The Returning (30 page)

“Well, if you want to know what I think, I’m not so sure people can change. Not really. I mean, we are what we are.”

“No. I thought that way once, but I think now—well, maybe we can change by letting ourselves be changed.”

“Yeah? By what?”

“I don’t know near enough about it, but it’s something called grace. I hear it can change you, if you let it. I’m going to hope I can let it.”

“If you’re talking about God, I’m not so sure about all that stuff.”

“I know, honey. I know just how you feel. There was a time when it made no sense to me at all, and much of the time even now it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. But then again, there are moments when I get the feeling everything’s all right, even in spite of how things look. I’m hanging my hat on those moments, trusting that’s God telling me He’s there.”

She lifted her chin in a small nod. “So what are you going to do, Dad?”

“Like I said, I’m going to put an end to things . . . tell her it’s over. And then I’ll have to add it to the list of things I hope your mom will forgive me for.”

Rebekah looked thoughtful. “I bet that’s a pretty long list.”

John smiled sadly, nodded. “You got that right, honey. From where I’m sitting I can hardly see the end of it.” Several seconds passed before he added, “And, honey, I’ve got to ask you to forgive me too. I hope you will.”

Her eyes grew small as she shrugged. “I’m not sure I’m ready to do that.”

“Fair enough. Take your time. I’m willing to wait.”

She looked at him, seemed to be studying him. He returned her gaze, hoping she found in his face what she was looking for.

Then she said, “I think I want to go home now.”

“All right.” He stood, held out a hand to help her up. She accepted it, but as soon as she was standing, she pulled her hand away.

“I do love you, Beka,” he said. “I want you to know that.”

She looked away. “I know,” she said, her voice small.

He hoped she would say she loved him back, but she didn’t. He was going to have to wait for that too. For however long it took, he was willing to wait.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-SEVEN

She would have to get
a lawyer, of course. Owen could recommend a good one. He’d already given her several names, years ago when John first went off to prison. She’d thrown the list away. She’d had no intention of filing for divorce.

Andrea leaned back in the overstuffed chair in the bedroom and closed the book on her lap. She’d read the same paragraph over and over, and she still didn’t know what it was about. There would be no escaping into these pages tonight. She had too much on her mind, too many decisions to make.

She turned to the window and saw her own face reflected in the glass. How tired she looked, and faded. Life was passing, moving inexorably forward. Her children were growing up, and she was growing old. There was a time once when she thought life owed her something, but that was long ago.

She would let John go now. It would be best. For him. Maybe for her. She looked back across the years that he had been gone and realized, with a comforting sense of satisfaction, that she had survived. She would manage alone again, and without the hope of his ever coming back, it would be easier.

Andrea heard footsteps on the stairs and turned to see who it was. Billy paused halfway up and peered at her through the railing. “Hi, Mom,” he said. “Is it okay if I come up?”

She smiled at her son. “Of course, Billy. What’s the matter? Are you hungry?”

He shook his head as he moved up the stairs and across the room. “Naw, I’m not hungry. I just wanted to ask you something.”

“All right.”

He sat down on his father’s bed and rested his chin in his hand. Then he said, “How come Beka was so mad this afternoon, Mom?”

“Well, I don’t know, really. She’s a teenager. She’s full of emotion.”

“Well, I’m a teenager too, but I don’t act like that. She’s really mad at something. But I guess you don’t want to tell me.”

“It isn’t that I don’t want to tell you, Billy. It’s just that—I honestly don’t know. Dad wouldn’t tell me what they talked about. He just said they had worked it out and everything was okay.” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “So I didn’t press it.”

Billy looked thoughtful. He narrowed his eyes and drummed his fingers on his cheek. Andrea waited, giving him time to think. Finally he said, “I worry about Beka, Mom.”

“I know, Billy. I do too.”

“I wish . . . I wish I could . . . I’d like to help Beka feel better.”

“That’s awfully good of you, son. I wish I could make Beka happy too, but we have to let her work out some things on her own. That’s how it is when you’re growing up.”

“Do you think when Beka’s finished growing up she’ll be happy?”

Andrea drew in a deep breath. “Let’s hope she’ll be happy then, Billy. Some people are when they get past the teen years. You know, they find themselves, they settle down and marry. . . .” Her voice trailed off as her thoughts wandered. But she pulled herself back and tried to smile at Billy. She hoped her unfinished answer had somehow satisfied him.

He was studying her intently. “Mom?” he asked.

“Yes?”

“Aren’t you happy?”

“Oh! Well . . .” She blinked several times, folded her hands together over the book in her lap. With false cheer, she said, “I have you, don’t I?”

“Well, yeah.” He spread his arms. “Here I am.”

“Then I’m happy.”

Billy smiled at that. But then he looked serious again and asked, “Do you think everyone in the family will ever be happy at the same time?”

Andrea hesitated. She reached out and patted Billy’s hand. “Of course, Billy. Someday we’ll all be happy at the same time.”

Billy smiled again broadly. “That will be a good day, won’t it, Mom?”

“Yes, Billy.” She nodded. “That will be a very good day.”

Billy stood then, bent over her, kissed her cheek. “Good night, Mom.”

“Good night, dear.”

“Have sweet dreams.”

“I’ll dream about you, Billy, and what a nice young man you’ve grown up to be.”

He grinned modestly, then brightened. “Oh, and sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite!”

“Okay.” She smiled at him. “You too, son.”

Andrea followed Billy with her eyes as he stepped across the room and disappeared down the stairs.

As long as a part of him was still a child, she thought, he should still believe in happy endings.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-EIGHT

At the north end
of the lake, the town of Conesus had long ago carved out a public park complete with swimming beach, picnic tables, grills, a playground, and numerous benches. The park was always busy on summer days, filled mostly with out-of-towners who came to the lake for sport but didn’t own a cottage there. On any given afternoon, the beach might be cluttered with sunbathers, so those headed out to swim had to walk gingerly, winding their way along paths created by the haphazard tangle of towels. On many occasions the picnic tables were full, and people resorted to spreading blankets on the ground like gypsies on the outskirts of a town. By evening, though, when dusk came, the crowds began to thin, and by nightfall the last cars were generally pulling out of the lot.

When John reached the park after eight o’clock on that final Monday night in August, a few stragglers remained—mostly couples, a family or two, one loner with long hair sitting cross-legged on the ground, strumming a guitar. John had walked four miles to get there, and after scanning the park, he thought he might have made the trip in vain.

But then he saw her. She was seated on the bench closest to the water, looking out. She wore a colorful silk scarf that was tied at the nape of her neck, and though the sun was setting, she hadn’t yet removed her dark glasses. The frames were large, seemed to hide half her face. Perhaps that was what she wanted.

She didn’t turn to look at him when, walking up beside her, he said, “Thank you for coming, Pamela.”

She nodded, almost imperceptibly, but didn’t speak.

“Well, I . . . I think you need to know that our daughters are friends.”

“Yes,” she said. “I know.”

“And they know about . . . us. They saw the photo on your phone.”

“You were right, John. I was a fool. I should have erased it.”

“Well, I—”

“Lena and Beka aren’t speaking to each other. They’re very angry.”

“Oh? Beka didn’t tell me. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t worry. They’ll make up eventually. They’re more angry with me and you than they are with each other. Lena has made me very aware of her disapproval.”

“I see.”

She turned at last to look at him. He couldn’t see her eyes behind the glasses. “You don’t have to say what you came to say, John. In fact, I’d rather you didn’t.” Her mouth was small, her face drawn. She turned away again. “I have it memorized, every word by heart—”

“Pamela—”

“No, John. Please don’t say it.” He took a step toward her. “And please don’t sit down. I couldn’t bear it.”

He waited, listened to the night sounds, the gulls, the young man strumming the guitar. “We can’t keep going,” he said at length.

“So we are at the end of the line.”

“Yes.”

A child laughed, incongruously. A car door slammed, and an engine started up. The intrusion of other lives sharpened the moment, nettling him. He tried to think of what to say next, but she spoke first.

“It’s a shame, John. And there’s really . . . there’s no hope?”

“No. I’m sorry, Pamela.”

“Are you? Sorry, I mean.”

“Yes. God knows I wish . . . I don’t want to hurt you.”

“And yet you have chosen to leave, like all the rest.”

Her words filled him with guilt, a sense that it was wrong to be like all the rest. He should be different because he had a duty to her, some aberrant duty to stay and finish what he had begun. For a fraction of a second, he wondered whether he should reconsider. They could carve out some kind of a life, make each other happy. . . .

He drew back sharply then, rubbed his forehead with the palm of an open hand.

She was beautiful, and he wanted her, but there was something beyond all feeling and all appearances that he wanted more.

“Pamela, I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Never mind. I don’t need your apologies.”

“I never should have—”

“Just go, John. Just leave me alone.”

“Pamela, I want to ask you to forgive me.”

He waited. He felt strangely light, as though he might fall apart before she answered.

When she spoke, her voice was low and even. “That, John, is one thing I will never do.”

The words were a kick to the heart, but he gathered his strength, pulled himself together. “I think it best,” he said, “that we try not to see each other at all. I’ll find another A.A. meeting to attend.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll leave. What’s the use in all of it, anyway?”

“Well . . .”

She turned to look at him again. Her face was slowly sinking into the dark veil of night. “You’re going back to your wife.”

“Yes.”

He took one step backward.

“You know, John, you don’t realize what you are giving up. I could have loved you more than anyone has ever loved you.”

John thought about that, shook his head. “No. I don’t think so, Pamela.”

He turned away then and started the long walk home in the dark.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-NINE

Rebekah rolled the car
to a stop among a grove of trees on the Castle grounds. After turning off the engine, she stayed in the driver’s seat, clutching the wheel. She looked up at the imposing stone structure. Most of its windows were boarded over, and the door facing the lake was a bulletin board for No Trespassing signs.

She almost hadn’t come, probably wouldn’t have come if she and Lena hadn’t made up after the worst fight of their friendship. The explosion had happened on Sunday night, and after that Lena hadn’t spoken to her for four days. But they’d made up on Friday, and now it was Saturday and time for the annual, unofficial big-bash-before-school-begins at the Castle.

Rebekah wondered whether Lena would go back to being mad at her once the party was over. After all, their fight had been over the man Lena’s mom was seeing. Rebekah had to tell her who he was. She figured someday Lena was going to meet her dad, and then she’d know the truth anyway.

So she spilled the man’s identity when Lena came to see her Sunday night at the amusement park. Rebekah was doling out prizes in the arcade when she admitted her reason for running out on Lena after they’d cast the spell that morning. As soon as she spoke, she realized she might have chosen a better place and time to make the confession to her friend.