The Lonesome Young (12 page)

Meredith and Larry had never made it out of the barn that night, but Rhodale’s horse did, which fueled the speculation that he’d either killed them first and then set the fire to try to cover it up, or else he’d gotten his horse out of the barn and then blocked them in somehow so they’d burn to death together.

“The feud started a long time before that,” I said. “It’s strange, but Victoria doesn’t know anything about it. How is that even possible? There have been Whitfields and Rhodales going at it for a couple of centuries.”

She shook her head. “She grew up in a different life. This nonsense had nothing to do with her. The rest of the world is getting on with their lives.”

“Mom, we looked this stuff up. Whitfields and Rhodales have been fighting each other since that first property dispute, way back when. It got worse, and then it got better. We’re supposed to be more civilized these days, but I think we’re only better at spackling a layer of polite over the surface of angry.”

She sighed. “I know, but maybe it’s only still alive on the Rhodale side—”

“No. You should have seen Richard Whitfield at the fire. He hated me on sight, just for being a Rhodale.”

Mom’s eyes narrowed as she went mama wolf on me. “What did he say to you? I’ll have a talk with that man. Just because he’s a Whitfield, he can’t talk to my son like that. I’ll—”

I grinned at her. “Mom.
Mom
. Stop. I’m seventeen, not seven. You can’t fight my battles anymore.”

She sighed. “I know. You’re right. It’s a hard habit to break. At least we don’t have a Romeo and Juliet kind of thing going on—”

I met her gaze, and she faltered. “Oh, honey. No. Your father would hit the roof if he heard—”

I shrugged. “Ethan already has. He just called me to an ‘or else’ meeting at the compound, and Anna Mae suggested there’d been something between her and Victoria’s dad.”

“Did you ask what?”

I made a gagging face, trying to distract my mom from the subject of Victoria. “No. I was too busy trying not to puke. But I went to see Caroline and the girls afterward.”

My mom’s face softened at the mention of my nieces. “How are they doing? I need to get over there for a visit. I have Autumn’s birthday present ready, and I bought a little something for Summer so she doesn’t feel left out.”

Mom and Caroline had struck up a surprising friendship over the years, and she’d been one of the few people to stand firmly on Caro’s side and never try to talk her out of keeping the babies. It had been one of the only times she and Anna Mae had been on the same side of an issue.

“They’re good. She looks tired, and the girls are a handful, but the apartment is way nicer than that dump she lived in over by the tracks this summer.”

Mom froze, and I realized what I’d said. It was the first time I’d mentioned, even indirectly, the attack since it had happened.

Caro moved a lot, whether from a feeling of restlessness or in an attempt to improve her situation each time, but she hadn’t realized that the bar down the block from her last apartment building had been so dangerous. After the . . . incident, while I was rotting in juvie and Ethan was in jail, one of Ethan’s thugs had paid the bar owner, who also owned the apartments, a little visit. The landlord had quickly refunded Caro’s security deposit and that month’s rent, and the owner’s sons had helped her move. I just hadn’t known she’d moved into the upstairs of the Laundromat.

Mom stood up and headed for the kitchen, and I trailed after her, wondering why I hadn’t kept my mouth shut. I grabbed an apple from the green glass bowl on the counter and bit into it, trying to figure out what to say, but she surprised me by leaving the subject of Caroline and going back to Victoria.

“You like this girl?” She had her back to me, but I could tell from the tension in her shoulders that she was worried.

“‘Like’ isn’t a strong enough word,” I found myself admitting. “I don’t know exactly what the word is, though. There’s nothing between us yet, though, so quit worrying. I just want to get to know her. She’s . . . different.”

Mom turned around and leaned back against the sink. “You said
yet
, so I know you plan to go after her. Mickey, please be careful. I’ve always thought this feud was absolutely ridiculous, but it’s deadly serious to your father. I don’t know all the reasons why, either, but there has been quite a history of financial double-dealings and other problems between the two families over the years, too.”

“Ethan’s blaming Victoria’s father for trying to get more law enforcement around here to protect his rich horse people. More cops means less freedom for his criminals.”

Her eyes were troubled. “Ethan is more dangerous than ever. I’ve heard stories . . . just stay away from him for a while, okay? And Mickey, I think there was a problem between your dad and Richard Whitfield over Anna Mae, back in high school.”

I choked on my apple. “Anna Mae? Are you kidding me?”

Mom got that pinched look on her face. “She was the beauty of the county back then, or so I hear.”

“So her looks didn’t always match her troll-like personality?” I grinned but then had to duck when Mom tried to thwack me in the head with a dish towel.

She smiled a little, too, but then she got serious again, fast. “I wish I could tell you to stay away from this girl, but since I know that won’t work, maybe let’s not mention Victoria Whitfield to your father just yet, Mick.”

Probably a good idea, but I was getting awfully tired of hearing all the reasons why I should stay away from Victoria, especially when I knew I had no intention of doing it.

Chapter 13

Victoria

I
t was the high point of a small-town Kentucky week: the Friday afternoon of a home football game. I wouldn’t be there, though. I’d be spending the evening at the ranch, instead, because Melinda had skipped school again, claiming a migraine, and spent her time figuring out how to pick the lock on Dad’s booze cabinet. And she’d figured it out at least a few hours before I got home from school, according to the results of my personal Melinda Drunk-o-Meter.

Glassy eyes? Check. Too-careful pronunciation and increasingly devious attempts to hide both the bottles and her breath? Check. This time, though, I was rebelling. Instead of trying to sober her up and hide the evidence, I’d left the cabinet door swinging open, half off its hinges. I’d just smiled and nodded when Melinda snuck by me in the kitchen, hiding her stolen glass bottle under the crocheted throw from one of the chairs, while I prepped the chicken and put it in the oven.

We were finally going to have it out. It was the perfect storm of events: Melinda was drinking, Buddy was staying overnight with a friend, Gran was out to dinner with
her
friends, and Mrs. Kennedy had weekends off. Mom, Dad, Melinda, and I would be the only ones home, and this time my parents would have no excuse not to see how bad their daughter was becoming.

She needed rehab. At the very least, we needed not to have a
liquor cabinet
in the same house with a budding alcoholic.

Dad hit the door first, but went straight for the shower. I don’t think he ever actually touched a horse, but he always wanted to wash off the day whenever he’d been anywhere near the barns. Or maybe it was another stench he was washing off every time he thought about the failure of his business in the city.

He wasn’t good at losing, my dad. He didn’t take it as a challenge—it didn’t build his character. He was definitely not the type to pick himself up by his bootstraps. No, he raged and fought and kicked and screamed until the bitter end, and tried to take as many people down with him as he could.

Mom didn’t get home until I was pulling the baked potatoes out of the oven, and she headed straight for the wine fridge and pulled out a bottle. I mentally smacked myself in the forehead. I’d forgotten about the wine fridge. Probably because Melinda hated the taste of wine, but if we took the other alcohol away, I bet she’d find a way to drink it.

“Why are you cooking?” Mom looked around vaguely, like she expected Mrs. Kennedy or Rachael Ray to pop up out of nowhere and produce a gourmet dinner.

“Nobody else was here.” I started carrying everything out to the dining room table, knowing better than to ask for any help.

Dad came in when I was filling glasses with water, and he grinned at both of us and then took the pitcher out of my hands and finished the job. His great mood and uncharacteristic helpfulness probably meant that some poor rival had gone down in flames.

“Why don’t you pour me a glass of that wine, Priscilla? I made a deal that smoked Emerald Farms today. Poor fool thought he could take advantage of me because I’ve been away from the horse business for a little while.” His eyes were sparkling, and I wasted a futile moment wishing that once—just once—he could get that excited over something to do with his children.

Melinda sidled into the room and walked, very carefully, to the fridge for a bottle of water. Unfortunately, she knocked Mom’s bottle of wine over. I rushed to grab it before it rolled onto the floor, and Melinda mopped at the puddle, making the mess worse. I finished the job for her and then started carrying the remaining dishes to the dining room table. Everybody helped carry, even Melinda. Setting the table was the one area in which my family could act like a team.
That
would be over by the time I asked for help with the dirty dishes.

Melinda wobbled a little—just the tiniest bit—as she put the salad bowl on the table. It slipped from her hands, but my dad, old Eagle Eyes himself, caught it. He probably recognized the fumble fingers from his own drunken teen years.

“What is going on here? Is she
drunk
?” He bit off the words in Mom’s direction, so naturally she looked at me.

I sat down and starting scooping butter on my baked potato. Calm on the outside and shaking on the inside.

“Victoria? What is the meaning of this?”

I shrugged and reached for the salt. “Don’t ask me. I came home from school and started cooking.”

Melinda very carefully sat down on the exact center of the chair. “Why don’t you two ever talk to
me
? I’m the one who’s drunk,” she admitted quietly. “I’m the screwup, not Victoria. Why do you always pretend I don’t even exist?”

Mom, proving Melinda’s point, ignored her and pointed at me. “You take your sister upstairs
right now
, and—”

“No,” I said. I plunked a piece of chicken on my plate that my stomach was too messed up to eat.

Mom’s mouth fell open. “What did you say?”

“I said no. She’s not
my
daughter. Why don’t you deal with her for once? Who handled all this when I was at school, anyway? Or didn’t they give you directions for parenting your addict kid in the Ashford-Hutchinson Academy handbook?”

Mom gasped, and I almost felt bad for the low blow, but the ice in her expression put paid to
that
. “I don’t know where this attitude is coming from, but—”

Melinda stood up, only shaking a little bit, and turned to face my parents.

“Am I invisible? That must be it,” she said, but she never raised her voice. “I’m invisible to you! You don’t see me at all. Well, that’s great. That’s fucking
great
. Because nobody misses invisible people when they’re gone!”

With that, she reached for her glass of water and knocked over the bowl of buttered peas. Unbelievably, now both of my parents looked at
me
.

“Are you kidding with this?” Dad’s face was red with not-very-well suppressed rage.

I shrugged again, almost shaking with the need to start fixing things. Drag Melinda out of the room, clean things up, smooth things over.

Not this time.

“I never liked peas much, anyway,” I said, instead. I reached for the salad.

“My nerves can’t take this,” my mother said, and I finally snapped.

“This is not the eighteenth century. You do not have a
nerves
problem. You are not going to
swoon
. You have an addict daughter who needs rehab,” I said.

“And you,” I said, rounding on my father, who was still standing there, frozen, watching peas roll toward him. “You can’t just check out on your family to play business tycoon. Can’t you see that Melinda needs you?”

Melinda shot such a wounded look at me that I felt betrayed.

“What
now
?”

“You’re doing it, too. Talking about me like I’m not even here,” she said with such quiet dignity that I felt ashamed. “I thought at least
you
were on my side.”

“I am on your side, Mel. But guess who else needs to take responsibility for your drinking problem?
You
. It’s
not
your fault that Caleb died, but it
is
your fault that you’re using his death as an excuse to act even worse than usual.”

All three of them were staring at me. My mind flashed a visual of what we’d look like to anybody peeking in: a bizarre snapshot of American life, only one step away from our own trashy reality TV show.

Clark High: The Sequel
—
Watching the Wacky Whitfields
.

I’d had enough of them, of the situation, of all of it.

“For once, somebody else can clean up the mess. I’m going to bed,” I said, and then, slowly and calmly, I left the room and walked up the stairs.

Nobody said a word to stop me.

Chapter 14

Mickey

T
he locker room smelled like stinky feet, overactive hormones, and smelly armpits—that distinct cloud of odor that only a crowd of teenage boys can generate. After the first five minutes, I couldn’t even smell it anymore. After the first hour, the stench of nervous sweat joined the mix, and I yelled at somebody to prop open the door.

“Coach is late. He’s never late,” I said, adding to the Stupid Remark quota of the room, since probably every player on the team had said something similar during the past half hour. It was twenty minutes till kickoff, and we needed to be on the field, warming up.