Hush (3 page)

“Oh, well, all right then. Very pretty indeed. And of course you’re not after Drex. You’re perfectly content to sit behind that desk at the library with your nose in a book. I always say you’re very independent, and I’m sure you’ll be just fine even if you wind up a spinster.”

Gnawing her lower lip, Anna tasted cherry gloss. Since forever, she’d endured Simone’s digs with a smile on her face. After all, she’d caused Simone a great deal of embarrassment during their youth. In a small town like Tangleheart, your sister’s sins were your sins, and the bullies hadn’t been content with teasing only Anna—
the freak who didn’t speak
. They’d gone after Simone almost as viciously as they’d gone after her, just because they were related.

But at this particular moment, it required so much effort not to focus on the fact that Charlie Drexler was in the next room, reliving the good old days with his buddy Nate, that Anna simply couldn’t summon the energy to be the bigger person and let Simone’s barbs roll off her shoulders. “I’m twenty-five years old, Simone. That hardly puts me in spinster territory. Besides, the term spinster isn’t exactly relevant to this century.”

“Figure of speech.” Simone waved her hand in the air. “I’m only looking out for you, you know.”

She did know. Simone had always stuck up for her, even when it meant not getting a spot on the cheer squad or an invitation to prom. Simone had sacrificed the popularity afforded a beautiful girl in a small town in order to take Anna’s tormentors down a notch. And no doubt Anna would still be that odd girl, that
freak
who only spoke in a whisper, if Simone hadn’t invented a special talking game
.
Simone’s game employed mountains of lemon drops and even more hugs to get Anna to speak up. It took years of Simone’s ministrations before Anna finally learned to make herself heard.

No. There wasn’t an unkind bone in Simone’s five-foot-nine, Pilates-toned, post-baby body. Regretting her impatience, Anna said, “I know you’ve got my back, Sis.”

“I suppose you blame me for setting this trap. But the truth is I’m a better hostess than that.” Tonight, Simone’s naturally pale skin appeared all but translucent against her flaming red hair, and her full lips were colorless beneath a sparkled gloss. An emerald-green silk tunic hung loosely over her scary-skinny arms. “I asked Drex to come up with the guest list.”

Anna touched her palm to her cheek and held in a sigh. Her sister could’ve doubled for any of a number of pre-rehab celebrities. “And?”

“You’re it.” Simone’s delicate fingers jangled a charm bracelet. A sentimental smile played across her lips and then faded. “You’re not really mad at me, are you?”

When she threw her arms around her sister and squeezed, her breath caught at how thin Simone was, despite having given birth a mere ten months ago. “I could never
stay
mad at you. Especially not when you’ve got cinnamon rolls in the oven.”

“My diabolical plan is working then.” The chipper note in Simone’s voice sounded forced.

Anna noticed a bleary look about her sister’s eyes. Maybe Bobby was teething again. “Are you getting enough sleep?”

Simone just sighed.

“I think you should eat more and exercise less.” Anna smiled to soften her words. “You look like you’re one Downward-Facing Dog away from the boneyard.”

Dropping her chin, Simone glanced away, as if she didn’t get the drift, even though Anna knew Simone understood her meaning perfectly well.

Apparently, humor wasn’t working. “Everything good with you and Nate?” Anna inquired, as gently as possible.

On a long sigh, Simone reached in her pocket and pulled out a letter-sized envelope. “This came in the mail today. It’s a woman’s handwriting. I just know it.”

Anna looked at the envelope, addressed to Nate. The handwriting did appear feminine, but there was no return address to verify that. Her sister had always suffered a miserable jealous streak where Nate was concerned. Simone was hyperaware of the fact that she was several years older than Nate, and her insecurities had only worsened since Bobby had been born.

“Don’t open that,” Anna advised.

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because none of your suspicions have ever been true. Because trust in a marriage works both ways, and your husband has a right to trust that you won’t open his mail. If you want to know what’s in that letter just give it to Nate, and the two of you can open it together.”

“But…”

“But nothing. You have a baby now, and you can’t let jealousy ruin your marriage. Open the letter together. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Worry lines appeared around her sister’s eyes.

“Smells like my wife’s keeping a secret.” Nate’s good-natured baritone bellowed down the hall, growing louder and closer with every word.

Simone crammed the letter back in her pocket just as Nate and Charlie entered the open-style kitchen and family room.

“I never get baked goods unless a very expensive bomb’s about to drop on me. You hiding a Neiman Marcus bill in your pocket, babe?” Although in reality, Nate indulged his wife’s every whim, he liked to toss around the clichés of a wears-the-pants husband in public. As he’d once eloquently explained it to Anna:
Nobody wants to get his sorry ass kicked out of the man club
.

In Anna’s opinion, it was quite unlikely Big Nate
,
a six-foot-four tower of former linebacker muscle, would ever be kicked out of the Tangleheart man club. In Tangleheart, if a guy could play football, it didn’t matter if his daddy was a rich SOB like Nate’s, or a poor SOB like Charlie’s. In Tangleheart, if a guy could play football, nobody cared about the rest of his résumé.

With a slight limp, a remnant of the blown-out knee that had ended his brief but glorious career in pro ball, Nate crossed to his wife and lifted her hand to his lips. “You look beautiful tonight, babe.”

Pointedly, Charlie looked at Anna. “You
both
look beautiful tonight.”

And that easily Anna melted into a warm, mushy puddle—like she was the last remaining bit of wax giving up the ghost beneath a flickering candlewick. Charlie looked as devastating as ever, his smoldering blue eyes providing a dramatic contrast to his thick dark lashes and black hair. As always, his twice-broken nose made her want to reach out her hand to him in case he needed something to hold on to. Noticing her hand extending now, she whipped it behind her back.

How unfair that after all this time Charlie could show up out of nowhere and with merely a twirl, a corny librarian joke, and a deep-voiced compliment, stir up all her old yearnings. Straightening her spine, she waited for her breathing to return to normal. “Thanks. You men look good too…not as good as Simone and me, but good.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Nate watched Simone with a mix of adoration and fun in his eyes. “And I don’t care how much money my sexy wife spends at Neiman’s. I’m a happily married man, and…aw, hell…I don’t care who knows it.” Stepping close to Simone, he patted his pocket. “Go ahead honey, reach right in and see what I’ve got for you.”

Simone eagerly dipped her hand in her husband’s pants pocket.

“Whoa. Not that far in my pocket.”

Blushing, Simone pulled her hand out and along with it a flat, silver box imprinted with the Haltom’s Jewelers logo. She smoothed back her hair, smiled happily and opened the box. She gasped, and then held up the contents: a square-cut emerald surrounded by a border of pavé diamonds, threaded on a delicate gold chain.

“Oh my goodness, Nate, you really shouldn’t have.” She turned her back so Nate could do the clasp on the necklace.

“I certainly should have. You’re the mother of my little Bobby and the love of my life aren’t you?”

“Oh, no!”

“What’s the matter, babe? You wear that phony emerald all the time, and I wanted you to have the real thing. But if you don’t like this I can take it back.”

“No, I…I adore it, Nate.” She reached for Nate’s hand and squeezed it. “You’re so thoughtful. I…I don’t deserve you.”

“Are you trembling from happiness then?”

Simone shook her head and pointed to the flat-screen television, which was on in the family room and set to mute.

Beneath a smiling photograph of a beautiful young woman a caption scrolled:
Channel Eight reporter, Catherine Timmons, found dead from a gunshot wound to the head. An apparent suicide. Details at ten.

Chapter Two

Tangleheart: Sunday, 10:00
A.M.

C
HARLIE BRACED HIS
shoulders and drew a breath of warm, humid air, made sweet by the multitudes of roses flanking the O’Neal front porch.

He’d come back to Tangleheart for two reasons. Reconnecting with Anna Kincaid was one of them. Finding and facing the truth about what had happened to Megan O’Neal was the other.

He pressed Maureen O’Neal’s doorbell, and a jarring version of “The Yellow Rose of Texas” chimed out its fanfare. The house had coasted downhill since the last time he’d seen it. With the dirty pink paint peeling like a bad sunburn, and the tattered curtains in the windows drawn and faded yellow, the place gave off a
what’s-the-use-anyway
vibe—except for one thing. Mrs. O’Neal’s prize-winning rosebushes were as carefully tended as ever.

Good for her
.

Apparently, Megan’s mother understood the importance of holding tight to those things that bring us happiness in life. After Megan’s suicide, he had run too fast and too far to consider what gave his own life meaning. It had taken a stint in the Army and years of therapy for him to figure out what really mattered to him. Picturing Anna’s smile, he pressed the bell again.

He owed it to Mrs. O’Neal to pay her his respects, regardless of how much time had gone by, and then there was the matter of the note. Whether Megan’s suicide note condemned him or absolved him of blame, he needed to know what was in it.

Out of his peripheral vision he saw a curtain move. It might’ve been a cat, but… “Mrs. O’Neal.” He called out loud and clear so she’d know it wasn’t a Jehovah’s Witness or a magazine salesman. “It’s me. Charlie Drexler.” Although he didn’t expect she’d be pleased to see him, he hoped Megan’s mother would at least be willing to speak with him.

The front door cracked open, and the morning sun illuminated a sliver of a woman’s face floating in a sea of dust motes.

Shading her eyes, Mrs. O’Neal squinted and eased the door open another inch or two. “Drex? Is that you?”

“Yes ma’am. It’s me. I don’t mean to disturb you, but I was hoping we could talk about Megan.”

“Hush.” She hissed the word. Her body began to tremble violently, her knees creaked as if they might buckle, and then her surprisingly strong hands reached out, gripped his collar and yanked him inside. Maureen O’Neal poked her head out the door and scanned the perimeter of her yard before shoving the door closed behind him and sagging against the wall. “You weren’t followed were you?”

“Followed?” Maybe she’d gone a little
eccentric
after Megan died. She wouldn’t be the first parent grief had driven around the bend.

“Tailed.” Straightening, she knotted the belt on her ratty blue bathrobe. She pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes from her pocket and tapped it against the butt of her hand. Inside, the house smelled stale, like cigarettes…and booze. Maybe the booze explained her odd behavior.

“I wasn’t followed. I mean, not that I know of.” When he took a step toward her, his shin bumped a box that clattered like a bunch of dinner plates. As it turned out
Plates
was scrawled on the cardboard flap in magic marker. Score one for his detective skills. Once his eyes adjusted to the dimness inside the house he noted other boxes scattered about the room—and a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the coffee table. “You’re moving.”

“Disappearing is more like it.” A cigarette now jittered between her fingers. She struck a match and puffed until the tip of her cigarette glowed. Orange light flared across a set of deep lines that carved her upper lip. The Mrs. O’Neal he remembered had been a looker—in a flashy, rodeo-queen sort of way. Today, wearing a haggard expression, her hair cut in a short bob, the gray allowed to streak through her auburn hair at will, she seemed much older than her forty-something years. She wore no makeup, and her once saucy blue eyes had gone flat. He didn’t detect a trace of the sass-to-the-max woman she’d been while Megan lived.

The weight of his guilt suddenly crushed him. The words he’d rehearsed on the way over seemed stiff, but he didn’t know how else to proceed. “Let me say, first of all, how very sorry I am for your loss…and for my part in it. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I hope you know I’ll never stop regretting the pain I caused Megan and you.” He released a long breath and felt his chest contract and then expand more easily than before.

She took another shaky drag off her Lucky. “I’m the one who should be apologizing to you.”

In response to this incomprehensible remark, his entire body jerked. His mind went completely blank, and then scrambled to make sense of her words. Apparently Mrs. O’Neal had been carrying around some guilt of her own. He grasped at the first possibility that occurred to him. “You don’t owe me an apology or anything at all, but if you’ve been blaming yourself because you kicked Megan out of the house…”