Pulling Home (20 page)

He considered her words. “Is it now? Christian’s gone, your MO with the soap is

blown, what else do you have there?”

“We have friends,” she persisted, her tone deflating.

“Friends. You mean Peter. Tell me what he is to you, again? I never really

understood that relationship. An uncle who isn’t really an uncle.” There was much more to that. “Very interesting tangle of lies you had going there. A father who wasn’t a father, too. Hmmmm. And then that left me, the uncle, who was really the father.”

“It made sense to us,” she insisted.

“I’m sure it did.”

“What about Kara?”

He stared at her until she fidgeted. “I haven’t decided. I just found out five

minutes ago I’m a father.”

“Will you tell your parents?”

“Possibly. Eventually. I don’t know.”

“Please don’t do anything rash. Think of Kara.”

“I
am
thinking of her. She’s the only reason I’m not blurting it across town in tomorrow’s paper.” Of course, he didn’t mean that but he wanted her to believe him capable of anything.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m really not that generous.” An idea flitted through his brain and scorched his senses. “I want you to give my parents a chance to get to know their granddaughter.”

“I can do that. I’ll extend our stay another week.”

“Uh, I don’t think so. Plan on extending it indefinitely.” He pulled his lips into a tight smile. “That’s my price for silence.”

Hours after he’d dropped Audra off at his parents’ house, he still couldn’t erase the look on her face when he’d told her he would have married her. Disbelief?

Mortification? Revulsion? He guessed all of those and then some. He sat on his deck, sipping Wild Turkey and watching the sun slide beneath the skyline. He played their conversation in his head with the same precision he employed before entering a patient’s brain. Data collection and analysis he called it, and he did that now—every nuance, inflection, inference. It all meant something and he’d sit here until he figured it out.

It took him two and a half hours and three more bourbons to determine the truth.

Audra might desire him, but she didn’t want him, not in the long-term sense. She’d had Christian for that and Peter Andellieu stood in the wings ready to take over, if he hadn’t already laid the preliminary foundation. The other truth he acknowledged didn’t make him any happier. It gave him a miserable headache which he attributed to the bourbon.

The truth, hitting him boldly between the groin with an uppercut to the brain, was his desire to have a relationship with Audra—a long term, ‘til death do us part one.

“Christ,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. There it was, a spot in his brain, as obvious as an x-ray, illuminating the truth. There was only one solution. Jack picked up the phone and called Bernie Kalowicz. “Hey, buddy, what’s the name of that jeweler you use?”

***

“How on this earth did you ever convince her to stay?” Marion said in a loud

whisper. She didn’t speak in normal tones anymore, not since her mother started losing her hearing three years ago, which made it fine for everyday chit-chat, but when there was someone in the next room you didn’t want hearing your conversation, well, that posed a problem.

“Shhh.” Tilly put a finger to her mouth. “She’ll hear you.”

“Doubtful.” Alice shook her head and sliced a piece of pumpkin roll. “Joe’s

quizzing her on the characters and trying to beat the rest of the story out of her. Not that she’ll know, since she says she resigned, but they could keep her storyline.”

“Why is she quitting?” This from Marion, again ten decibels above normal.

Joyce leaned over and said, “Seems Mr. Big Shot Producer has issue with a

mother taking care of her child and seeing her through surgery. Did you ever hear of such a thing?”

“Not since my Rose got let go for refusing to work night shift at the shirt factory.”

Tilly raised a penciled in brow. “That’s hardly the same thing.”

“Is to me,” Marion said, setting down her knitting needles. “A child’s a child and a parent’s a parent. Least ways, that’s how I look at it.”

“She does love that child,” Alice said, placing the pumpkin roll on a doily covered tray. “Sat up with her last night when Kara couldn’t sleep. Never complained, just sat in the rocker with the child bundled on her lap. I heard her singing
You Are My Sunshine
.

Who’d have thought?”

Tilly shrugged and picked up a slice of pumpkin roll. “Even animals in the wild

have instincts to care for their young.”

“How long will they stay?” Joyce asked. “Did she say?”

“I didn’t ask. No sense getting my hopes up. I’ll just take one day at a time and be happy with that.”

“As long as she doesn’t stir up any trouble,” Marion said, pointing a knitting

needle in the air. “I heard she showed up at Malcolm Ruittenberg’s and then Henry Stivett’s, too. Lordy, why would she see those two? One thinks he’s Hugh Hefner and the other has a sister who keeps his privates in a jar.”

“Marion!”

Marion shrugged. “Just sayin’.”

“Why in the devil
would
she visit them?” Joyce asked. “They’re about as different as sugar and salt.”

“I’m sure she had her reasons,” Alice said, anxious to be done with the

conversation. Since her daughter-in-law told her about the extended stay, Alice had been looking at her differently. The woman didn’t have to make such a gracious offer and the fact that she did, without any persuasion, said a lot in Alice’s book. For the first time in years, she might not have to pay a visit to Pastor Richot for absolution. Now how about that?

“Alice?” Tilly scrunched her beaky nose at her. “You listening?” she whispered.

“We’re thinking she went to see those two yahoos because she thinks one of them might be her father. Don’t that just beat all?”

Malcolm Ruittenberg and Henry Stivett? The bad boy and the altar boy. Yes, it

did beat all, but could it be true? She had to be careful not to fuel the gossip. Her friends were honest Christian women who ironed altar linens for the church and prayed the rosary every night, but they loved their tales.

“Do you know something we don’t, Alice?” Tilly edged closer. “Is that why

you’re so quiet?”

“Of course not.” She shot a glance down the hallway leading to the family room.

Even with the walls separating them, she could hear Joe’s voice booming with questions about that ridiculous soap of his. Funny, how times changed. Twenty-four hours ago, he couldn’t tolerate hearing his daughter-in-law’s name let alone consider the prospect of being in the same room with her. Maybe they had to lose Christian to gain their granddaughter. Alice’s heart ached when she thought of her youngest son. If she sat on his bed and closed her eyes, she could still see him, at fourteen, seventeen, twenty-seven.

“You really are turning the other cheek, aren’t you?” Tilly asked, a look of

wonder stretching across her thin face.

Alice shrugged. “I’m not sure I’d go that far yet, but I’m sure as heck not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Kara’s here and if her mother visits every man in this town asking for a DNA test, that’s her business.”

“But don’t you want to know?”

Obviously, her friends did. “If the good Lord wants me to know, He’ll tell me in good time.”

Marion’s click-clacking stopped. “And what about Father Benedict? Rose said

she saw Audra Valentine leaving the rectory yesterday. What do you make of that?”

“Maybe she went to confession. People do that when they experience life—

changing events and what with Kara pulling through and all, it might have just sent her right to the priest.”

“Alice, you believe that?” Obviously, Tilly did not.

“Sure, why not? Look at how Joe Pelando changed after his accident. Never took

another drink for the rest of his life. And how about Edgar Windsorn? Almost lost his leg climbing out Bernadette Colter’s window? Soon as he could get around, he high-tailed it to Pastor Richot.”

Tilly snickered. “You would too if you had Howard Colter’s shotgun pointed in

your face.”

“No matter. People change.”

“Some do. Some don’t.” Marion’s sing song voice hinted she clearly believed the

latter.

“

Chapter 23

He’s got answers. I’ll bet my last cigarette on it.”—Doris O’Brien

Doris O’Brien’s sneakered feet hit the concrete with a quiet thud as she rocked

back and forth in the chair that once belonged to her father. Thomas O’Brien took his coffee and
The Sentinel
on the front porch every evening and refused conversation or disruption of any kind until he’d finished his paper. This requiem made it difficult for his wife, a woman given to anxiety which could only be quieted by eight ounces of Beefeaters and five milligrams of valium.

Thomas happened to be in the middle of the business section on the night sixteen and a half year old Doris, and her boyfriend, Skip Anderhall, crossed the front porch and confessed their sins of the flesh which had left Doris in a family way. Skip wanted to marry Doris and though he could offer nothing more than a mechanic’s lifestyle, he told the elder O’Brien he could provide love and fidelity. Those words landed nineteen year old Skip in jail for statutory rape and Doris in the convent. Three weeks later, she lost the baby in a gush of blood and clots. It was the last time Doris permitted love or fidelity in her life.

She puffed on her Salem and glared at the oxygen tank in the corner.
Blast the
damn contraption.
She’d come to need it several times a day just to get enough air in her lungs to light up. Puff. Puff, puff. Corrine’s daughter should be along soon with more questions. When she’d called earlier, the poor thing sounded distraught. Either Malcolm Ruittenberg
was
the father or he’d tried to seduce her. Could be either one. As for Henry Stivett, that dike sister of his probably refused to let Audra get close to her baby brother.

Corrine sure caused a lot of ruckus in her too short life. Doris guessed that’s what happened when you had a body like Marilyn Monroe. A face like her too, come to think of it.

The daughter looked just like her, but with darker hair. Doris squinted into the sunlight. She and Corrine used to love summertime. They’d spend hours planning their grand getaway to Hollywood. Or New York. Even Chicago. The closest Doris ever came was a lovefest outside Albany. And Corrine, well, she didn’t live long enough to get past Landemere.

Doris puffed and coughed through two more cigarettes before Corrine’s daughter

appeared by the front gate, carrying a grocery bag. She unhooked the latch and let herself in. “Hello, sorry I’m late,” she called from several yards away.

“About as I expected.” Doris snubbed out her cigarette and studied Audra

Valentine. Even the lips had the same pucker fullness as Corrine’s. “Your mother never was much on punctuality either.”

She ignored Doris’s comments. “I brought you a few things. Peanut butter, eggs,

bread.”

“Any Salems in there?”

Audra shook her head. “I doubt the doctor would recommend those.”

“To hell with him. I’m going to fire him and get me somebody who can cure me.”

She squinted up at the girl. “You think there’s a cure for what I’ve got?”

“I don’t know.”

Doris guffawed and smacked her knee so hard it hurt. “Course not. I could have

told him before he hooked me up with all those fancy tubes and gee gaws. I only got a little bit longer, then the breath’s gonna die out of me. That’s why I have to make it right by you, so I can make it right by Corrine.”

“Those men weren’t my father.”

“Hmmph. Thank God for that. I didn’t want to say anything in case you were

from their seed, but you’re better off. What about Father Benedict? Did you worm any names out of the High and Almighty?”

The girl’s face paled and she looked away. “No.”

“Eh? What’s that look for? Tell me, right now.”

Audra pulled her gaze back and Doris could have sworn she was looking into

Corrine’s eyes. “She went to him when Malcolm Ruittenberg started pressuring her for a more physical relationship. And he...he kissed her.”

“Good God Almighty!”

“He admitted to lusting after her.”

“Damn”—Doris stopped the rocker—“so you’re
Father Benedict’s
seed!”

“No! He said it was one kiss and she didn’t welcome it either. He begged my

forgiveness.”

“So that’s why she quit going to St. Pete’s. Your grandma had a fit about that, but no matter how she threatened, your mother wouldn’t step back in that church. Now I know why she started talking to August.” She filched another cigarette from the pack and tapped it out.

“Do you think Pastor Richot knows about this?”

Doris shrugged. “That man knows most of the dirt in this town but he’ll never tell.

That’s why people go to him. Their sins are forgiven and he doesn’t judge, not like Bartholomew Benedict, who eyes people up and down like we’ve all got big letters on our foreheads for our offenses. ‘A’ for Adulterer, ‘T’ for Thief, ‘D’ for Druggie. He should talk, heh? His robes don’t look so lily-white, now do they?” She let out a cackle and lit her cigarette.

“They look stained.”

“Blood-stained,” Doris added. “Damn, his soul’s as black as mine.” She opened

her mouth and sucked in wisps of air. Maybe she wasn’t the demon she’d believed herself to be all these years. Maybe her best friend’s fall into sexual promiscuity wasn’t all Doris’s fault. The very thought opened her lungs and a burst of air swirled through them.

“I’m going to pay a visit to Pastor Richot.”

Doris smiled and began rocking again. “He’s got answers. I’ll bet my last

cigarette on it.”

***

Audra stopped at the Wheyton’s to check on Kara before heading to August

Richot’s home. She had to admit her daughter’s spirits and health had improved under the Wheyton’s vigilance and concern. Joe spent hours teaching her how to claim checkmate in less than seven moves, triple jump at checkers, and paint a lawn chair. Of course, he never missed an opportunity to discuss
On Eden Street
with her, extracting moral stories and adding his own interpretations of the actors’ behavior. He’d become more civil with Audra since she confessed her true profession and once or twice he’d even included her in a conversation which had nothing to do with the soap.