John lunged for Dean, but Mitchell held John back, for his own sake, of course.
Justine pressed her lips together. Dean wasn't perfect, but he'd spoken the truth that no one else had the guts to say. He smirked at John, then climbed into his car and peeled out with a flourish.
She watched his car disappear and leaned into the column, feeling cheated. Twelve years of daydreams about a reunion, and this was the memory she had to take away. Frustration boiled in her stomach. If only everyone hadn't arrived. Once again, her family had ruined everything. She and Dean should have left Monroeville long before they'd planned, should have eloped, but Dean had shown a stubborn regard for the antiques shop that had baffled her at the time. She blinked furiously. In hindsight, perhaps he couldn't bear to leave Mica.
Regina climbed the steps and touched her arm, breaking into her thoughts. "Come inside. Mitchell has some news for us about the information we gave to Mr. Kendall."
Justine crossed her arms and glared at them both.
"Mitchell
is the one who spilled the beans—how can he possibly help?"
"I didn't make that phone call," Mitchell said.
She looked at Regina. "But you don't deny telling him?"
"Don't blame Regina. I figured it out on my own."
"Oh? And are you some kind of psychic?"
"No, I'm an attorney."
She lifted her eyebrows. "So you're not an appraiser?"
"I am an appraiser, but I'm also an attorney."
"And he's going to help us," Regina said, holding open the door.
The entire world had gone mad, it seemed. They all trekked inside and sat around the perimeter of the TV room, where Mitchell carefully explained that he hadn't known his brother David in Charlotte was working on the Bracken case and hadn't known about any connection of the case to the Metcalfs until the day Pete Shadowen mentioned the hearing to Regina.
"I haven't practiced criminal law in years," he said. "But I feel responsible by association to ensure you don't open yourselves to prosecution. Can you tell me what you told Mr. Kendall?"
They dutifully repeated their story in bits and pieces. Their father, who was hearing it for the first time, was visibly shaken. Cissy wept exuberantly and refused John's comforting hand.
Mitchell's expression became more and more dire. "Why didn't you come forward when it happened?"
Regina sighed. "We were afraid that if the killer thought we could identify him, he might come after us."
John stood and paced. "Why didn't you girls tell
me? I
would have protected you."
Justine had never seen him so agitated. His face was redder than usual, and he seemed a little disoriented. She moved toward him, but Mica intercepted. "It's okay, Daddy."
Knowing he'd rather have her sister's reassurance, Justine looked back to Mitchell. "What can we be charged with?"
"Leaving the scene and failing to report a crime. Maybe obstruction of justice, although that's a stretch. And the fact that you were minors at the time will mitigate the charges." He looked serious. "Except possibly for you, since you were older. But hopefully, it won't get to that point."
"Could this lead to Elmore Bracken getting off?" John asked, wringing his hands.
Mitchell hesitated before he responded. "It could postpone the new-trial hearing. And they might use this testimony to support their conspiracy theory in the context that the police didn't conduct a thorough investigation. Or they could imply that the police knew about the testimony and disregarded it."
"But that last part simply isn't true," Justine said.
"I'm afraid sometimes it's the perception that matters."
Her patience snapped. "Well, my perception is that I don't trust you."
"Justine," Regina chided, "Mitchell is trying to help."
"Yeah? Well, I want my own damn lawyer. One that doesn't share a last name with the opposing side, not to mention a
bed
with the person whose testimony could have me brought up on charges."
"Justine—"
"No, she's right," Mitchell said. "If this goes much further, each of you should consider having your own attorney."
"It doesn't have to be like that," Regina insisted. "We should be sticking together right now rather than letting this drive an even bigger wedge between us."
Justine emitted a muffled scream of frustration. "There you
go
again, trying to fix everything, trying to pretend that we're one big happy family that just doesn't get the chance to be together as often as we'd like. Well, I have a news flash." She waved her finger across the room. "Given the choice, I wouldn't want to be related to any one of you."
She didn't stop to absorb their hurt expressions—screw them all. They weren't there when she needed them, and now she didn't want them. She didn't need anyone.
She climbed the creaky stairs and walked down the hallway to her bedroom, locking the door behind her. God deliver her from her sisters. She'd leave tomorrow and drive down the coast to a friendlier town with air conditioning. If the attorneys in Charlotte needed to talk to her, they could damn well pay AT&T.
She sagged against the cool wood and leaned her head back. She was exhausted and the late-afternoon breeze coming in through the half-open window did little to revive her. Across the room, the six-panel whitewashed closet door spoke to her, lured her. She knew what lay behind it could very well send her into a spiral, yet she was drawn like an insect to a zapper.
The inside of the closet smelled like old pressed flowers and the bayberry candles that Cissy stored on a shelf. Over the years, it had become a catchall for holiday decorations—a ceramic jack-o'-lantern, red, white, and blue garlands, cornucopia place mats. She pushed aside a plastic snowman and blindly reached into the depths of the closet until her fingers encountered the nubby cotton of a garment bag hanging from the utilitarian pole. After a few gentle tugs, she withdrew the long, bulky bag made of unbleached muslin, with twelve years of downy dust attached to the bottom.
She hung the bag on the back of the bedroom door. A series of muslin ties secured the outer bag. She loosened them gently one by one, then pushed the fabric aside. The ties on the inner muslin bag were closer together, so she spent several minutes unfastening them. A strange numbness had overtaken her, perhaps in preparation for the onslaught of emotion. She inhaled deeply and peeled back the inner bag to reveal her glistening white wedding gown, just as beautiful as the day she'd worn it.
With trembling hands, she removed the dress from the padded hanger and held it against herself. She'd made her veil and glued sequins on her shoes herself to be able to afford this dress. Paper-thin white satin, sleeveless, V-neck, empire waistline, gently flowing skirt and train. Perfection.
She peeked at her reflection in the standing mirror, and the years melted away. The day had dawned the happiest of her life. Cloudless sky, birds singing, the whole nine yards. No one had even realized anything was amiss until the guests were seated. Her father had arrived without Mica and the best man had arrived without Dean. Both were missing in action, and still no one connected the incidents. She had sat in her underwear putting the finishing touches on her makeup, telling herself that everything would be fine and trying to ignore the pinch between Regina's eyebrows. Regina, she reasoned, was simply being sensitive because she had asked Mica to be her maid of honor.
Mica, with her flair for drama, had pinned the note to the wedding gown itself—probably reasoning that Justine would find it before she put on the dress. Except Mica had placed the note high on the bodice, and Justine hadn't noticed it until Regina had zipped her up and they were both staring into the mirror.
"What's that?" Regina had asked.
"That Dean," she'd said, removing the folded note. "He's always leaving me notes where I'll find them."
"Maybe he's letting you know he'll be late," Regina had said wryly.
But the note was in Mica's handwriting, not Dean's. Simple, to the point. Her vision had blurred; then she'd fallen to her knees. Regina had caught her, then delivered a solemn "pull yourself up by the bootstraps" pep talk, when all Justine had wanted was to be held.
She ran her fingers over the pinholes in the tender fabric where the note had been attached. Unnoticeable to anyone else, but blatant to her eyes. She looked into the mirror and used one hand to pile her hair on her head. She had been beautiful that day, and so anxious for Dean to see her walk down the aisle.
She angled her body—would the dress still fit? She cast off her sandals and cotton dress, then slipped into the gown, reveling in the cool slide of the fabric over her heated skin. The zipper was tricky, but she managed, and was pleased with her reflection. For the briefest second, she caught a glimpse of the optimistic, happy woman she'd once been.
On impulse she dragged a chair over to the closet, then climbed up and steadied herself. The vent in the closet ceiling could be loosened with a little tug. One end came down, revealing a thin gold cord. She pulled the cord and a brown velvet bag emerged.
A roused layer of dust fell into her hair. She climbed down, coughing and waving to clear the air.
The bag was about the size of a sheet of paper, with a drawstring closure. She'd found it in the stockroom of the shop when she was a teenager after she'd stolen something and needed a way to transport it home. After that, the bag had held many finds from the shop and other mementos.
She eased down on the bed and emptied its contents onto the comforter. A silver baby spoon, a deck of sex-position playing cards that she'd found under her parents' mattress, a small kaleidoscope, a filigree compact she'd lifted from Mica's purse, one topaz earring, a rhinestone-studded lipstick holder. A green velvet ring box lay on its side. She opened it carefully and fingered the trio of rings inside—her modest engagement ring and the gold bands she and Dean were to have exchanged. She slipped on the rings meant for her finger, still a perfect fit. Wearing a wedding ring was such a public gesture of commitment—was that why she found them so irresistibly challenging on the men she dated? To prove that they were no more committed than Dean had been? Or was it the only way she was going to get a man with a ring?
She returned all the items to the bag except for the note that lay innocently on the comforter, only slightly yellowed on the edges. She unfolded it, although the words written in red ink had been emblazoned on her brain.
Dean is going with me to LA. We're sorry.
M.
She laughed sorry.
"We're sorry."
Like they'd stepped on her foot or forgotten to water her plants.
Justine's eyes flooded with tears as the hurt slammed into her again. Her own sister. She ripped the note in two, then again and again until it was in tiny bits at her feet. It wasn't fair—she'd loved them both. She lay back on the bed and curled into a miserable ball. It wasn't fair.
She dozed on and off. At some point when daylight began to fade, someone knocked on her door, but she mumbled for them to go away. She wallowed on the warm covers, achy and itchy. The tears came and went, then came again. She slept and dreamed of Dean, smiling and laughing... with Mica.
Around ten, she sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and turned on the lamp. Her cheeks were raw and her head felt heavy. The silky skirt of her wedding gown shimmered in the low light. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and sighed. What a day... what a week... what a life.
A noise outside caught her attention—familiar but unidentifiable. At first.
Adrenaline swamped her limbs and she was at the window in two steps, opening it fully. The sloping roof leading to her bedroom window ended about five feet out. Dean heaved himself over the edge, looked up, and smiled.
She thought she was still dreaming until he stuck his feet through the window and sat on the sill, facing her. He had changed into black jeans and black T-shirt. He looked dangerously sexy. His eyes were serious and sad as he looked her up and down. "Is that what I think it is?"
She nodded, paralyzed with warring emotions.
"You're beautiful."
"I was beautiful on our wedding day, too."
"I'm sure you were. I'll never forgive myself for running out on you like that."
His words were like balm to her injured heart, but she wasn't going to let him off the hook so easily. "That makes two of us. If you were in love with Mica, you could have told me and saved me the humiliation of being stood up at the altar."
He looked down at his hands and fidgeted. "I wasn't in love with Mica. I was scared."
"Scared of what?"
He shrugged. "Of waking up someday an old married man working a junk store in Nowhere, North Carolina."
"I thought you wanted to be here. We could've moved." She choked. "You know I would have gone anywhere with you."
He stood and reached for her slowly. She didn't relax, but she didn't resist.
"We never got to dance," he whispered, clasping her hand and waist, and moving into a slow waltz.
She closed her eyes and reveled in the details that she'd forgotten over the years—the way their bodies meshed, the salty scent of his skin, the quiet strength in his arms and fingers.
"You kept the rings," he murmured, thumbing her third finger in his clasp.
"They were in the closet—I just slipped them on."
"I've missed you." He lowered his mouth to her hair—he always said he loved her red hair. He kissed her temple, and her resolve crumbled. She lifted her mouth and they kissed with the intensity of a decade lost. When he lifted his head, his eyes searched hers. "Let's make love."
She was shameless in her want for him, only because she believed that if she could have him one more time, if she could prove to herself that she hadn't imagined their powerful connection, she might be less tormented. It would be the wedding night she'd always dreamed of. He undressed her carefully, leaving only her white bra, and draped the wedding gown over the footboard with uncharacteristic care.