She’ll risk anything to save her child…even the truth
It’s taken nine years and a cross-country move, but Audra Valentine Wheyton has kept her secrets safe. She’s created the perfect life—a husband who loves her, a daughter she adores, and a position as head writer for an award-winning daytime soap. When her husband dies suddenly, Audra returns to her hometown for the funeral and faces a community that has not forgotten her meager beginnings and a man who has never forgiven her for marrying his brother.
Jack Wheyton is a successful pediatric neurosurgeon who is about to become engaged when Audra walks back into his life with her daughter. He forgave his brother long ago for taking something that had been his, something he hadn’t even realized he wanted until it was gone. But forgiving Audra is another story…and forgetting her? Near impossible.
When a shattering illness strikes Audra’s daughter, she turns to Jack to save her child and risks exposing a secret that will change their lives forever.
Dedication:
To the real Kara. A gentle and courageous warrior, who leads her life with faith, hope and purpose.
Though PULLING HOME is a work of fiction, there is a real child named Kara who has Chiari Malformation & Syringomyelia. (The first time I heard these words, I had no idea what they meant.) I have known Kara since long before her first surgery and when I decided to write a book that would involve a sick child, I wanted to acknowledge this courageous girl by using her name and a variation of her condition. Everything after that is truly the result of my very overactive imagination.
In case you were wondering about the real Kara… She was diagnosed with Chiari Malformation and Syringomyelia at age ten. Over the next eleven years, she underwent fifteen neurosurgeries and sadly, deals with chronic pain on a daily basis. Kara attends college for Deaf Interpretive Services and plans to become a Sign Language Interpreter. In her spare time, she plays guitar, writes music, paints, and is a freelance photographer.
If you would like to learn more about Chiari Malformation and Syringomyelia, please visit www.csfinfo.org.
Pulling Home
by
Mary Campisi
Copyright 2012
Smashwords Edition
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Chapter 1
“It’s not the end of the world, you know. It’s only eight days.”—Christian Wheyton
They were leaving tomorrow. Scraped away from her like a D&C without anesthetic. Even after all these years, she still dreaded it—the suitcases, tagged and waiting at the front door, the early morning trip to the airport, the luggage checks, the lines of travelers snaking past. Each process pulled Audra Valentine Wheyton’s husband and daughter away, minds and bodies beginning the two thousand mile trek before they reached the first escalator. Kara had a new suitcase this time, pink and green canvas with wheels to replace the Cinderella vinyl she’d used the past six trips.
Christian thought Audra should stay home and forego the airport ritual, but she needed to watch her daughter’s blond head disappear among the mesh of travelers and gain comfort from her husband’s tanned hand raised in one last good-bye. He no longer asked her to go with them, but his pale blue eyes shone with hope each time he packed his suitcase and looked at her with a quiet longing that begged, Come with us. Settle the past. Show them it doesn’t matter anymore.
But it did matter. It would always matter. Christian thought the past would never catch up with her and if it did, no one would recognize it as hers anyway. He discounted the one person who might piece together the truth and recognize her deceit. Nine years and nine states separated them, but she feared him most.
“I saw the show today.” The softness in Christian’s voice cocooned her and she snuggled closer. “I like where you’re going with it.”
“You didn’t think it was too revealing?” Writing a story was one thing but watching the scripted words morph onto the screen and slip through someone else’s mouth? Especially words tied to a past only three people in the entire state of California knew about? That was close to torture.
“Give yourself a little credit, Audra. Soap Digest wouldn’t call you a masterful storyteller if it weren’t true.”
Of course Christian supported her but what did a man entranced by the Cold War know about hype and wordplay? She sighed and said, “There are no masterful storytellers in daytime drama.”
He was not going to be denied his opinion. “What about People’s blurb last month? Bland doesn’t make People, unless it’s a new diet or health food craze.”
Her husband, the optimist. “You don’t think it has to do with the public’s insane quest to unearth the identity of the show’s head writer?”
“Maybe.” He stroked her back, played with the ends of her shoulder-length hair in that familiar way he did when he was thinking, as though he were turning the pages of a well-worn document.
“It has everything to do with morbid curiosity. Howard’s got the press wrapped up in the mystery and he’s going to play it as long as he can.” By the time her identity squeaked out, and it would eventually, she’d be months, maybe even a year past the current storyline, and it wouldn’t matter. It only mattered now, when the critical aspects of the story might be recognized for what they were—a duplication of her own life. From the moment she walked on the set thirteen months ago, the staff knew her only as Rhetta Hardt, a clever name born of Howard Krozer’s imagination and obsession with all things German. The rest of the staff believed they were protecting ‘Rhetta’s’ identity, forming a camaraderie of sorts to band against overzealous fans and too curious reporters, and it was this desire to be part of the informed group which led them to trust blindly.
Many whispered their own suspicions about the dark-haired woman who rarely smiled. One said she’d defected from Germany to flee the stigma of parents convicted of spying. Another maintained Rhetta was in witness protection for turning state’s evidence on a kingpin boyfriend who had been engaged in drug or arms dealing. Only a few believed Howard Krozer’s fabricated story. And once they met Christian, who had been introduced sans last name, he became part of the wondering. Perhaps a good part of the fantasizing as well. The costume designer with the double knee replacements invited Christian to coffee every time she saw him, even brought raspberry streusel when she knew he’d be on the set. And 38DD Sophia Pregganio pumped extra purr into her love scenes when she spotted him. Even Roland Gergi offered up a wink and a promise to ditch his partner, Julio, if Christian would only look his way. It was all spoken in fun with the half seriousness of those who aren’t quite joking.
And all the while, Howard smiled and popped handfuls of Chiclets in his mouth, another obsession of the sixty-something soap guru. People don’t care about the truth, he’d told Audra. They only care about supporting what they believe is the truth, which is rarely even close. He was right about that. The truth was nowhere close.
“So”—Christian heaved a sigh and pulled her from her thoughts—“are we going to talk about tomorrow?”
And there it was, the segue to tomorrow and the beginning of eight days of longing and loneliness.
“Audra?”
“I’m sorry. Just distracted, I guess.”
Christian kissed the top of her head. “It’s not the end of the world, you know. It’s only eight days.”
His presence calmed her as it had so many times before—during the scandalous death of her mother, the loss of her beloved grandmother, the horrific labor pains and emergency c-section. “I know,” she murmured, relaxing despite the dreaded separation. “This is just not a good time. Kara’s really excited about her gymnastics classes and Peter promised to take her to the set next week and…” Who was she kidding? It would never be a good time.
“I’ll miss you.”
When she didn’t answer, he loosened his hold and tipped her chin up so he could see her face. “Moscow was twenty days.”
“Moscow was work. And besides, it’s a world away from San Diego.”
“So is Holly Springs.”
“Very funny.” She envied Christian’s light-hearted view of the world. With him there was always a solution, often tinged with a glint of humor which made the worst scenarios seem not so bad, especially when delivered with a wide smile and flash of dimple. “I’m going to miss you and Kara, whether it’s three days away or thirteen.”
“I know.” And then with the tiniest glimmer of hope, he said, “You could go with us.”
“You know I can’t.”
He didn’t respond, just held her while she breathed in his comforting scent. From the moment they’d exchanged vows nine years ago, he’d promised to be there for her and he had, with the exception of the annual research projects that took him to Moscow. But she hadn’t minded any of it, not even the three week excursion to Altai and Novosibirsk. History professors researched and traveled so when they returned home they could write and lecture with purpose and familiarity. It was the biannual trips to Holly Springs, New York which left her queasy and unsettled. Every trip. Every year. Every time.
“How about I fix my favorite girl a piece of cinnamon toast, just the way she likes it?”
A smile slipped grudgingly from Audra’s lips. “Only if it has gobs of butter and your special cinnamon sugar mix.”
“Absolutely.” He kissed her softly on the mouth. “Then we’ll head to bed. Morning will come soon enough.”
Chapter 2
“Be careful, there won’t be a net underneath.”—Audra Valentine Wheyton
“Mommy!” Kara bounced into the room in a whirl of pink cotton and leapt onto Audra’s lap. “Can I wake up Daddy?”
At eight years old, Kara Rachel Wheyton had Christian’s hair, a golden curly thickness with a life of its own that required extra wide hair bands to keep it tied up. She had his smile, too—open, welcoming, not shy and timid like Audra’s had been at that age. Her eyes were a pale blue that shifted to light and dark depending on mood. There wasn’t much about her that resembled Audra, perhaps her ears or maybe her toes, a sad contribution from someone who had weathered three months of morning sickness, a swollen belly, and an emergency caesarean section.
“Mommy? Please let me wake up Daddy.”
Audra clasped her daughter’s small hands and kissed the center of each palm. She had her father’s fingers. And his chin. “Go get dressed first, pumpkin. Then we’ll wake Daddy.”
“Can I call Grandma before we leave, too?”
“If we have time.”
“I wish you were coming so you could see the swing set Grandpa built for me.” Her lips pulled into a wide smile, revealing a missing front tooth. “The rope is really fun. And he added a fort and a ladder.”
“Be careful, there won’t be a net underneath.”
She made a face. “I don’t need a net. I’m eight years old.”
“Such an old lady.”
“Yeah.” Kara’s smile flipped then faded. “Why can’t you come with us?”
“You know why.” It was easier to slip a lie into the reason Audra couldn’t return to her hometown than to try and explain the truth.
“I wish you didn’t have that stupid job.”
“Kara—”
“Why can’t you have a job like Daddy? He can take off in the summers.”
“Well, that’s because Daddy’s in love with things like the Truman Doctrine and the Yalta Conference and he spends his summers learning about them.”
Kara giggled. “He’s in love with you, too.”
“Yes, sweetheart, he’s in love with me, too.” She pointed at her daughter and whispered, “And you.”
“Yup.” Kara bound off Audra’s lap as though her mother were a balance beam and said, “Uncle Peter said he’d take me to Universal Studios when I got back from Holly Springs.”
“Good. He can ride with you on Jurassic Park.”
“’Cause your tummy jumps too high right before you hit the water.”
“Right.” Talk of Peter Andellieu always got Kara’s attention. She’d been infatuated with the plastic surgeon and star of Dr. Perfection since the first time Audra invited him home to dinner five years ago. Despite his impeccable wardrobe and the fact that he’d never engaged in conversation with a child, much less an over-inquisitive one like Kara, he’d crouched next to her and accepted the soggy puzzle piece she thrust at him with good grace and a dazzling smile. By the third visit, Kara dubbed him ‘Uncle’ Peter, a title that gained him official entry into the Wheyton family.
“Daddy said he and Uncle Peter will take me to a Padres game when we get back. You can go too, if you want.”
Relieved to have the conversation shift to more pleasant topics, Audra wrinkled her nose. “I’ll wait for football. Now scoot and get ready, then we’ll wake Daddy.”
“Be right back.” Kara flipped down the hall toward the stairs with three cartwheels and a round-off.
Audra straightened the pillows on the couch and tucked a copy of Soap Digest into the magazine rack. She’d better wake Christian and warn him his daughter would be pouncing on him in a few minutes. She moved down the long hallway and tapped softly on the bedroom door, waiting for the low mumblings of sleep to surface. “Christian?” She eased the door open and peered inside. Slits of light poked through the blinds, casting strips of brightness on the room. The oxford shirt and khaki slacks for the trip hung from a hook outside the closet, loafers and socks resting beneath it. His suitcase stretched open on the floor, socks with socks, shirts with shirts, pants with pants, folded and compartmentalized. Her lips twitched as she thought of the special shoe covers he used to protect his clothing from coming into contact with ‘the contaminants on his soles.’ He’d brought order and love into her life, along with a sense of belonging and simple acceptance, and for that, she would always love him.
“Come on, sleepyhead. Time to get up.”
He lay on his stomach, his head half buried under a pillow, arms extended, shoulders and back exposed. The rest of his torso was covered with a single sheet. Even in the dimness of the room she could make out the sleek definition of muscle. She reached over and lifted the pillow from his head. His right hand thudded against the bed, his eyes remained closed, mouth partially open. “Christian?” She shook his shoulder, gently, then harder as the iciness of his skin seeped into her hand. She grabbed for his fingers, felt their stiffness. “Christian!” Her scream bounced off the walls in desperate, agonizing pleas, but she knew he couldn’t hear them, knew he would never hear them. Her husband was dead.
Chapter 3
“Audra Valentine? It wouldn’t surprise me, after the way her mother carried on, the poor thing probably knows nothing about mothering.”—Marion Fitzpatrick
Jack Wheyton didn’t like surprises. He dealt with enough in the operating room on a daily basis but dammit if Leslie hadn’t gone and planned a birthday party for him, a surprise one no less, that he’d found out about from his friend, Bernie Kalowicz.
It wasn’t like he could back out without looking like a complete jerk or devastating Leslie. She was so damn passionate about everything, which could be good or bad, depending on one’s situation and perspective. That passion made her an excellent nurse, the perfect caregiver for the children Jack operated on. Those kids needed hope as they lay in their beds, bandaged and bruised in body and spirit. The parents needed that same hope and Leslie gave it to them with encouraging words and a calming presence. If a family requested she remain with their child after surgery, she did, whether she was scheduled or not. The floor called her White Angel because she hovered around the ill, willing them back to health. Who wouldn’t admire a woman like this?
And then there was the sex, which coupled with passion, proved downright explosive. Her father might be one of the most respected clergymen in the community, but Pastor Richot’s daughter wasn’t timid with her body or her needs. The first time Jack went to the Pastor’s house for Sunday dinner, he couldn’t look at Leslie’s mouth uttering the blessing without remembering what she’d been doing with it an hour before.
There were only two stumbling blocks, or maybe he should call them boulders. Grant Richot, Assistant Professor of Pediatric Neurosurgery at McMahon Children’s Hospital. Jack’s personal pain in the ass. They’d been sparring since seventh grade when Suzie Sandervall stuffed a rabbit’s foot in Jack’s back pocket. It was green with a gold chain, very cool, only problem was the love note attached, which wouldn’t have been a problem if she hadn’t been Grant’s girlfriend. That was the beginning of the war that spanned two decades and worsened three years ago with the accident that killed Grant’s wife and smashed the nerves in his right hand.
Recently, Jack and Grant had been brought before the Chief of Pediatric Neurosurgery and ordered to stop bullying one another and start working together or they would find themselves suspended. And so began a civil period of agreeing to disagree. Of course, Grant never missed an opportunity to snipe at Jack, not that Leslie listened to him. She loved Jack, had told him several times, showed him in many ways, including but not limited to the bathtub, the Jacuzzi, the back seat of his Expedition, and the hospital parking lot. Which brought up the second stumbling block—Leslie was his brother’s ex-girlfriend. She swore on her father’s bible she never slept with Christian or any other man until her sexual liberation in Barbados where she discovered ‘the wonder, the joy, and the addiction’ of sex.
Now how could Jack complain when she put it like that? So what if she were almost engaged to Christian when he dumped her for someone else? So what if she occasionally intimidated Jack with her vast knowledge of sex and its pleasures? What man would really complain about too much sex?
Leslie was smart, compassionate, great in bed, and she knew a doctor’s life didn’t shut off after eight hours. She made solid wife material. So what if there hadn’t been a bell clanging against his brain when he met her? The one and only time that happened he hadn’t recognized it until it was too late, and obviously the other party hadn’t heard the same bell—not even a tinkle.
It was time to settle down. No kids though. It half killed him when he lost one of his patients. Having a child left a person too exposed, too vulnerable, too raw. He’d seen the grief in his own family when they lost his little sister, Rachel, at age eleven to meningitis. No warning, just an uncontrollable fever and a final trip to the emergency room in the back of the Town & Country with its fake wood-sided panels. Rachel was the reason he’d become a pediatric neurosurgeon, the reason he’d worked two and three jobs to pay his way through med school, the reason he’d pushed everything else aside to become one of the most respected in his field. Maybe she was even the reason he’d thrown away his one chance at true love—because it had come ten years too early.
But that was the past. Leslie was his present. The least he could do was attend his own surprise birthday party and if he were really lucky, she’d save a little frosting and give him his own private party later on.
The only downside was Christian. His flight landed tomorrow afternoon and Jack promised to have dinner at his parents’ house so he could spend a few hours with his brother. Not that a few hours twice a year was enough time to get reacquainted, but at least they had that. Christian’s daughter would be with him. Kara. He still had a hard time being around her. She called him Uncle Jack, told him the only other uncle she had was Uncle Peter, and he wasn’t a real uncle, just a friend who acted like an uncle, whatever that meant. And then she’d throw her tiny arms around him and hug his waist and he’d stand there, feeling helpless and inadequate.
It was like that every time she came. The older she got, the more her cheeks hollowed out, her eyebrows arched, her hair grew fuller, her smile, brighter. The older she got the more she reminded him of her mother…Audra Valentine Wheyton. Christian’s wife. The woman he hoped never to see again.
***
“For Heaven’s sake, Alice, will you stop with the fussing? You act like Christian can’t find food in California.”
Alice Wheyton lifted a cherry pie from the oven and set it on a wire grate. “Joyce, you mean to tell me if Susie were traveling twenty-two hundred miles to see you, you wouldn’t be cooking up a storm, fixing that beef tip and pepper dish she likes so much?”
Joyce Kirkshorn slid her pink-gray glasses up the bridge of her nose. She was soft and round with a voice to match. “Alls I’m saying is the boy’s coming to see you and if you keep it up, you’ll be too tired to enjoy the visit.”
“Hah. I’ll save the tiredness for when he leaves.” Alice placed the second pie, this one apple, on the other wire rack. “The cherry’s for Christian, the apple’s for Jack.” She slipped off her oven mitts. “Can’t favor one boy over the other, you ladies know that.” She walked to the round oak table where her three friends sat, pulled out a chair, and plopped down.
“Less you only have one.” This from Marion Fitzpatrick, a tiny woman with a beak-like nose and curly gray hair. “Rose’s all I’ve got, so she gets all the pampering. And all Rose’s got is Hannah.” She looked up from the tiny bootie she was knitting, shrugged her shoulders and said, “Makes it kinda easy that way, nothin’ to fight about.”
“But no brothers or sisters?” Tilly McMally, the one they called ‘string bean’ spoke up. “Least I’ve got Katie and George, and five grandkids between them.”
Marion’s tiny fingers flew over the sea-green knitting needles. “God’s will’s all I can say. Didn’t have a choice in those days, not like today, when a person can decide the who, what, where, when, why, and even the if.”
Joyce nodded. “That’s for sure. Five kids in eight years, all those diapers, cloth, not the disposable ones these mothers have today, and the laundry—”
“And can you imagine asking your husband for help?” Alice chuckled. “Asking him to feed the baby or change a dirty diaper so you can go soak in a tub with Calgon Bouquet and read this month’s Good Housekeeping?”
“Sure, I can,” Tilly said. “Merv would have said, ‘Go right ahead dear, soak as long as you want, after you feed the kids and change their diapers. Oh, and don’t forget to pack my lunch for tomorrow. I’ll take roast beef on rye.’”
Alice and her friends had lived within three blocks of one another for over thirty years. They met three times a week, usually at Alice’s, supposedly because her house boasted the largest kitchen and least commotion. Truth was, of the four women Alice possessed the easiest temperament and it didn’t bother her to dirty a few dishes, unlike Tilly, who wiped and washed as soon as a person used a spoon or spilled a drop of milk. Out came the old dish rag, red and white checked, scouring, polishing, drying. Her friends hadn’t been in her kitchen since the day it snowed two years ago, and Joyce forgot to wear boots and trekked snow through the kitchen. Tilly yanked out the mop, sloshed Mr. Clean in a bucket and proceeded to wash the entire floor.
Marion was just as bad in her own way—she went to the grocery store once every two weeks, sometimes two and a half, boasted about how she spent less than fifteen dollars for herself and Henry, and then offered Alice, Tilly, and Joyce day-old doughnuts picked up from the reduced for quick sale counter and one cup of coffee, generic blend. Marion said if a body wanted a second cup, she’d have to put down her buck twenty-five, plain as rain. Alice tried to tell Tilly and Joyce that Marion was tight—frugal was a more friendly term—because she’d been raised in a house with eight mouths to feed and a father dead of a heart attack at forty-three. Tilly said that story didn’t hold water, that Marion would charge her own mother the buck twenty-five for a second cup of coffee.
They used to go to Joyce’s on occasion until five months ago, when her son, Walter, moved home. At thirty-seven, he was separated from his wife, Ginny, and though they’d been in counseling for three months, and he’d joined AA, Ginny still didn’t want him back home, said she couldn’t trust him not to drink again. Joyce said Ginny was getting used to pawning the two little ones on Walter and going out with her girlfriends on Saturday night, said if the woman didn’t straighten up, she’d be the one joining AA.
All in all, Alice’s house was the most logical choice for their get togethers. She loved baking—banana bread, cinnamon coffee cake, apple strudel, pecan pie. And she didn’t mind a mess, actually preferred the disorder because it meant a person wasn’t getting set in her ways. There were no grandchildren to pop in, no children stopping by with laundry to iron or requests for two dozen chocolate chip cookies for the next Girl Scout meeting, nothing but Alice and of course, Joe.
She’d been married to Joseph Wheyton for forty-three years, most of them good, a few of them rough, the worst, the year Rachel died. Joe was an honest man and a hard worker, though bad knees had forced him to retire three years ago. He’d been a bricklayer for forty-two years, never missed a day’s work, except when he had pneumonia back in ’72 and then, when Rachel died. The man had an opinion about everything, no matter if he knew anything about it or not. He said it was his duty as a United States citizen to exercise his right to freedom of speech and if he didn’t, then who knew when it might be taken away. Alice told him more than his speech would be taken away if he didn’t cut out the smoking and fried bologna sandwiches.
Joe spent most days in his wood shop, puttering around, making bowls and specialty music boxes from blocks of wood—curly maple, poplar, ash. He’d made Alice a music box last year that played Dr. Zhivago’s, Somewhere My Love. It was crafted from mahogany, the detail so exquisite that when he gave it to her she cried. The man might not say the words very often, but I love you had been staring back at her from the smooth, mahogany gloss.
For all his orneriness, Joe Wheyton had two weak spots softer than a ball of dough that’s raised and doubled twice—one for his granddaughter, Kara, and the other for the daytime soap, On Eden Street. When Kara came to visit twice a year, he’d pull her onto his lap and tell her stories about his boyhood, how his father immigrated from Ireland and worked as a bricklayer, teaching his own sons, Joey, Tommy, and Georgie, the art of bricklaying, while his ma, Kara’s great grandmother, canned tomatoes, beans, peppers, and took in other people’s laundry so they could make ends meet. Then he’d go on about Kara’s father, Christian, and Jack, recounting the time they gave Mrs. Slater’s toy poodle a haircut and when Christian talked Jack into wrapping him in twelve rolls of Scotts so he could see what it felt like to be a mummy. There were always stories, new ones every time, dug deep from the well of Joe’s timeless memory. Christian was always the accomplice, Jack the perpetrator. Alice loved to stand in the kitchen doorway, unseen, and watch her husband and granddaughter together. Joe grew years younger, his mood lightened, the frown around his mouth eased. If only they could be together more often, if only they didn’t live two thousand miles away...if only that woman hadn’t taken her son away.
Joe used to deny the other soft spot by downplaying the importance of it in his daily routine. He finally fessed up six months ago, albeit unwillingly and with a promise from his wife and her friends that his secret stayed within the confines of the Wheyton home. Joe Wheyton loved On Eden Street. Obsessively. The man planned his doctor’s appointments, woodworking, and yard care around the 3:00 o’clock spot when the soap aired. When he did have to miss it for an occasional doctor’s appointment and such, he taped it to watch as soon as he got home. For all his gruff mannerisms, Alice’s friends discovered what she herself had known for years—Joe Wheyton might act like Archie Bunker, but deep down, he was more Mr. Rogers, (plus sixty pounds, minus the Won’t you be my neighbor voice.)
“Alice, what time do you expect Christian and Kara?” This came from Joyce as she heaped two spoonfuls of sugar into her coffee.
“The plane gets in at five twenty-five. Jack’s supposed to pick them up if he doesn’t get called to the hospital. I’ve got Angie Mulligan’s boy as backup.”
“You should have told me,” Joyce said. “Walter could have gone. It would do him good to have something to do other than go to work and sit home sulking while he waits for Ginny to tell him to come back home.”
“She might not, you know,” Tilly said, matter-of-factly. “Some women get a taste of freedom and then they don’t care about the kids or the husband.” Tilly wagged a bony finger. “All they can think about is trying to be twenty-one again.”
“I know that,” Joyce snapped. “You think I don’t know that?”
“That’s why sometimes it’s just easier having one to worry about,” Marion said, not looking up from her knitting. “Odds are better you’ll have less heartache.”
“Some people think having one child isn’t fair to the child.” Joyce crossed her arms over her ample middle and stared at the top of Marion’s steel-gray head. “Some call it a punishment.”
Marion shrugged. “Rose don’t act like she’s been punished, neither does Hannah. How about Kara, Alice? She seem punished?”
Alice rested her hands on either side of her coffee cup. “No. I wouldn’t say so.” She paused. “Though I think she’d love to have a little brother or sister.”
“Of course she would,” Joyce said.
“Maybe the wife doesn’t want any more,” Tilly speculated.
Marion clucked her tongue and turned up her beaky nose. “Audra Valentine? It wouldn’t surprise me, after the way her mother carried on, the poor thing probably knows nothing about mothering.”
“The grandmother raised her.”
“Of course she did. The mother ran around with every man who’d look at her. I heard she was seeing Ben Cummings.”
“I heard John O’Connell.”
“Edgar Vanderwalt, too.”
“Stop.” Alice sucked in a deep breath. “No matter what we think about her mother or her, she’s still my son’s wife and she’s the mother of my granddaughter. Besides, I may not be very fond of the woman, but she isn’t,” she paused, reached beyond her daughter-in-law’s murky past for the proper words, “like her mother.”
“Of course not.”
“No.”
“We all know that.”
Of course, they all thought she was exactly like her mother, maybe worse. What kind of woman ran away with a man who was practically engaged to someone else? And took him two thousand miles away from a mother who had already lost one child? It was pure wrong and if that little hussy thought they couldn’t do the math, she could think again. Kara Rachel Wheyton pounced into the world eight months after the supposed wedding date and the only reason none of them brought it up was because they knew Alice had suffered enough and no amount of candle lighting or prayers to St. Jude would lessen her burden.
The phone rang then, piercing through their distasteful recollection of Christian’s, ahem, wife. Alice rose and reached for the cordless phone. “Hello. Audra?”
Speak of the she-devil.
“Audra?” Alice’s voice dipped. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Tilly, Joyce, and Marion fell silent. Marion glanced up from her knitting.
“What? Oh, God, no.” Alice’s words plummeted to a barely audible, “Dear God, please no,” seconds before the phone slipped from her fingers and crashed to the floor.
“Alice? Alice!” Tilly sprung from her chair and thrust a lanky arm around her friend. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Alice shook her head as a fine tremble coursed through her and settled on her shoulders. There were tears in her eyes, on her cheeks, running down her chin. Pain and agony roiled inside her chest, fighting to get out, scream what must be said, what must be put into words but would never be understood. “Christian,” she managed, sinking into a chair, shoulders slumping forward as she buried her face in her work-worn hands. “Christian.”
Tilly, Joyce and Marion stood inches from their friend, drenched in their own tears as they waited for her to speak, knowing what she would say, seconds before she uttered the awful, irrevocable agony of truth. “Christian’s dead.”
Chapter 4
“I never forgave him for marrying her and leaving us. And now, it’s too late.”—Alice Wheyton
The Wheyton house was a beige two-story lodged between a ranch and a tri-level on Sycmaore Street. For the casual passerby, Joe Wheyton’s profession could be evidenced in the brick and mortar surrounding the house—red brick next to the front stoop, red brick strewn in patterns of sidewalk and path leading to a backyard, where again, red brick stacked upon red brick to form a massive fire pit and patio. It was a modest home, yet comfortable enough to have raised three children here, though Rachel only lived to age eleven. They’d buried her on a frosty, winter morning and now, twenty years later, their second son would be laid alongside her.
Alice decided one day of viewing at Gilcrest Funeral Home was all she could take. No one could expect her to go through this again—God not again—and yet, here they were. She’d refused the valium Jack brought over and flushed them down the toilet so she wouldn’t be tempted to pop all five in her mouth and be done with it.
It was the child who would get them through this. Kara was a Wheyton, from the pale blueness of her eyes to the tiny cleft in her chin. She was only eight, but she would pull them through with her soft innocence and lopsided smile. The mother was another story. Audra Valentine. She still didn’t like to think of her as a Wheyton. The woman didn’t belong here. It didn’t matter that she was beautiful and poised, Alice saw none of that. All she saw when she looked at her was their Christian. And now he was dead.
It would be crazy to blame the woman for her son’s death, but she did blame her for stealing years and thousands of memories they could have clung to now. She was the reason their son moved to California, the reason he stayed away, doling out two visits a year like a miser, and then only eight days at a time. At least Alice had squelched Audra’s plans to get a hotel. Did the woman think this was San Diego? The closest Holly Springs had to a Holiday Inn was Lonnie Larson’s four unit rental.
There would be no sleep tonight, not with the pain of her son’s death clawing at her and the constant reminder of his shocking decision nine years ago sleeping upstairs. Alice decided on fresh air to clear her head. She flicked on the back porch light and spotted her husband sitting on the steps. “Joe?” She made her way toward him. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
She sank onto the steps beside him, the thin cotton of her nightgown rubbing against his arm. “Me neither. I don’t know if I’ll ever sleep again.”
“You should have taken one of those valiums Jack left.”
“I told you, I’m too numb already.”
“He’s just trying to make it easier for you.” Joe blew out a long, thin line of smoke from the cigarette he wasn’t supposed to be smoking.
“What are we going to do?” Her voice slipped and cracked open. “I don’t think I can get through this again.” The softness of his T-shirt muffled her words. “It’s too much.”
Joe threw his cigarette on the ground and pulled her close. “I know.”
“Why did it have to be him?” Pain thrummed in her soul. “He was kind, and good, and oh, God, why did it have to be him?”
“I don’t know.” He pulled her closer and stroked her hair.
“I talked to him three days ago. Think of that. Three days ago he was alive. And I was snippy with him because he was cutting his trip short a day to get back for a research project. I told him he never spent extra time here and two times a year was nothing.” She clutched his arm and wiped her face against his sleeve. “I said he had a responsibility to let us know our granddaughter. Oh, Joe, what did I do? How can I live with that?”
“It’s okay. The boy knew you loved him. We all loved him.”
“He was the best part of all of us and I never told him that. I never forgave him for marrying her and leaving us and now, it’s too late.”
***
Audra sat in the burgundy cushioned chair positioned discreetly to the left of the coffin, far enough away to remove her from the immediate onslaught of visitors who had come to pay their respects, a steady stream of sound and movement, inching toward her, threatening to suck the air from her lungs, suffocate her with their sympathy. We’re so sorry...to be taken so young...an aneurysm we heard...so sorry...the poor child, Kara, isn’t it?
Peter had wanted to come and help her through this but she’d told him, no. She owed Christian this much, for everything he’d given her.
Christian’s Aunt Virginia sat next to her, a frosty white-haired woman with three strands of faux pearls draped around her neck and a clump of tiny ones clipped to her ears. Aunt Virginia was Joe Wheyton’s oldest sister, the matriarch of the Wheyton family, a duty passed on to her with the death of Annabelle, Virginia and Joe’s mother, twelve years before. Aunt Virginia was a retired English teacher who treated her family like her students. If there was a lesson to be learned in any given situation, then the good Lord willing, Miss Virginia Wheyton was going to teach it, not from practical experience, mind you, but from the books she’d read and the ideas she’d formulated from those books on how things should be, how life should be.
Christian had told Audra all about his Aunt Virginia, how she’d never married, never left Holly Springs except to see Jack receive his medical degree and once, to have a breast biopsy that turned out negative. She still lived in the same house she grew up in, three blocks from St. Peter’s, the parochial school where she’d taught for four decades before retiring seven years ago.
“No mother should have to see her child in a coffin,” Aunt Virginia whispered none too quietly. “It’s not natural.”
Audra stared at the edge of the coffin. The golden blond of Christian’s hair spilled out in smooth waves from the crown of his head. Would it still be soft, or had death stripped the texture, drained the shafts and left them stiff and coarse? She hadn’t been able to touch his hair, hadn’t been able to touch him, not in the casket, lying there, so unnatural, eyes closed, hands folded over his stomach. He didn’t look like he was sleeping. Anyone who knew him knew he couldn’t sleep unless he was on his stomach or curled on his side with a pillow partially covering his head. That was Christian sleeping. This straight back, stiff hands folded thing, this was Christian looking uncomfortable, unnatural. Dead.
“There’s Pastor Richot, nice looking man he is, and a true saint if ever there was one.” Aunt Virginia sighed and nodded toward the man clasping Alice Wheyton’s hand. Tall, with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses, his features were kind, his demeanor approachable, as befitting a man of faith. “Too bad he’s Lutheran,” she said under her breath. “Even so, Father Benedict could learn a thing or two about humility and suffering from that man.”
Audra remembered Father Bartholomew Benedict and his insistence that no one stand in the back of the church during Mass. More than once, he’d halted his sermon mid-sentence to summon the offenders by name to a pew. She’d never cared for the man but Grandma Lenore believed a priest stood on the right hand of God, next to good and righteousness.
“Father will come by soon enough.” Virginia Wheyton grabbed Audra’s hand and stuffed a rosary in the middle of her palm. “Pray for your husband’s parents. They’re the ones who need the prayers, not the dead, their fate is already decided.”
Why did he have to die? Why did everyone she loved always have to die? Not the dead...not the dead...The woman’s words droned in her head, sucked her back to the childhood she’d fought so hard to overcome...
Growing up Audra Valentine hadn’t been easy. She’d been conceived in the back seat of a beat-up Chevy and dumped on her arthritic grandmother’s lap while her own mother primped and plied herself with rum and coke, or sometimes, gin, and other men’s flattery. It had all ended badly, with Corrine Valentine overdosing on valium ten days before her thirty-first birthday.
“Audra? Audra!” Aunt Virginia’s high-pitched voice pierced her brain, pulled her back. “Did you not hear a word I said?”
“I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake, pull yourself together and go say hello to your brother-in-law. I know it’s been years since you’ve seen Jack but give him a hug before people start thinking you hate us all.” She lifted a bony finger and pointed. “He’s the good looking one in the doorway. And the woman with him, that’s his future fiancé.”
Audra had prepared for this moment for days—no years. She knew she would eventually have to face Jack Wheyton again. But why now, when she was weak and vulnerable and in such pain? The truth slid out—nothing short of death would have put her in the same room with him.
She glanced up and a rush of nausea pounded her stomach. Good grief, she was going to throw up! She sipped tiny gasps of air, easing herself back to normal. She would do this for Christian. Jack Whetyon stood in profile, accepting condolences from an elderly gentleman as the voluptuous brunette Aunt Virginia classified as ‘future fiancé’ clung to his arm.
“They make a darn good looking couple, don’t they?” Aunt Virginia whispered.
“Yes,” Audra managed, her gaze saturated with nine years worth of Jack Wheyton. Taller, darker, moodier than his brother, his once shaggy hair was short, his body lean and well-muscled, his clothing GQ expensive. He could make a woman—any woman—look twice.
He turned and spotted her. Anger and something else—hatred?—flashed across his face when he saw her and then it was gone. Did his step falter a half second before he moved, freezing her with eyes that had once possessed the ability to strip her of all pretense? Audra sucked in rapid breaths, preparing for the rush of air that would escape the second he spoke her name. You can do this. She squeezed the rosary Aunt Virginia had thrust in her hand minutes ago. Do this for Christian. She wet her lips and waited.
Aunt Virginia wobbled to a standing position, her black orthopedics holding her upright. “Jack, dear boy, come here.” She swooped him against her Heaven Scented bosom and crooned, “Dear sweet boy, what are we going to do now?”
Chapter 5
“Time for wedding bells and babies.”—Virginia Wheyton
Jack hugged his aunt, relieved for the few extra seconds before he had to confront his brother’s wife. When the Heaven Scent threatened to send him into a sneeze attack, he eased from his aunt’s grasp and pecked her cheek. “I know, Aunt Ginny, I know.” Then he straightened and faced her.
She wasn’t nineteen anymore, that was damn sure. Her breasts filled the pink sweater and he could guess at the tell-tale signs of ample cleavage rimming her bra, despite the absence of a neckline. His eyes were trained in female body parts which had nothing to do with his medical expertise. Jack knew women’s bodies, knew how to please them, knew how to drive them wild.
He’d known how to do both to her. Seven weeks of pure lust. He’d never told a soul about it. Had she? He glanced down which proved another fatal mistake as he caught a glimpse of thigh. Were her legs still strong and toned—like they were when she used to wrap them around his back?
“Jack,” Aunt Virgina interrupted his less than brotherly thoughts, “this is Audra Valentine.” She paused. “Christian’s wife.”
There it was, thrown right back in her face. Audra Valentine, the girl from the wrong side of town. In his family’s eyes, she would always be a Valentine first, a Wheyton, second. Jack lifted his gaze and met hers. Huge mistake. Horrible. Disastrous. She still had the most entrancing eyes, like whiskey burning his throat all the way to the lining of his gut. Right now those eyes were staring at him and through him. “Audra.” Somehow he managed to slide her name through his lips without heaving. “I’m very sorry.” Sorry I had to see you again. Sorry I ever touched you in the first place. Sorry I compare every woman I’m with to you.
“Thank you.”
The huskiness of her voice sent a thousand jolts of electricity through him. Damn her. Damn him. This was his brother’s wife, for Chrissake. But she’d been Jack’s lover first. Or had she been sleeping with both of them at the same time? That was one torture that never left him. He’d find out before she flew back to California, even if he had to pull every beautiful strand of mahogany hair from her head to do it.
She brushed her gaze past him with a coolness that surprised him. The old Audra Valentine wouldn’t have been able to dismiss him so easily. But this one pushed him aside as though he were day-old coffee. Christ, it was going to be a long few days.
“Audra.” Leslie sliced through his thoughts. “Leslie Richot. We never officially met but I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”
Jack cleared his throat. And none of it good. You’re the one who stole the man she was going to marry. He knew that’s what Leslie was thinking, knew that’s what the whole room was thinking.
Audra’s lips pulled at the ends. “I’m sure you have.”
“Leslie’s Jack’s fiancé.” Aunt Virginia clutched Jack’s hand and squeezed.
“Aunt Ginny, that’s not exactly correct.” He snatched a glance at Leslie who watched him with open curiosity.
“Why not? You’ve been seeing this girl for two years, haven’t you? And you’re thirty-five, my boy. Time for wedding bells and babies. No more dilly dallying.” She plumped out her thin lips and nodded. “It’s your duty.”
Heat crept up Jack’s neck, smothered his cheeks and chin. He was thirty-five years old but right now he felt sixteen. “This really isn’t a good time, Aunt Ginny.”
“No,” she agreed, yanking out a crumpled tissue and swiping her nose. “It’s not.” She hiccoughed and the tears escaped, streaking her rouged cheeks.
“Oh, Virginia,” Leslie patted her arm. “I know.” She lowered her voice to a sympathy pitch. “I know.”
Audra glanced at him one last time before he moved toward the casket. He didn’t want to look at his brother. He’d just faced Christian’s wife and he’d certainly not wanted to do that. But this? He swallowed and cleared his throat. This was his little brother, shrouded in cream silk and roses, his lips an unnatural pink, his skin drenched in pancake makeup. It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair and it didn’t matter that Jack was a doctor and knew life and death had nothing to do with right and fair.
Two days ago he’d stood beside his mother as she stroked Christian’s cold cheek and told him about the cherry pie she’d baked for him and how she’d bought his favorite horseradish cheese at the deli. Jack’s father grew pastier with each recount and by the time his wife started on about the stuffed pork chops she’d planned for Christian’s welcome home dinner, the old man let out a groan and half limped, half ran from the room.
Jack stood before the casket now but refused to look at his brother’s face. His gaze fell to the hands, clasped together, graceful fingers laced over one another, the gold wedding band glinting love and commitment. Jack squeezed his eyes shut. I’m sorry, Christian. Sorry I ever touched her. Forgive me. God, forgive me.
***
Audra slipped through the side door of Gilcrest Funeral Home and leaned against the white-washed brick building, heaving in gulps of humid air. The summer heat swallowed her with its hot breath making her half wish she’d stayed inside the air conditioned building. But Christian was in there. Her beautiful, dead, husband. And he was in there, too. She’d face hell before she’d spend one extra second in the same room with Jack Wheyton.
“My heavens, you look like your mother!”
Audra jumped and swung around. A smallish woman with dark hair stacked six inches high peered back at her from pale, gray eyes. Her lips were painted red, her cheeks a fainter rose which matched the shirtwaist dress hanging from her tiny frame. The dress appeared two sizes too big, and gaped at the neck, as though she’d lost weight. Or borrowed the dress. Audra decided on the latter, judging from the white tennis shoes and ankle socks.
“You’re Corrine’s daughter,” the woman said. “You look just like her.”
It was not a compliment to look like the town whore. “I’m her daughter.”
“I know you are.” The woman’s lips slipped into a wide smile. “Audra Valentine,” she said, nodding her bird’s-nest head.
“Actually, it’s Audra Wheyton.”
“’course it is.” She eyed Audra closely. “Damn awful shame about your husband. He was a good boy.”
“Thank you.”
“But I always had a soft spot for the other one. He’d make your blood boil up, don’t you think?”
“No,” she blurted out, and then, “I wouldn’t know.”
“Personal tastes, I guess.” The woman tapped a mauve-chipped nail against her chin. “Smoke?” She reached into a side pocket and pulled out a pack of Salems.
“No thanks.”
The woman tapped out a cigarette, filched a lighter from her other pocket and cupped her hands in a way that reminded Audra of a bird pecking at dinner. She drew a few puffs, blew the smoke in the air and nodded. This went on another thirty seconds or so, puffing, nodding, puffing, nodding.
“You were a friend of my mother’s?”
A nod. A puff. Another nod. “You look just like her.” The woman squinted and added, “She used to have the same brown hair, too, before she went and peroxided it like Marilyn Monroe.”
Before she became the town whore. “I see.”
“I don’t think so, Audra Valentine. I don’t think you see at all.”
“Excuse me?”
“You think you knew her?”
“As well as any fifteen year old knows her mother.” Especially a mother who sleeps around with her daughter’s high school history teacher, and the town mayor, and just about any other man with a heartbeat and a jolt of testosterone.
“I can tell by the way you talk, you don’t know a thing about her. Neither does this despicable town.” Puff. Nod. “Bunch of hypocrites. They destroyed her.”
“Who are you?” Audra wished she’d listened to Christian’s stories about the town when he returned from Holly Springs each year. There was always gossip, though she’d wanted to hear none of it for fear she’d be part of it.
“Name’s Doris O’Brien. Corrine and I were best friends.”
“Doris!”
“Cy.” Doris O’Brien pressed her thin body against the bricks of Gilcrest Funeral Home as Cyrus Gilcrest slammed out the side door to tower over her.
“Don’t you think Mrs. Wheyton has enough troubles without you stirring up more?”
“I was only—”
“If you’re here to pay respects to Mrs. Wheyton’s husband, do so, and be gone. You know Doc Angelino doesn’t like you roaming the streets.” His voice mellowed as he gripped the woman’s bony shoulder. “Why don’t you go on home now?”
Doris O’Brien deflated in a blush of mauve and smoke. “I will.” She handed him her half-smoked cigarette stained with red lipstick. When she turned to Audra, her gray eyes misted. “Good-bye, Corrine.”
Chapter 6
“Who the heck is Uncle Peter?”—Jack Wheyton
August Richot had delivered his sermons in the stain-glassed confines of Our Savior Lutheran Church for the past thirty-one years. The oak pews which seated the good pastor’s congregation for the weekly twenty-two minute sermon were scratched and worn. Generations of families flocked to Pastor Richot’s steps to partake in not only the weekly liturgy, but baptisms, marriages, and funerals—a one-stop shop for the faithful. Even the most devout Catholics, like Alice Wheyton, summoned Pastor Richot for counsel, prayer, and good common sense, the latter of which wasn’t always readily available from their own religious leader.
Holly Springs considered Pastor August Richot a human testimony to the strength of God’s will in unfortunate times. What man but a supremely holy one would care for a young wife afflicted with multiple sclerosis? And then to lose her in his early forties and never so much as glance at another woman? Not that females in Holly Springs and the surrounding communities hadn’t tried tempting his palate with their beef stroganoff dishes and chardonnays. When that failed to entice, they’d resorted to cloying perfumes and low-neck sweaters. Alas, nothing resulted but a pat on the hand and a promise to add their name to Sunday’s worship list.
The man possessed a communal strength of body and soul, coupled with endless compassion and a desire to help the less fortunate of mind and spirit. In other words, the man was a saint.
The same could not be said for Bartholomew Benedict who believed in sacrifice and martyrdom. On Sundays, he preached to the congregation of St. Peter’s about the evils of sloth, gluttony, and pride. He’d been pastor of the church for twenty-eight years with a seven year hiatus to St. Eva’s in the Dominican Republic early on, and though it was uncommon for priests to stay in the same parish for so many years, Father Benedict remained, as solid and constant as the statues which still inhabited the old fashioned church.
He was not a well-liked man, possibly because he refused to accept the humanness of the soul, his or anyone else’s which made confession a true purgatory. Rumors circled the vestibule that confession goers changed their voices so as not to be recognized through the screened panel. Those same confession goers grew disturbed and anxious when their ruse failed and Father Benedict eyed them a bit too long as they inched up the aisle toward the Holy Eucharist.
He hadn’t always been that way. Years and circumstance transformed a passionate, understanding man of the cloth into a demanding, judgmental tyrant. On rare occasions, Pastor Richot caught glimpses of the younger Father Benedict, a man he’d befriended years ago when the newly ordained priest skipped nightly prayers to visit August and debate the necessity of a pope, confessionals, and the true definition of passion as defined by the Catholic Church.
It was this younger version of Bartholomew Benedict which simmered on the edge tonight—agitated and torn. August poured two fingers of Grey Goose and handed a glass to his long-time friend. Bartholomew saluted, and downed the whiskey in one gulp. August sipped his drink and waited for the inevitable outpouring.
“She looks just like her mother, doesn’t she?”
“There is a resemblance,” he admitted, wishing it weren’t true. But that was better than having her resemble her father. That would be disastrous.
“Did you see her eyes? Like a bourbon neat.” Bartholomew reached for the bottle and poured another drink.
The entire town had been talking about the subject of Father Benedict’s tortured musings since the woman’s return. Audra Valentine looked just like Corrine, the mother who popped one too many valiums and overdosed before her daughter reached her sixteenth birthday.
“Maybe you should stay away until she leaves,” August offered, knowing propriety and Bartholomew’s position wouldn’t allow him to even consider it. After all, who would give the funeral Mass?
“Alice expects me to be there. The town expects me to be there.” He dragged both hands over his face and sighed. “God is punishing me for my indiscretions.”
The man refused to believe in his humanness, which complicated his role as humble servant of the Lord. “God isn’t making you pay, Bart. You are,” August said in a gentle voice.
Bartholomew wasn’t listening. “Her hair might be a different color, but I’ll bet it’s just as soft as her mother’s.”
“Stop it. We’ve been through this all before. Many times.”
“But if I confessed to the daughter—”
“You’d jeopardize the Church. Not to mention the bishop’s ire and a swift discharge. Then what good could you do?”
Bartholomew’s shoulders slumped. “Sometimes I wish I’d come forward when it first happened instead of running off to a different country for seven years.”
“It would have served no purpose except to hurt more people. Pray for strength, my friend. Audra Valentine will be gone in a few days.”