“Yeah,” he agreed in a low voice, unable to tear his own gaze from her face. “You’re right.”
“I’m sorry about your father,” she added quietly, still looking away.
Matthew suddenly reached for her shoulders and gently turned her to face him again. He moved slowly to cup her face with infinite tenderness, and she closed her eyes and he knew he had to stop now. But for this last sweet, forbidden moment he cradled her jaw in his huge hands, his nerves singing with the contact, and he whispered, “I remember you.”
Her eyes flew open and she looked into him, feeling as though their very souls were touching through their eyes. Her heart thrummed against her chest, trying hard to push her forward and against his own beating heart. “What do you mean?”
“When you were little you came to my mother’s funeral,” he said, so softly. “I remember you from then. You hugged me. I was so sad at the funeral…it was raining that day, really hard rain, and your mom walked away without you…she was talking to someone…and we were kind-of left there, standing in the rain. I had an umbrella, and you walked over and put your arms around my waist…”
The memory at once gushed into her mind and she shuddered with its impact, needing to be fully in his arms just one more time. He crushed her to his chest again, rocked side to side, and she clung like the child she had once been, seeking to comfort and be comforted by the little boy who couldn’t seem to stop crying that cold rainy day long ago. She hadn’t understood then, and understood even less now…only felt. He felt right, and that was it.
“Matthew,” she said again, holding him, pressing against him, and for a split second she knew he was going to kiss her, bring his beautiful lips against hers. Unconsciously she pressed closer, her lips parting. But in the next second he made a sound low in his throat, a tortured sound, and put her down, turned away. She felt stabbed and said to his back, “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean…”
He stood with his head in his hands for a moment, then said, “We better get back.”
She followed him back through the woods in silence, hearing only the clubbing of her injured heart, the fiddling of a thousand and one crickets. Just before they came into the clearing, he said quietly, “I’m sorry, too, Bryce…more than you’ll ever know.”
***
Wilder was on the porch with the twins when they emerged from the forest, and Bryce got a grip on herself with every last ounce of willpower she possessed. Two feet in front of her she sensed Matthew doing the same. He waved at his older brother and called out, “Hey, you save any for us?”
“Uncle Matty, you missed supper!” Emma scolded as they reached the glow of the porch light. She and Wilder were sharing the swing, and Cody was lying flat on his back, observing them upside-down, his head hanging down the top step.
“I know, pumpkin,” he said, pausing politely to let Bryce pass up the steps first. She couldn’t even bear to glance at him, and instead focused on Cody.
“You’ll get a headache like that,” she told him.
“Naw, I’m used to it,” he responded brightly. Bryce hesitated, nerves jumping, on the porch; Matthew was still standing on the grass, and with the steps between them, they were the same height.
“I guess you’ve properly introduced yourselves, then?” Wilder asked, and the nature of the question was softened by the way he ruffled Emma’s hair while asking. Bryce tried to let her shoulders relax.
“Sure did,” Matthew replied easily.
“I’ve never seen a real lake,” Bryce supplied. “It’s so beautiful here; you guys are so lucky.”
“It is a great place,” Wilder confirmed, and then said, “Honey, there’s plenty left in the kitchen.”
Gratefully she bounded inside; behind her Wilder grumbled, “You could have brought all those damn bags inside before running off to the lake, little bro.”
Erica and Evelyn were working on the dishes; Riley was nowhere to be seen. There under the warm kitchen lights, all of the false bravado dissolved from Bryce’s limbs. Suddenly she felt as though she might be violently ill in a huge spray across the gleaming wood floor. Erica was moving to dish her up a plate, but she lifted one hand weakly and said, “Aunt Erica, thanks for supper, but I think I’ll go lie down. I have…really bad cramps right now.” There, and not even a total lie.
Erica changed directions and pulled a plastic pill bottle from a side drawer. “It’s been a long day for you. Take a couple of these and you’ll feel better.”
“Thanks,” she whispered, and Erica patted her shoulder, her eyes concerned. She had removed her bandana and unwoven her braid, and the gorgeous mermaid’s hair Bryce recalled gleamed down her back in waves. She smelled of onions and garlic, homey scents, and Bryce was stunned to realize she wanted to burrow in her aunt’s embrace and be held tight. She backed away, cupping her hands around the small white pills, suddenly missing Trish very much. “Good-night, you two. Thanks again.”
Moments later she was climbing the stairs, hearing Evelyn ask, “Mom, what’s the matter with her?” in a hushed voice.
Erica quietly replied, “I don’t know for sure, honey. I think she’s a little overwhelmed by all of this.”
Erica, you have no fucking idea.
Part Two: Deception
Chapter Five
Rose Lake, Minnesota – Thursday, December 18, 1969
Lydia Henry bent over the toilet in the downstairs bathroom of the farm house, retching what surely had to be the last of her insides into the freshly-scrubbed white bowl. With a gasp she sat down hard on the cold wooden floor, bracing both palms against it for leverage, remaining as motionless as a threatened spider. And yet still her belly pitched and heaved, forcing bile up the back of her throat for the thousandth time that morning. Straight out from the open bathroom door the kitchen windows were in her direct line of view; no one was home at this hour of the day, and the sky was leaden and gray, exactly the way her soul felt right now.
After a few minutes had passed she rose gingerly to her feet and turned to the sink, bent and splashed water over her face. She caught a glimpse of herself in the round, wood-framed mirror directly above the faucet and winced; she looked ill and peaked, her hair hanging in a limp braid over one shoulder, a dingy and depressing glimpse into the role of farm wife and mother she was now inevitably destined for. Her belly jumped again and she clung to the edge of the sink.
“Goddamn bastard,” she muttered, not sure if she meant the baby in her womb or John Ryan; either were direct candidates for her wrath. You coward, she hissed at herself for the hundredth time since this nightmare had begun. She was too terrified to get an abortion, fearful of the pain, but even more so of the everlasting hell her Catholic soul would be bound for if she were to kill the infant growing inside of her. She glared into her red-rimmed brown eyes in the mirror, seductive eyes that were the rich brown of pecans, fringed in heavy black lashes, a sharp and fascinating contrast to her golden-blond mane of hair. She glared until the tears came again, hot and furious, drenching her pale cheeks. She considered for a moment killing herself right here in the house, all over Daniel Sternhagen’s kitchen floor, blood blooming bright and red from the wounds she would open in her skin. Let John have that on his soul. And hers would still be condemned to hell.
But Daniel had been kind to her. Kinder than any man she had yet known in her 19 years, and she owed him the courtesy of at least an explanation. Certainly it would hurt him to find her sprawled lifeless on the hooked rug in front of the woodstove. And you’d still be murdering the baby, she reminded herself darkly, before giving over to full-scale weeping. The house was clean enough for the moment; she could certainly allow herself a moment to sit at the table and sob.
The worst of it was that she still loved goddamn John Ryan with every inch of her heart. Surely he had loved her, too, in those stolen moments they had found together all through the summer and fall of what had been the most exquisitely wonderful year of her life. Before this…before her birth control had
failed her, a sickening discovery she had made just before Thanksgiving. John Ryan, with his marvelously strong hands, his dark eyes and black hair…the way his black mustache made him look a little like a pirate. Yes, he was married. Yes, he had his own children already – the Catholic girl inside of the woman in love had terrible pangs about that – but Lydia could not…would not…deny the way he made her feel. She had given herself over to him with no restraints whatever.
“Lydia, you are the most beautiful creature ever made,” he told her the first time they had made love. He was a lawyer; he had a good excuse for working late, and she, free after her days of keeping Dan Sternhagen’s house, had no trouble sneaking into the office to meet him. And his wife, the stern, frigid, fanatically religious Hannah Ryan…Lydia shuddered to imagine John having to share his life with a woman who had slept in a separate bed since the birth of their youngest child seven years ago!
Lydia was no virgin at 19, but he was hardly in the position to mind that. His body between her legs was all she could think about during her long days of scrubbing and cooking; he couldn’t meet her every evening, but often enough, and it was all she lived for that summer. He would wind her hair around his wrists as he made love to her; he loved her hair, so long and golden…hair he had not touched since the moment she had revealed her secret to him. His face had grown stone cold. She would never forget that; it eradicated entirely the memory of the way his hot, dark eyes burned into hers when he pumped into her time and again.
“How could you let this happen?” he had asked her in a stricken voice. “What the hell am I supposed to do about this, Lydia? I have a wife. I have a goddamn reputation in this town.”
In his eyes she was now reduced to the lowest common denominator: a slut, a whore. And now a liar of the most incredible proportions. She knew Daniel wanted her; she felt the ways his eyes followed her. he was a widower, and handsome in his own fair way; she knew she could use that. Bank on it. She had felt his desire, though carefully guarded, thrumming around her since last spring when she had taken the job as a way to save for nursing school in Minneapolis. Now even that was erased, thanks to the baby…the goddamn baby she didn’t want in the first place. At the kitchen table here and now she sobbed until her throat was raw, wanting to harm herself physically, hating Daniel as much as she owed him, because he had actually believed her. She knew that he wanted her enough to accept her bastard baby as his own.
“Sweetheart, we’ll never tell anyone the truth, not even the kids,” he told her, two weeks ago tonight. She had been sitting in the living room, on the sofa she brushed every other day for him, her face buried in her hands, his own resting lightly on her bent knees. Before that moment he had never touched her other than to help her with her coat. Lydia tried not to think of now much John had loved to touch her legs, how she had taken to wearing the shortest skirts she could find, just to see how he reacted. Daniel was still talking. “We’ll raise the baby together. Wilder and Shelly will help. I’ll love it like my own, and everything will be all right.”
She told Daniel her boyfriend had left town, and he had believed her. She told him her boyfriend was a farmhand for old Mr. Darby, a traveling worker who helped bring in the harvest. She told Daniel she didn’t think she would ever see him again, and her agony had been real enough. Certainly John Ryan’s name need never be mentioned, except in the depths of her own heart, deeply buried. Lydia knew she needn’t fear him ever spilling the truth. Daniel, gullible as a young boy in some ways, believed her; he felt deeply sorry for her, but it was more than that: she was a stunningly beautiful woman, and he was as isolated in his heart as a person could be. He loved Margaret’s children, his Shelly and Wilder, but they were so young, they couldn’t have known how alone he felt in his bed at night, how he ached for the comfort of a woman in that bed. And, he reminded himself, Lydia had no one; her mother was a failing widow who lived in the nursing home in Rose Lake.
Long minutes passed, and Lydia sighed deeply, her head sagging against her folded arms, the tears spent. She rose abruptly and made her way to the liquor cabinet, drank several deep swallows from the fat-bellied brandy bottle, until her innards felt slightly more still. And, wiping her eyes one last time, she turned to finish the dishes piled in the huge farmhouse sink.
***
Their wedding took place two days after Christmas. The ceremony was held at the St. Francis retirement home so Marilyn Henry could bear witness to her only child’s marriage vows. The nurses wheeled her out in a chair, where she watched, flanked by Daniel Sternhagen’s two children, who also stared mutely at the proceedings; the girl cried quietly to herself, but the boy remained dry-eyed, rubbing his nose furiously all through the preacher’s words. Only Daniel seemed truly happy, smiling and kissing his young bride with enthusiasm; Lydia’s face was as pale as a ghost’s behind her heavy make-up, but Marilyn was going blind and didn’t observe this, wouldn’t have had much to say anyway; she could only be described accurately as a Catholic nut, not unlike many of the ex-farm wives with whom she now shared a roof.
Daniel’s best friend Bar Taylor held a reception for them immediately after, at Rose Lake Lodge, which he owned. It was a small affair, attended only by a handful of their friends, and Michelle and Wilder kicked the legs of the table at which they were seated, punch cups untouched, leaving soggy rings on the linen tablecloth before them. Wilder had a cold, and was whiny, and Michelle couldn’t stop staring at her father and Lydia, who were dancing to the music from a small local band. Her own best friend, Raellen Taylor, was seated next to her. Rae and her older brother Bar, Jr. were the only other kids at the wedding. Rae nudged Michelle and tried for a little optimism, commenting, “They seem pretty happy, don’t they?”
Michelle nearly came out of her skin, rounding on her friend with venomous eyes. “Rae, what are you talking about? He doesn’t even know her. She tries on Mama’s clothes from her closet when she thinks no one is looking! I hate her.”
Rae blew out her breath in a big huff, but then added, “Shelly, I’m sorry. Maybe she’ll be nicer to you guys now.”
Suddenly Caroline Taylor, Rae’s mother, was sitting down with them, her dark hair framed by the gold netting of her hat. She smelled like gin and tonics and her bright lipstick was smudged onto her teeth. She leaned in close to the kids and said, “Don’t they look well together?”
Rae surreptitiously rolled her eyes at Michelle. Caroline was either undaunted or oblivious to their lack of response, and reached to tousle Wilder’s blond curls. He darted his head away from her manicured hand. “You’ll finally have a new mommy,” she said gaily, giving them a lipstick-streaked smile, and Michelle felt like throwing up. If she did, she would aim for the shiny gold material stretched tight across Caroline’s breasts.
“Anyone here care for a dance?” Bar, Rae’s father, tall and handsome in his dark suit, approached their table to ask. Caroline ignored him, but Rae lit up with a smile and hopped to her feet. “Sure, Daddy.”
“You kids have fun,” Caroline blathered as a statement of farewell and tripped off towards the bar in her spiky-heeled shoes. Michelle looked at her little brother and said, “Assholes.”
And Wilder laughed.
Chapter Six
Rose Lake, Minnesota – Tuesday, June 20, 1995
Bryce woke to find sun framing the drawn windowshade in a rectangle of gold, and realized that the rushing waterfall from her dream was in fact a rippling chorus of birdsong. She curled into herself in the downy bed, hugging her arms tight around her body, trying to recapture the feeling from her dream, a warm, good one, but it shredded as her other senses caught hold of the day. The roses beside the bed had dropped a few of their petals, some of which curled pink and soft as feathers atop the pillow she hadn’t used. The fragrance was as sweet as honey, and she breathed deeply.
She had slept like the dead last night, limp beneath the white quilt. She tried to move it from her over-warm body now, and was surprised to find the huge orange cat curl
ed near her feet, watching her with steady golden eyes.
“Hello there,” she whispered, reaching to offer her fingers. He smelled them delicately and then proceeded to wash his paws in a leisurely fashion. In the next second her door was thrown open and Bryce tugged the covers to her neck with a small shriek as Emma popped her head around the door and said, “Breakfast’s ready downstairs.” Seeing the cat she added ironically, “You’re not supposed to be in here, Nunu.”
“Emma! What’s the matter with you?” Evelyn yelled at her from down the hall. “You have to knock on the door before you open it, you ding-dong.” Bryce, who was almost smiling by this point, did as Evelyn called, “Sorry, Bryce!”
“Hey, it’s fine,” she told Emma, whose bottom lip came out belligerently. “I’ll be right down.”
But instead of retreating, Emma entered the room fully, dressed in a one-piece swimsuit with a cheery rainbow pattern and a little flared skirt. She was chewing gum and her blond curls were in a messy ponytail. She plopped on the bed near the cat and said, “Your mom is my auntie Michelle. I want to meet her sometime.”
No, you don’t, Bryce thought, but said in an attempt at pacifying her, “You probably will someday.”
But Emma plowed ahead. “How come she’s not coming to Grandpa’s funeral? Wasn’t he her dad?”
Bryce studied the little girl’s soft profile a moment; how the hell to respond? Emma stroked the cat’s spine without looking at Bryce. Shit, a pat answer was not going to work in this situation. “My mom has some…issues about coming back here.” It sounded stupid even to her own ears.
“What issues?” Emma asked, more curious than accusatory. Thankfully at that moment Evelyn rounded the door like an avenging angel. Emma darted out of her big sister’s grasp with a squeal and pounded down the hall; the cat bounded after her, moving faster than Bryce thought something that round possibly could.
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