“Wow,” Junior says, blowing out a breath. “That was powerful.”
I smile at him. “It’s okay to cry, you guys,” I say. “It’s an emotional moment.”
“I’m fine,” Junior says, dismissing me with a shooing motion. “I have some paperwork to catch up on, so I’ll see you guys later.” He turns and heads back the way we came.
“Yeah, me too,” Richmond says, and then he pivots around and starts down the hall toward the elevator. “Lots of paperwork,” he adds over his shoulder.
I look up at Hurley, and touch the dampness on his cheek with the back of my hand.
“You did that, Squatch,” he says. Then he embraces my face between his hands, gives me a kiss on my forehead, and says, “I’m very proud of you.”
“Thanks.” I let out a shuddering breath, and glance toward the closed library door. “There’s a long road ahead of them,” I say. “She’s going to need lots of counseling, and probably some drug rehab, too. It won’t be easy, particularly with her sister gone.”
“It wasn’t a perfect ending,” Hurley says, “but it could have been a whole lot worse.”
“Did Richmond say how many people they’ve managed to bust?”
“He said the FBI, along with local authorities in several towns and cities, have made about a dozen arrests so far, with more to come. Our Mr. O’Keefe knows quite a bit about the operation because he and Michaela have been working with them for five years now. The two of them go back further than that, but he was starting to get scared of her, so he’s not harboring any last feelings of devotion toward her. He said she was the one who snatched both of the girls, and we’re inclined to believe him. Liesel was attending the grief support group, and I can’t imagine her trusting O’Keefe enough to go off anywhere with him. Once they had Liesel, Michaela drove out to the Paulsen farm to see Lily and tell her she knew where her sister was. Then she snatched her, too.”
“Evil bitch,” I mutter.
“And you’ll be happy to know that they’ve decided to shut down Dr. Lowe, now that they know about his little black book.”
“Good!”
“Plus, it turns out our local intrepid reporter, Irwin Cleese, managed to dig up quite a bit of info on his own. He was about to come to us with some of it when everything went down. And since the local paper comes out tomorrow, he’s got the insider scoop. So he’s pretty pleased.”
“I’m glad. I like the guy.”
Hurley kisses me again, on the lips this time. It isn’t a long kiss, but it’s tender, sweet, and full of unspoken thoughts and sentiments.
“Are you going back to the station?” I ask him once we part.
He nods. “Do you think you’ll be tied up all day?”
I shrug. “I want to make sure the Paulsens get the help they need. I’ve got a few things lined up already, starting with a visit to that social worker, Hildy, over at the hospital. She has a list of resources we can use, and she’s already offered to provide some counseling for the two of them, at least initially.”
Hurley cocks a wry smile and chucks me under my chin with a finger. “One of the things I love the most about you, Squatch, is that you have a big heart. It’s even bigger than your feet.” Then, with lightning quickness, he turns and hurries off down the hall. “I’ll be home for dinner,” he says over his shoulder.
I smile, feeling all liquid and happy and joyful inside. I take a moment to bask in this ball of contentment, and then I tuck it away in a special place, deep down inside my heart, reserved for when I need to take it out again. Then, with a deep, bracing breath, I square my shoulders and go back into the library.
CHAPTER 32
Another snowstorm beats its way into Sorenson on Saturday night, leaving the town bruised and frozen. Its inhabitants, however, are a hardy bunch, well inured to these sorts of attacks, and they are out in force, shoveling, snowblowing, digging out their cars, and chatting with one another. They aren’t fazed by the knowledge that another blizzard is on its way, due to strike late this evening, and likely to tie up rush-hour traffic come Monday morning.
Today is Hurley’s birthday party, and Christopher kindly offered to switch weekends with me so I could be free. For Christopher, this means two more nights of sleeping with the dead in our office. I’d feel guilty, except he doesn’t seem to mind it, and I suspect it seems like the Ritz when compared to his house.
I get Matthew ready to go early in the morning, planning to head to Desi’s house to help with the last-minute details of the party. When I arrive at my sister’s place, she is already up and has breakfast cooking on the stove. Bacon and eggs for breakfast is a Sunday ritual in the Colter household, and the aromas smell wonderful. By the time I get Matthew out of his snowsuit and boots, I’m practically drooling.
“Good timing,” Desi says. “We’re just about to sit down and eat. Want to join us?”
“I have some last-minute shopping to do,” I waffle, but my heart isn’t in it. “Though I suppose a little extra energy won’t hurt,” I say, shrugging off my coat.
“There’s something I should tell you,” Desi says as I turn to go hang up my coat and Matthew’s snowsuit.
Her warning comes a second too late, as Matthew suddenly squeals with delight and dashes past me toward the person standing a few feet away. Dressed in boots and a down parka, my father is holding an armload of cut wood. I glance past him toward the fireplace in the living room and see that the beginnings of a fire have been set: some crumpled papers and a small tower of kindling.
“Hi, Pop-pop,” Matthew says, wrapping his arms around one of my father’s legs and hugging it. This is the first time I’ve heard Matthew refer to my father by any name. I have no idea where “Pop-pop” came from, and suddenly I feel like an outsider.
“Hi, chief,” my father says with a smile, managing to shift his load enough to free one hand, which he uses to pat Matthew on the head.
My father’s gaze shifts to me. “Good morning, Mattie,” he says with a tentative smile.
“Hello, Cedric,” I say, my tone as cold as the air outside. He winces, and I suspect that my use of his first name, as opposed to the title he wants me to use—Dad—has stung a bit. I feel a twinge of guilt, and in an attempt to soften my blow, I smile at him and say, “How are you?”
“I’m doing well,” he says.
“We having a birfday party for Daddy,” Matthew announces, releasing my father’s leg.
“So I heard,” Cedric says. “How fun, eh?”
“Matthew?” Desi says from behind me. “Want some bacon?”
“Bacon!” Matthew echoes, and he quickly dashes over to the counter and climbs up on a stool.
Cedric turns back into the living room and deposits his wood load into a bin on the hearth. Then he squats in front of the fireplace and starts stacking logs on top of his kindling.
I look over my shoulder at Desi, who shakes her head in a chastising manner. Sighing, I trudge into the living room and hang up our stuff in the coat closet. Then I walk over to stand next to my father. “Look,” I say, “I know that things are, well, kind of strained between us. I’m working on it. I just need more time.”
“Take all the time you want,” he says, busying himself with the laying of the fire and not looking at me. “I’m not going anywhere. Not this time.”
I stand there, chewing on my lip, unsure what to do or say next. This awkwardness between my father and me refuses to go away. Desi, bless her, has somehow managed to put the past and all the deceptions behind her, and she has welcomed my father—our father, as it turns out—into her life. And if you get right down to it, she has more reason to be angry about everything that happened in the past than I do. Desi grew up thinking another man was her father, a lie of astounding proportions perpetuated by our mother.
I open my mouth to say something more, but the words aren’t there. After doing my best imitation of a fish for a few seconds, I give up and head back to the kitchen. Matthew is happily chowing down on two
strips of crispy bacon and playing a game on a tablet Desi has given him, leaving a trail of greasy fingerprints on the screen.
I walk over to stand by my sister, who is busy scrambling eggs on the stove.
“You’re still angry with him?” Desi says in a slightly chastising tone.
“Not angry,” I say. “Just . . . I don’t know . . . uncomfortable. Unsettled. It’s going to take time.”
“He’s really good with Matthew, you know. They adore one another.”
“So I’ve seen.”
I’m not sure how I feel about this. On the one hand, I want Matthew to know his grandparents, and have a relationship with them. This has already proven to be a challenge with my mother, who looks at Matthew’s runny nose, or food-smeared face, or dirt-covered hands, with something akin to horror. She buys him things, and talks to him on the phone, but whenever they are together sharing physical space, she keeps her distance. Matthew has sensed her reservations, and he tends to steer clear of her.
I realize Matthew has the opportunity to have the relationship with my father that I never did, and the thought cheers me a little. But it also angers me on some level. For my father to casually stroll back into my life after more than thirty years of nonexistence and expect to be embraced and accepted with open arms strikes me as the height of audacity, especially after all the lies that were told over the years.
Granted, I have since learned that those lies were told in order to protect Desi and me, and that my mother was as much, if not more, of a culprit in the duplicity that took place all those years ago. But I spent so much of my life resenting and hating the vague memory of the man I knew as my father, a man who deserted my mother and me when I was four, that I now find it hard to reverse gears and put all that behind me.
I don’t know what to say to Desi on the subject, and since my father has now entered the kitchen, it’s a moot point.
“I’ve got the fire going,” Cedric says.
“Thank you,” Desi says. “These eggs are ready. Shall we eat?” As she carries the pan of eggs to the dining-room table, she hollers for the rest of the family. “Ethan? Erika? Lucien? Breakfast is ready.”
The meal goes off smoothly enough with light, conversational chatter about mundane topics like the weather, stuff the kids are doing in school, and Matthew’s frequent reminders that we are having a “birfday party with cake and ice cream.” My son’s fixation with food borders on my own.
* * *
I notice that everyone else at the table seems quite comfortable with Cedric, and I realize that he must be a frequent guest in the Colter house. Even Lucien, who is known for having a terminal case of foot-in-mouth disease, chats amiably with the man.
Once we’re done eating, Erika takes Matthew back into the living room to watch cartoons, and Ethan disappears into his bedroom to spend some bonding time with his collection of mostly dead bugs. Lucien excuses himself to go to his home office and finish up some paperwork, leaving Desi, Cedric, and me at the table.
Cedric looks out the window, then at Desi. “I’m thinking I might not stay for the party,” he says. “The storm that’s coming is due to hit late this afternoon, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to get a cab if I stay for dinner like we planned. I should go now.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Desi says. “Just plan on staying here for the night. There’s a fold-out bed in that couch in Lucien’s office.”
I watch my father’s face as he considers Desi’s invitation: pleasure mixed with doubt. Is he considering an early departure because of the weather, or because of me? And I realize then that despite the awkwardness I often feel when I’m around him, I don’t want him to go.
“Please stay for the party,” I say. “I’d like you to be here.”
Cedric looks at me with surprise.
“I mean it,” I say. “I know things are strained and awkward at times between us, but I’m trying. And I want to . . . I need to get to know you better.”
I see tears glisten in his eyes as he looks at me, and another stab of guilt pierces my heart.
He finally tears his eyes from mine and looks at Desi instead. “Are you sure it won’t be too much trouble if I stay?”
“Not at all,” Desi says with a smile.
“Okay.” He looks at me, and adds, “Thank you.”
Erika and Matthew reappear then. “Matthew wants to go outside and build a snowman,” Erika says. “Is that okay? I’ll keep an eye on him.”
“That sounds like fun,” I say, and then I get up and fetch Matthew’s snowsuit and boots from the closet. While Erika gets herself dressed to face the elements, I help Matthew into his snowsuit, but wrangling him into his boots proves to be an exercise in frustration. As I hold one of the boots so he can put his foot in, he makes a face at it and doesn’t lift his foot from the floor.
“Come on, Matthew,” I cajole. “Put your foot in.”
“I don’t like boots,” he says with a pouty face.
“If you’re going to go outside, you need to wear them. They keep your feet warm and dry.”
“They make my feet feel funny,” he says in a whiny voice.
I ignore his protest, one I’ve heard dozens of times, and grab his foot with one hand while I try to maneuver his boot on with the other. Matthew refuses to point his toes, pulling his foot back so it is ninety degrees from his leg and not going into the boot.
“Matthew,” I say in my best warning voice. “Knock it off and straighten your foot.”
“I don’t want to,” he whines again, and he pulls his foot loose from my hand.
My father appears at my side then, and he crouches down in front of Matthew. His smell, a mixture of apple-scented pipe tobacco and whatever soap or aftershave he uses, wafts toward me, and it is instantly familiar, transporting me back in time. I have a flash of memory, of me sitting in his lap, looking up at him adoringly, feeling safe, loved, and happy. I shake it off, or rather I try to, but there is some vestige of that warm, loving feeling that remains, refusing to be driven away.
“You need to do what your mother says, chief,” my father commands in a no-nonsense voice. “Now put your boots on.”
I try to decipher the expression on Matthew’s face. It isn’t fright, but it’s close. More like awe, respect, and adoration, tinged with a tiny hint of fear. After a few seconds of staring at my father, Matthew sticks his foot in the boot and pulls it on himself. Then he does the same thing with the other one.
“Thanks,” I say to my father, a bit grudgingly. “I need to bottle that, whatever it is, because he doesn’t listen to me at all these days.”
“Goes with the age,” my father says. “He’ll grow out of it.” I wonder how he knows this, given that he wasn’t around when his children grew up. Then I realize I’m making some potentially erroneous assumptions.
As Erika grabs Matthew’s hand and hauls him toward the back door, I look over at my father. “Did you . . . do you have any other family?” I ask. “Did you hook up with anyone when you were in the Witness Protection Program?”
He looks down at the floor, and his cheeks redden. “I don’t have any other children of my own,” he says. “Just you and Desi. But I was with a woman for a number of years and she had young children when I met her. So I had some stepchildren for a time.”
“Are you still in contact with them?”
He shakes his head. “No, I figured it was safer for everyone involved if I kept my distance. And their mother didn’t know about my past, my real past. So when I decided to leave the program, I more or less just . . . well . . . disappeared.”
It takes me a moment to digest this. “You mean, you didn’t tell her you were leaving?”
He shakes his head, looking embarrassed and ashamed. “I made a clean cut,” he says, looking away.
I’m not sure whom to empathize with in this story. I realize how difficult it had to have been for him to do what he did, but I also know that the woman he was with, and her children, must have gone thro
ugh hell wondering what happened to him, and whether or not he was dead or alive.
“I did send her a letter,” he adds. “Just to let her know I was okay and wouldn’t be back.” He stands, grunting a little, and I hear his knees crack loudly. He extends a hand to me to help me up from the floor. It’s a huge hand, and it envelops mine, warm and steady.
“Why did you leave the program?” I ask when I’m standing, pulling my hand back. “Why risk everything?”
He looks at me, his eyes damp with emotion. “Because of you,” he says. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I didn’t know about Desi then, and even if I had known about her, I never spent any time with her. I never knew her. But you . . . you were my little girl.”
His voice cracks when he says these last few words, and I feel tears burn behind my eyes. I try to swallow, but it feels as if I’ve swallowed a golf ball that’s stuck in my throat.
“Leaving you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life,” he says.
Emotion surges through me, threatening to burst out of my very pores. I feel overwhelmed, vulnerable, and frightened. And I do the only thing that makes sense to me at the time. I hug my father for the first time in thirty-plus years.
CHAPTER 33
The birthday party goes off without too many hitches, largely because my sister planned it. Not surprisingly, my mother and William fail to show, but it is just as well. Having my mother, her current paramour, and my father all together under one roof would have been the height of awkwardness, and I want Hurley’s party to be a fun, memorable occasion.
Desi has whipped up a variety of yummy appetizers, and in addition to the cake and ice cream, there is plenty of soda, beer, and wine. Izzy, Dom, and Juliana come with Sylvie in tow. Sylvie has apparently regressed back to her childhood. She shows up dressed in her party finery, her scant gray-and-white locks in pigtails. After taking the chair closest to the fireplace, she proceeds to ooh and aah over the festivities, periodically clapping her hands together in glee and protesting, “All this for me? You shouldn’t have!”
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