More Than Neighbors (26 page)

Gabe had reached the foot of the porch steps before Mark’s mouth fell open, his lips slack. It wasn’t a good look for him.

“What happened to your beard?”

“Weather’s warming up.” A stupid thing to say. It was July. The weather had been warming up for some time now. “I decided to shave it off.”

“You look different.” It was an accusation.

“Still me,” Gabe said shortly.

“But—”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Everyone’s here,” Mark said unnecessarily. Voices could be heard through the open door, and Gabe hadn’t missed the shiny black SUV sitting out front beside Ciara’s Dodge Caravan.

“Figured that.”

“Oh. Well.” He eyed Gabe as if he were a stranger. “Um, I think dinner’s ready.”

Mark had to turn back, whistling for his idiot dog. As Gabe entered, a man rose from an easy chair in the living room, setting aside a newspaper.

He was tall and thin, his dark brown hair receding. Gabe was relieved to see that his khaki pants were wrinkled and his sportshirt nothing special. He dropped a pair of reading glasses on top of the newspaper and held out a hand. “Ben Malloy. I’m Ciara’s dad.”

Gabe felt a small shock at the blue eyes so much like hers.

“Good to meet you.” They shook. “Gabe Tennert.”

“We talk to Mark at least once a week. We’ve been hearing nothing but Gabe, Gabe.”

Relaxing in the face of obvious friendliness, Gabe smiled. “Nothing about Hoodoo and Aurora? Maybe a little about Watson?”

Her dad had a laugh that sounded like hers, too. “Could be. Sounds like he has some new friends, too.”

“He does seem to be making friends.”

Despite the smile, those eyes studied him keenly. “That’s been a relief to hear.” He cocked his head. “I think we’re being called to dinner.” He raised his voice. “Mark?”

Watson galloped in to greet Gabe anew, and then tried to brace his feet when Mark grabbed his collar and led him to the stairs.

“Has to be shut in when the family is eating,” Gabe explained, seeing Ben’s surprise.

“He begs?”

“I hear he steals food right off the plate.”

Ciara’s father laughed. “Okay. I’d as soon not see that.”

In the dining room, a pretty, older woman was setting a salad on the table. Ah, Gabe thought, seeing copper-colored hair threaded with silver, worn in a long braid—hippie, he remembered with amusement. Her smile was like her daughter’s. The lines that crinkled beside her eyes suggested she often smiled. Her husband made the introductions, and Janet Malloy, too, appeared relaxed and friendly before saying, “Sit down. We’ll have dinner on the table any minute.”

The knots in Gabe’s stomach might have unwound, if he could forget Ciara’s odd behavior this past week and her obvious constraint when talking about these people.

He hesitated, not sure where to sit. Usually, he had a place, but with six place settings...

The swinging door opened and Ciara appeared, carrying a casserole dish in mitted hands. “Gabe— Oh!” Like her son, she stared, although her mouth didn’t hang open. “You shaved,” she said finally.

Aware of her father’s interest, he nodded, repeating, “Weather was warming up.”

“Oh,” she said again. She tore her gaze from his long enough to set the casserole dish down before staring some more. Then, slowly, a smile curved her mouth. “It’s you.”

He touched his jaw self-consciously. “I guess so.”

Foolish thing to say, but she didn’t seem to find it so. But the door opened behind her, and her smile vanished as if it had never been. He didn’t like the fleeting expression of despair he’d have sworn he saw on her face before she said stiffly, “You met my mother?”

He agreed he had. But then he saw Ciara’s mother returning with another woman, who looked...scared to death? She didn’t want to meet his eyes, that was for sure.

He started to rise in automatic courtesy, before understanding slammed into him. Immediately he sat back down in an effort to make himself less imposing.

“Who is he?” the other woman asked in a high, agitated voice. “I don’t know him.”

“Remember?” Janet said gently. “Ciara told us she’d asked her neighbor to join us for dinner. This is Gabe. Gabe, Ciara’s sister, Bridget.”

“I’m glad to meet you,” he said, by instinct keeping his voice equally gentle. “Bridget. That’s a pretty name.”

Bridget swung around as if to bolt back to the kitchen, but her father moved swiftly to urge her to a chair. “Look, Ciara made your favorite dinner, honey.”

Gabe checked: macaroni and cheese that didn’t smell much like the kind he cooked up out of a box. “It’s one of my favorites, too,” he said.

She plopped gracelessly into the chair, and he realized all her movements had been awkward. She looked a lot like Ciara, but the way she walked and held her shoulders made her seem heavier than he thought she really was.

Mark burst into the dining room, and she jerked, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Gabe shaved his beard off,” he announced. “Did you see, Mom?”

Ciara’s gaze stole back to his face. “I saw. Did you wash your hands, Mark?”

“You already asked.” He sounded offended.

“I’m sorry. Oh—the peas.” She fled for the kitchen.

Eventually, they were all seated, food being passed around. Janet served Bridget, who clutched her fork as if she was going to stab someone with it but seemed to do okay getting food to her mouth. She didn’t have a lot to say, and her sentences never seemed to be more than three or four words. His gaze wasn’t the only one she avoided meeting, he realized; she didn’t like looking directly at anybody, family or not. Her glances at their faces were quick and furtive.

She hadn’t eaten more than half her dinner when she suddenly jumped to her feet. “I’m done. We can go home now.”

“No, honey,” her mother said, “but you don’t have to stay at the table.”

“Okay.” She marched toward the living room. After a moment, they all heard the television come on. It sounded as if she was flicking through stations without stopping at any of them.

Janet Malloy looked across the table at Gabe. “I imagine Ciara told you Bridget is autistic,” she said quietly, confirming his guess. “High functioning and quite verbal, but she finds new surroundings difficult.”

“And meeting new people, I bet,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Is she younger than you, or older?” he asked Ciara.

She
didn’t want to meet his gaze, either. “Younger. Three years.”

Pieces to the puzzle she’d presented were effortlessly dropping into place. And Mark—she was in deep denial about the echoes of her sister she couldn’t help seeing in her son. Now he understood why she didn’t want to accept the diagnosis that put Mark somewhere on the Asperger’s spectrum.

Had she not wanted to tell him about her sister because she was afraid that would have him jumping to conclusions about Mark?

“Mark tells us you’re a cabinetmaker,” her mother said, smiling at him.

“That’s right. One of the barns is my workshop. I specialize in solid wood cabinetry for historic renovations or custom-built homes.”

“He makes gorgeous furniture, too,” Ciara put in. “You should see the dresser—” Now her mouth formed an O of alarm.

You should see the dresser in his bedroom.
That’s what she’d been about to say. Gabe would swear he saw a twinkle in her mother’s eyes.

“I do,” he agreed easily. “It’s a sideline, though. I could sell more if I had time to make it.” He shrugged.

“Mark has really enjoyed the lessons you’ve given him,” her father put in.

“He has a knack,” Gabe said. “He has great concentration and memory, and is careful with tools.”

In obvious pride, Mark seemed to hold himself straighter. “It’s fun. Gabe’s good with math, too. He helps me when I don’t understand something. And he’s teaching me to ride. His horses are trained for cutting cows. I told you that, right? Someday
I’m
going to do that.”

His grandmother chuckled, and his grandfather said, “I have no doubt, if you put your mind to it.” His eyes smiled.

Gabe came to the surprising conclusion that he liked her parents. Maybe they were judging him, but if so, it wasn’t overt.

“Does Bridget live with you?” he asked.

“Yes.” Janet’s expression remained placid. “We’ve looked into group-home situations, but until recently we hadn’t found anything that seemed quite right. She does go to a day care with other autistic adults that’s given her the opportunity to have friends, and outings that make her feel more independent.”

“Until recently?” Ciara cut in, her surprise obvious.

“Yes, we’ve been talking to the parents of several of her friends and are considering going in together to create and staff a home for them,” her father said. “Workers at the day care have come and gone, but a woman in her forties has been on staff for, oh, close to two years now. We really like her, and she’s interested in initially, at least, taking charge in the home.”

“We were planning to tell you what we have in mind when there was a quiet minute,” her mother added, sounding apologetic. “You know we’ve never wanted you to feel as if someday...” She broke off with a glance at Gabe, as if she’d just remembered he was there.

“You’ve said you didn’t expect me to take Bridget,” Ciara said slowly. “That’s why you want to be sure you have something set up.”

Again her mother glanced somewhat uncomfortably at him. “That’s right.”

He wondered if he ought to be excusing himself, but Ciara bounced up from the table and said, “Ready for dessert? Cherry pie. Let me see if Bridget wants some.”

Bridget did. She came back to the table and wolfed her pie à la mode. Well, they all did. Ciara was a hell of a good cook, and an even better baker.

He drank his coffee faster than usual, and then suggested he ought to be getting going. As he pushed back from the table, he was surprised when Ciara did the same.

“I think I’ll walk Gabe partway home. Mom, if you wouldn’t mind clearing the table? I can load the dishwasher when I get back.”

“What,” her father complained good-naturedly, “you don’t think I’m capable of carrying a dirty dish into the kitchen?”

She kissed his cheek. “Carry away.”

A smile aimed at her parents didn’t reach eyes darkened by some anxiety when she looked at him, Gabe saw. His stomach clenched on too much good food.

Predictably, Mark wanted to walk with them, but Janet had him helping clear the table instead as Gabe and Ciara let themselves out the front door.

“Good dinner,” he said, as they started down the front steps.

Her “Thank you” was stilted.

He’d have reached for her hand if he hadn’t seen the careful distance she maintained from him. Noticing that didn’t help his roiling tension. He shoved his hands into his pockets instead.

She didn’t say anything until they’d left the porch steps and were crossing the lawn that was turning brown and crunchy underfoot. The sun was still high in the sky, with the days so long right now.

“Now you’ve met my family,” Ciara said suddenly, her tone sharp, even hostile.

“I have,” he agreed after a moment.

“My sister has dominated my life.” The sharpness was still there. Bitterness? “Bridget has always been my parents’ focus. They’re good with her.” Her head turned. “You saw.”

“They seem like nice people,” he said mildly, guarding his expression when he didn’t know what she was looking for on his face.

“Nicer than I am.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

They stopped at the fence. The horses grazed not far away, the soft sound of their teeth grinding grass the only sound.

He might as well not have said a word, for all the attention she took.

“Do you know what it’s like, having a sister who constantly throws screaming tantrums? Oh, and throws food, too? If we went to a restaurant and she didn’t like what was brought to her, she’d heave it at the waitress. These awful, guttural bellows...” A shudder shook her. “Everywhere we went, people stared. Half the time, she had bruises, and then I could tell they were thinking awful things.” Even in the darkness, the rigid way she held herself could be seen. “When I was little, my parents insisted on bringing her to see me if I was in a school play or getting an award. ‘Because we’re a family,’ they’d said. So I quit doing plays and made sure I didn’t get any awards.” Defiance formed a glaze over murkier emotions. “I didn’t want anyone to know she was my sister. I didn’t invite friends home, because she was always there. My parents wouldn’t—” She choked on what she didn’t say.

Hide her. My parents wouldn’t hide her. Make sure sometimes she
wasn’t
there.

Gabe wondered if they’d had any idea what they were doing to their older daughter. But how could they not?

“Ciara...”

She ignored him. “Mostly, people don’t even know I
have
a sister.”

Another puzzle piece fell into place. “But your husband did. You pretty much had to introduce him to her, didn’t you?”

“She came to my wedding. Of course she had to be at my wedding.”

The way she said that could have been bitterness or simple matter-of-factness. Gabe couldn’t decide.

“He was repulsed by her.” More softly, “I didn’t blame him.”

Oh, Christ. His chest felt as if she was tearing it open. But when he reached for her, she backed away.

“That son of a bitch—” he began.

“No! Listen to me.” Her intensity felt like a live wire. “This is who I am. I have spent a lifetime ashamed of my sister, who can’t help herself. That’s who I am,” she said with self-loathing. “Not...not whoever you imagine I am.”

And, before he could say a word, she bolted.

“Damn it, Ciara!” He was two steps too slow. She stumbled up the steps before he reached the foot of them. Gabe stood rooted where he was as she let herself inside and slammed the front door behind her.

He waited for...he didn’t know what. One of her parents to come out? Raised voices from inside? But nothing happened. He suspected she’d torn upstairs and hidden in her bedroom to cry. He also guessed she wouldn’t be fooling either of her parents when she reappeared after an interval with puffy eyes.