Inhaling a jittery breath, she picked up the sixth and last letter. Same identical envelope as the others. Same neat writing in a plain, blue ballpoint pen, but everything else had changed.
Dear Mr. Milford,
You’ve ignored every letter I’ve sent, and it’s like I sent you a piece of my heart and never got it back and now it’s bled out and hollow and I don’t feel too much pain any more. I know you don’t love me, maybe you never did, and now that I’m a woman and a wife I can see that you likely didn’t love my mother either. You didn’t treat her right and I could see that even as a child. You see I’m a lot less ignorant about the relationships between women and men. Men have more power and they can use their strength to dominate, but don’t you believe that you are winning anything of value.
I’ve said a thousand rosaries for you and for my husband and for all mankind and I think they are falling on ears as deaf as yours. Thank Heaven for my two strong young sons, who are the only joy I have left in this world.
You were right that choosing my husband was a mistake, but maybe staying with a heartless, cruel man like you who can cut off his only daughter as if she never lived would have been a graver mistake.
I don’t suppose you’ve even read any of my letters and I don’t expect you’ll read this one either.
In sorrow over what has been lost,
K
And that was the last one. A chill roamed over Lizzie as she read the bitter, angry words of the last letter.
Could she really show these letters to Con?
She bit her lip and slipped the folded bit of paper back in the envelope. Maybe it was better not to know some things.
The screeching racket of the tree frogs outside made her long to close the windows, but the nighttime air was mercifully cooler.
There was no way she could lie down and sleep with a secret like this on her conscience.
“Con.”
“Hmmmm.” His mouth shifted but his eyes didn’t open.
She gathered the letters and went to sit on the bed. She put her hand on his warm arm and shook. “Con, wake up.”
“What?” he squeezed his eyes, then cracked one open. The light was in his eyes.
“The letters, I read them.”
“So what? It’s nighttime. Tell me in the morning.” He lifted the sheet for her to get in with him.
“Con, I think they’re from your mom.”
His eyes snapped open, but not all the way, just until they were dark slits peering suspiciously at her. “Impossible.”
“I’m serious. They’re from a woman who ran away with a man her father disapproved of. She writes about naming her first son Conroy Anthony.”
“’S not me.”
“Anthony isn’t your middle name?”
“I don’t have a middle name. Conroy Beale, that’s all she wrote.”
“What was your mother’s name?”
“Rina.”
“Oh.” Her fearful excitement deflated a little. She’d been so sure. “Your brother, did he have blond hair?”
“Nope, light brownish.”
“Oh. It’s just that… otherwise the details seem to fit. She married a man who she thought was wonderful and he turned out to be a mean drunk with no money. Will you take a look at them?”
“No, I’m tired. Come to bed, Lizzie.”
“Please?” She hated the whiny tone of her voice.
“No. I don’t even want to touch those damn letters. They give me the creeps.” He slanted a suspicious glance at them where they lay in her hand.
“Can I read one to you?”
Con let out a loud sigh and pulled the sheet up over his shoulder. “If you must.”
By the time she’d finished reading them all—which didn’t take long—he was propped up on his elbow staring at her, lips parted.
“See what I mean? The details match right up.”
“Well,” he frowned, “some of them do, but like I said, my mom’s name was Rina. What’s the postmark on the envelope?”
“Breaux.”
“Shit.” Con bit his lip. That’s the nearest town to Mudbug Flats with a post office. “I don’t like this one bit.”
“You know what this means, don’t you?”
“What?”
“Your mom grew up in this house.”
Con blew out a snort. “Well, that is just impossible.”
“How? She’s writing to her father at this address. We found the letters in this bed. This was probably her father’s bedroom. It is the biggest.”
Con squirmed, like the bed suddenly grew spikes. “No, really. There’s no way my mom grew up someplace like this. She wasn’t, you know, sophisticated or smart or anything. She was just a nice woman. There’s no way…”
“If she ran away when she was very, very young, say fifteen or sixteen, then she wouldn’t necessarily seem polished and sophisticated.”
Con shook his head emphatically. “I don’t think so.”
“And, think about it, couldn’t Rina be short for say, Katherine? That would match up with the K she signs. What was her maiden name?”
Con gave her a funny look. “I don’t know what her maiden name was. But, you know, I think she did have Katherine written inside her prayer book. I asked her about it once.” He sat up, an expression of deepening alarm on his face. “And—” He stared at her, a distant look that chilled her. “She kept a lock of my brother’s hair taped inside her prayer book—he was sick a lot when he was little…” He tapped his chest, searching for a word. “He had um…respiratory infections. That lock of hair was real pale, almost white.” He stared at her, blinking.
“It’s her, isn’t it?” Lizzie bit her lip.
“She never did say where she was from. I can kind of see why if she’d made a big step down like that.” Con rubbed his hand over his mouth. “That kind of thing freaks people out. Better to keep it a secret, you know?”
“No, I don’t know. You’re the expert on secrets.” Lizzie was getting a nasty prickly sensation up and down her spine.
“She always said my father was a good man when she met him.” Con looked past her, out into the darkness outside the uncurtained window. “That he worked hard and they had big dreams. The problem was, he couldn’t make enough money so he never felt like he was worthy of her.”
Lizzie let out a breath she’d been holding for some time. “Is that why you pushed me away once I had no money of my own?” she asked quietly.
“What?” Con looked startled.
“Because you were afraid that you’d end up like your father, unable to support your family?”
“No,” Con said indignantly. “No way. I didn’t think about it like that at all. I’m nothing like my father…” His voice trailed off.
Lizzie placed her hand on his arm as strange heat flooded her chest. She looked at his face, at the confusion on his striking features. “You know, Conroy Beale, suddenly I understand you a whole lot better.”
Chapter 19
Lizzie sat at the dining room table munching a croissant as long slivers of morning sun crept across the wood floor. Raoul had accosted her at breakfast, set up a mirror in front of her, and started work on her shower-wet hair while she was still eating.
“Sweetheart, you are looking goooood this morning.” Raoul’s smiling face leered behind her in the mirror. “Guess you took my advice about ice on the bags.”
“I just got a decent night of sleep.” Actually, she didn’t get all that much real sleep, but somehow unpacking some more of Con’s baggage and spending the night in his arms was more restful than a week at a spa. For the first time she could really see where Con was coming from.
Raoul chuckled. “Well, I’m glad you managed to keep young Conroy chained up long enough to catch some shut-eye. You’ll be married soon. That boy needs to learn to pace himself.”
Lizzie couldn’t help smiling.
Raoul spritzed her hair with some shiny stuff. “I don’t think any of us will get any
sleep after they turn on those things.” He jerked his chin toward three enormous blue air-conditioning units that were being wheeled into the house.
“Thank God!” Lizzie closed her eyes for a second as the promise of being cool again almost unhinged her. “I had no idea how totally dependent I am on air conditioning.”
“Terrible for the skin. Dries it right out. The humidity has done wonders for your epidermis. It’s positively glowing.”
Yeah. Right. That glow has nothing to do with making love to Con and spending the night in his arms.
Hold up. No love was made. We had sex.
“You alright? You look tense. Like I was saying, now we’ve found the right routine—lots of moisture and a spritz of glycerine—the humidity makes your curls spring right up like Slinkys. Beautiful.”
“Thanks Raoul.” She took another a bite of her croissant and studied her reflection in the mirror. Perhaps her hair did look okay? Kind of like the “after” in a perm commercial. Would both Con and Raoul lie if they didn’t think it looked pretty?
Well, maybe Con would.
“Darling!” Lizzie jumped as Maisie’s voice boomed in her ear. “They’re steaming some wrinkles out of the dress and we’re going to do a fitting on-camera right after breakfast. Isabel Matsuo has outdone herself.” Maisie leaned down and whispered in her ear. “You know I’m almost ready to defect to her myself. What she’s done with the pearl beads is magnificent, the way it drapes—oh!”
Lizzie raised her eyebrows. Whatever! It’s just a dress. Maisie took this stuff so much more seriously than she did.
“Raoul, you are the most talented hairdresser in the Northern Hemisphere. How on earth did you manage to get Lizzie’s poufy frizz to make ringlets?”
Lizzie gritted her teeth.
“Didn’t do a thing, sugar,” said Raoul, without looking at her. “Lizzie’s curl is 100 percent natural. This is what it does when left to its own devices, just as your hair hangs like wet shawl fringe.” He winked at Lizzie, who fought to suppress an explosive chuckle.
Maisie’s icy smile barely covered her teeth. “Well, I must go supervise the placement of the air conditioners.”
“Don’t know why we need ’em with her around here,” whispered Raoul, before she was out of earshot. “Puts a chill in the air wherever she goes. But I guess I shouldn’t talk that way about your cousin.”
“Please do. It’s music to my ears.”
“Here comes Prince Charming.” He smiled. Lizzie’s stomach tightened.
“Hey, guys.” Con wandered over, carrying a plate of food and looking his usual polished self. Lizzie tried to ignore the rush of warmth she felt at the sight of him.
“Guys?” said Raoul with a flourish of his hand. “Guys? Is that how you talk to your future bride? This is Lizzie Hathaway. Do you want her to think you fell off a turnip truck?”
“’S better than the truth.” Con took a hearty bite of croissant.
“Yeah.” Raoul stopped dusting a layer of fine powder over Lizzie’s face and looked up at Con, suddenly serious. “I heard about yesterday. But don’t you sweat it, sweetheart,” he said. Con chewed his croissant casually as if a man called him sweetheart every day. “What happened back then was none of your doing.”
“Amen to that,” said Con. “And no one’s going to be sweating around here once those things get fired up.” He gestured to the blue monsters being wheeled into position and took another big bite of croissant.
Did nothing bother him? Maybe he really did have no feelings? Lizzie took a deep breath to combat tightness in her chest.
She had far too many feelings for Con this morning and anger and resentment weren’t even among them. She bit her lip.
“No biting. Save that for later.” Raoul rolled his eyes toward Con. Lizzie forced a smile.
She wasn’t falling for him again. Really, she wasn’t! She just felt sorry for him. Simple compassion, that’s all. And strong sexual attraction. Just normal girl stuff, nothing along the lines of eternal love and all that crap.
It was a little disturbing she could only sleep with him in her bed, like a toddler with a smelly stuffed animal it can’t let go of, but that was hardly the stuff of great romance.
“Lizzie, darling, we need you!” Maisie’s distant voice startled her out of her rather panicked ruminations. “The dress is ready.”
“Coming.”
“I haven’t done your eyes yet,” protested Raoul.
“I’ll sport the natural look for now.” She rose out of her chair, relieved not to worry about mascara and liner streaking her cheeks for once.
“Later,” she said to Con, trying to sound cool and casual.
Con just nodded, but the look he gave her—dark, wary and brimming with unspoken words—made her breath stick right at the bottom of her lungs.
“It looks a little tight.” Maisie—who else?—loudly voiced the words on everyone’s mind.
Gia struggled to get the zipper up. It was stuck right above her waist. A seed pearl popped off the front and rolled to the floor.
Lizzie gritted her teeth and sucked in harder. Lights, set up around the elegant sitting room they’d commandeered as a dressing room, beat down on her like sun on the Sahara. Dino winced behind the tripod-mounted camera blocking the Adams fireplace. The dress weighed a ton, and was all she could do to keep her shoulders steady.
“Is there any room to let the seams out?” Maisie asked the seamstress who’d accompanied the dress to Louisiana. The tiny Japanese woman looked at her blankly. She didn’t seem to understand a single word of English.
“The seams,” shouted Maisie, with a forced smile, as if the woman was deaf. “Fix?” The seamstress’s smooth forehead creased.
Up on the makeshift podium, Lizzie closed her eyes.
Gia forced the zipper to the top with a lightning movement that left Lizzie’s nipples begging for mercy. “Got it!”
Thank God.
A vision of seed pearls exploding over all the open boxes of shoes and gloves and silk stockings made her afraid to breathe except in tiny sips through her mouth.
All of a sudden the giant blue box hunkered in the corner roared to life.
“Yes!” cried Maisie, like a cheerleader. “They said it couldn’t be done, and I simply insisted they do it anyway. A little determination, that’s all that’s required to accomplish most things in life.”
The machine shuddered and hiccupped and a blast of freezing air shot across the room, sprinkling goose bumps over Lizzie’s arms.
It felt really good.
It wasn’t even all that loud.
Euphoria accompanied the icy air. No more sweat drenching her armpits and pouring down her spine! No more droplets beading her upper lip and wetting the hair at her temples! No more—
The machine shuddered to a halt at the exact same moment all the lights went out and Dino issued a resounding, “Fuck.”
“Power’s dead,” yelled Roger from the other room.
“Someone give that boy a Pulitzer,” growled Maisie. “Get it going again!” she yelled through the doorway. She tapped her foot on the floor for a few seconds. It was encased in a rather frumpy beige pump to match her slim beige suit. “You leave Manhattan, and it’s like you’re in another century.”
Would someone please unzip me? was the only thought on Lizzie’s mind, which felt as squished as her torso. She didn’t voice it until Maisie had stalked out of the room, tut-tutting about primitive conditions and the need for hardship pay.
Gia unzipped her and she sagged with relief.
“I’m going outside for a smoke,” muttered Dino.
“I’m with you,” said Gia, already striding for the door.
Lizzie was left standing on the podium in a too-tight fifteen-thousand dollar dress, towering over a tiny Japanese woman whose name she’d not managed to catch.
This was all your idea.
Con’s blood crept like Arctic ice as he and Lizzie stood in the Parish records office with Dino
’s camera trained on him. You weren’t allowed to look in anyone’s file but your own, but the kind young clerk had agreed to check Danny’s file to see if it contained a death certificate.
She pulled a folder from the file drawer and flipped through it. It took all Con’s strength to keep his face calm. He held himself steady as blood pounded in his head and cold fingers squeezed his heart.
“No death certificate.”
He sagged with relief. “Thank God.” Of course it didn’t mean Danny was alive, but there was hope.
Lizzie let out a breath too. She looked almost as nervous as him, twisting her fingers together, her face white. He wanted to hug her, but didn’t.
“Could Con see his own file?” she asked, as the clerk put Danny’s away.
“Yes.” The clerk looked at him. “Would you like to?”
Not really, was the answer that sprang to mind as a queasy sensation sneaked into his stomach.
“Come on, Con. You need to see your mother’s maiden name.” Lizzie put her hand on his arm.
No, I don’t. He didn’t want to know if she was that sad woman in the letters. His memories were sad enough already.
“Okay.” He couldn’t help feeling nothing good could come from digging up the past. Who knew what other skeletons lay rotting in the muck down there? He shivered in the air-conditioned room as they waited for the clerk to come back. Lizzie rubbed his back, and he took a deep breath.
“Conroy Aaron Beale.” The clerk drew out the file. Aaron? How could he not even know he had a middle name? He became acutely aware of the camera on him, like he was being stripped naked. It’s just a piece of paper.
“Can I see it?” His voice sounded disembodied.
The clerk handed it to him, and he pulled Lizzie close so she could see it too.
“Father, Daniel Patrick Beale.” That name still gave him a chill. Made bile rise in his throat.
“Mother,” his voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “Mother, Katherine Marie Milford Beale.”
“It’s her,” breathed Lizzie. “I knew it.”
A Bad Boy is Good to Find Page 20