That did it. I wasn’t about to sit here and allow anyone, adolescent or otherwise, to grope me with his eyes. Bodie might be good at playing this passive aggressive game, but I was better.
“Really? That’s the best you can come up with? Let me guess, next you’ll be calling me a gold-digger.” I gave each of them a bored look. “I would think two young men with fancy private school educations could come up with something a little more imaginative.”
A tense silence exhumed from the boys as we stared each other down, waiting, as it seemed, for the other to give up first. My pulse was racing but I held strong to the upper hand. From what little experience I had working with teens, I knew they possessed a keen smell for adult fear.
Bridger broke the silence with a somber tone. “Then why did you marry our father?”
My first answers, Because I’m crazy about him, or I always wanted a family, seemed overly trite. And I knew that saying Daniel’s money had nothing to do with it, while true, might not sound genuine.
“Because this is where I feel I need to be,” I said, siting the only other explanation I had left. “And like it or not, I’m going to be the closest thing you have to a parent whenever your dad’s not around so you’d better drop the attitude, and fast. I’ve spent the last ten years working with ex-cons who are a whole lot scarier than the likes of you two. But if you want to do this the hard way, take your best shot.” I gave them that you-don’t-scare-me look I’d honed to perfection over the last decade. “So, what’s it gonna be?”
The boys exchanged a sidelong look before turning their staid eyes back on me. We sat again in an unnerving silence. As a therapist, I’d learned over the years the value of holding back, of allowing a client, or in this case, my stepsons, sufficient time to work out a productive response. Only today, as the seconds wore on, the stillness nagged at me like it never had before. Today, I had more at stake. This was personal.
Just when I thought I couldn’t take the quiet any longer and was about to throw out something else, Bridger piped up. “Fine by us if you want to hang out. What do you want to do, play with us?” he challenged.
I released a faint breath of relief just as that little voice of guilt inside my head advised me against stating my original plan. Was I doing this for the boys or to satisfy some obsessive curiosity of mine? Why the two had to be mutually exclusive, I couldn’t be sure.
Maybe it would be better to just play their violent video game and slash a few throats. Only the words came faster than my thoughts—an unfortunate condition I had yet to overcome—and I heard myself saying, “Well, I was thinking about your mom and how it’s—”
“Time to take her portrait down?” Bridger interrupted.
His response took me by surprise. “No, it was going to come down. I told them to leave it up,” I said, measuring every word.
Bridger eyed me with accusation. “You’re lying.”
“See for yourself.” I motioned toward the living room.
They hesitated for a moment but then got up and made for the front of the house. I trailed a few paces back to provide them some space. Standing under the stone fireplace, their eyes locked on the portrait of their mother, the hush that settled over the room felt like the few brief moments after the close of a prayer.
My foot found a loose floorboard as I joined them. The creak broke the reverence, and they turned toward me. I took courage in the gratitude, the sadness, and the need I saw looking back at me and gave them a gentle smile.
“Like I was saying, since it is your mother’s birthday today, and your dad isn’t here, and your aunt is bossing . . . I mean, preoccupied with something, I thought I could take you guys over to the cemetery to put some flowers on her grave.”
“You would do that?” Bridger asked. I nodded. “Why?”
“Look, just because your dad got married again doesn’t mean that everyone has to start pretending like your mother never existed. I’m not trying to replace her—I wouldn’t even know how,” I said, my voice cracking with unexpected emotion. “I can’t begin to know what it feels like to lose a mother and then have another adult—a total stranger—try to step into her place. I can imagine it wouldn’t be easy. I’m struggling to figure all this out the same as you two, and I was just kinda hoping we could help each other.”
The boys exchanged looks again—a silent communication I knew was common between twins—then gave me a shrug.
“We can,” Bridger said, “see how it goes.”
Though I knew this small step forward with Daniel’s boys could just as easily turn out to be my first mistake, relief grabbed hold of the nugget of hope they’d thrown me and I held tight.
“Great! Just let me get my purse,” I said and turned for the stairs before a huge oversight had my momentum skidding to a stop. “Oh, wait. Your dad took my car to the dealer yesterday to get the remote hatch-opener fixed.”
“He brought it back last night,” Bodie offered with a grin. “I saw him backin’ it into the garage.”
“He did?” That was news to me. “Oh, well, he didn’t give me back the keys.”
Bodie took off across the entry. “I know where he keeps the extras,” he called over his shoulder.
Bridger rolled his eyes before following his brother into the study, me trailing behind. With the exception of the two doorways and a tall window hung with heavy drapes, the study held a lifetime worth of reading material lined up neatly on bookshelves from floor to ceiling. By the time Bridger and I caught up, Bodie was already rounding the back of his father’s desk.
“Not even you know the combination to the safe,” Bridger said, pointing toward a painting of an officer in grey Civil War attire.
The portrait’s eyes, the color of steel, struck with a gaze so real—so human—he looked as if he were about to draw his sword and, with one well-executed swipe, rid trespassers forever from his presence. I shrank back from his warning.
As it turned out, Bodie wasn’t interested in the safe behind the war officer. He was digging his fingertips into the tight folds between two of the buttons on his father’s leather desk chair.
“You’re right, I don’t, so it’s a good thing we don’t need it,” he said, his face scrunched with effort as he pressed a little deeper. A few seconds later, a look of triumph lit his face. His fingers paused. Then, withdrawing his hand, he held up a small gold key.
Bridger’s jaw dropped. “How did you know that was in there?”
With a sly grin, Bodie had the desk drawer open. Shifting what looked like a loaded magazine for a nine-millimeter pistol to the side, he lifted out a set of car keys, the dealer’s plastic information tag still looped to them.
“The same way I know you have a Girls Gone Wild DVD hidden in your Wolverine action figure box, that Marlie’s been creepin’ on our momma, and that our father keeps condoms in the Bible next to his bed at the condo downtown.”
This time my jaw dropped, making it hard for me to properly formulate the reproach I was sure, as a parent, I was required to issue.
“Um . . . well . . . First of all, my laptop is private and off limits to you and it’s none of your business who I ‘creep’ on and who I don’t,” I started, trying to recover from the frankness of his admissions. “And second, if you think, even for a moment, about getting into your dad’s condoms we are going to have a talk I don’t think you want to be having with me.”
I turned to Bridger. “I’ll be confiscating that DVD.”
Bridger glared at me then his brother. “Thanks a lot, dirt-bag.”
Looking rather pleased with himself, Bodie didn’t appear the least bit affected by my censure (evidently, my reprimanding skills needed considerable work) as he held the keys out to me. “Let’s get outta here before Aunt Cooper finds out what we’re doin’,” he said.
I reached out for the keys, then pulled my hand back. “Why would your aunt care if I took you guys to the cemetery?” I asked, eyeing the boys.
They exchanged another look
and then turned to me with a mutual shrug. “You’re right, she probably wouldn’t,” Bodie said, offering the keys to me again.
My car keys swung from his finger like a pendulum ticking down to an event I’d soon come to regret. Hesitating, I fought a losing battle between disappointing the boys as well as impeding my quest for answers, and heeding the forewarning beating against my chest. As usual, curiosity trumped trepidation.
Cautiously, I lifted the key ring from his finger. “Meet me outside in five.”
Careful to stay out of Cooper’s eyeshot, I made my way to the garages. The charcoaled clouds darkening the sky and moistening the air forecast stormy weather. I cinched my purse straps a little higher on my shoulder and looked around the driveway for the boys. To my right, four doors lined up along a garage that was separated from the house by a sweeping driveway. Out in the open, Cooper’s Land Rover sat unattended—vulnerable. A devious smile pulled across my lips. I walked over to it, and in the apparent absence of another human being, scrawled my finger through the thin sheet of dirt covering her rear window—
“Oh, Aunt Cooper’s gonna be mad!” A voice had me pulling my hand back.
Startled, I turned to see Bodie with a fist full of hydrangeas in one hand, the other pointing a finger toward the words I’d doodled.
“It’s just a joke,” I minimized with a lift of my shoulder. Inside, I scolded myself. I should be more concerned with being a good example than having a little fun at my tyrannical sister-in-law’s expense.
Bridger appeared at his brother’s side. He too had a mushrooming bouquet of flowers. “‘I wish my husband was this dirty,’” he repeated aloud the words I’d written. “Aunt Cooper’ll blame this on you,” he said to Bodie.
Bodie slapped me between the shoulder blades. “I like you’re style, Marlie. I think we’re gonna get on just fine.”
I huffed out an uncomfortable laugh. So now I have the maturity of a teenage boy? Great!
“What’s with the flowers?” I asked.
“Our momma’s favorite,” Bridger explained.
I glanced around the yard, noticing that many of the flowerbeds were bursting with blue, pink, and white-orbed blooms. I guess that explained why I couldn’t use hydrangeas at our wedding.
Bridger punched a few buttons on a keypad and we all stood back waiting as one of the garage doors began a slow crawl to the top. The Lexus RX Hybrid Daniel had bought me as a wedding gift came into view.
“I can’t believe you kept this color,” said Bodie.
I glided my fingertips over the golden-brown iridescent paint. I wouldn’t say that brown was my favorite color, but the color Daniel had picked conveyed warmth, comfort, and elegance. “Because this color is perfect,” I said.
Bridger headed off to the far side of the garage. “I best put these clippers back before Herbert knows we borrowed them. You know how insane he is about his tools.”
As he went, he cautiously sidled around the chic blue Aston Martin Daniel drove only on special occasions. Most days he elected to travel back and forth from downtown in a hired car as to not waste one minute of valuable time driving when he could be working.
Bodie popped the handle on the driver’s side—the door opened with a soft whoosh—and stood back like a gentleman so I could slide in. The door sealed closed beside me like a bank vault. Inhaling, I savored the fragrance of a new car, of fine leather and affluence. I’d come a long way from my ten-year-old Land Cruiser in need of new shocks and a paint job, to heaven on wheels.
Bridger slipped into the front seat, Bodie in the back.
“Everyone got their seatbelts fastened?” I said. No response. Glancing over at Bridger, I saw that he was gazing dolefully off into the distance. “Did I say something wrong?”
Bridged swallowed. “No. Our momma used to always say that whenever we went somewhere. She was a Nazi when it came to seat belts.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean,” I started to say, but then Bridger snapped out of his melancholy, reassuring me with a gloomy smile.
“Don’t worry about it, Marlie,” he said, pointing down the drive. “Come on now, let’s go.”
I felt like I should say something about Gentry or ask them how they were feeling, but then the opportunity to do so seemed to have come and gone in one short breath. I couldn’t go back and recapture that moment; my only choice now was to go forward.
Locating the satellite radio, I switched it on. “Just one more thing.” I tuned it to my favorite station, and then allowed a satisfied smile as the sound system boomed out the chorus to The Angels Want to Wear My Red Shoes. An instant protest from my passengers ensued. Bridger’s face twisted in disgust. In the backseat Bodie made gagging noises.
“What is this? Eighties music?”
“My car, my music,” I said with gusto. “And this weekend we’re in luck. All Elvis Costello, all the time.”
There were more objections as I fed the name of the cemetery where Gentry was buried into the navigation system. I drowned out their complaints by turning the music louder. “Seatbelts?” I checked again, and this time, received only groans I assumed meant that they were secured. We were on our way.
As I navigated the windy, tree-lined streets, the rain began to fall, pelting my car with pea-sized drops that hit the glass in prismic circles, before splitting into smaller drops and shooting off in opposite directions. The car held with precision to curve after curve as we pulled out onto Highway 150 and headed south. So confident, in fact, had I become in my car’s performance capabilities that I ignored the slight slippage the tires had experienced on the last few curves. I also dismissed the fact that the sky had grown so dark the car’s headlights had turned themselves on and that my visibility had suddenly been reduced to just a few yards.
And then in an instant, it was there.
One second I was steering into a tight curve, the next the car was barreling straight for something in the middle of the road. My foot had barely shifted to the brake when I realized that it wasn’t just a something—it was a woman. With black hair, wet and plastered against her head and shoulders, her eyes pierced the strands obscuring her face. The red fabric of her dress flowed around her legs and ankles as if on a light breeze.
I slammed my foot against the brake pedal. The car slid sideways, the front end turning back the way we’d come, the tires gliding effortlessly on a layer of water. I cranked the wheel and to my heightened panic, the car banked tighter the other way, spinning us in a complete circle.
We’re going to crash!
With a blur of green flora filling my vision, somehow, I remembered that one must turn into the direction of the skid in order to right the car again. Without another thought, I defied my natural instincts and cranked the steering wheel toward the skid, slamming my foot again to the brake. A second later the car stopped spinning, righted, and skidded to a rocky stop on the other side of the road. My eyes bugged and staring straight ahead, I gripped the steering wheel, my foot pressing the brake to the car’s floor, too afraid to release it just yet.
A bolt of lightning struck directly overhead. The white of my knuckles flashed blue. Stunned by our sudden trip to the wrong side of the road, the boys and I sat in complete silence a split second before a roll of thunder vibrated the car and its contents back to life.
“That was awesome!” Bodie called out.
I leaned my head back, my eyes falling closed as I sent up a silent thank you to heaven. In the background I could hear the boys excited voices, reliving the last few perilous moments of our trip.
I reopened my eyes. Remembering the woman, I looked around for any sign of her. She was nowhere to be seen. “Boys, do you see that woman anywhere, the one who was in the road?”
Bridger cocked me a confused look. “Marlie, there wasn’t anyone in the road.”
I quickly assessed his expression for deception and when I was fairly sure he didn’t know what I was talking about, restated just to be clear. “You really didn’t see
her? The woman? She was in a red dress—”
“Uh, Marlie? You hydroplaned,” he said like he thought I was losing it. “Happens all the time around here. You’re gonna have to slow down a little when it’s rainin’.”
I blinked back at him a time or two. How could Bridger not have seen her? Sitting back against my seat again, I gazed through the rain-spattered windshield at a mailbox in the shape of an oversized golf ball perched atop a green tee. We’d missed hitting the mailbox by mere feet.
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” I said, reassessing the necessity of this trip. Given what had just happened, my good sense was telling me that heading back to the house was the responsible decision.
But then, when had I ever been inclined to opt for the safe choice?
Chapter Nine
Acts 8:26: Arise and go toward the South. Clearly,
God-fearing Christians in the early days of the US settlement had taken this scripture to heart. Driving through the Tennessee countryside I was amazed at the sheer number of enormous churches. The sanctuaries, come Sunday, would be brimming to capacity.
My hands were still shaking as I parked the RX under the awning of a century-old oak tree. Gazing out through the windshield, I looked up at a Gothic-styled church. Surrounded by rolling green lawns, the massive structure could have consumed an entire city block had it not been sitting just east of one of Nashville’s most affluent neighborhoods. Christ’s Faith Presbyterian Church, a sizable stone sign read.
Faith: a trust, hope, and belief that is not based on proof. Growing up, I’d asked my father, Why should I trust in someone, or something, I don’t know? Someone who I can’t see? His reply was always the same. Because faith is not knowing. How much greater is our faith, our obedience, when we can’t know? We must believe.
In my youth I’d worked hard on my faith, to see the Lord’s hand in my life and in the lives of those around me. Finn, I’d thought, had been a gift from heaven, a reward for my obedience. I had loved him more than anything, possibly even more than God. Was that why he was taken from me—as punishment? I had wondered in those first weeks and months after the break-up. I’d pleaded with God for forgiveness and waited for some sign, a feeling even, to let me know that he’d forgiven me—that I wasn’t alone.
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