To the Grave (3 page)

“Relax. You did a great job of hiding your feelings. Dad didn't notice. You were cool and composed, even when James introduced you to the bride.”

“Oh God. Renée. I'll never forget all the thick, gleaming black hair cascading down her back, those huge, doe-like eyes, her porcelain skin. No wonder he married her barely three months after meeting her. She was so beautiful.”

“She was striking in a flashy, sexy way.
You
are beautiful,” Marissa said firmly.

Catherine went on as if Marissa hadn't spoken. “You say no one knew how I felt about James, but
she
did. I could tell when she looked at me. She was amused by my love and my misery and I hated her, Marissa. I don't think I've ever hated anyone, but I hated her.”

“So did everyone who knew her in Aurora Falls by the time she vanished.”

Catherine glared at her sister. “Why did you say ‘vanished'?”

“I don't know. I guess because that's what so many people say.”

“People who think James killed her say ‘she vanished' because it sounds creepy.”

“Yeah, well a lot of people love drama and Renée gave it to them. For years, she stirred up trouble in Aurora Falls, broke up at least two marriages, pushed James to what everyone thought was the breaking point; then suddenly she was gone. No one saw her leave and no one has heard from her again.” Catherine sighed. “James could have saved himself a lot of grief if he'd divorced her a few months after marrying her, before she had so much time to become a … a legend.”

“A legend! Oh, that's just great.”

“It's true.”

“You're certainly creative today, but your memory is terrible, Marissa. I've told you at least twenty times that in this state James couldn't divorce her on the grounds of irreconcilable differences unless she agreed and they lived apart for a year. Fat chance of her going along with that plan.”

“Then he should have charged her with adultery. She didn't make a secret of her affairs.”

“James is too much of a gentleman to do that!” Catherine snapped.

“There are times for being a gentleman and times to act like a man.”

Catherine looked at Marissa furiously. “How dare you imply James is a … a…”

“Wimp?” Catherine's glare didn't stop Marissa. “Don't tell me you haven't thought it, too.”

Catherine went silent for a moment, clenching her jaw. Then she said slowly and distinctly, “He is
not
a wimp, a coward, or a weakling, Marissa. He just should have taken action sooner to end the marriage.”

“He never took
any
action to end the marriage until she … left.”

Catherine felt her breath come faster in anger. “What are you saying?”

“That I've just never understood why he held on to Renée for so long.”

After a pause, Catherine said, “I never told you this, but after James married her, he found out she was a really troubled woman. He's never gone into details, but her past wasn't what you would expect after briefly seeing her life in New Orleans. Anyway, he thought with enough time and understanding and love she'd change. When he saw that she either couldn't or didn't
want
to change, he still hesitated because divorcing her for adultery would humiliate his parents.”

“He didn't think she humiliated them, too?” Marissa asked incredulously.

“I don't know exactly what he thought at the time. He just says for some reason he can't understand, she loved tormenting him and his family. He thinks that's why she left the way she did—to create suspicion about him by making it look like he'd killed her.” Catherine's voice rose. “Even if I'm a psychologist, I don't give a damn if she was troubled! She was a bitch!”

“Finally we agree on something,” Marissa said evenly, “but the best way she could have hurt him would have been to stay. She's been gone for ages, though, James got his divorce on the grounds of desertion, and people have moved on to new topics of gossip.” After a moment of silence, Marissa said softly, “If all of the past gossip—if James's marriage to Renée—upsets you so much, Catherine, you should stop seeing him.”

Catherine looked sharply at her sister. “Stop seeing James? Marissa, I
love
him!”

“Does he love you?”

“What? Of course. He tells me so all the time.”

“Then concentrate on the present and stop being so touchy about the past. Stop even thinking about it.”

Catherine's anger drained, leaving her feeling foolish and mean. “You're right. I should think about
now
and quit being so overly sensitive about James and Renée. They're history.” She paused. “Sorry I lashed out at you. But if you ever call James a wimp again—”

“I didn't say ‘wimp.'
You
did.”

Oh hell, I did, Catherine thought, her mind scrambling for a quick save. “I just said what you were implying.”

“Whatever.”

The sisters rode in silence for a couple of minutes. Then Marissa asked as if there hadn't been a harsh word between them, “And now for the age-old child's question: ‘How much farther is it?'”

“About five or six miles. Why do you care? I thought you love to drive.”

“I do, but not for the whole afternoon. It's Saturday and we both have dates tonight. Last weekend you missed your dinner out with James because he went alone to that conference in Pittsburgh, so I'm sure he'll take you somewhere special tonight as compensation. Anyway, we have hair to be curled, nails to be painted, eye shadow to choose, and a dozen lipsticks and glosses to be tried before we reach perfection.”

“Like teenagers?”

“Like females with the romantic spirit of teenagers and the wisdom of women.”

“Yeah, sure.” They'd left the city and Catherine turned her gaze to the countryside, wondering if, even at twenty-nine, she was still more romantic than wise. She was in love with a man she'd known most of her life and loved nearly half of her life. At least, she thought she'd loved him that long. She was a clinical psychologist, though, and she knew how easy it was for an adolescent to mistake attraction for love.

Then, last Christmas when she'd come home for her college break and her first Christmas at home without her mother, who'd died the previous summer, James Eastman had finally entered her life as a romantic interest, not just a family friend. That holiday had been both bizarre and wonderful, and she'd known that as a woman, not a teenager, she passionately loved James.

Afterward, they'd traveled between Aurora Falls and California to see each other and when she'd passed her tests and earned her license as a clinical psychologist in June she had made the decision to live in Aurora Falls. She'd joined the practice of an older, more established psychologist just over four months ago—not long, really, Catherine told herself. Maybe hoping that James would propose by spring was like a child's fairy-tale wish, especially after what he'd been through with Renée.

Catherine and James didn't live together. She didn't want to move into his town house, but James had never asked. Maybe he knew she'd refuse. She wondered if he thought such an arrangement in a city of around forty-five thousand would damage her new position in the psychology practice or even his established law practice. He must realize, though, this was the twenty-first century. More likely, she'd reluctantly decided, James didn't want her to become a permanent part of his life any time soon. Maybe ever. An immediate feeling of rejection hit Catherine, unnerving her. Idly guessing about James's possible feelings shouldn't affect her so much, Catherine thought in concern. She was already too emotionally dependent on him, too—

Absently looking at a browned soybean field and another field full of faded cornstalks, Catherine suddenly emerged from her reverie and almost shouted, “Turn right!”

Marissa hit the brakes, throwing them both forward against their seat belts. “What are you yelling about?” she demanded loudly. “You want me to turn right?
Right
into that cornfield?”

“I meant just past the cornfield,” Catherine said meekly. “I'm sorry I startled you.”

“You said the cottage was five or six miles away. We've only gone three.” Marissa picked up speed again while muttering absently, “You are a driver's nightmare, Catherine. I don't know how you ever got a driver's license. Of course, at the speed you drive, you hardly need one. A horse and buggy would serve you just fine—”

“There's the road,” Catherine interrupted, still embarrassed over her outburst but determined not to apologize again. “Perry Lane. Isn't that the name of a Beatles song?”

Marissa said irritably, “Not Perry Lane—‘Penny Lane' on the
Magical Mystery Tour.
We have the actual vinyl album, which you've heard a hundred times. The CD version, which we also have, was released in 1987 and…”

She'll go on like this for another couple of minutes, Catherine thought in relief, having known “Perry Lane” wasn't a Beatles song. She also knew her sister was nearly a walking archive of
Rolling Stone
magazine and making a blunder to Marissa about a Beatles song was the perfect way to change the subject.

Perry Lane curved left about twenty feet ahead. Marissa soared around the gentle coil and followed Perry Lane nearly a quarter of a mile. Almost twice the normal amount of rain had fallen so far this October, and two inches had doused the area three days earlier. The grass was greener than usual for this time of year, and the dirt on either side of the asphalt road looked damp.

Catherine looked to the right in search of the Eastman cottage. The sun shone brightly and the air smelled fresh, as if both had just gone through the wash, she thought whimsically before pointing and saying, “I think that's it!”

Marissa came to a slow stop. Catherine stared at a small, shabby, dark gray-green cottage with a covered porch running half the length of the building, a wide front window, and two smaller windows toward the southern end. Paint peeled all over the building and a few roof shingles lay on what passed for a front lawn. The limbs of large trees crowded in from the sides, overhanging the patchy roof and giving the little cottage an air of huddling in on itself, crouching.

Marissa frowned. “Are you certain this place belongs to James's family?”

“I'm not absolutely certain, but his mother mentioned that it's gray.”

“It's not gray.”

“It
is
gray. I think the green is mildew from all the moisture and shade.”

“Mildew! Ugh!”

“Oh, don't be so prissy. Just pull up in that little driveway.”

Marissa's hands dropped to her lap. “I can't even see a little driveway, Catherine.”

“It's right there.” Catherine pointed. “The evergreen branches are hanging over it. The Eastmans only have the grounds mown four or five times a year. No wonder the yard is a disgrace.”

“The yard isn't the only disgrace.” Marissa turned to her sister and said seriously, “Catherine, I'm getting a bad vibe from this place.”

Catherine made herself smile teasingly. “I thought I was the one sensitive to ‘bad vibes.' You've always said you're too smart to believe in all that illogical, sixth-sense stuff.”

“I've suddenly realized I'm not as smart as I thought,” Marissa returned. “I mean it.”

Catherine felt a tingle of uneasiness, but she didn't want to argue. “The place is depressing because it's neglected,” she said with bright determination. “It's just an old summer cottage. Don't tell me you're afraid of it.”

“Only because it looks like a serial killer's lair. Even those evergreen trees look diseased.”

Catherine snapped, “Marissa, you've watched too many movies. A serial killer's lair? That's—”

“True?”

Catherine looked around, surprised by feeling insulted, and softened her tone. “The place doesn't look great, but you're being silly.” She forced another smile. “Pull into the front yard near the cottage.”

Marissa squinted at the scrappy land in front of the cottage and sighed. “Here goes.”

She drove carefully, dodging shingles and a fallen tree limb, and then stopped her Mustang near the cottage. “So much for the obstacle course. Is there a reason James's father won't take care of his property?”

“He hates the cottage,” Catherine said. “He told me even though he couldn't swim and he detested fishing, when he was a kid his father used to drag him out here every weekend to fish. Even during his teenage years.” Catherine stepped out of the car and glanced around. “James's great-grandfather built this place in the forties.”

“That would be the seventeen-forties?” Marissa asked sarcastically as she emerged from the car.

“Right after World War Two, smart-ass, although it looks as if it's stood here abandoned for at least a century.” Catherine looked at the desolate cottage and surrounding grounds. “James's mother wants to sell the property—three acres of land that could be beautiful with proper care. James's father was an only child and inherited everything, so ownership isn't a problem.”

“What
is
the problem?”

“Probably Peter's guilt about selling family land to strangers. Selling the land to James would keep it in the family, though.”

“Is James interested in buying it?”

“His mother usually brings up the topic of selling. James doesn't say anything.”

“Then what makes you think he wants to buy the land?”

“It's only an idea.”

“I see,” Marissa said knowingly. “
You
think James could buy the land as a site for a new house.”

“As I said, it's only an idea,” Catherine evaded. “Today I just wanted to show you the land and get your thoughts about how well it would suit a nice house for James. You know how he hates living in a town house.”