Five Ways to Fall (49 page)

It would certainly crush me.

“You stormed out of the apartment in a rage. He packed me up in the truck and drove to her ranch. He wanted to see how I’d like it there.” I feel the sad smile touch my lips, thinking back to the fleeting memory of chasing a chicken. One of my few memories of that weekend. “Apparently I
loved
it there. I got along well with MaryAnn.” The smile drops off. “After a few days, when he hoped you had calmed down, he packed me up and we started heading back. We stopped at a truck stop just outside of Gainesville to have dinner. That’s when my dad called you and you told him that you had reported me kidnapped. That you were going to make him regret the affair.”

A single tear slides down Annabelle’s flawless cheek.

“He didn’t know much about kidnapping except that, with his record, there was a good chance that he’d do time if he was convicted. So, he panicked and did the only thing he could think of—he left me in the diner.”

I must have read that part of the letter fifty times, seeing the night not through the eyes of a confused five-year-old girl left alone but through the eyes of a heartbroken, frightened twenty-eight-year-old father, terrified of spending years behind bars. When I saw his truck pull away, I thought he had left. But he hadn’t. He had parked in a dark corner at the far end of the lot, shutting off his lights. And he had waited. For two hours, he sat and watched—gripping the steering wheel tightly, feeling like someone had reached in and torn his insides out—to make sure no one tried to take me. When the police car finally pulled in and the officer sat down with me, he left.

And he regretted it every day after.

When my grandparents came by to visit me a week after the incident, as requested by their son, we were gone, with no forwarding address.

“Why?” It’s ironic: for sixteen years, that same question sat on my tongue, only it was intended for Hank MacKay. Now, the real answer belongs to my mother. “Why would you use me to hurt him like that? Why would you not let me have a father who loved me in my life?”

Annabelle’s silky blond hair sways as she shakes her head, her voice hoarse and barely audible. “Because he wanted to take you—something we created together—to
her
. I knew you’d like her more.”

“But you’ve never even wanted to be a mother, Annabelle!” I’m struggling to control my voice now.

“That’s not true. I just . . . I didn’t know how to be
your
mother. You are
so
much like him, Reese.” Her voice wavers as she squeezes her eyes shut. “You’re
all
Hank. You’re obsessed with rock music and motorcycles. I could never keep you in a dress for more than five minutes. Everything about you is your father and every time I looked at you growing up, it reminded me of him. And it killed me.” She hugs her chest as if suddenly cold. “I thought you’d be too young to remember, that you’d forget about him. Or maybe you’d begin to resent him too.” She brushes another stray tear away. “But you didn’t. You just seemed to resent me more.”

I watch this woman quietly, seeing her in a new light for the very first time in my life. A sad, desperate light. “And did you forget about that hurt when you cheated on Jack? When you left Barry for Ian?” There’s no malice in my voice. I already know the answer to that, but seeing her bow her head is confirmation.

Annabelle hasn’t let herself fully love anyone since Hank MacKay. Jack . . . Barry . . . even Ian. They’re all substitutes for him—successful husbands who can fill all the other voids in her life except the one that matters. The one in her heart.

I release the breath I’ve been holding, and suddenly things seem lighter. I came here tonight to put it all out in the open. Not because I thought it would change our relationship. Annabelle and I will never be close. But, thanks to this, I can begin to understand why. It’s nothing I did. It’s nothing I can change. What I
can
change is making sure I never end up as bitter a woman as her.

When I read that first letter, the one with the “return to sender” stamp on it and the only one that recounted the ways my parents hurt each other terribly, I panicked, my own doom flashing before me.

But since then, I’ve realized that I’m not really
just
like her. I’m
a lot
like her. If I had gone back to Jared’s condo with him, had finished what I had started, had hurt him, hurt Caroline . . . then I wouldn’t be able to claim any difference between us at all.

But somewhere along the way, I let myself care again. Maybe even love again. Unintentionally, unexpectedly, I fell for Ben.

And now, I just want to go be with him.

“Here.” I hold out an envelope.

She eyes it warily. “What is it?”

“Maybe some closure for you.” Aside from the initial letter, most of the rest were more like journal entries, about things in Hank MacKay’s life that made him happy—his son with MaryAnn, the modest home they shared, the trucks he restored and sold to supplement their income—and the things that made him regretful. Cheating on Annabelle, having married her when he was young and stupid but knew he was still in love with someone else. But mostly, for ever leaving me.

The last letter was from MaryAnn, and talked about how Hank had contacted a lawyer to better understand the risks associated with the outstanding warrant out for him. While the lawyer thought he could get the kidnapping charges dropped, the child abandonment case would stick. Hank was considering turning himself in, hoping that it might lead to finding me again.

Among those letters, though, there was a heartfelt apology to Annabelle. Whether it’s enough to melt the protective layer of ice remains to be seen. I leave Annabelle with it, the only thing that may ever open her eyes.

And I go in search for what opened mine.

I find him in the grand foyer with a satay skewer in his hand and circled by three young women in Cinderella ball gowns. The oldest one can’t possibly even be legal, and yet they’re all very familiar with the batted-lash approach.

I sidle up to his side and loop my arm through his. “Ready to go, or do you need some more time with your jailbait?”

His grin doesn’t falter with my words. “Sorry, ladies. The boss is here.” Their matching pouts are the last thing I see as I tug Ben out of the house, barely giving him a chance to deposit the remnants of his food onto a tray.

He hands his ticket to the valet and then pulls me into his chest. “Feel better?”

I heave a sigh. “Not yet, but I will.” I haven’t come to terms with any of this yet. Right now, I’m not sure that I’ll ever stand face-to-face with Annabelle again.

“Good.”

I’ve never used the word “dashing” to describe a person but right now, staring up at this blond man in his tux, his dimpled smile and blue eyes twinkling, that’s the only word I can possibly find to describe him. And it’s not even because of his physical beauty. Everything about him is appealing. Even his big, obnoxious mouth.

“Can we go now? Or do you feel the need to cause some chaotic scene to end the night off in Reese style?”

I press my cheek into his chest to listen to his heartbeat as I smirk. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I stare out at that tacky water fountain—a statue of a Greek goddess standing in the center of a small pool, surrounded by three-foot-high sprays of water and illuminated by blue spotlights.

And ask suddenly, “How cold do you think that water is?” Though it’s an unusually warm November for Florida, it’s nighttime now and the temperatures have cooled off.

“I’m guessing ball-shrinking cold.”

“Care to place a bet?” Before he even has a chance to answer, I pull away from him and run down the front stairs, kicking my sparkly heels off and leaving them on the steps. With one last look at Ben, who’s both grinning and shaking his head, I sit down on the edge of the pool, gather up my gown, and spin around to plunge into the water.

“It’s not that bad!” I lie, gritting my teeth as I wade into the knee-deep water until I’m standing next to the statue. “What do you think? Is this Annabelle’s fountain of youth? Is this Aphrodite? Should I beg her to make me look younger?”

The team of valets and a few party patrons watch me with a mixture of shock and amusement.

Ben takes the steps down with a broad grin, my shoes now dangling from his hand. “Nope. You’re not allowed to change a damn thing about you.”

“Well, I think you and she have some things to talk about,” I tease with a wink. “Why don’t you come in here?”

His head falls back with a loud bark of laughter. “Hell no!”

“Wuss.”

He regards me for a moment, his tongue running over his teeth slowly as he ponders something.

And then he kicks off his shoes, tosses his tux jacket onto the ground, and steps into the fountain. “I’m going to make you regret calling me that,” he warns with grim determination as he stalks toward me, the water no match for his powerful legs. I quickly scramble away, trying to dodge the cascades of water shooting up from the pool, but he’s too fast and his strong arms seize me in a backwards hug.

“I don’t have a change of clothes, Ben!” I remind him with a squeal.

“Neither do I, but you insisted, so I guess we’re in for a really interesting drive home, aren’t we?”

From my peripherals, I see a small crowd forming on the steps and flashes of camera lights go off, no doubt the invited media for the event. If Ben sees them, he certainly doesn’t care. Or maybe he does, and that’s why he hooks one arm around the backs of my knees and lifts me up into a cradle.

“Ready?”

“No!” I howl with laughter as I squeeze his neck tightly. “Don’t you dare let me fall into this water! It’s fucking freezing!”

A strange look passes through his blue eyes. “Let you fall? Reese, you should know by now that I’d never let that happen.” His one arm pulls me in to lay a highly inappropriate kiss on my lips, given we have spectators.

And then he starts running through the ring of water sprays.

Drenching us both as we laugh and laugh.

Epilogue

BEN

“Damn, I can’t wait to get this tie off me,” I mutter as my fingers curl under the collar of my shirt, already damp beneath the suit jacket. I’ll be stripping down to nothing as soon as the pictures are over, if I have my way.

“Stop whining. At least it’s May. She could have picked July,” Jake reminds me, adding quietly as he wipes his brow, “and we’re all suffering with you.”

A quick glance at Rob and Josh confirm a light sheen of sweat on their faces. The four of us are standing in the shade of one of the oldest oaks on the property. Rows of white chairs, filled with family and friends, face us. A makeshift altar—an archway covered in orange blossoms—is situated next to us.

Just inhaling the scent calms me.

“You guys have done a ton of work on the house since Christmas,” Rob muses, his eyes roaming the big old plantation-style home in the background.

“It was a big insurance policy. Enough to cover the critical stuff.” I nod to our oldest brother. “Josh did a lot too.” Josh quit his job shortly after our dad’s death and moved down to be with Mama. The money from the sale of the woodworking equipment is more than enough to cover child support and alimony payments for the near term. He, in turn, has been a huge help around here, converting our dad’s wood shop into a packing facility and getting that up and running, to minimize off-site fees. He just celebrated his first year of sobriety last week and, though Karen doesn’t appear to be ready to reconcile anytime soon, she came down with their two kids this weekend for the wedding.

I’ve gotten to know my big brother better now, as an adult, than I ever knew him as a child. I’ve even come to appreciate his quiet demeanor and I think, by the small smiles and chuckles, he has come to appreciate me for who I am.

“It’s almost time!” Mama gushes, rushing up to us with her three-month-old grandson in her arms. “You want to see Daddy one more time, Jake Junior?”

“Couldn’t be more original, could you,” I mock, looking down at the little baby in his baby tux, the front of it covered in drool. Okay, I’ll admit it—he’s cute. He’d be even cuter if he didn’t cry so much.

“Shut the fuck up,” Jake throws my way in a mutter as he leans down to kiss his son’s forehead.

“Hush now!” Mama scolds, pulling Jake Junior to her chest.

But I’m not done yet. Getting under my brother’s skin is too damn fun. “Did the doctors tell you when he’d grow into that head of his?” I watch the poor kid struggle to lift it. “Or will he always look like a bobble-head?”

I barely get my arm down in time to block the kidney shot Jake delivers to me.

“Are you making fun of the bobble-head again?”

My heart skips a beat with the sound of Reese’s voice. I turn in time to see her floating forward through the grass, her old blue Yamaha guitar slung over her back. I take all of her in, including the plunging neckline of her dress, which gives me a good eyeful of those tits I have my hands on every opportunity I get. The dress is long, reaching all the way down to the ground. That’s kind of annoying. I really like seeing her legs. But, when she turns around and I see the open back, I figure that makes up for it. “I thought you weren’t supposed to wear white to a wedding?”