by Nora Roberts
“Did he come after you again?”
“He caught me when I got home one night after seeing a movie with some friends. But he got the surprise this time. I’d taken self-defense courses, and martial arts. Kung fu.”
“No shit? Kung fu?”
“Bet your ass. I’d earned my brown belt by then, so he got worse than he gave. Mostly because it caught him off-guard. I called the cops, and they picked him up. He did the full five.”
“Should’ve been more.
“Shoulda-coulda. My mom and I talked about moving when we knew he’d get out, but damn if I wanted that. We had a home, the business, and he had to know if he came after me again, he’d do more than five. But when she died, there wasn’t any point staying. So fresh start.”
She finished the beer. “And that’s my story.”
“Has he bothered you again?”
“I haven’t seen or heard from him. I don’t see how he’d know where I am now, or, after all this time, why he’d come down here to mess with me. So that’s that.”
“You wouldn’t have been his first.”
She tapped a finger toward him. “Smart guy. With a little digging we found out he’d smacked around a couple others. Nothing as violent as my experience, but it was a pattern. Moral of the story is don’t let a good-looking guy with a cool name charm you into marriage. Though it seems like since the actual marriage lasted about three months it shouldn’t really count.”
“You could get it annulled. I happen to know a lawyer who could help you with that.”
“Thought about it, but it doesn’t seem worth the trouble. Finished’s finished.”
Like closing the book, he thought. But he knew it always stayed inside you. Always.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yet another interesting segue. I could be hungry. What have you got?”
“The only thing I’m sure I have is frozen pizza.”
“Pizza is never wrong. And I could probably have the other half of the beer if I had pizza.”
“Let’s eat.”
“I’m going to take my boots off out here, and wash up in your powder room.”
“That works.” He rose as she bent over to deal with her boots. “Kung fu?”
“I’ve got a black belt now. Second degree. I’m ditching the socks, too. They’re sweaty.”
“You’re a really interesting woman, Darby.”
“You’re a good-looking guy with a cool name, so don’t try to charm me into marriage.”
“I’ll refrain.”
He opened the door, and she walked into the house on bare feet. With toenails painted the same dark green as her tat.
Which reminded him.
“What’s the story with the tat?”
“Oh.” She lifted a hand to it. “I got it the day they found Trent guilty. Life goes on, right? My mother liked to say that no matter how bad or good things were at any given moment, it moved along. Life just cycles.”
Now she looked around. “You’ve got more stuff,” she noted.
“Yeah, I’ve been picking up this and that now and again.”
“That is nice.” She pointed to the painting over the fireplace. The lake at sunrise, misty and secret, taking hints of color from the blooming eastern sky.
“Yeah, it caught me. Local artist.”
“It captures the moment. I’d have expected, you being a man, to see a big-screen TV up there.”
“I’ve got that in the great room.”
“It’s looking good, Walker, seriously good. Is it starting to feel like home?” she asked as they walked back to the kitchen.
“It is. Yours?”
“I’m concentrating on the outside work right now. The interior needs a lot of help, but it can wait until winter when work slows down. Or rainy days.”
He pulled a pizza out of the freezer. “Pepperoni okay?”
“Pepperoni’s been okay since the dawn of time.” While he preheated the oven, she slid onto a stool. “I like watching a good-looking guy with a cool name slave over a hot stove.”
“Ha. You should see me create my amazing PB&J.” He got out a beer, a fresh glass, split it with her. “So are you doing the interior work yourself, too?”
“It’s mostly cosmetic. There’s scary wallpaper almost everywhere. So pull it off, no doubt sand the walls, paint. I’ve been picking up some this and that now and again, too. And your kitchen inspired me.”
“It did?”
“Yeah, the glass fronts. My kitchen cabinets are crap. Absolutely crap. Eventually I’ll replace them, but I figured on painting them for now. Then I thought about your glass fronts. I took the doors off instead. I mean, what am I hiding? I painted the rest, got some pretty dishes and glassware. Done. Well, I had to paint the lower cabinets.”
She sipped her beer when he unwrapped the pizza, slid it into oven, set the timer.
“Okay, so you got my broken nose story. Do I get yours?”
He lifted his bottle to drink, studied her over it. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard it already.”
“I would be, too, because people tend to tell me stuff. All kinds of stuff. But what I’ve found is people around here are very careful and respectful of the Walker/Keller family. I can be, too, if you’d rather not tell me.”
“It’s not a secret. I’m surprised and kind of touched the whole thing isn’t low-hanging fruit on the gossip vine. Do you want the condensed version or the full narrative?”
“I like long stories. Details matter.”
“Well, it might take a while. To start, my father knocked my mother around as long as I can remember. Graham Bigelow. Dr. Graham Bigelow, admired, respected, prosperous, important. On the outside, he and Eliza, his wife, were perfect. They had two perfect children and lived in the Lakeview version of Stepfordville.”
“Lakeview Terrace.”
Intrigued she’d nailed it, which likely meant she saw it as he did, he nodded. “That’s the one. He was chief surgical resident at Mercy Hospital in Asheville. She played hostess, charity chairwoman, PTA president. We had a housekeeper/cook three times a week. Groundskeepers, a couple of Mercedes in the garage. Your polished upper-class family.”
“But there were undercurrents. That’s what I call them, like what was in Trent.”
“That’s a good term for it.” Idly, he picked up the baseball he’d left on the counter, rubbed the stitching. “Yeah, plenty of undercurrents. You never knew when he’d go off. Never in front of anyone, always careful where he hit. The other—we’ll use it—undercurrent, one I didn’t understand for a long time, was Eliza, my mother, liked it.”
“Oh, Zane—”
“I know what you’re going to say. I know the pathology of a battered spouse, the many reasons for not leaving, for taking on the blame. That’s not this. That’ll come clear as we go along.”
“All right.”
“I don’t remember, not clearly, the first time he hit me. I don’t mean a swat on the butt. He favored gut punches, kidney punches, the ribs. He knew just where to hit. He didn’t hit Britt, not back then. He belittled her, all of us, but that was his main abuse for her. Verbal and emotional abuse. We, Britt and I, were never, never good enough.”
“That’s a horrible way to grow up. You didn’t tell anyone?”
“He was terrifying, and they were a unit. We were afterthoughts, status symbols. Even, in a way, their beard. If he started on her at night, Britt would usually come to my room. We’d just sit there until it stopped. When it stopped, the sex started. That was almost as disturbing.
“Anyway, that was our life, the pattern of it. That changed December twenty-third, 1998.”
He laid it all out, coming home with Britt, the blood, the shouts. How he’d snapped and tried to stop Graham. The beating that followed.
“So,” he finished, “I understand getting the crap beat out of you.”
When the timer went off, he got a round platter, slid the pizza onto it. He pulled a cutter out of a drawer.
“I suppose you want a plate for this.”
“I…” She had to breathe out, to breathe away the fist squeezing her heart. “I insist on a plate. In fact, I’ll get them, as I can see them through the handy glass fronts.”
“Knife and fork?”
She managed a haughty look. “Don’t insult me. How about I take the plates out back to your excellent new table? It’s a nice evening for eating outside.”
“Works for me.”
She took the plates out, gave herself a moment. She couldn’t think past the two children, living in cruelty and fear and violence. And somehow surviving it, not being dragged down by those ugly undercurrents.
He came out, sat across from her, slid a slice onto her plate.
“You have an actual pizza server. I’m impressed.”
“Well, it’s a staple around here. Do you want the rest?”
“Yes, but only if you want to tell me.”
“We got this far. They told everybody I had the flu. My grandparents were coming in from Savannah, staying with Emily. We were supposed to all have Christmas dinner—catered—at our house. But they switched that up. They wouldn’t let anybody come up to see me. Emily made me chicken soup, brought it over, but they wouldn’t let her come up. Britt told me Em really tried, but they made her leave. What could she do?”
“I’m glad. I want to say she’s about my favorite person in Lakeview. I’m glad she tried to help you, to stand for you.”
“She did more than that—that part’s coming. We went to this ski resort on Boxing Day, family tradition. He loaded me in the car, in the garage, left really early. He told the people at the resort I’d had an accident on my bike. When we got back, he told everybody I’d had an accident on the slopes.”
“Did that actually work?”
“For a while. I healed up, and I went to Dave—Micah’s dad. I asked him to teach me how to lift. I said I wanted to build myself up for baseball.”
“You wanted to get stronger.” His version of her martial arts.
“And I did. They’d decided I’d go to medical school, and I’d decided I’d apply for baseball scholarships when the time came. I wouldn’t tell them. I’d earn scholarships, save my money, get a job, whatever it took. And when I turned eighteen, I could get out. He’d never hit Britt, and she just had to get through a couple more years. I’d do whatever I could to look out for her. But he was never going to beat me like that again.”
He bit into a slice. “And, of course, when I played college ball, the Oriole scouts would be amazed at my skill and scramble to sign me on the spot.”
“I heard you had amazing skill. State, Athlete of the Year.”
“It’s all I wanted in the world. But things changed again.”
He told her about the dance, Ashley.
“Ashley Grandy? Grandy’s Grill Ashley?”
“That’s her.”
“She’s terrific.”
“First love.” He patted a hand on his heart. “It was a great night, a sweet night. Until I got home—four minutes after curfew—and he was waiting.”
Darby listened with growing horror. The viciousness, the ugliness, the desperate boy trying to protect his sister. Fighting back only to have his own mother attack and betray him.
“But, my God, how could they believe you’d attacked your family that way?”
“Because Dr. Bigelow said I did, and Eliza stood right with him and said the same.”
“No one believed you?”
“Dave did. He believed me, he stayed with me. He stayed the whole time, on the way to the hospital, in the hospital. I’ll never forget it. He called Emily. He argued with the officer, but the officer had his orders from Graham’s friend the chief.”
Shock jolted her. “Not Lee!”
“No, not Lee, he wasn’t in Lakeview back then. My arm was pretty fucked up, I’d have surgery later. But the bone doctor stabilized it. And she fought, too, but they had orders. I asked Dave to take my house key, get my notebooks from where I’d hidden them. And they hauled me to Buncombe.”
“What is that?”
“Kid prison. Want another half a beer?”
“No.” She felt a little sick. “No, thanks.”
“Coke? Actual Coke’s what I’ve got, not the southern term for soft drink of any kind.”
“I…” Maybe he needed a minute, too. “Yeah, Coke’s good.”
When he went inside, she thought of her mother, and her absolute certainty her mom would have stood up for her against anything, anyone. How she had. How she stayed with her in the hospital, stayed with her while she talked to the police, to lawyers. Always there.
When he came back, sat, she leaned forward. “Your mother let them do that to you?”
“Without a qualm.”
“Then you’re right. She wasn’t a victim. She was as much an abuser as he was. You must have been terrified.”
“Numb by then mostly. Can’t say I spent an easy night. What I didn’t know was while I was being locked up, Britt was sneaking out of her hospital room. He’d been there when she woke up, threatened her, had her basically in isolation. No phone. She got into another room, used the phone to call Emily. Emily was already at the hospital trying to get some answers.”
As he spoke, she imagined the little girl, hurt but making her way down the stairwell in bare feet and a hospital gown. And the woman who loved and believed her getting her out. Getting her to the police.
“And there was Lee. Detective Lee Keller of the Asheville PD,” Zane continued.
“That’s how they met?”
“Yeah. He listened. I don’t know how much he believed at first, but he listened. Dave got my notebooks, drove back to Asheville, to the police. Lee believed enough to do what cops do. He made calls, asked questions. He talked to the resort, found out I’d come in that December already injured. Oh, and Graham had tried the ‘he must be on drugs’ gambit, but my tox was clean. Lee knew the old chief, and he went at him, cop to cop, laid out the evidence. The ski accident story fell apart just like the bike accident story. Lee came to see me at Buncombe, got me released into Emily’s custody. And he arrested Graham and Eliza.”
“He deserves someone as terrific as Emily. He’s a hero.”
“He’s one of mine.”
“Did they go to prison?”
“Eliza did a few years. He did eighteen and change. He’s out on parole now.”
Darby heard Zane’s earlier comment echo in her head.
Should’ve been more.
“How do you feel about that?”
“There’s nothing for them here but humiliation. He lost his medical license, and won’t get it back. Eighteen years inside. I feel pretty good about it.”
That was the lawyer, she supposed. She wasn’t as convinced the boy inside the man felt the same.
“Have you ever been to see them?”
“What for?”
“I think that’s a very healthy attitude. I’m not a therapist like your sister, but I’ve been to one. After Trent,” she explained. “But I think severing all ties is healthy. They’re toxic. Plus, your family’s here, and they’re terrific. I love that Emily and Lee fell in love. It gives it a nice dusting of goodness. She’s your mom.”
“She is, in every way that counts. Let’s get all the hard stuff over with. How’d you lose your mom?”
“Hit and run.”
“Ah, Jesus, Darby, I’m sorry. Did they get the driver?”
Darby shook her head. “She liked doing this three-mile run on Sunday mornings. It’s quiet, there’s a bike path to run on. They figured the car just mowed her down, kept going. They said she died on impact, and I hope that’s true. They found the car abandoned about a half a mile past. Stolen.”
She paused to drink. “The guy who owned it—classic ’67 Mustang—had been refurbishing it with his son. It was in their driveway when they went to bed, gone when they got up. They figured kids hot-wired it sometime during the night. Joyriding, drinking, smokin
g weed. The car reeked of both, but they’d been smart enough after they’d hit my mother to get rid of the cans or bottles, empty the ashtray, wipe down the doors, the steering wheel. No prints, no DNA.”
“Did they look at friends, classmates of the son of the owner?”
“Yeah. They looked at a lot of people, but they never found anything. Worst day of my life. She was a great mom.”
“What about your dad?”
“He left when I was about four. It was the—you know Springsteen? ‘Got a wife and kid in Baltimore, Jack. I went out for a ride, and I never went back.’”
She shrugged it off. “He was a decent guy for all that.”
“How do you figure?”
“Well, they had savings, he didn’t touch them. He didn’t take the car—left it at the bus station—didn’t take anything but his clothes and his Gibson guitar. He just couldn’t hack husbandhood, fatherhood, familyhood.”
“As Britt would say: How do you feel about that?”
“I’m okay with it. I hate that he hurt my mother. She loved him. I barely remember him. I remember he was never mean, and I wonder if he left because he was afraid he would be if he tried to stay in a life that didn’t make him happy.”
“You’ve got a pretty healthy attitude yourself.”
“We’re a couple of healthy individuals.”
“We should—First.” He angled his head. “It occurs to me that outside of family, which includes Micah, Dave, and Maureen, I’ve never told that long saga to anyone. I have to think about why I told you over beer and pizza.”
“People tell me stuff.”
“Maybe. Anyway, now that the hard stuff is done, we should have dessert.”
“Dessert?” She wiggled her eyebrows. “This is turning into quite the event. What have you got?”
“I have Swiss Rolls.”
“Little Debbie?”
“Of course.”
“Classic, I’m in.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
They ate Little Debbies while dusk crept in and the sky over the western mountains burned.
“That’s another painting,” Darby pointed out. “Imagine sitting here, eating classic snack cakes, watching the sunset, and listening to the water spill melodically over rock and into its pool.”
