Lies That Bind (Maeve Conlon Novels Book 2)

by Maggie Barbieri

  “Do you want something? A coffee? Hot chocolate?” Jo asked.

  “I’m good,” she said, surprising both of them by giving Jo a hug. “Thanks.”

  Maeve took a seat by the window and looked out at the traffic going past on the road, letting her mind drift farther and farther away with each passing car.

  It wasn’t like her to throw in the towel ever, but she had nothing left. Would there come a time when a little burst of emotional energy would return and spark her brain, letting her renew a search she knew she had to resume?

  Evelyn wasn’t dead, like everyone said she was. Cal, more than anyone after hearing the story of the Hartwell/Haggerty deception, was more convinced than ever that if Aibhlinn “Evelyn” Conlon was alive and well, someone would have come forward to let Maeve know. But to Maeve, she was alive. And Maeve would find her. It was just a matter of when, not if. But she was so, so tired. She put her arm on the table and rested her head, her eyes growing heavy as around her, people sat, one woman surrounded by eco-friendly shopping bags, her purchases from the stores on the avenue.

  The journey of one plastic bag. Maeve remembered seeing a video online and feeling guilty that sometimes her own eco-bags stayed in the trunk of the Prius for months on end. So this is how the world worked, apparently: people could follow the journey of one plastic grocery bag and even determine where it ended up but she couldn’t find her sister, a living, breathing person. That seemed too hard to comprehend. She closed her eyes, the sounds of the coffee shop soothing her in a way that she wouldn’t have thought possible, people placing complicated orders, voices all coming together into one gentle cacophony signifying the lives that were being lived all around her.

  Everyone in her life had moved on, had lost interest in the search. Cal had halfheartedly called a few more group homes, discovering that no one would give him any information, even if he did play the role of “lawyer.” After all, it wasn’t like Maeve knew her, he had said; did she really “miss” her or was she imagining a relationship that would never come to fruition? If she had had more energy after he had made that remark, she would have punched him in the forehead stitches.

  Of course she missed her sister.

  Rebecca was back to school, penniless and destined for an entire semester of eating in the dining hall. Heather was getting ready for the upcoming SAT exam. Jo was preparing for the baby. And Jimmy Moriarty, it seemed, didn’t want to see Maeve anymore, so there was no one to talk to about the way she felt or to explore new paths for finding a woman she didn’t know existed until two months earlier.

  In her semi-conscious state, she thought about Jack. This coffee shop had become an unlikely but safe place to be alone with her thoughts, something that she couldn’t really comprehend in her half-dozing mind, but it was what it was, as the girls would say. She thought about him, walking jauntily down the street, calling out to her when she was small, his mind still sharp in those days, his body still fit and cooperative. She would be waiting on the stoop. Lots to tell but not everything told. The day to rehash. Secrets to be kept.

  She drifted in the sea of normal that enveloped her like a warm blanket. I am so, so tired, she thought again, not for the first time, probably not for the last. Bring her to me, Dad. Help me find her. Don’t let her have lived in that house of horrors at any time in her life.

  She wasn’t sure how long she slept but when she sat up finally, her vision was cloudy, her head a dusty attic full of mental cobwebs, of disjointed dreams and unreliable memories. Jack. The day-old challah. French toast. Photos in an album, falling to the floor, Maeve’s clumsy hands trying to put them back on the pages from which they had escaped.

  “It’s not challah,” Jack had said in the dream. “It’s rye.”

  He used to talk about Rye a lot when she was little, and she always assumed he meant bread, not the place in Westchester where she sat currently. “I’m going to see a friend in Rye,” he used to say and when she got older, she assumed he was going to see a woman, because he had flowers and chocolates, always a few bottles of nail polish. Mimi Devereaux had had competition long before she had even come on the scene. Even though she and her father had both loved Claire Conlon so much, they both wished for Jack to find someone. Maeve wished for a new mother and Jack, a new wife. It was the unspoken betrayal to Claire’s memory that both of them kept deep within their hearts, but it was there and they knew it. She had once heard him whisper to someone on the phone, “If I could just find someone to love as much as I loved Claire,” and Maeve wondered why he hadn’t wished for someone to love him as much as Claire had loved him. They had a different way of looking at things, she and her father.

  She looked around but no one noticed the little woman who had fallen asleep in the coffee shop, everyone still content to go about their business, buying lattes and espressos and baked goods that she could have told them weren’t as good as her own. Come to The Comfort Zone, she thought, and almost said out loud; I’ll give you pastry memories to last a lifetime.

  Behind her, she could hear Jo’s voice, excited. High-pitched. She must have finally gotten her treasured hot chocolate, one that had taken an inordinately long time to prepare. Before she turned to find her friend, Maeve pulled a napkin from the holder on the sticky table. She had been crying in her sleep but hadn’t realized it until now.

  “Your eyes,” she could hear Jo saying. “She has your eyes.”

  Maeve turned slowly, trying to find her friend in the throng of people who had assembled in front of her table. Jo burst through the crowd, using her belly to forge a path, one hand outstretched, the other trailing behind her. There was a lot of commotion and Maeve wondered if Jo was the thousandth customer that day; had she won an unlimited supply of hot chocolate? There was too much energy in the air, all coming toward Maeve in an emotion-filled whoosh, and it didn’t make any sense.

  Behind Jo was a little woman, older, with short hair cut in a sensible bob. Maeve’s first thought was Sister Augustine from elementary school; although the woman had worn a habit when she was Maeve’s second-grade teacher, Maeve had seen her years later and marveled at the fact that she had had hair all along under her habit. She had died a few years ago; hadn’t Maeve heard that? It couldn’t be Sister Augustine, then, but the nun’s hair had looked just like that of the woman in front of her, neat and tidy, combed to perfection. The woman’s blue eyes complemented her fair skin and her dull blond hair, a few thin strands of gray visible. She was wearing jeans.

  She looked Irish, almost like a leprechaun, tiny, spirited, and happy.

  Maeve wondered why these little details mattered to her; she wondered why she noticed.

  Jo brought the woman to the table.

  The tag on the woman’s apron said EVELYN and Maeve prayed that she wasn’t still asleep, that she was awake and seeing what she imagined: a woman, older and smaller, but who looked a lot like her.

  “She has your eyes,” Jo said softly as she took the woman by the hand to meet her sister.

  CHAPTER 58

  Maeve went through the red tape and the background checks to get access to the home where Evelyn lived. Whoever Evelyn’s guardian was granted permission for her access to her sister, the place she had lived for many years.

  In Rye.

  She smiled at the thought of Jack, in her dream, telling her that it wasn’t challah he had, but rye. Had he told her? Or had she known all along?

  Siblings know.

  In Rye. The coincidence was a benediction, a blessing.

  It wasn’t a girlfriend who Jack had gone to see when she was small; it was Evelyn. She liked to polish her nails, Maeve learned. She loved flowers and chocolate.

  Maeve pulled up in front of the home, her trunk packed with cookies, cake, and some bread that she had made. Evelyn, not unlike her younger sister, had a sweet tooth and told Maeve in a recent phone call that she was “very happy” that she had a sister and that her sister knew how to make cookies. Today was Evelyn’s birthday.
/>   “My daddy died,” she said that day in Café Americano, those words the first bond they would share.

  “I know,” Maeve had said.

  She wondered how much Evelyn really knew or comprehended, if Jack had told her about Maeve, about how one day they may possibly meet? “My daddy loved cookies, too.”

  Just not my donuts, Maeve thought, and smiled.

  “Do you know Jimmy?” Evelyn had asked. “He’s my friend.”

  Yes, she knew Jimmy, and if she wasn’t so overjoyed to see this little, happy person in front of her, she would find him and wring his neck. He had known all along and no cockamamie story about chasing perps and missing floor grates and Jack saving his life was going to get him out of this one.

  In the end, she decided to e-mail him and tell him everything she knew. How Evelyn had found her, not the other way around. How she would forgive Jimmy in time for his devotion, albeit misguided, to his dead friend and his wishes, even though, in reality, she was still working on that and not sure it would ever happen. How she knew with almost one hundred percent certainty that he was Evelyn’s guardian and that if he had just told her the truth, she wouldn’t be mad. He hadn’t responded.

  Maeve had been told that four women lived in this lovely Victorian, all middle-aged, and three of them with jobs in the town, hired by people who loved Mr. and Mrs. Deckman, the couple who owned the house. The women were part of the community and the business owners who had hired them were happy to give the women jobs to fill their days. All had different developmental challenges but were all happily employed and taken care of. One of Evelyn’s roommates also worked at the coffee shop and another at a deli in town. The last one, the oldest, was a little more infirmed and helped out at the house when she could, the irony and coincidence not lost on Maeve when she compared that situation to the one in Rhineview. Mr. and Mrs. Deckman were lovely people, whereas Regina Hartwell had been evil. That was the major difference.

  Maeve couldn’t believe the turn of events. Evelyn Conlon had been right under her nose all along. She just hadn’t known.

  Evelyn had been there a long time, had grown up in comfort and safety. When Maeve did the math, and it was sketchy, she had to assume that Jack had gotten Evelyn out of Mansfield long before the story on the television aired. He knew she wasn’t safe and made sure to find her a new home. That mitigated her anger at his deception just a little bit. She still had to process just what he was thinking by never telling her about this sibling she never knew she had.

  She sat in the parking lot. Evelyn, she could tell, was kind and happy. Unlike most other people Maeve knew, she always asked Maeve about her day first and then told Maeve about her own. She asked about the girls, Rebecca and Heather, and was truly interested in their well-being. She loved Jo. And she wanted to work at The Comfort Zone instead of Café Americano.

  She wanted to live with Maeve.

  In a lot of ways, she was a lot like Jack.

  Maeve wasn’t sure if they could work that out. The whole relationship required careful planning and baby steps, two concepts she wasn’t sure Evelyn understood.

  That day in the coffee shop, with people gawking at the sight of the two sisters’ reunion, Maeve had touched her sister’s cheek, not sure if she should, if Evelyn would be accepting of that.

  “Your name means ‘longed-for child,’” she had whispered, and Evelyn, in response, had said in a voice that exuded enthusiasm, “I know!”

  Maeve thought of Jack and how, in the end, he had made sure that Evelyn had a good life, even if she wasn’t in Maeve’s. He didn’t know that Maeve had longed for her sister and would never know that now she was here.

  In the driveway at the side of the Victorian, a fine mist collecting on the windshield of the Prius, she watched as an older man, his profile flattened from an unknown number of nose breakings, lumbered toward his own car, a classic but sporty BMW. She had seen him go into the house with a gift bag, which she later learned held a new iPod filled with Evelyn’s favorite songs—she loved Frank Sinatra—and multiple bottles of red nail polish.

  “Jimmy Moriarty loves cars,” Jack used to say. “Helped him when he did Auto Crime in the PD. Guy can tell you any year, any make, any model. He’s amazing.”

  Maeve got out of the Prius and hurried across the long driveway. “Jimmy!” she called. He pretended not to hear her but it was too late; she had caught up to him and he was going to tell her everything he knew but especially, why he hadn’t told her anything at all.

  He sagged visibly. Whether it was under the weight of his heavy overcoat or the knowledge of his deception, she wasn’t sure. “Maeve.”

  “You knew,” she said, the lack of accusation in her voice surprising her. She hadn’t expected to see him and this needed to be said. Out loud. He was an old man with not that much time left; that was clear from his sallow complexion, from the way his breath rattled out of his chest. He was sick. How she knew that for sure, she didn’t know, but the once hale guy who used to shuttle her father around was weakening, almost before her eyes. “Jimmy, that was so cruel.” Her voice broke on the last word. “You knew and you didn’t tell me.” She thought about what she had planned on doing, the mayhem she was prepared to unleash on Regina Hartwell. Jimmy Moriarty had no idea what she was capable of, how his deception could have wrought a chain reaction of violence and even death.

  “I was going to tell you.” He looked around. “Eventually.” His mouth was set in a grim line. “I would have had to at some point soon.”

  They could have avoided so much had he only acted on his intention. “But you didn’t.” Do you know what I’ve been through? Do you know how much pain this has caused? She didn’t say anything, though, because doing so would make him cry even harder than he was crying now and she didn’t think she could take that. “Would you have told me before…” She paused. She didn’t want to say it.

  “Before I died?” he asked. Ironically, speaking those words seemed to calm him. “Yes.” He reached out and grabbed her hands in his. They were rough, like Jack’s used to be, with short, stubby fingers, a smattering of gray hair across the knuckles of his fingers. Working-man’s hands. He squeezed her own small hands, her fingers. “I’m sorry, Maeve. I’ll never be able to explain it to you. I’ll never be able to tell you why I did this for him and have it make sense.” He let go of one of her hands and reached into his pocket. “I don’t know what to say to help you understand, but he thought he was doing the right thing.” He looked over at the house. “Poor kid didn’t get enough oxygen at birth or something like that. But she does well. She’s happy.”

  He handed her a small jewel case with a DVD inside. Maeve took it and slid it into her pocket, not knowing what it was or why he had it on his person but knowing that she would find out soon enough. She wouldn’t see him again; she knew that. There was nothing left to tell.

  He looked off into the distance, over Maeve’s head at the house. “He saved my life, your father did.”

  She knew that but wasn’t sure why it meant that he had to lie.

  “When I moved into that place, I thought it was the end for me. Old people. Lots of old people! And me.” He chuckled at the memory. “And then I find this old brother from the Job, a little wacky, kind of forgetful, but a guy who became my best friend in the world.” He looked back at Maeve. “I didn’t know I could have a new best friend at my age. We should have been best friends all along.”

  Her hair was wet and so were her cheeks, but it was only the rain.

  “He asked me to never tell unless I knew I was going to die,” he said. “He didn’t want her to be a burden, something else for you to deal with. So, that’s what I did. I lied.”

  Maeve closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m not sure I’ll ever understand that, Jimmy. I’m not sure I’ll ever understand why you didn’t tell me the day he died.” A little ember, anger, flared in her chest. She was trying to forgive him, be true to her word, but it was hard.

  “I w
as only respecting your father’s wishes.”

  She got that. But he had waited an awfully long time after Jack’s death to let the truth be known, and only because she had found out first.

  He started to cry in earnest and her heart broke a little bit. She wrapped her arms around his broad, squat body and let him cry into her shoulder. Behind him, one of Evelyn’s roommates was taking out the trash. She didn’t know Maeve but she gave her a hearty wave that Maeve returned. Her smile said it all: she was happy here.

  He finally pulled away and took out a handkerchief, blowing his nose loudly. “I’m so, so sorry, Maeve,” he said. “I know the last few years have been hard on you.”

  You have no idea, she thought.

  “Him, too,” he said. The rain started falling harder, making it difficult to see him. “He was forgetting. He was forgetting her. He knew he should remember, but he couldn’t. That’s why he kept leaving.”

  Maeve brushed her wet hair from her eyes even though she was afraid to move, afraid to interrupt his train of thought. “Kept leaving? Buena del Sol?” she asked. It was one of his nightly jaunts to the outside world that had left Jack wandering around in the dark, only to be hit by a car and left even more broken than he had been before.

  “Yes.” Moriarty looked at her. “He was looking for her or something. He couldn’t remember sometimes why he left. But wanted to say good-bye. To tell her he loved her.”

  She looked at this sad man in front of her, one who was so sick, who didn’t have much time left.

  A tear slipped down the old man’s cheek. “He wanted to say good-bye before he forgot to.”

  CHAPTER 59

  Maeve settled into the couch with a glass of wine so big that she was glad she was alone and that no one would ever know that she had poured almost half a bottle into this novelty goblet, which said, appropriately, It’s wine o’clock! Heather was babysitting for Devon; it was “date night” for Cal and Gabriela, something that had never transpired with any kind of regularity during her marriage to Cal.