by Joanne Rock
Heather readjusted her lap blanket, an elegant cashmere throw folded over her legs. A legal pad rested on the swing cushion nearby, and Amy guessed that her sister had been working on song lyrics now that she was exploring more options with her music.
“I think Mom will be too happy to see you to argue with you today, but if I hear loud voices...am I allowed to intervene? Or call for reinforcements?” Heather tapped her ballpoint pen against the wooden swing’s armrest, a small, nervous tap.
“Absolutely not.” Amy wiped clammy hands on the pockets of her jeans, more nervous than ever. “Let us hash it out. I’ll give you a debrief as soon as I recover from my visit.” She pointed to the guitar resting in a wooden stand nearby. “I saw a flyer in the consignment-shop window advertising your performance at Mack and Nina’s restaurant this weekend. I can’t wait to hear you sing again.”
“Thank you. I hope you bring Sam. And anyone else you can think of. I’ll need help filling the seats.”
“That’s not what I hear.” She’d learned from more than one source in town that Heather had the kind of voice and showmanship that would carry her as far as she wanted to go in country music. “But I’ll make sure I fill at least one table.”
She hoped it would include Sam Reyes. But would he understand her decision not to testify? He was having a hard time forgiving the mother of his own son for not informing him of her pregnancy. How harshly would he judge Amy for not being willing to testify against the man he desperately wanted to convict?
Taking her leave, Amy walked the short distance to their mother’s home. The flagstones on the path were worn just the way she remembered. The big screened-in porch still had a latch that stuck. The decor on the porch was different, though. The colors were brighter and more modern. There was a cartoon drawing of the Tastee Freez over the outdoor fireplace, the Heartache haunt rendered in bright pinks, yellows and purples.
After she’d knocked on the door, she heard her mother’s footsteps inside before the door opened. When she caught her first glimpse of Diana Finley in a gold-and-purple caftan, she was besieged by about a million impressions. Her mother seemed smaller. More fragile. Yet her face, while more lined around the eyes, seemed more relaxed around the mouth. Her dark hair had been lightened in places, probably to hide the grays. But it looked good on her.
“Amy Marie. You’re home at last.” Her mother opened her arms wide and hugged her, folding her in an unexpected embrace that made Amy’s throat painfully tight with unspoken emotions.
The scent of lemon furniture polish and patchouli clung to her clothes and hair, the smell familiar and strange at the same time. A deep, shuddering sigh huffed past Amy’s lips, and she knew already that no matter what came out of today’s conversation with her mother, she’d already defeated one old personal demon.
Her mother still loved her. And as she hugged her back, Amy realized that had been what had scared her about this meeting more than anything. The fear that connection had been broken for good.
“It’s nice to see you,” Amy told her honestly as she pulled back to study the woman in front of her, so different from the one she remembered.
But then, Diana Finley had had a nervous breakdown since then. She’d been hospitalized. On different medical treatments. She’d lost a husband. Of course she’d changed. It occurred to Amy that she may have been too hard on her parent in the same way she’d accused Sam of being too hard on Cynthia. At least Sam had a running dialogue with the mother of his son. He hadn’t closed a door between them for years on end.
The realization softened her heart toward him; that was for sure. It took a lot of emotional strength to forgive people who hurt you.
“I’m glad to hear that. I’ve wondered what you would have to say to me when you came home, and I have dreamed up a lot worse things over the years—I can tell you that much.” She stood away from the door and waved Amy inside. “Come in now and have a seat so we can catch up. I’ve been making peace with my children, one by one, over the last few years. But I can’t truly celebrate until you and I put to rest whatever it is I did to send you away.”
She doesn’t remember.
The knowledge shifted the ground under Amy’s feet. That fight with her mother had spurred Amy to strike out on her own—to quit school and get her GED instead of graduating with friends. She’d scrimped on a waitress’s meager salary for years to put herself through college. All because she’d been too furious with her family to take a cent of support from them.
Yet her mom didn’t even recall what had happened. It felt like Amy’s whole world had been just slightly out of focus all those years, and now, suddenly, it tilted back into clear view.
As they entered the living room, Amy noticed lots of other differences, including the addition of a hideous purple art-deco chair that her mother chose to sit in—a clear favorite flanked by books, a water glass and an open packet of mints. There were more cartoon drawings around the space, giving Amy the idea that her mother was the artist behind the local scenes depicted in vibrant colors.
Amy wondered how she’d ended up in accounting with so much creativity in her family.
“Oh crap. I should have offered you coffee or tea or something.” Her mother moved to stand again.
“No. I can help myself. Should I bring you something?” She ducked into the kitchen they’d just passed through and peered into the brown refrigerator so old it must be an antique.
Seeing it—and some of the other ancient things in the Finley home—made Amy smile to remember how hard her father had worked to keep some of those older machines going long after other people might have dragged them to the dump. Amy might not have inherited much in the way of creativity, but she had her father’s thriftiness and self-reliance.
“Maybe bring the whole pitcher of lemonade? I made it just yesterday. And there are gingersnaps, which I seem to recall—”
“Are my favorite.” Amy still knew the cabinet where her mother kept the freshly baked cookies.
Because was there any happier memory associated with childhood than warm cookies?
Grabbing a serving plate, she balanced two paper cups on it along with the cookies, then lifted the lemonade pitcher in the other hand to rejoin her mom.
It was so strange to be here. And she was glad for the distraction of cookies and lemonade while wondering where to begin. If her mother didn’t remember, was there even any point of hauling the past back up now?
“Thank you.” Her mother had cleared a spot on the coffee table, shoving aside an open case of pencils and a stack of newspapers. “I’ll serve us, and you can dive right into your story. And don’t hold anything back, please. It helps me to process what happened better if I have the whole, unvarnished, ugly truth. My therapist is good at putting it all in perspective for me. The hope is one day I’ll have my head on straight again.” She passed Amy a cup of lemonade.
“I worked through a lot of what we argued about with my own counselor.” Still, maybe she’d never have a relationship with her mother if they couldn’t move past this. “But I can tell you that it took me a long time to share with anyone because I was...” Flattened. Unhinged. Walking wounded. “Deeply hurt.”
“I have been asking myself for years what I could have said. I knew it must be worse than I could possibly imagine when you didn’t come home for your father’s funeral.” Frowning, she shook her head. “It wasn’t the skinny-dipping fight, was it?” Mom asked, taking a bite of a gingersnap. “Because I thought for sure we worked through that, even though I do remember screeching like a shrew about propriety. But that was my issue. My father once called me some very unflattering names for wearing a tank top around a young caretaker who worked for him.”
Amy blinked, never having heard about arguments like that between her mother and grandfather. “Seriously? And, yes, we had worked through the skinny-dipping thing. B
ut then we had another blowout that pulled all previous arguments into it.”
Her mother pointed her cookie at Amy. “That, my daughter, is precisely how my mind was working at that time. A jittery, hopping, hot mess.”
Amy’s cookie caught in her throat at the unexpected characterization. Coughing, she couldn’t reply, so her mother continued.
“I jumped from one thought to another and tied random bits together in a way that made my whole existence feel unstable. I was paranoid all the time, certain all the neighbors were judging me because I couldn’t get my act together.” Her mom set the rest of her cookie on her plate and folded her hands on her lap, studying Amy. “Tell me. What happened?”
This was her chance. An opportunity to explain her side. To finally air the hurt that had weighed on her for so long.
“I was molested in the woods.” The words came out easier now. Unlike when she’d relived the nightmare as she recounted it to Sam, Amy now related the simple fact in the most straightforward way possible. “I was terrified, and I couldn’t see the man’s face. I was traumatized, Mom. And after walking my bike home for hours since I couldn’t possibly get on the thing to ride it—” She’d hurt. Really hurt. She didn’t remember those hours well at all, but she’d finally reached her front steps before dawn. “When I got here and told you what happened—” She’d wanted her mother’s embrace and understanding. She’d needed a mother’s tender compassion and willingness to fight for her child.
Her mother made a small sound. Amy met her gaze, seeing the tear slip down Diana Finley’s cheek. “I’m so sorry, Amy.”
Sorry she’d been molested? Or sorry because her mother had made it all worse with her reaction? Amy couldn’t think about that now; the moment had come to finally get it all out in the open.
“You told me you weren’t surprised. That it had been only a matter of time before something like that happened to me because I was teasing boys, sneaking out at night and skinny-dipping where anyone could see me—” Breaking off, she couldn’t go on. Didn’t want to share the worst of the names her mother had called her.
“I’m so sorry.” Her mother’s voice all but disappeared as she seemed to struggle to keep her own emotions in check. She swallowed hard. “That’s so much worse than anything I imagined.” She shook her head helplessly. “I sucked as a mother then, Amy. I should have demanded your father quit his job and be here to take care of you. But I was struggling so hard with my own issues, I couldn’t see past them—”
“Even me telling you now—you don’t remember that night?” Amy sipped her lemonade, trying to shift her perspective on her mother. All these years, she’d assumed her mother had truly been grateful to be rid of a troubled daughter.
“No. My God, no. But I was also taking some medications I probably shouldn’t have been. I was seeing any doctor I could to try and find a new prescription that would help me. And your father had his own ideas.”
“So no one else in the family knows what we fought about, either?” She’d wondered sometimes if her father had known about The Incident. If he’d been as judgmental and uncaring as her mother.
“Of course not.” She bit her lip. “I probably didn’t remember what happened long enough to relate it to anyone. Furthermore, I think that would have been the straw that broke the back of my marriage. He would never have forgiven me.”
There was an odd comfort in that, somehow. More than any of her mother’s apologies, those words about Amy’s father soothed the old wound a little. Even after all this time, it felt nice to imagine her father standing up for her, indignant and protective on her behalf.
It reminded her of Sam, actually. That was the kind of parent he would be.
“Then no one knows about that night, Mom. And I’d prefer it stays that way.” Amy listened to the tick-tick-tick of an old grandfather clock in the hallway, the sound a soft connection to the life she’d lived under this roof. Saturday morning cartoons with her sisters. Making paper chains for the Christmas tree at the dining room table. Wrestling with algebra problems at the desk against one wall.
There were more good memories here than bad ones.
“If that’s what you want. I lost the right to tell you how to lead your life a long time ago. But I do hope you pressed charges against whoever assaulted you. Or took your vengeance some other way.” Her mother scowled.
“Vengeance? That doesn’t sound like what the counselors would advise in therapy.” Amy frowned, sipping more lemonade.
“My daughter was molested. I think vengeance would make me feel a lot better than any therapy.”
Amy nearly choked on her lemonade, not expecting the dry bite of dark humor.
“I will keep that in mind,” she replied once she cleared her throat.
“And I know I can’t take back whatever putrid words shot from my mouth during those years. But I am more sorry than I can say. And if it helps, I’m trying to do a better job with my granddaughter.” Her mom turned a gold-framed photo toward her. It was the high school graduation photo of Amy’s niece.
Bethany and Scott’s daughter, Ally, had also been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, but apparently her therapy of medication and counseling kept the condition in check, and she was thriving in college.
“Heather’s letters have mentioned how much you’ve been a help to Ally.” She owed her sister thanks for keeping her in the loop on the family, a task that must have been frustrating since Amy had often found it difficult to reply. “I’ve realized that I should have come back a long time ago to face all this but—” She’d been afraid that the man who lurked in those woods outside the Chances’ house might still live in Heartache. “I just wasn’t ready.”
Not until she’d heard Jeremy Covington was in jail and suspected of other sexual crimes over the years. That had given her the confidence to come home. Coupled with the miscarriage, it had finally been time to make peace with her family.
“No one blames you. Especially after what you just said. But you’re here now, and I’ve heard the cabin renovation is going well. Your father would have enjoyed seeing you tackle that project, you know. He always wanted to expand that little cabin one day and put on a second story.” Her mother rose from her chair at the sound of scratching at the door. She opened a side entrance and her black Lab, Luce, came bounding in, tail wagging.
Setting aside her lemonade, Amy greeted the dog, who seemed to remember her. Actually, Luce seemed overjoyed to see her, tucking her head into Amy’s lap and licking her chin until Amy had no choice but to share her seat with the dog.
“You’ve been missed,” her mother announced, setting a hand on Amy’s shoulder as she moved past her to return to her seat. “The dog is just better at showing it than the rest of us.”
Her throat tightened again. And for the first time since she’d returned to Heartache, she wondered if it might be more difficult than she anticipated to leave town again. Her family hadn’t stopped loving her just because she’d moved away. All but ignored them for years on end.
Her home and her family were still here. Missing her.
She’d spent years being lonely, losing her unborn baby and mourning all by herself. Did she even know how to be a part of a family anymore? Could she even call herself a loving family member when she was too scared to give testimony that might help send Heather’s attacker to jail for good?
Sam sure wouldn’t think so. He was a man who viewed the world in black and white, his choices simple because right and wrong were so clear to him. And Amy’s decision to keep her secrets was, in his eyes, wrong.
Burying her face in Luce’s soft, dark fur, she wiped the sudden moisture on her cheeks, knowing she couldn’t stay in Heartache just for her family. She needed Sam more than she realized, and a life here without him would never be enough.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
BAILEY CONSIDE
RED WHO to confide in. Her dad was moody and quick to anger, so he wasn’t on Bailey’s list. Her mother didn’t live with them anymore, and she’d phoned earlier to say she’d turned over her cell phone to the cops after receiving a threat to Bailey. So getting in touch with Mom wasn’t an option, either.
That meant if she was going to come clean with someone about what had truly happened between her and J.D., her friend Megan ranked as her best outlet.
She’d made the decision the night before while lying in bed, unable to sleep. Torn between excitement over the news that Dawson liked her and embarrassment over having to confide in someone about J.D. hitting her, Bailey had finally decided she’d rather be honest and have a chance to see what happened between her and Dawson.
Now, pulling into the driveway of the Hastings’ house for their babysitting gig, she tried to recapture some of last night’s bravado. Megan was her best friend. She wouldn’t judge her.
Except what if she did? Her stomach knotted as she parked the Volvo. Megan hadn’t ridden with her today because she’d been out of school. Her protective dad had insisted she avoid any place she might run into J.D., and he’d been at Crestwood daily. Bailey hated seeing him too, but he’d ignored her completely, to the point where she stopped holding her breath every time they were in the same hallway or classroom.
The pile of brightly colored bikes outside the Hastings’ house seemed smaller than normal, and she guessed the younger boys must have ridden to friends’ houses after school. Dawson had already told her that he was meeting with the guidance office today, so he wouldn’t be around. Stepping out of the Volvo onto the gravel driveway, she gave a small, awkward wave at the police officer on duty. He nodded back. He had his window rolled down, but even so it was tough to gauge the man’s expression behind his dark aviator shades.
She hurried inside, hoping Megan’s dad had already dropped her off. Now that Bailey had made the decision to tell her friend the truth about J.D., she wanted it done and over.