Barefoot Summer (25 page)

Someone turned out the lights and Mom approached, candles flickering atop the rectangular cake, casting a glow over her features.

Dad started the song, singing off-key, and everyone joined in as Mom set the cake on the coffee table.
Happy 27th Birthday, Madison!
the cake said in bold white script. Two flames wavered on white candles in the darkness. One for her, one for Michael. When they were kids, they’d each gotten a cake, their parents careful that neither child felt short-changed. Since Michael’s death, there’d
been only one cake, but two candles, the meaning unspoken but understood.

The reminder of their loss always saddened her. It wasn’t that she wanted to forget him. No, never that. But shouldn’t there be some point when she could move forward without the dragging weight of sadness? Some point where it didn’t feel like half of her had died with him?

Everyone laughed as her parents finished the last notes of the song with their failed attempt at harmony. Madison’s smile felt as brittle as a November leaf.

“Make a wish!” PJ said.

“I wish Mom and Dad would stop trying to harmonize,” Ryan said.

“Save it for
your
birthday,” Mom said.

“I think Madison got her wish Saturday,” Daniel said, flipping his bangs from his blue eyes.

Ryan pushed the cake closer. “I’m sure she can come up with a new one, greedy girl.”

Madison leaned over, took a breath, and blew. The flames flickered out, and curly wisps of smoke winged upward.

“Yay!” PJ said. “I’ll get the plates. Dibs on the flowers.”

“You always get the flowers,” Daniel called.

“You don’t even like them.”

Mom pulled the candles and whisked the cake away with a wink.

“I want ice cream with mine,” Dad said, tagging along. “Jo, we got any vanilla?”

“Yes, dear.”

“I’ll scoop.” Ryan followed the gang into the kitchen, leaving Madison and Beckett alone.

“I hope it’s not that generic brand.” Grandpa’s voice carried from the kitchen. “Stuff tastes like cement powder.”

Madison traded a smile with Beckett. She wondered if her family overwhelmed him. He probably wasn’t used to chaos. She hoped he felt welcome despite her dad’s aloofness.

“Well,” he said, “this visit has certainly cleared up some things.”

She turned to him. “Like what?”

“Where Jade got her musical talent—clearly it was a gift from heaven.”

Madison smiled. “What? I think we sing pretty well.”

“I could hear Rigsby howling from here.”

She swatted him. “We’re not that bad.”

“Whatever you say.”

She listened a moment to the commotion in the kitchen, the laughter and teasing, the clang of silver, suddenly feeling removed from it—removed from her family, like an outsider. Why had everyone else moved on when she couldn’t seem to? What was wrong with her?

Not even after the regatta. All that time and effort—she thought it would change things. Would change her. Her eyes found the cup again, a familiar pressure building inside.

Go away. Go away.

“You okay?” Beckett was studying her with those all-seeing eyes. She wondered if he could see right through her, to that ugly thing building up inside.

“I’m fine.” She tried for a smile. “Let’s have some cake.” The sooner they ate and opened presents, the sooner she could go home and pretend it wasn’t her birthday. She just had to push these feelings down awhile longer.

The kitchen was a mass of moving, talking bodies. When everyone had a piece of cake, they settled in the living room, where conversation flew at the speed of lightning. If her family noticed Madison’s silence, no one mentioned it.

At one point she was so lost in thought that she jumped when Beckett squeezed her hand.

“You’re awful quiet, birthday girl,” he whispered.

She had to stop dwelling on it. Think of something else. “Hard to get a word in edgewise.”

“Present time!” PJ declared, setting the gifts on the coffee table.

Madison did her best to fake joy as she opened presents, even managing a real smile when she opened Ryan’s card.

Beckett tweaked a brow at the colorful scrawling on the inside.

“I got Ryan this card when he turned—what was it, Ryan? Twenty-two?”

“Something like that.”

“The next year for my birthday, he scratched out my name and regifted it.”

“That’s how cheap he is,” Daniel said.

“It’s been going back and forth ever since,” PJ said.

“Except that one year Ryan couldn’t find it,” Mom said.

“Thanks, Ryan,” Madison said, holding up the greeting card and gift card to the Coachlight Coffeehouse. “Until next year.”

She tore into her presents, eager to be finished. Daniel and PJ had gotten her season one of
Gilmore Girls
. Grandpa gave her a tool kit—she was always borrowing his.

Her parents’ gift looked and felt like a book. She tore open the floral paper to find a leather-bound journal.

“It’s a prayer journal,” Mom said.

Madison ran her hands along the smooth cover inscribed with her name. “It’s beautiful. Thanks, Mom and Dad.” She remembered the one Michael had. He’d always left it lying around, and one time she’d taken a peek.

Michael had caught her, snatching it from her hands. “Hey, that’s personal!” But he wore his good-natured smile.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t leave it lying around the living room,” she’d said, walking away. She turned at the threshold, wearing an innocent smile. “And by the way, Lacey or Tricia . . . God probably doesn’t care either way.”

Michael threw a pillow that caught her in the stomach.

“Madison?” She realized Mom had tried to get her attention twice.

“Sorry. What was that?”

“Momma Jo was saying she’d noticed my journal and asked where I got it,” Daniel said.

“We ordered it from the same place in Chicago,” Mom said.

“The cover was handmade in Italy.”

“I know how you love good leather. You used to journal when you were a teenager, remember?”

Madison ran her fingers over the journal again, nodding. “Feels like butter. Thank you.” She held it out to Beckett.

“Good stuff,” he said.

She placed the journal back in the box and helped gather trash. She needed to leave, and soon. The pressure was building, bubbling up.

When the room was picked up, Madison announced she was calling it a night.

“Already?” PJ asked. “I thought we could play Catch Phrase or something.”

“I’m really tired,” Madison said. “Maybe tomorrow . . . you can spend the night. We’ll watch
Gilmore Girls
and share a tub of butter pecan.” Madison didn’t know if she’d be up for company, but she had to get out of there.

“Take some cake with you.” Mom started toward the kitchen.

“That’s okay, Mom. You guys can finish it.” She tried for a smile when a crease marred Mom’s forehead. “It was delicious though. Thank you.”

She hugged Mom and Dad, then the others, trying to hurry without appearing to rush.

As she was slipping on her shoes, Dad asked Beckett a question about pistons. Any other time she would’ve been thrilled at her dad’s softening, but now, she only wanted to go. She knew she should wait on Beckett—he was her guest. But she had to leave. Thank goodness they’d driven separately. She didn’t think she could hold it together much longer. She thanked Beckett for coming and ducked through the drizzle, slipping into the quiet of her car.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

M
ADISON TURNED ON THE RADIO, CRANKING UP THE OLDIES
station. The haunting melody of “It Must’ve Been Love” filled the car, the bittersweet words making her ache. She turned the station and accelerated down her parents’ drive. Maybe if she could turn it up loudly enough, it would drown out the awful pressure building inside.

She breathed deeply, holding it in as she flipped on her wipers and turned onto the road. She just needed to keep it inside. Push it down. There was no reason to let it out now, all these years later. It would go away if she just pushed it down far enough.

Really, Madison? Isn’t that what you’ve been telling yourself for years?

No matter how long she pushed, how hard, it always seemed to surface again. The nightmares, this terrible disquiet inside.

I won the regatta, Michael. We achieved your dream. That was supposed to fix it. Why do I still feel like this?

She pounded her fist on the steering wheel. She was so angry. So tired. Why couldn’t she move on? Everyone else seemed to be able to.

A few minutes later she turned into her drive, shut off the engine, and ran into the house. The sky wept, droplets falling onto her head, trickling down her face. She opened the door and pushed it shut behind her. Her breaths came shallow and loud. Sweat
beaded on the back of her neck. Her fingers gripped the keys until their serrated edges cut into her palm.

She nudged Lulu aside and sank onto the rug in front of the sofa, not even bothering to turn on the light. She heard the quiet patter of rain on the roof, felt a breeze from the open window. The rain was probably coming in, but she didn’t care.

Her cell phone rang, and she turned it off without looking.

The pressure inside built, getting heavier, louder, stronger. It was too big, too powerful to be let out. She didn’t want to cry. Didn’t want to open the floodgate.

She gulped deep breaths of air, pushing, pushing it down. But the pressure refused to be put back in its place. It rose, choking her throat, filling her face with heat. A wave of nausea passed over her. The backs of her eyes burned. She blinked against the pain, but they filled with tears anyway, spilling over.

Why, God? Why did You take him?
She pounded the floor with her fist and clamped her lips, afraid to go any further.

She thought of her parents’ gift and let loose a crazed laugh that turned to tears. A prayer journal. What would she say to God? She could fill every page with her thoughts, but they weren’t things He’d want to hear. Her parents would be appalled if they knew what she’d say.

The tears flowed like rivulets of rain. She tried to choke back a sob, but it was coming out whether she wanted it to or not. The sobs broke forth in wrenching waves, making it hard to catch her breath.

It’s not fair.
She sniffed back the tears, sucked in a gulp of oxygen.
He was my brother, my twin, a part of me. If You’re so good, why did You take him? He didn’t deserve it!

A tap on the front door made her jump. She stilled, the sob
catching in her throat like a lump of wet coal. If she were quiet, they’d go away, whoever they were.

A knock sounded again. “Madison?”

Beckett.

She closed her eyes and felt more tears squeeze out. She just wanted to be alone. Was that too much to ask?

He knocked again, louder. “I know you’re in there, Madison.”

She should’ve shut the window when she’d had the chance. Couldn’t a person fall apart in private anymore?

“Go away, Beckett.”

“Not until I know you’re okay.”

She wasn’t okay. Anyone could see that. She couldn’t even pull it together enough to defend herself.

The door squeaked open, and his darkened form filled the doorway.

“I want to be alone.” She hoped he couldn’t see her in the dark. Then she realized the lights of his truck streamed through her window. How had she missed the headlights?

“You forgot this.” He set something on the end table. The journal, she thought.

An involuntary sniffle wracked her. “Thanks.”

He came closer, and she turned away. “Go away, Beckett.” She meant to sound firm, but her voice wobbled and cracked.

He slid down to the floor beside her, his knee brushing hers, his body making the space seem tight.

She felt his eyes on her as her teeth began to chatter with the effort of holding back her emotions.

She knew how she looked when she cried—it wasn’t pretty. The last thing she wanted was company. This big, ugly thing was
coming out whether she wanted it to or not, and she didn’t need an audience.

“What is it?” he asked. “Tell me what I can do.”

“Go away—that’s what you can do.”

He touched her shoulder. “Not till I know you’re okay.”

She brushed his hand away. “I’m not okay! I haven’t been okay for a long time, and I don’t see an end to that, so unless you want to move in here and wait it out, you may as well leave now.”

The burst of anger loosened everything up inside. It bubbled up from someplace deep and dark, dredging the bottom of her soul, and spilled out in violent sobs.

She drew her knees close and covered her face, wracked with pain built up over years. “Go away! Just go away.”

Beckett drew her into his arms. She pushed against him, fighting, but he wouldn’t let go. Finally she gave in.

Beckett held Madison tight, stroking her arm, pushing the hair from her face. Her sobs broke his heart, scared him. Was she ill? Was there some awful secret she was keeping? She buried her face into his shirt and let it all out, while he murmured words she probably didn’t hear.

It was awhile before she let up. Finally her sobs slowed, her breaths coming in involuntary shudders. Still he held her, stroked her arm, kissed the top of her head.