“And nobody knew?” I asked, trying to remember if there’d been any warning signs. But Edmund has always been so buttoned-up and businesslike, he’d be the last person I’d pick to do something like this. And he’d probably been counting on that.
“Tessa thinks that the old man might have suspected. Apparently he didn’t seem all that shocked when he learned the news. He just said he felt tired and went down to his basement office to take a nap. When Kurt went down to check on him later, he found him on the floor.”
“How bad is it?”
“Bad. He’s still unconscious. And he’s on a ventilator. But apparently he left instructions in his living will that he doesn’t want to be hooked up to the thing longer than seventy-two hours. The family’s taking turns being with him in Albany. Cal and his mother are there now.”
“Oh, poor Jay,” I said. He’d always been so proud of the business. If he had any sense of what Edmund had been up to, it must have been eating away at him. His own son undermining the work of a lifetime. The Horigans had to be reeling.
“And Dad told me Cal’s pulled out of the Gannon suit.”
“Yeah. When he found out why Eddie had been pushing so hard for it—that he needed the money to keep himself and the business afloat—Cal killed the whole deal. Tessa thinks he’s really sorry that he ever got sucked into it in the first place. That he’s sorry about a lot of things.”
“He’s not alone,” I said, looking down. My hands were clenched together in my lap. I felt Jude’s gaze on me, but when I glanced over at her she was looking straight ahead.
“I’ve never cheated on Cal,” I told her. “I’ve never done anything even remotely like this before. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how I’m ever going to be able to explain it to him.”
“Well—news flash!” Jude said. “Cal’s been screwing Lori Swinson for the past three months or something. So don’t beat yourself up too much.”
“What? Lori? That big dumb bottle—”
“That’s the one. I think it’s been over for a little while now. Not that anybody but Lori seriously believed that it could last for very long. But I think you should know: I hear Cal’s not been in the best of shape.”
“Drinking?”
“Yeah. And I think it’s gotten worse since you left. Apparently, he went kind of ballistic last night—I guess when he heard about his dad. Tessa said you should prepare yourself. That he’s really not himself right now.”
But then, of course, neither of us was. Whoever we’d once been, we weren’t anymore. We were just as broken and useless as Cal’s Jeep. As Betsy’s car seat. And there was no chance that we could put our old selves back together again. We’d both sustained too much damage. What did I have in common now with the confident, sunny boy I’d married? Or even the cocksure, party-loving man who’d taken off in the Jeep with our daughter almost a year ago? And, for my part, I must be even more of a stranger to him. I lied to him. I cheated on him. I let him believe I thought he was responsible for Betsy’s death. He’d been headstrong and obstinate, but I’d done unforgivable things. Would he ever again be able to look at me with love?
I was thinking so hard about Cal, I didn’t realize Jude had turned onto North Branch. I hadn’t driven along this road since the accident. In fact, I’d made a point of avoiding it. Though I slept in Betsy’s room for months, though I’ve visited her grave, I just haven’t been able to face seeing the place where her life actually ended. We hit those familiar little roller-coaster hills before I had a chance to think or object. We were approaching the stretch of roadway where I imagined the Jeep had rolled—up on the left, across from the Odhners’ old dairy farm. I remember Cal telling me that the last time he saw Betsy—in the rearview mirror, just before the fox ran across their path—she’d been laughing.
I’ve imagined the final seconds of her life so many times. Praying she hadn’t been afraid. Hoping she’d felt only a brief, wild joy—because, in fact, she’d been flying. The last of the sunlight glinted off the top of a silo and blazed across the surface of an old cow pond. Was this the last thing she saw? Sunlight—slanting through a gap in the trees—like a door, opening in welcome?
We passed the spot before I could be certain it was the place I’d had in my mind for so long. I’d imagined it differently somehow. Darker, steeper. More than just another bank along a quiet country road. I turned to look back. Had that really been it? I still wasn’t sure. I faced forward again as we drove on.
24
Cal and Jenny
“Drop me off here,” she told Jude just before the turn into the driveway. “I think I need to walk the rest of the way.”
“Okay,” Jude said, pulling off to the side of the road. “Call me later?”
“Sure,” she said, climbing out of the van. But she held the door open, leaning in to look at her sister. Jude’s new haircut made her look older, more pulled together.
“Thanks for saying you believed in us—Cal and me,” she said, thinking how badly she’d reacted when Jude had actually told her that. How frantic she’d been to leave for the city and Daniel then. It had been the last thing she wanted to hear. But that morning on the train ride home she’d remembered what Jude said—You and Cal have one of the few marriages in the whole world I actually have some real faith in—and the words had come back to her like a kind of blessing. If her sister could believe in the two of them, then who knew? Maybe they had a chance, after all.
But, as she walked up the curving driveway and caught her first glimpse of the house through the trees, all her doubts came flooding back. She knew she had to tell Cal what she’d done. The terrible mistakes she had made. Starting with the first and most unforgivable. The lies she’d told. Ending with the one that could force even the most stable of marriages to founder. She knew she had to tell him. There could be no way forward if she didn’t. But she also knew that, when she did, she might very well end up destroying the thing that mattered to her most in the world.
It helped that Cal would be in Albany with his dad, and that she’d have the house to herself for a little while. It would give her time to unpack. Take a shower maybe. Think about all the things she needed to say. And the right words with which to say them.
She’d left at the end of winter. Now she saw patches of green on the lawn. Furry buds on the crab apple tree. Purple shoots pushing up from the peony beds that bordered the front of the house. Thank God, Daniel hadn’t touched this part of the yard. It looked the same as it did every spring, and as it probably had for generations. She might have lost the big garden, but at least she still had this. That thought helped steady her as she put down her suitcase and pushed open the front door.
He’d been listening for Jude’s van, so he was caught off guard when Jenny walked in without warning. Jenny’s father had called him at the hospital to tell him she was coming home. God only knew how he’d managed to track down Cal’s cell number. But Cal had been grateful. It was the first overtly kind thing he could remember the reverend ever doing for him. He’d driven back down to Covington faster than he should have, especially considering he hadn’t gotten any sleep the night before. But driving recklessly seemed like nothing compared to everything he had already risked.
She stopped when she saw him.
“You’re here,” she said. He looked so wiped out, she wanted to cry. For the first time it really registered with her what he’d been going through while she’d been away. The lawsuit falling apart. Horigan Lumber collapsing. His dad in bad shape. “I thought you were up in—”
“I was,” he told her, wondering what it meant that she hadn’t expected him. Didn’t she want to see him? Why had she returned exactly? He’d gotten his hopes up when the reverend called, but now he was no longer at all sure of his ground. It occurred to him that she might have come back just as a courtesy to him. Out of concern for his family. Maybe she had no intention of staying. Could she have actually fallen in love with Daniel Brandt? Was she still blind to what Dan
iel really was? But, then, it had taken him long enough to figure it out himself—too long. He’d have to tread very gently. He’d have to play the few cards he still held very carefully.
“Your dad called to tell me Jude was picking you up,” he told her. “I wanted to get back here—to see you. Let me have your bag.”
When he moved toward her, she took a step forward, dropped the suitcase, then retreated again. She couldn’t risk him touching her. She had to keep herself together, steeled, or she would never be able to get through it all. But the look that crossed his face—a combination of sadness and resignation—broke her heart. Could she believe that he still loved her? Suddenly, she lost her resolve. Did he have to know what she had done? Couldn’t she find a way to live with it somehow—and let him keep on believing in her?
“How’s Jay doing?” she asked, thinking about how much he had to deal with right now. What she had to tell him could wait. No, should wait.
“Not good,” he said. His breath had been knocked out of him when he saw her step back. She didn’t want to be near him. She still blamed him for everything. It was hopeless. “Not good at all. I was up there most of the night and he was unconscious the whole time. He’s hooked up to all those machines. Tubes everywhere. He looks—He doesn’t look like himself. The doctors aren’t really saying anything yet—but I’m beginning to think the news is pretty bad.”
“Tessa told Jude about the living will,” she said, crossing her arms on her chest. He’d lost more weight, she noticed, but he’d cut his hair. Probably for the lawsuit. His ears stuck out a little. She used to think that haircuts made him look like a kid again. But he didn’t look like that now. He looked older, actually. There was something different about his stance.
“Yeah, Dad left instructions to pull the plug after seventy-two hours,” he said. “It’s like a ticking time bomb. The big question now is whether we should tell Eddie what’s happened. I mean, if it really is the end, then—”
“But wasn’t it the news about what Eddie did that—”
“Who knows for sure?” he told her, picking up the suitcase and starting down the hall to the kitchen. “Listen, I’ve got to sit down before I fall down.” His abruptness threw her off a little. He seemed to be carrying something a lot heavier than the bag. She could feel him weighing whatever it was in his mind. Perhaps he’d already decided that they should go their separate ways. Maybe he’d put two and two together when he called the Traegers’ number, and he couldn’t forgive her.
“The cupboard’s kind of bare, I’m afraid,” he told her, reaching into the refrigerator and pulling out a Diet Coke.
“I don’t want anything,” she said, watching him flip the top and drink. Easing himself onto one of the stools, he moved as if his whole body ached. It hurt her just looking at him. If only she could touch him: touch his shoulders, run her hands down his back. Instead, she made herself ask:
“What’s going to happen with Horigan Lumber? Is the bank really going to take over? That’s what Tessa told Jude.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “It will all work itself out one way or the other. But that’s not what I’m thinking about now. That’s not what’s on my mind.” He swung toward her, put the can on the countertop, and said: “I need to tell you something.”
This was it. She’d been right. It was Daniel. Or Lori. But he was ending it—ending the idea of them.
“Yes,” she said. Apparently, her heart had healed enough for her to feel it breaking all over again. She closed her eyes.
“No, look at me,” he said. Her face was so dear to him: soft featured and kind. He’d always particularly loved her eyes—that seemingly innocent gray-blue, offset by the arch of her brows. “I want you to look at me when I tell you this.”
“Yes,” she said again.
“I’m sorry, Jenny,” he said. “I’ve never been more sorry about anything in my life.”
She just stared at him, bracing for what was coming next.
He looked at her, trying to judge her reaction, but her expression seemed noncommittal. Closed off. Perhaps she actively hated him. He’d understand that. He hated himself, or the person who’d done what he had done—and then refused to take responsibility for any of it. Let her hate him. But even if she intended to leave him, he knew he couldn’t let her go back to Daniel. Whatever happened, he would never allow her to throw her life away on Daniel—on someone like that.
“It wasn’t just what Eddie did that made me drop the lawsuit,” he told her. “Even before I knew how bad things were with the business—well, I finally had to face up to something I think you’ve been trying to tell me from the beginning.”
“You did?” she asked. “You have?” So he knew, then. He understood she was responsible. That he had no chance of beating Gannon.
“Yes. And I finally told them the truth at the hearing.”
“You told them?” It was as though he’d hit her. She felt tears well up, sting along her eyelids. Did he really believe she deserved that? She felt something give way within her: maybe he was right, maybe she did. Deserve it.
“I told them that I’d been drinking that afternoon,” he went on, despite the stricken look on her face. He hated forcing her to live it all over again, but he had to get it out. “That I’d had too much to drink. That I should never have been driving. If anyone was responsible for Betsy’s—”
“No,” she said.
“And I kept right on drinking, right through her funeral. Right through everything, telling myself it was okay. Bullshitting myself.” He paused, looking down at the floor. “Well, it’s not okay. It’s never been okay. And I’m changing that. I’m stopping, Jenny.”
“All right,” she said, “that’s good. That’s good—but you’re wrong about what happened.” If he hadn’t taken on this burden, she might—just might—have been able to keep her secret. But she couldn’t stand by and let him do this to himself.
“Listen, I think that maybe—,” she began. She stopped and took a breath before she was able to go on: “I’m pretty sure I didn’t finish strapping Betsy into the car seat. I know I fastened the bottom buckle. I remember that very clearly. I heard it—the click. But then I stopped for a second to say something to Tessa—and I don’t know if I ever actually went back and fastened the top one. I don’t know if I did, Cal. I don’t think I did.”
He rose from the stool. He just stood there, staring at her. She’d put her hands over her mouth, as though the terrible words had leapt out against her will. But why hadn’t she told him right away? Why hadn’t she shared this with him? He couldn’t imagine what she’d been putting herself through all these months. She’d always been such a cautious mom, worrying about every little thing. And even if she had forgotten . . . But then, it was so like her to shoulder all the responsibility—to tell no one. He’d learned over the years about her outsized sense of guilt, which, he suspected, she’d been carrying with her since childhood. Only now did he realize how deeply it had damaged her.
“That’s why you didn’t want the lawsuit? Because of . . . what you thought you might have done?”
“I was her mother,” she told him. “I should have been more careful.”
“Come here,” he said, holding out his arms.
She didn’t want his pity. She could see it in his eyes. She wanted his love, even if she knew she no longer deserved it.
“And I was her dad,” he said, closing the space between them and pulling her to him. “I was her dad. And I lost control of the Jeep—with my little girl in the back. I think I deserve to be blamed, too. I have to accept my share.”
She breathed in his smell—sweat, soap, and something ineffably masculine. She couldn’t believe how good it felt to be in his arms again. He picked her up then and swung her around in a circle. The kitchen—the great room—the French windows—the world outside—all passed in a delirious blur.
“Cal!” she cried. “Put me down.”
He saw what had caught her attention.
He set her back on her feet, facing the bank of windows. Without a word, she crossed the floor and opened the double doors. A damp breeze swept into the room. She walked out onto the terrace, and he followed her. Together, they looked out over the sloping yard where Daniel had installed the garden.
It was rubble now. Stone walls toppled. Trees and shrubs uprooted. The perennial beds pulverized. The artfully designed series of steps and pathways crushed beyond recognition. At the bottom of the hill where he had left it the night before, the Deere Excavator, silent now, oversaw her husband’s handiwork.
“You know about it, then,” Jenny said as she surveyed the desolate hillside. He knew, she thought, but he had still held her in his arms.
“I figured it out,” he told her. She was standing in front of him so he couldn’t see her expression, but her arms were folded defensively across her chest. He felt his heart turn over. This was the moment.
“I should never have let him into our lives, Jenny. He’s not a good person. I should never have let him anywhere near us—near you. I was a fool. I was in such a bad place that I just couldn’t see—”
“I couldn’t either. But I do now. And it’s over, Cal. I shouldn’t have let it happen. It was so crazy and stupid of me.”
“I’ve been stupid, too,” he said.
“I know. Jude told me.”
“She would have,” Cal said, but she heard laughter in his voice. She felt his arms go around her again. He pulled her back against him. He was tall enough that he could rest his chin on the top of her head. They used to stand this way for minutes at a time when they were first given this house as a wedding gift. When they first had this view to look at. When they couldn’t believe their own amazing luck. When they had no idea how truly lucky they were. He leaned over and whispered in her ear:
“I’m sorry about the mess.”
“No, I think it’s beautiful,” she told him.
As they stood there together, Jenny let her gaze travel from the ruined garden up through the field to the north of the house, to the crest of the hill where she’d once thought of putting the gazebo. Where she’d imagined Betsy playing. Where one day, if their luck held, other children might play. She thought again of the path she’d once intended to put in, winding up through the wildflowers. The last of the sunlight blazed across the gray winter-weary grass, and the hillside shimmered for just a moment, backlit with a golden glow. That’s how she’d start rebuilding the garden, she decided, laying in a pathway to the top of the hill.
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