Closer Home (29 page)

He draws himself up straight and his mouth presses into a hard line. “I didn’t come here to fight with you.”

“How did you think I was going to react to this?”

“I figured you for a reasonable woman.”

“She’s a child, Gene. The same age Callie was when you fucked her, by the way. She’s not a money machine and she’s sure as hell not a media puppet. Her mother just died, and she doesn’t know which bastard might turn out to be her father. And you want in on the money?”

“Lise, I—”

“Get out of my house.” I open the door and hold it, screening myself behind it and letting the cameras have a clear view of him looking flushed and off-balance. Let them draw whatever conclusions they want.

“What about the testing?” He’s red as a beet, but not moving.

“My attorney will be in touch with your attorney. Don’t even think about coming here again. And if you go anywhere near Ariel, so help me God . . .” I leave the words hanging there. It’s a threat, I suppose. Maybe he’ll use that against me. I don’t care.

He takes a step toward the door, hesitates.

“Now,” I say. “Before I call the cops to remove you.”

“You always were the Ice Queen.” He tosses the words over his shoulder, a parting volley. “Thought maybe you’d changed, but you’re still a bitch.”

The vultures close in on him as soon as he hits the sidewalk. I slam the door and stand there, shaking. As soon as I pull myself together enough to press numbers on the phone, I call Ash. Not her office phone, her cell phone. I don’t care if she’s busy doing something else. I need her now.

“You’re in luck,” she says, before I have a chance to start talking. “I reached out to a friend from law school. He’s a junior partner in a big entertainment firm in LA. They’ll take you on. They’ve got a whole team, so they can handle your financials, your will, any lawsuits. Okay?”

“How are they with paternity suits?”

“Fine, I should think. They handle some other celebrity accounts.” She drops a couple of names that make me gasp while she laughs. “You’re in the big leagues, baby. I hadn’t realized Callie was such a hot commodity. I checked this firm out from all the angles. They’ve got great credentials. All members are in good standing with the bar. Even their most junior partners were stars at their various schools. So I think you’ll be in safe hands. I told Marcus you’d be calling.”

I write down the number she gives me, taking care to put it on a separate page marked “Legal.”

“Ash?”

“Yeah?”

“I want you to stay on for the CPS thing.”

“Lise, we already discussed this. I’m way out of my league.”

“You do CPS, right?”

“I do, but—”

“Forget the media. Forget that it’s high profile and I have money. Look at it like any other case. You know the judges, the other attorneys. You’re from here. I don’t want a high-powered out-of-towner for this. You know how people are.”

She hesitates. “I don’t know.”

“If it doesn’t work out, I won’t hold it against you.”

“If it doesn’t work out, they could force Ariel into foster care. But that’s unlikely.”

“What is likely?”

“They’ll probably just close the case. They don’t really have anything on you. She’s sixteen, not a baby. And you haven’t actually neglected her or anything. But . . .”

She doesn’t want to say what comes next. There’s a long silence.

“Spit it out, Ash.”

“Well—if she does figure out paternity, the father would have some say in all this. It could get messy.”

“It’s already messy.”

She pauses. “All right. What am I missing?”

I tell her about Gene.

“Could be worse,” she says.

At that, my tongue gets tangled on my next words and I choke. Once I can breathe again, I ask, “How could it possibly be worse? He’s not even on the list Callie wrote in the diary. Who knows who else is out there?”

“Exactly why it could be worse. Gene’s not an axe murderer or a pedophile. And he doesn’t want her to live with him. So he gets a little money. Who cares? You might consider saying he’s the father and ending this whole mess. It would take care of CPS, too.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say any of that.”

“Annelise.” Her voice sounds patient and a wee bit patronizing. “I love you, but you are an innocent. Don’t you pay any attention? Gene might be the best you can hope for. Trust me.”

“She wants to live with me. I want her to live with me.”

“Listen to me. If the real father shows up, he could sue for custody. And he’d probably win. Even with you as trustee, that would give him some control of whatever money she has coming in.”

I’m shivering again. Not just outside, but deep inside on a level that no hot beverage is going to reach or warm.

“How do we make it stop?”

“Not sure you can. I can handle CPS, probably, but I want you to use the other firm for the paternity suits. I’ll get you a name and a number and set up a consult. Okay?”

It’s not okay. Nothing is okay, and I won’t say that it is.

Ash’s voice gentles. “Honey, listen to me. You need the best legal representation possible. If Ricken really likes the feel of veins between his teeth, he could try to prove you an unfit trustee, maybe even get control of the money himself.”

“Oh God. She’s been through a lot, Ash. This isn’t fair.”

“Kids are resilient.”

Maybe. But this is asking too much, of her and of me. Fear is a dark, empty space eating away at everything. I press my knuckles against my mouth to stifle a sob.

“Lise?”

Silence. I can’t speak. Can barely catch my breath.

“Lise, listen. A good attorney can probably drag a custody suit out for a couple of years until she turns eighteen. Or maybe she can get herself declared emancipated. Or maybe, just maybe, Dad will turn out to be somebody really wonderful. But I think you should consider letting Gene have this one. Give it some time. Call me tomorrow.”

Swallowing hard against a lump that feels like a baseball lodged in my throat, I nod and then realize she can’t see me. “Right,” I manage to croak. “Thanks, Ash. I’ll be in touch.”

I hang up the phone and sit there. The world around me no longer feels solid. It’s like everything I ever believed or thought I knew has been turned upside down. I’m afraid that if I stand up and take a step, the floor won’t hold me, that even the laws of physics have been somehow suspended.

And then I remember the worst thing.

I’m going to have to tell Ariel about Gene.

CHAPTER TWENTY

When I get to the Elliots’ place, the sun is hanging low over the trees.

The whole way there I’ve been rehearsing how I’m going to tell Ariel about Gene. I’ll bring it up in a roundabout way. Ask her again about the guys on the list that we haven’t contacted yet, suggest that maybe there are a few more than she’s already mentioned. Maybe she’s already e-mailed Gene, or he found her Facebook page and messaged her. In every scenario, she’s alone, waiting to talk, and I can spill the news and get it over with.

But when I drive into the Elliots’ yard, Dale’s truck is parked beside his dad’s, and his sister Nancy’s 4Runner is pulled up alongside it. A rusty old pickup is up on blocks, and Mr. Elliot and Ariel both have their heads and hands under the open hood. Dale leans on the far side, observing.

Dale looks up and smiles when he sees me, and my heart lifts a little, thinking maybe whatever strange mood possessed him is gone. But then the light in his eyes goes out, and his face sets again into reserve. Ariel is wearing a baseball cap, turned backward. A smear of black grease runs across one cheek. The knees of her jeans are dirty.

She straightens up and grins. “We’re fixing the truck.”

“I see that.”

“Hey, Annelise,” Mr. Elliot says. “I hope you’re staying for dinner. We’re cooking the fatted calf. Hand me that wrench, would you, Ariel?”

She passes him the wrench she’s got in her right hand, watching intently as he adjusts something in the innards of the engine. I know nothing about cars. Mine runs. I can change a flat if I have to. All the rest is up to the service-and-tire guys.

But Ariel looks happier and more relaxed than I’ve ever seen her, and completely in her element. Dale still looks tired. I want to smooth the lines of tension along his jaw and forehead, to massage his shoulders. Hell, I just want to touch him, anyhow, anywhere, but his eyes hold me at a distance.

I’m not welcome. That thought shreds what’s left of my intact feelings, and I’m about to make my excuses and say that I have plans elsewhere when the door opens and Mrs. Elliot steps out onto the porch.

“Dinner!” she calls. When she sees me, her face lights up. “Annelise! What a delightful surprise. You are staying for dinner, of course. Come in, come in. The rest of you need to go wash up. Hurry now.”

Too late for an escape. I cross the yard and am instantly wrapped in a hug. She keeps her arm around my waist and leads me down the hallway and into the kitchen. A wall of aromatic humidity hits me: beef, garlic, a tang of greens. Nancy stands at the stove, stirring something with a wire whisk. Her hair is tied back in a ponytail, escaping strands sticking to her flushed and sweating face. All of the burners are on.

“Oh, thank God,” she says. “Can you stir? I need to pee so bad I’m about to spring a leak.”

She thrusts the whisk into my hand and trusts me with the gravy. A mistake, in my opinion, since cooking and I are far from friends. But apparently, all I have to do is stir, and I can hopefully manage that.

I hear the back door open, and three sets of footsteps come in. Two heavy, one light and quick. I catch myself separating Dale’s tread out from Mr. Elliot’s, holding my breath so I can hear whether he’s coming this way.

My ears are so tuned to those footsteps that I don’t hear Mrs. Elliot coming up behind me and I startle, spattering gravy over the stove top. Without comment, she takes the whisk from my hand, turns off the burner, and gives a final stir.

“Done,” she pronounces, placing the whisk in the sink. “Let’s get the food out of the oven.”

If the kitchen was hot before, opening the oven door heats it up another notch. She hands me a pair of oven mitts, and all footsteps are blocked from my hearing with the clatter of dishes as we pull a roast and a casserole out of the oven. Nancy flits in and out, carrying dishes out to the dining room.

Finally, Mrs. Elliot takes off her apron and hangs it on a hook. She smoothes her own hair, then turns to me and tries to smooth mine. I feel my curls resisting, and she laughs and cups my cheeks in her palms. “I’m so glad you came for dinner, dear,” she says. “Dale told me all about the photography people.”

This should be a good thing. I wanted him to tell her the truth. But my stomach sinks. Mrs. Elliot pulls my forehead down and plants a kiss on it. “This, too, shall pass,” she says. “Let’s go eat.”

I follow her into the dining room, suddenly self-conscious as all eyes turn in our direction. I manage to take my place beside Nancy without tripping over anything.

“Dale, would you say grace?” Mr. Elliot asks. He sits at the head of the table to my left. Dale and Ariel sit across from me. We all join hands—Mr. Elliot’s strong and calloused, Nancy’s cool and soft.

“Dear Father, we are grateful for the food provided,” Dale’s familiar voice begins.

I sneak a peek at him from under my lashes, only to discover that his eyes are open and he’s staring at me with an intensity that sends a jolt of electricity straight to the heart. I miss the end of the prayer, head bowed, eyes closed tightly now, heart hammering like a building crew on a framing project.

Nancy elbows me. “Dork,” she says, laughing. “Pass the potatoes already.”

It’s a meal worthy of an occasion. Thanksgiving dinner. Christmas. But it chokes me. I pick at the food on my plate in silence while everybody else laughs and chatters. Ariel is animated like I’ve never seen her, discussing car repairs and engine parts with enthusiasm. Her face is alive.

I feel like I’m in a time warp. Since I saw her last, I’ve written a song and sent it out into the world. Gene has come to visit. This makes my world different than her world, or Dale’s, or anybody’s. I feel terrifyingly alone.

I’ve drifted again and missed something. Everybody is looking at me, waiting.

“Lise?” Ariel asks, obviously repeating a question. “Can I stay another day? We’re going to rebuild the carburetor tomorrow.”

“Sure.” And with that, I know I’m not telling her about Gene. Not tonight. The kid deserves a day of happiness. As long as she’s here, she won’t find out by accident. No Internet access at the Elliots’. And nobody’s going to be watching
Entertainment Tonight
or Fox News.

I know this is the right decision, but it makes me feel even more alone.

“Awesome,” Ariel says. “This roast beef is incredible, Mrs. Elliot.”

“Eat up, child. We’ll get you fattened up yet. Lise, dear, you’ve barely touched yours. Did you need more gravy?”

“I’m fine,” I say, possibly the biggest lie of my life, and manage to wash down a bite of mashed potatoes with half a glass of water.

“This kid,” Mr. Elliot says, waving his fork at Ariel, “is a natural with cars. Make a fine mechanic, if she wasn’t a girl.”

“Girls can be mechanics, Dad,” Nancy says. “It’s not like that anymore.”

“I’m a weirdo at school for taking all the shop classes,” Ariel says.

“Well, you fit right in here.” Mrs. Elliot beams at her.

It’s true. She looks perfectly at home sitting there between Dale and Mr. Elliot. Part of the family, while I am just a guest. All three of them sit leaning forward slightly, elbows on the table. Ariel’s hands are smaller, softer, but engine grease blacks the cuticles of short, squared-off fingernails. My fork clatters onto my plate as I see, finally, the thing I’ve been missing.

Ariel doesn’t look like Callie, or like my family.

She looks like Dale’s.

Mr. Elliot’s eyes. A softened version of Dale’s jaw. Even her expressions are his.

“Lise?” Mrs. Elliot asks. “Are you okay?”

“I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well. Excuse me.” My numb lips barely shape the words.

I push back my chair and blunder out of the room, nearly running into the doorframe. The hall seems to stretch, and it takes forever to reach the door and run outside. I feel like I’m underwater and starving for oxygen. When I finally manage to suck in a breath, it makes a whooping sound and gets tangled in my chest. I double over, arms around my belly, forcing labored breaths in and out while blackness grows at the edges of my vision.

And then there is Dale. He doesn’t say anything. I hear his footsteps in the gravel, then his boots appear in my line of sight. He doesn’t try to touch me or offer any comfort. Just waits.

Little by little, my breathing eases and I’m able to stand up straight and look at him.

“She made me promise,” he says, as if this makes all the sense in the world.

“I don’t even know you,” I say, studying the face that once seemed so familiar. “All these years, and I have no idea who you really are.”

He flinches, but doesn’t look away. “She said we could never, ever tell you. I swore it, oath of honor. After she died, it seemed wrong to break faith with the dead . . .”

“You’ve been sending money to Ariel. Every month.”

He doesn’t confirm or deny this and seems to be having trouble with his own breathing.

“I’m sorry,” he says, after a long silence broken only by his erratic breathing and mine. The words sound like they’ve been wrung out of him after days of torture on a rack.

I should say something, but I can’t. It’s not that the words won’t come, it’s that there aren’t any. My little world has been blown apart, and the debris is raining down all around me.

Dale is the good guy. The stabilizer. The solid, grounded, strong one who always does the right thing. He’s not the guy who has sex with the sixteen-year-old sister of the girl he’s supposedly in love with. Who fathers a child he never acknowledges. That’s the sort of thing Kelvin does. Or Bryce, or even Gene. But I can’t say any of this.

“You knew” is what finally comes out of my mouth. “You knew, and you let Ariel . . .” I choke on the rest of the sentence. This whole crazy paternity thing. The media. The nightmare Ariel has been through since Callie died.

He shakes his head. “I didn’t know. Still don’t, for sure. Lise, that’s the one thing you have to believe.”

God, how I want to cling to any shred of decency.

“I told her I wanted to help her. She said Ariel wasn’t mine. She said she’d hate me for life if I pushed it. She said she didn’t need my help, that Ariel was hers, and to leave her alone. I . . . I asked her to marry me. She laughed.”

“But you sent the money.”

“I had to do something, didn’t I?”

“And now?” I’m shaking again. I hate this weakness of my body, the buzzing in my head. I need to sit down, but I’m not going to show weakness, not in front of him. Not now.

“I started to see the truth when I picked you up at that motel. Ariel seemed so familiar. I thought it was that I was seeing her reflection of Callie at first. Or at least, that’s what I told myself. And then yesterday, I looked up once and saw her and Dad side by side, both so intent on rebuilding that engine . . .”

“Are you going to tell her?”

“I needed to talk to you first. I didn’t want to break my promise to Callie. But when I realized today, I knew I had to tell you. Was going to come see you tonight. But then you came out here . . .”

“Well, it solves the CPS problem. And it takes care of Gene.” I hear my own voice as if it comes from outside of me and from very far away.

“Garrett? What does Gene have to do with anything?”

“He’s suing for custody. Needs the money. Not interested in the child. At least you’ve proven that money isn’t your intention.”

I dig in my pocket for my keys. There’s nothing for me here. Ariel has found more than just a father, she’s found a family. They will embrace her with open arms, take her in, give her all of the love and acceptance she could dream of. I’ll be Auntie Lise, and she’ll come see me on Saturday afternoons. If I even stay in Colville.

The thought of living so close to Dale, of running into him in town, of seeing him with Ariel, is more than I can handle. I choke on a sob. My keys slip through my fingers and fall in the dirt. Before I can bend for them, Dale does. He holds them, not giving them to me.

“Please,” he says.

“Give them to me. I have to go.” Tears are smarting behind my eyes. I don’t want him to see me cry. I need to get home. I need to be alone, to lick my wounds and be still until the world stops spinning and settles on this new reality. Maybe with some time I’ll be okay. For the first time in my life, I can’t see how.

I start to reach for the keys, but stop. His hand is inches from mine, but I can’t bring myself to touch it. A thin scar bisects the base of his thumb at the first joint. The nail of his right index finger is broken. Not long ago, a matter of days, that hand was warmth and comfort to me. It is this that breaks me, the tears coming in a rush I’m not strong enough to hold back.

“Give me my keys.” My voice breaks. I turn my face away, not looking at him, tears pouring down all the while.

“Let me drive you. You’re not—”

“Give me the goddamn car keys!”

“Lise . . .”

I wait for him to say something, anything, to make this nightmare go away. But after a long silence, he drops the keys into my hand and I flee to my car. A sob escapes me as I climb into the seat and slam the door. My vision is blurred, my hands are shaking, and it takes three attempts to get the key into the ignition. The car starts, reliable as always. I brush at the tears with my sleeve, clearing my vision so I can drive.

The door opens.

“Lise.”

I try to pull it shut, but he’s blocking it with his body, leaning down to look at me.

“Let me go.”

“You have to know I love you,” he says.

Disbelief makes me look up. There are tears tracking his cheeks. He looks older, smaller, folded in on himself. There is nothing I can say. I hit the gas, tearing the door away from his grip. When I lose sight of him in my rearview mirror, he’s still standing where I left him, watching me drive away.