“Sister,” I hear his voice say in my head.
What if I misunderstood Charlie? What if he was lashing out that night? Not intending to hurt me? Trying to figure out this whole fucked-up situation? Was he a cutter? What if I could have helped him?
“Brother,” I whisper.
“I added ice.” Roy interrupts my thoughts and walks in carrying a juice glass with barely any Coke.
“Seriously, you couldn’t find a larger glass?” I wipe the tears away with the back of my hand. “Sorry, I’m sorry. It’s been a shitty evening for both of us.” I take a sip and place it on the bedside table. “Take off your clothes and hold me.”
Aunt Stella says life is all about perspective and even in the darkest hours we are blessed. I think of things worse than finding out my maybe mother is dead, from suicide, in a gas station bathroom. My aunts could be ill, or dead. Vincent could die. Something could happen to Roy on his missions overseas. I let that steep like a strong pot of coffee. There are worse things. My life is a happy one.
Roy slides in next to me and wraps his arms around me. I’m tucked in safe and warm against his chest.
“Did you know what he was going to tell me?”
Roy runs his hand up my arm. “Fuck no. I would have never taken you there. I would have insisted he provide me the information first. Tonight was a mistake.”
I turn in his arms to face him. “It wasn’t. I want to go back. I felt…calmness in his presence.”
“Calm?” His eyebrow arched. “You were definitely in shock. I’ve met him numerous times, and that’s the last word to come to mind.” He runs his index finger over my cheek and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “Lily was kind.”
Lily, the woman I thought was an angel. “Her eyes.”
“Yes, purple and blue and violet. I’d heard of her. Mr. Barnes’ woman. She’s from here.”
“His woman. You make her sound like property.” I lean back in his arms. “Is that how you think of me?”
He takes my hand and kisses my palm. “That’s not how I meant it.”
“I want to see the file.”
“You will, but not tonight. You need rest.” He brushes my hair away from my face. “I’m worried about you. You’ve always been thin. You aren’t dieting, are you? For the photo shoot.”
I’ve never dieted in my life. It’s like asking if I’m refraining from coffee. Not gonna happen. “No. I haven’t had an appetite.”
“The therapist will be here at ten o’clock tomorrow. Promise me you’ll speak with her.”
I nod, knowing it’s the right thing to do. “And at eight o’clock sharp you’ll hand over the file.”
“Agreed. Now, it’s late.”
His capitulation was too quick, too easy. I press my finger to his lips. “I need it.” He knows what I mean, what I need, and I sense his resistance. I know what he’ll say, so I cut through all the unspoken words and go straight to the point. “It makes me feel loved and safe and treasured.” As I’m saying this, I realize I have no desire to hide away and slice the pain away. Maybe the compulsion is gone? No, not gone, just replaced with another. Sex with Roy is like a drug that must be administered daily.
“You are loved and safe and treasured.”
He’s worried. Afraid I’ll spiral into self-destructive behavior because of what Mr. Barnes told us. Worried I’m not eating enough and most definitely concerned about the photo shoot. My fingers wrap around his hardness.
“Baby,” he groans.
“I need you,” I whisper.
He stills my hand. “I’ll give you what you need.” Rolling over and trapping me underneath his hard body, he asks. “How do you want it?”
“Deep.” My voice is husky.
Those green eyes of his pierce my soul. The worst thing about being fucked up is how much it fucks up the ones you love. He wants to be gentle and sweet and love me slowly. The battle between what I’ve asked of him and what he deems right at this moment is clearly defined by his clenched jaw. But no matter how conflicted he may be, I know he won’t deny me, and it’s causing him mental turmoil to do so. Knowing how much he wants me. How much he needs to sink himself inside me and claim me and mark me is a sexy, powerful high.
With his arms like fence posts on either side of my face, he slips his knee between my thighs, rotates his hips, and slides inside me. For a brief moment, a heartbeat, he stills and closes his eyes. When he opens them, I’m burned by the intensity of his gaze scorching over my tits, my stomach and back up to my lips. My legs open wide, and my fingernails dig into the flesh of his ass, urging him deeper.
“I love you.” He pulls out almost to the tip and back inside.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“I’ll keep you safe.”
I whimper with need as he unsheathes himself and I purr when he fills me again.
“I treasure you.”
Again, the same ritual as he reaffirms what I need with his voice and body. I should say I love him. It’s in my thoughts and heart, but I can’t bring myself to utter the words. “Please,” I beg, “harder.”
“You make me weak. Put your legs on my shoulders.” His hands slip under my ass, supporting me as the head of his cock is right at my opening.
My arms fall back above my head. This is a new position; he’s in total control, and there’s nothing but us. No worries, no Mr. Stanwyck or Elizabetta or Charlie. “Fuck me,” I urge.
He shakes his head like a stallion and digs his fingers into my thighs, spreading them even wider, and inch by delicious inch, shapes me around his cock until the head is pressing hard against the back.
“Roy,” I cry out. “More.” All artifice is gone now. No higher functioning of my brain. I’m only stimulus and response.
He’s looking at us, how we’re joined, watching as he enters and retreats from me. The muscles in his forearms are bunched. His eyes dart between my pussy and my breasts, now bouncing to his rhythm. Each time he enters he presses harder against that sweet spot inside me until he rockets me from this world to another and I cry out his name.
“Fucking tits,” he groans, and increases his speed and holds me one-handed to free his other hand as his thumb glides over my wet, needy clitoris.
I’m lost. Thrashing and crying and screaming until I’m riding my orgasm like a beast. When it’s over and I open my eyes, I’m satiated and calm, and he gently lowers me and positions my head on the pillow.
His throbbing cock in his hand, he kneels between my legs and ogles my breasts. “I want to fuck them.”
Is he asking permission? There is no need. “They’re yours.” It’s a fact.
He growls. “Press them together.” I do, and he straddles me, my arms pinned at my side, as he slides in between them.
Did he angle me this way on purpose? Yes, I think he must have because when I tilt my chin toward my chest, my mouth is ideally placed for the head of his cock to slide in.
“Fuck,” he barks, increasing the speed.
I love being used for his pleasure.
It doesn’t take long until he throws his head back, the cords of his throat muscles clearly defined. “Daisy, you fucking undo me.” He’s coming in my mouth, and it’s too much to swallow, and I’m left panting for air with it streaming down my chin.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I wake in the early morning hours with Roy draped around my body. His stomach to my back, his arm and leg draped protectively over me. He’s beautiful when the muscles of his face are relaxed, almost boyish if not for the stubble.
I extricate myself from his hold and, amazingly, don’t wake him. The cramping is uncomfortable, and I welcome it, thinking it’s my period, finally. After I pee and see no sign I decide it has to be from our lovemaking. I take two Advil and drink a tall glass of water while standing in the doorway, watching him sleep.
I tell myself there is nothing wrong with looking at the file. I know where it will be because he wasn’t away long enough to take it to his office. It will
be in the library on the long table. I slip into leggings and a sweater and slide on my favorite running shoes. No, I most definitely won’t go running at night, even though that’s what I want to do most.
I like Roy’s home at night, quiet and still, like it’s resting, too. The full moon sits in the sky, watching my progress down the wide stairs through the Palladian window. I turn right and slip into the library. Yes, it’s there—the leather-bound folder sitting on the long table like it’s been waiting for me.
I don’t know why I take it to the kitchen instead of reading it in the library. I guess the library is more Roy’s space and the kitchen more communal, less intimidating. I click on the lights and blink a few times to acclimate. Suddenly ravenous, I peruse the Tupperware containers in the fridge and settle on one marked chicken salad. I never thought I’d have a cook, but now that I do, I can’t imagine life without Evelyn.
Grabbing a spoon, I take my snack and sit at the table. One, two, three bites of chicken salad and I’m still staring at the closed leather folder. I’m afraid. I’m excited. Should I shred it in the garbage disposal and forget all the madness? What good can come from dredging up the past? I set aside my food. I have to turn the folder over to unbuckle the black band. I’ve never seen a folder like this. The leather is smooth as silk and dark like it’s been oiled decade upon decade.
With a large inhale of breath, I open the cover. There is a pocket and binder-clipped pages with neatly handwritten tabs in between. It’s far more than I expected. Tucked inside the front cover is a photo of Elizabetta wearing a cotton dress. The sun hits her from behind, outlining the lean lines of her legs. We have the same washed-out blue eyes. She’s smiling at the photographer like she’s won the lottery. How did she go from this carefree young woman to being found dead in a gas station bathroom? Her name and the date 1994 are written on the white border at the bottom. I scan Domethe photo for clues of where it was taken. It looks like Middleburg, with her standing in front of a four-plank fence with rolling hills behind her. Judging by her dress and the green grass and leafed-out trees, it's summer. Another photo is tucked behind hers. This woman is older. There’s snow on the ground. She’s wearing a fur coat, not a nice one—maybe rabbit. On the back is written Annabelle Fitzgerald, Christmas 1978.
I sit back and place the photos side by side. Is Annabelle my grandmother?
A sheet on top, not clipped to any others, is a lease agreement. It’s for the house on Stoke Mountain. Elizabetta Fitzgerald is the lessee. The rent payment is fifty dollars a month. Even back then, that would have been ridiculously cheap. At the bottom of the sheet, there is a reference listed, an Annabelle Fitzgerald, with the notation stating she is Elizabetta’s mother.
So there’s the connection, and I set the sheet aside to review the first set of clipped pages marked with Annabelle’s name.
Name: Annabella T. Fitzgerald
Born: 1952 in Washington, D.C.
Education: Coolidge High School 1970
Work:
1970-1976 – Domestic - Graham family in Washington, D.C.
1976-1977 - Domestic - Stanwyck family in Middleburg, VA
Marital Status: Single
Children:
Elizabetta S. Fitzgerald, born 1977 - died 1996
Sebastian R. Fitzgeral, born 1977 - whereabouts unknown
Last Known Address: Takoma Park, D.C.
Died: Suicide. Self-inflicted gunshot wound to head. Found in the home.
Annabella worked for the Stanwyck family, too. Why does everything always come back around to them? Elizabetta was a twin…I might have an uncle. There’s no death listed for Sabastian, so I assume he’s alive. And I see the cause of death for Annabelle. She killed herself, like my mother. Like it’s contagious, I flip the sheet over and place it to the side. The next sheet is a copy of the death certificate, and there’s no way I’m looking at that now because I can’t deal with knowing two generations of Fitzgerald women committed suicide.
The next set of clipped pages is in the same format with a cover sheet.
Name: Elizabetta S. Fitzgerald
Born: 1977 in Washington, D.C.
Education: Coolidge High School 1995
Work:
1995-1996 – Domestic - Stanwyck family Middleburg, VA
Marital Status: Single
Siblings: Sebastian R. Fitzgerald*
Children:
Jacqueline S. Fitzgerald**, born 1996
Address: Takoma Park, D.C.
Died: 1996. Suicide. Self-inflicted knife wounds to the wrist. McLean, VA.
Criminal record: Arrested for theft in 1996, Middleburg, VA; charges dropped
* Fraternal twin unaccounted for. Last seen 1996. Assumed alive. Assumed changed identity.
** Suicide note indicated she gave newborn to a family in McLean she met at the gas station who were traveling back to their home in California. Infant not found. Assumed dead.
Am I Jacqueline? “Jacqueline,” I say, like it should sound familiar to me. I quickly scan through the pages; another death certificate that I’m not going to read. Please, please, please let there be a birth certificate and…there it is.
Jacqueline Stanwyck Fitzgerald, born August 7, 1996, Winchester Medical Center.
Holy fuck! It has to be me. I was found on the doorstep of Mangler on August 9, 1996. And the most obvious thing I should have noticed right away sinks in…My middle name is Stanwyck. I scan the document. There is only a sad, blank space where the father was to be listed.
And how did—Merlin, I think that was his name—find out all this information when the police couldn’t? My aunts hired a private detective, and there was nothing because I now realize there was no trail to follow. The search for me probably never reached Middleburg. The police were focused on D.C. and McLean and points east. The Stanwyck family ring is the key opening the lock to my past, my birthright.
There’s one more set of clipped pages. On the top is a professional family photo with the husband on a throne style chair with back straight, eyes forward, and hands wrapped around the arms. Sitting at his feet is an equally stern-faced woman with high cheekbones and dark hair expertly pulled back from her face. On either side of the man are two men, probably in their late teens or early twenties. I don’t need to read the description to know who they are. The one on the left is a young Mr. Stanwyck. The man on the right is Bobby or Robert as he was called then, whole and handsome with the world on a string, as they say.
The last page in the folder confuses me as to why it’s included.
Name: Alistair R. Stanwyck III
Born: 1936
Marital Status: Married. Jacqueline B. Dahlgren
Children* (legitimate):
Robert A. Stanwyck, born 1962
Whitcomb A. Stanwyck, born 1964
Address: Willoughby Estate, Middleburg, VA
Criminal record: None
Died: 1998
Cause of death: Heart attack
* Known illegitimate children: Jonathan B. Langley, Boyce W. Patrick, Tobias M. Napier, Trent W. O’Neill, Stephen A. Miles, Elizabetta S. Fitzgerald, Sebastian R. Fitzgerald
I reread the last line, again and again. “No, no, NO!” I bolt up and swipe my hand across the table, sending papers flying, and fall back into the chair, toppling it over. I want to burn them, disintegrate them, even from my mind. Instead, I watch the photos and pages flutter and settle on the kitchen floor. The one with the Stanwyck family lands at my feet. I hold back a scream. RUN! And I do. Yanking the French door open, I sprint out in the crisp morning air with the sun rising up and painting everything in its glow. I sprint up the stone path and past the gym, my legs like pistons, driving me on until I’m at the gazebo.
Proctor knew. He tried to warn me off. “Bastard,” I scream and careen down the hill and into the woods.
“Sister,” Charlie’s voice begs. “Don’t.”
I skitter to a stop, bracing my hands on an oak tree to keep from falling. You know you’re term
inally fucked when the voice egging you on to harm yourself is now the voice of caution. I slam the vault door inside my head and proceed.
Proctor’s cottage comes into view. It’s like something out of a fairy tale, with its high-peaked, thatched roof and windows balancing out an arched door. I’m bellowing air with my hands on my knees, staring at what could be a prop at Disneyland. Proctor lives here?
Running’s not enough; I need to spew out the rancid information I’ve digested to the one person who tried to warn me away. I pummel and kick the absurd front door. “Proctor!”
It opens immediately. My balance is off, and I stumble and almost fall into the room and am saved from a face-plant by the overstuffed—of course—chair sitting in front of the cozy fire.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says in his flat, monotone voice.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t be…here…at all. I’m surprised nature hasn’t spit me out as something foul that needs destroying.” I whirl around, full of rage, with a gnawing in my stomach like rats feasting. He’s standing by the door, perfectly still, utterly lethal, wearing low-slung pajama bottoms.
“You read the file.” He taps his nose. “Merlin’s a cagey one for hunting out secrets.”
I hear him, but I’m not listening. I mean it registers, but what’s in front of me is taking all my bandwidth to comprehend. His skin is like spilled milk except for the areas of ruin where there are tattoos and cuts, ragged along the edges like someone tore his flesh off in strips. I stumble back.
“He’s coming.” He tilts his head to the side like he’s listening.
At one time, the tattoos must have been impressive, but now they are bifurcated and obscured by the scarred flesh. Focus, I tell myself. “You’ve known all along, haven’t you?”
He shrugs like we’re talking about last night’s baseball game. “The information has not been verified.”
I close my eyes to keep from launching myself at him. And now I do hear something. The sound of heavy footfalls and breathing and, suddenly, Roy is looming in the doorway with Gavin close behind.
Secrets In Our Scars Page 32
