Milk Money (10 page)

She smiled, enjoying the grin that split Frank’s handsome face as he spoke of his nephew. “I’m sure he was glad to see you.”

“He was. We talked a lot, and I tried to get him to tell me what’s been going on. I let him know I wasn’t pleased with his shoplifting, and I hope my talking to him will influence him not to do it again.”

“Did his father show up for his birthday?”

Frank frowned, tossing dirty socks into his room. “No, he didn’t show up. He didn’t even call.” He shook his head. “He’s such a lousy dad. I don’t know what Trish was thinking when she married that loser.”

She fingered the empty scotch bottle sitting on the coffee table. “Did you go to the liquor store to buy scotch?” Her voice wavered, and she continued to look around the room. Empty beer bottles and a half-empty bottle of wine sat on the end table.

He took the bottle away from her and dropped it into the trash. “I told you things have been hectic in my life lately.” A hard edge crept into his voice, and he continued to gather items and place them in the garbage can.

Clothes were strewn all over the place, and the hamper overflowed with garments. She wondered when he had last done his laundry. After he placed the paper bag in a kitchen cupboard, he pulled two cups from the cabinet and put several cubes of ice into each. The ice popped when he poured the lemonade. Emily sat on the couch, and he handed her the cup. She took a drink, closing her eyes, relishing the sweet, tangy taste of the lemonade and the clean citrus scent of Frank’s cologne. “You made this?”

He chuckled. “Yes, I made it.”

She raised her eyebrows, enjoying another sip. “It’s good.”

“Thanks. All it is, is fresh lemons, sugar, and water.” He shrugged. “It’s no big deal.” Silence filled the room, and Emily drained her glass. “Would you like more lemonade?”

“Please.”

He returned to the kitchen with her empty glass so he could refill it. As he performed the chore, she was about to ask him about the audit when she noticed the wedding picture sitting on the coffee table.

She lifted the photo and saw Frank wearing a gray tuxedo, and his arm was around a bride. The woman’s skin was the color of ripe blackberries, and her dark hair shimmered over her shoulders. Her arm was casually draped around Frank’s waist, and her laughter seemed to jump right out of the picture.

She clutched the picture as he returned with the lemonade. “You’re married?” Her voice wavered.

He shook his head. “I guess I should have mentioned it sooner. She’s dead.” He placed the picture on the coffee table face down.

She stared at the down-turned picture frame. “Dead?”

“My wife is dead. She was killed about a year ago.”

“Killed, a year ago? That’s so recent.”

“I know. I still think about her a lot.”

So many questions filled her mind that she didn’t know which to ask first. “She’s very pretty.”

“Yes, Julie was very beautiful.”

Silence, thick and heavy, filled the room. She wondered what had happened to Frank’s wife. “How long were you two married?”

“Two years.”

“I’m sorry.”

He stood and walked to the window, parting the curtains. Light streamed into the room from the streetlamps. “You know, I’m so sick of hearing that.”

She stood beside him. “Hearing what?” Tears glistened in his eyes, and he quickly turned away. “What’s wrong?”

When he didn’t initially respond, Emily was tempted to let the subject drop.

He wiped his eyes and dropped the curtain, returning to the couch. Emily joined him, still wondering about the death of his wife. “I miss my wife so much. It’s one of the reasons I’ve started drinking again.”

“I think your pain will lessen with time.”

“I killed her, Emily. I killed my wife.”

“I know you couldn’t have killed her.”

“It’s my fault she’s dead.”

She touched his shoulder. “What happened?”

“Julie was raised in foster care.”

She recalled the sad stories she’d heard about children in foster care. “That sounds rough.”

“Yeah, but since she had been through so much with her brother during the time they were in foster care, they were closer than they should have been.”

“What do you mean?”

“Her brother was into drugs. At one point, he owed somebody over a thousand dollars.”

“Did she loan him the money?”

Frank chuckled, the sarcastic sound echoing in the room. “It could hardly be called a loan, because I knew he would never pay us back. I didn’t understand why she kept bailing him out.”

“So did she give him the money?”

“I told her not to. She promised me she wouldn’t meet him in that dangerous neighborhood where he lived to give him the money.”

“But she went to meet with her brother anyway.”

He nodded, tears falling down his cheeks. “Yeah, she went. Some stuff went down, and there was a bust when she was there. She was accidentally shot and died a few days later.”

She hugged him, silently praying she could say the right words. “Did they catch the person who shot her?” she asked, ending their embrace.

“Yeah, they caught him, and he’s in prison. But I tell you what, if they hadn’t caught him, I’d be going after him myself. I would have searched until I found her killer if the police hadn’t gotten to him first.”

“Why do you think this is your fault?”

“I should have realized what she was going to do. I should have gone with her. I knew how stubborn she was about helping her brother. Maybe I could have talked her out of it. If I’d reasoned with her, she may not have gone to meet with him and she’d still be alive.”

“Or she could have thought about this with a level head.”

He gave her a strange look. “What do you mean?”

“I know you miss your wife, and I can see how much you loved her, but it wasn’t your job to ensure she always thought rationally. You’re beating yourself up over something you had no control over. Julie knew what kind of crowd her brother hung out with, and I’m sure she knew about the danger of meeting him in that seedy area. Why couldn’t she have figured out another way to get him the money? Could she have mailed him a check—”

“The type of people he dealt with wouldn’t be waiting on a check.”

Emily shrugged, still not deterred from making Frank see reason. “You mentioned to me that you were mad at your parents.”

He nodded. “My anger at my parents started years ago when I’d started dating Julie. They didn’t like the fact that she wasn’t from a good family, and they didn’t support my marriage.”

“Is that the only reason you’re angry with them?”

“Emily, when my parents rejected my wife, it was like they were rejecting me, too. I’ll be honest with you and let you know that my parents did do something else besides reject Julie.”

“What did they do?”

“When I got engaged to Julie, they did a background check on her and her brother. They didn’t think she’d be a suitable addition to the family, so they told me the only way they would support my marriage would be if I made her sign a prenup.”

Emily gasped. “A prenup? Do you mean a prenuptial agreement?”

He nodded. “Yes. They felt like she was just a gold digger, wanting to get into the family to get some of their fortune.”

“You didn’t ask her to sign it, did you?”

He shook his head. “No, I loved her, and I couldn’t hurt her like that. When we got married, she wondered about the distant relationship we had with my parents. She was smart enough to know that my parents’ cold reception of her was tied to her background, but she never knew about the prenup.”

“So they didn’t talk to Julie much at all?”

He shook his head. “Not really. It was awful. When they distanced themselves from my wife, my relationship with them changed. When Julie died, they offered no sympathy. I feel like they thought she deserved what happened to her.”

“Frank! Are you sure about this?”

He shook his head. “They never said it, but they just acted like they didn’t care when she died. They didn’t call or anything.”

“Maybe they thought you didn’t want them to call. Maybe they didn’t want to make you angrier.”

“You sound like you’re defending them.”

She touched his arm. “I’m just trying to make you see this rationally. What does Trish say about all this?”

“She says my parents want to start speaking to me again.”

She said the first thing that came to her mind. “You’ll need to forgive your parents for the way they mistreated your wife. I’ve told you this before, but the only One who can help you is God.”

He gave her an icy stare. “What?”

“What about your faith in God? Haven’t you prayed about your pain, asked God to help you forgive Julie’s killer and to forgive your parents?” She gestured around the cluttered room. “You can’t drown your sorrows with booze.”

“I don’t care about God, and God doesn’t care about me.”

“How can you say that when you’re not giving Him a chance?”

He huffed, running his fingers over his head. “Julie was saved not long after we were married. She tried to get me to accept Christ.”

“What happened?”

His voice thickened. “Julie got killed.” His dark eyes stared into hers. “I can’t forget about that and accept God.”

She prayed that God would lead her to say the right words. “Julie was saved? She’s with Jesus now. Remember that.”

He clasped his hands together. “Don’t be preaching to me.” He gave her a scathing look. “Besides, you have no idea what I’ve been through this past year.”

She stood and stepped back, startled by his sudden outburst. She swallowed, her anger brewing like a slow stew simmering to boil. “I just lost my father, and I lost my mother years ago!” She clenched her hands together. “I know what it’s like to lose someone you love.” She calmed down before she squeezed his hand. “Give God a chance. I still have the church program from last week’s service in my purse,” she said, opening her purse and pulling out the program and a pen. She circled one of the contact numbers on the back. “The information about the alcoholic support group at my church is on the back.” She pressed the paper into his palm. “The worship services are also listed. Devon Crandall is the leader for the alcoholic support group. They have weekly meetings, and I’ve heard good things about his work with the ministry.”

He placed the program on the coffee table. “I’ll think about it.”

“I’ll be praying for you, Frank.” Emily embraced him before she left.

The following Sunday, Frank awakened and sat up in bed, cradling his aching head. “Oh, man.” The empty liquor bottle stared back at him, mocking his mistake. His sour stomach churned, and before long he ran to the bathroom and threw up. He relaxed against the cool, white-tiled wall, willing his rapidly beating heart to slow down. “God, I can’t go on like this. I just can’t.” The nightmare about Julie haunted him again the previous night, and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing the unpleasant dream to vanish from his mind.

His cell phone chirped, and he stood on wobbly legs and plodded into the bedroom. He pulled the black instrument from the shelf. Not bothering to check the caller ID, he flipped the phone open. “Hello.”

“Hi, little brother.”

“Trish.” The last thing he needed was a lecture from his sister.

“My goodness, don’t sound so happy to hear from me.” Sarcasm dripped from her voice, and Frank plopped back onto the bed.

“I’m not feeling great right now.”

“You’re probably hungover.”

He winced, ashamed of his nightly routine. “Are Mark and Regina okay?”

“The kids are fine. I didn’t call to talk about them or about your drinking problem. I wanted to talk about Dad.”

“What about him?” He cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder, grabbing the large bottle of acetaminophen on his bedside table. Popping the jar open, he shook four tablets into his palm and dropped them into his mouth. He drank from a bottle of water, swallowing the pills.

“He’s still sick.”

“Has he been to the doctor yet?”

She scoffed. “You know he hasn’t. But he was telling me the other day that he wished you would talk to them again.”

He shook his head, but the movement caused bullets of pain to shoot behind his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he laid back on the pillows. “I don’t have time to listen to this.”

“Well, you better make time. I think if you’d talk to Dad again, he might feel better. Maybe he’ll be so glad to hear from you that he’ll do whatever you ask him to, even if that’s going to the doctor.”

Still holding the phone, he entered the kitchen, willing his aching head to stop pounding. He opened the cupboard. The canister of coffee beckoned him. He removed the can and opened it, spilling coffee grounds into the white filter. “Trish, I have to go now.”

“But Frank—”

“I’ll talk to you later.” He snapped his phone shut, throwing it on the kitchen table. Soon drops of coffee splattered into the coffeemaker, filling the kitchen with an aromatic scent. He pulled a mug from the cupboard and filled it with the steaming brew, along with a generous portion of cream and sugar.

He entered his living room and sat on the couch. Waves of guilt washed over him, and he blinked away unshed tears. He turned away from the wedding photo, continuing to sip his coffee. As the caffeine soothed his nerves, he set his mug down and returned to his bedroom. He found a box of his belongings, which he had never unpacked, sitting on the bottom of the closet. He dumped the contents, riffling through trinkets, old magazines, and books. Finally, he spotted his large black Bible, a gift from his deceased wife, among the clutter. Once he’d returned to the living room, he retrieved his mug, still holding his Bible. The old church program Emily had given him that week still sat on the coffee table.