by Joy Fielding
“Why? It’s not your fault.”
“I’m the one who dragged you in here. I’m the one who couldn’t wait to pee until we got home.”
“I probably would have found out sooner or later,” Robin said. “I mean, look at him. He’s not even trying to be careful.”
They watched her father sign the hotel register and walk toward the elevators at the rear of the lobby, his arm now draped proprietarily across the young woman’s shoulders, his fingers stretching toward the cleavage that was on ample display.
“Duck,” cautioned Tara. “Wait. What are you doing?”
What Robin was doing was standing up, confronting her father, blocking his path.
Had she been trying to shame him into a tearful recognition of what he was about to do, followed by his even more tearful apology? Had she been expecting him to get down on his knees and beg her forgiveness? Had she been hoping that, at the very least, he would push the young woman aside and promise never to stray again?
“Don’t tell your mother,” he said instead. “It would break her heart. Now go home. You didn’t see me.”
And so her father’s betrayal became her responsibility.
By not telling her mother, by rationalizing that it would indeed break her heart, Robin had become complicit, a passive participant in the betrayals that inevitably followed. Although she never caught him outright again, she heard the whispers and knew that the rumors always swirling around him, like specks of dust in the sunlight, were true. He continued to “work late” at the office; his business trips became more frequent, lasted longer.
How could her mother not know? How could she not see what was happening right under her nose?
“Go home. You didn’t see me.”
So nobody saw.
And everybody knew.
“My father cheats, too,” Tara had confided some time later.
“How do you know?”
“My mother told me.”
“She told you? What did she say?”
“That they all do it.”
“And she’s okay with it?”
“I guess. She has her Bible.”
“Doesn’t the Bible say you’re supposed to stone adulterers?” Robin asked.
“Don’t think there’d be too many people left if we did that,” Tara said.
And they’d laughed, although the laughter was joyless.
“What would you do if you found out Dylan was cheating on you?” Robin had asked her friend after she’d announced she was getting married.
“Probably cut his balls off.”
“Seriously.”
“I am serious.”
“More seriously.”
“I guess I’d give him a taste of his own medicine. You know the expression—what’s good for the goose…”
“You could do that?”
Tara took a deep drag of the joint they were sharing, then passed it back to Robin. “I can do anything I want.”
And she had, Robin thought.
And now she was dead.
“I would never stay with a man who cheated on me,” Robin remembered telling Tara.
“Then you probably shouldn’t bother getting married,” had been Tara’s instant response.
Was that why she and Blake had never followed through on their plans to wed? Despite all Robin’s efforts to steer clear of men who even remotely resembled her father, did she secretly suspect she’d chosen a man just like him?
Robin stared at the house her father had built next door. His castle, she thought.
His tomb.
“Robin!” her sister called from downstairs. “Landon! Dinner’s ready.”
Robin looked at her watch, stunned to see it was already six o’clock. How long have I been standing here? She turned away from the window. “Be right down.”
She crossed the hall and entered the bathroom. “I do look like crap,” she said to her reflection in the mirror over the sink. She tugged at her hair, trying to force its curls into some semblance of order, then gave up, washing her hands and splashing warm water on her face, before tugging on her hair again. “Much better,” she muttered without conviction as she left the room.
The door to Landon’s bedroom was closed, and she approached it cautiously. Inside she could hear his rhythmic rocking. “Landon,” she said, knocking gently on the door. The rocking stopped. “Supper’s ready.”
She waited for some form of acknowledgment, but there was nothing.
“Robin! Landon!” Melanie called up the stairs. “Dinner’s on the table.”
Robin waited outside Landon’s door for several more seconds. Only after the rocking resumed did she give up and go downstairs.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Melanie was already eating when Robin entered the kitchen.
“Sorry I’m late,” Robin said, pulling up the chair across from her sister at the square wooden table and sitting down.
“That’s Landon’s seat,” Melanie said.
Robin promptly moved to another chair, so that she and her sister were sitting at right angles to each other. Within striking distance, she thought, recalling the time Melanie had reached over to spear the back of her hand with a fork when they were children. Instinctively she brought her hands into her lap.
“Something wrong?” Melanie asked.
“No.” She looked at the large bowl of chili in the middle of the table. “Smells delicious.”
“Help yourself. We don’t stand on ceremony around here.”
Robin spooned a small helping of chili onto her plate.
“That’s all you eat? No wonder you’re nothing but skin and bones.”
“I’ll probably take seconds.”
Melanie shrugged. “There’s bread in the breadbox, if you want any. I didn’t bother with a salad. Landon never eats salads, so I’ve pretty much stopped making them.”
“No worries.”
“Who said I was worried? God, I hate that expression.”
Robin felt her stomach twist into a large knot. She raised a forkful of chili to her mouth, praying she wouldn’t gag. “It’s really good,” she said after she’d successfully swallowed one forkful and was about to attempt another.
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m not. I wasn’t…” Let it go. “Melanie, do you think we could…?” She stopped. What’s the use?
“Do I think we could…what?” Melanie asked. “You don’t want to talk again, do you?”
Robin put down her fork. “I was just hoping we could…”
“What? For God’s sake, Robin, just spit it out.”
“…be a little nicer to each other,” Robin said. “I mean, we haven’t seen each other in a long time. Maybe we could stop with all the barbs and snide remarks.”
“I wasn’t aware you’d made any.”
“I haven’t.”
Melanie nodded knowingly. “So this isn’t about us at all. It’s about me, what I do wrong.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong. I’m just asking you to lighten up a bit.”
“Tara’s dead; our father probably won’t make it through the night; it’ll be a miracle if Cassidy survives; whoever did it is still out there; the sheriff thinks Landon is guilty and that I’m lying to protect him. And you want me to ‘lighten up’?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s what you said. What is it you want exactly, Robin? You want me to tell a few jokes?”
Might be nice. “I just want us to be civil.”
“How am I not being civil?” Melanie responded. “I picked you up at the bus station. I acted as chauffeur all afternoon, driving you to the hospital and waiting at the drugstore while you got your supply of happy pills. I made you dinner. What’s the matter—is chili not civilized enough for a fancy L.A. therapist?”
Robin put down her fork with more force than she’d intended. Don’t bite, she told herself, but it was already too late. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. I never said anyt
hing about the chili except it was delicious. I like chili. That’s not the issue.”
“And what, pray tell, is ‘the issue’?”
“That I’m not some fancy L.A. therapist.”
“You’re not a therapist? You don’t live in L.A.?”
“Yes, I live in L.A. Yes, I’m a therapist. It’s the word ‘fancy’…”
“You don’t like the word ‘fancy’?”
“Not in that context, no.”
“So, the issue is about context?”
Robin’s head was spinning. A corkscrew of anxiety twisted through her chest. “I’m just saying…”
“Yes, please. What are you saying?”
“That I’m not the enemy here.”
“And I am?”
“No. I’m just asking you to…”
“Lighten up?”
“Be kind.”
“Uh-huh,” Melanie acknowledged. “So now I’m not only uncivil. I’m also unkind.”
Robin bowed her head. “Forget it. I’m sorry I said anything.”
“Apology accepted,” Melanie said with a smile. “That was me lightening up,” she added, the smile spreading to her eyes.
Robin couldn’t help smiling in return. “Have you heard anything more from the hospital?” she asked, scooping another spoonful of chili onto her plate.
“Not a word.”
“I guess that’s good.” She got up from the table, went to the sink, and poured herself a glass of water, her heart racing despite the “happy pills” still in her system. “Would you like some?” she asked her sister.
“No, thanks. But you can pour Landon a glass.”
“Is he coming down?”
“If he wants to eat. I don’t do room service.”
Robin returned to the table, depositing Landon’s full glass of water next to his empty plate. “Have you spoken to him since we got home?”
“No. Why?”
“I was just wondering how he feels about my being here.”
“Don’t know. You’d have to ask him.”
“I knocked on his door before. But he didn’t answer.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll run into each other eventually.”
“Is he seeing anyone?” Robin asked.
“You mean, like a girlfriend?”
“No.”
“I see. You mean someone like you?”
“Well, preferably someone who specializes in autism.”
“We don’t have a lot of specialists in Red Bluff, remember?” Melanie said. “We were seeing this one doctor for a while,” she continued, surprising Robin by elaborating. “But Landon didn’t like him very much, so we stopped.”
“Is he on medication?”
“The doctor or Landon?” Melanie asked. “Sorry,” she went on, immediately qualifying her statement. “Another attempt at levity.” She dragged Landon’s glass of water across the table and took a sip, then pushed it back with her index finger. “The doctor prescribed something. Can’t remember the name. Sometimes Landon takes it; sometimes he doesn’t. Says it makes him dopey. Anyway, there’s not much I can do about it. He’s a little big for me to force-feed.”
Robin knew that the teen years could be a time of major stress and confusion for those who suffered from autism. They became painfully aware that they were different from other kids. Subsequent hurt feelings and the problems of connecting with others often led to depression and increased anxiety. And if there was one thing Robin understood, it was anxiety. “Is he still in school?”
“No. He quit a few years back.”
“Does he have friends?”
“Not really. There’s this one kid, but—”
The doorbell rang.
“Are you expecting someone?” Robin asked.
Melanie pushed herself away from the table. “Nope.”
Robin followed her sister out of the kitchen to the front door. She watched Melanie peer through the peephole, then take a step back. “Speak of the devil…,” she said, opening the door to a slender young man whose black hair and pale skin emphasized the intense blue of his eyes. He was wearing black jeans and a plain black T-shirt, and Robin estimated his age as late teens.
“Mrs. Davis,” the boy said to Melanie.
“Miss,” she corrected him, sounding as if this wasn’t the first time she’d made such a clarification. “How are you, Kenny?”
“Not so good,” he said. “I heard about Cassidy. Can I come in?”
Melanie stepped back to allow him entry.
“Is she all right?” He stopped abruptly when he saw Robin.
Melanie followed the young man’s gaze. “This is my sister, Robin.”
The boy managed a weak smile. “How you doin’?”
“This is Kenny Stapleton,” Melanie said. “We were just talking about you, as a matter of fact.”
“You were?”
“My sister was asking if Landon had any friends. You’re pretty much it, I guess. Although you haven’t been around much recently, have you?”
“I’m really sorry about that. Been kind of busy,” Kenny said. “How’s Cassidy? Is she gonna be all right?”
“We don’t know. She’s still critical. You heard about her mother?”
Kenny lowered his gaze to his black boots. “I can’t believe it. Who’d do this?”
“I don’t know.”
“They’re saying it was, like, a home invasion or something.”
“That’s what they’re saying,” Melanie agreed.
“What about Mr. Davis?”
“It’s not looking good.”
“But he’s still alive,” Kenny said. “That’s something, isn’t it?”
“Maybe.”
“He’s pretty tough. He’ll pull through. Cassidy, too. You’ll see.”
“Guess we will.”
“How’s Landon?”
“Well, you know,” Melanie said. “It’s hard to tell for sure.”
“Can I see him?”
“Sure.” Melanie moved toward the staircase. “Landon! Kenny’s here.”
There was no response.
“You might as well go on up.”
“Great.” Kenny was halfway up the stairs when he stopped and turned back toward Robin. “Nice meeting you.”
“You, too.” Robin watched him disappear at the top of the stairs, heard the door to Landon’s bedroom open and close. “He seems like a nice boy.”
Melanie shrugged.
“It was thoughtful of him to come by.”
“I guess.” She started back toward the kitchen. “You feel like some ice cream? I think there’s some in the freezer.”
“Ice cream sounds great,” Robin said.
“It’s nothing fancy. Just plain old vanilla.”
“Vanilla’s my favorite.”
“Really? Mine, too. Guess we’re related, after all.” She scooped the ice cream into two small bowls, then tossed the now-empty container into the garbage bin under the sink.
The sisters resumed their seats at the table, the only sound the scrape of their spoons against the sides of the ice cream bowls. “Do you think Kenny’s right that Dad and Cassidy will somehow pull through?” Robin asked after a silence of several minutes.
“Well, Cassidy’s young and she might stand a chance,” her sister said. “But Dad was shot multiple times from close range, once in the head. To be honest, I don’t know how he’s managed to hang on this long.”
“Can I ask you something else?” Robin asked.
“Can I stop you?”
Robin smiled in spite of herself. “Was he different?”
“What do you mean?”
“After he married Tara. Did he change?”
“You mean, did he cheat?”
“No. I meant change, in general. Wait. Why? Did he?”
“Who knows? Maybe. There were rumors…”
“What kind of rumors?”
“You know the kind.”
“That he was cheating?”
&nbs
p; “Well, there are no videos, if that’s what you’re after.”
“Had Tara heard the rumors?”
“Beats me. We weren’t exactly confidantes.”
“But you lived in the same house, you managed to get along…”
“Maybe because we minded our own business,” Melanie said pointedly.
Robin felt fresh stabs of anxiety poking at her chest. “I can’t imagine Tara putting up with Dad cheating on her.”
“Yeah, well, she wasn’t exactly Miss Innocent in that department, from what I understand.” Melanie got up from the table, gathering the empty dishes and depositing them in the dishwasher.
“What are you saying? That Tara was cheating, too?”
What’s good for the goose…
Melanie shrugged.
“Does Sheriff Prescott know about this?”
“I can’t imagine he doesn’t.”
“Holy shit,” Robin said.
Melanie slammed the dishwasher shut. “That pretty much sums it up.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Robin had just slipped into her nightgown when her cell phone rang.
“Blake?”
“Alec,” her brother said.
“Where are you?”
“In my apartment. You?”
“I think this might actually qualify as hell.”
“Which means you’re home. Congratulations. You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din.”
“Are you coming?”
“Are you crazy?”
“Tara’s dead.”
Silence.
“Alec? Are you still there?”
“Tara’s dead,” he repeated, his voice flat, without inflection.
“She died this morning without regaining consciousness.”
Another silence, longer this time. “So she never talked to the police. They don’t know who…”
Robin heard the despair in his voice. “Despair or relief?” she heard Melanie whisper in her ear. “I’m so sorry, Alec,” she said, pushing Melanie’s imagined voice out of her mind. She knew her brother still harbored feelings for his former fiancée, even after all this time and despite everything. He would never…He could never…
Robin filled him in on what had happened since her bus arrived in Red Bluff. She refrained from telling him about the recent rumors regarding both their father and Tara, not sure how he’d react.