Mason's Daughter

by Stone, Cynthia J

  After a few moments, he runs his hands over my arms and I release him, glad I had succumbed to the urge to nuzzle his neck. Once I step aside, I can’t tell if my wantonness has embarrassed him or his face turned red from bending forward to pick up his hat.

  I link my arm through his as we walk toward the front door. “Get some rest. You deserve it after that long drive.” Something warm and magnetic stirs inside me, telling me I don’t want him to leave. Before we reach the threshold, I stop us both and hold onto him, weaving my fingers through his.

  “Angelique is waiting,” he says.

  “Of course, you still have to take her home.” I let go of his hand.

  “She’s not–” He frowns. “We all need a good night’s sleep.”

  The door closes behind him, but I feel a sudden twinge, as if I should run outside and make them both come back.

  I sigh and look around the room. There is plenty of mess to put away, but exhaustion overtakes me and I head straight for bed. During the night, I dream about Clyde and my mother. Or at least, it seems my mother appears in certain scenes. Maybe I simply hear her voice.

  Across rolling hills, I traveled down a long, unpaved road while the wind stirred up dust devils. Toward the foot of distant mountains stood a small cabin, but as I got closer, it transformed itself into a large Victorian house. Lacy curtains billowed from the open windows as if they were trying to escape.

  Clyde waited in the shadows on the wide porch. “I’m glad you’ve come.” His boots clunked on the floorboards as he crossed to the front stoop and held out his hand. “Welcome.”

  Before I could get out of the car and climb the steps, he turned to go inside. He removed his hat as he passed the threshold.

  “Wait for me,” I called, but he didn’t turn around. I followed him into the entryway, a narrow room crowded with books and saddles and easels. The central staircase rose to a darkened ceiling, while shafts of light and women’s voices came from the back of the house.

  I stepped over the clutter and headed down the hallway, tempted by the laughter and noise. Party sounds of glasses clinking and china plates stacking together reached my ears. I identified Mother’s voice among several others. When I arrived at the kitchen door, the only person I found was Angelique, who stood wiping dishes at the sink.

  She didn’t look at me. “They’re all gone, dear.”

  “You should leave those for Mrs. Gussmann.”

  “She’s gone, too.” She turned around to set a dry porcelain platter on the table. “Why did you come?”

  “I thought I was supposed to.”

  “Do you know the reason?”

  My eyes searched the room, as if I’d lost something. Where had the people gone? I was sure I had recognized Saint Trixie’s voice along with my mother’s. “Does someone need my help?”

  “No one here does.” She smiled as she folded the dishtowel. “But–”

  The purr of a truck engine interrupted her, and I stretched up on tiptoes to look out the window over the sink.

  “Here he comes now,” she said.

  “Who?”

  The window was too high for me, and I pulled a chair from the table. I bent my knee to stand on the seat, but the seat wouldn’t hold me, and the chair disappeared. I kept stretching my leg, until . . .

  With a shiver, I wake up from the repeated motions of kicking and stepping. During the night, I had pushed the bedcovers off the foot of the bed. I sit up and crawl to the end of the mattress and pull them back over me, snuggling under until I feel warm again. Angelique would say the people in my dream, the ones in heaven, miss me. Maybe my dream is trying to tell me something, like remember what I’ve lost, or look forward to the future. I can’t make any deeper sense of it.

  My thoughts return to Mike, and I tingle at the memory of putting my head on his shoulder as we danced. I now believe his extreme helpfulness is due to special feelings for me, and not because my father made some clandestine arrangement with him. Can I return his affection in any reliable measure? The idea strikes me as something to reach for, after years of lukewarm emotions. In fact, kissing him felt downright exciting, all the way to my toes. With a grin, I pull the sheet over my face and wonder if we stand a chance as a couple.

  Oh, but what will tomorrow bring?

  Anxiety chases the romantic tingle away, and I spend the rest of the night flopping from front to back, speculating how I can convince the authorities of his innocence if Colton decides to clam up again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  No sooner do I close my eyes than it feels like I open them again. The misty light at dawn hangs like a gray shroud over the house and I shiver. I forgot to turn up the heat last night.

  In my bathroom, I flick on the light and head for the shower. No amount of water can wash away my sense of helplessness. With the appointment book lost in the fire, I cannot produce even a hint of doubt to defend Colton. Mike’s growing affection for me won’t stop him from presenting evidence to prove my son’s probable arson. Those three burned tee shirts dance before my mind’s eye.

  What if a grand jury orders the D.A. to prosecute Colton for his father’s death? People might think they can get away with anything in a small town like Mason’s Crossing, but the law’s the law.

  For everything to return to normal, I’d give my soul. Colton is my primary concern from now on. Overprotective or not, I fear that any pursuit of truth might be enough to nudge him back into the darkness again. Though I wish the warm spray could drown my unhappiness, I settle for a tired body scrubbed clean.

  My emotions yo-yo between fear and gratitude. Mike will execute his job according to his oath of office, and he has already demonstrated how forcefully he can handle Colton. Thank God Mike possesses more patience than I do, despite getting knocked to the ground and called an asshole.

  How will Colton react to questions from the court? For months, I willed myself to endure his sarcasm and anger. If his temper explodes in front of the judge, or if he refuses to answer the D.A., what will become of him? They won’t allow him to go unpunished.

  After hanging up my towel, I shake out lingerie from the chest in the closet, followed by comfortable jeans and a warm sweater. I pull on thick socks and snuggle my feet into fleece-lined slippers. As I brush my hair, I study my face in the mirror. The last year has painted dark circles under my eyes, which no amount of cream concealer can disguise. My cheek muscles sag. I resolve to smile more often.

  In spite of Colton’s tearful confession last night, he is still a time bomb, and I worry that any little thing might set him off. How to diffuse him? I look out the window at the burned shell of my greenhouse and sigh. Maybe I can talk Angelique into coming back over.

  Dear, beloved Angelique. In all of yesterday’s chaos, I forgot to ask about her doctor’s visit. How typical of her to put my problems ahead of her own. Even if she were dying from some strange disease, her first priority would still be to focus all her attention on me.

  Didn’t I pledge to listen to Colton? All right, that’s a start. I can almost feel Angelique’s encouragement surging through my veins. What else did she tell me? Something about remembering love.

  For everything? How much was enough? Heaven only knows, but I swear to find out, even if it produces new scars.

  I go downstairs to start the coffee. And to wait. Once I settle on the chintz sofa in the living room, I stare at Grandmother Mason’s English walnut secretary on the opposite wall. My china coffee cup matches the ones displayed in the glass-front cabinet. The family heirlooms soothe me, somehow, perhaps because they remind me that I am connected to people other than my crazy, distant, inadequate parents.

  After my first few sips of coffee, the door to Colton’s room opens and the stairs creak. On impulse, I rehearse an opening line. He needs reassurance or prodding, or maybe more pain meds.

  Oh, hell, woman! Can’t you just keep your mouth shut?

  Colton shuffles into the room, and I point to a mug of hot chocolate on t
he tray I carried from the kitchen. With a nod, he picks it up and dips the end of his nose into the steam rising inside the brim.

  “Hot enough?” My question sounds tolerably innocent, at least to me.

  “It’s fine.” He wraps his palm and fingers around the mug. His dirty blond hair spikes upward and sideways, and the pillowcase has left a crease across his cheek, like the slash I remember on Clyde’s face.

  I wait, churning on the inside. “Hungry?”

  “Not yet.”

  I try not to monitor his every gesture. It isn’t like he’ll disappear if I look away, but my eyes feast on him. We have not sat together except in uncomfortable silence or argument for over a year.

  “Mom?”

  I hold my breath.

  “Um, last night, what did I tell you?”

  I pat the cushion next to me, but he sits down at the opposite end of the sofa. Too far away for the warmth of his body to reach me. I wonder, if he felt mine in return, would he object?

  Using many of his same words, I repeat the chain of events the night his father died. I pray my voice relays no emotion or judgment. Every now and then, I pause to give him time to absorb the story or ask if he remembers sharing a particular sequence. Our conversation trades back and forth as if we are discussing the purchase of a new stereo.

  I keep expecting him to implode. I don’t see how he stands it, to hear that he caused his father’s death. Maybe God or the angels can shield his broken heart and mind from too much self-blame, yet I know he will have to face what he did. It’s the only way he can heal.

  When I stop speaking, he sets the empty mug on the tray and rests his elbows on his knees. “I have to talk to Sheriff Avery about this, don’t I?”

  One wrong word and he’ll retreat. I keep my tone soft. “He’ll need something like an official statement, but he said he’d wait until you feel up to it.” I lean forward and place my cup and saucer on the tray next to his mug.

  “What’s going to happen to me?”

  “I can’t say for sure, but I’ll be there to help you whether you’d like me to or not.” I want to pat his shoulder. “You didn’t mean to harm your father.”

  Sitting up straight, he blinks and looks down at his bare feet. “Is . . . is Dad mad at me?”

  For a few seconds, I don’t know how to answer him. It has never occurred to me that Colton might worry about Jack’s reaction to his mistake. My lip quivers as I imagine the burden my son has carried and how I added to it. Tucking my leg under me, I shift toward him and try to strike a relaxed pose. “Dad loved you with all his heart, more than anything, and that wipes out all the other stuff.”

  “It does?”

  “Completely.” I wish he sat close enough for me to stroke his cheek. “I want you to remember that, always.”

  Colton crosses his arms. “What about you?”

  Was this the “everything” Angelique referred to? I all but rush at the chance to show my son how much he means to me. “Colton, I hope you will forgive me.”

  He jerks his head toward me and frowns. “What for?”

  “For not listening to you. For insisting I was right.” Tears spill down my cheeks. “For ignoring the signals that you needed help. For not–”

  “Mom, stop.”

  Will I never learn? Colton gives me what looks like half a smile. He glances down again and swallows.

  I sense the curtain pulling shut across his mind and figure he needs a break. I wipe my wet cheeks. “Are you hungry yet?”

  He rolls his head back and from side-to-side, as if his neck aches. His smile disappears, and I dread that fear has overwhelmed him. Fear and self-loathing. If I wait for his answer, we’ll both starve to death.

  As I stroll to the kitchen to fix scrambled eggs, I wonder if angels carry grudges against people on earth. Saint Trixie would be justified, considering all the stormy arguments between Big Jack and her. So would Jack. I hope by now he has forgiven me for marrying him in the first place. Maybe he considers Colton a good trade for a less-than-enthusiastic wife.

  Is my mother satisfied that her marriage brought me into her brief, unhappy life? My father told me she loved him, but has she also pardoned him? Someday he’ll find out.

  Meanwhile, Colton needs to see how much my love will support him in the difficult days ahead, no matter what he’s done. Tenderness should be matched with strength.

  After I set the tray on the counter, I grab a tissue and blow my nose. Another one to dab my eyes, now ringed in red, according to the mirror in the mudroom. I stare at my cheerless reflection. An idea begins to grow in my mind, and I suspect my mother planted it.

  Before we finish breakfast, the phone rings. I expect to hear Judith’s voice wheedling a favor, but it’s Big Jack. He urgently wants me to do something for him. “I’ll explain when you get here.”

  Does he think I can just drop everything and run down to the hospital? “Can it wait until this afternoon? I need to stay home with Colton this morning.”

  “Bring him along. It concerns him, too. It’s important.”

  Will this be an apology from my father-in-law? Too late for his son, but maybe his grandson can appreciate it. I resolve to play a little dumb so Big Jack can explain himself. The ruthless son of a bitch doesn’t deserve an easy way out.

  On the other hand, I have to consider whether to tell him the whole story, given the new details that have come to light. I don’t care if he wonders about Jack’s death or feels guilty forever, though Colton might have a reason to want his grandfather to know.

  Before we hang up, I agree to come as soon as I can get Colton cleaned up. I can’t remember if I have told Big Jack about Colton’s injury.

  When I approach Colton with the idea of dropping by the hospital, he doesn’t consent immediately. “You aren’t going to start a fight with him, are you?”

  Has he read my mind? “What makes you say that?”

  “You’re always fussing about something he did or said. Can’t you just leave the guy alone?”

  “Believe me, I’d rather do that, but he’s asked both of us to come see him. Don’t you think we should go?”

  “Okay, but don’t say anything that will set him off.” Colton holds his fork in front of his mouth and frowns. “Big Jack’s stuck at the hospital all by himself,” he says, shaking his head. “Who else would go visit him if we didn’t?”

  Who indeed? Harlene and Skipper. Together they make a miserable little threesome. I look at Colton and wince. He can still manage to express compassion for someone who dished out pain by the truckload to Jack and others, while I can only respond with dislike and bitterness. Angelique will be proud of him.

  The phone rings again. Judith wants to know when I last heard from Brett. “He asked Charlie yesterday if we’d spoken to you since Tuesday. Didn’t you leave him hanging at the big pow-wow?”

  Before I can answer, she introduces another topic and I am grateful she doesn’t wait for my response. I forgot about Brett and his kindness during the meeting.

  Pots and pans clatter as Judith smooches Charlie and each of her children, one by one, when they appear for breakfast. I sigh and try not to feel envious.

  Judith’s attention circles back to Brett. “He requested your phone number. I hope you don’t mind I gave it to him. Someone has to keep your suitors on their toes.” She giggles. “How’s the race shaping up? Any favorites yet?”

  “Too early to tell.”

  “Well, I’d say Brett’s scorecard looks very positive. He asked what kind of blooms you prefer. Should I have said lilies or roses?”

  “Neither.” Silence. “Why would Brett send me flowers? We only had one date, and you’ll recall it ended on a sour note.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Sally. How can you pass up those slick manners and that humungous fortune? Even if he’s not the handsomest guy in the world, the least you could do is return a little enthusiasm in his direction.”

  The more we banter, the clearer my feelings become. Brett wi
ll never be more than a slightly dull gentleman. Besides, I can’t take time for someone else I barely know to fall in love with me, Mike or no Mike. The sooner I discourage Brett, the better. Maybe he will just chalk it up to influences from my erratic family.

  As soon as I finish loading the dishwasher, I go back upstairs to change shoes. The door to Colton’s room stands half-open and I peek in. With his one good arm, he has been digging through his T-shirt drawer and has scattered several across the foot of his bed.

  I clear my throat. “Do you want to shower before we leave?”

  He spins around as if I had cracked a whip. “Where’s my Jefferson Airplane T-shirt?”

  “I don’t know.” Fear grips my stomach. We’ll find out eventually if its burned remains are stashed somewhere in a bag in Mike’s office. “What color is it?”

  “Dark blue.”

  “Probably in the laundry. I haven’t had time to run the washer lately.” I pick up a pair of dirty socks off the floor and dangle them in front of his face. I try to smile. “These would get washed once in a while if you’d put them where they belong.”

  He didn’t notice my expression and teasing voice, because his eyes shoot daggers at me while he chooses a shirt and some fresh jeans. After I drop the socks, I help him cover his wrist with the plastic sack, and he heads for his bathroom.

  Once we meet back downstairs ready to go, I redirect us from the kitchen to leave by the front entrance. My Jeep sits parked in the driveway, coated in a thin layer of black ash.

  We open the doors of my car, but before we climb in, Colton stands up straight and looks at the burned hull of the garage. He squints, as if he doesn’t recognize it, and then his face muscles lose their strength as his eyes bulge and his mouth sags open. How will I answer if he asks what else he has done? Kids are supposed to be resilient, but he shows nothing except fragility. I vow to pay close attention to any danger signs.