not Father Benedict. She couldn’t even think about the priest or his confession right now.

  “I like to keep an eye on my Dad,” Grant said as they pulled out of the parking lot of Eartha’s Kitchen and headed east. “He has more energy than most people half his age, but sometimes he forgets he’s not thirty-five anymore.”

  “I look forward to talking with him. You know, I remember him at the funeral and the Mass, and I think the luncheon, but it’s all blurry right now.”

  “Grief has a way of doing that,” Grant said. “I think it’s so we can get past it.” He glanced at her and smiled, “Valium helps, too.”

  “True.”
Audra leaned against the headrest and closed her eyes. She’d needed to escape the Wheyton’s tonight. Everything in their house reminded her of the one person she was trying to forget. Distance would help. Bernie said Kara could leave soon, possibly as early as next Tuesday. One more follow-up and they could head back to San Diego and their other life.

  “Have you ever thought of moving back here?”

  “To Holly Springs?”

  “Or nearby. I know it’s not as glamorous as California, but New York City’s only a short flight away. You could satisfy your culture cravings with a monthly trip there. People do it all the time. And Landemere, where I live, has museums, three theaters, five star restaurants ...”

  Jack lived in Landemere.

  “Audra?” He reached for her hand, squeezed, and let go. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”

  “No. No, it’s just that I have a job in San Diego, and a house ...and friends.” She stumbled, unable to tell him the glaring reason she’d never return. She couldn’t live in the same city as Jack, not even in the same part of the country. The more distance between them, the better.

  “What’s the old adage about a house is just a house? I know it would be an adjustment, but I’m hoping you’ll think about it.” His voice dipped, “A lot of people care about you and Kara.”

  “A lot of people care about Kara,” she corrected. “And I’m fine with that.”

  “Audra—”

  “Can we talk about something else? Like how you claim to know nothing about maneuvering around in the kitchen, yet Eartha’s Kitchen has a chili named after you?”

  He laughed. “I only helped them out with a few spices.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He shrugged. “Okay, maybe a few more than a few.”

  And like that, they were on comfortable ground again, away from talk of moving back to Holly Springs. When they reached the Richot home, Audra was relaxed and looking forward to seeing the pastor again.

  August Richot lived on the east side of Holly Springs in a two story built by the parishioners of Our Savior Lutheran Church forty-two years ago. As Grant pulled into the driveway behind a Jeep Wrangler, he told her his father tended the gardens himself, taking great pride in the roses and hydrangea. “He took over when my mother fell ill but his true passion is his African violets. Wait until you see those.”