The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 2

by Nora Roberts

  Lilah snuck me in some supper, minus the peas. She didn’t coax and cuddle, but simply by that one small act stroked me. Bless her, she has always been there, steady as a rock and warm as toast.

  I ate because she’d brought it to me, and because it was a rebellion both of us shared, in secret. After, I lay there as the room grew dark. I imagined Mama brushing Hope’s hair as she did every night after bath time. She would have brushed mine as well, to be fair, but I wouldn’t sit still for it. She would have gone up to Papa after, Hope would, to say good night. And all the while she was doing what was expected of her, she was planning her own secret rebellion.

  I heard her walk down the hallway, and pause at my room. I wish—it does no good to wish, but I wish I had gotten up, opened the door, and browbeat her into coming in to keep me company. It might have made a difference. She would have felt sorry for me, and she might have told me what she was going to do. In my state of mind, I might have gone along with her, just to thumb my nose at Mama. She wouldn’t have been alone.

  But I stayed grimly stubborn in my bed and listened to her walk away.

  I didn’t know she left the house. I might have looked out my window any time and seen her. But I didn’t. Instead I scowled into the dark until I slept.

  And while I slept, she died.

  I didn’t feel, as it’s often said twins do, a break in the thread between us. I didn’t experience a premonition or dream of disaster. I didn’t feel her pain or her fear. I slept on as I expect most children do, deeply and carelessly while the person who shared womb and birth with me died alone.

  It was Tory who felt that break, that pain and fear. I didn’t believe it then, didn’t choose to. Hope was my sister, not hers, and how dare she claim to have been such an intimate part of what was mine.? I preferred to believe, as many others did, that Tory had indeed been in the swamp that night, and had run away and left Hope to face terror.

  I believed this even though I saw her the next morning. She came limping down our lane, early in the morning. She walked like an old woman, as if each step was an effort of courage. It was Cade who opened the door for her, but I had tiptoed out to the top of the stairs. Her face was pale as death itself her eyes huge.

  She said: Hope’s in the swamp. She couldn’t get away, and he hurt her. You have to help.

  I think he asked her in, politely, but she wouldn’t come across the threshold. So he left her there, and as I raced back to my own room, he went to look into Hope’s. It all happened quickly then. Cade running back down, calling for Papa. Mama ran down. Everyone was talking at once, and paid no mind to me. Mama took Tory’s shoulder, shook her, shouted at her. All the while, Tory just stood, a rag doll well used to, I supposed, being kicked.

  It was Papa who pulled Mama off, who told her to call the police right away. It was he who questioned Tory in a voice that wasn’t quite steady. She told him of their plans the night before, and how she hadn’t gone because she’d fallen and hurt herself. But Hope had gone and someone had come after her. She said all this in a dull and calm voice, an adult’s voice. And she kept her eyes on Papa’s face the whole time, and told him she could take him to Hope.

  I learned later that’s exactly what she did, led Papa and Cade, then the police who followed, through the swamp to Hope.

  Life was forever altered, for all of us.

  Faith lowered the pad, leaned back on the bench. She could hear the twitter of birds now, and smell the perfume of dark earth and ripe flowers. Slivers of sunlight shimmered through the tangled canopy of branches and moss to dapple on the ground in pretty patterns and turn the green light into something that just hinted of gold.

  The marble statue stayed silent, forever smiling, forever young.

  It was so like Papa, she thought, to cover the hideous with the lovely. A pretense, perhaps, but a statement as well. Hope had lived, she imagined him thinking. And she was mine.

  Had he brought his woman here? she wondered. Had the woman he’d turned to when he’d turned from his family sat here with him while he reminisced and remembered and grieved?

  Why her, instead of me? Why had it never been me?

  Faith set the notepad aside, took out a cigarette.

  The tears came as a complete surprise. She had no idea they were in there, burning to be shed. Shed for Hope, for her father, for herself. For the waste of lives and dreams. For the waste of love.

  Tory stopped at the edge of a bank of impatiens. The quiet, flower-strewn park was enough of a shock. Her mind slid the image of how it had been, green and wild and dark, over the one in front of her eyes. They tangled, refused to merge, so she blinked the memory away.

  There was Hope, trapped forever in stone.

  And there was Faith, weeping.

  Her stomach muscles danced uneasily, but she made herself walk forward, shivering as images of what had happened there eighteen years before fought to take over. She sat, she waited.

  “I don’t come here.” Faith dug a tissue out of her purse, blew her nose. “I suppose this is why. I don’t know if this is a horrible place or a beautiful one. I can never make up my mind.”

  “It takes courage to take something ugly and make it peaceful.”

  “Courage?” Faith stuffed the tissue back in her purse, then lighted her cigarette in one sharp motion. “You think this was brave?”

  “I do. Braver than I could be. Your father was a good man. He was always very kind to me. Even after …” She pressed her lips together. “Even after, he was nothing but kind to me. It couldn’t have been easy to be kind.”

  “He deserted us, emotionally, the psychologists would say, I expect. He abandoned us for his dead daughter.”

  “I don’t know what to say to you. Neither of us has ever dealt with the loss of a child. We can’t know how we would cope with it, or what we would do to survive that loss.”

  “I lost a sister.”

  “So did I,” Tory said quietly.

  “I resent your saying that. I resent more knowing it’s true.”

  “Do you expect me to blame you for that?”

  “I don’t know what I expect from you.” On a sigh, she reached down for the cooler she’d set beside the bench. “What I have here is a nice big jug of margaritas. A good drink on a warm evening.”

  She poured the lime-green liquid into two plastic cups, offered one. “I did say we’d have a drink.”

  “So you did.”

  “To Hope, then.” Faith touched her glass to Tory’s. “It seems appropriate.”

  “It has more bite than the lemonade we’d usually drink here. She liked her lemonade.”

  “Lilah would make it for her fresh. Plenty of pulp and sugar.”

  “She had a bottle of Coke that night, gone warm in her adventure kit, and she …” Tory trailed off, shivered again.

  “Do you see it, that clear, still?”

  “Yes. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t ask me. I didn’t come here, in all the weeks I’ve been back, I haven’t come. I haven’t had the courage for it. As much as I dislike being a coward, I have to survive, too.”

  “People put too much emphasis, too many demands, on courage, and they all put their own standards on it anyway. I wouldn’t call you a coward, but I do keep my personal standards low.”

  Tory let out a half laugh, drank again. “Why?”

  “Well, then I can meet them, can’t I, without undo effort. Take my marriages, though God knows I wish I hadn’t.” She gestured grandly with her cup. “Some would say I’d failed in them, but I say I triumphed by getting out of them as unscathed as I did.”

  “Were you in love?”

  “Which time?”

  “Either. Both.”

  “Neither. I was in heavy lust the first time around. God almighty, that boy could fuck like a rabbit. As sex has been, for some time, a priority pleasure for me, he certainly fulfilled that part of the bargain. He was dangerously handsome, full of charm and fast talk. And a complete asshole.” She toasted him a
bsently, almost affectionately. “However, he fit the bill of being exactly what my mother despised. How could I not marry him?”

  “You could’ve just had sex.”

  “I did, but then marriage was a real slap in her face. Take this, Mama.” Faith tipped her head back and laughed. “Christ, what an idiot. Now, the second time, it was more impulse. Well, and there was that sex angle again. It was still perfectly inappropriate, as he was much too old for me, and married when we began our affair. I suppose that one was a little shot at my father. You enjoyed adultery, well, so can I. Now, an illicit affair is one thing, but marriage to a philanderer is another. I believe he was faithful enough for the first little while, but my God, I was bored. And then, I suppose, he was just as bored and thought he’d follow his song lyrics by cheating on me, drinking himself blind. He had made a bit of a mark in the music scene. The first time he decided to take a swing at me, I swung harder, then I walked. I got a nice chunk of money out of the divorce, and earned every penny.”

  She and Hope had sat here, Tory thought, and talked about things they’d done, wanted to do. Simpler things, childhood things. But no less vital, no less intimate than what Faith spoke of now.

  “Why Wade?”

  “I don’t know.” Faith let out a breath, sipped from her plastic glass. “That’s the puzzle, and the worry. It’s not for gain or spite. He’s pretty to look at and we do have amazing sex. But the town vet? That was never in my plans. Now he has to complicate everything by being in love with me. I’ll ruin his life.” She chugged the margarita, poured a second. “I’m bound to.”

  “That would be his problem.”

  Struck, Faith turned her head and stared. “Now, that is the last thing I expected you to say.”

  “He’s a grown man who knows his own mind and his own heart. It appears to me he’s always done what he wanted, and gotten what he wanted. Could be he knows you better than you think. Then again, I don’t understand men.”

  “Oh, that’s easy.” She topped off Tory’s glass. “Half the time they think with their dicks, and the other half they’re thinking of their toys.”

  “That’s not very kind from a woman with a brother, and a lover.”

  “Nothing unkind about it. I love men. Some would say I’ve loved entirely too many.” There was a wicked gleam of humor in her eyes, and no apology whatsoever. Tory found herself enjoying it, envying it.

  “I’ve always preferred men for company,” Faith added. “Women are so much more sly than men, and tend to view other women as rivals. Men look at other men as competitors, which is entirely different. You, however, are not sly. It’s taken too much effort, I realize, to dislike and resent you.”

  “And that’s the basis for this moratorium?”

  “You have a better one?” Faith lifted a shoulder, then picked up the notepad. “I had an urge to write some things down, and I rarely ignore my urges. Why don’t you read this?”

  “All right.”

  Faith pushed to her feet, wandered with her drink and her smoke. She imagined she’d done more serious thinking that day than she had in a very long time. Honest and serious thinking. She hadn’t solved anything, but she felt stronger for it.

  Wouldn’t it be odd if Tory’s coming back to Progress had started her on the road to finding contentment in her own life? She paused by the statue of her sister, looked at the face they had once shared. Wouldn’t it be, she mused, the ultimate irony if she found herself now, just when she realized she’d been looking all along?

  She glanced back at Tory—so cool, she thought. So calm on the surface with all those violent ripples and jolts underneath. It was admirable, really, the way Tory maintained that shield and didn’t turn brittle behind it.

  Spooky, Faith thought with a little smile, but not brittle.

  Brittle, she thought, was what her own mother had become. And brittle was what she herself had been on the edge of becoming. How strange, and somehow apt, that it was Tory who’d given her just enough of a jolt to break her stride before she’d rushed headlong into being what she’d fought against all her life.

  A warped mirror image of her own mother.

  She crushed her cigarette out, toed it under pine needles.

  “Maybe I should take up writing,” Faith said lightly, as she strolled back. “You appear to be riveted.”

  She’d been caught up, sliding into the rhythm of Faith’s words and the images they had running through her mind. She’d been both amused and sad. Then the pressure had come, the weight on her chest that caused her heart to beat too fast and hard.

  The place, she’d thought, the memories that pounded fists on the white wall of her defense. She wouldn’t answer them. Wouldn’t heed them. She would stay in the here and the now.

  But the cold skinned over her, and the dark crept toward the edges of her vision.

  The notebook slipped from her fingers, fell on the ground at her feet, where a tiny breeze toyed with the pages. She was going under, being dragged under.

  “Someone’s watching.”

  “Hmm? Honey, you’ve only had two glasses of this stuff, haven’t you? That’s a mighty cheap drunk.”

  “Someone’s watching.” She took Faith’s hand, and her grip was like iron. “Run. You have to run.”

  “Oh shit.” Out of her depth, Faith bent over, tapped her hand on Tory’s cheek. “Come on back now. Get ahold of yourself.”

  “He’s watching. In the trees. He’s waiting for you. You have to run.”

  “There’s nobody here but us.” But a chill worked through her. “I’m Faith. I’m not Hope.”

  “Faith.” Tory struggled to keep the pictures clear, to hold yesterday and today separate. “He’s back in the trees. I can feel him. He’s watching. Run.”

  Alarm rushed into her eyes, turning them big and bright. She could hear it now, just the faintest rustle from the brush beyond the clearing. Panic wanted to seize her, the cold fingertips of it scraped her skin.

  “There are two of us, goddamn it.” She hissed it out as she snatched up her purse. “And we’re not eight years old and helpless. Run my ass.”

  She pulled her pretty pearl-handled .22 out of her bag, and hauled Tory to her feet.

  “Oh my God.”

  “You snap out of it,” Faith ordered. “We’re going after him.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Now, that’s the pot calling the kettle. Come on out, you limp-dicked son of a bitch.”

  She heard the snap of a twig, the swish of leaves, and charged forward. “He’s running. Bastard.”

  “Faith! Don’t.” But she was already racing into the trees. Left with no choice, Tory rushed after her.

  The path narrowed, all but died out in a tangle of underbrush. Birds shot toward the sky like bullets, screaming in protest. Moss dripped down, caught in Tory’s hair. She batted at it as she sprinted to catch up to Faith.

  “I think he went toward the river. We might not catch him, but we’ll scare his sorry ass.” She pointed the gun toward the sky and pulled the trigger.

  Gunshots blasted, echoed, and seemed to vibrate through Tory down to the toes. Birds exploded out of trees and rushed the clouds. At the sound of splashing, Faith grinned like a lunatic.

  “Maybe he’ll end up gator bait. Come on.”

  Tory could smell the river, the warm ripeness of it. The ground went soggy under her feet, had Faith sliding like a skater. “For God’s sake, be careful. You’ll shoot yourself.”

  “I can handle a damn pissant gun like this.” But her breath was heaving, as much from the flood of emotion as the run. “You know the swamp better than I do. You take the lead.”

  “Put the safety on that thing. I don’t care to get shot in the back.” Tory caught her own breath, pushed the tangled hair out of her face. “We can cut this way toward the river, save time. Watch for snakes.”

  “God, I knew there was a reason I hated this place.” The first rush of adrenaline was gone, and in its place was an innate
disgust for anything that crawled or skittered. But Tory was pushing ahead, and pride left her no choice but to follow through.

  “What was it about this place that appealed to you and Hope?”

  “It’s beautiful. And wild.” She heard footsteps, heavy, deliberate, and threw up a hand. “Someone’s coming. From the river.”

  “Doubled back, did he?” Faith planted her feet, lifted the gun. “I’m ready for him. Show yourself, you son of a bitch. I’ve got a gun and I’ll use it.”

  There was a thump as if something had fallen or been dropped. “Christ Jesus, don’t shoot!”

  “You step out, and you show yourself. Right now.”

  “Don’t go taking potshots. Holy God, Miss Faith, is that you? Miss Faith, it’s just Piney. Piney Cobb.”

  He eased out from the trees with his back to the curve of the river where cypress knees speared the surface. His hands shook as he held them high.

  “What the hell were you doing, sneaking around in here, watching us?”

  “I wasn’t. Swear to God. Didn’t know you were hereabouts till I heard the shots. Scared me down to the skin. Didn’t know whether to run or hide. I’ve just been frogging, that’s all. Been frogging the last hour or so. The boss, he don’t mind if I do some frogging in here.”

  “Then where are the frogs?”

  “Got the bag right over there. Dropped it when you called out. You scared ten years off me, Miss Faith.”

  Tory saw nothing in his face but fear, felt nothing from him but panic. He smelled of sweat and whiskey. “Let’s see the bag.”

  “Okay. All right. It’s right back here.” Licking his lips, he pointed with one finger.

  “You be real careful how you step, Piney. I’m awful nervous right now and my finger’s liable to shake.”

  She kept the gun aimed while Tory moved forward.

  “See here? See? Been frogging with this old burlap sack.”

  Tory crouched down, looked inside. Perhaps half a dozen unhappy frogs looked back at her. “This is a pretty pitiful haul for an hour’s work.”