Cutting Ties (Book 2) (Piper Anderson Series)

by Danielle Stewart

  As the two men at her door made no move to leave, she looked over her shoulder, toward where she had left her father asleep on the couch. He was gone now. He appeared quickly from the bedroom where he went to retrieve his pants. That was a positive she guessed, at least he’d have his pants on when he kicked these people out. But that wasn’t at all what happened. Her father was high, but not his normal high or drunk demeanor. He and her mother had come into a little money, though Piper didn’t have the details of how they acquired it. This didn’t mean more food, or clothes, or any other basic necessities. No, this meant special-occasion drugs. They had their basic addictions, which they scrapped money together to support. However, when they had a windfall of any kind it meant they’d splurge.

  This time it was a sheet of acid. She’d seen her father tear off a square and put it in his mouth about a half hour before the knock on the door. If history was any indication, this meant the effects should be taking hold of him now. The crushing panic started to overtake her. She wanted to shout for the men at her door to go away and slam it tightly, not wanting them to see the mortifying results of her father tripping. Would he lick the walls this time, claiming they were chocolate? Would he strip down naked again and attempt to scale the building, not making it more than a foot off the ground?

  “Who do we have here?” her father asked, approaching the door. The men were unaware of what synthetic factors were making him sound so welcoming.

  “Hello sir,” they said in unison, offering her father a pamphlet, which he happily took from them. The taller man with the Irish accent had the wildest mop of curly red hair she’d ever seen. He was no more than twenty-five years old and likely considered this trip to the projects a religious mission. No different than spending time in South America or Africa. “We’re here today to talk to you about our Lord and Savior. Do you have time for us to share the good news with you?”

  “Please come in,” her father sang. Piper’s jaw dropped as her father made a welcoming hand motion and pulled her back from the door to allow them room to enter. The men politely perched on the dirty couch with its missing springs and lumpy cushions. Her father sat across from them on a fluffy floral print chair that they had pulled from the dumpster behind their apartment. He gestured for Piper to sit by him on the arm of it. These men didn’t seem to mind the condition of the apartment. They weren’t judging. They were just so happy to have been given the opportunity to preach something they believed in.

  The conversation went on for ten minutes, all fairly normal, much to Piper’s surprise. Then she recognized the switch in her father, flipping like it had so many times before. His mind wasn’t his own now, reality had split away.

  “So,” he asked, shaking his legs anxiously, “do you think anything is forgivable? Does God really just give you a pass if you ask for one?”

  The men seemed to light up at this question. It was the cornerstone of what they believed in. Redemption was their selling point. “We do believe that,” the shorter of the two men said, smiling.

  “Even something really awful? Like what if you bought a tiger and you starved it, then turned it loose in a school? What if you sprinkled cocaine in random people’s mashed potatoes and then called the police and ruined their lives? Could God forgive you if you locked all the doors and burned your building down?”

  The men sat silent as they watched her father twitch, his body seeming to convert to something other than human. They searched his face trying to decide if he was attempting to make fools of them or if he was, perhaps, mentally unstable. The red-haired man stood, the other taking his lead and attempting to do the same, but her father lunged forward, and with a hand on his shoulder, forced him to stay seated and encouraged the other man to sit back down. He reluctantly obliged, clearly not comfortable with where this was heading.

  For two hours and ten minutes her father, passively, kept the men hostage. He was asking ridiculous philosophical questions and forcing them to answer, even when the answer made no sense. She watched her father break down in tears, acting as though he’d been saved then flash with rage when he’d forget exactly what they had been speaking about or why they were there.

  Piper watched the men oscillate between fear and sadness as they occasionally looked over at her. She had her hands folded in her lap, her shoulders drawn and drooping. They seemed to realize this was her life, her real life. For them it was just a story they would tell about the crazy man they’d tried to preach to that day. But this was how she lived every day, and probably would for a long time. Her father seemed to grow tired for a moment so she took her chance and attempted to intervene.

  “Dad,” she whispered, cutting into his frantic words. “I think they have to go to the next apartment now.” He turned his head so quickly toward her that she thought it might snap right off his shoulders. She knew interrupting him would not be well-received, but she thought it was time to take a shot at it. She was wrong. His hand came up and she felt a sharp slap hit her face, knocking her off the arm of the chair and onto the floor. She heard the audible disgust from the men sitting across from her. If only they knew it actually hadn’t hurt, she’d been much more accustomed to a closed-fist punch. The slap was not as bad as she had expected when she saw his arm rise.

  “Sir!” the young Irish priest shouted. He moved across the small room and lifted Piper back to her feet. He stood in front of her like a shield. He smelled of incense, and his clothes were so crisply pressed they stayed pristinely neat even as he moved. There was something about this man that, for an instant, made her feel safe, an emotion so foreign to her that it felt like lightning bolts running through her. “Do you really think that was necessary?”

  Her father stood as well, towering over the man. Piper thought a brawl might ensue and these men were at a clear disadvantage. But much to her surprise, her father smiled. “Spare the rod, spoil the child.” The moment of silence that hung in the room was excruciating. She watched as the young priest’s face turned the same color as his hair. He clearly wanted to do something, say something, but nothing came to him.

  “Thank you for coming by,” Piper said quietly, smiling as her pink cheek stung. That was their opportunity to leave. There was hesitation as the two men looked back and forth between her and each other. Her father had flopped back down on the couch and was lacing his boots, and then quickly pulling the laces back out.

  He was chanting words that sounded like a song she used to know, but nothing she could make sense of. She walked with the men to the door, ushering them away. “I don’t want to leave ya here. Is there anyone we can call to help ya? Your ma, maybe?” Again his Irish singsong voice warmed her slightly even in the face of the trouble she had ahead of her.

  “There’s no one to help. Not when you live here. My mom will be home soon, but you wouldn’t want to meet her either.”

  The man’s eyes filled slightly with the shadow of tears. And even though it was she who would face much more pain in her life, Piper felt bad for the priest. He pulled a card from his pocket and placed it in her hand.

  “If you ever need anything, please call me.”

  “Don’t ever come back here,” she said, the tears in her eyes now, too. “Please.”

  She made her way back from the door, trying to walk as quietly as possible. “That was crazy,” her father said, running his hands through his wild hair. “Can you believe that? We can do whatever we want and God will forgive us. That is—that is just amazing.” He was laughing now, cackling in a way Piper knew meant trouble. She thought maybe she could slip away to her room, shut the door, and wait for his high to subside, but luck was not on her side. She felt him grab a handful of her hair and tug her backward toward the couch. “I want to test this. We should test this.” He lit a cigarette and pulled in a deep drag, letting the end burn bright orange.

  “Come here, come over here.” He patted the couch next to him. She reluctantly sat. He grabbed her thin wrist and yanked up her sleeve exposing the soft ski
n of her tiny arm. Her conscious mind was creeping in and she knew what came next. She still had the small raised round scar that came from that burn. Her father had wanted to do something wrong and then ask for God’s forgiveness. That was his test.

  “No, Dad, it burns! Please stop!” she shouted, flailing her arm, trying to break her father’s grip and accidently smacking Bobby in the face as he sat next to her in the car. Her face was wet with tears and her body shaking.

  “Piper,” Bobby said soothingly, trying to calm her limbs and wake her. “You’re okay, it’s just a dream.”

  She woke in a heat of self-consciousness and fear that hadn’t yet subsided. She wiped her cheeks and felt every eye in the car staring at her. Betty used her hand to shoo away Jules’ and Michael’s stares from the front seat and, without a word, pulled Piper up against her. She smoothed her hair and let her rest her head on her shoulder. Bobby wanted to be comforting Piper right now, but Betty was in a better position. Piper was more open to her help, and Betty had years of maternal experience at scaring away the monsters that live in dreams.

  When they finally pulled up to the address Chris had given them, they’d all but stopped speaking to each other. In need of a stretch, a shower, and some personal space, they spilled out of the car. It was the middle of the morning now, and the sun was nothing but an annoying reminder that they hadn’t had a true night’s sleep since before Jules was taken.

  The house was cookie-cutter perfect, one of many in a row on a quiet cul-de-sac. Pale green with a white picket fence and dark shutters, it was what one would imagine suburban life to be. The bushes were perfectly squared, the walkway was free of any weeds, and the paint on the railings leading up the front stairs was sparkling white. This house looked more like it was dropped from the sky than built or maintained. It displayed a light blanket of snow, adding to its curb appeal. It lacked any flaws, but also any character.

  Betty felt the cold air fill her lungs. “It’s colder than a witch’s belt buckle on the shady side of an iceberg out here. Someone should have warned me. My sweaters are going to need sweaters. This is the first time I’ve ever been outside of North Carolina.” Turning toward Jules who was edging her way tentatively out of the car, favoring her injured leg, she said, “Your father and I honeymooned on the Blue Ridge Mountains. That’s really the only vacation I’ve ever been on.” She laughed a little. “Not that I’m calling this a vacation, it’s just nice to see someplace new, even if it is freezing cold.”

  This struck everyone as depressing, though that wasn’t Betty’s intention. She loved her life with Stan, and before he was killed they had planned for plenty of traveling after he retired from the police force. “Don’t look at me like I’m a dead dog, for goodness sake,” she retorted, shaking her hands at their sorry-looking expressions. “You never know where life is gonna take you, I’ve got no regrets so far.”

  As they unloaded their bags from the trunk, Chris stepped out the front door and casually strode down the steps toward them.

  “You all look like hell,” he said, extending his hand to Bobby. “Hopefully I can make you comfortable here. We’ve just gotten settled in ourselves, so you’ll have to bear with us.”

  “We’re just grateful for the help, Chris. I’m sorry to spring this on you. I’m sure you didn’t think you’d be hearing from me quite so soon,” Bobby said, throwing a bag over his shoulder. “This here is my friend Betty Grafton, her daughter, Jules, and this is Piper.” He struggled to label Piper. Was she his girlfriend? His ex? The love of his life? He really didn’t know right now. “You already know Michael very well.” Whether it was meant to sound like it or not, that last statement cut a little. Michael got the hint, chatting with Christian after he’d been relocated was against the rules and Bobby wasn’t pleased.

  “Well, my son is going to sleep on a cot in my room. That leaves two other bedrooms and a pullout couch in the office. I’ll let you all fight it out.”

  Betty cut in quickly, barely hiding her ulterior motive. “I’ll take the pullout in the office. Jules and Michael, you take one bedroom. Let’s get on in the house and brush the stink off of us. I’m more stir crazy than a caged canary.” No, she hadn’t told Piper and Bobby to bunk up together, she hadn’t called them out, but in her masterful way she had implied it.

  Bobby and Piper looked at each other, he with a grin, she with a scowl. “I hope you like the floor,” she said, shoving another bag into his chest and following the group into the house.

  Michael let out a little howl of laughter as he crouched for Jules to put her arm over his shoulder. Her leg was still too tender to walk on fully, and she loved leaning on him. Literally and figuratively, he was solid. They hadn’t had a chance to talk more about what happened between them, but all of his actions were speaking for him now. He had decided to come even when he didn’t have to. They’d need to sort it all out at some point, but right now that was enough for her.

  As they entered the house, they saw its interior was as nondescript as its exterior. The paint was fresh, the trim all beveled and detailed beautifully. It was a perfectly polished space, pulled from the pages of a magazine. It was staged to be a home where you could just show up and start your life rather than one you’d been creating for years.

  Betty, in her usual commanding way, made herself right at home, and home to her was in the kitchen. She assessed the room.

  “What on God’s green earth is all this?” Betty asked as she intrusively pulled open Chris’s refrigerator. She was faced with boxes of takeout food and cans of soda. “There isn’t a single vegetable in this house. Is this what you’ve been feeding your child? Don’t you cook?”

  “I’m still getting settled in as the assistant admissions consultant at the university. Actually, I’m still trying to figure out what the assistant admissions consultant is supposed to do every day. I haven’t had a lot of time to go food shopping. Not that I’d know what to do with the food anyway. The closest thing I do to home cooking is occasionally use my nonna’s cookbook as a coaster,” Chris said smiling. Betty was a refreshing reminder of the women of his mother’s generation.

  “You have your grandmother’s cookbook? Oh, stop my beating heart! I know people who would pay a pretty penny for her baked beans recipe. I remember fights nearly breaking out at bridge tables over who would get to take home her leftovers. She was an amazing cook and a peach of a woman.”

  “You knew my nonna?” Christian asked, taken aback by the connection. He wasn’t allowed to take much when he hastily left Edenville, but the cookbook, his last connection to his grandmother, had made the cut. There was no one in the world who had loved him more unconditionally than his father’s mother. Well, as a child anyway. As he got older and made questionable decisions, her fondness for him seemed to dwindle. When she grew close to death, when cancer was about to take her, he was too caught up in impressing his father to even visit her. It was one of his biggest regrets.

  “Only a casual acquaintance, but I sure remember her talking about you. She thought you walked on water. I remember my aunt bringing her flowers when she was moved to hospice care, and she said she talked about you the whole time. She was a very special woman. May I take a peek at that book? It’s like the Holy Grail of Edenville, people still talk about her recipes.”

  Chris fought the urge to ask for more details. He doubted there would be anything she could tell him that would heal that old wound. “Sure.” He crossed his living room and pulled an old, light blue book from a shelf. “Knock yourself out,” he said, shocked by the joy spreading across Betty’s face.

  She pulled the book onto her lap and started flipping the pages at a frantic pace. As the group returned to their casual conversation about the area attractions and the Midwest weather, they all jumped, startled when Betty hopped to her feet and shouted, “Nutmeg! I can’t have y’all eating takeout when we have this amazing book of recipes here. Where’s the closest market?”

  Chris scanned the room with a look t
hat questioned, Is she serious? The wide grins he was met with let him know she did indeed mean business.

  “Let’s go, Betty,” Chris said, grabbing his keys off the counter. “If you can make my nonna’s zabaglione, I’ll pick you up an engagement ring while we’re out.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Everyone was more than ready for bed by ten that night. Each was exhausted from the day and full from the meal Betty had cooked. It had been a veritable feast of pasta fagioli, lasagna, and cannoli. Betty had spent the entire afternoon toiling away, filling the house with amazing smells. Little Chris had perched himself on the stool at the kitchen counter and watched her intently, asking a litany of questions that mostly began with why. They ranged from “Why are you here?” to “Why is that pot making that noise?” Some people may have been annoyed by his persistence, but every time Big Chris came to check on her tolerance level, Betty would shoo him away.

  She missed having a set of eyes fixed on her as she cooked. She missed what it meant to set an example for someone. All her people were grown now, and sure, she gave them advice at times, but none of them looked at her with such interest and admiration as Little Chris was now. She loved seeing the wonderment on his face as he tried to understand how she knew how to grease a baking dish and fill a frosting bag. At that age, the things she was doing in the kitchen were as entertaining and impressive as magic tricks, and she loved an audience.

  Now that the meal was over, the dishes clean, and the house quiet, Piper was restless. She crept through the house and out the front door, settling onto one of the cushioned wicker porch chairs. It wasn’t quite the escape she’d found on the swing at Betty’s, but it would have to do. She didn’t want to step over Bobby on her way to bed and have to lie there awake, fighting every urge to speak to him. She’d hide out here until it was late enough to assume Bobby was asleep. The porch was screened but the air was freezing, and she was grateful for the soft throw blanket hanging on the back of her chair. She draped it over her and pulled her knees up, curling herself up for warmth.