She pulled down the cuffs of her jacket, covering up her wrists. Her hands continued to shake. Why would she hide the scars from him, when he’d held the gashes closed? Gabriel’s eyes moved to the wedding band and a huge diamond. A little garish for his taste.
“Is your husband with you?” He turned his attention to the thirteenth-century fresco of the Crucifixion, rediscovered during nineteenth-century renovations.
“No, he’s back in North Carolina. He doesn’t know I’m here.”
The painting was such a wonderful treasure for the village. Craning his neck for a better view, Gabriel stared at Christ on the cross. “You don’t think your husband has a right to know where you are?”
“None of your business,” she snapped. “Sorry. Sorry. I don’t mean to be . . . I’m a little adrift right now, and it’s so much work, Gabriel. So much work.”
“What is?”
“Being me. Sometimes, I don’t feel strong enough.”
“I’m a little confused. Would you mind if we started at the beginning?” Turning back, he held her gaze and understood. He’d seen that look before—in his mother, in his father, in his own haunted reflection. She was in pain, but not the physical kind.
“It’s complicated, Gabriel.”
Gabriel tugged on his lips. “It always is with you.”
“I can’t explain.” She backed up into the pew and began rubbing her arms. “And by the way, this country is still freezing. It’s July, for goodness’ sake.”
Her flare of anger caught him by surprise, which it shouldn’t have. Her temper had always been quick to spark. Apparently his memory was selective where Marianne was concerned. But he was also bombarding her when he should take his time, let her come to him. This was not his usual way, but then again, the rules had never applied to Marianne. Until this moment, he’d never realized how empty the space around him had become, the space that she’d once filled.
“Please, can we go to the cemetery?” she said.
“The youth group’s an eager bunch, which means if you were hoping for a peaceful”—he stumbled over his words—“visit, now might not be a good time.”
“I—I can’t cope with groups of people. The noise—” She hunched her shoulders.
“Marianne, you look exhausted. Why don’t you come back to the rectory, have a nap and something to eat, and we’ll go to the cemetery tonight, when it’s quiet?”
“I’ve missed you,” she blurted out. “I spent years missing you.”
An interesting comment from someone who’d never once got in touch. And yet how could he trust anything she said? Despite planning four children with him, she’d happily done the deed with his brother.
The Madonna and Child in the large oil painting by the door locked eyes on him. “If you’re looking for a partner in crime, I gave up shoplifting and smoking pot after you left.” I gave up everything except my faith.
She sat down on her hands and rocked back and forth as if gathering momentum for a sprint.
“You really did it.” She nodded at the pulpit. “I never believed you when you rambled on about ordination.”
“It was a calling.” She didn’t need to know his real decision had come as he prayed over her wounds. That was the night he’d started believing in angels. What else could have explained her survival in the pre–mobile phone era?
“I assume you followed your passion for music?” Judging from the expensive-looking leather jacket and gaudy jewelry, she’d been successful.
“I own a recording studio . . .” Her voice trailed off. “It’s called Nightjar.”
Nightjar. His nickname for her because she used to sing for him in the dark—just him—until she’d settled on a bigger audience. He inhaled deeply, held on for a moment, and released the breath. If only she’d stayed away. Was she going to unpack his life, force him to reexperience events he’d wrestled with himself to forget?
“What’s your specialty?” he said.
“Whatever pays the bills. Local artists, audiobooks, a few out-of-state bands. I’m a little disappointed my nefarious plot to turn you into a petty criminal failed.” She nudged an embroidered kneeler with her foot. “I’m guessing you went to college and majored in religious studies or theology? Bristol was your top choice, right?”
“Indeed.” The game of catch-up was inevitable, but please, God, let it stay within the time period after she left and not stray into the before. The name Nightjar whirled like mental fog. “Then Cuddesdon for theological college and Sandhurst, the Royal Military Academy, for the professionally qualified officers’ course. I was a chaplain in the British army for five years.”
Marianne sat still. “That part wasn’t in your script.”
“No. It wasn’t.” He paused. “But this is what I always wanted—to come back and preach the gospel here, in the village. I blame those deep, meaningful conversations we had in the cemetery about life, death, and the hereafter. Or maybe I wanted to prove to everyone that I wasn’t a shoplifter.”
“Or was it how you moved on after Simon died?”
He balled his right hand into a fist. “Let’s not go there, Marianne.” The warning should be obvious, even to her. “I put the past behind me for my parents’ sake. I trust you did the same.”
“I never meant to hurt you.” Her green eyes, sharp and fierce, darted as if anticipating danger from all angles. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I didn’t understand at the time, but I was manic back then. It was another ten years before I was diagnosed. The psychotic episode at Simon’s memorial service and the suicide attempts threw the doctors for a loop.”
“There was more than one?” His voice came out hoarse.
“What do you think? Have you ever known me do anything in moderation? After a series of false starts, I was branded bipolar. Bipolar I if you’re interested. The real deal—no wimpy affective disorder for me. And I’m an alcoholic.”
Gabriel unclenched his fist. What a relief to have a reason for her slightly odd behavior and the hand tremors. For a moment he’d been thinking junkie.
“Should I hide the communion wine?” He smiled.
She smiled back. “I see you’ve learned to be sympathetic.”
“A divine gift that comes with wearing a cassock every Sunday. The benefits of my job are mind-blowing.”
She laughed. “I’ve forgotten what that sounds like.”
“What?” he said.
“My laugh.”
“You have a great laugh, it’s—”
“Deranged?”
“No. I was going to say infectious.”
“I sincerely hope nothing about me is contagious. It’s not something I normally tell people, that I’m, you know . . . But I guess normal doesn’t exist between us. Besides, aren’t you bound by priestly confidentiality?”
They had slipped back so easily. It had always been this way between them—lots of banter. Or rather it was until she and Simon fell into lust, or love, or teenage angst. Mania made perfect sense, given her wildly impetuous behavior in the months leading up to the accident. If he was being completely honest, he would have to admit that she had terrified him.
“Are you going to ask for the gory details of my diagnosis?” she said. “Do you want to know if I’m a danger to myself, society? You?”
“Want to tell me?”
“No.” Her prickles were back up, like hedgehog spines.
“Then I won’t ask.”
For a brief moment he had sensed the old Marianne. The one who was full of passion, laughter, and creative curiosity. Before Simon’s death she was a fighter, but what started as a combustible mix of teenage hormones and exam stress exploded into despair, disgust, and malice. It nearly destroyed both of them. It had destroyed his brother.
In the bell tower behind them, the hour struck. A harsh intrusion that faded into ripples of aftershock. A dying melody. This time tomorrow all the bells would peal out, announcing the start of matrimony. The village loved weddings, but he preferred ch
ristenings. They gave him hope and took the sting out of the endless, small-minded bureaucracy of the Church of England. He’d offered himself for ordination with such idealism. Now he struggled to not be argumentative with the rural dean and to find time for daily prayer around his parishioners’ needs plus the demands of running a benefice of three parishes, each with a crumbling Grade I listed building. Unlike Marianne, he never wanted to change the world; he’d merely wanted to slow it down for prayer and contemplation.
“When did you get here?” he said.
“I landed around eight, I think. We had to circle for ages. Then I hung out at Heathrow for a while and picked up a cab.”
She’d just arrived from America and paid for a taxi from Heathrow? What an extravagance when public transport was perfectly adequate.
“Do you have somewhere to stay?” He didn’t want to know the answer, but he had to ask.
“I thought the Tinker might have rooms, but it’s closed. I don’t remember where the other pub is. I don’t know. I hadn’t thought it through.” She trembled as if cold or frightened, or both, and his decision was made.
He bent down and picked up the ridiculously light bag that looked like something Mary Poppins would use. “Then you’ll stay with me.” He rose to his feet and took a deep breath. The village gossip brigade, with Bill Collins leading the charge, was going to love this one.
“Is the rectory still haunted?”
Something tangible passed between them—a shared memory of ghost hunts. Why had they devoted their teens to searching for signs of life from the dead?
“Highly doubtful it ever was. But the church sold off the old rectory years ago. It’s a private house filled with children, as it should be. I live in the new rectory—a modern shoebox off Nell’s Lane. It’s fine for a bachelor.”
“You never married?”
“Married to the job. I’ll have you know that I take the spiritual lives of my flock very seriously. Except for that miserable old cowpat, Bill Collins.” Gabriel raised his eyes heavenward. “Sorry, God. Still trying with that one. And you—children?”
Gabriel swallowed. He should have deflected that thought. Had he made the mistake of pretending they’d both moved on?
She crossed her arms over her chest and huddled into herself. “Bill Collins is still here?”
“Unfortunately, yes. And he’s no more even-tempered.” Gabriel paused. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked about . . .”
“To answer your question, no. It wasn’t possible after everything that happened.” Her hands started agitating.
“I know,” he said. “But I thought you might have adopted.”
“Yeah. Like you can see me at a PTA meeting.” She waved some unseen shadow from her face. “Bottom line, my monster’s not always chained. And a mother has to be in control.”
“A mother has to be human.”
“I guess God forgot that bit when He said, ‘Let there be bipolar disease.’” She pointed at the brass cross on the altar. “Besides. I’ve been married three times. Husband number one, I met on a locked psych ward. I met the other two in AA. And let’s not forget three serious suicide attempts plus a few near misses that don’t count. Who wants to dump kids into that much instability?”
Again, something had shifted, forcing him to lag two beats behind in the conversation. It was as if he kept slipping back into thirty years of unshared secrets. Life had pried them apart for a reason. Reconnecting might not have been in anyone’s best interests.
“Listen—” She kneaded her right eye. “That was kind of you, to offer a bed. But I should give you an out. I’m not sure anyone can be around me at the moment.”
“Didn’t you ask for my help?” An odd sensation grew in his chest: an unexpected and unwanted tightening in his lungs. A creeping specter that whispered, Please don’t go.
“Yes. No. I don’t know. I thought, but—”
He slung her bag over his shoulder, out of her reach. “Rest, sleep, and then I’ll cook supper and we can talk.”
“I don’t want to talk.” She sprang up and glowered at him.
“Righty-ho. I’ll chunter on and let off steam about the bishop while you fake an interest.”
“I don’t owe you anything, Gabriel. And your life certainly turned out peachy, despite me. Was I even a ripple in your space-time continuum?”
He managed to not sigh. Whatever currents were bubbling under the surface, he was simply trying to be a decent bloke. “I’m merely offering a bed and a meal to someone who’s short on options.”
“Sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to be a snarky bitch. But I have this anger, all the time, and it’s growing like some sort of tumor.”
“Apology accepted. If you prefer, I can talk to the nuns. They have a few private guest rooms at the Abbey, and I could explain that you’re an old friend in need of shelter. The mother superior will take you in, no explanation necessary.” The mother superior might be in a motorized wheelchair, but she’d outwitted Nazis as a girl in rural France. She was more than capable of handling Marianne. But if Marianne had come back because of all that had happened thirty years ago, she was his responsibility. He’d known that the moment she’d looked into his eyes.
“No.” She shook her head. “No strangers. Only you. At least you know I’m a killer. No explanations required.”
“Stop. You are not responsible for Simon’s death.” He didn’t mean to boom at her. Less than twenty minutes in her presence, and he was cracking apart at the seams.
“Gabriel, there was another crash. A second one. This time I was driving. My husband was in the passenger seat and we were arguing, and he told me to turn down the music, but I was too busy screaming at this herd of deer on the roadside. I spooked them and they ran out into another car, and the other driver she—she was pregnant, and she—she lost her baby. Another unborn baby died because of me, Gabriel.” She sucked in a sob.
We were arguing, and he told me to turn down the music. A strange whooshing filled his ears, the distant hum of unwanted memories. Gabriel focused on the Crucifixion scene in the stained-glass window behind the altar.
“Two fatal car wrecks. Two babies dead before they’ve had a chance at life, and I’m the link, the connector. Me. And I’m scared, so scared. Where does it stop, Gabriel? Where?”
He opened his left arm to her: an instinct, a reflex. Learned behavior he couldn’t control any better than the crashing of his heart against his ribs.
FOUR
JADE
Darius flung himself across the breakfast island, a balled-up nonsensical love letter from his wife in one hand and his passport in the other. Both of Marianne’s passports were missing, including her red UK one. A large water stain had spread down the shoulders of his black T-shirt, and his mop of hair dripped onto the granite. He was creating his own mini water feature in the middle of his state-of-the-art kitchen.
The doorbell rang and Jade glanced at her watch. The food delivery, right on time. She headed to the front door, texting Sasha:
MC. Start playing head engineer honcho because I’m out of the picture.
She and Sasha, another Girls In Motion alum, had developed their own shorthand. MC equaled Marianne crisis; DD equaled Darius drama. Both contained the same hidden message: tread carefully.
Jade paused and added: Don’t text and drive.
Sasha replied with a thumbs-up emoticon.
Jade helped the delivery guy carry in deviled eggs, fried-green-tomato sliders served on mini brioche rolls, Beaufort shrimp salad (her favorite), mini crab cakes, a huge tray of beautifully rolled cold cuts decorated with olives, a basket of crusty bread, a large plate of grilled vegetables with fresh mozzarella, a display of individually labeled cheeses, and assorted mini tarts that belonged, surely, in the window of a Parisian patisserie. If she were a dog, she would drool. Breakfast had been at least two hours ago.
They lined up the platters next to Darius, who remained prostrate on the counter.
&nbs
p; He okay? the delivery guy mouthed.
“Don’t worry about him,” Jade said loudly. “He’s fine.”
“I. Am. Not.” Darius’s voice rumbled like something from The Exorcist. Not for the first time, Jade wondered why he’d abandoned his potential career as a musician to go behind the scenes. He could do public theatrics way better than Rob Zombie.
The delivery guy scurried out before Jade could find her wallet for a tip.
“Nice way to scare the locals,” she said as she loaded lunch into the empty fridge and then popped a mini pecan-bourbon pie into her mouth. “Hmm, delish.” She brushed piecrust crumbs from her bottom lip.
Darius pushed himself up. “She’s run away and I’m not to follow? How can she say that? Doesn’t she know she’s tearing out my heart?” He punched his chest.
His red eyes screamed, Deranged on devotion. Thank God for the standing order of benzos or she would be dragging him off to Dr. White’s office pronto. Should she suggest he pop a Xanax before the band arrived?
Jade swallowed her mouthful and resisted diving back into the fridge for a deviled egg. Once you eliminated grits, southern food wasn’t half bad. “This has got nothing to do with her feelings for you.”
“Bullshit.” He smashed a chrome stool into the breakfast island.
“Come on. She rambles on about how much she loves you.” Jade pointed at the letter. “This is a plea for time. I think we should give it to her. And FYI, having a temper tantrum won’t change a thing.”
He stood still, chest heaving, and she had a weird image of a trapped bull about to charge.
“Look. The band should be here in half an hour. We’re going to stick with plan A. Okay, honey?”
“No, far from okay.” He paced in a circle. “I’m going to do whatever it takes to find her. Hire a private eye, report her as missing to the cops. Call out the National Guard. I don’t care, but I have to find her. Have you tried her cell?”
“What do you think? I’ve sent enough texts to overload AT&T central. But I’ll keep trying if you’ll haul ass over to the studio and starting behaving like you’re worth every cent the label’s paying us. Enough money to fund Marianne’s shoe habit until you guys move into assisted living.”
Echoes of Family Page 5