The Summer Bones (6 page)

“Michael?” She shot him a look. “Who told you? Oh, wait, let me guess—Emily?”

“She said you were dating one of the lawyers in the firm.” His tone was almost carefully bland. It wouldn't do to push for confidences. Victoria was as private a person as Emily was public. She kept her life in Chicago apart from her connections back home. Part of her reluctance, he knew, was a disinclination to include her parents in her life.

“Yes.” Shoving her hands into the pockets of her linen shorts, she frowned at the trees ahead.

Walking side by side, they both seemed to naturally agree on the same path, toward the barn where a winding track of beaten earth split the long grass.

“Is an engagement somewhere in the near future?”

That brought a sigh through parted lips, and again her hand lifted to sweep back her hair in a thoughtless, nervous gesture. “There might be. I don't know. He's going to ask but … I can't really think about it when we're all so worried about Em.”

Aside from slightly lifting his eyebrows, Damon didn't comment. It was cooler next to the barn, but marginally. His legs brushed a leaning clump of wild roses, scattering a flurry of petals and scent. Where the path met the fence the opening was narrow, and he stepped back to let Victoria slide through first. The faint gleam of the pond came through the stand of walnut trees just ahead.

She looked over her shoulder as she slipped through the two weathered posts, a brief glance that showed her profile in the lavender light of a fading day.

Damon felt the past rise up like a slap to the face. All of a sudden he could hear childish laughter and see the images of children racing along the path, insubstantial as shadows, soft gauzy forms frolicking in the dusky light.

The children they once had been, carefree and happy.

Shaking it off, he squeezed through the fence. In a few minutes they reached the trees—a patch of slim walnut, sapling oaks, and towering locust trees that ringed a large expanse of water. The dock jutted into the pond, a creaking affair of rotting wood and rusting poles with an old rowboat tied to the end.

Victoria stopped at the edge of the water where weeds and thick grass sprouted in profusion. “Grandma is worse than I expected,” she said, staring out over the water. “She's changed so much.”

“It comes and goes.”

“Does she even understand?”

“You mean about Emily? Sometimes she does. You saw it tonight. One second she's smiling and normal, the next she's calling me by her father's name and asking for her mother. I hate it.”

He added the last bit quietly, but Victoria easily caught the emotion; he could see that in her face.

This was a woman they both had loved, adored, their whole lives. “I hate it, too.” She reached out and softly touched his arm. “But I don't have to live with it day in and day out. How do you handle it?”

“I let it go. I don't comment and I don't correct. Whatever world she's in, past or present, it's real to her. I don't want to embarrass her.”

Victoria gave a nod of agreement. Not for the world would either of them hurt their grandmother. She was the one who had baked cookies and bandaged scraped knees, who had tucked them into bed and sung them songs. Now it was their turn to care for her.

“But …” Damon's gaze examined the other side of the pond where a willow wept trailing arms into the water. “We can't allow her to drive anymore. The old man and I agree.”

Victoria glanced up sharply. “Did something happen?”

His mouth tightened. “She had an accident one day—in Rushville, just a scrape against a parked car. But she couldn't remember who she was, or where she'd come from, or anything about insurance. She hadn't taken her purse and didn't even know where she was going.”

“How awful.” Victoria gaped.

“The police ran the registration and called. I went to pick her up. She doesn't remember a thing about what happened. Still doesn't, in fact. We hide her keys,” he said frankly. “It really shook up the old man.”

The water rippled darkly, licking the growth along the shore, lapping at the graying boards of the dock. “He does look shaken,” Victoria murmured, “but I thought it was everything else. Emily, I mean.”

“He looks bad,” Damon agreed, walking past her, out onto the warped boards of the dock. The wood protested in low groans and pops but he hardly noticed, bending to trail his fingers in the cool water. It was sliding away, he thought. They were losing that generation.

Victoria followed him, slipping off her sandals and sitting down to dangle her legs in the pond. Damon looked at her profile, silhouetted by water and setting sun. She splashed her feet in the water, droplets sliding over the smooth skin of her calves, her eyes narrowed against the dying sunlight reflected in the water.

“Do you think,” she began to say hesitantly, “that Emily might have arranged the whole thing? The car hidden in the trees so no one would find it for a few days? The purse left behind with the money and credit cards and driver's license? Could she have met someone there … and just vanished on purpose? Could she have?”

Damon sat down beside her, cross-legged and turned sideways so he could study her face. “Someone?”

“I wonder if she and Ronald were unhappy.”

Something in her face told him of a secret she wasn't too happy to keep. Knowing her as he did, he averted his gaze to the quiet water. “So you think she was having an affair? ‘Someone' translates to a lover?”

“Ronald is so much older than she is. You know we all thought it would never work.”

Personally, he thought they were fairly matched. Emily's passionate nature demanded someone as volatile as herself. Ronald fit that bill nicely. But Victoria was right. No one in the family had thought a twenty-one-year-old girl should marry an emotional thirty-six-year-old artist who had been divorced once already.

“Did Emily indicate in some way she was having an affair?” he asked, watching the willow branches make patterns in the water.

In the distance, a tractor started with a healthy roar. The sound was so familiar it went unnoticed. Victoria sat with her head turned away, the breeze softly blowing her hair, the water lapping at her legs. Her reflection shone in the water, a pale ghost of the real woman.

Victoria's face. Emily's face.

“Did she?” he prodded gently. His cousin's expression was so bleak that he wanted to touch her cheek, to offer comfort.

“I …” She stopped. Swallowed. Took her time.

Finally, she said in a small voice, “I think Ronald abused her. Physically, I mean.”

It was all Damon could do to keep the muscles in his face posed in the same order. His mind registered her revelation and began processing possible responses at once.

Victoria just watched him with haunted eyes.

What to say
?

He decided on, “Did she say so?”

She shook her head. “She denied it. But I saw the bruises, Damon. We argued about it, in fact.” A breath. “I haven't talked to Em since April. I mean really talked. There's been a few short phone calls, mostly made by me. She told me not to butt in.”

“Interesting.” He knew it was an inadequate thing to say. The meek breeze brushed his cheek and in the water he saw his cousin's reflection break into tiny waves and splinter away.

“Interesting?” Victoria repeated hollowly. Her obvious disappointment made him feel an inch tall.

It wasn't, he had to remind himself, really his secret.

“Interesting.” His voice was firm, his face back in control. “And if they were having those sorts of problems, why wouldn't Em just divorce him?”

“I don't know.” Her voice was broken. “For the first time in our lives, I have no idea what was going on in Emily's head.”

Which
, Damon thought cynically,
was
probably a good thing.
Not an opinion he would ever voice out loud. Instead, he watched the setting sun spark the rippling water into tiny incandescent flames.

The traffic on I-70 was typically heavy, even at midday on a Tuesday. Both lanes were full and streaming forward, cars balanced by the looming bulks of semitrailers. Victoria drove with a steady gaze on the road, the air-conditioning humming along in time with the radio.
Only noon
, she thought, feeling finely drawn—tugged at by the ravages of exhaustion. She'd slept fitfully, bothered by both the heat and her restless thoughts. The previous night had been bereft of sweet dreams.

Then, the morning had produced her cousin Rachel. Going downstairs for a much-needed cup of coffee, she'd found Damon's sister at the kitchen table, an egg-stained plate sitting on the linen place mat in front of her while their grandmother hovered in her usual place by the stove.

The sight had not been a welcome one. Four years younger than Damon, Rachel was dark haired, but there her resemblance to her brother abruptly ended, in both personality and looks. She was pudgy, emerging from a chubby-cheeked, plump-fingered childhood into sturdy adulthood. Her skin was lovely and smooth and she'd inherited her mother's blue eyes, but her mouth was continuously folded small in discontent, and her self-consciousness about her weight showed in small, malicious comments and tiny digs at just about anyone else.

She'd been a chronic informer in their younger years, and Victoria always viewed Rachel with caution, having honed a sense of self-preservation after years of interaction. If Rachel could knock one down, she would, knowing this was a weapon of self-defense.

Rachel had leveled a critical gaze on Victoria's face, her figure, her clothes, and finally had said, “Good morning, Tori. Haven't seen you in a long time.”

A relief, if that was all Rachel could find to say. Victoria shrugged and managed a precoffee smile with effort. “I was here at Easter, remember? How are you, Rachel? How's your husband?” For some reason, Victoria never could remember his name.

“Fine. He's had quite a promotion. Maybe Gran told you, but he's plant manager now, you know?” It was a smug reply. Rachel's blue eyes watched from her round face as Victoria accepted a cup of coffee from their beaming grandmother.

She hadn't known. “How nice. Congratulations.” The room smelled wonderfully of toast, rich butter, and mown grass. Lifting the fragrant cup to her lips, Victoria sipped gratefully.

The conversation had been general after that. Rachel had imparted the delightful news that she was pregnant, expecting the baby about February. Satisfaction that she would produce the first offspring of her generation flowed from her in tangible waves.

Victoria had sat and drank, musing over the miraculous urge to procreate, which could affect someone even as insecure and selfish as Rachel.

“Of course, both you and Damon are dragging your feet about getting married, so no hope for the two of you to start families anytime soon.” Rachel pushed her plate aside idly, leaving it for her grandmother to clear and wash.

Victoria watched the selfish gesture and said, “Have a heart, I'm only twenty-six.”

Rachel might not have heard. Warming to her subject, she added, “I'm glad that Jeff and I want a big family.”

“I can't even imagine having a baby right now,” Victoria murmured, and received a lot of unwanted details about the horrors of morning sickness and first trimester aches and pains.

Hardly paying attention, she let Rachel's voice wash past as she remembered Emily's various remarks on childbearing and childrearing, not the least of which was her blithe disclosure that Ronald had decided on a vasectomy sometime during his first marriage. Children were not possible, and that was how Emily wanted it. Her career and marriage were apparently enough.

Chin on fist, Victoria pondered her sister's vehement stand on motherhood. Coffee forgotten, the room became a comforting blur until Rachel broke in, seeming to read her thoughts. “As for Emily, she doesn't even want children, does she?”

“No.”

“Speaking of Emily, have you seen the morning paper?”

Rachel's expression was a barometer of ill news. There were betraying signs, if one knew to look for them—a sort of flattening of the mouth and lowering of the plump chin. A narrowing of the eyes and thinning of the lips resulted in a warning smirk. The tone of the question brought Victoria's attention back to the table and the discussion at hand, including the switch in subject. She sharply glanced at Rachel's face, saw the gleam in her cousin's eye, and mentally took a deep breath.

Rachel knew damn well she hadn't seen the paper because she'd just watched her come downstairs. The urge to point that out was so strong that Victoria took a moment before saying mildly, “No, why?”

“It's so horrible. The headline, I mean. I never realized how awful it would be to have reporters scavenging stories at the expense of your family and their feelings.”

“What stories?”

“In the morning paper.” The shiver Rachel gave was more a wriggle of anticipation than an expression of distaste.

Victoria felt more wary than ever, a sinking sensation beginning to tug at her stomach. “Where is it?”

Rachel looked sympathetic. “The paper? On the chair by the window.”

All too aware of Rachel's avid gaze, Victoria had gotten up and stiffly gone to retrieve the paper. Shaking out the front page of Rushville's daily, she read: “Second Woman Missing from Area—Runaway or Foul Play?” She lifted her head. “Second?” she asked incredulously.

Rachel nodded mournfully, but her mouth formed a bow of hidden satisfaction. She and Emily hadn't ever gotten along. Faced with Emily's blatant and sensational self-confidence, Rachel had bitterly resented her cousin.

You little bitch
, Victoria thought bleakly.

* * * *

Ronald and Emily lived in a pink brick two-story home on the north side of Indianapolis. The neighborhood was conservative upper middle class—four-wheel drive vehicles neatly parked next to expensive sedans in clean paved driveways, velvet lawns, blank windows staring from immaculate facades. No one ever seemed to be about, but then again, someone had to work to pay for all this opulence. New money was never as comfortable as old money.