But then she met his eyes again, and the answer hit her square in the chest. He felt things. Without a doubt, he felt things.
She picked up a pen from the desk, punched the end of it on and off. “How exactly did you get this cocky?”
He laughed then, a roar of a laugh that underscored the question as falling on the other side of ridiculous. “It looks like you’re the one eager to slap on labels. I just don’t do well with bullshit. I’d rather call it like it is. Saves a lot of time and energy.”
“Convenient, too,” she said.
He sat back in his chair, started to say something, stopped. Then turned around and began banging on his keyboard again.
Clearly, she’d hit a chord. She left the room before the urge to take it back won out.
* * *
WILLA AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING to a knock at her door. She raised up on one elbow, squinting at the clock.
Eleven. With a low moan, she pushed her hair back from her face and said, “Come in.”
Owen stuck his head inside. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” she said, suddenly thinking what she must look like.
“Natalie called to say there will only be one service. Tomorrow afternoon at one o’clock. I thought you and Katie might like to go shopping. For something to wear.”
“Thank you. That would be nice.”
“You can take the Rover.”
The thin strap of her pajama top slid from her shoulder. She pushed it back in place. “Thanks.”
His gaze followed her hand, then lifted abruptly to her face. “Well. Okay. The keys are in it.”
“Great.”
Sam got up, stretched, walked to the door.
“Want me to take him out?”
“Would you mind? He’s not used to sleeping this late, either.”
“Sure. See you later.”
Willa and Katie left the farm early that afternoon. Willa drove to an area Owen had described as having numerous stores that ranged in style and price. Katie stared out the window most of the way, silent, but without the sullenness Willa had grown to expect.
She braked at a stoplight, glanced at her sister. “What are you thinking about, Katie?”
She said nothing for a few moments, and then, “Just wondering what it must feel like to know you had a father you might hold your head up for.”
The light turned green. Willa drove through the intersection, the underlying hurt in her sister’s voice tightening her grip on the wheel. “Katie—”
“But then maybe he wasn’t so great considering that he waited until he was dying to let you know he existed.”
The words sliced deep, the cut all the sharper for the truth at their edge.
“Hey, we could make some comparisons!” Katie said. “That might be entertaining. We could call it the Tanya Addison: This Was Your Life Show.” She dropped her voice an octave. “Behind curtain number one, we have Mr. Charles Hartmore. Good choice, Tanya! Whoops! Should have gotten that marriage certificate in hand first. Too bad, this one’s gonna get away.
“And that leaves you with curtain number two. Oh, no, Tanya. Bad choice. You’re going to get another kid out of this particular loser. One you don’t want and will spend the rest of your life making sure she knows it.”
The words felt like nails being pounded into Willa’s heart. She swung in at a post office, pulled the Range Rover into a parking spot and shut off the engine. She turned in her seat, her voice beseeching when she said, “Mama made some mistakes, Katie, but—”
“She hated me!” Katie cried, throwing her hands in the air. “You know it’s true.”
Willa put her arms around her sister, pulling her close despite her resistance. Katie held herself stiffly, even as sobs erupted from her throat. “She didn’t hate you,” Willa said softly, a dozen bad memories forming a collage over the words.
“How about ‘wished I was never born?’ Would you buy that?”
Willa closed her eyes, pressed her lips together. Sounds reverberated in her head. Slamming doors. A kitchen pot hurling into the living room, hot soup splattering the walls like a bad contemporary painting. Willa and Katie running upstairs to their shared bedroom, huddling together in the dark closet while rage erupted below.
Willa, torn between helping her mama and taking care of her four-year-old sister who sat shaking in her arms.
Sometimes at night, when sleep refused to immediately pull her in, Willa could still hear the sounds in her head. Her mother’s crying, Clyde’s awful cursing. It had taken less than nothing to set him off, and for the four years he had lived with them, it had been like existing in a house rigged with land mines. One misstep, and life exploded into barely recognizable pieces.
Every night, Willa had prayed that he would leave, that they could have a normal house where the walls didn’t shake with one man’s fury. And then one afternoon, Sheriff Brown had knocked at their door, hat in his hand, a solemn look on his face. Willa and Katie had stood in the hallway behind their mother, holding hands, the words drifting back to them as if they were being delivered through some kind of horn that distorted their sound. Clyde. Dead. He’d lost control of the dump truck he drove for a living in a curve just a few miles from the house. He wasn’t coming home.
As the reality of that sank in, Willa had literally dropped to her knees with relief. Katie tucked herself inside Willa’s arm, pressed her small face to her neck.
None of them had cried at his funeral.
“Mama made mistakes, Katie,” Willa said now, smoothing a hand across the back of her hair.
“And I was the permanent reminder of that.” She pulled away and sat back in her seat. “On a good day, she could barely stand to look at me. So don’t make up some fairy tale! You’re so good at that. Pretending things are something other than what they are.”
“Is that how you see me?” Willa asked quietly.
“I think you’ve gotten comfortable with me being the yoke around your neck.”
Willa sat, not knowing what to say.
“Whether you like it or not, pretty soon you’re not going to have me as an excuse anymore. And then maybe you’ll have to admit that what I’m saying is true.” Katie stared out the window.
Willa started the engine and backed out of the parking place. They drove the rest of the way to the store in silence.
CHAPTER NINE
THE FUNERAL TOOK PLACE on Monday afternoon.
Willa had several sets of second thoughts about going, but in the end, decided it was something she had to do.
Owen and Cline drove Katie and her to the service at the Christ Our Savior Episcopal Church. It was nearly full when they walked in, and Willa felt the gazes of a half-dozen people who turned to stare as they entered. She smoothed a hand across the skirt of her simple black dress and wondered if anyone else here knew. She met the gaze of a clearly curious forty-something woman and realized that her identity was not a secret.
Owen took Willa’s elbow and steered her to the second pew on the right side of the sanctuary, his touch protective in a way that fortified her resolve not to dwell on what others would think.
The service was brief, the words offered about this man who had been her father, respectful, honoring. A violinist played “Ave Maria,” and Willa’s throat tightened with the poignant strains. Katie sat next to her, back straight, hands crossed in her lap, face blanked of expression.
Following the service, the line of cars drove slowly from the church to the cemetery, headlights on. The procession stretched out of sight in either direction.
At the grave site, Owen pulled in behind the black town car carrying Natalie and two older women. Willa got out and walked to the tent where four rows of folding chairs had been set up on a green rug. She stood looking down at the rose-draped coffin, feeling the futility of an effort that had been too little, too late.
* * *
OWEN STOOD IN THE LIVING ROOM, talking to Charles’s attorney and longtime golfing buddy, Art Travers
.
Willa had excused herself a few minutes before to go to the ladies’ room. Katie and Cline sat beside a table loaded with a dozen different kinds of cake and at least as many pies, looking as if they had no idea what to say to one another.
“We’re really going to miss him,” Art said, sincerity in his voice. “Charles was a good man.”
Pamela walked up just then and put her hand on Art’s arm. “He certainly knew how to leave with a good exit line, though, didn’t he? In fact, it looks as if Owen has taken Charles’s surprise love child under his wing. And the other sister, too. Now she doesn’t belong to Charles, does she?”
“Pamela,” Owen rebuked, shooting a glance at the entrance to the living room.
Pamela shrugged. “I suppose it’s always possible, isn’t it?”
Willa appeared in the doorway, looking uncertain, rousing all of Owen’s protective instincts.
“Ah, here she is,” Pamela said a few moments later.
“Willa Addison,” Owen said, somehow reluctant to make the introduction, “this is Pamela Lawrence.”
“Nice to meet you,” Willa said.
Pamela smiled. “Likewise. Will you be staying in Lexington long?”
“I’m not sure,” Willa said.
“This whole thing has to be a shock to you.”
“Pamela,” Owen said, “Willa must be tired.”
Pamela looked at Owen, gracious. “Of course. If there’s anything at all I can do, please ask.”
Owen saw the surprise register in Willa’s eyes just before she said, “Thank you.”
Owen introduced Art to her, and they shook hands.
“I was a good friend of your…of Charles,” Art said diplomatically.
Willa nodded and tried to smile.
“So Owen didn’t tell me,” Pamela said. “Where are you from?”
Willa looked at Pamela and said, “Pigeon Hollow.”
Pamela raised an eyebrow. “How quaint.”
Owen put a hand to Willa’s shoulder and said, “If you’ll excuse us, there’s something we need to discuss.”
He steered her out of the crowd and onto the terrace.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said once they were outside.
“What?”
“Rescue me.”
He raked a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry about all that. Pamela can be—”
“You two are…” The words trailed off in question.
“I’m not sure what we are,” he said.
“Ah.”
Something in her voice made him feel as if he’d just been caught cheating on a final exam. Her disapproval was tangible, and he had the distinct impression she was severely disappointed in him. “I haven’t lied to you, Willa.”
She leaned against the rock wall of the terrace, staring out across the green lawn. “But you haven’t exactly been up-front.”
“You asked if I was married. I’m not married.”
“I should have been more specific then. Attached.”
“I never meant to mislead you.”
“Then I’m a little confused about that kiss the other night.”
He drew in a deep breath, released it slowly. “Yeah, me, too.”
She looked him straight in the eye. “So how do you explain that in light of your having a girlfriend?”
“I can’t. All I know is it was something I very much wanted to do.”
She turned her gaze back to the lawn where a sprinkler system had just turned on. “That doesn’t mean it should have happened.”
“Willa—”
The door behind them opened. A young woman in a black-and-white serving uniform walked out to where they stood by the balcony. “Miss Addison?”
“Yes,” Willa said.
“Mrs. Hartmore has asked to see you. Would you please come with me?”
She nodded.
Owen put a hand on her arm. “We’ll finish this later?”
“I think we’re done,” she said and followed the young woman back inside.
Owen stayed where he was, preferring the solitude to going back in and making small talk.
Pamela. He’d backed her into a corner, and he couldn’t blame her for showing her claws. She was a well-liked person, and over the past year, they’d had fun together. He couldn’t say it had ever been more than that. She wanted more. And if anyone had the motivation to get married, it should be him. The farm he loved was at stake. Pamela had seemed like the obvious answer.
Maybe too obvious.
* * *
“SHE’S JUST INSIDE there.” The young woman who had led Willa to this room at the far end of the house smiled shyly and then left.
Willa hesitated, then knocked.
“Come in, please.”
She opened the door and stepped inside. Natalie Hartmore stood by an enormous window, a teacup in her hand. She was an elegant woman, medium blond hair pulled back in a crisp chignon at the back of her neck. She wore a few pieces of expensive-looking jewelry, her black dress a perfect backdrop. Her makeup was flawless, her puffy eyes the only clue to her grief.
She moved to the serving set in the middle of a small table. “Would you like some?” she asked, her voice strained. “It’s a green tea.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
The older woman’s hand shook as she poured. Willa stepped forward and took the pot. “I can do that,” she said softly.
Natalie Hartmore sat in a nearby chair, sipped from her own tea. “Please sit down.”
Willa took the chair across from her, sitting on the edge, her back straight. “I haven’t had a chance to tell you how sorry I am for your loss.”
The other woman was quiet for a few moments, and then in a somber voice said, “And I, yours.”
Willa blinked in surprise. That she had not expected. “Thank you,” she said.
She rubbed her thumb across the rim of her saucer, not meeting Willa’s gaze. “I knew nothing about you until after Charles had his first heart attack. I won’t insult you by pretending I was anything other than heartbroken. And angry.”
“Mrs. Hartmore, you don’t have to justify your feelings to me,” she said quietly. “I think I can understand how you must feel.”
“We both know this has the potential to be an ugly situation.” She pressed two fingers to the bridge of her nose, as if reaching for composure. “But there’s one thing true about getting old. You learn to recognize the battles worth fighting, and the ones that really aren’t battles at all. That said, I see no reason you and I should be adversaries, Willa.”
Willa set her teacup on the table next to her chair. “Mrs. Hartmore. I have no intention of interfering in your life in any way. If you think that I might somehow believe I have a right to any of this,” she said, waving a hand at the room where they sat, “you would be very wrong. I have no reason to doubt that Charles was my father. I can’t imagine why he would lie about it. But biology alone doesn’t make a relationship, and if I had ever wanted anything from him, it might have been that.”
Mrs. Hartmore stared at her, silent, as if she weren’t sure what to make of what she’d just heard.
Willa stood. “I know you must be tired. And I think it’s time for me to go.”
The older woman placed her cup on the table, folded her hands in her lap. “Can you be here at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon?”
“Why?” she asked.
“For the reading of the will.”
Stunned, Willa said, “But I can’t—”
“You were his daughter,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact now. “It’s important that you come. Please.”
“Mrs. Hartmore—”
“I think it’s time you called me Natalie. I’ll be expecting you.”
* * *
THEY HEADED BACK TO THE HOUSE just before six, Cline and Katie following behind in Cline’s van.
Willa told Owen about her talk with Natalie, about the reading of the will the following day. “I don’t feel right a
bout going,” she said, staring out the window.
“Why?” Owen asked, glancing at her, one hand on the wheel.
“Because we weren’t a part of each other’s lives. I don’t even know him. I never will.”
“Maybe this is his way of trying to make up for that.”
They said nothing for the rest of the drive. Willa felt a new tension between them, but she had meant what she’d said out on the terrace. She just didn’t have it in her to play with fire when she already knew what it felt like to get burned.
Sam greeted them at the door in full body wag.
Louisa had left a note for Owen that Jake wanted him to come to the barn when he got in. Katie said she was tired and went upstairs.
Cline looked at Willa. “It’s Louisa’s afternoon off. I make a mean sandwich. Care to join me?”
What she really wanted to do was settle into a hot bath, and try to absorb all that had happened that day. But he was looking at her as if he hoped she might say yes. “Just let me take Sam out first.”
She returned a few minutes later to find Cline pulling sliced turkey, provolone cheese, mayonnaise, lettuce and tomatoes from the refrigerator.
She found a couple of plates and arranged four pieces of the homemade bread Louisa had left on a cherry cutting board. They worked in silence for a few minutes, ending up with two mountainous sandwiches over which Cline waved a hand and said, “Now that’s a work of art.”
“For a party of eight,” Willa said. “I think I’ll cut mine in half.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll finish what you don’t eat.”
Willa passed him a half and then took a bite of hers. “Good,” she said.
“Um. I was starving.”
Sam lay stretched out beside Willa’s chair. She tore off a piece of her turkey, gave him a bite. She glanced back up to find Cline studying her. “What?”
“You can start anytime,” he said.
She wiped her mouth with a napkin, frowning. “With?”
“The list.”
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”
“The tell-me-about-Owen list. I’ve pretty well got it memorized by now. That’s my role as little brother, you know. To prep all potential girlfriends on his likes and dislikes. Stuff that might trip you up. Of course, you know he has a girlfriend. But you’re a lot prettier than she is. Possibly nicer, too.”
The Lost Daughter of Pigeon Hollow Page 9
