Rachel Lee (17 page)

It was that it seemed so unlike Hannah Matlock. And Hardy. Her first, numb thought was, why had that made Hardy so angry?

"That ... must have been quite a shock for you, Joni."

Joni nodded.

And difficult in so many other ways, Barbara realized. Karen was Joni's sister. Witt was her father. Her mother had kept a terrible secret from her for years. So many, many things must be running through Joni's mind and heart right now.

Barbara felt a wave of forgiveness fill her. Never having been in the position, she couldn't fully comprehend what Joni must be thinking.

But she could comprehend how confused and hurt she must be feeling.

"Let's go make some tea," Barbara suggested. It was her panacea for everything. A cup of tea, a couple of shortbread cookies . the warm coziness of it made nearly anything look a little better.

Joni followed her mutely, breaking her silence only once to offer to help. Barbara handed her the box of cookies and asked her to put a few on a plate.

Water boiled fast at this altitude and never quite reached the uncomfortable temperatures of lower places. The tea steeped slowly because of that, but when it was ready it was exactly drinking temperature. Barbara heated a little milk in the microwave, but she was the only one who used it.

She poured the tea into the pretty Blue Willowpatterned cups that matched the teapot--an heirloom from her grandmother, one of the few her late husband hadn't managed to destroy--then sat near Joni, waiting.

She couldn't have said what she was waiting for, only that she knew somehow that Joni would have to start it.

But for a long time Joni sipped her tea in silence. She didn't even reach for a cookie. Barbara thought of all the reassuring, comforting things she could say but realized they wouldn't really help at all.

But at last, into their second cup of tea, Joni sighed and spoke. "Am I overreacting?"

"Overreacting?" Barbara repeated the word with surprise. "I hardly think so. This has to be a terrible shock for you. It has to make you wonder what else you've always believed about yourself might be untrue."

"Exactly. Exactly." She repeated the word, drawing it out almost wearily. "I mean, part of me says it was a long time ago and doesn't make any real difference. Witt has been like a father to me ever since my da--ever since Lewis died." She stole a glance at Barbara. "I'm sorry. After the way Witt has treated Hardy, you probably don't want to hear about it."

"I'm sitting here, aren't I? I can separate the Witt you know from the idiot who's been unkind to my son."

"Then you're better than I am. Because I can't. If my dad knew--I wonder if he knew?--then Witt hurt him. He certainly hurt Hardy. And he hurt me when he disowned me."

"Well, yes." Barbara had never been one to deny the obvious. "You know, before Karen's death, I believed Witt Matlock was a good and kind man."

"And now?"

Barbara shook her head. "I don't know. Maybe he's ... crazy with grief. Crazy with ... guilt?" She said the word tentatively, as if trying out the concept.

"Grief? After twelve years? I don't know, Mrs. Wingate."

"Barbara, please. I agree, twelve years seems like a long time. But I've never lost my only child. Or what I believed was my only child.

That might be very different."

"Maybe. I don't know. I still miss Karen. Sometimes I ache just to hear her laugh. Sometimes I close my eyes and remember the way we used to stay up half the night talking. But to stay so angry, to let it consume you so much..."

"But is he really letting it consume him? Hon, I know he's been angry at Hardy ever since. But he never liked Hardy to begin with. And I can't say that I'd have felt any different in his shoes."

"Why not?" "Because if I had a daughter who wanted to hang out with the slightly wild son of an abysmal alcoholic, I'd have my doubts.

Especially when she was so young."

"That still doesn't excuse the way he's treated Hardy all these years."

Barbara's gaze was wise and very steady as she looked at Joni. "Is that what precipitated all this?"

Joni started to nod, then moved her head in an indecisive shake. "I'm not really sure what got me going. Except that it was like something inside me started screaming, 'enough of this." And it started when Witt decided to look for bids to build a hotel. All I could think was that Hardy deserved that job. That and the fact that I was sick of not being able to talk to Hardy for fear of upsetting Witt. I'm not sure exactly. I mean. when I did it I thought I knew why. But it's like I told Hardy earlier. " She trailed off.

Finally Barbara prompted her. "Go on." "I don't know. Every time I say it, I feel so stupid.

But it's like Witt's anger has kept us all emotionally frozen in time.

We can't move on because he won't move on. Stupid. Anyway, it doesn't matter anymore. He disowned me. I hurt him so much that he had a heart attack. And now . now I don't even care if I ever speak to my mother again. "

"Joni..."

"No, I'm serious. She kept this secret for all my life, then she dumps it on me the day after Witt has a heart attack. Why? So I can feel really awful? As if I didn't already?"

"Maybe she's trying to hang on to you. To give you a reason to stick around even though Witt's angry."

"Well, that isn't going to do it." Joni's chin set even as her eyes moistened again. "I'm feeling used, Mrs. Matlock. I'm feeling like Witt matters more than I ever will. To anyone. Including my mother.

Everyone's been tiptoeing around him for years. Years! When you were so sick in the hospital, I talked to Hardy for a few minutes in the cafeteria. He could barely hold still. Why? Because Witt wouldn't approve. When I went home and mentioned to my mother that I'd talked to him because I was concerned about you, the first thing she told me was to remember how Witt felt about Hardy. What's wrong with this?"

"Plenty." Barbara wasn't going to lie, even to soothe the younger woman's upset. But it seemed to her that Joni was barely scraping the core of what was bothering her so much. Witt, after all, couldn't be so angry every second of the day that it was making Joni's life hell.

Over these past years, his anger had seemed to become something quieter, anyway, as long as he and Hardy avoided each other.

No, there had to be something more there. And Barbara wondered what it was.

"Let's get the hell out of here," Hardy said to Joni three days later. She hadn't left his house except to go to work.

All the rest of the time, except when Barbara made her come down to dinner, Joni hid in the guest room. It wasn't healthy, and sitting around brooding wasn't going to help her solve any of her problems.

Besides, he was getting cabin fever just thinking about how cooped up she was, despite the fact that he'd been going about his daily affairs as usual.

She was standing at the kitchen sink, rinsing her oatmeal bowl before putting it in the dishwasher. "Where?" she asked. Snow was falling outside, and the day was dark and leaden, the clouds so thick that it felt like dusk rather than morning. "We're getting a blizzard."

"So what's new?" he asked impatiently. "It's winter. We get two hundred inches of snow every year. If I let that stop me, I'd never get out the front door."

"True."

But her answer was listless, almost lifeless. And he was more worried about her than he wanted to admit, even to himself. "Let's just get out. But first come help me clear the driveway."

She shrugged. "Okay." Indifferent.

He had a snow blower so most of the work was relatively easy, but there were a few places that needed the shovel. Joni took care of those for him while he wielded his monster machine.

Then, because he was already out and the physical exertion was feeling good, he cleared the driveways of a couple of his neighbors who didn't have snow blowers When they finished, Joni at least had some color in her cheeks, even if it did come from the cold.

Inside again, they made hot drinks.

"I figure," he said, "we could go shopping in Vail."

"Expensive."

"Well, we don't have to buy anything. Or we could go into Denver."

"Maybe Barbara would like to come along."

But Hardy didn't want her along. He wanted to get Joni out of here and away from things for a while. "She's not up to a major expedition yet," he replied. It was true; she wasn't. It was also a good excuse.

"Okay."

"Or would you rather go to the Springs? It's probably a lot wanner."

"I don't care. You're driving."

He wished she would summon at least a little interest in the project.

But hell, that was the whole problem. Joni didn't seem to be interested in anything at all anymore--other than her problems. Last night he'd tried to get her to join him and Barbara in a game of dominoes, or cards, but she'd merely shaken her head, finished the dinner dishes and disappeared upstairs. She was way too withdrawn, and something inside him demanded he find a way to get her out of this pit.

It was with no plan at all that they finally climbed into his sport utility vehicle, and he supposed that was okay, because the snow was flying thickly now, and the day getting even darker.

"Feels like it should be around four o'clock," he remarked.

"Mmm."

He had to suppress an urge to shake her, just to get something out of her besides indifference. Instead of heading toward Vail or Denver, though, he decided to head south into the dryer, warmer part of the state. The snow might let up, and an opportunity to do something interesting might turn up.

"You still don't downhill ski, do you?" he asked.

"No."

He'd been on the downhill-skiing team in high school. He and Karen had enjoyed a lot of trips to a nearby slope where the lift tickets didn't cost an arm and a leg, mainly because there were no resort facilities around. Witt's hotel could change all that, he found himself thinking.

A good place for people to stay near the slopes could be the first chink to turn this town into something besides a mining company town.

Regardless, it had been a bad question to ask her, because it led directly back to Karen, and through Karen to Witt.

"I prefer cross-country," she said as if making an effort.

A little spark of hope ignited in his breast. "Yeah? I like that, too. In fact, the older I get the less addicted I feel to rushing downhill at sixty miles an hour."

She gave him a fleeting smile.

He returned his attention to driving. A narrow, twisty road, parts of it once a stagecoach road, wound its way through the canyon, demanding all his attention as they made hairpin turns on slick pavement that perched on a ledge above a shallow river. "Can you imagine what it must have been like to get to Whisper Creek in the old days?"

"Yeah." She sighed, then made another effort. "It's hard enough now."

"Yeah, but back then..." He shook his head. "I guess a lot of people did it, though. Have you ever walked the old coach road? Those ruts are so deep, even after all these years. And you can see places that must have been really dangerous, where rocks stick up at the edge of the track, or where the angle is really steep. Walk a little of that and you can imagine how your bones would have jolted running over it.

Or how many broken wheels they must have had."

The road was getting even slicker, and he gave up on conversation as he devoted all his attention to driving. This was stupid, he thought finally. Stupid. Yes, they had blizzards all the time, and snowfall sometimes seemed almost constant, but in this kind of weather he shouldn't have gotten the insane idea to take a trip. He should have just taken her out somewhere in town, and to hell with the gossip.

"Witt's home."

The sound of her voice startled him, and his hand jerked a little on the wheel. He felt the tires lose traction for an instant, then grip again. No, he should never have suggested this insanity. "Out so soon?" he managed to ask.

"Hannah took him home last night."

He nodded, wondering what he should say, if anything. "I'm glad he's okay. How'd you hear about it?" Maybe . maybe she was talking to her mother again. He hoped so.

But she dashed his hope. "I work in a hospital, remember? Everyone I know mentioned it."

He felt stupid. Then he felt irritated with himself. It was none of his business whether she ever spoke to her mother again or not. But in his way of viewing the world, he felt very strongly that family was important, and that you owed your mother a great deal for raising you.

He couldn't imagine any situation that would cause him to cut his ties with Barbara.

But maybe that wasn't what Joni was doing. For all that she talked about leaving town and never seeing any of them again, maybe all she really needed was some time to adjust to all the shocks.

But she wasn't talking much anymore about anything, and that gave him serious cause for concern. At least talking about things meant you were still connected to the world. And sometimes saying things out loud made you see how crazy you were being. He certainly had enough experience with that.

" So..." He hesitated, then decided to take the bull by the horns.

"Are you going to visit him?"

"No! What, are you kidding? He disowned me."

"I'm sure he didn't mean it to be permanent."

"I'm sure I don't care. You don't do that to someone you love."

He agreed with her. But Witt had always been a hardass, at least about some things. Totally unreasonable.

"Well," he said presently, "I'm kind of reluctant to comment on Witt.

He's always been something of a mystery to me. I mean, there I was in high school. Yeah, my dad was a drunk. But my mom wasn't. She was a hardworking woman. And I was getting decent grades, participating in sports, keeping my nose pretty much clean--and he hated me. I know I got a little wild at times. But even in retrospect, all these years later, I don't think I got that wild. It was mostly the kind of hijinks you expect from kids that age."