The Way They Were (16 page)
Authors: Mary Campisi
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Contemporary, #General, #Family & Relationships, #Death; Grief; Bereavement, #Parenting, #Single Parent, #Dating
His stomach knotted at the thought. She’d been decibel-deafening clear that she had no desire or intention of establishing any sort of relationship with him, other than as a means to make him pay for her
husband’s
death, the husband she’d loved with such intensity. She hadn’t added that last bit, but it had been sitting between her words like a soggy piece of bad intention.
“Mr. Flannigan?” Maxine cleared her throat and asked, “Would you like me to see to Abbie’s lunch?”
Rourke glanced at his watch. “Lunch. Right. Seeing as she hasn’t spoken to me in two days, I doubt she’ll want to have lunch with me. Besides, she might try to put something in my hamburger.” He pulled out his wallet and said, “Do you know where she is?”
“Julia Maden’s.”
“Ah, of course.” Apparently Abbie was outside the circle of exclusion they’d placed him in. He could care less.
“Abbie and Julia really are quite fond of one another.”
Rourke turned back to his computer. “Hmmm.”
“They’ve been inseparable these last few days.”
“Hmmm.”
“I imagine they’ve found common ground in the loss of their parents.”
He scrolled through the reports on the screen and jotted down a few notes.
“That can be very important. Especially now.” She cleared her throat and continued, “Critical, actually.”
Rourke tossed his pen on the desk and swung around. “Is that Maxine Simmons, doctor of psychology speaking, or Maxine Simmons, mother of ten?”
A brilliant red stained her cheeks but she didn’t turn away. “I know I’m neither, Mr. Flannigan, but those girls need one another right now.”
“I’m sorry about Julia’s father and I’m sorry for the company’s part in it, no matter how accidental. I’m even sorry that my screwed-up sister couldn’t pull out enough maternal instinct to parent her own daughter and got herself killed. But sorry doesn’t matter, because we’re leaving Saturday.”
“Yes sir.”
“All three of us, Maxine.”
She clasped her hands in her lap and murmured. “I’ll let Abbie know, Mr. Flannigan.”
“You do that.” So, his little niece had enlisted Maxine to buy her extra time here. Not very likely.
“Pardon my asking, sir, I know it’s not my business,” Maxine squeezed her hands so tight he thought she’d burst a blood vessel. “Well, are you really going to leave Mrs. Maden behind?”
She must have seen the answer on his face because she jumped from the chair, snatched her purse, and raced out the door mumbling something about lunch.
***
Georgeanne Redmond followed the second hand on the clock above the bookcase. The instant it hit twelve she lifted her glass and sipped. The smoothness of the vodka warmed her blood. One more sip, small enough to drag out eight minutes. Such a long time. In her day, she’d have gulped ten times that amount and wanted more.
The wanting never stopped, though she could pretend for Kate, and the minister, and the town. There were times when she teetered on the brink of crashing headlong into her former life in all of its alcohol-imbued glory. But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t.
She took another sip, longer this time, and licked the Smirnoff from her lips. Rourke Flannigan would finally get his comeuppance at the hands of Katie, and she, Georgeanne Elizabeth Redmond, would be in the front row of the courtroom, cheering her daughter on. People tried to hide behind money and power but right found a way around them every time and Katie had right on her side.
Did that man really think he could waltz into town and treat them like they were trailer trash? Toss a pittance their way and never question the why? Ha! He’d soon see how resilient her daughter was, how she could strip him of his good will and take what belonged to her. What belonged to all of them.
Finally, Georgeanne would be vindicated. She lifted her glass and drained the last two tablespoons of vodka. It had only been six minutes.
Breathe.
She inhaled through her nose and blew out a long breath through her mouth. She’d kept her secret fourteen years. A lifetime. But it had all been worth it. She closed her eyes and remembered the moment her life changed.
The sticky July night clung to her as she drove the Plymouth into the inky darkness of Indian Road. Damn, why couldn’t the city put a street lamp or two up? Last week, Shep Greely nearly ran over a slew of geese. The week before that Harriett Carlson hit a skunk that stunk all the way to Tops.
She clutched the steering wheel and squinted into the night. Katie would be in an uproar if she got home and found Georgeanne gone. Then the lectures would start. Since when did children think they could give their two cents to their elders, especially a mother? No matter, there should be enough time for a few quick ones before Katie got home. That girl barely made midnight curfew these days, ever since she hooked up with that Flannigan boy. Hmph. Something about him didn’t sit well. Too damn good looking for one. Those silver-gray eyes and that big white smile, just ready to break a girl’s heart. Well, it wasn’t going to be Katie’s. He couldn’t head to college fast enough.
And if he thought for one minute—
Something lunged in front of the car and Georgeanne hit it head on with a thump. She slammed her foot on the brake so hard the car spun around, then swerved to a stop. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” What on earth had she hit? Too big for a dog. Too small for a deer. She eased the door open and made her way to the front of the car. The Plymouth’s headlights illuminated the lump on the ground. Georgeanne inched closer. Squinted. Screamed.
The lump moved. Groaned. “Please…”
Georgeanne knelt and peered at the body’s face. It was Rourke Flannigan’s mother. The woman’s legs were twisted at odd angles, her arms limp at her sides, her forehead smeared with blood. “I’m sorry. I swear I never saw you.”
Barbara Flannigan moved her lips and a whisper of sound fell out.
“
What?” Georgeanne leaned closer.
The woman opened her mouth again and said, “I…jumped…in front of… you.”
“
Why?” Was she hallucinating? One drink wouldn’t make Georgeanne hear voices. They didn’t start until half a fifth was gone. When the woman didn’t answer, Georgeanne touched her hand. “We have to get help.” She scanned the blood—so much of it. “You need a doctor.”
“
No.” A surge of strength filled that word. Barbara Flannigan’s eyes fluttered open. “Leave me.” And then, “Please.”
The woman was in shock. She had to be. “You hold on, okay?” Georgeanne scanned the black road. No one came down this way which was why she’d decided to take this route to The East End Grille.
“
Georgeanne, please. I can’t go on without him.” Pause. “Tell Rourke the truth.”
Crazy talk. Shock stripped people of logic and made them act in bizarre ways. Once she had an IV and some pain meds, she’d see things differently. “It’ll be all right.”
“
No.” She shook her head. “Tell Rourke.”
“
Tell Rourke what?”
And then Barbara Flannigan whispered a truth that startled Georgeanne as much as it filled her with compassion. The second accident happened after she left Rourke’s mother. She just wanted to get home, back to the quiet of before—without blood, without a twisted body in the middle of Indian Road, without a dying woman’s secret resting heavy on her soul. Georgeanne pressed the gas pedal hard. She missed the curve, jumped the embankment and crashed into the guardrail, ramming her leg against the steering column. Pain tore through her as she threw the Plymouth in reverse and crept home. She hid the car in the garage, dragged her body inside, downed two Valiums, and fell on the bed with Barbara Flannigan’s bloody face imprinted on her brain.
She would honor a dying woman’s last wish. God and the law might not see it as right, but in Georgeanne Redmond’s paltry life, she’d always shunned right for easy.
This time would be different.
***
“Georgeanne? You in there?”
Georgeanne jerked awake and shoved the glass beneath the stash of newspapers. Len Slewinski. He’d said he wanted to talk to her the other day when she ran into him at Tops and she’d gone and told him to come around when he had a minute. The man made her uncomfortable with those beady eyes and a conscience that would turn in a jaywalker. She reached for the peppermint tic tacs she kept on the end table and popped three in her mouth. Just in case.
“Georgeanne?”
“Come on in, Len.” What on earth could he want? Hopefully, not to reminisce about Clay again. The poor boy was dead and going on and on about him wouldn’t bring him back, even though Georgeanne suspected it eased Len’s conscience since he was the one who left Clay alone in the building.
“Howdy, Georgeanne. Day treating you well?” He tugged off his ball cap and tried to smooth tufts of gray hair.
“It’s another day. Can’t complain and it won’t do much good if I do anyway, will it?”
“Guess not. Mind if I sit?”
“Certainly.” Why was he looking at her that way? Could he smell the vodka?
“I was hoping we weren’t going to have to have this conversation, but it looks like it’ll be necessary.”
Damn, Sally Rinsel told him she’d bought Georgeanne a fifth. “There’s a perfectly logical explanation, Len.”
He cocked a brow and scratched the back of his head. “Sad enough, that’s true. Just wish it didn’t have to come from me.”
Oh damn his self-righteous soul. “Len, just say it.”
He shook his head. “It’s about Clay.”
A whoosh of relief fired through her. Listening about her son-in-law for the twenty-fifth time she could tolerate—not enjoy, but tolerate. Anything was better than getting nabbed for drinking.
Len spread his weathered hands across his work pants and sucked in a breath. “That boy was mighty important to me.”
I know, like a son.
“Like the son you never had.”
“True. And Katie, well she’s a beauty and just as sweet, too.”
“I agree.” Two hours and fifty minutes before the next drink. God, if Len wasn’t such a lily white, she’d pull out the Smirnoff’s and share a drink with him.
“He was the most righteous person I ever knew. I’d lay out the first one who tried to tarnish his good reputation.”
Oh Len, go see a priest if you want to unload your guilt.
Georgeanne sipped in a breath and wished for that drink. Even a teaspoon would do. She couldn’t tell Len to take his guilt and go to hell, because he was an important part in the case against Rourke Flannigan.
“You know Clay was all about honesty.”
Georgeanne sat back in her rocker and pictured everything.
“…and he’d want the truth told…”
Who would have thought a gray-haired scarecrow in Carhartt’s would bring down the mighty Rourke Flannigan?
“…which is why I’m here right now…”
See who ended up in disgrace and ruin.
“…sorry to say this, Georgeanne…”
The Flannigans of Chicago would have their comeuppance and she’d be in the front row to watch.
“Clay wasn’t wearing a safety harness.”
And then she’d laugh in their faces, especially—“What did you say?”
He’d gone all sweaty and pale. He pinched his fingers together and bowed his head. “Forgive me, Lord Jesus, Clay wasn’t wearing a harness when he fell. I put it on him before I called the police.”
Georgeanne heard nothing after that, not Len Slewinski’s scrambled apologies, not his unsteady gait moving past her, not the soft click of the front door. Her brain shut off everything but the truth.
Clay hadn’t been wearing a safety harness. Len would not lie about this in a court of law. Once again, the Flannigan’s would come out on top. Once again, the Redmonds would look like trailer trash.
“Goddammit.” Georgeanne yanked the Smirnoff’s from under the stash of newspapers, unscrewed the cap, and swallowed straight from the bottle. No measuring, no timetables, no pauses. Nothing but the burn filling her body, cleansing her mind, easing her into a calm.
Now she could think. She took another swig, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and blew out a long breath. She’d sold her soul fourteen years ago so Katie would be safe, so life could go on as it was supposed to. In Montpelier. With Clay Maden.
Chapter 19
“
My father’s eyes were brown.”—Julia Maden
“I hate that man.
Hate
him.”
“I know he’s kind of a pain, but once you get used to him, he’s not so bad.”
Julia flung herself on the bed and stared at the ceiling. “He killed my father.”
Abbie plopped down beside her. “It’s not like he actually pulled a gun on him or anything.”
“Might as well have.”
“Maybe it really was an accident, you know?”
Julia slid her a mean look. “Now you’re just trying to protect him, but there won’t be any protecting that man once the lawyer gets through with him.”
