In the Cradle Lies

by Olivia Newport

  But Alyce never truly adapted to anyone else’s presence in the big house after Gertrude left. It was her idea to move. She didn’t want to be next to Ryder Manufacturing without Judd. She would always be lonely without Judd, but she wanted to live somewhere else. Alyce even chose the place. Maple Turn wasn’t large enough to support an assisted living community, so it was a bit of a drive to visit, but Matthew saw her a couple of times a week and made sure she got to church every Sunday and out to lunch with her old friends a couple of times a month. As long as she had a routine, she did well. Even a decade later, her own health showed no serious sign of physical or further mental decline. She seemed as settled as someone could be after losing a beloved lifelong partner.

  Matthew got in his car and aimed it toward Ryder Manufacturing. His mother was right that he had to return to work. The pace never let up, but at least he had the next twenty-five minutes to himself before plunging back into the pile of reports on his desk and the little pink slips of phone messages that no doubt stacked up during a two-hour absence to have lunch with his mother.

  Alyce had tried to give the big house to Matthew and Jane, but he hadn’t wanted it. The house was Judd’s, and it came with too many ghosts. Jane hadn’t understood, and he didn’t explain—couldn’t explain—why he wouldn’t live in that house again. It was perhaps the biggest quarrel of their marriage, but he’d sold the house and deposited the funds to support his mother’s care. Then he’d mollified Jane by also moving their family, with three children, to a larger home than where they’d started out. The youngest, Debra, still kept a bedroom at home, though she rarely was there while she finished college, and Matthew didn’t expect she would be around much longer. Stephen had already moved to Iowa. Nannette, the eldest, was the one who was sticking around.

  He had his life with Jane after all, though he had trapped himself into playing out a lie all this time. He’d kept his promise not to look into his own past, even apart from any information that might be in a sealed envelope left with the lawyers that he didn’t have access to until Alyce passed away—if Judd had kept his word and left an envelope. Matthew and Jane had their children, and now they had Nannette’s son, their own grandson. For the sake of the life in front of him, it was easier and easier to push his questions to the back of his mind.

  Most of the time.

  He’d never told Jane, and keeping a secret from her was a seeping wound that never healed.

  Back at Ryder, Matthew walked into the office suite and held out his hand, knowing that Rachel, his secretary, would hand him messages as he passed. She’d been with him for years, and they had a practiced rhythm.

  “How was the food?” she said.

  He gave her a wry smile that said he wished he’d had time to stop for a decent hot dog on the way back. She would have scolded him if she detected the scent of fast food on his breath though. Rachel and Jane were colluding to reform his eating habits. After all, they thought his father died from a heart attack and maybe he’d inherited heart disease.

  “The business journal called again,” Rachel said.

  “I’ll call them.”

  In his office, Matthew dropped the stack of pink message slips on his teak desk without flipping through them. Already his head was back in the quarterly production report he needed to analyze before tomorrow’s meeting.

  After Judd’s retirement, Matthew had been tempted to remodel the entire suite of offices and eradicate any evidence of access to the private storage room through a private hall by simply sealing it off once and for all. But someday, when Alyce was gone, he might want to follow the trail of answers, and going into that room might be necessary. In the meantime, as much as he hated Judd’s office, he couldn’t let anyone else have it because of that doorway. So he’d settled for moving out the heavy cherrywood furniture and bringing in an entirely new look with the teak. He made sure to place a tall bookcase so it blocked the door from his view completely. Only one person ever asked about it, and Matthew simply said he didn’t intend to use his father’s old storeroom, so it was a waste of space not to put something on that wall.

  That was that.

  Jane had been nagging him for years to redecorate again—thirty years was a long time with the same furniture—but for now, Matthew left well enough alone.

  But he had rebricked the back of the building and in the process sealed off the exterior entrance to the room. It was the only true argument he’d ever had with the affable, ever-grinning Jackson, who’d never gotten his chance to pick the lock on that door. He’d left Ryder Manufacturing over that disagreement and opened his own locksmith business. For a while, the quarrel put some distance in their relationship, but ultimately Jackson’s change in employment saved their friendship for the long haul. It was better if he wasn’t in the building, presuming access to Matthew’s new office once the outside door was gone. Questions about where the door led fell out of bounds once and for all.

  Matthew took out the green pen he always used to mark up reports, straightened his bifocals on his face so they didn’t catch the glare from the light, and dug in. He worked with the door open, the office sounds fading into a white noise that helped him concentrate better than complete silence would have. Page after page, he circled the numbers with the most significance and underlined the ones he wanted to get more information about. In the margins, he jotted notes about the machines that seemed to be most productive and which operators were on the shifts that turned out the highest number of products and those who lagged behind targets.

  “Grandpa Matt!”

  At the chirpy voice, Matthew immediately dropped his pen and lifted his eyes, a grin cracking his face. He pushed his chair back from his desk just in time to receive the hurtling little boy into his lap.

  “Tucker! What brings you here?”

  “I came to run the factory!”

  “Taking over my job already?”

  Tucker giggled. “You know what I mean. I want to run in the factory by the machines like we always do.”

  Matthew rubbed his six-year-old grandson’s back. “Right now the machines are operating, so it’s not safe for you to be in the factory. But if you’re still here when the shift ends, we’ll do the safety check together, and if it’s all clear, then you can run. How does that sound?”

  “Not as good as running now, but I guess it’s okay.”

  “Where’s your mother?”

  Tucker rolled his eyes. “She never keeps up. You know how that is.”

  Matthew laughed. “Your mother is a very efficient person. I don’t know how I’d get things done around here without her.”

  “That’s certainly good to hear.” Nannette’s voice came from the doorway. “The little rascal got away when I stopped to answer someone’s question.”

  “At least you knew where he was headed,” Matthew said.

  “Always headed for Grandpa Matt,” Nannette said. “I just picked him up from school. The sitter has an appointment and Mom is busy. He’s supposed to play quietly in my office for a couple of hours.”

  “He can always hang out here.”

  “You indulge him too much.”

  “That’s a grandpa’s job.” Tucker nestled under Matthew’s chin.

  When Nannette married at only twenty years old, Matthew and Jane hadn’t wanted to flat-out say it was a mistake, but she hadn’t known John Kintzler very long, and she dropped out of college with stars in her eyes in order to marry him. By the time they came home from their honeymoon, Tucker was on the way. And by the time Tucker was two years old, Nannette didn’t even know where John was. She still didn’t four years later. But she’d had the good sense to admit she needed help, and of course Matthew and Jane had taken mother and child back into their home. Nannette returned to school, got a degree, and joined Ryder Manufacturing. In Matthew’s opinion, although her responsibilities were very junior at the moment, she had natural aptitude for finance and she could someday be at the helm of the company. Maybe Tucker would be
as well—if he wanted to be. For Matthew there was little choice, but Tucker might choose to, or another grandchild still to be born to Nannette or Stephen or Debra might choose.

  Ryder Manufacturing was on solid ground, despite Matthew’s rejection of Judd’s funding strategies. When he took over, Matthew’s first priority was to bear down to make sure the company would still succeed and serve the town well as a reliable employer without Judd’s unsavory methods. The outrageous growth of its first decade had slowed, of course, but it had still grown at sustainable rates. In the nights when thoughts of the cash influxes from the early days sickened Matthew into wakefulness, he determined to slog through all the more. Too many people in Maple Turn depended on Ryder Manufacturing now. He could hardly put them all out of work to assuage his guilt over something he had no part in doing.

  And no matter how sick it made him, he could not expose his mother to shame.

  “Grandpa Matt, you’re not listening.” Tucker put his hand on Matthew’s face and turned it toward him.

  “You caught me,” Matthew said. “Tell me again.”

  Tucker dipped his head in an impish grin, and the light went on in his eyes. “It’s about Aubree. She got into so much trouble with Mrs. Ojed again today.”

  “And did you have anything to do with this trouble?”

  Tucker drew an indignant breath. “No, Grandpa Matt! Sometimes you are impossible!”

  Matthew laughed. Could any man ask for a more delightful grandson?

  His breath caught. A father, grandfather, and great-grandfather never got to know Tucker existed because they never saw Matthew grow up. Surely they would have delighted in Tucker had they not been cheated of the chance to know him.

  Matthew deftly zippered that wound closed again, as he had learned long ago to do.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Nolan felt his age in every muscle of his body the next morning. Even all his remedial recreational refreshment excursions with Tucker hadn’t conditioned his body to climb so high up on Hidden Run and then reverse the path in a measured manner that made sure Tucker didn’t elude the guard Nolan and Patrick formed around him.

  Tucker hadn’t yielded any more information about his grandfather’s letter or the envelope on the way down. During the ride returning to town, he only wanted to hold Laurie Beth’s hand, and back at the Inn, Tucker shooed Nolan, Patrick, Kris, and Jillian away. He was exhausted, he said, and he only wanted to talk to Laurie Beth.

  Who could argue with that? The woman who wore his ring had tracked him down and come all the way from St. Louis to make sure he was all right. She was entitled to the story. Nolan made sure Laurie Beth had custody of the key to Tucker’s rental truck, lest he get any ideas, and Nia promised to make sure they were amply fed without hovering.

  Kris went back to Ore the Mountain long enough to satisfy herself that everything was buttoned down for the night. Theoretically Patrick, Nolan, and Jillian could have salvaged a few hours of their reunion day. The truth was they were all exhausted. Patrick opted to stay the night. Hot showers, dry clothes, and food delivered from Burgers ‘n’ More helped some, but the only topic on their minds was Tucker and what could possibly be in that envelope. Their speculations came up empty.

  Nolan was determined Patrick would have some approximation of an Irish breakfast before he left for his meetings in Denver, so battling screaming muscles, he rummaged in the kitchen. He came up with a can of baked beans and an apple and green pepper he could dice into them. So far so good.

  He turned on the oven, in the belief that there were tomatoes somewhere that he could roast.

  He was certain he still had a few slices of thick bacon in the refrigerator.

  Eggs, of course.

  Bangers and mash would have been nice, but that was not to be.

  Nolan pushed the power buttons on all of Jillian’s fancy coffee machines. They might as well have them all on standby.

  His shoulders protested. His calves howled. One hip screamed every time he shifted his weight. Somehow Nolan put the meal together anyway. By the time Patrick came downstairs, Nolan was taking the roasted tomatoes and baked beans out of the oven, the bacon was ready for a final turn, and the last skillet was hot and waiting for the eggs to fry.

  “What, no black pudding?” Patrick said.

  Nolan chuckled. “No one in town sells the pig’s blood sausage, and even if they did, Jillian wouldn’t allow it in the house.”

  “What kind of an Irish girl is she?”

  “One who remembers her Italian mother never liked that stuff.”

  “Bella.” The humor dropped out of Patrick’s voice. “Another casualty of our wasted years. I should have known her better.”

  Jillian entered the room. “I need coffee.”

  “You mean you need something that is an adulterated imitation of coffee.” Nolan popped four slices of bread into the toaster. “Patrick and I will have the real thing.”

  “Whatever.” Jillian took three mugs out of the cupboard, fiddled with the machines, and produced aromatic beverages in time to set them on the kitchen nook table as Nolan placed the plates. Nolan smelled cinnamon in today’s caffeinated concoction.

  “Sort of feels like we pushed the PAUSE button for twenty-four hours,” Jillian said after the blessing. “Here we are again.”

  “Only this time Patrick has to leave,” Nolan said, “instead of having the whole day to spend with us.”

  “I did spend a day with you,” Patrick said. “Fresh air. Mountain views. Skis.”

  “But we didn’t really get to talk.” Jillian lifted her mug. “About. Things.”

  “About what happened.” Nolan pushed his fork into a runny fried egg. It was time. He wanted to do this while Patrick was there to see him tell his daughter the truth. “I was in my first semester of law school and had just met your mother—old enough to know what I was doing even if at the time I let myself believe it wasn’t intentional. Pop Paddy only had one possession that came from Ireland.”

  “The painting,” Jillian said. “Uncle Seamus has it in his den.”

  “That’s right,” Nolan said. “I couldn’t keep it, not after the way I came to have it.”

  Jillian’s eyes widened.

  “We all liked to hear Paddy tell stories about Ireland,” Nolan said, “stories that his father told him about growing up in Ireland before he came here to work the mines. His father’s best friend made that painting for him and gave it to him just before he got on the boat so he would never forget the old country. They knew they would never see each other again. That little painting meant more to Paddy’s father than anything else he owned. That’s why it meant so much to Paddy. I suppose that’s why I wanted it too.”

  “I don’t understand.” Jillian had stopped eating. “Then why does Uncle Seamus have it?”

  “Paddy had always promised that picture to Patrick. We all knew it—Seamus and I and the other cousins.” Nolan glanced at Patrick, whose features were crunched and still. “But I was admiring it that day and saying there would never be another family heirloom like it. And then he asked if I would like to have it.”

  “And you said yes,” Jillian said.

  Nolan nodded. “I never should have. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have put him in that position. I let him wrap it up for me in a wool scarf and put it in a canvas bag, and I walked out of his house like it was a trophy. When Patrick found out… well… gloating only made things worse. He was mad as a box of frogs.”

  On the table, Patrick’s hands fisted. “I should have lit into your father, but I went after Pop Paddy instead. I charged over and shouted things no grown man should ever say to his elderly grandfather.”

  “You were hurt,” Nolan said, “because of me.”

  “You weren’t there.” Patrick’s eyes dropped to his lap. “You didn’t hear. I might as well have knocked him down and kicked him in the teeth.”

  “Patrick.”

  “Don’t, Nolan. It’s the truth. After that, I ha
d to leave. I couldn’t face him again.”

  “I should have given you the painting. I should have stopped you. I should have gone with you to Pop Paddy to make things right.”

  Patrick shook his head. “What you did was wrong, Nolan, but you are not responsible for what I did that was wrong.”

  “Uncle Patrick,” Jillian said, “why didn’t you come back? When tempers weren’t so high.”

  Patrick’s voice hitched. “Shame is a powerful force. I hope you never have to feel the way I do.”

  Silence cloaked the room.

  “Patrick,” Nolan said, “if I could take back what I did, I would—a thousand times over.”

  “My shame is my own,” Patrick said. “I could have come back and boxed your head and gotten that out of my system. But I could never take back the way I spoke to Pop Paddy.”

  “He would have forgiven you.” All these years. Wasted in mute, taciturn pain. Nolan never knew Patrick felt this way. Even when they’d circled each other during Patrick’s infrequent visits with the wider family, Nolan never picked up signals that Patrick’s anger was with himself. Nolan’s own shame was too thick a veil to see through.

  “I couldn’t forgive myself,” Patrick said. “And then he died while I was off berating myself, too ashamed to come home.”

  “All this time you’ve carried this weight.” Jillian’s voice cradled tenderness.

  “I didn’t know how to make it right. How could it ever be right for anyone after Pop Paddy died?”

  “And you and Dad?” Jillian’s voice went breathy. “My whole life and then some.”

  “I’m sorry for that too,” Patrick said. “I wish I’d known you.”

  “I’m still here.” Jillian glanced at Nolan. “You still can.”