Come Back to Me

by Chris Paynter

  Angie ran her fingertips over Meryl’s cheek. “I’m not that strong.”

  Meryl sat up and pulled the sheet over her bare chest. “Yes, you are. You stood up to your family. You didn’t walk away from who you are. I’m not sure I can do the same.”

  “But maybe you can. Maybe your family would accept that you’re gay. Just because my parents and my brother didn’t accept me, it doesn’t mean your family wouldn’t accept you.”

  “Don’t you remember what I told you about my father? I’m sure he won’t accept that I’m... that I’m...”

  “A lesbian.”

  “I don’t know if I can tell him.” Meryl’s voice shook.

  Angie reached for Meryl’s hand. “Is there anyone else in the family who’d stand up for you if it gets ugly?”

  Meryl’s expression softened. “My mother’s supportive. But where my father’s concerned, she usually gives in to keep the peace. I don’t think she’d confront him on this.”

  “You mentioned your grandmother once, but it sounded like your relationship with her isn’t the best either.”

  “She and my father are just alike. I’m sure she’d side with him against me.”

  Angie sat up beside Meryl and held her. “Then let’s live for these moments. Let’s not worry about this summer or what follows, okay?”

  Meryl didn’t respond.

  Angie felt like her world was crumbling around her.

  * * *

  The semester ended. Meryl left for Pittsburgh the day after her last final. Before she departed, she confided in Angie she planned to come out to her family once she got home. Angie’s stomach did several turns at the thought, but she didn’t try to talk Meryl out of it.

  Almost three weeks had passed and still no word from Meryl. Angie feared what that meant. Nonetheless, she decided to make the drive to Meryl’s family home in Mount Lebanon, an affluent suburb of Pittsburgh. Meryl had given Angie her address before she left. Angie asked another friend from Pittsburgh how to find Meryl’s house.

  Angie slowed her beat-up car to a stop near the home.

  “Jesus.” The vastness of the brick mansion looming behind the black wrought iron fence made her mouth go dry.

  Angie sat, momentarily paralyzed with inertia. If Meryl hadn’t jogged into view at just that moment, Angie would have been on her way. Meryl loped up to the gate. Her tank top and silky, sweat-stained jogging shorts only made her more beautiful to Angie’s eyes. The shorts hiked up on her long, lean legs.

  Angie got out of the car. She was about to call to Meryl when the gate slowly swung open and a long black limousine came down the drive. The tinted window behind the driver slid down, and Meryl stopped to lean over. As she straightened and walked up the drive toward the house, Angie yelled out to her.

  “Meryl!” Angie trotted over. What if that’s him in there? What will he do when he sees me? She tamped down her fear. She had to know.

  Meryl smiled when she turned to Angie. As Angie got closer, she saw a mix of emotions play across Meryl’s face. Joy. Fear. Sadness. They all registered so fast that it reminded Angie of an actress going through the requisite gamut of emotions for a director’s screen test.

  “Angie?”

  Angie took two more steps. The limo door swung open, and there he stood. White-haired, jut-jawed Channing McClain. Well over six-feet tall, he was even more intimidating in the flesh than Meryl’s descriptions had painted him. His face reddened when he saw Angie. He strode toward her.

  “No, Father, don’t!” Meryl cried when he rushed past her. She ran after him.

  “You!” he shouted. He was in front of Angie in an amazing instant, pointing his bony finger in her face while he towered over her. “You stay away from my daughter.”

  A thought flew through Angie’s mind. She told him. It was replaced by one far more terrifying. I’ll never see her again.

  “Sir, I think your daughter has a right to talk to me if—”

  He raised his hand as if to hit her. Angie flinched. Something made him stop. It might have been Meryl’s cry of anguish behind him, but more likely McClain was too smart to do something his lawyers couldn’t get him out of.

  “Meryl will no longer see you, let alone talk to you. You’ve influenced her enough. If you ever come near my daughter again, I’ll have your scholarship revoked. And don’t think I can’t do it.” Each word, measured out in a slow, even pace, made it clear that he had the power.

  Angie moved to the side of him to get an unobstructed view of Meryl. “Is this what you want, Meryl? Your father living your life for you?”

  “Angie, I—”

  “You don’t speak to her,” McClain snapped at Meryl. He turned back to Angie. “You’re filth. As far as I’m concerned, you’re nothing.” He grabbed Meryl by the arm and pulled her toward the car. His cold stare shot through Angie one last time. “You’ve been warned, Miss Cantinnini.”

  He said her name as if it tasted like rotten meat.

  Meryl continued to sob as he dragged her toward the car.

  Angie realized she was crying, too.

  “Angie!” Meryl screamed. Her father pushed her into the backseat. “Angie!”

  Angie fell to her knees onto the pavement. The pain shot up her legs but she ignored it. The pain in her soul was the only one that mattered. Her heart felt seared as though someone had stuck a red-hot poker right through the center of it.

  “Meryl!” she screamed. “I love you!” It was the first time she’d spoken the words and she was certain it would be the last. The limousine backed up the drive, and the gate clanged shut in front of her.

  She stayed there, kneeling in the street. Security cameras rotated on top of the fence to focus on her. Less than a minute later, the gate swung open again. It wasn’t the limousine pulling out, or Meryl coming to her, but two burly security men. They stomped over. Angie struggled to her feet.

  “It’s okay. I’m leaving.” Her voice was weak, just like she felt inside.

  They stopped in their tracks but waited until she got into her car and pulled away.

  Angie drove blindly through her tears. She pulled off onto the shoulder of the road and cut the ignition. She was too shook-up to risk being on the turnpike to Bethlehem, so she waited, hoping her composure would return. She squeezed the plastic steering wheel so tightly she all but rubbed her palms raw. She leaned her head on her hands and sobbed. Then she opened the car door and vomited into the gravel. She closed the door and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, tasting the bitterness of the bile in her throat.

  Only one option remained. She turned the key to the ignition and drove back to Lehigh.

  Chapter 10

  New York City, Present Day

  Meryl’s dream began as the others. She unbolted the locks that adorned the door leading to the basement, but lost count after the fourth lock. A loud click filled the close air as she pushed back the last stubborn bolt. Filled with overwhelming dread, she froze at the top of the steep stairs. She stretched to the light switch behind her and flipped it up and down, but nothing happened. Cautiously, she inched step-by-step to the bottom. Light leaked into the small cellar from the dingy ground-level windows and cast the last stair in dim illumination.

  She peered through the dust particles that floated down from the low-lying ceiling. She wasn’t alone. She heard someone near the central beam that supported the floor above. She walked toward the sound and found her grandmother in front of a washer and dryer, folding laundry.

  That couldn’t be right. They didn’t have a basement, and her grandmother would never do laundry. Her grandmother stared at her. Meryl’s discomfort increased with each passing minute. She needed to get out of there.

  Inexplicably, the bathroom door appeared in front of her. She couldn’t recall making the climb up the stairs. Another lock greeted her. She slid the bolt back. Her hand trembled as she grasped the doorknob. Cold fear settled into the very core of her being. She didn’t want to do this. Her stomach ro
iled. No…

  Meryl sat up with a start. Her hands gripped the covers, her fists squeezing so tightly that pain pulsed from her knuckles to her forearms. Her heart thudded in her chest. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat there, blinking in the darkness. Malachi sidled up to her from his spot where her feet had been and rubbed his head against her hand.

  She stroked behind his ears. “Another dream, big guy.” She reached with a shaky hand for the glass of water beside the bed. “Just another dream.” The digital clock read 5:30. “Might as well get up.”

  Despite the recurrence of the dream, Meryl went about her usual morning routine of showering and then feeding the cat. She left for the subway and tried to convince herself she’d had a restful night sleep.

  A warming trend had hit the city the day before, melting some of the snow. She avoided the slush and held onto the stair rail on her way into the station. Other passengers read their newspapers or reacted to her presence with vacant stares. She was content to watch the lights in the tunnel as the train lurched along.

  She pushed the image of the dream out of her mind when it threatened to reappear and instead thought about her latest conversation with Rhonda. Rhonda had read Zach England’s Dying to Meet You and had called to admonish Meryl about her review. She told Meryl she needed to give it another look, if only to be more open-minded when England released his next Barker novel.

  Her assistant looked up as Meryl pushed through the outer door leading into her Banner office.

  “You’re here early, Wade.”

  “Just trying to keep up with you, Ms. Mc—”

  “Waaade…”

  “Meryl. I’m just trying to keep up with you, Meryl.”

  “That’s better.”

  She breezed past him, placed her briefcase behind her desk, and made a beeline for the coffeemaker. She stopped in her tracks as Wade brought her a steaming cup.

  “I knew there was a reason I hired you,” Meryl said with a grateful smile.

  He blushed.

  “Make sure you get yourself a cup, too. I know how you are in the morning.” It was only her second week of work at the newspaper, but she’d already grown fond of her assistant.

  “Thanks, Ms.… er… Meryl. Will do.”

  She sipped her coffee, giving herself a little downtime before starting on the task she had in mind. She set the cup aside and hit the intercom button.

  “Will you please bring me the copy of Dying to Meet You? And also England’s previous seven books in the series.”

  “I’ll hunt them down,” Wade replied.

  Meryl cleared off the paperwork on her desk to prepare a workspace. She picked up the latest copy of a popular mystery writer. It would be her next review. Forty minutes later, Wade entered her office with the eight books loaded onto his arms. He set them in front of her.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Unless it’s an emergency, can you please hold my calls?”

  He left her alone, closing the door behind him.

  She picked up Dying to Meet You. “Sorry, Rhonda, but I don’t think rereading will change my opinion.” Meryl opened to the first page. Over the years, she’d acquired the art of speed reading. Her photographic memory had been both a blessing and a bane for her in her life—a blessing when reading and studying, a bane when recalling all of the intimate details of the lovemaking she’d shared with Angie. She shifted in her seat, tried to eject images of Angie’s body from her mind, and hunkered over the book.

  This still wasn’t his best writing. She came upon the argument between Derek Barker and his latest girlfriend and smiled. He did know women, she’d give him that. She read deep into the book, taking notes as she progressed. The more she read, the more she noticed England’s astute observances of his girlfriend’s quirks and habits. Wait a minute. This was uncanny.

  Meryl picked up the first in the Barker series, The Murdering Game, and flipped through it until she reached passages involving Barker and a woman. Even Barker’s interactions with secondary female characters showed an insight that was rare for a male author. Too rare, Meryl thought. She set the book aside and picked up the next… and the next.

  She leaned back in her chair and noticed the time, shocked that it was two in the afternoon. As if on cue, her stomach grumbled. She didn’t want to stop her research when she felt she was onto something. She punched her intercom button.

  “Wade, I hate to do this, but I’m in the middle of something. Believe me, I know it’s not part of your job, but could you—”

  “What kind of sandwich would you like from the cafeteria?” he asked.

  Meryl heard the smile in his voice. “I’ll let you pick.”

  She looked over her notes and revisited the page numbers she’d scribbled down. Another fifteen minutes of reading made her neck scream in protest. She stood, stretched, and went to the window to watch the traffic below. Words and phrases from the books raced through her mind.

  A knock at the door interrupted her thinking. Wade looked at Meryl’s desk and then at her.

  “Um…”

  Meryl stepped around the desk. “Here, I’ll take it. Sorry. I seem to have made a mess.”

  Wade handed her the sandwich and diet Coke.

  She went to the small couch and set up her lunch. “Thanks again, Wade. I’ll probably be holed up in here the rest of the afternoon.”

  “Still hold your calls?”

  “Right.”

  Meryl sat back in the couch. She munched on her sandwich and took a drink of her diet Coke. Frowning, she glanced over at the stack of books on her desk. I’ll be damned. Zach England might very well be a woman.

  She put down her unfinished sandwich, returned to her desk, and looked through her notes again. She reread several of the passages in England’s books that had piqued her curiosity. She jumped up and strode around her office. Each passing minute convinced her that she needed to follow her hunch.

  She sat down at her desk and pulled out her laptop. Full of excitement, she began an article. It might be a hell of a speculative leap, but she had a gut feeling. And nine times out of ten, her gut feelings were right.

  She finished the article two hours later, at 6:10. Thom Pratters, the editor of the entertainment section of the paper and her direct boss, should still be in. She took a chance and rang his office. Blanche, his assistant, put her call through.

  “Meryl, what can I do for you?” Pratters and her father had attended Harvard together. Meryl was struck yet again by the coincidence of having landed a job that put her in daily contact with someone who reminded her of the man she blamed for ruining her life. Pratters’s gruff manner and his voice made her recoil each time they spoke or met.

  “I’ve just finished writing an article on Zach England,” she said.

  “I’m not sure a feature would work, given we’ve just published your very negative review.”

  “This wouldn’t be a feature. I have a theory about his identity. Every time we’ve talked about him, we’ve speculated that Zach England is a pseudonym.”

  “Never proven, although various publications have tried. No one could nail him down, however.”

  “What if England were a woman?”

  “Hmm… now that would be a hell of a story.”

  She explained her theory and the research she’d conducted that day. “Can I have your approval to go ahead with this article?”

  “E-mail it to me. I’ll read it tonight and give you my answer tomorrow. If I think you’ve made a strong case, we’ll go with it for Thursday’s edition.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Pratters.”

  “Thom.”

  “Of course, Thom.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.” Pratters hung up.

  Meryl’s stomach fluttered with excitement. This was why she went to journalism school.

  * * *

  The next morning, Meryl checked her e-mail as soon as she entered the office. Pratters had given her the go-ahead. He’d tweaked it a little. She stood,
leaning on her desk as she looked over his changes. Don’t think I would have done that, but oh well. The Banner would run the article in the Thursday morning paper.

  Her phone rang.

  “Mr. Pratters to speak to you,” Wade said.

  “Put him through.” The line clicked.

  “Meryl, fine job. This should cause quite a stir.”

  “Thank you. I hope so. At least it’s something to think about.”

  “Yes, it is. Listen, I’ve been meaning to ask you. How have your first few weeks gone?”

  “Fine, Thom. I love my job.”

  “Good, good. I’ve also wanted to ask you about your father. I’m aware of how ill he is. How is he doing?”

  Meryl gripped the back of her chair. “Not well.”

  “Anytime you need to take off for home, don’t hesitate to come to me. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  They ended the call.

  The very mention of her father’s name made her legs turn to rubber and memories crowd her mind. She stepped around her chair and sank into the leather. The memories were never good ones.

  * * *

  Mount Lebanon, Pennsylvania, Summer 1998

  “Meryl, open this door.” A sharp knock accompanied the words.

  Meryl ignored the sounds echoing through the heavy mahogany. She lay on her bed with her eyes still swollen from the previous night’s tears. She’d been in this emotional state almost constantly since her father had turned Angie away. She hadn’t spoken to him in nearly two weeks and conversed with her mother only when necessary. She also ignored any “words of advice” from her grandmother.

  “If you don’t let me in this instant, I’ll break the lock.” He paused before he resumed pounding. “Open. The. Door.”

  She still didn’t move. A loud crack filled the room. She stared dumbfounded at the splinters of wood scattering to the floor. The door flew open, and her father entered the room. His red face was in stark contrast with the tennis whites he wore. He stomped to her bedside.

  “I want to have a discussion with you. Now. In the living room.”

  Meryl remained on the bed.

  “Now, Meryl.” His tone was icy.