The Summer Bones (29 page)

The air was close. Victoria could feel it heavy on her skin, like a touch, like a crawl of both horror and slow knowledge. She could see the cheerful hop of the bird on the lawn, the flap of a white sheet on the line in the backyard. The moment stretched out in silence as if the world had turned off the faucet of sound, leaving her in a void. Sitting immobile, Victoria chose to break that barrier by saying thickly, “What did the princess do?”

“She told her green-eyed prince the truth. And he insisted they get married right away, so no one would ever know.” Fondness made Kate's voice go fuzzy with emotion and she looked away. There were tears on her lashes. “And her son has always been his son because he loved her that much; more than she deserved.”

Quiet—the clouds moving slowly, building monoliths in the sky, the robin fishing a worm triumphantly from the grass, the whisper flap of the sheet drying on the line.

Kate spoke hoarsely, finishing it all. “And then they lived happily ever after.”

What to say? Victoria reeled under this new bit of information and the way it changed her world. What it had obviously cost Kate to give it. She bit her lip. She struggled for the right words—for any words. Her hands went damp.

When she could speak, she said inadequately but fiercely, “Uncle Jim
is
a prince.”

She felt Kate's smile. “Yes. Things were different three decades ago, Victoria. Having an illegitimate child was still a stigma then, and to my parents, a grave sin. It was my good fortune that Jim is the kind of man he is. Basically, we eloped and my parents never knew. They still don't, of course.”

“Damon. Does he know?”

Kate smoothed her skirt, face averted. “Yes. Jim thought we should tell him. Medical school, he said. He's no idiot—blood types and all that. He would figure it out eventually and we didn't want him coming to us. We waited until he was eighteen. Then we told him. It … wasn't easy, but I was as honest as I could be.”

Eighteen.
Damon had known this for ten years—ten years and all the denial, the guilty longing, the careful and systematic avoidance of feelings, which were unacceptable and useless …

“Damn him,” the words spilled out of Victoria hotly, involuntarily, “for never telling me.”

Kate's gaze roved over her face. She was composed, but the old sorrow, the old horror lay heavy in her eyes. “It wasn't his secret to tell, was it? I'm sure he's never told anyone. The story was mine and I told you because I thought you should know, Victoria. That's all.”

A faint wash of heat came into Victoria's face. Embarrassment at being so callous, at forgetting the painful reality of someone else's suffering. She made a gesture of hopelessness, of confusion. “He told you about the other night, didn't he? He told you.”

Kate's delicate brows inched upward. “He's a grown man. I doubt he would confide in me the kind of thing I'm guessing you mean, honey. But I don't need to be told that something happened. You and Damon are avoiding each other like the plague. I don't like seeing you this unhappy. Not now, not when you need each other so … much.”

So much. Too much.
Everything
is changed,
Victoria thought,
and everything is achingly, dismally, the same.

* * * *

Her grandfather had come in. His heavy tread was unmistakable across the kitchen floor. Victoria lay, listening to the comforting sounds of the slamming screen, of the water running in the sink. They'd been out late, both he and Damon, trying to cram a day's worth of work into an evening. Life on the farm, it went on, no matter what else happened in the world. No matter that the family was mourning one of their own. Evidently, Damon was still out.

Rolling over on her side, she sighed and closed her eyes. Lightning spun against the thin curtains at the window, flashing red against her lids. The evening had been dominated by the bunching of storm clouds and a glowering sky, and distant thunder that rumbled now and again like angry voices. It was hot, humid, and nearly impossible to sleep, even without all the baggage of the day and past week. She had undressed, brushed her hair and her teeth, and climbed into bed with every intention of collapsing with exhaustion. But it wasn't happening.

She lay for a long time. Desolation was there, like a lump in her throat. Emily's death and the discovery of her body were still separate events, remote from real life. If she tried, if she just let herself imagine for a moment, Victoria could hear giggles in the dark, see her sister's shape lying in the opposite bed, feel her breathing as she slept.

Hey, Tori … are you asleep?

Thunder rolled, making her jump. It was crawling closer, dragging the storm along. She squinted at the clock. Midnight. Two minutes after.

She got out of bed. The stairs were dark but no matter, she knew the way. A whiff of rain-scented air floated through the open screen door. A cool drink might help alleviate the rawness in her throat that came with too many tears.

One foot in the kitchen, she stopped, suspended in the shadow of the doorway, fighting a coward's urge to turn quietly and seek her restless bed. To climb the stairs and pretend she had never ventured out of the room.

And then it was too late. Damon looked up from the table and saw her hovering there with no flicker of surprise crossing his face. He was alone, drinking coffee in the gloom, an empty dinner plate on the counter next to the sink. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw his hair was damp, from either rain or sweat.

“Couldn't sleep?” he asked.

“No.” She couldn't well stand there foolishly forever. Swallowing, she self-consciously crossed the room toward the refrigerator, wishing now she'd taken the time to put on her robe. “I wanted something cold to drink. It's awfully hot upstairs.” Over her shoulder, she added, “You're in late.”

“I needed to do a few things.”

His gaze was on her back. She felt it acutely as she poured lemonade into a glass and lifted it shakily to her mouth. The image of his face was fresh; the dark brows that were Kate's, and the sensitive mouth, too. But the high cheekbones, the slanting line of jaw, the shape of his nose, those were not from his mother and certainly not Paulsen either. She had been blind.

What did he feel toward his parentage? It was a startling notion. Fathered by a man who had forced a young innocent girl into having sex against her will. Finding his world blasted to bits by that revelation at eighteen, knowing his mother was ashamed of his conception and birth.

“What's wrong?”

The words cut into her reverie. She jumped, clattering the glass against her teeth. Heat rushed into her cheeks.

“Nothing.”

“You look … strange. Upset.”

“Is it a wonder?” She managed a reasonable smile, turning so that she could see his face. He was drained—vulnerable and tired and exposed. His lashes sent shadows on his cheeks. She babbled, “With everything. Today was awful. You know.”

“I know.”

There was a silence. The wind was picking up in the trees, making the leaves sigh in response. The corn creaked in the fields. Victoria said, “We certainly need the rain. I hope it pours.”

Damon frowned. Long fingers shoved at his coffee cup. “Tori, look … I'm sorry … about the other night, so very sorry. I seem to be apologizing a lot lately, but I hate this awkwardness between us. Everything else can't be helped, but I hate this … distance.”

No. Not now. She couldn't handle it. Her hands trembled and she made a production out of setting the glass of lemonade carefully on the counter. Crossing her arms under breasts, she lied, “I barely remember. And it was my fault, Damon. I'm not used to taking sleeping pills. I was out of my mind over Em. Let's not … let's not talk about it, please?”

“I—”

“No!” The word erupted from her throat. Her hands flew to her cheeks. “Please.”

“All right.” His hand jerked, spilling coffee on the table. His face was tight. He got to his feet.

“Please understand.”

He stopped, stood with his hands at his sides. His eyes were dark and empty. “I wanted to clear the air. Like this rain, I wanted to wash it all away, all the mistakes, all the hurt.” His voice grew soft. “I guess that isn't possible, is it?”

She couldn't speak. The words were lost.

“I didn't think so,” he said, and turned to go upstairs.

Call him back,
her mind screamed. He'd made the apology, opened the door back toward the old relationship, and she'd reacted childishly, selfishly. What was it she wanted? Back to being friends, cousins, casual and comfortable around each other—was that it?

He disappeared into the hallway. She heard his feet thud up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

It wasn't. Not if she was honest. Her feelings for Damon hadn't changed because she'd discovered that they weren't related. They were just easier to acknowledge. The parts she had denied before, the fact that she had feelings toward a man who was so closely related to her by blood to make the complications of a sexual relationship enormous, her careful avoidance of thinking about him with the girls she knew he occasionally dated, her confused emotions the other night, part jealousy and part frustration, when she was forced to see him with Andrea Martin. She and Damon had always been close friends, but the other part, the part that Michael had so easily realized existed, that had been buried, layer by careful layer, for all of her adult life. Acknowledging those layers was like scraping away tender flesh.

Her eyes stung. One hand crept to her throat. Every instinct she possessed told her that Damon struggled with the same demons. She still remembered the feel of his hands insistent on her skin, his mouth against hers, his body taut with arousal. Neither could she forget her own response—the ache that had never been there with Michael, the desire for completion—to be one.

It wasn't necessary to ask him why he had never told her the truth. She might rant and curse him for his silence and what it had cost, but deep down that silence spoke measures about one of the things she loved most about him. Honor. Loyalty to family, the same kind that made him walk away from a promising career in medicine and pick up a plow.

Victoria moved automatically to close the kitchen door. She went up the stairs in the darkness.

He was in the bathroom. She could hear the shower running. Without hesitation she went into Damon's bedroom. The light was on, giving off a soft glow. She could hear the ping of rain on the gutters, the touch of it on the roof. It smelled beautiful and clean.

She sat on the bed. Folded her hands in her lap and waited. She was there when she heard the opening of the bathroom door.

He stopped in the doorway of the bedroom, much as she had done downstairs. Stood stock still, a towel wrapped around his waist, his damp hair curling wildly, one hand on the knob.

Her heart had begun to pound. Victoria lifted her head and looked at him.

He opened his mouth, then closed it. His fingers tightened on the doorknob. “Do you want me to sleep in your room tonight?” he asked finally, sounding absurdly normal.

“No.”

“I … see.” His eyes were wary. “Then what do you want, Tori?”

So, he wanted her to say it. Who could blame him?

“Everything.” Her voice sounded uneven, broken. She smiled shakily. “I want what I've always wanted, Damon. I want everything. With you.”

At that moment, as if on cue, the heavens opened up and drenched the earth.

The rain had wrought miracles. The trees, perking from dusty olive back to emerald green, looked clean and new. The grass glistened. Even the buildings of downtown Mayville looked younger. Danny watched two sparrows frolic in a dwindling puddle near the curb outside the station, their tiny wings sending gleeful sprays of water.

The woman was still sitting in her car. She had been there for perhaps fifteen minutes. He'd seen her pull up, observed the bob of her head, the occasional heave of her shoulders, the tissue pressed now and again to her mouth. Whatever courage she needed to get out of the car, it seemed it was a long time coming.

What now?
he thought darkly, rubbing his knuckles along the edge of his jaw. With a start, he realized he'd forgotten to shave that morning, the bristles grazing his skin. Good thing he was blond. His beard usually didn't show much until the third day. Laura had liked it when he would let his beard grow on vacations or his day off. Made her feel like she was making love to another man, she would tease, running her hand over his face. Maybe he should have paid more attention to that particular fantasy.

The door of the car opened with a squeal, sending the sparrows flittering away. It was a beat-up Ford sedan, light blue, with scratches from an old accident scarring the paint of the rear fender in streaks of rusting metal. The woman had the same flavor as the car, moving slowly as she put her legs out and stood, her thin body encased in baggy jeans and a pink T-shirt. Not old, but ill-cared for and faded. A bit battered.

Danny glanced toward the desk. Reports were scattered across the surface—forensic, crime scene, documentation of interviews with family members of both Emily Sims and Hallie Helms. Not necessarily what he wanted this visitor to see. He reached over and began to shuffle papers into some semblance of order.

It took her several long minutes to cross the sidewalk and open the door. Besides the early morning rush of rain-sweet air, she brought a large paper grocery bag, which she held by the twine handle. Her eyes were red and swollen.

He stood up. His eyes moved from her face to the bag. “Lila. Good morning.”

Her response was something between a gasp and a mumble. Randy Knox's mother shuffled forward as if she had forgotten how to use her legs properly, the sack bumping against her skinny thigh. Her fingers were rigid on the handle. Wasting no time, as if she had a poisonous snake in the bag and couldn't wait to be rid of it, she said, “Here.”