Winter's End (18 page)

M
arc listened, unmoving, wishing he could help. He kept his arms snugged and held tight, hoping to share his warmth and strength, knowing she needed both.

“I didn’t know that when I was little. What it meant.”

Marc nodded, his chin to her hair.

“We moved often. All over Ohio, a little in Pennsylvania.” Kayla paused. Her shoulders relaxed. “When I was small, she waitressed in a Greek diner. I remember a big dining room. The curtains were covered with flags and wheels. I don’t know how old I was then,” Kayla continued, steadier. “Five, maybe? I went to school, so I would have been five or six.”

“Did you stay there long?”

“I don’t think so. My next memories are of traveling from place to place with whatever guy my mom was seeing at the time.”

Marc fought the clench of anger, understanding what Kayla didn’t say.

“They’d stay for a bit, then move on. We ended up in Cleveland when I was almost eight.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Off Detroit Ave. I walked by lots of railroad tracks.”

She went silent. Marc didn’t intrude. Already she’d opened up a carefully screened chapter of her life. He had no right to push for speed.

The fingers of her left hand plucked his sleeve. Her breathing pattern changed. The rate of respirations climbed. “We had an upper apartment in an old, drafty house.”

Marc swept the third-story walk-up a look as another puzzle piece clicked into place. “Yes?”

“I’d get so tired climbing those steps every day. I carried every book I had so no one would take them.”

“Cautious,” he observed.

“Smart,” she corrected. “Everything we had got hocked or stolen. My third-grade teacher told me I was smart, that I could be anything I wanted if I worked hard, so I did.”

That he could believe. The image of a tiny Kayla, clutching her books as a ticket to well-being wasn’t a long stretch. Feisty, even then. “Cleveland’s got some long, cold winters.”

“Not as bad as here,” she argued. “But cold wet springs. Lots of rain and snow off the lake.”

“I bet.” He wasn’t sure how to lead her, or even if he should, but his pragmatic side told him it was now or never. He pressed his lips to her hair. “You lived with your mom there?”

Silence. He couldn’t see her face, had no way to read her expression, but felt the heightened tension. “The guy-of-the-hour dumped us about a month after he got Mom hooked on crack.”

Marc tightened his hold.

“She used to say that waitresses and hookers always had change in their pockets.”

He cringed.

“I think the prostitution started in Cleveland.” Kayla’s voice assumed a detached air. “I don’t remember the stream of men before that. Oh, there were guys,” she acknowledged. “Left and right. A week here, two there. But not customers.”

“You were eight?”

She nodded. The scent of her hair invaded his senses with her movement. Sassy. Sprightly. Nothing soft and floral for Kayla. Her scent reminded him of summers at the beach, sun and sand.

“There was a room.”

Her fingers clenched, one hand on his sleeve, one tucked beneath her chin.

“An attic, actually.”

“Big?”

“No.”

The word came too sharp. He sensed her move toward dark water, untamed, uncharted. Once again, her breathing hitched upward.

“It was a small room, filled with stuff. Dusty. Smelly. I cleaned off an old piece of furniture and pretended it was a desk. There was a light that hung from the ceiling with a chain you pulled.”

“Sounds like an attic.”

“Rats.”

His stomach surged. He restrained it with a firm swallow. “In the attic?”

“Everywhere.”

Marc wondered if he should be doing this. Shouldn’t Kayla be pouring her heart out to someone who understood childhood dilemmas, someone skilled in psychotherapy? Someone who knew how far to push?

He leaned to catch a glimpse of her face. “Do you want to stop talking about this?”

She scowled. “I thought you wanted details. They too much for you to handle?”

He wanted to know her, to understand what drove her. What he didn’t want was to push her over some undefined ledge he couldn’t see. “I want you to trust me, Kayla.”

“A precious commodity not easily given.”

“Then even more worthwhile.”

She went silent, eyes down.

No pushing this time. He’d offered her a way out. It was up to her to decide how far to go, what to reveal.

“I thought the kittens in the barn were rats.”

Marc eased back, still holding her. “I realized that.” He shrugged. “I wondered why.”

“I used to have to stay awake to keep them away from me. Only I couldn’t stay awake forever, you know?”

“Yes.”

“I told my mother about them and she just shook her head. ‘Kayla,’ she told me, ‘there’s nothin’ in that attic as scary as what could happen if one of my callers finds you. You study, you turn out the light, you don’t make a sound. No matter what you hear, you keep yourself quiet. You got that?’

“I said, ‘Yes, Mama.’” Her hands tensed. Her body tightened. “‘Don’t make a sound no matter what you hear.’”

“And you didn’t.”

Her chin quivered. Her mouth softened, but she stiffened it. “I didn’t. Through all the nights and all the sounds, I stayed up there and clamped my lips together, trying to ignore what went on. Sometimes she would cry, sometimes she would scream, sometimes…”

She stopped. A tear slipped down her cheek. He caught it with his thumb. “I’ve got you.” The slight ease of her limbs told him his words meant something.

“She’d unlock the door in the morning and then go to bed. I always thought that was weird because she’d been in bed all night. How stupid I was.”

“You were a child. A little girl,” he reminded her, gently. “Why should you have any idea what was going on?” Anger at the thought of Kayla being privy to her mother’s illicit habits pushed him more upright. “No one should raise a kid in an environment like that.”

“Well, she did,” Kayla asserted. “For three years. She worked her night job between the sheets, fed her habit and life slid downhill. I protected her from social workers and the police. No easy task as time went on.”

He’d wondered why she was so strong, so tough. It was a miracle she wasn’t hopelessly jaded, considering.

“Did they eventually take you away?”

Her hands stopped. Her breath stilled. She went motionless in his arms.

“Kayla?”

“One night the noises got real loud. Different. I understood it later, but right then I just knew that the man’s voice was angry and mean. I climbed under the big comforter we’d gotten from the
thrift store and buried my head in the pillow, but it didn’t do any good.”

Marc’s heart went quiet. He waited, not breathing.

“Then Mama screamed. Again and again, she screamed.”

Her hands grew clammy. Sweat appeared on her upper lip.

“She’d screamed before, but not like this. Nothing like this. I heard him yell and she’d scream, then he’d yell some more. There was all this banging around. Thumps and bumps. So much noise. So many different sounds.”

Marc’s insides spasmed, pushing his stomach toward his throat.

“I knew something was wrong, but I couldn’t tell what. I thought of going down and pounding on the door, hoping he’d stop, but then he’d know I was in the attic and Mama always said, ‘No matter what, you do not come down those stairs, young lady. You do not let these men know you’re in the house.’”

“It got real quiet.”

No.

“I think I fell asleep,” she admitted. “I must have, because when I woke up there was a rat staring at me. I jumped up and saw it was light outside.”

“Through the windows?”

“One window,” she explained. “Small and dirty, too high for me to reach, even with stuff to climb on.”

The resemblance to the harness room came clear.

“I went downstairs and tried to open the door.”

“And?”

“I couldn’t. It was still locked.”

Dread filled Marc. “So you…?”

“I waited, then I called for help. I called and called. No one came.”

Why, God? If you’re up there, or wherever it is you claim to be, why would you put a little kid through this?

“It got cold.”

“I bet.”

“Real cold. I could see snowflakes during the day. Even then the attic wasn’t very bright. It was cloudy and snowy, with just
that one dirty window.” Her face tightened as remembrances spilled forth.

“I got so hungry. And I was anxious because I was missing school. I kept calling my mom, telling her to wake up, telling her I’d be late. The teachers don’t like it if you’re late, I said.”

Silence ensued. Marc hung tight, wondering why he’d started this. What was the matter with him? Couldn’t he leave well enough alone? She’d been doing all right, forging along—

“It got dark. I must have slept some, because I remember the streetlight coming through the window that night. I chased the rats off a couple of times, and I was glad I’d slept during the day so they couldn’t get me in the dark.

“When she didn’t unlock the door the next morning, I tried not to think of what might have happened. I kept telling myself she must have needed something at the store. Every little while I would yell for her.” She paused and shrugged. “After a while, I yelled for anyone to hear me. By then I didn’t care who, as long as someone came to let me out.”

“They did.”

“Two days later. I watched the sky get light and dark two more times before I heard people. I hollered for help and a policeman broke down the attic door. He came upstairs and found me.

“I was never so happy to see anybody in my life.” Relief softened her expression. “He tugged the blanket around me. He even covered my head. He kept saying, ‘We’re gonna get you warm, honey, don’t you worry.’

“I thought he was wrapping me up because of the cold, but the blanket slipped when he got to the second floor.”

Another silence lengthened as she dealt with memories he’d pushed her to face. Marc felt like a heel. He rubbed a hand up and down her arm, sharing the present.

“There were people moving around. Some wore uniforms, some didn’t. One lady was taking pictures and she looked startled to see me. Almost scared to see me watching her.”

Her lower lip shuddered as she stared at a memory long consigned to the far reaches of her mind, a child’s reckoning with death.

Marc knew what she was about to say, he understood what Kayla, the child, saw at the bottom of those stairs.

“The photographer called the policeman’s name, then pointed to me. He grabbed the quilt back up, but not before I realized why Mama never opened the door.”

“Kayla.” He held tight, rocking her, soothing her. “Kayla, I’m so sorry.”

She wasn’t crying now. She’d spent her tears. Eyes dry, she stared at nothing special. Her hands lay limp, her lips parted, her brow pensive. “I laid on that floor above, listening to her beg for her life, plead for another chance, all the while that monster cut her up.

“And I never made a sound.”

Kayla thought she’d be more emotional at the end.

She wasn’t.

She’d hated her part in that whole thing for so long that it was second nature to accept the guilt now. If she could have gotten some kind of help, her mother might not have died at the hands of a murdering savage.

That night, anyway.

Marc held her. His lips pressed gentle kisses to her hair, her cheek.

What a pair. The two of them were a high school chemistry class run amuck, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

He’d wanted the story, he got the story. Now he could run with a clear conscience. Who in their right mind longed to be saddled with that kind of baggage?

Not her, but her options were limited. She’d lived the experience. It was hers, like it or not. She’d spared Marc the sordid details of her mother’s activities, the pieces of the puzzle she understood as she matured.

Marc was a smart guy. He understood what she left unsaid. Life with her mother wasn’t Walton’s Mountain. More like an Oprah Book Club entry.

His arms felt good around her. His breath against her hair felt natural and right.

But she refused to fool herself. Neither of them was strong enough to partner the other through life’s ups and downs. She had faith but serious issues of control and forgiveness.

He had no faith and a serious problem with women in crisis.

Their relationship had code blue stamped across the cover. No way could they breathe life into a viable future. Shaky, at best.

Disastrous, at worst, and Kayla’d become good at avoiding disasters. She’d learned to examine and evaluate whatever came her way.

Marc DeHollander didn’t even make the “high risk” category of potential prospects. He was firmly in the “out of bounds” classification, and now he understood why. She was a woman with grave issues.

Marc wanted Betty Crocker. Nothing more serious than what to cook for supper. At least now he would understand why she’d avoided him, what she’d been afraid to say for so long.

Goodbye.

M
arc wanted to help Kayla. Hold her. Soothe her the rest of her days.

Mission: Impossible.

He recognized the fact and still cradled her, letting his arms provide sanctuary.

More like a temporary haven, right, Bucko?

For the first time he saw what she’d recognized. They had too many issues to be good for one another. A relationship between them was a broken home, waiting to happen.

He had no clue how to deal with the guilt she carried and she had no use for an agnostic husband who couldn’t come to terms with his mother’s self-absorbedness.

What a pair. They could go down in history like Romeo and Juliet. Sam and Diane. Tristan and what’s-her-name. He shifted slightly. “Sorry. My arm is going to sleep.”

She edged away. “Of course. I didn’t mean to lean so hard.”

“That’s what friends are for.”

Her clenched jaw said she read his meaning. She flashed a smile, bittersweet. “Right.”

Marc leaned forward. “I’m glad you told me.”

“Not much choice. You caught me at a bad time.”

He frowned. “Why?”

“Lost a patient today.”

Marc lifted a brow. “I’m missing something. That’s what you do, right? Work with the dying?”

She flushed. “This one wasn’t supposed to go so soon. The family wasn’t ready, they hadn’t said their goodbyes and the paperwork wasn’t processed.”

“Rough time line.”

“Story of my life.” She stood and faced him. “I’m tired, Marc. I need to get to bed.”

He rose. “Kayla—”

She shook her head. “Really tired. Crying jags do that to me.”

He had a hard time believing she indulged often but accepted that. “When will I see you again?”

“I’ll send you a Christmas card from Virginia.”

“About that…”

She stepped to the door. “Good night, Marc. Give my best to Jess.”

He gripped the door knob before he opened it. After a moment’s hesitation, he turned back.

She hugged herself to ward off the cold. Marc felt guilty holding the door ajar. “I’ll call you.”

Kayla shook her head, resigned. “Don’t. Please. Have a good life, Marc.”

The door swung softly shut. He heard the lock engage and stood silent while her footsteps padded across the living room. A moment later, the light winked out.

She’d bared her soul, then pulled back as far as she could.

Which was good, right? He’d learned a sage lesson by watching his dysfunctional family. Marrying a woman with a scant hold on reality was akin to life imprisonment. He’d seen the act firsthand. Not pretty.

The walk to his truck seemed especially cold. Gusts soaked him with ice-flecked rain, the dampness bone-chilling.

Life would go on. He knew that. He was in the thick of spring busyness, fields needed to be primed for seeding once the weather broke and the feed store was full of activity.

Jess’s riding circuit would begin in earnest and how he was going to fit it all in and paint the house was beyond him.

But he’d manage, like always. Oh, yeah. He’d do just fine.

Right.

“You don’t look so hot.” Craig observed as he approached Marc, ready to perform cattle testing in early summer.

Marc grunted, hoping that would thwart Craig’s questioning.

Wrong.

“You could use a barber, a shave and a bath.”

Marc kept his eyes trained ahead as they rounded the barn.

“How’s Jess doing?”

“Fine.”

“And you?”

“Same.”

“Right.” Craig set up his testing kit on the off side of the fence. Marc moved to the metal crush he’d put in place. Jerry Broom, a summer hand, stood at the end of the crush, waiting to load the first young steer.

Usually he’d chat with Craig during testing. Sarah was due in six weeks and McKenna was a precocious toddler now.

He tried not to care that Craig was happier than he’d ever seen him. He pushed aside thoughts of how nice it would be to come home to a wife after a long day’s work. Someone beside you through thick and thin, curled next to you in bed each and every morning.

He wouldn’t think of what he might have had if circumstances had been different.

It wasn’t his fault. He felt like a rejected insurance applicant, tossed out of the risk pool by a preexisting condition he didn’t cause, didn’t want and had no control over.

She’d left nearly five weeks before. He knew because he drove by her apartment on every trip to Potsdam. The For Rent sign stabbed his heart the first time he saw it. The second time, too.

His gut twisted, remembering.

Almost heaven, Virginia.
Wasn’t that the phrase in some old song? West Virginia, Marc corrected himself, recalling the ad campaign Virginia launched on Sports Center. Sprawling paddocks,
gracious plantations, happy couples strolling hand-in-hand in front of restored village homes.

The North Country had a beauty all its own, not designed for the faint of heart. Sure it got cold, but that’s what coats were for, right? Boots. Scarves. Hoods.

Unless you were too foolish to wear proper footwear. Then of course you’d get uncomfortable. It all came down to choices, good and bad.

Craig finished drawing blood and turned Marc’s way. “I don’t know what you’re thinking about, but you’re scary. Should I run?”

“Shut up.”

“I could, I suppose.” Craig stowed the labeled vials into their proper slots. “I could pretend that my best friend wasn’t going through a rough time, but I’ve been doing that for a while and don’t see any improvement. Want to talk?”

Marc tightened his jaw. His left eye twitched. “Talking won’t bring Dad back. Talking doesn’t get the farm work done, or the house painted, or get Jess where she needs to be each night, or the feed store up and running every single morning.”

“And it doesn’t bring Kayla back.”

“That’s got nothing to do with anything.”

Craig packed his kit into an insulated bag. “Sarah heard from her last week.”

Marc wanted to ask how she was doing. Was the trip down okay? Was she safe, was she sound?

He stayed silent, his eyes trained on the distant woods.

“She said it’s funny, but she misses the north. Said Virginia’s beautiful, but she feels out of place. Like she doesn’t belong.”

“She belongs wherever she wants to be. She’s beautiful and smart, a trained professional. She can make a go of it anywhere.”

Craig flicked Marc a look. “Still, she says she misses everything she left up here.”

A tiny spark leaped in Marc’s chest, then ebbed.

Her missing the North Country meant little when they were still the same two people with the same issues. Marc turned Craig’s way. “Jess misses her.”

“Kayla’s a special lady,” Craig noted.

“With baggage.”

“Everyone’s got baggage. Checked the mirror lately?”

“I deal with my past each and every day. I have to. There’s Jess to consider.”

“So you’ve forgiven your mother? You understand she made a foolish choice and compounded it?”

Marc grabbed Craig’s sleeve. “Kayla told you that Dad wasn’t Jess’s father? She broke the rules of confidentiality?”

Craig’s expression told him he was way off base. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I meant your mother left a wonderful family because she didn’t like the compromises she had to make. What do you mean about Jess’s father?”

Marc groaned. Why didn’t he learn to shut his stupid mouth? Why couldn’t he—

“Forget I said anything.” Marc scrubbed a hand across his face. “It’s complicated.”

“I guess.”

“Don’t mention this, please. Not even to Sarah.”

“You have my word. But Kayla knows?”

“Yes.”

“Does Jess know?”

“She overheard me yelling at Kayla about it.”

Craig frowned. “You really need to stop doing that, man. Get a clue.”

Marc twisted his face in regret. “She’s gone. Not much to worry about there.”

“The road travels both ways.”

Marc scowled.

Craig stepped closer. “She wants a man of faith, someone to love her, to worship with her. Someone to stand by her side through thick and thin. Kayla’s never had that privilege.”

Marc mentally replayed her history. “True.”

“Then get your sorry backside into church, beg God’s forgiveness and see if you can’t change the direction your life’s taken.”

“Quick turnabout?”

Craig shook his head. “Maybe not so quick, but you’ve got nothing to lose. You and I did youth group together, back in the day.”

A smile tugged Marc’s right cheek. “Truthfully, I was more interested in Mary Sue Thompson than the Bible.”

Craig grinned. “You were fourteen. Mary Sue was a sight for sore eyes, wasn’t she?”

“And then some.” Marc scrubbed a hand across his neck again. “I can’t deny I’ve spent time praying these last months, taking Jess to church and all. I hear the words, but they don’t touch me.”

“Kind of rough with that cement wall you’ve erected.”

“I’ve got a lot on my plate.”

“All the more reason to share.” Craig jerked his head west. “Come to Trinity with Sarah and me. Maybe it’s not the words but the location. The delivery. Maybe you need something new.”

The offer was tempting, but unrealistic. A change of venue couldn’t lighten his burden.

Still…

Jess could use some different exposure. Hadn’t he been saying that for months? Maybe driving to Grasse Bend for church would be a good start.

“What time is the service?”

“Ten. We can meet you there.”

Marc stared at the summer sky, considering.

Craig waited, silent.

“Okay. Sunday, it is.” He reached out a hand to shake Craig’s. “Don’t expect miracles.”

Craig grinned. “I not only expect them, I see them. Every day.”

Marc considered Craig’s position. A devoted wife, a beautiful daughter, a second child on the way. “I guess you do.”

“Sunday.” Craig reiterated as he climbed into his SUV. “And take a bath, would ya?”

Marc grinned and realized something.

It felt good to smile. To relax with a friend. He angled his chin and ran a thoughtful hand over his scruffy face. “I might even shave.”

Craig laughed. “God won’t care one way or the other, but the rest of the congregation might appreciate it. At least when Kayla was around, you smelled half human.”

You smell good,
she’d told him.
Like winter nights and sweet hay.
His chest tightened at the memory.

He missed her so much he hurt inside. He had trouble separating his losses. His father. Kayla. The look in Jess’s eyes that told him she couldn’t forget the revelation she’d heard on a cold, dreary night.

So much, grouped together. He breathed deep and backed away from Craig’s car. “I’ll see you Sunday morning.”

As Craig pulled away, Marc strode toward the house. He needed to check Jess’s schedule. If she and Rooster made it to the finals, those would be Sunday afternoon.

And church Sunday morning?

He tried not to think of what needed to be done, the work waiting for him at every turn. A swan’s call pulled his attention.

The graceful birds swam, necks arched, ever-calm. Well, except if something threatened their nest. Same with the geese. They knew, intrinsically, that things would work out. Day would follow day.

He swung back, toward the house, and saw it, really saw it.

The old place looked bleak. Unloved. None of the subtle touches that made a house a home were evidenced outside.

Where the pond lay lush with peaceful life, the house reflected Marc’s inner turmoil. Peeling paint peppered the sun-scarred surface. The shutters still sat in the basement from two years back when he’d intended to get the whole thing scraped, primed and painted.

Then his dad’s illness flared and everything went on hold. Suddenly there was one set of hands where there had been two. Priorities insisted that farm work take precedence, but at what cost to their home?

Eyeing it, he tried to see the house through Kayla’s eyes.

She’d always seemed comfortable there. She liked the warmth of the wood stove, the luster of the old oak moldings, but the exterior stood stark and spare. It looked sad. Uncared for.

He and the house had a lot in common.