by Mae Clair
“I thought I was.” He paced a few feet away, kicking distractedly at a bed of dry leaves. “I understand why he took another name, but it doesn’t soften the sting. Maybe if we’d been on speaking terms. Maybe if he’d told me all those years ago what he was thinking, I wouldn’t have reacted so badly when he changed career plans at the last minute. Seems like a damn stupid sticking point.”
“You’re both stubborn, but you want the same thing. He needs to hear you say it.” She paused, wetting her lips. “He’s never made peace with what happened to Trask. Don’t you realize how hard it’s been for him to come back? To bring Derry?”
Stuart closed his eyes. “He’s a good father. Better than I’ve been.” He drew a slow breath, squaring his shoulders. “You’re right. We’ve avoided each other far too long. I’m not making any promises, but I’ll talk to him.” He turned, the shadow of a smile hovering on his lips. “I don’t want to be a troll all of my life.”
Veronica closed the distance and planted a kiss on his cheek. “No chance of that. You’re a prince.”
* * * *
Caith threw two pair of jeans into his suitcase not bothering to look where they landed. He moved to the dresser, grabbed a handful of T-shirts, and tossed them over his shoulder. Half hit the suitcase, the other half the floor. Irritated, he kicked them aside on his way to the closet.
“Not a productive way of packing,” his father observed neutrally from the doorway.
Caith rounded on him in anger. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Clearing his throat, Stuart stepped into the bedroom. “The outer door was open. I figured you’d be preparing to leave.”
“You figured right.” Ignoring him, Caith returned to what he was doing. He’d been operating on a hair-trigger since barreling out of the house. Lack of sleep kept him cranky, while anger made him defensive.
How would Derrick react to leaving Coldcreek? He had his heart set on trick-or-treating that night. Even if Caith took him to the weekend Halloween festivities in Boston, he’d miss sharing the experience with his cousins. And then there was the strong attachment he’d formed with Caith’s father. Would Derrick forgive him for severing that?
Worse, he’d be leaving Veronica. If he asked her to give up everything and follow him to Boston, would she do it? Or would she insist on a commitment he still shied from giving? Could she love him despite scars that left him emotionally unstable?
“I need to talk to you,” his father said.
“Too bad. I’m busy.” Caith snatched an armload of shirts from the closet and carried the hangers to the bed. From the corner of his eye, he noted an oversized binder tucked under his father’s arm. Popping a shirt from its hanger, he folded it into a semi-passable square and dropped it in the suitcase. “I told you I quit.”
“‘Fucking quit’ is how you worded it.” His father propped a hip against the dresser, holding the binder low against his stomach. “The last thing I want you to do is leave.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“Listen, Caithelden.” Temper flared briefly in his father’s eyes. “Maybe I haven’t been exactly cordial, but you’ve been damn disagreeable yourself. I had reasons for riding you like I did this morning.”
“Let me guess. You wanted me to look like an incompetent fool?” Wadding up a shirt, he shot it into the suitcase. Slamming the lid, he lobbed a glare across the room then stalked around the foot of the bed. “You wanted me to fail.”
“That’s not true.”
“You wanted me to fail so you could prove to yourself I’m nothing without BI.”
“BI has nothing to do with this. I jumped down your throat because I want you to stay.”
“What?”
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” His father laughed humorlessly. “I’ve been trying to make you angry since you got here. I wanted your focus on me instead of the case.”
A prickle of suspicion made Caith narrow his eyes. “Why?”
“Because if you resolve the problems at Stone Willow, you’ll go back to Boston. I don’t want that to happen, even if it means losing the lodge.” Uncomfortably, he looked away. “I want you to stay in Coldcreek.”
Caith stared, unable to believe what he was hearing. “Because of Derry?”
“Yes. But mostly because of you.” Standing straighter, his father drew a breath and met his gaze. “I won’t lie. I’ve made mistakes, Caith. I can’t change that or the past. I only want you to understand why I’ve behaved the way I have.”
Caith snorted. “I understand you slammed a door in my face.”
“And you threw my name away like a thing of no value. What would you do if Derry grew up and changed his name? How would it make you feel if your son wanted no part of you?”
“I never said that.” Caith brushed off the accusation, unwilling to admit his stubbornness had played a role in their rift. “It’s not the same.”
“It is. And you seem to forget you weren’t the only one affected by what happened to you. When we’d found out you’d been kidnapped…those three days…” His father faltered over the memory, his voice unsteady. “Your mother and I thought the world had ended. You’ve no idea what it was like. We—”
He broke off abruptly, the words catching in his throat. Shaking his head, he tried another track. “When the police told us a boy had been killed, we were terrified it was you. When we learned it was Trask, I felt relieved.” He closed his eyes briefly as if pained by the thought. “He didn’t deserve to die, Caith, especially not the way he did. But no matter how hard I’ve tried over the years, no matter how many times I’ve told myself I should feel differently, I can’t help being grateful it wasn’t you.”
Caith’s mouth was dry. “He died trying to save me.”
“I know that. And I know you thought of him as a brother, but you can’t keep feeling guilty because you survived and he didn’t. I thank God every day you were the one who lived.” His gaze dipped to the binder. Absently, he smoothed a hand over the spine. “After what happened to Trask, I would have locked you in a cage to keep you safe. I took comfort in knowing you’d eventually settle into BI. It would have been a safe place for you. Policies, meetings, corporate fanfare. I’d be able to watch over you.” He shook his head ruefully. “But what do you do? Out of college and into the police academy with barely a breath in between. From rookie, to robbery, to homicide. Did you have to choose homicide, Caith?”
“How did you know that?”
His father grinned faintly. “You’d be surprised what I know. Just because we haven’t spoken for twelve years doesn’t mean I haven’t followed your career.”
Caith shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not that easy.” Words couldn’t erase the sting of betrayal. Striding across the bedroom, he dragged a hand through his hair. “You went back on your word. You lied to me. You said you’d always be there. Do you know what that meant to me?”
“I’m sorry. I do now. And I should have realized what you were going through.” His father offered the binder. When Caith made no move to take it, he set it on the bed, his expression hollow. “Your mother doesn’t know I have that. Despite what you think, Caithelden, I am proud of you and what you’ve done for a living. Whether you believe it or not, I want you to stay.”
Caith said nothing. His father waited the agonizing span of three heartbeats, then turned and walked from the room. In the resulting silence, the mausoleum-like shroud of the lodge settled heavily on Caith’s shoulders. His gaze strayed to the binder as he noted the oversized pages and soft leather covering. A scrap book.
What was his father doing with a scrap book?
Moving to the bed, he sat on the edge and examined the binder. The first page held the clipping of an article that had run in a local Boston paper when he graduated from the police academy. A class photo accompanied the article. Someone had taken a red pen and drawn a ring around his head, setting him off from the others in the third
row. He turned the page and saw a copy of the photo he kept on his mantel, a posed shot in full uniform. There was a candid shot beside it, snapped at the commencement reception. He was in the middle of a small group of uniformed graduates, all laughing. Still another with Aren, arms slung around one another’s shoulders, each holding a beer. There had been a photographer at the reception that night. Had his father taken the time to track him down and obtain copies of individual photographs?
Turning the page, he discovered a collection of brief passages snipped from the paper whenever his name was mentioned in a passing article or police report. Highlighted sections in each article drew his eye.
Officer Caith Lairen of the 82nd Precinct was the first officer on the scene….
The robbery suspect was apprehended by Officers Caith Lairen and Paul Geiger, both of the 82nd Precinct. Lairen said the suspect’s car careened out of control when he tried to make a wide turn at the corner of Claymore and 33rd….
Shots were fired in an early-morning robbery attempt when two men entered the Quick Stop Market on Dorchester Street shortly after seven a.m. Off-duty police officer, Caith Lairen helped foil the attempt….
Each page he turned brought more snippets. Some articles were lengthy, rounded out by accompanying photos, others nothing more than a few brief lines of newsprint.
Detective Caith Lairen of the Fifty-Fourth Precinct Homicide Division refused to give particulars on the grisly slaying, stating only a suspect had been taken into custody….
A high-speed chase shortly after two a.m. left Detective Caith Lairen with minor bruises and a broken collar bone when his car rolled down an embankment. Lairen and other officers were chasing a suspect wanted for questioning in the shooting death of a liquor store clerk.
And still farther into the book: The Farrington Corporate Scandal was effectively brought to a close today when Private Investigator Caith Lairen, hired by the Farrington Review Board, submitted evidence incriminating three key executives.
There was more. References to expert testimony he’d given in court, an ad for services clipped from an online listing, an article on charitable work that mentioned his name for contributing time and finances, even a business card for his investigation firm. A separate section detailed awards he’d won in the course of his career. Citations for bravery, merit awards, an extensive article written when he’d rescued two children taken hostage during a domestic dispute that had turned violent.
Scattered among the carefully preserved clippings were candid photographs, likely pilfered from his mother, Melanie, or Aren. There were pictures of him in college, his hair resting on his shoulders, pictures with Derrick shortly after his son was born, even a picture as recent as last summer when he’d spent an afternoon on the waterfront with his mother and Derrick. There were others as well, business photographs taken at city and municipal events he’d attended on behalf of the police department, and later as an investigator for hire.
Twelve years of his life in articles and photographs. His father had cared enough, been interested enough, to follow his career long distance. He’d obviously hired a clipping service to track down every scrap of available information on his son, even going so far as to pay others to attend events Caith frequented.
Swearing softly, Caith closed the book. In twelve years, he’d never once asked his mother or Aren how his father fared. He hadn’t known about the complications with his heart, or other health problems that had come and gone. He’d been wrong to think the man had shut him out of his life.
His father did care. He was proud of him.
He simply wasn’t able to say it.
* * * *
Veronica held her breath as Stuart returned to the house. All around them preparations were taking place for the Halloween party that evening. Vendors came and went. Florists, decorators, caterers, musicians. Aren and Merlin had returned to BI, but Morgana thrived on the commotion. Breezing from room to room, she directed the placement of this item, the removal of that. When Stuart walked into the main hall, Veronica sent him a silent, questioning glance. Wordlessly, he shook his head and retreated to his study, unwilling to discuss what had happened.
Her stomach clenched as a mixture of fear and dread skittered through her. The expression in her eyes must have betrayed her unease because Morgana took her by the arm and drew her aside. Across the hall, the caterer and florist were busily consulting with the head of Morgana’s household staff. Three workers wearing black shirts that proclaimed Ghosts & Ghouls, Inc. wheeled a life-sized coffin through the front door. Having attended a number of Morgana’s Halloween parties, Veronica knew trays would be fitted inside the open lid, bearing all manner of delectable treats.
“I know my son,” Morgana said, cutting through the noise and activity. “He’s stubborn, but he’s not stupid. He isn’t going anywhere, Veronica. He may not be willing to admit it, but he’s in love with you.”
“No.” She tried to draw away. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s the truth.”
She shook her head. “Caith’s terrified of love.”
“He’s terrified of loss.”
Veronica clamped her mouth shut. Morgana was right. Even if Caith wouldn’t admit it, she knew it was the defining emotion that had driven him all of his life. The reason he’d chosen a career designed to keep others safe, the reason he’d given his son another name, the reason he still couldn’t bring himself to visit Trask’s grave.
She wet her lips. “I have to see him.”
“Give him time first,” Morgana suggested. “Stuart said he was up all night working on the case. He’s barely slept and probably isn’t thinking clearly.” She smiled encouragingly, hooking her arm through Veronica’s. “You can stay and help me decide where the band should go. And the goblins. Did I mention we’re having roving goblins?”
Veronica managed a small smile. The Ghosts & Ghouls people were pushing a series of crates through the door. Tall ones, large ones, squat ones.
“Mrs. Breckwood,” a sandy-haired worker called. “Where would you like us to put the trolls?”
* * * *
Veronica waited until one-thirty before leaving. She swung by Aren’s house to pick up the costumes for later that evening, hoping Caith would give her the chance to use them. Afterward, she headed for the lodge, her stomach in knots. Caith’s Explorer was parked in its usual spot, shaded by a group of intertwined trees. Dry, shriveled leaves clung to the roof rack and more lay snagged against the wipers. He’d obviously been at the lodge for some time, a realization that helped quiet her nerves.
Tiptoeing into his suite, she found him asleep on the bed. The closet door was open, his suitcase shoved inside. A handful of sweaters were stacked on the dresser, but it didn’t look like he planned on going anywhere. He’d kicked off his shoes but was otherwise fully dressed, wearing the same gray khakis and long-sleeved black shirt he’d had on earlier that morning.
Veronica sat on the edge of the bed, hating to wake him. It was after two o’clock, almost time for him to pick up Derry from school. Maybe she should leave a note and do that for him. Before she could debate the matter further, Caith shifted and stirred.
“Hey.” She brushed a hand across his brow, sweeping stray bangs from his forehead. His eyes opened, blue as river water in the late day sun. Part of her wanted to know if he’d intended on leaving without seeing her. Another, more rational part, told her there had been enough dissent for one day. “I was worried you left.”
“Not without you.” His voice was hoarse, uneven. She blinked, surprised when he caught her wrist and drew her down beside him. “I’m sorry I stormed out. I never would have left without…I mean, since I’ve come back…” Frustration flitted through his eyes. “What I’m trying to say…”
She placed her fingers against his lips. “You shouldn’t have to struggle to say it, Caith.”
Clenching his jaw, he looked away. She felt a betraying ripple of muscle where the
ir arms touched.
“Did Merlin ever tell you…” He swallowed, meeting her gaze warily. “You know?”
“Merlin is clueless about love. I never wanted him to say it and mean it. Not like I want you to.”
He kissed her. To cover the lapse, she realized. Because he couldn’t say it. Because in his mind, love and loss went hand-in-hand. She wrapped her arms around his neck, saddened it was all he could give.
At the very least, he had stayed.
* * * *
Veronica finished dressing, then stood back to survey her reflection in an oval, floor-length mirror. The Halloween gown was exquisite, nipped and tucked in all the right places, flowing softly over her hips and thighs. She’d pinned her hair with the pearl-encrusted combs, leaving the long column of her neck exposed.
All she needed was her highwayman.
Somehow, she and Derry had managed to coerce Caith into wearing the costume. It had taken persistent wheedling, but he’d eventually conceded, throwing up his hands in defeat. He might have refused either of them individually, but together she and Derry made a formidable team. Afterward, they’d shared a high-five and a root beer, giggling over their victory. When it came time for Derry to get dressed, he asked Veronica to help him with the werewolf costume.
She’d fussed over him, adjusting the hair-covered suit while Caith reclined on the sofa belting out snatches of Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves of London.” Singing purposefully off key, punctuating the lyrics with piercing howls, it didn’t take long for his over-the-top performance to send her and Derry into another fit of laughter.
Eventually, they’d all recovered enough for her and Caith to affix pointed ears and tufts of facial hair to Derry’s costume. When they were through, Caith had given his son a lesson on the finer points of howling and growling. It made her think that maybe, just maybe, the man notorious for hating Halloween would finally enjoy the holiday.
Wishful thinking, she realized as she stood in the bedroom adding the finishing touches to her costume. Retrieving a gold bracelet from the dresser, she slipped it over her wrist atop her satin glove. Seventeen years had passed without Trask.