Last Kiss

by Luanne Rice

  After a few minutes, Randy hung up, sat heavily down in his desk chair, head in his hands.

  “He’s not in Ohio,” Gavin said.

  Randy shook his head, and Gavin waited. After a few seconds, Randy looked up.

  “He went to Black Hall, to try to get his name taken off the trust fund. He tried to convince the bank to do that.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He never wanted the trust fund,” Randy said. “The truth is, I didn’t know what to do with the money. After Charlie died, and I found out the funds would revert to me…it just seemed like such a waste. I thought about giving them to Sheridan, but she wouldn’t have taken anything from me. So I figured I’d put them in trust for my other two sons, Clint and Jeff.”

  “A windfall for them.”

  “Neither one of them will touch it. I had the trust officer change the payout date, put it off a few years, till they turn thirty. Maybe they’ll change the way they feel. Clint won’t take it because he hates me, never wanted to even meet me. And Jeff…because of what happened to Charlie.”

  “What did happen to Charlie?” Gavin asked, feeling his stomach knot.

  Randy just sat at his desk, shaking his head.

  “Tell me, Randy.”

  “You’ve got to understand, Gavin. He’s…well, he’s lost so much over this. He’s already punishing himself more than I ever could. He was living with Lisa…”

  “I don’t give a shit about Lisa—you tell me what happened!”

  Randy seemed not to hear. “She’s a nice girl, and she loved him, too. But after…after last August, Jeff just stopped believing he deserved anything good.”

  “Did Charlie come between him and Lisa? Is that what happened?”

  Randy looked at him as if Gavin were crazy. “Of course not. Charlie loved Nell, he was devoted to her. That came through in the short time we had together. He showed us her picture, told us about how she’d be coming to NYU after she graduated from high school. He would never have looked twice at Lisa. Oh God.”

  “What, Randy? You’d better tell me…”

  “You were right. Jeff’s in Connecticut, not Ohio. He’s in Hubbard’s Point…”

  That didn’t come as a shock to Gavin, but the panic in Randy’s eyes scared him, and he froze, waiting.

  “He tried to tell Nell, but she ran away. So he’s going to talk to Sheridan…”

  “What are you talking about?” Gavin felt like he was about to explode.

  “He didn’t mean to do it,” Randy said, breaking down. “It was an accident. I was there, Gavin. It broke my heart…but Charlie was gone. I had to protect my other son. I had to protect Jeff.”

  NELL HAD LEFT JEFF standing in the doorway of the cottage he’d broken into, and walked home in a daze. Like a sleepwalker, she moved on instinct, cutting through the hedges and side yards. She heard bees in the privet, but she didn’t get stung. As she walked along, she noticed the light changing and the temperature dropping. It was late afternoon, and the entire landscape of Hubbard’s Point began to shine with luminous light.

  Stevie had stepped outside to watch. Always an artist, she was fascinated by light. Nell wasn’t in the mood to talk, but Stevie had already seen her.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” Stevie asked, beckoning Nell over. Nell went to stand with her, and Stevie put her arm around her; Nell hadn’t realized how much she needed the comfort, and leaning into Stevie, she felt a violent shiver run down her spine. She needed to think.

  They gazed down at the beach. A bank of fog was rolling off the Sound, the front edge just reaching the breakwater and Gavin’s boat. The sun, still far above the horizon, seemed to illuminate the fog from within, and the moisture intensified the light, giving it an otherworldly, amber glow. Since meeting Charlie’s brother, everything seemed supernatural. Had such light ever been seen on earth before?

  “When’s Dad coming home from London?” Nell asked. She glanced up at Stevie, not wanting her to notice how nervous she suddenly felt about the two of them being there alone.

  “Tomorrow,” Stevie said. “He’s just there for a quick meeting…. Nell, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I mean, about your dad and I getting married. I love you, Nell, just as if you were my own child. I could never take your mother’s place, could never even try. But I’m so glad that you’re going to be my stepdaughter…I love just saying that….”

  Nell tried to smile. She wanted to celebrate—she would normally be jumping for joy, and she knew how happy this must make her father—but she felt too sad and anxious to say anything even slightly coherent.

  Stevie took Nell’s hand. She gazed deeply into Nell’s eyes, in a way that made Nell feel like crying.

  “This isn’t an easy time for you,” Stevie said. “About to leave for college, with the anniversary of Charlie’s death coming up…I know you loved him so much.”

  “Love him,” Nell whispered, correcting the tense.

  “Yes,” Stevie said. “You never stop loving someone; death can’t take the love away. It must be hard for you, seeing your dad and me…”

  “That’s not it,” Nell said. “Missing Charlie doesn’t make me feel less happy for you and Dad. I love you, Stevie. You’re already my stepmother—you have been since the beginning. I guess I just take it for granted. When will the wedding be?”

  “Before the baby is born,” Stevie said. “Which means soon, sometime in September…Nell, I’d like you to be maid of honor.”

  Nell had been standing on the brink of tears since walking away from Jeff, but Stevie asking her to be maid of honor pushed her right over the edge. Nell stood there sobbing, with Stevie clutching her and telling her she loved her, that they were family, that it would all be okay.

  Nell pressed her face into Stevie’s shoulder. When she pulled back to dry her eyes, she saw that the beautiful glowing light was gone. The fog had completely rolled in, covering the entire Point in gray gauze, making it impossible to see the breakwater or Gavin’s boat, or even the beach.

  The sound of a car driving down the road made them turn; it was Agatha’s old green Hillman. Nell saw Bunny riding with her. Sheridan’s two sisters waved up the hill at Nell and Stevie, calling out “Congratulations!” Stevie waved back, gave Nell a smile and a once-over gaze of assessment.

  “I’m fine,” Nell said. “I promise. I’m just so honored that you asked me to be maid of honor. With all your friends…They’ll all be jealous.”

  Stevie laughed. “No one would expect me to ask anyone but you. There’s no other choice in the world.”

  “If you say so,” Nell said. She saw Stevie’s gaze drift down the hill, to the sisters. “They’d probably love to hear the details of how Dad got you to cave in—you should go over to Sheridan’s.”

  “You want to come with me?”

  Nell shook her head. “Not right now.”

  “Okay, then,” Stevie said. “If you’re sure.”

  “I am,” Nell said, kissing her, then running inside. She walked upstairs, all the way to the attic, where she and Charlie used to go. She wanted to lie on the mattress and think about everything. But staring out the window, into the fog, pulled by emotions she didn’t understand, she felt the uneasy sense that she was missing something.

  CHAPTER 20

  THE DAY HAD BEEN CLEAR, BUT SUDDENLY A FOG BANK rolled in from the east and blanketed coastal Connecticut. It was just before dinner, and Sheridan stood staring out the screen door in the kitchen. Her sisters had stopped by, and then Stevie had walked over to talk about the big news in person.

  They’d all had a good visit, feeling so happy for Stevie, and Sheridan had been glad of the distraction—she felt haunted by seeing that young man in the blue car; she found herself standing by the window, wishing he’d drive past again. Gavin had told her he was Charlie’s half-brother Jeff, and seeing him had felt almost like a visitation from Charlie himself; as the anniversary of his death approached, she felt
her son shimmering close by.

  Feeling restless, she wished Gavin were back from wherever he had gone. She hadn’t liked the way their meeting that morning had ended. Her emotions were all over the place, and she was afraid she’d driven him away. The words he’d spoken about Charlie, about feeling the same way he would about his own son, had been almost too much to bear. Now that her sisters and Stevie had left, she kept checking his boat, looking through binoculars to try to see if he’d returned. But there were no lights on—or maybe the fog was just too thick to see.

  Aphrodite had been superstitious about fog: she’d told the girls never to pick roses in the mist, to not stand with their backs to a mirror, and to beware of dreams dreamed on foggy nights. She’d told them that animals seen in the haze were often “wanderers”—ghosts trapped in the earthly realm, unable to say goodbye and get to heaven.

  Sheridan gazed out the screen door at one of the Hubbard’s Point rabbits. They were an old family, living in warrens under the rock ledges. She watched it hop across her yard, heading toward a privet bush. Billows of fog blew up from the beach, and the rabbit disappeared.

  Walking into the living room, she felt the damp darkness closing in. Her hands were trembling as she reached for a candle and lit it. The light wasn’t enough, so she lit another, and another. Her family had always gathered by candlelight. She felt comforted by the warm glow, and sat down on one of the two slipcovered loveseats flanking the stone fireplace.

  Just five minutes after she’d settled down, she heard a knock at the door. Rising, she hurried through the house. Her heart was beating as if she’d run a race, and when she got to the door she felt breathless.

  He stood right there on the top step. Sheridan stared at the young man’s face: such beautiful wide eyes, angular cheekbones, soft mouth, hair falling across his forehead.

  “You look so much like Charlie,” she said. She had to hold herself back from touching him.

  “Can I talk to you?” he asked.

  “Of course, Jeff,” she said. “I saw you drive by earlier, and I’ve been hoping you would come. Come in…”

  JEFF STEPPED PAST SHERIDAN as she held the screen door, and when he turned around, he saw that she was watching him. He felt prickles on the back of his neck—wondering if she knew. But then she smiled and took his hand.

  “You really do look…” she said, pausing for a moment to study his eyes. “You just look so much like my son.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, feeling so shy and uncomfortable. He was always a little awkward around people, and Sheridan was so famous. But the funny thing was, the longer she held his hand and gazed at him, the more he felt himself relaxing. He wasn’t exactly comfortable, but there was something about the way she was looking at him that made him feel—well, it sounded crazy—as if he belonged.

  “How old are you, Jeff?” she asked.

  “Twenty-six almost,” he said. “Getting old.”

  “That’s so young,” she said softly. “You’re still very young…” Then, as if it took a big effort, she let go of his hand and looked at him expectantly.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “I really didn’t plan on barging in this way, but there’s something…”

  “Come into the living room,” Sheridan said, cutting him off before he could say it too soon. Jeff got those tingles on his neck again—as if he and Sheridan were in a strange sync, he felt as if she knew what he was going to say, maybe even what he’d come there for, but wasn’t quite ready to hear.

  She led him through the downstairs into a wide room, dark except for one corner where three candles burned on a table in front of the fireplace. Picture windows overlooked the fog-shrouded beach. A cool breeze blew through the side door into the room. Sheridan led him to a big window, gesturing at the subtly beautiful mist-obscured panorama.

  “We’re lucky to have a spectacular view,” Sheridan said. “On clear days.”

  “Do you get a lot of your inspiration from writing right here, gazing down at the water?” Jeff asked.

  “I used to,” Sheridan said.

  That caught Jeff’s attention, and he squinted into the fog, pretending to admire the view, just to hide the fact he was dying inside, that he knew Sheridan wasn’t writing anymore and it was because of what he’d done.

  As soon as he could, he turned away from the window, taking in the room. It was real warm and homey, nothing fancy about it. Filled with furniture that looked as if it had been there a long time, all sun-faded and comfortable, barely illuminated by those three candles.

  He stared at a big armchair covered with a blanket kind of thing and thought how welcoming it looked.

  “That was Charlie’s chair,” Sheridan said, coming over to stand by him.

  “It was?” he asked.

  She nodded, hand on his shoulder. “Sit down in it, why don’t you?”

  “No,” he said, freezing. “I couldn’t.”

  “I insist,” she said, and although her voice was gentle, there was steel in her blue eyes. Jeff’s legs were shaking as she pushed him down into Charlie’s chair.

  “There,” she said, seeming satisfied. She gave him a warm smile.

  “Let me get you something to drink. What will you have?”

  “Oh, nothing for me,” Jeff said. “I don’t want to trouble you. I just have to talk to you.”

  “Seriously,” Sheridan said, cutting him off and again giving him the idea she wasn’t ready to hear what he had to say to her. She locked eyes with him and smiled. “It’s no trouble. I’ll be right back with some iced tea.”

  So Jeff sat in Charlie’s chair and covered his face with his hands. Out in the kitchen, he heard the clink of ice and glasses. After a minute he looked out the window again.

  The fog was so thick, now completely impenetrable; he couldn’t see anything, but the sound of waves gently lapping the beach came through the open windows, slightly disconcerting because he couldn’t see the source, couldn’t see the water at all. It seemed as if the waves were coming from nowhere. He shivered in the damp chill, but it felt sharp and refreshing.

  Sitting in Charlie’s chair made him feel too terrible, so he stood up. There were guitars in racks on one wall, and another—a big old Martin—leaning up against the desk, as if Sheridan had been playing it when he’d disturbed her. He reached toward it, his hand hovering above the strings. He thought of Lisa and remembered how he used to feel the energy of her playing quiver through her fingers when she touched him.

  The room was rustic, built of varnished pine. The finish brought out the wood’s grain and warmth, making the room glow with a dark golden-hued burnish. A rough-hewn stone fireplace at one end of the room was flanked by two loveseats facing each other, across that table with the candles burning. The setting was so romantic, especially with the sound of the waves washing over anyone who sat there. Lisa had admired Sheridan’s music, and he knew she’d assume a lot of Sheridan’s love songs had been written in this place.

  A gallery of family photos lined the old wood mantel. Drifting closer, Jeff saw pictures of Sheridan with two women who looked like her sisters, with two older women—probably her mother and grandmother. Peering at the photo, Jeff couldn’t resist lifting it up. He gazed at the tiny old woman—her birdlike frame, soft white hair, wrinkled face, brilliant smile.

  “My grandmother,” Sheridan said, coming in from the kitchen with a tray bearing a pitcher and two glasses. “Was there something about her that interested you?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am,” Jeff said, gingerly replacing the photo.

  “Well, what made you pick it up?”

  “Just thinking of Charlie being raised here. Lot of women.”

  “Yes, there were.”

  “Didn’t you ever get married or anything? Didn’t he ever have a stepfather?”

  “No,” Sheridan said. “He had me and his aunts, and his grandmother, and his great-grandmother. We did our best.”

  “I think you did a good job,
” Jeff said. He thought of his mother and John Thorpe, and then he turned away from the mantel.

  “Thank you,” she said, gesturing for him to sit in the loveseat opposite her, pouring iced tea into the glasses. “You…knew my son?”

  “Not well,” he said, settling down across the table from her. “But I did meet him.”

  “After he went off to college,” she said, and Jeff tensed, thinking This is it. But then she backed away again. “What about you? Who raised you?”

  “My mother,” he said. “But I did have a stepfather.”

  “Did that make up for not having your father around?” she asked, and Jeff was surprised by how curious she sounded, as if she really wanted to know.

  “Nothing could make up for that,” he said, his voice coming from deep down in his chest.

  “Boys really need their fathers,” Sheridan said. “I tried to be both to Charlie, but it’s impossible. He knew it, too. He had good male role models—his cross-country coach, mainly. And the dads of some of his friends. His girlfriend’s father, Jack…”

  “Nell,” Jeff said.

  Sheridan glanced up. “You know about Nell?”

  “I met her,” he said.

  “When?”

  “Yesterday,” he said.

  “How did that come about?” Sheridan asked.

  Jeff held his breath. They’d just been playing at having a nice visit, and they both knew it. The moment had come, and Jeff stared into the candlelight. His voice cracked, and he had to wait for it to work.

  “I was visiting Charlie’s grave,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “To find a way to tell my brother I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Sorry about what?” she asked, still smiling.

  “The worst thing there is,” he said, staring at her.

  “You took his life,” Sheridan said. The friendliness was gone—her eyes were suddenly hard, and her voice came from deep in the Arctic.

  NELL LAY ON THE MATTRESS in the attic. She’d fallen asleep under the eaves. Waking up, at first she had no idea where she was. But then she looked around, saw fog darkening the windows. She’d had a long nap.