Fonduing Fathers (4 page)

Her eyes grew soft with memory. “Above all else, your father wanted to keep us—you and me—safe. He warned that there would be details he couldn’t share, but that any secrets he kept were only for our protection. He promised he would never do anything to hurt either of us. I believed him. I believe
in
him. To this day.”

The living room clock chimed the hour and I looked down at my hands. I was squeezing them together with white-knuckled anxiety. I forced myself to relax my grip. “Mom,” I said, “I’ve been pushing you for the truth and I’m sorry, truly sorry, for having forced you to relive this. I had no idea.”

“I know you didn’t,” she said giving me her best motherly sigh. “Which is why I made you promise to wait and not dig into all this yourself. To be frank, I never wanted to have this conversation. I wanted you to live your life without this burden. But you aren’t one to walk away without answers. Pandora’s box is now wide open. Knowing you, you’ll poke
your nose into all this and try your best to sort it out. That’s the biggest reason I held back all these years.”

My mother did, indeed, know me well.

She held a hand out to Gav. “He’s right about your curiosity. You’ve done a lot of good—for many people.” Mom picked up the letter from my dad again. “Your father knew you’d want to look into this someday. There’s no doubt that you are his child: brave, strong-minded, and a little foolhardy.” She placed the letter back into the box and handed it to me. “It’s your story now.”

MY MOM’S LIVING ROOM COUCH WAS PERFECTLY acceptable for a good night’s sleep, but I found myself wide awake and prowling the floor at three in the morning. Gav and I were scheduled for a late flight out, so there was no need to be up and about before the crack of dawn. After last night’s revelations, however, I couldn’t force my brain to relax.

I picked up the shoe box of secrets and crept past my mother’s room, where her soft, regular breaths rolled out as I tiptoed past in stealth mode.

I stopped at the middle room, my bedroom, the door of which hung slightly ajar. Teenagers—even the most well-behaved of them—crave real privacy. In a rush of memory, I recalled how much I’d hated the fact that my door had never latched completely. We’d certainly tried. No matter how many times we’d adjusted its hinges, my door never failed to fall open at the tiniest provocation.

But right now I appreciated that annoying glitch. I peered in at Gav, asleep on my twin bed with the pink-, green-, and purple-flowered comforter bunched around his long legs. He’d left the window shade open and there was just enough glow for me to appreciate his moonlight-blue profile in repose. My mom hadn’t changed a thing in here since I left for college oh so many years ago, and I liked the fact that it always felt like returning to my personal cocoon. Gav being part of that cocoon made it even better.

He slept on his side facing the door, one arm under the pillow, the other draped over the edge of the narrow bed. When we’d first arrived he’d tried to insist that I take my bed and he sleep on the couch, but in the face of three opinionated females he never had a chance.

I sighed, contented beyond words to have him here with me.

He rolled over onto his back, throwing his free arm over his head, his lips pursing then relaxing repeatedly. A lock of hair fell across his forehead and he clumsily brushed it away, still sound asleep. A moment later, his face went slack, his arms relaxed, and he quieted once again.

As much as I wanted to wake him, to talk quietly about all we’d learned the night before, I turned away and continued to the back bedroom. Flipping on the light, I made my way over to the computer. I placed the shoe box on my lap and fired the machine up. Within moments, I was launching a browser and typing in my search terms.

I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. After all, what possible information could I find online that would support or disprove allegations against my father? I knew I wouldn’t find a description of his court-martial, nor would I happen across a link that read: “Click here for Evidence that Anthony Paras Sold Pluto Corporate Secrets to a Rival Firm.” And if I couldn’t find such information, how could I dream of refuting it?

I needed to start somewhere, however, and the Internet
was my best shot. I’d come to the realization that many of my best online discoveries had come from digging into details where I happened across bombshells, usually by accident. One never knew what secrets floated in the ether. Sometimes it was a matter of knowing where to look. Sometimes it was dumb luck.

Two hours later, I’d learned a little. Pluto, Incorporated was still in business. The small yet successful family-owned company operated outside Washington, D.C., distributing dietary supplements across the United States.

Craig Benson, the owner, the man who had come to visit my mother when my father died and who had subsequently accused him of corporate espionage, was no longer president. That position was currently held by his son, Kyle Benson, though Craig had retained the title of CEO. Their ages weren’t listed, but photos on Pluto’s website allowed me to guess. Craig looked to be five to ten years older than my father would have been. Kyle looked to be Gav’s age.

Pluto distributed all sorts of supplements, mostly vitamins, minerals, and herbs. All these years later, I still thought their planetary logo was a peculiar choice. When I looked to the heavens, I very rarely thought of dietary supplements. The only part of the entire concept that strove to tie the two together was their tagline: “Trust Pluto supplements to discover
your
heavenly body.”

Not exactly what I’d call catchy.

For a second, I wondered if Craig Benson would even remember my dad. A moment later, I’d answered my own question. There was no way I’d forget anyone I believed had betrayed me. Forgiveness was one thing, forgetting another.

I scrolled through information about vitamins that could boost my immunity, clear my skin, and make me less forgetful. My right leg bounced an impatient rhythm as questions raced like pinballs through my head with little
pings
of doubt. What if Benson was wrong? What if my father hadn’t stolen his company secrets? What if incriminating information had
been planted among my dad’s belongings? The real culprit could very well have set him up. If I could determine who that “other man” at work had been—the one my dad had claimed had been giving him trouble—maybe I’d find real answers. Answers that would allow me to both expose the killer and clear my father’s name at the same time.

I stopped and forced myself to remember that all this had happened more than twenty-five years ago. The chances of me being able to find pertinent information about any of this were slim. Less than slim, if I were being perfectly honest with myself. I refused to believe that my father was guilty, but there seemed to be little way to uncover evidence to the contrary.

I gazed out the small room’s window at the morning moon hanging high above, flaunting its reflected light. I pushed against the blue melancholy that cloaked me with doubt. I knew better than most that the mind played tricks on people who couldn’t sleep: Often what was no more than a speed bump in the full light of day felt like an excruciating hurdle when confronted in the depths of night.

I stared up at the moon again, thinking of my many treks to Arlington to stand before my dad’s grave, to chat with the silent father I couldn’t even remember. I’d put him up on a pedestal, the way daughters often do with their dads. Maybe it was time to admit he’d been a man, no better, no worse than any other man in the world. With flaws and weaknesses. With a dark side he tried his best to conceal.

Sadness and longing took up residence in my chest, squeezing my heart in its painful embrace. I tried to shake off the despair, reminding myself that the only truly effective cure for sorrow was time.

And work. Dragging my attention back to the computer, I widened my Internet search, hoping to find some oddity, a tidbit that felt out of place, a crumb to follow. I scribbled notes, but even as I did so, I realized these were probably brick walls and dead ends. There ought to be a link that led
me to the truth, shouldn’t there? Or was my sleep-deprived brain allowing fantasy to take over for good sense?

After more futile searches, and increasingly buggy eyes, I gave up on the Internet and turned to what had started it all. I opened the shoe box, gingerly removing the letter my dad had written to my mom. I’d already read it three times. I’d have it committed to memory soon. My mom had explained the gist of it well enough when we were all seated at the table. She hadn’t detailed my father’s many professions of love and the emotion that came through when he wrote about missing out on the lives of the two girls he loved most in the world. She’d skipped over those, I believed, because she’d wanted me to experience those passages for myself. They’d torn at my heart when I read through the first time, and even now my throat burned as I skimmed to reread the final paragraphs.

He signed off then, with all his love to both of us.

I couldn’t help but believe that through this letter he was reaching out to me, personally asking for my help. And I knew I couldn’t let him down.

“You’re up early.”

I turned to see Gav standing in the doorway. Looking rumpled in a pair of cotton sleep shorts and T-shirt, he ran a hand through his bed-flattened hair. I noticed, belatedly, that the sun had started to come up. “What time is it?”

“Just about six. Have you been up all night?” He strode across the room and bent down to peer at the computer screen. “I should have guessed,” he said.

His face was very close to mine. “You brushed your teeth,” I said.

Planting a kiss on the top of my head, he laughed.

“How long have you been up?” I asked.

“Long enough to brush my teeth so I could come in and wish you a proper good morning.” He glanced down at the open box on my lap. “Have you come up with any leads?”

“Leads?” It was my turn to laugh. “You make it sound as though I’m trying to solve a crime.”

Crouching next to me, he placed a warm hand over mine, his gray eyes searching. “Aren’t you?” he asked softly.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He reached up to cup my cheek in his palm. “We’ll talk more about this later, you know we will. But for now I need you to remember one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”

I leaned into him, our foreheads touching. I wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and whispered, “I know.”

“Good morning,” Mom said from the doorway, making us jump apart like two teenagers caught smooching. She, too, was still dressed in her sleepwear, but had pulled on a fuzzy pink bathrobe and looked wide awake. “Anybody want coffee?”

By the time coffee was ready, Mom had popped a cinnamon cake into the oven and was starting to fry up some bacon. “Go ahead,” she said to Gav. “I can tell you want to jump into the shower. Plenty of time before breakfast is ready.”

As he left the room, Nana came up from her flat downstairs, peering in through Mom’s back door. “Smells good, got any extra for an old lady who’s too lazy to cook for herself?”

I helped Mom by starting the hash browns and pulling out the eggs. “You know we don’t usually eat this much in the morning,” I said.

She sniffed. “When you’re home, I get to spoil you. Is there a problem with that?”

Last night’s heaviness seemed to have dissipated with the appearance of the sun on this bright new day. Nana poured herself a mug of coffee and sat at the counter to watch us work. “That Gav,” she said, with a nod toward the washroom, where we could hear the water running, “he’s a hunk.”

“Thanks, Nana. I think so, too.”

“I have to tell you, Ollie, I wasn’t thrilled at first when you said you were bringing him here,” Mom said.

This was news.

“Nothing wrong with him, nothing at all,” she added quickly. “It’s that I sensed you might push me this time. About your father, I mean. I wasn’t sure I wanted to share all that in front of a stranger.”

“I’m sorry,” I began, “I never—”

“No, don’t apologize. I had misgivings when I knew you were bringing him, but now that I’ve met him…” She let the thought hang as she turned pieces of bacon over. “I can’t explain it, but I trust him.”