Beautiful Dark (Beautiful Rivers Book 3)

by J. L. White

  She nods. I grab a couple from the bin in the freezer, and fill her glass from the tap. We keep things simple around here, we do. I set it in front of her and grab a beer from the fridge. I pop the top on the counter, pitch it in the trash, and finally settle in across from her.

  “So?” I take a swig of beer, watching her carefully over the bottle. She looks even more nervous than she did when she first showed up on my mother’s doorstep. I can only imagine what’s brought her here this time, so I’m a little nervous myself.

  She takes a deep breath. “Well, after I talked to you yesterday, I had a lot of questions about the accident. But I didn’t want to pester you with them. And then, the inheritance seemed a little... strange. I mean, I wondered why he didn’t leave it to your mother. Or why not something for each of you?”

  “I... had that same question. I wouldn’t know.” I take another sip of my beer, trying to settle the sense of foreboding I feel.

  “Right. Well,” she thumbs the corner of the folder again, “after we spoke, I wanted to see if I could get any more information about what happened.”

  I eye the manila folder. “I take it you found something.” I’ve never done any digging into my father’s death. My mother told me what happened. That’s always felt like enough, until this exact moment. Just what does Elizabeth Rivers have in that folder over there?

  “I think so. I went into the online archives of the Swan Pointe Register. There were a few articles about the accident. I just, I don’t know. I wonder if you knew some of this.”

  “Well, I don’t know what ‘this’ is. I’ve never read any articles, if that’s what you’re asking. Your father went into oncoming traffic, my father swerved to get out of the way, and he was T-boned. What more is there?”

  She hesitates, biting her lip. “Well, a little bit.” She silently slides the folder across the table.

  I spend half a second looking at it like it’s going to bite me, then man up and open it. Inside are some articles she’s printed out.

  “There was a storm that night,” she says as I start reading, “and driving conditions were poor. According to one of those articles, the police report said both drivers were going under the speed limit.”

  I’m scanning the article, and it’s like I’ve slipped into an alternate reality. Things look familiar, but are different. Different in ways that matter.

  “Apparently there was water across the road,” she continues. “When my father hit it, his car hydroplaned and went out of control.”

  “Yes, I see,” I say numbly, eyes still on the article. My father’s name is there. Grant Rivers’ name is there. The date of the accident is correct. But I didn’t know about a storm. I didn’t know about water on the road.

  She doesn’t say any more, but I keep reading. There’s another article underneath this one, from a different newspaper. I read it, too. Same story.

  “No-fault,” I murmur, saying the words aloud as I read them, for the second time. The police ruled it a no-fault accident. It was due to the water on the road. A tragic accident and a horrible loss... with no one to blame.

  For a moment, I find myself grasping for the reality I’ve always known. Maybe this was just a fake article to back up the story Grant Rivers came up with to get himself out of trouble. Maybe he had connections with the press. If he were pulling strings, like my mother said he did, couldn’t that have extended to the local newspapers?

  But the date and time stamp of a comment on the first article, tells me that it came out shortly after the accident occurred. In fact, according to the article, both men were still being treated for injuries, with my father listed in critical condition. He hadn’t even passed away yet. Grant Rivers hadn’t even been discharged yet. There was no death to try to cover up, no charges to try to get out of.

  It wasn’t reckless. It was water on the road.

  My mind is trying to wrap itself around this new information. This is not what I have been told. I have been told that he was at fault. At fault, with no remorse. There are more articles, dated later, and I flip through them, looking for the pieces that will confirm what my mother has told me.

  There’s a knot in my chest, heavy and hot. “She lied to me.”

  I don’t realize I said that aloud until Lizzy responds. “I don’t know that I would say that,” she says softly. “Sometimes when something tragic happens, it helps if we have someone to blame. I kind of did the same thing when...”

  I glance up from the articles for the first time since she pushed them in front of me.

  She presses her lips together, and I can guess what she stopped herself from saying: when my dad died. Because accident or not, her dad still killed mine. And she doesn’t want to invite me to pity him or his children.

  With the same openness she’s had all along, she continues. “Anyway, my younger brother helped me see that sometimes bad things happen and there’s no one at fault. Maybe what your mother told you is how it seemed to her.”

  The knot that’s been inside my chest loosens just a touch. I sigh and lean back in my chair, staring at my beer, but not really wanting it.

  I think again about my mother crying in the dining room, coming unhinged in a way I haven’t seen from her before. My grandmother has told me that my father was the love of her life. The bond that they shared was uncommonly strong. Just how much did it destroy her to lose him?

  “After I spoke with you yesterday, I left a message for George Hollister. He called me back a couple hours ago. He said my father tried to offer financial help when the accident happened, but your mother turned it down.”

  My eyes snap to hers.

  “Later, when he found out she was losing the house and on the verge of filing bankruptcy, he bought it at auction and tried to give it to her then. She still said no.”

  “She wouldn’t be bought off,” I say dully.

  Lizzy nods slowly. “It seems that’s how it felt to her, yes.”

  God, all the struggling my mother’s done over the years. After she lost the house, we moved out here to live with my grandmother, who was just barely getting by herself. My mom gets along okay now, but it was years before she got to that point. The financial hardship was one more thing she blamed on Grant Rivers.

  But he was trying to help her all along. Did she see it as guilt money then too? Was she so mad and hurt, that she couldn’t see it any other way?

  This new information is so jarring, I’m not sure I’m seeing things for what they are either. I don’t know what to make of all this. Was it guilt money? Or was he just trying to help?

  “Well, I guess you feel better,” I say, a little more harshly than I meant to, “knowing it was an accident.”

  She blinks and presses her lips together. “I didn’t come here for myself. I just thought you might want to know. I’m sorry if I made a mistake.”

  I look away, take a swig of my beer, and set it down. The soft thud of the bottle against the wood is quiet, but still feels too loud. I sigh and say softer, “You didn’t.”

  We look at one another for a moment. I guess she’s no more to blame for this than I am. I quietly close the folder and slide it over.

  “You can keep it,” she says. “If you want.”

  I hesitate, then draw it back to me.

  “I’m sorry, Mason. It’s terrible either way.”

  “It is,” I agree. “But... maybe slightly less terrible this way.”

  She takes the first sip of her water, and we regard one another in silence. “I think you were right about something, though.” She lightly taps her finger on the outside of the glass. “My father felt guilty. That’s what George said. They were friends a long time, so he remembered when it happened. He said my dad always felt at fault. He felt like there was something he should have done differently to keep from losing control of the car. What if he’d turned the wheel the other way? Stuff like that. Even though it was ruled no fault, it haunted him to the point that he wouldn’t even tell us kids about it. He
left instructions for George not to tell us. George didn’t think that was a good idea, but honored my father’s wishes. We saw he left you something and didn’t know why. We... made some assumptions.”

  “That I was his love child?”

  “Yeah,” she gives a slight, embarrassed smile. “Dumb, huh?”

  “And you came all this way to welcome your bastard brother into the family?”

  She frowns. “Blood is blood,” she says firmly.

  Something about this alleviates some of the tension I feel. This is a lot to take in, but any remaining doubts I had about Lizzy’s motives vanish. She’s loyal to family, this one. And that’s something I can respect.

  I finish off my beer. “You sure you don’t want something besides water?” I ask, wagging the bottle a little in invitation.

  “I’m sure. Thank you.”

  I get another bottle and sit back down, not sure where to go from here.

  “Have you given any thought to keeping your inheritance?”

  I nod, but don’t answer.

  “No one would think that makes everything okay or that you’re forgiving him or anything. You’d just be taking what’s yours. That’s all.”

  I run one hand through my hair. “Well,” I say, thinking of my half-restored Impala. “I can’t say it wouldn’t be helpful. Think of all the parts I could buy.”

  It’s another fifteen minutes or so before Lizzy leaves for the airport. We end up talking about less consequential things. I tell her a bit about the car I’m restoring, and she tells me about her fiancé and his little boy, her eyes lighting up as she talks about them. They’re planning on a summer wedding. As I’m walking her to her car, she tells me she checked on the house I’ve inherited and assures me it’s been well looked after.

  “You could keep it as a rental property, no problem. If you decide to sell it, some updating could significantly raise the value. I know a bit about the market there, so I’d be happy to talk to you about it if you go that route. Or,” she says, turning toward me when she gets to the door, “of course, you could move in, if you wanted to.”

  “Move in?” I’m oddly intrigued by the suggestion. I don’t know why. My entire life is here, obviously.

  She shrugs. “Well if you ever did, you would already have friends there.” She offers me a smile. I give her a slight smile back. “Thank you for taking the time to talk to me. Yesterday and today. I know you didn’t have to.”

  “I’m glad we talked too. I guess. It’s just... hard.”

  She nods. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault.”

  She seems at a loss for a moment, then pulls her purse around in front of her and digs into an inner pocket. She extracts a business card and a pen, writes a number on the card, then hands it over.

  “That’s my personal cell,” she says, as I take it. “If you make it back to Swan Pointe. Even if you don’t...”

  I give her a questioning look.

  “I’d love it if we could stay in touch.”

  “Why?” I ask honestly. This can’t be easy on her either. Why would she want anything to do with me after this?

  She smiles. “Because you’re kind of family now.”

  I raise one eyebrow. “We’ve been over this already.”

  She laughs. “Yes, well. Blood isn’t the only thing that bonds people together. Is it?”

  I smile. Apparently not.

  She extends her hand. This time I take it, and she shakes my hand warmly, hanging on. “I mean it. If you’re ever in California, will you give me a call?”

  “Maybe.”

  She gives my hand one final squeeze before letting go. “Please do.”

  Corrine

  I’m at the beach with Lizzy’s dog, Montana, who I brought here just for fun. I’m not dog sitting—Lizzy’s been back a couple days and Brett can take care of Montana anyway. I just freaking love this dog. All dogs, actually. I can’t get enough of them. I’m throwing the stick into the shallows, watching her brown and white hound bound into the water, paddle out to get the stick, then trot back happily and drop it at my feet so we can do it again.

  It’s a nice distraction. From countdowns. From family secrets.

  Lizzy’s trip to Illinois proved quite illuminating. The secret Uncle Grant had kept for so many years wasn’t what we thought at all. I can’t decide if the truth is better, or worse.

  I’m deeply relieved he didn’t cheat on my Aunt Sharon. It would’ve forever changed the way I thought about him, and their marriage. They’ve always been my idea of the ideal couple, especially since my own parents divorced. But I’m not at all happy that he was responsible for ending another person’s life, even if it was unintentional.

  The fact that he carried the guilt and shame of it for the rest of this life is both heartbreaking, and just. A waste, yet somehow fair. After all, he got to live while someone else didn’t. Then again, there’s something to be said for forgiveness, even if the person you need to forgive is yourself. Also, the fact that Mason Reeves and his mother were so deeply impacted that he was going to reject his inheritance is troubling. Really, the whole situation is pretty horrible and I’m left with the deep impression (not for the first time) that sometimes life just sucks.

  Four days.

  I throw the stick as hard as I can, and Montana runs after it like there’s no greater joy than the joy he has this moment. He’s got the right idea, I think.

  Mason

  It wasn’t my original plan to fly to California on Thanksgiving Day, but once I decided to accept the inheritance, I realized I need to take a look at the house myself before I decide what to do with it. Since we’ve been so busy at work, I wanted to take advantage of the few days off I had for the holiday. Both my mother and grandmother came down with the flu a couple days ago, so we had to cancel our Thanksgiving plans anyway. This was my best opportunity to travel for a while. It’s going to be a quick trip, though. It seems like I’ll be spending almost as much time in the air as I will on the ground.

  I’ve yet to confront my mother about her version of my father’s death, and why that’s what she’s been telling me all these years. I tend to think Lizzy is right about her reasons, but I’m not ready to have that conversation with her yet. Besides, I already feel like I’m making things worse for her by accepting the inheritance she so wanted me to reject. She didn’t fight me on it, to her credit, but it’s clear she finds the whole thing upsetting. I guess I can’t blame her for that.

  But I’m a little angry with her anyway. I’ve spent a lot of years hating the malicious acts of Grant Rivers. His carelessness only amplified a loss that was tragic enough on its own. It added a layer of hurt and anger I could’ve lived without.

  I’m a little mad at myself, too. Why didn’t I ever think to look up more information about the accident? It had been easy enough for Lizzy to do, once she knew what to search for.

  Maybe it was because I grew up with the story, and had no reason to question it. Even if I had discovered as a child that the things my mother told me weren’t quite the truth, I don’t know that I would have been mature enough to understand the reasons why she might have done so.

  The one thing I find reassuring about the whole situation, strangely, is Elizabeth Rivers herself. Maybe because her kindness makes it easier to believe Grant Rivers was a kind man also, and was really trying to do what he could to make things better. It’s a version of the story I find a little more comforting.

  When we get on the tarmac and are pulling up to the gate, I think yet again about Lizzy’s genuine invitation to reach out to her. I pitched her card, but not before putting her number in my phone. Just in case.

  I remind myself, for the millionth time, that I’ve decided not to tell her I’m here. As quick as this trip is going to be, and given the fact that this is Thanksgiving Day, I don’t need to bother her. I’m not exactly sure what makes me want to see her, anyway. However, as the seatbelt sign goes off and people start u
nbuckling seat belts and getting out of their chairs, I lose my inner battle.

  My phone is already in my hand, since I just took it out of airplane mode, so it only takes a second of weak impulsivity to undo the hours of resolve that preceded it. The text I send Lizzy reads, You said to tell you when I’m in California.

  Well, what the hell. She did, didn’t she?

  The plane is slowly emptying. When the people a few rows up start filing out, I stand and pull my duffel bag from the overhead bin.

  My phone rings, and I’m startled to see it’s her. I figured she’d just text back. Trying not to feel nervous, I answer. “Hi, Lizzy.”

  “Hi, Mason!” Her voice is enthusiastic and genuine. Maybe that shouldn’t surprise me, but it kind of does. I don’t understand why she wants to stay connected with me any better than I understand why I seem to want to stay connected with her. “I’m so glad to hear from you. How long have you been in town?”

  “I just landed.”

  “You flew in on Thanksgiving?”

  “Yeah. I know, but this was my only chance to come for a while. I came to see the house.” The row in front of me is emptying into the aisle. The people around me are shuffling a bit, anticipating their turn.

  “Are you selling it?”

  “I don’t know yet.” The line stalls as a petite, older lady tugs on her overstuffed carry on, struggling to get it out of the overhead bin. “Mr. Hollister thinks I should keep it as a rental. Good cash flow, I guess. I don’t know. I’m meeting with him tomorrow.”

  “Well, are you hungry? Because in spite of having twenty-five people here for dinner, we still have way too much food.” Twenty-five? Geez, I don’t even think I know that many people, let alone that many I’d want at my house for Thanksgiving. “If you want to stop by, I’d love to feed you.”

  “Um...” A tall, lanky teen gives the lady a hand with her bag and things get moving again.

  “We also have plenty of alcohol. And pie. And don’t worry about crashing a family dinner or anything. We don’t have much family here in Swan Pointe, and since mom and dad aren’t here anymore, we decided to invite a bunch of friends so it wouldn’t feel so lonely. I hadn’t even met some of them until today because they aren’t all my friends. So you wouldn’t be the odd man out or anything. You’d blend right in. And did I mention there’s alcohol?”