Fox River (11 page)

She frowned. “How
do
you put up with me?”

“Very easily.”

“Sometimes lately I’m not so sure.”

He didn’t ask what she meant. “Time moves on and people change. Their lives change with it. Christian’s life is changing again. Julia’s life is changing, and she’ll have to face it, whether she feels ready or not. Our lives are changing, too.”

“How are they changing, Jake?”

“We’re growing older. There’s less time to say the things we need to.”

“What things?”

“A lifetime of things that’ve gone unsaid.”

She was sure he was being purposely obtuse. “Do you have things you need to say?”

He smiled a little. “I’m working my way toward them, I suppose. How about you?”

She thought of a thousand things she’d wanted to tell him or Julia and never had. She, who chattered continuously.

Instead she asked a question. “Jake, do you still love me?”

“Yes, I do.”

She felt vulnerable, an unexpected and unwelcome sensation. “You’ve been critical lately.”

“Have I?”

“You seem impatient with me and with the things I say.”

“I guess it goes back to time moving too fast. I don’t think you’re saying the things you need to.”

“This isn’t making any sense.”

“I don’t know how to make sense of it. I feel like our life together’s been about peeling off layers. I wonder sometimes if we’ll ever succeed.”

“I feel like I know you.”

“As well as you let yourself know anyone.”

“That would be a good example of the word ‘critical’.”

He shook his head. “That would be a good example of the word ‘honesty’. Maybe there’s too little of it in our marriage. Maybe that’s what I’m feeling impatient about.”

She felt they’d covered ground and gotten nowhere. She missed the man she’d married, the man who had accepted her unequivocally.

He gripped her shoulders. “Don’t look at me that way. You haven’t lost me. I don’t love you any less. Maybe I’d just like more of you.”

“How much more of me could anyone stand?” She patted her round belly. “How much more could there be?”

“I think we’d better check on things inside. If Callie needs something, Julia’s in no shape to get it for her. Not tonight of all nights.”

She realized he was putting her off, but she was relieved. She’d had enough to face that day. “You know, Jake, if you want more of me, that could be arranged tonight.”

“Could it?”

“We’ve been slowing down a bit lately. Maybe we should pick up the pace?”

He put his arm around her and squeezed. But when they were finally in bed, holding each other tight, she still felt the distance between them.

N
ine years had passed since Karl Zandoff buried Fidelity Sutherland’s jewelry between fenceposts, between properties, between Christian’s hope of exoneration and the reality of his imprisonment. At ten-thirty on Thursday morning, as autumn leaves began their annual spiral and one of the two digging crews stopped to raid a jug of steaming coffee, Pinky Stewart, shovel-wielding sheriff’s deputy, struck a metal tin that had once held Reducine ointment.

Six hours later, and only because Peter Claymore had the political influence he did, Christian Carver walked out of Ludwell State Prison.

Mel Powers’s forehead glistened, but not nearly as brightly as his eyes. He was an emotional man—an asset he played to the hilt in a courtroom—but never so emotional that he couldn’t calculate his way to the next appeal. Since arriving at Ludwell that morning, he had routinely alternated tears of victory with a shit-eating grin.

Christian hadn’t smiled or cried. He felt like a deer caught in headlights, unsure whether to stand or run, and unable to think quickly enough to make a decision. Years ago he had given up the dream of freedom, then reclaimed it with Zandoff’s confession. Now that the dream had come true, he could think no further ahead.

He hadn’t even had time to say goodbye to the men he had worked with, or to Landis or Timbo, who had depended on him for instruction and advice. One moment he was wearing his prison work shirt, the next he was in a suit bought for the occasion by Peter Claymore. He’d been handcuffed and transported in a prison van to the same courtroom where he had lost his freedom.

And he had found it again.

Standing at the top of the courthouse steps, he was dismayed at the sun beating down on his bare head. He’d been outside almost every day since his imprisonment, but the air and sun felt different here, as if he had entered an entirely new universe. For a moment he was filled with panic, afraid to breathe for fear his lungs would fill with poison, afraid to move for fear the sun, unadulterated by the shadows of prison walls and razor wire, might melt his skin.

He had refused to give a statement, but news crews were there anyway. The equipment aimed in his direction was an entirely new generation of technology than what he remembered. He felt a stronger stab of panic.

Peter edged Christian down the steps. “Son, you’re out for good. They aren’t going to find anything that will put you back behind bars. Now, let’s make a run for my car.”

Christian grimaced and wished he could strip off the tie. “Let’s get it over with.”

He was safely inside Peter’s Lincoln before anyone spoke again. He was aware of leather seats against his palms, the purr of a perfectly tuned engine. He realized he was exhausted, sick with it, as if some unseen hand had robbed him of everything that kept a man moving and breathing.

“Where are we going?” he said at last.

Peter put a hand on his knee. “Where do you want to go?”

He nearly said home. But there was no such place, and probably never had been.

“A bar,” Mel said, when Christian didn’t respond. “The first one we see. Chris needs food, and he needs a good stiff drink. So do I.”

Christian had sworn off liquor before he could have his first drink, the result of being Gabe Carver’s son. Now he wondered if his father had understood something he hadn’t.

“Christian?” Peter said.

“Yeah.” Christian leaned back and closed his eyes. “The first bar we see.”

Julia could find her way through the house with only the occasional stumble. Karen had organized her drawers and toiletries so that she could find the things she needed. Maisy had cleared the halls and rooms. Julia had even learned to make her way out to the garden, where Jake had leveled stones to be certain she didn’t catch a toe and trip. Adjusting had taken time and concentration. Now that the basics were, for the most part, finished, she had little to occupy her mind.

But nothing would have emptied it of Christian Carver, anyway.

“Julia, I’m making a cake. Why don’t you come stir it for me?”

Out of habit, Julia looked up at the sound of her mother’s voice. Karen had gone to Millcreek just before three to pick up more of Julia’s clothes and hadn’t yet returned. Julia knew Maisy’s cake was just an excuse to help her stay busy, but she was more than willing to go along with it. “Can I lick the bowl?”

“I won’t tell the salmonella police if you don’t.”

“I don’t know how helpful I’ll be. You might end up with more on the counters than in your pans.”

“I’ll take that chance.” Maisy hesitated. “See you in the kitchen, honey.”

Julia was sure her mother wanted to take her by the hand and lead her, and it was a welcome surprise that she hadn’t offered. Julia found her way through the hall with no problems and turned the corner into the kitchen, where her luck ran out. She felt for the edge of the counter to orient herself, and her hand brushed something cool and smooth. The contact was temporary. The item crashed to the floor.

“Damn!”

“It’s okay, Julia. Just a bowl. I shouldn’t have left it so close to the edge. It’s my fault.”

“No, it’s not.” Julia wanted to hit something or somebody. And simply wanting to wasn’t nearly good enough. “It’s my fault for being blind.”

“I’m cleaning up the pieces. Don’t come in until I’m done.”

“When is this going to end? If this is all in my mind, don’t you think something would shake loose and I’d see again?”

“I think if it were that simple you wouldn’t have lost your sight in the first place.”

“How am I going to be able to take care of Callie if I can’t see where I’m going? If I can’t see who’s coming?”

Maisy didn’t answer right away. Julia could hear the sound of the broom brushing the floor, the clinking of pottery, the slide of the dustpan.

“That’s what this is about, isn’t it?” Maisy said at last. “It’s one thing to be suddenly blind. That’s terrible enough. But to be blind and afraid that Christian will come back—”

“This isn’t about Christian.”

“Isn’t it?”

This time Julia fell silent. She wanted to deny the truth again, but how often had she done that over the years, and how much damage had it caused?

“Christian is part of the reason I wanted you to come in and help me,” Maisy said.

“I don’t see the point in talking about what’s happened. Do you? I can’t change a thing now. I can’t go back nine years and say things I didn’t say then.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about, honey. And you can come in the kitchen now. The mess is cleaned up, and there’s nothing else perched on the countertops that you can knock over.”

Julia took a tentative step. “There isn’t going to be much left in this house when I’m finished with it.”

“It’s needed clearing out for a long time. Come over to the fridge and we’ll work at the counter beside it.”

“Do you have another bowl?”

“You’re talking to the pottery queen.”

Julia felt her way to the fridge, then shuffled right until she had positioned herself at the counter.

“I’m going to put the bowl in front of you with the cake mix inside it, then I’ll start adding ingredients. You can start stirring in a moment. Here’s a wooden spoon.”

Julia felt the handle against the back of her hand and reached around to take it. “What were you talking about, then, if you weren’t talking about the way I abandoned Christian?”

“You didn’t abandon him. You were young, and you’d just lost your best friend. Almost everybody thought Christian killed Fidelity, and there was enough evidence to convince a jury. You were momentarily torn. That’s all you ever were.”

“That was enough. I sat on the witness stand, and when the prosecutor asked if I was completely sure Christian didn’t kill Fidelity, I couldn’t answer.”

“Julia, Flo called a little while ago.”

Julia gripped the spoon harder. She heard her mother slide another bowl in front of her. She had the urge to send that one crashing to the floor, as well. “What did she say?”

“They found Fidelity’s jewelry where Karl Zandoff said it would be. That and the confession are enough to free Christian, at least until an investigation is completed and he can be pardoned. They scheduled an emergency hearing for this afternoon. Flo said it looks like Christian will be out of prison by nightfall, if not sooner.”

Julia closed her eyes, although there was little point. “How’s she taking this?”

“We didn’t discuss that. She just wanted me to relay the message to you.”

“She knows I’m living here now?”

“I’m not sure. She seemed to think the news should come from me and not from Bard.”

Julia let that sink in. She had not told anyone she had moved home. For that matter, few people knew what had happened. Bard had told their friends that she’d been badly shaken by the fall and was under doctor’s orders to rest. But the word would get out soon enough.

“You can start stirring anytime.”

Julia felt along the edges of the bowl until she knew its boundaries, then dipped her spoon in gingerly and began to slowly mix the liquid and dry ingredients. “Where will he go?”

“I don’t think anybody knows, but…”

Julia finished Maisy’s sentence. “But Peter will offer to take him in. I doubt he’s been on a horse since—” Her voice caught. She rested the spoon against the side of the bowl and stood with her back as straight as a wooden stake, trying not to cry.

If Maisy noticed, she gave no sign. “I bet he stayed in shape. He was always a very physical person. It might take him a while to get his legs back, but he’ll catch up quickly.”

Julia took a deep breath. “I don’t want him here.”

“I can think of a number of reasons why that might be true.”

“No, there’s only one. I don’t want him near Callie.”

“I can understand that.”

“Can you?”

“You don’t want Christian to find out that Callie is his daughter.”

“I don’t even want you saying that in this house.”

“Honey, Callie’s at Tiffany’s. The house won’t be echoing with anything we’ve said when she walks through the front door.”

“You bring it up all the time. You tell me how much Callie looks like her father. You point out that Christian had the same learning disability when he was a boy. You talk about the way Callie cocks her head sometimes, just exactly the way Christian always did.”

“She does.”

“Are you planning to just blurt out the truth to her someday, Maisy? Sort of a pass the cookies, oh, by the way, that bastard Bard Warwick really isn’t your father?”

“Julia, I’m not the problem.”

Her mother was right, and Julia knew it. It was the final straw. The tears she’d tried so hard to subdue fell.

She heard Maisy push the bowl toward the back of the counter, then she felt her mother’s arms closing around her. She was surrounded by the comforting fragrances of violets and devil’s food cake mix. It made her cry harder.

“It’s a fork in the road,” Maisy said, stroking her daughter’s hair. “And you don’t even feel up to walking a straight line. But you will. You can. You’ll get through this, honey, and make all the right choices. There’s no question.”

For once Julia was profoundly grateful to be suffocated in her mother’s soft arms. But as she sobbed, she wondered who was comforting Christian. Who would tell Christian that at this crucial fork in the road he would take the right path? Who would hold him and reassure him?

She knew, without a doubt, it should have been her.