Retribution (17 page)

He knew her dark secret.

“Hey Jimmy,” she said, anxious to shift his attention from her, “tell Mr. Roger those jokes you told me.”

Jimmy glanced at Roger then at Sandra.

“Go ahead,” she said with a sigh.

“So Mr. Roger, what do you call a fake noodle?”

“How about a noodle made out of plastic?”

Soon the table was set and trays of steaming lasagna and bowls of salad were carried to the table.

Sandra arrived last holding a basket of garlic bread.

The tone at the supper table remained light. No one mentioned the house fires, and there were no accusing glances directed her way.

But then, she had not expected the enemy to be here. Even so, she had trouble shaking the tightness she felt since Roger's arrival. He had stared at her several times during supper, and she had quickly glanced down at her plate to avoid meeting his glance.

After helping to clear the supper table, Roger caught her in the hall. “You don't seem yourself,” he whispered, glancing toward the kitchen where laughing voices mingled with the clatter of dishes. “You haven't had any more problems, have you?”

“I'm not sleeping well.” Her eyes misted. Why the tears, she wondered as she brushed the wetness away with her fingertips.

Roger gave her shoulder a squeeze.

Warmth flowed from her shoulder to her arms, and through her body. She hesitated to move, reluctant to break the sensation of protection. She resented him, and yet she longed for what he had to offer.

Footsteps echoed in the hall and Paul paused, a dish towel dangling from each hand. He stared from her to Roger and back again before he turned and retraced his steps.

She stared after Paul, her stomach clenching into a heavy mass. “I feel guilty about not telling him. He's been so sweet since I moved here. Maybe he could help?”

“Listen Lillian,” Roger whispered, “you need to avoid Paul if you don't want your secret to come out. You said that yourself. Don't let his smooth looks fool you. He is a cop, and until we know what's going on, just stay away from him. It would launch his career if he broke this arson case, and he plans to do that, even if it means making assumptions he shouldn't make. You know how that happens…” His insinuations clashed against the laughing voices that came from the kitchen.

“I guess you're right.” She continued to stare down the hall. “What did you do with the gas cans?”

“I got rid of them. Don't worry about it.” He tucked a finger under her chin. “Things will settle down, you wait and see.”

She looked up into his face, seeing only his lips, moist and full. The sudden urge to place hers on his, to experience the taste of a man again made her heart pound. Her eyes sought his, and she stared at him with longing.

He moved toward her.

“Hey, you two, there you are.” Trina's bulging belly preceding her up the hall, followed by Ted and Paul. “Way to get out of dishes.”

Lillian felt the burn on her face, and quickly pulled away from Roger. “Sorry Trina, I—”

“Lillian, I'm just kidding. Come on, let's go sit down.” Trina headed to the parlor, her body shifting with each step.

The light in the kitchen clicked off.

Bill emerged from the darkened doorway and stopped at the stairs. “I've had enough fun for one night. Besides, a new episode of my favorite television show is calling my name.”

“Night, Bill,” Roger said. Roger reached for her hand and she pulled away, but not before Paul noticed and scowled.

Her heart tightened. There was no reason she should care, but she did. Paul's opinion seemed important somehow.

“I'm heading home,” Paul said.

“No, it's early yet.” Trina's lips turned down. “You don't have to go, do you?”

His departure was her fault. There had always been a level of animosity between Roger and Paul, and it must seem to him that she was developing an interest in Roger, while her relationship with him remained superficial. It had to be that way; he was a police officer.

“You had a big day or something, Paul?” Ted asked. “You're usually the life of the party. You got a better offer somewhere?”

Paul planted a gentle kiss on Trina's cheek. “Thanks for the great supper, mama.” He softly patted her belly and strode out the kitchen door.

“Well,” Trina said, “what was all that about?”

“Come on,” Ted murmured, “we have a game of cards to play.”

At first, she thought she imagined it. Her muscles tightened as she inhaled deeply. Smoke! “The house is on fire!”

“I started a fire,” Ted said.

She stumbled backward, filled with horror, ready to flee.

“In the fireplace, Lillian.” Roger grabbed her arm. “Ted started a fire in the fireplace.”

As she looked with panic-filled eyes from one to the other, Roger pulled her toward the front door, but pointed into the parlor. “The fireplace, Lillian. Look at the fireplace. Ted built a fire for us
in the fireplace
.”

The flames leapt between logs, snapping and snarling as they tangled together. A lifetime ago she had enjoyed the sensuous movement of the flames as they danced around each other much like lovers, the smell of campfires, the memory of being snuggled warm beneath a blanket while sitting on a lawn chair. Craig would hold a stick over the fire, a hotdog sizzling at the end. The joy was forever gone.

The house wasn't burning. Ted wasn't an arsonist. Fire wasn't the enemy.

Her legs wobbled. How could she have made such a stupid mistake? “I think I'll follow Bill's example and turn in early.” Silence followed her as she left the room and lifted one foot in front of the other on the stairs, convincing herself not to run.

~*~

Lillian sat propped against the headboard of her bed, a stack of student papers spread around her. She scanned one and let it drop, and picked up another. With a huff, she tossed the second paper back on the bed, unable to concentrate, but too full of pent-up energy to sleep.

She had overreacted to the fire; the smell of smoke had caught her off-guard. If only she had known Ted had started a fire she could have been prepared.

The party had broken up after she went upstairs.

It always came back to the fire.

She had expected the relocation to allow her to start over. Why did she think her past wouldn't follow her? Thoughts drifted though her head, one after another. Paul, then Roger, then the fires: four of them now. But whoever had planted the gas cans in her car must have decided to leave her alone.

Marking pen forgotten beside her, she sank back onto the pillows. Fire had always fascinated her. Dr. Widder talked about fire repeatedly with her once her parents had shared her history with him. Could she be a pyromaniac? He had wanted to know.

A soft knock sounded on the door and she lifted her head in surprise. No one ever bothered her in her room, and as far as she knew, everyone had retired early. “Come in.”

The door opened a few inches and Trina's face peered through. “Am I disturbing you?”

“I'm supposed to be grading papers, but instead I'm letting my mind run in circles.”

Trina entered the room and closed the door behind her. Dressed in a soft maternity t-shirt and a pair of Ted's boxer shorts, she settled on the bed beside her. “Are you all right?”

“Do I look sick?”

Trina smiled. “Not sick, but unhappy. And worried.” She stared at her. “I thought you'd be in your pajamas by now.”

She nodded toward the papers scattered on the bed. “Jumped right into grading instead.”

“Do you want to talk about what's robbing you of your happiness?”

Did she want to talk? She returned Trina's gaze. Other than her sister, Beth, and her husband, Craig, she had never had an adult friend she felt comfortable talking to. Someone had once said that everyone needs a “Jesus with skin on.” She didn't know who had said that, but found truth in it. She talked to God daily, but sometimes she ached for a live person to be in front of her. Like Trina.

Trina would understand. Her pregnant friend. God-sent just for her.

Roger knew, and soon he would tell her secret.

She felt the stress pulling him apart each time they were together and she regretted making him an accomplice in her fate.

Trina didn't need to know about the cans hidden in her car, but as Lillian glanced at her wide open eyes she knew she wanted to talk.

“I told you that my husband and child died. I didn't tell you how.” She focused on the wardrobe across the room. “Our house caught on fire while they slept. They never got out.”

Trina gasped and she felt the soft grip of the woman's hand on her arm. She dare not look into her face for fear of crumbling into tears.

“Lillian, how awful. No wonder you freaked out when you smelled the smoke from Ted's fire.”

“I wasn't home. I was supposed to be, but I fell asleep in my office downtown. The fire marshal investigated and said the cause was arson, and I became the primary suspect.” Gathering her courage, she turned toward Trina.

Would her friend's face be etched with horror? Would she pull her hand away slowly, so as not to seem obvious?

Tears ran down Trina's ivory cheeks. She slid across the bed and wrapped her arms around Lillian, pulling her close. Together they clung to each other and cried. When the tears ended, they dried their faces.

“I was afraid you would hate me,” Lillian said.

Trina's reddened eyes widened. “Hate you? How could I ever hate you? How did you endure it?”

How had she endured? “I've lived with my parents for the past two years. I was never brought to trial, but there are still those in Cleveland who think I'm guilty.”

“Then they don't know you very well, Lillian Hunter. How could they think such a thing?”

“I helped set my friend's bedroom on fire when I was about nine. Somehow the label of pyromaniac stuck.”

Trina's jaw fell.

“In third grade I had a best friend named Karen. We found a book of matches on the playground from Emilio's Italian Grill.” Lillian grimaced. “I remember that because Emilio's was the place my dad took the family for special occasions. Karen and I lit a couple of the matches and watched the flames until they burned our fingers. I'm surprised we didn't burn the school down with our fascination.

“We took our treasure into Karen's bedroom. When Karen's mom yelled up the stairs to tell us she was going to the grocery store but would only be gone fifteen minutes, we saw an opportunity. We weren't careless, and we really believed the tin pie-pan would contain the flame.” The memory returned fresh, even though she had not thought of that long-ago day in years. Her heart ached for the loss of her childish innocence. No longer could she blame mistakes on her youth, or lack of experience.

Sighing, she returned to her story. “Karen and I had been writing secrets on pieces of paper, and then taking turns burning them on the pie plate. One of us started giggling, I can't remember which of us, and we both ended up rolling on the floor. The pie pan tipped over, and the carpet ignited. It was just a tiny spot, and for a few seconds we stared at it in surprise. Then the stack of papers beside it began to burn.

“We beat at the flames but the fire spread faster than we could put it out.” Her muscles tightened as she remembered the terror they had felt. She looked at Trina's staring face. “If Karen's mother hadn't arrived home, the entire house could have burned down.” She repeated her grimace. “And that is how I became known as an arsonist.”

Trina's expression was part horror, part shock. “I don't know what to say.”

“You don't need to say anything. Sorry I upset everyone. I guess that's why I feel so anxious about the house fires here in Darlington.”

“At least no one here's blaming you for them!”

Someone was, perhaps no one from Darlington, but still the goal remained to lay blame at her feet, perhaps retribution for escaping judgment in Cleveland.

“Can I ask you something?” Trina asked.

Lillian stretched out on the bed and propped her head in her hand. “What do you want to know?”

A blush crept across Trina's face. “Did I interrupt something between you and Roger this evening?”

The change in conversation felt jarring, but when the new topic settled into her brain, redness covered her cheeks. She laughed. “We sound like a couple of girls at a sleepover.” She didn't know if Trina wanted to avoid the topic of the fires and her role in the death of her family, or if she simply moved on in her own flight-of-thought way.

Trina bounced on the bed. “So, did I interrupt something?”

Lillian sat up and crossed her legs. “Yes.”

“And?”

“And nothing. That's it.” She looked at Trina's pouting face and laughed. Maybe Trina had the right idea. Put the past behind and move on. Since she had already trusted Trina with so much, she might as well take the leap. “All right, here goes. I am attracted to Roger, but something feels forced about our relationship. I hate to admit it, but when you walked in I had wanted him to kiss me, and I think the feeling was mutual.”

“Ooh, Lillian! And I interrupted it. Sorry. There's no sense denying that he's a nice-looking man.”

“I know…”

“But…”

“But why do I miss Paul when I'm with Roger? He's stopped dropping by every night so now I only see him on Friday nights and sometimes at church.” His soft blond hair and huge grin floated through her mind. “He's so easy to be with.”

“They both like you.”

“I didn't come to Darlington for a relationship.” Her eyes misted over, the joy of girl talk snatched away with the reality of life. “When Craig and Susan died, I told God I would spend the rest of my life alone as a punishment for not being home.”

“Lillian, that's not what God wants. You didn't set the fire, so why are you holding yourself responsible?”