Erica Spindler (4 page)

Avery went through the motions. She ate, commented on the food, joined in story swapping. But her heart wasn't in it. Nor was anyone else's, that was obvious to her. As was how hard they were trying to make it like it used to be. How hard they were wanting to comfort with normalcy.

But how could anything be normal ever again? In years gone by, her parents had sat with her at this table. She, Matt and Hunter would have been clustered together, whispering or joking.

She missed Hunter, Avery realized. She felt the lack of his presence keenly.

Hunter had been the most intellectual of the group. Not the most intelligent, because both he and Matt had sailed through school, neither having to crack a book to maintain an A average, both scoring near-perfect marks on their SATs.

But Hunter had possessed a sharp, sarcastic wit. He'd been incapable of the silliness the rest of them had sometimes wallowed in. He had often been the voice of wry reason in whatever storm was brewing.

She hadn't been surprised to hear he had become a successful lawyer. Between his keen mind and razor-sharp tongue, he'd no doubt consistently decimated the opposition.

She brought him up as Lilah served the pie. “Matt tells me that Hunter's moved back to Cypress Springs. I'd hoped he would be here tonight.”

Silence fell around the table. Avery shifted her gaze from one face to the next. “I'm sorry, did I say something wrong?”

Buddy cleared his throat. “Of course not, baby girl. It's just that Hunter's had some troubles lately. Lost his partnership in the New Orleans law firm. Was nearly disbarred, from what I hear. Moved back here about ten months ago.”

“I don't know why he bothered,” Matt added. “For all the time he spends with his family.”

Cherry frowned. “I wish he hadn't come home. He only did it to hurt us.”

“Now, Cherry,” Buddy murmured, “you don't know that.”

“The hell I don't. If he was any kind of brother, any kind of son, he would be here for us. Instead, he—”

Lilah launched to her feet. Avery saw she was near tears. “I'll get the coffee.”

“I'll help.” Cherry tossed her napkin on the table and got to her feet, expression disgusted. She looked at Avery. “Tell you the truth, all Hunter's ever done is break our hearts.”

T
alk of Hunter drained the joy from the gathering, and the remainder of the evening passed at a snail's pace. Lilah's smile looked artificial; Cherry's mood darkened with each passing moment and Buddy's jubilance bordered on manic.

Finally, pie consumed, coffee cups drained, Avery said her thanks and made her excuses. Cherry and Lilah said their goodbyes in the dining room; Buddy accompanied her and Matt to the door.

Buddy hugged her. “You broke all our hearts when you left. But no one's more than mine. I'd had mine set on you being my daughter.”

Avery returned his embrace. “I love you, too, Buddy.”

Matt walked her to her car. “Pretty night,” she murmured, lifting her face to the night sky. “So many stars. I'd forgotten how many.”

“I enjoyed tonight, Avery. It was like old times.”

Avery met his eyes; her pulse fluttered.

“I've missed you,” he said. “I'm glad you're back.”

She swallowed hard, acknowledging that she'd missed him, too. Or more accurately, that she'd missed standing with him this way, in his folks' driveway, under a star-sprinkled sky. Had missed the familiarity of it. The sense of belonging.

Matt put words to her thoughts. “Why'd you leave, Avery? My dad was right, you know. You belong here.
You're
one of us.”

“Why didn't you go with me?” she countered. “I asked. Begged, if I remember correctly.”

Matt lifted a hand as if to touch her, then dropped it. “You always wanted something else, something more than Cypress Springs could offer. Something more than I could offer. I never understood it. But I had to accept it.”

She shifted her gaze slightly, uncomfortable with the truth. That he could speak it so plainly. She changed the direction of their conversation. “Your dad and Cherry said you're the front-runner in next year's election for parish sheriff. I'm not surprised. You always said you were destined for great things.”

“But our definitions of great things always differed, didn't they, Avery?”

“That's not fair, Matt.”

“Fair or not, it's true.” He paused. “You broke my heart.”

She held his gaze. “You broke mine, too.”

“Then we're even, aren't we? A broken heart apiece.”

She winced at the bitter edge in his voice. “Matt, it…wasn't you. It was me. I never felt—”

She had been about to say how she had never felt she belonged in Cypress Springs. That once she'd become a teenager, she had always felt slightly out of step, different in subtle but monumental ways from the other girls she knew.

Those feelings seemed silly now. The thoughts of a self-absorbed young girl.

“What about now, Avery?” he asked. “What do you want now? What do you need?”

Discomfited by the intensity of his gaze, she looked away. “I don't know. I don't want to return to where I was, I'm certain of that. And I don't mean the geographical location.”

“Sounds like you have some thinking to do.”

A giant understatement
. She turned to the Blazer, unlocked the door, then faced him once more. “I should go. I'm asleep on my feet and tomorrow's going to be difficult.”

“You could stay here, you know. Mom and Dad have plenty of room. They'd love to have you.”

A part of her longed to jump at the offer. The idea of sleeping in her parents' house now, after her father…she didn't think she would sleep a wink.

But taking the easy way would be taking the coward's way. She had to face her father's suicide. She'd begin tonight, by sleeping in her childhood home.

He reached around her and opened her car door. “Still fiercely independent, I see. Still stubborn as a mule.”

She slid behind the wheel, started the vehicle, then looked back up at him “Some would consider those qualities an asset.”

“Sure they would. In mules.” He bent his face to hers. “If you need anything, call me.”

“I will. Thanks.” He slammed the door. She backed the Blazer down the steep driveway, then headed out of the subdivision, pointing the vehicle toward the old downtown neighborhood where she had grown up.

Avery shook her head, remembering how she had begged her parents to follow the Stevenses to Spring Water, the then new subdivision where Matt and his family had bought a house. She had been enamored with the sprawling ranch homes and neighborhood club facilities: pool, tennis court and clubhouse for parties.

What had then looked so new and cool to her, she saw now as cheaply built, cookie-cutter homes on small plots of ground that had been cleared to make room for as many houses per acre as possible.

Luckily, her parents had refused to move from their location within walking distance of the square, down
town and her father's office. Solidly built in the 1920s, their house boasted high ceilings, cypress millwork and the kind of charm available only at a premium today. The neighborhood, too, was vintage—a wide, tree-lined boulevard lit by gas lamps, each home set back on large, shady lots. Unlike many cities whose downtown neighborhoods had fallen victim to the urban decay caused by crime and white flight, Cypress Springs' inner-city neighborhood remained as well maintained and safe as when originally built.

Despite the fact that most of Louisiana was flat, West Feliciana Parish was home to gently rolling hills. Cypress Springs nestled amongst those hills—the historic river town of St. Francisville, with its beautiful antebellum homes, lay twenty minutes southwest, Baton Rouge, forty-five minutes south and the New Orleans's French Quarter a mere two hours forty-five minutes southeast.

Besides being a good place to raise a family, Cypress Springs had no claim to fame. A small Southern town that relied on agriculture, mostly cattle and light industry, it was too far from the beaten path to ever grow into more.

The city fathers liked it that way, Avery knew. She had grown up listening to her dad, Buddy and their friends talk about keeping industry and all her ills out. About keeping Cypress Springs clean. She remembered the furor caused when Charlie Weiner had sold his farm to the Old Dixie Foods corporation and then the company's decision to build a canning factory on the site.

Avery made her way down the deserted streets. Although not even ten o'clock, the town had already rolled up its sidewalks for the night. She shook her head. Nothing could be more different from the places she had called home for the past twelve years—places where a traffic jam could occur almost anytime during a twenty-four-hour period; where walking alone at night was to take your life
in your hands; places where people lived on top of each other but never acknowledged the other's existence.

As beautiful and green a city as Washington, D.C., was, it couldn't compare to the lush beauty of West Feliciana Parish. The heat and humidity provided the perfect environment for all manner of vegetation. Azaleas. Gardenias. Sweet olive. Camellias. Palmettos. Live oaks, their massive gnarled branches so heavy they dipped to the ground, hundred-year-old magnolia trees that in May would hold so many of the large white blossoms the air would be redolent of their sweet, lemony scent.

Once upon a time she had thought this place ugly. No, that wasn't quite fair, she admitted. Shabby and painfully small town.

Why hadn't she seen it then as she did now?

Avery turned onto her street, then a moment later into her parents' driveway. She parked at the edge of the walk and climbed out, locking the vehicle out of habit not necessity. Her thoughts drifted to the events of the evening, particularly to those final moments with Matt.

What
did
she want now? she wondered. Where did she belong?

The porch swing creaked. A figure separated from the silhouette of the overgrown sweet olive at the end of the porch. Her steps faltered.

“Hello, Avery.”

Hunter, she realized, bringing a hand to her chest. She let out a shaky breath. “I've lived in the city too long. You scared the hell out of me.”

“I have that effect on people.”

Although she smiled, she could see why that might be true. Half his face lay in shadow, the other half in the light from the porch fixture. His features looked hard in the weak light, his face craggy, the lines around his mouth and eyes deeply etched. A few days' accumulation of beard darkened his jaw.

She would have crossed the street to avoid him in D.C.

How could the two brothers have grown so physically dissimilar? she wondered. Growing up, though fraternal not identical twins, the resemblance between them had been uncanny. She would never have thought they could be other than near mirror images of one another.

“I'd heard you were back,” he said. “Obviously.”

“News travels fast around here.”

“This is a small town. They've got to have something to talk about.”

He had changed in a way that had less to do with the passage of years than with the accumulated events of those years. The school of hard knocks, she thought. The great equalizer.

“And I'm one of their own,” she said.

“It's true, then? You're back to stay?”

“I didn't say that.”

“That's the buzz. I thought it was wrong.” He shrugged. “But you never know.”

“Meaning what?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No, of course not.” Annoyed with herself, she dropped her arms. “I had dinner with your parents tonight.”

“And Matt. Heard that, too.”

“I thought you might have been there.”

“So they told you I was living in Cypress Springs?”

“Matt did.”

“And did he tell you why?”

“Only that you'd had some troubles.”

“Nice euphemism.” He swept his gaze over the facade of her parents' house. “Sorry about your dad. He was a great man.”

“I think so, too.” She jiggled her car keys, suddenly on edge, anxious to be inside.

“Aren't you going to ask me?”

“What?”

“If I talked to him before he died.”

The question off-balanced her. “What do you mean?”

“It seemed a pretty straightforward question to me.”

“Okay. Did you?”

“Yes. He was worried about you.”

“About me?” She frowned. “Why?”

“Because your mother died before the two of you worked out your issues.”

Issues, she thought. Is that how one summed up a lifetime of hurt feelings, a lifetime of longing for her mother's unconditional love and approval and being disappointed time and again? Her head filled with a litany of advice her mother had offered her over the years.

“Avery, little girls don't climb trees and build forts or play cowboys and Indians with boys. They wear bows and dresses with ruffles, not blue-jean cutoffs and T-shirts. Good girls make ladylike choices. They don't run off to the city to become newspapermen. They don't throw away a good man to chase a dream.”

“He thought you might be sad about that,” Hunter continued. “She was. He hated that she died without your making peace.”

“He said that?” she managed to get out, voice tight.

He nodded and she looked away, memory flooding with the words she had flung at her mother just before she had left for college.

“Drop the loving concern, Mother! You've never approved of me or my choices. I've never been the daughter you wanted. Why don't you just admit it?”

Her mother hadn't admitted it and Avery had headed off to college with the accusation between them. They had never spoken of it again, though it had been a wedge between them forever more.

“He figured that's why you hardly ever came home.”
Hunter shrugged. “Interesting, you couldn't come to terms with your mother's life, he her death.”

She jumped on the last. “What does that mean, he couldn't come to terms with her death?”

“I would think it's obvious, Avery. It's called grieving.”

He was toying with her, she realized. It pissed her off. “And when did all these conversations take place?”

Hunter paused. “We had many conversations, he and I.”

The past two days, her shock and grief, the grueling hours of travel, the onslaught of so much that was both foreign and familiar, came crashing down on her. “I don't have the energy to deal with your shit, even if I wanted to. If you decide you want to be a decent human being, look me up.”

One corner of his mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. “I didn't answer your question before, the one about my opinion of the local buzz. Personally, I figured you'd pop your old man in a box and go. Fast as you could.”

She took a step back, stung. Shocked that he would say that to her. That he would be so cruel. After the closeness they had shared. She pushed past him, unlocked her front door and stepped inside. She caught a glimpse of his face, of the stark pain that etched his features as she slammed the door.

Hunter Stevens was a man pursued by demons
.

To hell with his, she thought, twisting the dead-bolt lock. She had her own to deal with.