Reason to Breathe

by Deborah Raney

  “Not that the girls would recognize his name. He was quite a bit older than Myra, and he’s been out of the public arena for years now. Retired, I think. Shoot, he may be dead for all I know. For a while, I kept track of him, just to be sure he didn’t come anywhere near Myra. But after a while, I just wanted to pretend the lousy—” He caught himself, as he always did. “I just wanted to pretend he didn’t exist.”

  Turner was not one to use profanity, but Quinn could fill in the blanks. His thoughts churned. If this Bill Whatever-his-name-was had retired, he was likely in his mid-sixties now, maybe older.

  “Anyway, Myra and I worked together in Jeff City. There was nothing between us—we had feelings for each other, obviously, but I mean we didn’t act on them. Not until after her divorce. But I knew she was in trouble. In danger. Even without her coming out and saying anything.”

  Phylicia hadn’t told him any of this. Not that she necessarily would have. She seemed reluctant to talk about any of it. “But … why would Phylicia think you’re not her biological father? You are, aren’t you?”

  Another sigh. “Quinn, I honestly don’t know if I am or not.”

  “And if you’re not?” He let the question hang in the air. How could a man not know such a thing? He and Myra would have had to marry very quickly after her divorce for what Turner suspected to be true. Or else Myra was sleeping with both men before her divorce—which Turner had denied, and Quinn found difficult to believe.

  As if Turner had read his mind, he explained. “Myra finally came to me, desperate and terrified of what he might do. The abuse had escalated. The man was vicious. Criminal even. Making her do … things against her will.” The pain—and anger—in Turner’s voice were palpable.

  Quinn couldn’t imagine how helpless Turner must have felt. Yet probably reluctant to get involved on behalf of a married woman.

  “It got so bad, I finally enlisted the help of another woman we worked with,” Turner continued. “After we threatened to turn him in, we were able to get her away from the man. She quit her job and hid out until he finally agreed to a divorce—as long as Myra promised to keep her mouth shut about the abuse. He had connections and pulled some strings, arranged for an emergency divorce. He had their divorce records sealed, so none of it would come back to haunt him. The guy had political aspirations, I think.”

  “I can’t even imagine. I never knew …”

  “No. No one did. Myra never wanted anyone to know. But for a few months, he still made threats, tried to shake Myra up. That’s why we moved to Langhorne after Phee was born. We wanted to be sure he stayed far away from Myra and the girls. And it’s why we were so reluctant to tell the girls. At least when they were younger.”

  “But why does that make you unsure whether you’re Phylicia’s father—biological father?”

  Another heavy sigh. “Myra was in a desperate financial situation—the guy saw to that … it’s how he controlled her …so we married right away. As soon as her divorce was final. We were young, but by then I knew I loved her, and she loved me. A month after we got married, Myra discovered she was pregnant. We joked in public that it happened on our honeymoon, but”—he cleared his throat—“neither one of us were walking with the Lord back then, and … let’s just say it could have happened before we were legally married. I hope you don’t find that disappointing. Like I said, we were young and we weren’t where we should have been spiritually.”

  “Hey …” Quinn held up a hand, even though he was aware Turner couldn’t see the gesture. Mabel struggled to her haunches, watching him closely as if she sensed his tension. “I’m sure not going to stand in judgment.” He let his voice trail off, hoping Turner wouldn’t guess how little right he had to judge.

  “Anyway, it could have happened a few weeks before our wedding. And … it could have happened before she was divorced. That monster forced himself on her on numerous occasions, especially after he knew she was trying to leave the marriage.”

  Quinn blew out a long breath. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Even the doctors were never sure about Myra’s due date—tests for that kind of stuff weren’t quite as precise as they are now, and her cycles weren’t regular. But then … Phee came five weeks early—that is, five weeks if Myra got pregnant our first time. And the baby—Phee—weighed almost seven pounds. I forget exactly now. But … well, the math doesn’t quite add up.” He gave a frustrated grunt. “I suppose it’s possible a baby born that early could be that big, but it’s not probable. And there are … other things … that make me question whether Phee is mine.”

  “Wow. But you don’t know for sure? You never had DNA tests or genetic testing done?” Trying to put himself in Turner’s place, he found it hard to believe Turner wouldn’t have pursued answers. He would have been asking a whole lot of questions.

  “I think … I didn’t want to know … if I wasn’t her father. Myra and I made the decision to, um, alter our wedding date. The date we told people we’d eloped—the date we always celebrated as our anniversary—was actually the day Myra’s divorce became final. And we did elope. That part was true, and the girls have always known about it. But the day her divorce was final—that was the day we considered ourselves married in God’s eyes. With … all the privileges of marriage.” He gave a humorless laugh. “I’m not saying we were right. A man will tell himself strange things to justify sin.”

  Quinn blew out another audible stream of air. He knew all too much about that. And it was another reason his breakup with Heather had been so agonizing. If they hadn’t given in to temptation, the whole fiasco with Heather wouldn’t have been nearly as complicated then—or nearly as awkward now.

  He shook off the thoughts. This wasn’t the time. Turner was waiting for a response. “So, you and Myra never talked about it? About the possibility that Phylicia wasn’t yours?”

  “Of course she’s mine. It’s my name on her birth certificate. I’m the one who was in that delivery room holding Myra’s hand. Shoot, I even cut Phee’s cord.” His voice lost a little steam and he cleared his throat. “Not that I get why that’s such a big deal. Kind of gross, if you want to know the truth. But I’m the one who brought her and Myra home from the hospital. I’ve been her father in every way. From day one.”

  “Of course. I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “No. I’m sorry. And I didn’t mean to lash out at you. This mess isn’t your fault.”

  Quinn took a deep breath. “So, what you’re saying is that you and Myra never talked about the possibility that her first husband could be Phylicia’s father?”

  “After Phee was born, we never talked about the man. About any of it. It was as if that part of Myra’s life had never happened. It was odd, really, because there wasn’t anything else we couldn’t talk about. But then …” His voice took on a faraway quality. “At the very end … just a few days before Myra became unable to speak, she told me some things. And even then, it wasn’t a confession by any means. But she said some things that opened the door to the possibility that I might not be Phee’s father—it was more than she’d ever hinted at before.”

  “Wow. That had to be hard.” Quinn hung on every word, even as he wished Turner would shut up. He didn’t want to know the things the man was saddling him with.

  “Honestly, Quinn, I couldn’t even think about it. It was all I could handle—still is—to face losing my sweet Myra. But when Phee told me about the photo and the ring … I wonder now if maybe Myra felt like she needed to tell Phee. I still don’t know if she said anything to her or not. I don’t think she did.” He gave a shuddering sigh. “I didn’t know Myra had saved that stuff, but the only reason I can think of that she would save it was in case Phee needed some kind of proof someday.”

  “Proof?”

  “I don’t know … to obtain her medical history maybe? Or … maybe Myra thought Phee should have an inheritance from him or something? The guy was wealthy. I honestly don’t know what she had in mind. And I’ll never know.
That’s why I hate that Phylicia even found that stuff.”

  “I’m sorry. I wish I knew what to say.” Quinn had to wonder if Myra had another reason for keeping that photo. He knew if it were him, his imagination would be going berserk.

  “You don’t need to say anything. I really didn’t intend to lay this all on you. And please … keep it on the down-low. In case Phee hasn’t thought about the possibilities yet.”

  “You’re going to tell her though? I assume.”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure I should. I think she has enough on her plate right now with losing her mother, and buying the property, and now finding out about Myra’s first marriage. Not to mention the mess I’ve made of things.”

  “You?”

  “Moving to Florida. Jumping the gun with Karleen. I at least should have stuck around and told them face-to-face. About Karleen.”

  Quinn couldn’t disagree, so he remained silent, scratching Mabel under her chin.

  After an overlong pause, Turner asked, “Did the girls tell you we broke it off? Karleen and I?”

  “Phylicia said something about it.”

  “I think it was for the best.” He let out a short huff. “I need to let myself grieve. And I need to get my head on straight before I do anything as drastic as marriage.”

  “Yes, that’s probably wise. For anybody.” He attempted a laugh.

  “Wish you would have told me that a few months ago.” Turner’s voice held a smile.

  “I don’t recall you asking.” Quinn tried to keep levity in his own voice, relieved that they seemed to be back on even footing. But he couldn’t feel relieved at all about the information he now had in his possession. Turner had told him way too much—the man was obviously getting things off his chest.

  But now the weight of these secrets and lies were on his chest. And Quinn wasn’t sure what to do with that. Especially if he wanted something beyond friendship with Phylicia Chandler.

  And he did. He most definitely did.

  Chapter 20

  Meow.

  Phee sat up in bed, forgetting for a minute where she was.

  Meow. The cry came again and a white-tipped black tail swished past the closed French doors of Phee’s new room. She reached for her phone and glanced at the time. Apparently, the daybed was plenty comfortable, because it was almost eight o’clock.

  She eased her legs over the side of the mattress and stretched. Barefoot, she padded out to the living room, Melvin shadowing her every step. The house was chilly, so she turned the furnace up a notch, glancing longingly at the fireplace. Living in an apartment, she’d missed having a fireplace. Dad had taught each of them the art of building a good fire before they left home, but they hadn’t wanted to risk a fire when they were leaving the cottage overnight. Maybe some weekend when they planned to be here all day, they’d give it a try.

  Instead, she lit the grouping of candles they’d placed in the firebox and went into the kitchen for coffee. The morning sun streamed through the windows, but the aroma of coffee brewing was absent, as was any sign of life from her sisters. They must have slept soundly too. Either that or they woke early and went to church without her.

  She tiptoed into the hallway and peeked into her sisters’ bedrooms. Both still sawing logs. And their doors were open. She picked Melvin up and carried him into the living room and set him down. “Silly cat. My door was closed. You couldn’t choose one of the open doors?”

  He chirped in reply, cocking his head and giving her what Mom had always called his sad puppy dog face. It was hard to resist. “You hungry? Come here, buddy.” She went to the tiny back porch off the kitchen where she’d set up his area last night after Quinn left. Melvin had left a little “gift” in the litter box beside the washing machine. “Good boy. Tell you what. I’ll feed you, and we’ll let one of the sleepyheads clean out the litter box.” They hadn’t discussed how Melvin duties would be divvied up, but she laughed to herself imagining how that conversation would go down.

  She looked at the clock on the coffeemaker. If they were going to make it to the nine o’clock church service, she’d better get in the shower. She rummaged in the boxes they had yet to unpack and located a towel and some shampoo. They’d washed out paint brushes and cleaning rags in the tub and it could stand a good cleaning, but that would have to wait for another day. It would do for now.

  Twenty minutes later, someone pounded on the door. She quickly rinsed the last of the conditioner out of her hair and turned off the water. “It’s open.”

  “I need to get in there.” Britt knocked again.

  “The door is open, Britt. I’m in the shower.”

  The door handle rattled. “It’s locked.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  She gave a little growl. She knew she hadn’t locked the door. For exactly this reason. “Hang on. I’m just about out.” She shoved the shower curtain aside and stepped over the side of the tub. She grabbed the towel and, wrapping it around her, went to open the door.

  The doorknob jiggled but wouldn’t turn. She bent to inspect the lock mechanism. The vintage lock was about as simple as they came, but it wouldn’t budge either way.

  “Hurry up, Phee! I’ve gotta go.”

  “You must have locked it from the outside, because I can’t get it open.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t get the door open from this side.”

  “Well, I sure can’t get it open from this side, or I would have been in there five minutes ago.”

  “Hang on.” She dried her hands and tried the lock again. “It won’t budge. Did you check if there’s a way to turn the lock from that side?”

  “There’s not. And besides, who would be stupid enough to put a lock on the outside of a bathroom door?”

  “Well, you’re going to have to figure something out. I can’t get it from this side, and it’s not like I have a toolbox in here.”

  “What’s going on?” Joanna’s groggy voice joined Britt’s on the other side of the door.

  “Phee locked me out.”

  “I did not lock this door.”

  “Did you see what time it is? We’re going to be late for church,” Jo said.

  “That will be the least of our problems if somebody doesn’t open this door.” Britt sounded desperate.

  “Go outside,” Phee hollered through the door.

  “How will that help?”

  “No, I mean go outside. In the bushes.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  Britt growled and then heavy footsteps headed down the hall and the back door slammed. Phee couldn’t help but laugh. But she was still stuck in this four-by-six-foot bathroom. “Jo? You still there?”

  “I’m here, but what am I supposed to do?”

  “You’re sure there’s not a place for a key on that side?”

  “Not that I can see. Do you have a nail file in there? Something you can jiggle around in the keyhole?”

  “You make it sound like a jailbreak.”

  Joanna giggled. “There’s a pretty good gap under the door. Maybe I can fit an ice pick or … something under the door to you.”

  Phee heard the back door slam and Britt jabbering, sounding out of breath.

  “What is wrong with you?” Joanna didn’t sound too sympathetic.

  “Somebody just pulled in the driveway. Thanks to you, I came this close to being caught with my pants—”

  “Who is it?” Jo asked.

  “I don’t know. It’s an SUV.”

  “Hang on a sec, Phee. Somebody’s here.”

  “Wait! Don’t leave me locked in here … Jo?”

  Scuffling footsteps, then silence.

  Phee sat on the edge of the tub. The 1940s muddy-pink tile was something she’d thought they could live with—maybe tone it down with white paint and white shower curtain. But if she had to sit here surrounded by it for even two more minutes, she might start ripping
off tiles with her bare hands.

  She moved to the window, but she couldn’t see past the corner of the house, so she went back to the door and hollered for her sisters. After what seemed like an eternity, she heard the front door open and multiple footsteps. “Jo? Britt?”

  “We brought help.” Jo sounded positively gleeful.

  “You hanging in there, Phylicia?” Quinn’s voice boomed through the crack in the door. “We’ll have you out of there in a few minutes.”

  What was he doing here? She stole a glance in the mirror and her breath caught. “Hang on! Wait a minute …” She cast about the room, then grabbed her flannel pajamas off the hook by the shower and scrambled to put them on. Thank goodness she’d slept in something halfway decent last night, not knowing how warm her new room would be.

  She ripped the towel off her head and tried in vain to untangle her wet hair, then decided a little blush and lip gloss would be a more noticeable improvement. But she’d left her makeup in her room since the three of them were sharing the small bathroom.

  She gave a longing glance toward the window, wishing it were big enough to crawl out of. This was beyond embarrassing! And what was Quinn doing here anyway? He hadn’t told her last night that he was coming back. In fact, he’d mentioned going to the early service at his church in Cape.

  “Here, Joanna, can you hold this pin while I grab a screwdriver?” Quinn sounded all business, and on the other side of the door, scraping and hammering and muffled conversation ensued.

  Peering into the bathroom mirror, with a cautious eye on the door, Phee gave up on her makeup and hurriedly pinned her hair—as much as it would cooperate while still damp—into a messy bun.

  The scrape of metal against metal made her cringe, but the door shuddered, then lifted.

  “You decent in there? This door’s coming off …” The humor in Quinn’s voice made her want to smack him.

  The door, with Quinn’s tanned fingers gripping either side, slid to create an opening.

  Not meeting his eye, Phee slipped through sideways into the hall. “Thank you,” she muttered.