House on Fire (ARC)

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House on Fire (ARC) Page 23

by Bonnie Kistler


  “Where?”

  “On Hollow Road. In St. Alban.”

  “Visiting a friend,” he said. “What about you? What brought you there?”

  She hesitated. She couldn’t talk about her litigation against Hunter Beck, and she didn’t want to bring up Peter and his construction project. “I was visiting a friend, too. She owns a retirement horse farm there.”

  “You don’t mean Golden Oldies?”

  “You know it?”

  “Only to drive past. But I always think what a worthy project it is, giving those old horses a comfortable exit.”

  “My, uh, my daughter—Chrissy—did volunteer work there.”

  “What a lovely thing for her to do.”

  Tears rose in her throat. She was about to sabotage a pleasant conversation by crying. She dug her nails deep into her palms to hold back the tears until the waitress rescued her with the delivery of their orders. For a few minutes, she could busy herself with her napkin, the salt and pepper, a sip of her water until the threat receded.

  “Tell me about your work,” Stephen said next, rescuing her completely. “What kind of law do you practice?”

  “Divorce.” She was surprised to hear her own answer. She never answered that way, because it usually brought guffaws or shudders or jokes about taking men to the cleaners. She tended to offer the more palatable matrimonial law in its place. But in truth, even when she advised couples contemplating marriage, divorce was what they were really contemplating.

  Stephen didn’t guffaw or shudder. “We have something in common then,” he said with a thoughtful nod. “We both see people at their worst. When they’re angry or hurt or guilt stricken or desolate. And we do our best to help them get through to the other side.”

  Leigh gave a startled smile. He’d managed to take a career that always had a taint of shame about it and turn it into a calling almost as noble as his own.

  They skimmed the surface of their own divorces after that. Hers from Ted seemed a lifetime ago, and she could sum it up with a handful of quips and barbs that had lost all their power to sting. But Stephen’s was more recent—only a year ago. After their son died.

  She wasn’t sure what to say. “Something like that—it would put a horrible strain on a marriage.”

  He paused to reflect. “What I find in my work is that some couples’ bonds become even stronger after they face tragedy together. But others crumble under the added weight. Especially when the foundation was already cracked.”

  She bit her lip and looked away. She hadn’t told him anything about the state of her own marriage, but obviously he’d guessed. Her failure must be written all over her face.

  “I’m afraid that was the case with Claire and me.”

  “Oh.” He was talking about himself. She was embarrassed at how self-absorbed she was, always imagining everything was about her. “Yours had cracks?”

  “Mmm. It’s not easy being a pastor’s wife. She comes from a wealthy family and never quite adapted to life in a parsonage, even a well-to-do parsonage like ours. And she was always unhappy with what she called my crusades, especially the time I devoted to our inner-city ministries. She was terrified that those elements, as she called them, would follow us home. And then—and then when it happened . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “But you don’t know that the burglar came from the city.”

  “No. No, he was never found.”

  He picked up his fork and for a few minutes they ate in silence. Leigh couldn’t erase the image she’d conjured in her head, Andy sprawled on the floor, Stephen dropping to his knees in the puddle of his blood, his face frozen in shock and anguish. Instead of probing into Andy’s death, she should ask about his life. “What was he like?” She added, “If it’s not too painful to talk about him.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “There’s nothing I like better. Though that wasn’t always the case. I used to cringe whenever I heard his name. Because it was always, Reverend Kendall, Andy’s been smoking in the nave again. Or, Reverend Kendall, Andy’s drinking the communion wine.”

  “Oh, dear.” Leigh laughed.

  “He was your typical preacher’s kid. Raising hell for the hell of it. Sarah was never like that, but Andy felt the stigma more, I suppose. Claire and I were on the brink of despair more than once while he was growing up.

  “But eventually he grew out of it. In fact, after college he thought he heard the call to the ministry. He planned to spend a few years working with our Columbia Heights mission before going on to seminary.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “No, wait,” he said with an unexpected chuckle. “After only a few months, he decided that the last thing these people needed was more spiritual care. What they really needed, desperately, was legal advocacy. He’d just been accepted to Yale Law.”

  “Oh, Stephen, I’m so sorry.” All that young promise, his whole bright future, gone.

  “No, don’t be. It makes me happy to talk about him. To think about him.”

  They were finishing their meals when Nick, the proprietor, came over to ask if everything was to their liking, then he lingered at their tableside to talk baseball. He was a Yankees fan and Stephen liked the Red Sox, and the two men pretended to argue about their teams’ respective merits and faults with an intensity that matched the age-old rivalry between the two ball clubs. Leigh listened with a smile to the heated exchange. Stephen was a man for all seasons, she thought. Equally at home pontificating at a lectern and bullshitting in a diner.

  Nick slapped the check on the table, and Stephen grabbed it before she could and insisted on paying it. He allowed her to leave the tip, then there was nothing to do but stand up and say good night.

  “How about a nightcap?” he said.

  “Oh, no, I—”

  “I have an excellent cognac back in the Snuggery. A snifter would be the perfect end to the evening.”

  It was the Snuggery that persuaded her, not the cognac. That wonderful inside-out terrarium. “Maybe a quick one,” she said.

  She followed his Saab along the back roads to his cottage. He’d left the lights on, and the Snuggery glowed through its glass walls like a jewelry store window in the dark woods. When he ushered her inside, she felt as if she’d climbed into the window, and all the rich jewels of books and rugs were hers to touch.

  “Sit, please,” he said, and she sank deep in the plush velvet chair while he went to the bookcase wall. He opened one of the cabinet doors to reveal a very-well-stocked bar. “I’m an Episcopal preacher, remember,” he teased as he splashed some Godet into two snifters and handed one to her.

  Behind another cabinet door was a sound system, and he pushed a button and a symphony swelled out into the room. He settled into the chair beside her and clinked his glass against hers. “To new friends.”

  If he were anyone else, she would suspect an ulterior motive. The bar, the sound system, the soft upholstery—it was a scene set for seduction. But it was impossible to find any predation in the eyes of this gentle man. She took a sip and settled back in the chair as the smooth burn rolled down her throat. The music was something classical but nothing she recognized. It was lyrical and melodic and reminiscent of an old folk song notwithstanding the layers of orchestration. She tilted her head to one side, listening closely. “Who is this?”

  “Ralph Vaughan Williams. The composer to the Church of England, some call him.” At her blank stare, he said, “You probably know this one. ‘Hail Thee, Festival Day’?” He sang a few bars in a boisterous baritone, and she nodded as she recognized the hymn. “But he also wrote symphonies and operas, and even movie scores. Wait.” He got to his feet and went back to the sound system to push another button. “Here’s one you may like.” He returned to his seat beside her as a solo violin slowly began.

  “What is it?”

  “One of his secular pieces. C
alled The Lark Ascending. Can you see it?”

  Leigh closed her eyes, and yes—yes, she could. The notes from the violin rose up and up like a little fluting bird beating its wings skyward. She took another sip of her cognac, and as the sweet warmth flowed down her throat, the orchestra came in softly below the fluttering flight of the violin.

  She laid her head back. The violin melody soared up and up, so high that at times there was barely a shimmer of sound from the strings, and the orchestral accompaniment lilted richly below it like the rolling countryside beneath the bird’s flight path. The bird swooped down, skimming the treetops and entwining itself playfully around the branches before it soared upward again, higher and higher in the sky until she felt it would break through the firmament.

  “This is beautiful.” She sighed.

  “Hmm. Uplifting but also so peaceful.”

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder if now you could tell me what it was I said that upset you during my talk?”

  The question startled her out of her trance. “Oh.” She sat up straight and took another sip of her drink before she answered. “It wasn’t you. I was thinking about my stepson. His lie about Chrissy being the driver. If a panel of people were convened the way you discussed, they’d declare it to be a good lie, wouldn’t they? No harm to Chrissy, not anymore, and plenty of benefit to Kip.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “But what about the harm to me? Shouldn’t that count for something in the calculation?”

  Stephen swirled the liquid in his glass. “I think the question to ask yourself,” he said finally, “is why are you hurt? What is it about that particular statement that causes you harm?”

  “Because—” She faltered. “Well, because—”

  “If it’s a lie, how does it hurt you?” If he were opposing counsel, she’d object that he was badgering the witness, but his voice was too soft for badgering. “What hurts is if it isn’t a lie. Because then you’d have no one to blame for your loss.”

  She stared at him.

  “You need someone to blame, and you can’t blame your stepson if he wasn’t driving.”

  “That’s not it. I know it was an accident. I don’t blame him for that.”

  “Of course you do. You might forgive him, but you still blame him. It’s the most natural thing in the world. It’s how we all cope with grief. Find someone or something to blame. But you can’t blame Christopher if he wasn’t driving. That’s what’s causing you so much pain.”

  She put her glass down on the table between them. There was something familiar in what he was saying, but it was familiar the way the tune of “Hail Thee, Festival Day” was familiar. Remote, and unconnected to her. “If that’s true,” she said finally, bitterly, “what does that make me?”

  “Human.”

  “You didn’t need to blame anyone to get through your grief when your son was—when you lost your son.”

  “Of course I did. I’m as human as anyone else. When I couldn’t blame the killer, I blamed the gun. All the guns and the companies that make them and the legislators and lobbyists who allow them to proliferate. I blamed all of them. It was the only way I could get through my grief to get anywhere close to forgiveness.”

  “Do you?” she asked. “Forgive them?”

  “I try,” he said. “Every day. I try to see their viewpoint. The manufacturers are businesses with shareholders to satisfy. The legislators have voters to placate. They’re all just trying to do their jobs. My hope is that the research we’re funding will develop arguments and alternatives that might persuade them there’s a better way to do their jobs.”

  “I think.” She stopped to clear her throat. “I think you’re a better person than I am.”

  He shook his head. “I doubt that. I doubt that very much.”

  She had to look away from his gaze. Warm and gentle as it was, it was so probing. He could see straight through to her darkest thoughts. She didn’t want him to see the worst of her. “Oh, look at the time,” she said, twisting her wrist. “It’s late. I have to go.”

  Outside the night was dark and the woods were still with only a faint rustle coming from the treetops as a soft breeze stirred them. Stephen walked her to her car. “Come back again. We’ll talk some more. Would you like that? I would.”

  Leigh looked back at the little jewel box of the Snuggery. “I think I would, too.”

  “Saturday morning?”

  “I’d hate to impose.”

  “Eleven o’clock?”

  “Yes. All right.”

  “Wonderful,” he said and clapped his hands as if to seal the deal.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Here and now. That was Kip’s new credo. Don’t dwell on the past or worry about the future. Live for the moment. In the moment.

  At this moment the here was the football field of St. Alban High School and the now was the graduation exercises for the Class of 2015. Kip was a floating island in a sea of blue caps and gowns. Floating thanks to the joint he smoked behind the bleachers before commencement commenced. Island because, even packed as they were in tight rows of folding chairs, his classmates managed to avoid all forms of contact with him. Speech, of course. Eye contact. Even shoulder brushes.

  It was hard to believe that only two months ago he was the guy everybody wanted to know. Then came his arrest, and overnight he went from Mr. Popularity to Mr. Pariah. Not because of the manslaughter charge—that would have given him some outlaw panache. It was because Atwood’s party got raided by the cops, the best night of everybody’s life turned into one of the worst, and they all blamed him for it. For twenty-four hours after the party his phone blew up with slurs and threats and circulating gifs: a cartoon Kip with a rat’s face, another cartoon being broomsticked. See how you like it, Loser. Then abruptly, nothing. Radio silence.

  Ah, the irony. The one thing he was actually innocent of was the one thing that got him blackballed. Not to mention blueballed. He was thisclose to nailing Ava diFlorio that night, but it looked like that was the last shot he’d ever have in this lifetime, with her or any other girl at St. Alban High.

  But whatever. He couldn’t change the past or control the future. Here and now was all that mattered. Sensations. The warmth of the summer night. The smell of fresh-mown grass under his feet. The feel of fresh-smoked grass inside him. The tinny strains of music broadcast through the stadium. He leaned back in his chair and free-floated through the band’s rendition of “Pomp and Circumstance” and hummed along to the choir’s attempt at “Defying Gravity.” He gazed dreamily at the giant cloud puffs in the sky.

  His mom and dad and Mia were in the audience, and if he squinted hard through the haze he could just make them out up there in the bleachers. Just the three of them. Gary was off at some dentistry boondoggle in Vegas, and his mom decided not to send invitations to Leigh and Zack and Dylan. Under the circumstances, she said. No biggie—they wouldn’t have come anyway. So it was only his own original nuclear family in attendance, but that was the way it was supposed to be. If they’d stayed together, if his mom hadn’t gone crazy and fallen in love with her dentist—her dentist! God, nobody else even liked their dentist—none of this would have happened. His dad wouldn’t have married Leigh. Kip wouldn’t have moved into their big crazy household. Chrissy wouldn’t have become his sister. She wouldn’t have died.

  He wished Leigh were there, wished it with a sudden piercing ache that made his eyes burn. Of the whole Gang of Four, Leigh was the only one who got him. She’d understand why he had to get high to get through tonight. She’d bust his balls but she’d get it. She got his friends, too, and she’d march right up to Brad and Ryan and Ava and the rest of them and say something that sounded pleasant but was full of hidden barbs that would make them stammer and shuffle their feet with embarrassment at how they’d ostracized him. Don’t you think you owe him an apology? He could hear her
voice saying it. He’d heard it a hundred times.

  Or maybe he was only longing for Leigh as a proxy for Chrissy. If she were here, she’d be up there woo-hooing in the bleachers. Trying to make everyone do the wave. He could hear her voice, too, and the tears pricked like hot needles behind his eyelids.

  No—he swiped his fists over his eyes. He couldn’t think about Chrissy now. Don’t dwell on the past. Live in the moment, and at this moment Norman Chu was speaking. He was their valedictorian, and his speech was all about the future, or at least the next four years of the future. He had lots of ideas about how to get the most out of college, and most of them came down to design your own independent study, which made Kip wonder why they all killed themselves trying to get into the top colleges. They could have stayed home and dreamed up their own curricula.

  Kip finished second to Norman in the GPA race. Any other year that would have made him salutatorian, but this year the administration decided to streamline the proceedings by dispensing with the second student speaker. It was just as well. If he gave a speech, all he’d want to say is Here and now, people. Enjoy it while it lasts.

  Dr. Dairy Queen was up next, droning on about hopes and dreams and hard work and discipline. Kip leaned back and closed his eyes and turned the volume down on the principal’s voice until it faded to a low hum. He wasn’t the only one tuning out the principal’s speech. Conversations were buzzing all around him. Kids to his right talking about whose parties to hit that night, who was going to have kegs and who was always good for some weed. Some dude to his left still angsting about his place on the waiting list of his number one pick. A gaggle of girls behind him obsessing over how their asses looked in their bikinis; they were all headed to senior week at the beach tomorrow.

  As for Kip, tomorrow he was headed for his new job of cleaning out the clutter at the Millers. It would be dirty, sweaty, and mind-numbingly tedious, but at the beginning and end of each day, he’d get to ride in a car with Yana Koslov, the hottest girl in the world. A fantasy girl, he knew that, but with his real-girl action cut off, fantasies were all he had. And at least now he was able to indulge them. The staircases were finished in Hollow House, and he finally got to sleep upstairs in his own room with a door that actually closed.

 

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