by Неизвестно
It doesn’t matter, I assured myself, because he’s not your birth father. There could still be someone else out there. Someone kind, someone who never even knew they had a biological daughter—or granddaughter, or sister…
Stop dreaming, Meara. There’s no one.
Tears welled behind my eyes. The emptiness I felt inside would have been intense, no matter what my physical circumstances. But the frustration of Fletcher’s nearness—sympathetic, yet intentionally distanced—served only to compound my torment.
I could accept his lack of interest in me, but I could not be unaffected by it. He was unlike any man I’d ever met, and I would be attracted to him even if he were five-foot-two and bald. Not only was he intelligent, kind-hearted, and honest—but he loved the outdoors as much as I did, he seemed to want children, and he wasn’t afraid to apologize. He passed all my criteria with flying colors.
True, I was vulnerable emotionally, not to mention theoretically on the rebound from a botched engagement. But none of the above could stop me from wanting him. I’d been in his arms before; I could not forget the feeling. Despite my insistence that I didn’t need to be held, the fact remained that I wanted to be. I wanted Fletcher—his warmth and his comfort. I wanted him so badly my chest ached.
But he wasn’t mine. And whatever he might offer platonically, I had no business taking. Not when my own thoughts were anything but.
"I don’t care about Jake Kozen," I said harshly, springing up. I had a mission to accomplish today, and I was going to finish it. "All I want to do is settle the facts about my adoption, and I’m going to do that right now."
I marched to where my Hyundai sat in the lot, retrieved the envelope from the passenger seat, and slammed the door. "This is a copy of Sheila’s criminal record," I announced, ripping open the top as Fletcher approached. "We’ll see whether Jake told the truth about it."
Fletcher reached forward and put his hands on mine, stopping me. "You got her criminal record?" he asked, his voice cautious.
I averted my gaze and tugged back on the envelope. No way was I looking at those eyes of his again.
"Don’t open it, Meara," he said softly.
I looked at his eyes again. They were brimming with empathy. It was obvious he knew something. "Why not?" I practically shouted.
He studied me a moment. Then he withdrew his hands and stepped back. His eyes left mine, and he let out a heavy breath.
I got the feeling he was preparing to say something, but I didn’t wait to hear it. I had sworn to go by the facts. I ripped the rest of the way into the envelope and extracted the paper.
My breath came in with a shudder.
Sheila T. Kozen. Date of Conviction: December 17, 1978. My eyes scanned downward. The stated charge seemed to rise off the paper to meet me—bold and glaring.
Attempted Homicide.
***
I stood with the paper clenched in my hands, unmoving. Fletcher hovered silently nearby.
No. Not Sheila. It couldn’t be.
I folded the paper and stuffed it back into the envelope.
A dark weight seemed to be pressing in from all sides, constricting my lungs. "You knew about this, didn’t you?" I asked unsteadily, trying to breathe.
He didn’t answer right away, and I turned to look at him.
His jaw was set with determination, his shoulders poised and strong. But his eyes were as full of pain as ever, and there was a sadness to him that I had not yet seen. A sadness fully matching my own. "I suspected," he answered, "when you told me Sheila had been in prison. But I didn’t know for sure until this morning."
I leaned heavily against the side of my car. No wonder the pain was back in his eyes. He had just found out that his father had married an attempted murderess. I wasn’t the only one hurting.
"How did you know about it? Who did she—" I broke off. A thought was percolating in the back of my brain, a thought that demanded nurture. A thought that brought with it the faintest glimmer of hope.
Fletcher moved to stand in front of me. "I know because it happened here," he said, his deep voice soothing. "At the inn. It happened when you were living with us."
Any other time, the sound of his last words would have warmed me. But now they were no more effective than a spark on the tundra. "Then I was here," I confirmed flatly.
"Yes," he continued, speaking every word as slowly and carefully as if I were made of glass. "It happened during a parental visit. My mother usually did those at the inn. Sheila and Jake got into some sort of argument—"
The thought in the back of my brain shot forward. My eyes widened. "She tried to kill him," I interrupted. "That’s what you’re trying to tell me, isn’t it? Sheila tried to kill Jake, and that’s why she went to prison."
I watched him, breath held.
He nodded.
Thoughts raced in my head. Pieces of logic danced frantically in the air, desperate to grasp their complements.
I always loved you, Meara. I was protecting you.
"Jake was an abuser!" I exclaimed, thinking out loud as the puzzle at last took shape. "He battered Sheila. That’s what happened, I know it. He has a violent side to him. I could see it!"
My breaths came quick and shallow. "That’s why I was in foster care in the first place. Sheila wanted me away from Jake. She probably wanted herself away, too, but she couldn’t manage it. He had her under his thumb—that’s what happens with battered women. And she would have been in an even worse predicament with him being a cop. Who could she go to for help?"
The question was rhetorical, and Fletcher didn’t answer it.
"The fight they had at the inn," I plowed on, "he could have attacked her, threatened her. Maybe he threatened the both of us, and she had finally had enough. It was the seventies; no one understood how battering could affect a woman, and even if they had, he was a cop—the law would have taken his side."
My heart threatened to burst from my rib cage. I thought of my first night at the inn, and how the end room upstairs had filled me a vague sense of dread. Was the fear real? Had it happened there?
"Meara," Fletcher said evenly, "before you say any more, there’s something you should read. Come with me."
He turned and walked toward the inn.
"What?" I asked, following. I did not want to hear, or know, a single other thing. The facts were finally all coming together in a way I could understand. It wasn’t pretty, but at least it made sense. At least it allowed me to believe that one of my birth parents was a decent person—that one of them had truly cared for me.
"All I could remember," he explained as we walked, "was that when I was young, the mother of one of our girls had been convicted of shooting her father at the inn. I came back here this morning to search through my mother’s papers, thinking she might have kept some newspaper clippings. And eventually I did find one."
We reached the front door of the inn, and he opened it for me. I followed like a zombie as he led me into the common room. Then he stopped by the large table, picked up a small, yellowed rectangle of paper, and handed it to me.
Cold, hard facts, I reminded myself. That’s what I had to depend on.
I took a breath and started reading.
Woman arraigned in shooting of police officer.
Sheila T. Kozen, 25, of Somerset pled guilty yesterday to charges of attempted homicide in the shooting of her husband, Somerset police officer Jacob Kozen, at a local motel last Tuesday. A witness to the shooting testified that the couple were arguing when the woman shot her husband at close range, seriously injuring him with a bullet wound in the side. The victim was unarmed. Sentencing has not yet been scheduled.
I flipped the paper over. The backside showed part of an advertisement for jewelry. There was no date.
I laid the clipping and the envelope down on the table, then stared at the floor. "Seems a little skewed," I said, my voice thin. "I don’t suppose the judge who sentenced her cared what they were arguing about. Or whether she was being th
reatened when she pulled the trigger. The witness was probably some crony of Jake’s."
"Meara," Fletcher said gently, "the witness was my mother."
My chin snapped up. "Your mother helped put an innocent woman in jail?"
He bristled, but only slightly. "Sheila confessed," he said patiently. "There was no question that she shot the man."
"But it was self defense!" I railed, whirling away from him. "It had to be!" A queer, uneasy feeling came over me. A heaviness, a pressure in my skull. It had been building for a while, but in the midst of everything, I had barely noticed it. My own voice now hurt my head, every word like a nail-strike to the back of my eye. There was no mistaking the signs. I was getting a migraine.
"I’m telling you, Sheila wasn’t to blame, no matter what it looks like," I continued, my mind still scrambling. "Your father wouldn’t have married her otherwise, would he? He had to have known who she was."
Fletcher didn’t respond, and my confidence wavered. Over twenty-five years would have passed between the shooting and Mitchell’s marriage to Sheila. Maybe he didn’t know who she was.
"It can’t be what it seems," I insisted, my voice cracking. "At least one of my birth parents had to be a good person."
Immediately, Fletcher put his hands on my upper arms and turned me to face him. "You are a good person," he said with emphasis, holding my eyes. "And so were your real parents—the ones that raised you. That’s the only link that matters. You can sympathize with your birth parents or you can hate them, Meara—whatever works for you. But don’t ever judge yourself by what they did."
The pull of him was nearly unbearable. He was wearing a worn flannel work shirt, its sleeves rolled up to the elbows, its folds soft. I could imagine the feel of his shoulder beneath my cheek, the comforting pressure of his arms encircling my back. I wanted that safety, that security. I wanted it as much as I had ever wanted anything.
But it was not being offered.
He let go of my arms. He remained standing close, but not close enough to stop the hurting. Either in my head, or my heart.
I raised my hand to my face and rubbed my temples. I might as well have a migraine. Why not?
"Thank you for trying to help," I stammered, every syllable reverberating painfully in my skull. "But I’m done thinking. I have a headache, and I need to lie down."
Reluctantly, I pulled myself away from him and took a giant step toward my room. But then I stopped. Splitting head or no, I did not want to be guilty of walking out on a discussion myself. "Is there anything else you wanted to talk to me about?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"No," he answered, his own voice just as quiet.
I started walking again. If he said anything else, I didn’t hear him. I hadn’t slept for two nights straight, and the pain in my head was excruciating. I had some heavy-duty pain killers in my travel case that had been prescribed for my mother before she died, and I had been saving them for just such a migraine. I was going to take them, and I was going to fall asleep.
Whether I woke up anytime soon, I didn’t really care.
Chapter 19
The bedroom was dark when my eyes opened. I felt heavy-limbed and disoriented, and though my watch informed me it was early morning, I had a hard time believing it. Had I slept all afternoon and through the night?
I pulled up the corner of my shade and peeked out. The sun did seem to be contemplating an appearance—the horizon showed a subtle brightening, and the birds had already begun their morning serenade.
I was still dressed in the clothes I had put on yesterday morning, and I needed a shower. But even more than that, I needed a cup of tea. The migraine was gone, but if I were to go any longer without my regular dose of caffeine, I would soon be courting another one.
I rose from the bed, stretched, and drifted out my door and down the hall toward the kitchen. I was aware of the dark cloud that pervaded my mind, weighting my every movement, but I had no plans to engage it. I had compartmentalized the horror of that feeling; it was with me, but I could keep it at bay. I could continue with the basics: tea, shower. I knew that I could exist on autopilot as long as I had to until the grief subsided and my strength returned. I had done it before.
I stumbled into the kitchen, blinking my eyes to clear the cobwebs. Then I filled the teapot with water, set it on the stove, and collected my teabag and cup. I was in the process of trying to separate the paper tab from the teabag packet when a sound immediately to my left sent me leaping into the air.
"Good morning."
It was a female voice, smooth and low, almost musical. I whirled towards it to see a tall, slender woman about my own age dressed comfortably in a blue cotton-knit top and leggings. Her shining black hair hung straight nearly to her waist, and her skin, radiant without makeup, was a soft beige color that could almost be brown. Large, dark eyes gleamed from a face as perfect as that of a china doll; yet her good-natured smile lent it a warm, earthy glow.
I dropped the teabag.
"I didn’t mean to scare you," she said pleasantly, and as I drew in a ragged breath, my wits deigned to return.
"Tia?" I croaked.
She smiled again. "That’s right. And you’re obviously Meara, the generous one. Fletch told me all about you. Or at least I thought he did." Her grin turned slightly devious. "Seems he left out a few things."
My brow creased. My head was still fuzzy; I was having trouble following her. "Pardon?"
Continuing to grin, she stepped closer, picked up my teabag, detached the clinging paper packet, and dropped the business end into my cup. "Just a suggestion, but you might want to go for coffee, instead. I’ve already made a pot. More caffeine—quicker to the veins. What do you say?"
I blinked. Perhaps I had taken one too many pain killers. Tia’s movements were lissome, almost surreally so. "No thank you," I managed. "I’m really more of a tea drinker."
She shrugged, placing her own, half-full coffee cup on the counter opposite the stove. Then she hopped up next to it, crossed her legs, and watched me thoughtfully. "Fletch told me that you gave up any rights to the estate," she began, her tone friendly, despite the punch of her words. "Frankly, I was amazed. I thought he would have a real fight on his hands. Not that any normal person would want a bunch of trees, but anyone who knew how Fletch felt about this place could certainly stick it to him." She smiled at me again. "You didn’t. I appreciate that."
I tried hard to focus, willing the water in the teapot to heat. "Your brother is a good person," I explained, fighting the sensation that I was watching my body from a distance. "I would never take anything from him—or you. And I love trees."
My words reached my ears, and I wondered if I were making any sense.
Tia’s smile widened. "You’re in worse shape than I thought," she said with a chuckle, her smooth voice tinkling like a bell. "You and Fletch didn’t hit Dad’s brandy earlier, did you? That would explain why I found him sacked out on the couch."
My brow furrowed again. "He was on the couch?"
Her almond eyes continued to study me, and I sensed she was a woman who didn’t miss much. "Until about an hour ago, yes. I woke him up when I came in." She retrieved her coffee and took a sip. "He looked like hell, actually—I could hardly get a word out of him. He just asked if I was going to stay here, then said he was going home to sleep."
A flush of warmth pulsed through me. Fletcher had stayed here. With me. All night. Maybe part of yesterday. What had he been thinking? Had he been worried about me?
The teapot began to hiss, but I stood still, staring into space. It was Tia who leapt down from her perch, picked up the pot, and poured the water. It was a good thing—I probably would have scalded myself again.
"Ookay…" she said slowly, amused. "I’m just going to carry this to the couch for you, and you can sit down and relax until the caffeine hits your brain. I know—I’ve got you at a disadvantage. I’m already on my third cup. Very rude of me."
I chuckled myself
—though not nearly as melodiously—and followed her to the couch. She said nothing more as we drank, but stretched her long legs out in front of her, raising one at a time with her toes pointed, as if performing an exercise. Her expression was contemplative, and as the caffeine at last began to penetrate my fog, I found myself transfixed. Most women with her degree of beauty and poise would use them to intimidate, but Fletcher’s sister showed not a drop of pretension. She was who she was, her body language proclaimed. You could either like it or you could go to hell—whatever floated your boat.
I wondered how much she knew about me.
"So," I said finally, feeling more like myself. "When was the last time you and Fletcher talked? Other than this morning?"
She stopped her toe pointing and folded her legs beneath her. "Monday night—after you signed the papers."
I nodded. That meant she probably didn’t know that I had been a foster child here, much less the rest of it. I wasn’t going to think about the rest of it.
"He admitted that he had misjudged you," she continued, "and he advised me not to come out and make bodily threats, which had been my original plan." She grinned at me in a peculiar way, which was both completely amiable and completely serious. I could see a fire behind her eyes, a fierce protectiveness. But I could also see that it wasn’t born of malice.
"Fletch needs this place," she explained, her fondness for her brother evident in her voice. "It’s what makes him tick. You can take the man from the mountain—a.k.a., to an apartment in San Francisco—but you can’t take the mountain from the man." Her expression darkened. "Not that it hasn’t been tried."
I threw her a questioning glance, but she shrugged it off, her face brightening again.
"So, I understand you’re staying here a few days, taking in the sights?"
I nodded, explaining briefly about my mother’s passing and the abatement. It occurred to me that I not checked in with Alex since the process began, and I made a mental note to call him this morning. The contractors could be done by now. I could go home.