Pulling Home (4 page)

She glanced up and a rush of nausea pounded her stomach.
Good grief
, she was going to throw up! She sipped tiny gasps of air, easing herself back to normal. She would do this for Christian. Jack Whetyon stood in profile, accepting condolences from an elderly gentleman as the voluptuous brunette Aunt Virginia classified as ‘future fiancé’

clung to his arm.

“They make a darn good looking couple, don’t they?” Aunt Virginia whispered.

“Yes,” Audra managed, her gaze saturated with nine years worth of Jack

Wheyton. Taller, darker, moodier than his brother, his once shaggy hair was short, his body lean and well-muscled, his clothing GQ expensive. He could make a woman—any woman—look twice.

He turned and spotted her. Anger and something else—hatred?—flashed across

his face when he saw her and then it was gone. Did his step falter a half second before he moved, freezing her with eyes that had once possessed the ability to strip her of all pretense? Audra sucked in rapid breaths, preparing for the rush of air that would escape the second he spoke her name.
You can do this.
She squeezed the rosary Aunt Virginia had thrust in her hand minutes ago.
Do this for Christian.
She wet her lips and waited.

Aunt Virginia wobbled to a standing position, her black orthopedics holding her

upright. “Jack, dear boy, come here.” She swooped him against her Heaven Scented bosom and crooned, “Dear sweet boy, what are we going to do now?”

Chapter 5

“Time for wedding bells and babies.”—Virginia Wheyton

Jack hugged his aunt, relieved for the few extra seconds before he had to confront his brother’s wife. When the Heaven Scent threatened to send him into a sneeze attack, he eased from his aunt’s grasp and pecked her cheek. “I know, Aunt Ginny, I know.”

Then he straightened and faced
her
.

She wasn’t nineteen anymore, that was damn sure. Her breasts filled the pink

sweater and he could guess at the tell-tale signs of ample cleavage rimming her bra, despite the absence of a neckline. His eyes were trained in female body parts which had nothing to do with his medical expertise. Jack knew women’s bodies, knew how to please them, knew how to drive them wild.

He’d known how to do both to
her
. Seven weeks of pure lust. He’d never told a soul about it. Had she? He glanced down which proved another fatal mistake as he caught a glimpse of thigh. Were her legs still strong and toned—like they were when she used to wrap them around his back?

“Jack,” Aunt Virgina interrupted his less than brotherly thoughts, “this is Audra Valentine.” She paused. “Christian’s wife.”

There it was, thrown right back in
her
face. Audra Valentine, the girl from the wrong side of town. In his family’s eyes, she would always be a Valentine first, a Wheyton, second. Jack lifted his gaze and met hers. Huge mistake. Horrible. Disastrous.

She still had the most entrancing eyes, like whiskey burning his throat all the way to the lining of his gut. Right now those eyes were staring at him and through him. “Audra.”

Somehow he managed to slide her name through his lips without heaving. “I’m very sorry.”
Sorry I had to see you again. Sorry I ever touched you in the first place. Sorry I
compare every woman I’m with to you.

“Thank you.”

The huskiness of her voice sent a thousand jolts of electricity through him. Damn her. Damn him. This was his brother’s wife, for Chrissake. But she’d been Jack’s lover first. Or had she been sleeping with both of them at the same time? That was one torture that never left him. He’d find out before she flew back to California, even if he had to pull every beautiful strand of mahogany hair from her head to do it.

She brushed her gaze past him with a coolness that surprised him. The old Audra

Valentine wouldn’t have been able to dismiss him so easily. But this one pushed him aside as though he were day-old coffee. Christ, it was going to be a long few days.

“Audra.” Leslie sliced through his thoughts. “Leslie Richot. We never officially met but I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

Jack cleared his throat.
And none of it good. You’re the one who stole the man she
was going to marry
. He knew that’s what Leslie was thinking, knew that’s what the whole room was thinking.

Audra’s lips pulled at the ends. “I’m sure you have.”

“Leslie’s Jack’s fiancé.” Aunt Virginia clutched Jack’s hand and squeezed.

“Aunt Ginny, that’s not exactly correct.” He snatched a glance at Leslie who

watched him with open curiosity.

“Why not? You’ve been seeing this girl for two years, haven’t you? And you’re

thirty-five, my boy. Time for wedding bells and babies. No more dilly dallying.” She plumped out her thin lips and nodded. “It’s your duty.”

Heat crept up Jack’s neck, smothered his cheeks and chin. He was thirty-five

years old but right now he felt sixteen. “This really isn’t a good time, Aunt Ginny.”

“No,” she agreed, yanking out a crumpled tissue and swiping her nose. “It’s not.”

She hiccoughed and the tears escaped, streaking her rouged cheeks.

“Oh, Virginia,” Leslie patted her arm. “I know.” She lowered her voice to a

sympathy pitch. “I know.”

Audra glanced at him one last time before he moved toward the casket. He didn’t

want to look at his brother. He’d just faced Christian’s wife and he’d certainly not wanted to do that. But this? He swallowed and cleared his throat. This was his little brother, shrouded in cream silk and roses, his lips an unnatural pink, his skin drenched in pancake makeup. It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair and it didn’t matter that Jack was a doctor and knew life and death had nothing to do with right and fair.

Two days ago he’d stood beside his mother as she stroked Christian’s cold cheek

and told him about the cherry pie she’d baked for him and how she’d bought his favorite horseradish cheese at the deli. Jack’s father grew pastier with each recount and by the time his wife started on about the stuffed pork chops she’d planned for Christian’s welcome home dinner, the old man let out a groan and half limped, half ran from the room.

Jack stood before the casket now but refused to look at his brother’s face. His

gaze fell to the hands, clasped together, graceful fingers laced over one another, the gold wedding band glinting love and commitment. Jack squeezed his eyes shut
. I’m sorry,
Christian. Sorry I ever touched her. Forgive me. God, forgive me.

***

Audra slipped through the side door of Gilcrest Funeral Home and leaned against

the white-washed brick building, heaving in gulps of humid air. The summer heat

swallowed her with its hot breath making her half wish she’d stayed inside the air conditioned building. But Christian was in there. Her beautiful, dead, husband. And
he
was in there, too. She’d face hell before she’d spend one extra second in the same room with Jack Wheyton.

“My heavens, you look like your mother!”

Audra jumped and swung around. A smallish woman with dark hair stacked six

inches high peered back at her from pale, gray eyes. Her lips were painted red, her cheeks a fainter rose which matched the shirtwaist dress hanging from her tiny frame. The dress appeared two sizes too big, and gaped at the neck, as though she’d lost weight. Or borrowed the dress. Audra decided on the latter, judging from the white tennis shoes and ankle socks.

“You’re Corrine’s daughter,” the woman said. “You look just like her.”

It was not a compliment to look like the town whore. “I’m her daughter.”

“I know you are.” The woman’s lips slipped into a wide smile. “Audra

Valentine,” she said, nodding her bird’s-nest head.

“Actually, it’s Audra Wheyton.”

“’course it is.” She eyed Audra closely. “Damn awful shame about your husband.

He was a good boy.”

“Thank you.”

“But I always had a soft spot for the other one. He’d make your blood boil up,

don’t you think?”

“No,” she blurted out, and then, “I wouldn’t know.”

“Personal tastes, I guess.” The woman tapped a mauve-chipped nail against her

chin. “Smoke?” She reached into a side pocket and pulled out a pack of Salems.

“No thanks.”

The woman tapped out a cigarette, filched a lighter from her other pocket and

cupped her hands in a way that reminded Audra of a bird pecking at dinner. She drew a few puffs, blew the smoke in the air and nodded. This went on another thirty seconds or so, puffing, nodding, puffing, nodding.

“You were a friend of my mother’s?”

A nod. A puff. Another nod. “You look just like her.” The woman squinted and

added, “She used to have the same brown hair, too, before she went and peroxided it like Marilyn Monroe.”

Before she became the town whore.
“I see.”

“I don’t think so, Audra Valentine. I don’t think you see at all.”

“Excuse me?”

“You think you knew her?”

“As well as any fifteen year old knows her mother.” Especially a mother who

sleeps around with her daughter’s high school history teacher, and the town mayor, and just about any other man with a heartbeat and a jolt of testosterone.

“I can tell by the way you talk, you don’t know a thing about her. Neither does

this despicable town.” Puff. Nod. “Bunch of hypocrites. They destroyed her.”

“Who are you?” Audra wished she’d listened to Christian’s stories about the town when he returned from Holly Springs each year. There was always gossip, though she’d wanted to hear none of it for fear
she’d
be part of it.

“Name’s Doris O’Brien. Corrine and I were best friends.”

“Doris!”

“Cy.” Doris O’Brien pressed her thin body against the bricks of Gilcrest Funeral Home as Cyrus Gilcrest slammed out the side door to tower over her.

“Don’t you think Mrs. Wheyton has enough troubles without you stirring up

more?”

“I was only—”

“If you’re here to pay respects to Mrs. Wheyton’s husband, do so, and be gone.

You know Doc Angelino doesn’t like you roaming the streets.” His voice mellowed as he gripped the woman’s bony shoulder. “Why don’t you go on home now?”

Doris O’Brien deflated in a blush of mauve and smoke. “I will.” She handed him

her half-smoked cigarette stained with red lipstick. When she turned to Audra, her gray eyes misted. “Good-bye, Corrine.”

Chapter 6

“Who the heck is Uncle Peter?”—Jack Wheyton

August Richot had delivered his sermons in the stain-glassed confines of Our

Savior Lutheran Church for the past thirty-one years. The oak pews which seated the good pastor’s congregation for the weekly twenty-two minute sermon were scratched and worn. Generations of families flocked to Pastor Richot’s steps to partake in not only the weekly liturgy, but baptisms, marriages, and funerals—a one-stop shop for the faithful.

Even the most devout Catholics, like Alice Wheyton, summoned Pastor Richot for

counsel, prayer, and good common sense, the latter of which wasn’t always readily available from their own religious leader.

Holly Springs considered Pastor August Richot a human testimony to the strength

of God’s will in unfortunate times. What man but a supremely holy one would care for a young wife afflicted with multiple sclerosis? And then to lose her in his early forties and never so much as glance at another woman? Not that females in Holly Springs and the surrounding communities hadn’t tried tempting his palate with their beef stroganoff dishes and chardonnays. When that failed to entice, they’d resorted to cloying perfumes and low-neck sweaters. Alas, nothing resulted but a pat on the hand and a promise to add their name to Sunday’s worship list.

The man possessed a communal strength of body and soul, coupled with endless

compassion and a desire to help the less fortunate of mind and spirit. In other words, the man was a saint.

The same could not be said for Bartholomew Benedict who believed in sacrifice

and martyrdom. On Sundays, he preached to the congregation of St. Peter’s about the evils of sloth, gluttony, and pride. He’d been pastor of the church for twenty-eight years with a seven year hiatus to St. Eva’s in the Dominican Republic early on, and though it was uncommon for priests to stay in the same parish for so many years, Father Benedict remained, as solid and constant as the statues which still inhabited the old fashioned church.

He was not a well-liked man, possibly because he refused to accept the

humanness of the soul, his or anyone else’s which made confession a true purgatory.

Rumors circled the vestibule that confession goers changed their voices so as not to be recognized through the screened panel. Those same confession goers grew disturbed and anxious when their ruse failed and Father Benedict eyed them a bit too long as they inched up the aisle toward the Holy Eucharist.

He hadn’t always been that way. Years and circumstance transformed a

passionate, understanding man of the cloth into a demanding, judgmental tyrant. On rare occasions, Pastor Richot caught glimpses of the younger Father Benedict, a man he’d befriended years ago when the newly ordained priest skipped nightly prayers to visit August and debate the necessity of a pope, confessionals, and the true definition of passion as defined by the Catholic Church.

It was this younger version of Bartholomew Benedict which simmered on the

edge tonight—agitated and torn. August poured two fingers of Grey Goose and handed a glass to his long-time friend. Bartholomew saluted, and downed the whiskey in one gulp.

August sipped his drink and waited for the inevitable outpouring.

“She looks just like her mother, doesn’t she?”

“There is a resemblance,” he admitted, wishing it weren’t true. But that was better than having her resemble her father. That would be disastrous.

“Did you see her eyes? Like a bourbon neat.” Bartholomew reached for the bottle

and poured another drink.