Legacy (4 page)

Morgan had disappeared into the kitchen, and when Corinne could finally pull away and dry her eyes, she smelled coffee.

“I’ll be right back. I need a minute,” she whispered to her father, ducked into his bathroom, and closed the door behind her.

The tissues in his bathroom were cheap, thin and flimsy. In the last two months, Corinne had learned to appreciate the good stuff. Puffs Plus was her brand of choice. She could cry in it all day and not have a raw nose.

It was funny how grief changed one’s priorities.

After going through about seven sub-par squares, Corinne faced herself in the mirror. The shower had been a good decision. If nothing else, her brown hair was full and shiny, falling past her shoulders in attractive ribbons. If one ignored the gray circles under her eyes, her blanched complexion, and the red rimmed, puffy eyelids, she’d almost look human.

Morgan said that her dad knew
exactly
how she felt, but Corinne had never thought of it that way—until her father’s composure-shattering hug.

She’d only been three years old when it happened, an accident just as senseless, just as random as Michael’s. Corinne and Morgan’s mother Alice had slipped and hit her head in the bathtub, dying instantly.

While Corinne could remember the loss of her, a sore spot that pulsed with both fear and heartbreak when she probed it, memories of her mom were only flashes. Sitting in her lap on a windy fall day while nine-year-old Morgan turned cartwheels in the grass. The smell of fabric softener and chocolate chip cookies and lovely brown hair coiled in a bun. That was all. That and a lifetime of wishing for more.

Corinne didn’t know if the love her parents had shared was as all-consuming as what she felt for Michael. But her father had never remarried, and he’d rarely dated while she was still at home. And—before the second stroke—he only spoke of their mother when she asked about her. Perhaps, like herself, Clement Granger knew he’d been given just one great love.

She stuffed her pockets with a few extra cheap tissues just in case and went back to the living room. Her father sat in his recliner while Morgan set down a tray at the coffee table. It was all very civilized and foreign, but Corinne was grateful to busy herself with the task of adding milk and sugar to a mug and stirring.

She was content with this preoccupation until she realized that both members of her family were watching her as if she were some kind of lab experiment. She froze, mid-stir.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Morgan said, brightly, dipping her chin.

Her father took a sip from his cup.

“What?”

“We’re worried about you.” This was from her father, and he said it slowly and deliberately so that anyone could have understood him.

For the second time that day, Corinne felt about a hundred years old. The coffee cup seemed like a cinder block in her hands. She lowered it to her lap to keep from spilling. When this feeling hit her at home, she could just lie down on the couch or in her bed and fall asleep for a little while. And then she’d wake up and be able to fix herself something to eat or let Buck out or find something on television. Or cry.

The feeling—if it could name itself—was That-Which-Is-Too-Much-To-Bear. And it visited her day and night. Michael’s absence seemed to be the perfect empty space for That-Which-Is-Too-Much-To-Bear to inhabit, and because it was too much to bear—by its very nature—Corinne was pulled down. Again and again.

At the moment, That-Which-Is-Too-Much-To-Bear greeted her in the form of her sister and her father. Corinne had survived 57 days without Michael in the world. The thought of surviving months, years, decades longer was too much to bear, so she didn’t think that thought. The prospect of returning to her old life—attending art shows, meeting clients, painting portraits, and otherwise being productive was too much to bear, so she stayed at home—where she could at least survive and add one more day to the total of Days Survived Without Michael in the World.

And now, it seemed, Morgan and her father did not think that this survival—which took everything she had and then some—was good enough. This was That-Which-Is-Too-Much-To-Bear.

And even trying to explain all of this to them was too much. Corinne sucked in a long, slow breath.

“I’m doing the best that I can,” she said, sounding exhausted even to her own ears.

Her father blinked, but Morgan eyed her skeptically.

“Are you trying, Corinne? You hardly leave the house. You sleep all the time. You don’t bathe for days...”

Somewhere deep inside her a werewolf, an ogre, a leviathan of anger stirred in its slumber. When she spoke, it was through gritted teeth.

“I’m doing the best I can, goddamnit. This is me doing fucking amazing.”

Morgan’s eyes widened in alarm, and almost as quickly as it had marshaled, the anger dissipated, abandoning her. Because Michael was the only one. He was the only one who was never spooked by her anger. Her crankiness. Her moods. He was the only one who got her. Who could take her.

He could spar when she needed a partner, absorb when she needed a target, and hold tight when she needed an anchor. And from the start, he could read her in an instant and know which one she sought. He could psyche her up when she needed to be tough, like the time the manager at the Gallery Cologne tried to cheat her out of $300. He could take a licking—like the time she’d balled him out about loser friends who ruined bed sheets. He could close his arms around her while she wailed. Like the time she missed her period, spent a week worrying about what they would do, and then felt heartbroken when it finally came.

She had been loved by someone who truly fathomed and fit her. And now he was gone, and the loneliness that his absence created, the whole and utter loneliness, was That-Which-Is-Too-Much-To-Bear.

“Maybe you need to talk to somebody,” Morgan whispered. Bravely, Corinne thought.

She gave a hollow laugh.

“There’s nothing anyone could tell me that could make this less awful,” she said, her voice shaking.

I won’t cry now. I won’t cry now. I won’t cry now.

“Maybe you need to do the talking,” Morgan said, softly.

Corinne glanced at her father and rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, ‘cause we’re all about that in this family.”

He had the decency to look away, but Morgan put on her war face and went in for the kill.

“So, you’re not painting. How are you going to keep paying your bills?”

She could have said it with less impatience, but she didn’t, and Corinne felt as though she’d been kicked. Couldn’t they see that she didn’t have the capacity to deal with the business of living? All she could do was survive.

But once Morgan asked the question, Corinne had to acknowledge the problem. She really hadn’t even thought about money since the accident. Most of her bills were being paid through automatic draft, but that would only last so long.

Michael had worked for Hawthorne Tools in IT for four years, and the founding president had personally ensured that Michael’s salary would be paid through mid-January, when his official replacement would step in, but that date had come and gone more than a month ago. And while Michael and Corinne—especially Michael—had discussed marriage several times, they had never even thought about things like term life insurance or death benefits. The $25,000 policy that Michael had through work had only just covered his funeral expenses and medical co-pays.

They’d shared joint checking and savings accounts, but they’d travelled a lot, and they had believed that there were years ahead to build up a nest egg.

The money would run out in a few months.

Corinne ached to tip over and go to sleep right there on her father’s couch. She figured that a heroine addiction would be pretty sweet right about now. If all she cared about was getting a fix, life would be so much simpler.

But drugs were definitely not her thing. She barely drank.

Maybe an Ambien prescription…

“If you need to, you could move in with me and Greg for a while,” Morgan said, her voice going soft again, and Corinne realized that she had been silently staring at her coffee mug for a few long minutes.

“What?”

“We’ve talked about it. You could have the spare room upstairs until you’re feeling more like yourself,” Morgan said, smiling now. “It would actually be pretty nice to have an extra pair of hands when the baby comes.”

Corinne blinked. Live with Morgan? And her brother-in-law? And her new niece or nephew? Would she ever have a moment’s peace? Could she leave the house that she and Michael had shared?

“Of course, we couldn’t take Buck,” Morgan added, wide-eyed. “I mean the courtyard is way too small for him. And all that dog hair...”

“Hell, no.” Corinne swore.

“But, Corinne—”

“Hell. No.” She repeated, shaking her head with finality. “Buck and I stay together. In fact, we’ll stay right where we are.”

It was a relief to say it. A relief to know that there was something she wanted when nothing else mattered.

She chanced a look at her father, expecting him to urge her to be practical, and she was surprised to see the left side of his face turn up in a smile.

Morgan looked back and forth between them before crossing her arms over her belly.

“Well, how are you going to pay the rent?” she asked, clearly irritated again.

She didn’t have an answer. She didn’t even have the energy to contemplate an answer, but as far as Corinne was concerned, it didn’t matter.

“I don’t know,” she said, heavily. “But I’ll figure something out.”

March

Chapter 4

“I
s the saddle the right height?” Wes asked as Chad Case passed him on the Pinarello, taking the lead on Highway 89.

“It’s perfect. This is the sweetest ride!” Chad called, gliding in front and grinning.

If it weren’t for Case’s green helmet, Wes could almost convince himself that he was drafting behind Michael again, and the weight that had been hanging around his neck for the last month seemed to lighten.

That’s how long the Pinarello had been parked by the front door of his apartment, and every time he saw it—coming and going or just sitting in front of the TV with a beer after work—he could almost hear Michael’s voice dogging him.

Look after her. Look after her. Look after her.

Maybe now that he’d finally been able to iron out a ride with Chad and put the bike in his hands, he’d get some peace.

The ride itself
was
peaceful. They had started out in Youngsville by Sugar Mill Pond, just outside of Lafayette, and they’d been on the road for more than an hour, riding into New Iberia on the lazy Sunday morning, passing Lake Peigneur. Traffic was minimal, and even though the late March air was chilly, Wes’s body warmed with exertion, and he felt the rightness, the euphoria he chased every time he got on his bike.

As an athlete, he worshipped the holy trinity: the swim, the ride, the run. He’d finished his first Ironman in Panama City in November: 14 hours, 22 minutes and 16 seconds. His goal this year would be to break 14 hours, and the bike was definitely his strongest event.

In one regard, it demanded the most focus—if you took your eyes off the road, you were gambling big time—but given that, it also came the most naturally to him, and even with his eyes trained ahead, his mind could unreel.

It also gave him the most distance. From his parents. From his mistakes. From his grief.

He’d gone on more than a dozen long rides since Michael’s death, and it was when he was on his bike that he felt like things really were ok. That Michael wasn’t really gone so much as out of sight. It wasn’t anything he’d dare say to anyone else, but on his bike, Wes could almost
feel
him. And it was comforting.

The feeling never lasted, of course.

He still found himself reaching for his phone to text Mike once or twice a day. Every time he saw a meme about leg day—Michael’s
least
favorite day at the gym, Wes wanted to send it to him. Their all-time favorite had been the one with the guy from
Lord of the Rings.

“One does not merely sit on the toilet after leg day.”

Amen to that.

And there would be a fraction of a second when he’d feel laughter coming on as he thought of Michael’s reaction to the latest joke—before reality set in, and he remembered.

It was lucky for him that in those moments he was usually at the gym. When his anger threatened to overboil, he would jump on the treadmill, or do 20 burpees, or bench press his max, or climb into the sparring ring with another trainer.

Wes couldn’t count the number of times he wanted to find that living sack of shit—that third-strike-DUI fucking cocksucker and waste his ass. Just shred him. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Dan intercepting him at the hospital after Michael flatlined, he might have done it.

The only thing he could tell himself now was that the fuck-hole who killed Michael was looking at 30 years for vehicular homicide, and going away to Angola would be a hell of a lot worse than the terminal beatdown Wes would dish out.

Wes shook off these thoughts as he and Chad crossed the Delcambre city limits and turned around on Highway 14 to head back the way they’d come. The next eight miles would be almost due north into a headwind, and as they angled back onto Highway 89, Wes and Chad downshifted and prepared to work.

With 40 miles done and just under two and a half hours on the bike, Chad and Wes pulled back into Sugar Mill Pond where they’d left their vehicles. They’d burned about 2,000 calories on the ride, and although Wes was starving, he didn’t like to let himself dive face-first into a breakfast buffet—after a race, sure, but not a training ride. That would just lead to sleepiness, and, before he knew it, the day would be over. But he needed to eat
something.

“Wanna grab a bite at Romacelli’s?” he asked Chad after securing his Colnago to his truck’s bike rack.

“Yeah, but it’s on me. I can’t thank you enough for hooking me up with that bike,” Chad said, his eyes alight.

“You got it. Let’s sit on the patio. I doubt they’d thank us for coming inside,” Wes said, wiping his sweaty hands against his soaked shirt.

The hostess at Romacelli’s seated them next to the lit fire bowl, and they sunk gladly into the plush red patio chairs.

Chad flipped through the menu and eyed Wes.

“So, what does the fitness guru order for lunch after a ride like that. The pesto chicken pizza’s looking pretty good to me, but I have a feeling that’s the wrong choice.”

Wes huffed a laugh. Case was alright. He didn’t let ego get in the way of learning. Chad was fairly new to cycling, but he’d been hooked from the start, and he was grateful for advice and constructive criticism. And he was genuine. Like Michael. Wes felt sure that his late best friend would have liked the guy.

“The pizza does sound great, but I’m going to get the seared tuna. It’s good to have some protein after an intense ride,” Wes said.

Chad nodded.

A text chimed on Wes’s phone, and he stole a glance at it.

Feeling a little out of shape. Can you come by today for a “session?”

Mrs. Wallace.

Bethany.

Bethany Wallace with the raspberry birthmark high on her left thigh.

For a moment, Wes wondered where
Mr.
Wallace could be on a Sunday afternoon, but then he pushed the thought from his mind.

I don’t need that,
he told himself. Bethany was fun, but “sessions” with her never made him proud of himself.

Their server came to the table with two waters and took their orders. When he’d gone, Chad eyed Wes, seeming troubled.

“Look, I just want to say thank you, again. A bike like that costs almost as much as my car,” he said, looking both awed and concerned.

Wes felt glad that the guy was grateful, but he didn’t want it to get awkward.

“Man, it’s cool. Michael definitely put some miles on it, so it’s not like it’d be worth the sticker price,” he said, hoping that would be the end of it.

“Still, I’d never be able to repay the kindness,” Chad said. “But I want you to know that I’m giving my Denali to one of my students, a great athlete. He’s a good kid who could use the escape.”

Wes felt his chest expand.

“I’m really glad to hear that, man,” Wes said, trying to keep control of his voice as his throat tightened. Michael would have been all about this—helping somebody who, in turn, helped somebody else. Pride, one that he felt he had to be sharing with Michael, filled his lungs. He’d have to tell Mr. Dan and Mrs. Betsie about this.

And Corinne.

It was a good enough reason as any to go look in on her, even if she’d probably just throw something at him. Their last encounter hadn’t been much of a success.

At least her sister Morgan seemed thankful for his message. And if he could feel certain that Corinne’s family was looking after things, he wouldn’t need to worry so much about letting Michael down.

Just then a couple walked past their table. Wes looked up and felt a frisson. Morgan and Greg Bates stopped when they saw him.

“Oh, hey, Wes,” Morgan said, waving to him. He knew he shouldn’t have been surprised to see Corinne’s sister; Morgan and her husband lived in the Sugar Mill Pond development, just around the corner from the restaurant.

“Hey, Morgan. Hi, Greg,” he managed, trying to shake the eerie feeling that his conscience had summoned them.

Morgan looked much bigger than she had at the funeral, like she should be headed straight to the maternity ward, not walking into a restaurant. It was difficult not to gawk. The trainer in him estimated it would take 10 months for her to get herself back in shape. Five months if she worked with him.

“Uh...This is my buddy, Chad Case,” Wes said, willing himself to look her in the eye—and not in the belly—as he gestured to her. “Greg and Morgan Bates...How are y’all doing?”

Morgan rolled her eyes.

“Still two months to go,” she said, sighing and patting her belly. “And I can’t stop eating. Right now, this little guy wants a big plate of Cajun Chicken Pasta.”

Not too big a plate, I hope.

Wes considered asking about Corinne, but he didn’t really want to invite a lengthy conversation. Besides, Chad didn’t need to hear about Michael’s mental girlfriend. As luck would have it, their server stepped outside bearing a tray with their meals.

“Well, enjoy your lunch,” he offered, hoping they wouldn’t linger. Wes couldn’t stand when people hovered over his table at a restaurant. It stirred some primitive urge in him to protect his food, especially when he was as hungry as he felt after a bike ride.

To his relief, the Bates took their cue to leave and headed inside. But as soon as they disappeared behind the door, Morgan stuck her head out again.

“Wes, would you mind stopping by our table on your way out?” she asked, sotto voce, as if Chad couldn’t hear her. “I’d love to have a word with you before you go.”

Aww, Christ.

“Sure,” Wes said, pasting on a smile. “No problem.”

He couldn’t very well say no.

“Thanks,” she said, smiling, but he didn’t miss the strain around her eyes. “See ya in a bit.”

Great.

Wes picked up his fork. The sizzling pink slabs of seared tuna steak should have made his mouth water. It smelled amazing, but he knew he wouldn’t enjoy it. Whatever Morgan wanted to tell him, it concerned Corinne, and it wasn’t good. Which meant that he was failing. He was failing Corinne, and so he was failing Michael. He stabbed a cut of tuna and shoved it in his mouth, feeling like hell.

“Mmm...This is awesome,” Chad said, enjoying a hearty bite of tuna. “So protein after every ride?”

Wes swallowed and tried to get over his pity party. Talking training with Case couldn’t hurt.

“Yeah, and it should be within 30 minutes of your workout, or you could sacrifice muscle.”

Chad’s eyes widened.

“Really?”

And Wes allowed himself to set aside his gloom and discuss his favorite topics: training and nutrition.

After the check had been paid and Chad thanked him half a dozen more times for the bike, Wes stifled a sigh and entered the restaurant. He found Morgan and Greg Bates at a booth, and Morgan beckoned him over to join them.

“Please sit down,” she motioned to the spot next to her, and Wes reluctantly took it. His mind raced ahead, sketching out a grim picture. If Corinne was no better, could she be worse? He could only assume that what he’d seen at her house was evidence of someone in deep depression. How much worse could she get? Would Corinne try to hurt herself? If she did, would he be able to live with it? Would Michael ever understand that the job he’d left him was just too big?

“Thanks for coming by,” Morgan began, smiling nervously. “I think it’s lucky that we ran into you today...I never thanked you for contacting me last month.”