He raised his chin and peered into her eyes. They were wild, like a cornered animal. “I don’t know what to do.”
“We need a stiff drink,” she said.
“Yeah. Okay. We’ll go back to the bar and straighten this out. You can tell me who you really are.”
When he stood, his legs wobbled. She put out an arm to steady him. “I think I better drive.”
He yanked away from her. “No. I’ll drive myself. We’re getting to the bottom of this the minute we get back to the bar.”
Twenty minutes later, she followed Zane into The Oar. Strangely calm, she took in her surroundings. On the drive from the cemetery everything had become clear to her. The Postmistress had sent back her letters. Maggie had thought they’d abandoned her. They thought she was dead.
Checkered plastic tablecloths had been replaced with crisp white coverings. Refinished wood floors and walls the color of sand had lightened the atmosphere. Rustic meets sophisticated—a merging of past and present. She ran her hand over the varnished wood of the bar—same wood, same markings.
About half the tables were occupied. The bar was nearly full.
“What do you want?” Zane asked.
“Vodka on the rocks.”
Zane disappeared under the bar and came back up with a bottle of vodka. After he filled two high ball glasses with ice, he pointed toward the back of the restaurant. “Go to my office.”
“Your office? Did Hugh retire?”
“He’s sick. I run the place now.” He gestured toward the back. They passed the door to the kitchen as a waitress came through with a dish in either hand that smelled of garlic and butter.
For the first time, it occurred to her that Zane lived here in Cliffside Bay. She hadn’t expected that. “I figured you’d be in L.A.,” she said.
“Not for three years now.” He held the door and let her pass through. “Sit, please,” he said.
She took the chair across from a small desk. Very tidy. Not the mess it was when it was Hugh’s office. He could never find a pen under the piles of paper and was always asking to borrow Maggie’s. She’d kept one tucked into her bun in those days.
“Your dad? He’s sick?” Sweat dribbled between her breasts and her hand shook when she reached out to take the glass he’d set on the desk.
Zane continued to stare at her for a few moments before answering. “Alzheimer’s.”
“I’m sorry.” She took a sip of the drink, careful not to spill, given her nervous hands.
“What year did your mother die?” Zane asked.
“It’s really me. Do you think anyone could look this much like me?”
“Answer the question.”
“1997.”
“You could’ve seen that on the tombstone. How did she die?” Zane asked.
“My father pushed her down the stairs. He ran out the door with my baby sister in a burlap sack. She was never seen again.”
“It can’t be.” Zane shook his head back and forth, watching her. “How come you never called or wrote?”
“I did. I wrote to all of you. My letters came back—return to sender. I thought you all sided with Jackson.” The shock must be wearing off; her voice shook when she said Jackson’s name out loud.
“What? No. My God, Maggie. No.”
“I could never understand why I never heard from anyone. I decided I was disposable. Dispensable. Easily deleted.” She paused, turning her eyes away from Zane’s stunned gaze. The wall calendar behind him had a photograph of an old car, yellow with big fenders. It was three years old.
“Your calendar’s on the wrong year,” she said.
“It was my dad’s last calendar.” He gestured toward the laptop on the desk. “I use the computer.”
“The place looks good. You did a great job on the remodel.”
“I did most of the work myself,” Zane said. “Therapeutic.”
He’d excelled in woodshop in high school. She’d forgotten that. She sipped her drink, unsure what to say next. She wanted to know everything. Was he married? Kids? Why had he come home? Was it just because Hugh was sick? But he wasn’t ready for “catch up” time. She could practically see his mind trying to reconcile the sight in front of him.
At least thirty seconds ticked by before Zane spoke again. “What reason would your dad have for doing this?”
“I don’t know.” A buzzing between her ears made it hard to think. “He hated the Wallers.”
“Yeah. He did.”
“He did it to punish them. Doc pushed the police hard to find the baby’s body, not to mention that he made sure I didn’t ever live with my dad again. Roger Keene’s a vengeful man.” For years, when she talked about her father, she called him Roger. Distance from him. That’s all she wanted. Until now. Now she had to get the truth before it was too late.
“Well, if that was his intent, then it worked.” Zane rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands before looking back at her. “Maggie, Jackson’s never gotten over your death. Doc agreed to buy him a ticket out there to tell you he didn’t mean any of it—that he’d wait for you for as long as it took. He knew he’d made a terrible mistake.”
“Then why didn’t he come after me? He knew how to reach me.”
“Two mornings after you left, your dad told everyone you’d had an accident.”
“I wrote to him. Several times. I told him where I was and that if he changed his mind I would wait. I worked it out on the drive from the cemetery. It was Darla. The Postmistress.”
“Jesus, Darla. Yes. She sent your letters back.”
“It has to be.” The post office in Cliffside Bay was small, reflective of only several thousand residents. Darla saw every piece of mail that came in and could have easily sent them back.
“Why didn’t you think to email or call?” Zane asked.
“I did. I mean, obviously I could have.”
“Then why didn’t you?” He continued to stare at her with a mixture of anger and distrust. She wasn’t sure if he still thought he was seeing an apparition or that she’d somehow been in on the deception.
Maggie sighed, thinking back to her reasons. “At the time, I didn’t have a computer. Cell phones were still flip deals and I didn’t have one of those either. I left in a hurry, if you remember right. I didn’t go back to the Wallers to pack. I just left that night. After Jackson broke it off.” That wasn’t totally accurate. She’d stopped at her father’s before she left, sobbing and vowing that she would someday be back to get the truth about the baby. It had only taken twelve years.
“You just drove off without saying goodbye to anyone, including me,” Zane said. “Did you ever think about how that would feel?”
“I did. Of course, I did. Later, after I was over the shock of what happened with Jackson.” She gulped from her drink. “I kind of figured that was part of the reason you sent my letters back. You were angry, so you shut me out.”
“Why the hell would you think that? For Christ’s sake, we were best friends. You were like my sister.”
“I figured you all sided with Jackson.”
“Well, that was really stupid.”
“I’m sorry.” She gulped from her drink, willing herself not to cry. Zane was so angry. She hadn’t done this, her father had.
“I’m pissed,” Zane said. “Like beyond.”
“That’s obvious.”
“What do you expect?”
“Nothing, I guess. Anger was always your go-to,” she said.
“My go-to?” His cheeks reddened. A purple vein in his forehead pulsed.
“Whenever faced with anything emotional, you always chose anger instead of fear or sadness.” She rattled the ice around her glass. This drink was going down way too fast. She needed to slow down, or she might pass out all over again.
“Well, you always chose to run away, bury your head in the sand, so to speak.” He glared at her.
“I guess that explains how we’re in the situation we’re in.” Her bottom lip trembl
ed. She shifted her gaze to the ceiling, unable to withstand his accusatory scrutiny. The crack that looked like an old woman’s profile had disappeared, replaced by smooth, eggshell paint.
“So, you just assumed the whole town hated you? It makes no sense. I don’t even know what to say. Do you know how much we suffered? How much Jackson suffered? There were times that first year at USC that I wasn’t sure he was going to make it. I mean, literally, Maggie. Do you know how many times I found him curled up in a ball on his bed or how many times I found him incoherent on the bathroom floor talking about suicide?”
As much as it hurt to hear this about Jackson, she couldn’t help but defend herself. “You can ask my friend Lisa the same thing about me—you…you sanctimonious jerk.”
“How in the world did you let this happen?” Zane jerked up from his chair, knocking a stack of receipts on the floor.
She rose to her feet and crossed her arms over her chest. No one, not even Zane Shaw, could talk to her this way. How dare he? “Listen, I didn’t let anything happen. Jackson broke up with me. I had every reason to believe, when my letters were returned, that no one here gave a crap about me. You knew me back then. You remember how fragile I was as a kid. You were a firsthand witness to the kind of damage my dad did to my psyche. Maybe you’ve forgotten what I lived through? Most kids like me don’t end up feeling super lovable or perfectly well-balanced after that. So, excuse me if I jumped to conclusions. Jackson broke up with me with no warning whatsoever. Just threw me away.” Maggie sobbed between words. The ugly cry, as Pepper called it, but she didn’t care. Screw Zane Shaw and his judgment. “My dad did this. Jackson did this. Not me.”
“Why are you here, Maggie? Why now?” Zane’s voice had risen several decibels.
She pressed her knuckles against her mouth and looked around the room for a box of tissues. Get it together. Have some pride. Walk away.
Zane opened a drawer in his desk and handed her a packet of tissues. “Here.” His voice was gruff, but almost apologetic.
“Darla called and told me my dad’s dying and he wanted to see me. It’s the last chance I have to get the truth. I want him to tell me what he did with the baby’s body, so that she can rest in peace next to my mother. That’s the only reason. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. I let go of you all a long time ago, so you needn’t worry that I’m going to mess with precious Jackson’s life. Or, yours.”
All the energy appeared to rush out of Zane at once. He sank back into his chair. His eyes reddened. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know what I’m saying.”
“You’re in shock, maybe?” She handed him back the packet of tissues.
He pulled several from the packet and covered his face with them. His shoulders heaved once before he looked back up at her. “I know this isn’t your fault. Your dad. Jesus, Maggie. All this time.”
“I’m sorry, just the same. Your rejection hurt the most of all. I thought we’d always be best friends.”
“But I didn’t reject you.”
“And I’m not dead,” she said.
For the first time, Zane smiled at her. “You’re not dead. I can’t believe it’s you.” He came around the desk and pulled her into his arms. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”
She swallowed the sob that wanted to burst all over his chest and put her cheek against his muscular forearm. “You got so big.”
“My face cleared up too.” He let her go but held her at arm’s length. “You’re prettier than ever.”
“No, I’m old.” Jackson. She had to know. “Is Jackson married?” Her heart was in her throat, beating fast.
Zane shook his head, no. “But Maggie, he’s with someone. They’re about to get engaged.”
“Oh, well, good for him.”
Zane perched on the side of the desk. “It took him a long time to move on—all these years really.”
“Well, I expected it. I mean, he’s Jackson. Of course, he’d have someone.”
“Look, Maggie, this whole town thinks you’re dead. But no one’s ever forgotten you, most especially Jackson and me. You, this…changes everything. You have to see him. He has to know you’re here and alive.”
“How does that work exactly? I just walk on over there and knock on the door?”
He stood, ruffling his hair with his hands, brow furrowed. Just then, he looked like the little boy she remembered instead of this muscular man before her. “Maybe it’s best if I tell him? I about had a heart attack just now.”
She took in a big breath and let it out slowly. “I’d be grateful. It would be nice to see him. I’d like to tell him…I don’t know. I guess I’d just like a chance to say goodbye. I hadn’t planned on staying tonight after I saw my dad. But this changes everything.” Including how much of a score she had to settle with her father.
“Maggie, you have to stay. At least a couple days. Doc and Miss Rita will want to see you.”
“They’re alive, then? Not sick?” she asked.
“No, just my dad.”
“I don’t have any place to stay.”
“Stay with me. I have an extra bedroom,” said Zane. “I live in my dad’s old place above the restaurant.”
The reality of what Zane had told her was starting to sink in. It was not that she was not loved, nor had she been rejected. They had not known she was out there, dreaming of them all. Wanting them all. The enormity of what her father had done nauseated her.
“I feel a little sick,” she said.
He smiled gently. “Let’s go upstairs. I’ll have my staff run things the rest of the night. We have a lot to talk about.”
She didn’t answer as she followed him upstairs. Just follow Zane. Let the rest of it go for now.
Chapter Six
Jackson
* * *
JACKSON’S DOORBELL RANG a little after eight that evening. His father had already left for Janet’s after they arrived back from looking at the house. Since then, Jackson had busied himself getting ready for the evening.
Steaks were done and resting on the counter. He’d set the table in the dining room with china and a tablecloth.
He opened the door. Sharon stood in the orange glow of sunset. She held out her arms and he scooped her into a hug. “You look beautiful,” he said.
“Thanks, love.” Dressed in a flowy peach dress and high-heeled sandals that showed off her tanned long legs, she must have turned the head of every man in the airport. With her blond hair and copious eye makeup, she looked more like a Barbie doll than a research doctor. She was beautiful, with even features and a wide, full mouth. Smart, too. Smarter than Jackson. She’d graduated at the top of her class. He had as well, but it was more work for him. She excelled at school.
He couldn’t do better than Sharon Fox. She was every man’s dream.
This was the tape that played in his mind over and over.
He led Sharon into the dining room and held her chair. The candles flickered in the breeze and for a moment he was afraid they might go out, so he closed the windows. He poured her a glass of wine. “Sit and relax. I’m going to get our dinner.”
“How lovely, Jackson.”
After he set the plates of food on the table, he sat. “Before we eat, there’s something I want to ask you.” His mind buzzed. He wanted just the right words. This would be a story they told their children. He needed to be eloquent.
He reached inside his sport coat pocket to make sure the ring was still there.
He looked around the dining room. After racking his brain about the most poignant place to ask her, he couldn’t come up with anything. They’d been friends in medical school, so their relationship was already established by the time Sharon convinced him that they should start dating. He couldn’t think of anything that symbolized them, really. He couldn’t even remember where their first “date” was. They just started sleeping together one night three years ago and it kind of stuck. Anyway, it didn’t matter. What mattered was the proposal, not the location.
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Jackson rose to his feet and pulled the box out of his pocket. He leaned down on one knee. For once, Sharon was speechless.
“I’ve tried to think of something memorable to say,” he said. “But I’m too nervous, so I’ll just keep it simple. Sharon Fox, would you be my wife?” He opened the ring box. The oval diamond glittered under the lights.
“Oh my God. Yes. Yes.”
He placed the ring on her finger. She stared at it for a moment before wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him. “The ring’s ravishing. You’ve just made me the happiest girl in the world.”
Sharon said words like ravishing, which sounded false to him, as if she had gotten bad advice about how to sound sophisticated and smart. Use pretentious words like dreadful and lovely and absolutely appalling. She was from Georgia, but any trace of accent and vernacular had been studied away until she sounded almost British, like the modern Madonna. Not the saint, but the singer. How had he never noticed this before?
Jackson stood up too fast. Black spots danced before his eyes. He gripped the back of the chair, afraid he might faint. She said yes. There was no going back.
Chapter Seven
Maggie
* * *
MAGGIE AND ZANE sat on opposite ends of the couch in his apartment above the bar. Fresh wood cabinets and paint gave it an updated look.
“What have you been doing for the past twelve years?” he asked. “Are you on Broadway like you wanted?”
“I’ve been on Broadway. As a chorus girl. But mostly I’ve bartended.” She clanked the ice around in her glass. “New York was harder than I thought it would be. Much harder.” She raised her glass. “I can thank your dad for the fact that I haven’t starved the past twelve years. About six months ago, I injured my knee. I had surgery, but I can’t dance professionally again.”
“Crap. That’s awful. I’m so sorry.”
“So, I’m at a bit of a crossroads. I knew I had to come home and face my father. That’s all I planned to do.”
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