Meant To Be

by Неизвестно

  Fletcher picked up the phone and dialed, and I hovered by Tia at the table. She had begun to wrestle with a particularly mangled stack of papers, but after a few seconds she groaned and banged her forehead on the table. "I’m going blind trying to read Dad’s chicken scratches," she complained. "It’s time for a break."

  "You want some breakfast?" I offered. We were low on food, but I figured I could swing French toast. Then afterwards I could make a grocery run…

  "No thanks," she offered, rising. "I’m glad Fletch is getting Ben on the case for you—you’re in good hands, there. I think I’ll just go back and finish up the clothes. All that’s left are the underwear drawers, and at least I know there won’t be any surprises there. Identical white boxers, identical white undershirts, twelve-hundred pairs of socks—all black…." She continued to mutter as she disappeared down the hall.

  I turned my attention back to Fletcher. He was hanging up.

  "I couldn’t reach Ben," he explained. "But I left a message. He’ll call back here if he finds out anything. In the meantime," he continued, his tone serious, "there’s something I need to ask you." He looked me straight in the eyes, and as much as I wished to savor the moment, the intensity in his gaze was far from comforting. "Did you ever actually tell Jake that you didn’t want him to contact you?"

  My breath caught in my throat. I felt like an idiot. "No," I admitted, embarrassed. "I haven’t said a word to him since our meeting. I didn’t ask him to call me, but I did tell him that my number was listed."

  "I’m afraid you’ll have to set him straight now, then. Because according to Ben, until you communicate your wishes clearly, you have no case at all."

  A shiver slipped down my spine, and I averted my eyes. Not only was I an idiot, I was a coward, too. I hadn’t told Jake to leave me alone because I couldn’t stand the thought of talking to him again. I still couldn’t.

  "What about a letter?" I suggested, only half joking.

  "A registered letter might be good for the case," he answered, taking the question seriously. "But if you want the guy to back off now, you need to tell him now. And according to Ben, you should do it in front of a witness."

  "I don’t want to see him," I insisted, cursing my timidity even as I spoke. "He may have already stopped calling me, anyway."

  I broke eye contact and moved to pick up the phone myself. "He only left one message. I’ll call and see if he’s left another. If not, no problem. Right?"

  My feigned optimism must not have been convincing. "You don’t have to see him in person," Fletcher assured me as I dialed my home number. "A phone call will do. But you need to do it, Meara. Whether Jake’s behind the break-in or not, it can’t hurt to make your position clear."

  I nodded in agreement, insincerely, as my phone rang. The machine picked up and delivered its message and beeps, and I punched in the appropriate code. No messages, I willed, no messages.

  But I did have one message. And as it started playing, I sank down onto the chair.

  Hello Meara, it’s your old man again. I wasn’t sure you got my first message. And did you get the flowers? I’ll assume you didn’t. I guess I’d better call the florist and complain, huh? I just wanted you to know how much I enjoyed meeting you. I would really like to see you again. Call me anytime. I’ll be waiting. My number’s—"

  I dropped the phone down onto my lap. Fletcher took it and listened a moment, then hung it up. I stared at the desk top, concentrating hard on not being sick. I could not think of the man at all anymore without picturing Sheila, bruised and beaten. Without thinking of a little girl, cowering in a corner somewhere. No matter that it was all just suspicion. The mere sound of his smooth, egotistical voice spurred acid in my stomach like a geyser.

  "Any specific threats this time?" Fletcher asked, his voice low.

  I shook my head. "More of the same."

  He dropped down to my level. "When you get back home, save the tape. But right now," he said gently, "you have to call him back. You can use Tia’s cell phone in case he has caller ID —though I don’t think he had it the last time you called, or else he would already have called here looking for you. Just keep it short. Tell him who you are and that you don’t want him to contact you anymore. Then just hang up."

  I took a breath, then blew it out with a shudder. He was right, and I knew it. I had to get hold of myself. If corrective action was needed, corrective action was what I would take. "All right," I answered. "If Tia doesn’t mind. His number is still here somewhere…"

  I found the printout on the desktop. Fletcher disappeared down the hall, then returned a few moments later with Tia’s cell phone. He took the printer sheet from my hands and began to dial for me. Whether he was doing so in order to be able to tell a judge later that he knew what number was dialed, or whether he suspected my shaky hands might have trouble with the tiny buttons, I didn’t know. Either way, I didn’t protest. Instead I sat and steeled myself, determined to deliver my lines while ignoring completely the voice on the other end.

  Fletcher handed me the phone, and I put it to my ear. It was already ringing.

  Chapter 26

  The phone rang for a long time. My heart thudded against my breastbone as I waited, and I made a mental note to avoid a second cup of tea. A stimulant was not advised. But I was beginning to see the appeal in hard liquor.

  An answering machine picked up, and I closed my eyes with a sigh of relief. It was a best-case scenario.

  You got Jake— what do you want with me? Just leave a—

  "Yeah, hello?"

  My eyes flew open again. The gruff, drowsy voice swore in muffled tones as its owner fumbled to turn off the recording. In a few seconds, the live voice spoke alone.

  "Yeah?"

  My tongue seemed frozen.

  "Anybody there?" the voice asked irritably.

  I felt Fletcher’s hand on my shoulder, gentle, but firm. "Yes," I forced out. "This is Meara O’Rourke. I’m calling to tell you that I would prefer it if you didn’t contact me anymore."

  There was silence. Hang up, my mind told me. Just hang up now. But despite the man’s repugnance to me, I couldn’t. What if he had nothing whatsoever to do with the break in? What if he could say something, right now that could convince me my fears were ridiculous?

  "I’m sorry," I continued, wincing at yet another failure of Resolution #2. "But I’m not comfortable pursuing this right now."

  "Hang up," Fletcher ordered.

  I wanted to. But I still couldn’t. I needed to know his reaction.

  "No," Jake responded finally, his voice crestfallen. "You can’t do that to me. You can’t butt into my life and then tell me to get lost. It’s not fair."

  Guilt stabbed at my core, bringing with it the inherent fear of inadequacy I had struggled with my entire life. Once upon a time, I hadn’t been a good enough child to keep. So if I wasn’t a good-enough daughter, a good-enough girlfriend, would I be thrown away again? Self-doubt, desperation to please…they were common traits among adoptees, and I knew that. But that knowledge couldn’t completely curb the feelings when they arose.

  What if I was wrong about Jake? What if he hadn’t abused Sheila? What if I had seen only what I wanted to see, because I wanted to believe her? What if he really was my birth father?

  "Hang up," Fletcher repeated sternly.

  But I continued to listen. And without warning, Jake’s voice changed. "You’re just like your mother."

  The hairs on the back of my neck pricked.

  "She thought she was too good for me, too," he said with a snarl. "But she was nothing but a damn whore. You’re my daughter. You belong to me. And nothing you can say’s going to change that. You can’t—"

  Fletcher wrested the phone from my hand and hung it up.

  "Dammit," he swore, watching as my whole body began to tremble. "Why did you listen to him?" He squatted down beside my chair, then laid a comforting hand on my arm. "You’ve got to tune him out, Meara. If he’s made a specific threat, w
e’ll pass that on, but if he’s just trying to mess with your mind, don’t let him. You haven’t done anything wrong."

  Words slipped from between my quivering lips, and the sound of them, repeated even by me, made my insides churn. "He said I belonged to him."

  "That’s nonsense!" Fletcher stood up straight, took my hands, and drew me with him. His eyes met mine, irate and determined. "Having sex with a woman thirty years ago entitles him to nothing. Do you hear me? You had a real father, and it wasn’t him. Jake Kozen had the opportunity—the privilege—of raising you, and he turned that down. You weren’t given a choice then, and he doesn’t get one now."

  I breathed in sharply. I was limp as a noodle. My emotions were drained, my brain was mush. I didn’t think. I simply pulled my hands from his and stepped forward, wrapping my arms around his waist and burying my head in his chest. I clasped him tightly, savoring the feel of him. Fletcher Black was good. A good brother, a good son. He would be a good husband and a good father. I needed that goodness now…I needed him.

  His arms closed around me and held my tight, bringing a joy so overpowering I all but forgot the horror that had driven me here. Being close to him felt so peaceful, so right. No matter how short our acquaintance, there was no longer a doubt in my mind that I was in love with him. His hands moved gently on my back, and though the movement was still platonic, I was sure I could sense a new earnestness. A yearning. A frustration.

  He wanted me, too. He wasn’t ready to admit it, but that didn’t matter. Given the right encouragement, I could be a very patient woman.

  "Thank you," I whispered. "You’ve made all this so much easier for me."

  He didn’t answer. His hands stilled, and after another moment, he pulled back. I tried not to feel disappointed as he gently took hold of my arms and detached me, setting me from him with a tolerant smile. I understood why he was doing it. He didn’t trust himself.

  He cleared his throat. "I’m glad I could help," he said in a casual tone.

  I surprised myself with a grin.

  He moved farther away. "In any event, you’ve done what had to be done. Now if there’s any more trouble, you’ll be prepared to defend yourself." He glanced nervously around the common room. "Where did Tia get to, I wonder?"

  I almost chuckled, but managed to control myself. The man was so darn cute.

  "I’m here," Tia answered, drifting down the hall with an envelope in her hand. Her voice was thin; her expression, unsettled. My brief feeling of mirth evaporated.

  "Fletch," she said, walking toward him. "You know the letters Mom wrote us, a couple days before she died?"

  "Of course," he said with concern. "What about them?"

  She fiddled with the envelope as she talked, her fingers bending it in and out like an accordion. "Well, Dad didn’t mention it, but apparently she wrote one to him, too. It’s the same stationery."

  He stared at her, puzzled. "What’s so surprising about that?"

  She struggled with herself a moment, then breathed out heavily. "I didn’t find it with his papers, Fletch. It was in the bottom of his dresser—in his sock drawer. Underneath an unopened package of handkerchiefs—the embroidered ones I gave him a few Christmases ago."

  "Well, obviously it was personal."

  Tia didn’t say anything else, but as she looked at her brother, he seemed to read her mind.

  "You opened it?" He accused.

  She nodded. "I didn’t read it—I didn’t intend to. I only wanted to see for sure if that’s what it was. But then, a word caught my eye, and—"

  She whirled and looked at me. "I still haven’t read it, Meara. But I thought you ought to know. It says something about Sheila."

  Silence descended. The three of us exchanged guilty glances, each one waiting for the others to speak.

  My brow puckered with confusion. Even if the women had been friends when they were young, why would Rosemary mention my birth mother in her last days of life? And why, for that matter, would my birth mother have mentioned her?

  I was protecting you. Rosemary died. Stay—

  The words remained a jumble.

  Fletcher studied my face, then stepped forward. "I’d better look at it," he said, taking the envelope from Tia’s hands. "If it could be important to Meara, we can’t just ignore it. I don’t think Dad would mind."

  He walked away a few steps, putting his back to both of us. His sides rose and fell as he took in a deep breath. Then he opened the envelope and pulled out the letter.

  My chest ached as I watched, afraid to breathe. Tia and I stood silently, waiting. The letter comprised a single sheet of handwriting, and Fletcher read both front and back twice without stopping. Then he stuffed the letter back into the envelope and turned around.

  His eyes were awash with pain again, but this time the hurt was fresh, and sharp. I could feel every bit of it as if it were my own, and in a rush, I moved toward him. But his attention was fixed on his sister, and before I could reach him he stepped over and handed her the envelope. "I’m afraid it brings up more questions than it answers," he said in a low voice. "But maybe you should read it yourselves. I can’t make any sense of it."

  He turned immediately and strode toward the French doors. "I’m going for a walk," he declared, turning the knob. He opened the door and went through it without looking back.

  ***

  Tia turned the letter front-side up again on the cluttered table, then smoothed its wrinkles with the side of her hand. She let out a long, slow sigh, gazed in the direction her brother had disappeared, then swore. "Why didn’t I just read this myself? I never should have shown it to Fletch. I was hoping it might clear up a few things for us, but if I’d known..."

  My mother’s admonition against nosiness once again popped into my head, but I beat it down. My heart felt sick; I had to know what was happening. "Would you mind?" I asked.

  Tia slid the paper across the tabletop. I rotated it and began to read.

  My Dearest Mitchell,

  I’m writing this with a heavy heart, because I know that I have ruined what will be our last days together. I could have waited and put it all in a letter, but I knew that wouldn’t be fair. I wanted you to feel free to get angry with me, to tell me how you felt. I still wish you would. Anything would be better than these tortured silences.

  I love you. You know that. I’ve loved you since I was a child. I wasn’t always the best wife to you, but I tried to make up for it. We got over the bad times, the infidelity, the insecurity, because we loved each other. I’m sorry I wasn’t stronger where Sheila was concerned. I wish I hadn’t lied to you. I know I was wrong—I know I should have trusted you. You have every right to be furious with me now.

  I’ve been a coward, and I’m sorry. I’ve been sorry all along. I know it may take a while for you to forgive me—maybe longer than I’ll live. That’s my fault, not yours, so please don’t feel guilty later. I don’t want you to feel guilty about anything, and I mean that. I just want you to be happy. Whatever it takes. And I mean that, too.

  Please keep this letter. Let it remind you that I loved you. Let it remind you that I always will.

  Your loving wife,

  Rosemary

  I folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope with a sigh. Obviously, Rosemary hadn’t been honest with Mitchell about something, and that something had involved Sheila. But the reference was so vague that speculating on the specifics would be fruitless.

  In any case, it was not the reference to Sheila that worried me—or Tia. We both knew that while Rosemary’s passing mention of infidelity might seem like a footnote to an outsider, to Fletcher, it would be anything but. With the pain of his own betrayal still festering, he was bound to be disturbed by the knowledge that one of the parents he loved and respected had once done the same to the other—no matter how long ago.

  My stomach felt like lead.

  I rose and walked to the French doors, looking out. "Where do you think he went?" I asked quietly.


  Tia didn’t answer me. When I looked back at her, she seemed a million miles away. "My father was incredibly out of sorts after my mother died," she said softly, talking more to herself than to me. " We just assumed it was because he had always been so dependent on her. But now—" she paused. "Now I think that some of what we were seeing was resentment."

  She reached forward and grabbed a check from the top of one of her piles. "I’ve got to find out what all this was really about. Otherwise Fletch is just going to…" Her voice trailed off. She swooped up her cell phone and rose, then crossed to the desk, opened her father’s address book, and dialed. In a moment she reached up and turned off the phone with a stab of her finger, then sank down into the desk chair.

  "Tia?" I asked, concerned. "What is it?"

  She looked at me, her face deep in thought. "I was right. James P. McElron is a private investigator."

  I stared at her a moment, not comprehending. "Why would your father need a private investigator?"

  She shook her head. "I don’t know. But I’m going to find out." She looked up at me. "Would you mind?"

  All I could manage was a shrug. Whatever had tied Sheila to Rosemary didn’t seem important at the moment. All I could think about was Fletcher—off by himself somewhere, hurting.

  I put my hand on the knob. "I think I’ll take a walk, too," I announced. I opened the door and stepped out.

  "Meara," Tia called.

  I turned towards her, and she smiled at me.

  "Try the swimming hole."

  Chapter 27

  I rounded the corner of the white house and walked toward the trailhead leading to the swimming hole, hoping Tia knew her brother well enough to correctly guess his destination. I walked rapidly down the steep trail, slipping once or twice in my haste. If Fletcher was walking steadily, I would never catch up with him. But if, as his sister had speculated, he had paused to throw stones in the creek, I might have a chance.