Dorothy Garlock - [Tucker Family] (15 page)

“I’m not much of a drinker,” Christina said.

“You should keep it that way. If I would’ve, only the Good Lord knows how different my miserable life would be. I’d have my health, all of the money I’ve wasted, and so much in between. Who knows, maybe my son wouldn’t be so ashamed to be seen with his old man that he would be sitting out in the car right now. Even my beloved Agnes would still be by my side.”

“Agnes died from a stroke, Archie,” Dr. Barlow interjected.

“That was no doubt caused by having to live with a fall-down, worthless bum who pissed away every cent he had on drink,” he said wistfully, “money that would’ve been better spent caring for the woman who’d been foolish enough to love him. To this very day, I’m still so damn embarrassed that I can’t visit her grave.”

Listening to Archie, Christina was reminded of her talk with Eunice Hester. She, too, had given Christina advice about how to live her life, about the choices she might someday be confronted with, although Eunice’s had a much more positive outlook. Still, Christina found herself rapt with attention, listening to the life lessons Archie was giving her, knowing that she would be a fool to disregard the warnings he’d chosen to ignore.

“Booze has ruined my whole life,” he said, “so don’t let it ruin yours.”

“I won’t,” Christina promised.

“That’s just what I wanted to hear.”

“You’re not dead yet, Archie,” Dr. Barlow said. “All you have to do is quit drinking.”

“You’re one to talk, Sam,” Archie shot back, looking deep into the doctor’s bloodshot eyes. “Just because I’m half-blind from drinkin’ doesn’t mean I can’t see the state
you’re
in. Whatever it is you’re doin’ to yourself, if you’re not careful you’re gonna end up in your grave every bit as fast as I’m gonna.”

Christina glanced at Dr. Barlow’s face and could see that Archie’s words had struck close to home; his face was immediately crestfallen and flushed, ashamed. The doctor quickly turned away from both of them.

“We’re talking about
your
health,” he said defensively.

“No, what we’re
really
talking about is the both of us,” Archie corrected him. “’Cause we both know that getting addicted to something is like a rabid dog; once it sinks its fangs into you, it’s harder than hell to get ’em back out.”

Once the last patient had been treated, the floor swept, and the lights turned off for the day, Christina went in search of the doctor. She’d watched closely to make certain that he hadn’t gone out through the front door, but when she looked in his office she was surprised to find that he wasn’t there, either. The same was true of every other room. Finally, she saw that the back door had been propped open, so she stepped outside.

Dr. Barlow leaned his back against the hood of the coupe, smoking a cigarette as he stared off into the distance. Though he looked better than when the day began, he still appeared tired and, like Archie Felton, older than his years. She had hoped that they might have a chance to talk, but seeing him in such a deep, introspective state made her think that it could wait. Then, just as she was about to retreat inside the clinic, he glanced up and saw her.

“I’m sorry that I was…such a mess today,” he said as he dropped the cigarette, extinguishing its burning ember with the toe of his shoe.

“I thought you did quite well,” she replied, “given the circumstances.”

“That I’m going to end up just like Archie Felton?”

“I wouldn’t say
that
.”

“Not yet, anyway.”

When Archie had left the clinic, hobbling out to the car, his son refused to get out and open the door for his father. Christina had noticed that Dr. Barlow was watching. Though Archie was pleasant enough while sober, there was no reason to doubt that he had allowed alcohol to destroy his life, just as he’d said. Christina wondered if, when Dr. Barlow watched the other man, he feared he was looking at his own future, a life consumed by addiction.

She couldn’t imagine that such a view would be pleasant: poor health, alienation from everyone he’d ever loved, barely making ends meet because he couldn’t escape the cruel grasp of his drug. Surely Dr. Barlow didn’t believe that it would happen to him, but Christina doubted Archie had ever imagined he’d find himself in such an unforgiving place.

The other thing that Christina realized was that Samuel Barlow’s situation wasn’t all that different from his nephew’s; Holden Sutter had his own demons to contend with. If left untreated, they would ruin his life as surely as Archie Felton’s had ruined his.

“Why do you do it?” she asked.

“You asked me that yesterday,” Dr. Barlow answered.

“I’m still waiting for an answer.”

Dr. Barlow nodded grimly, checked the packet of cigarettes in his front shirt pocket, and, when he found it empty, wadded it up and threw it on the ground. “Having to explain myself isn’t something I’m used to.”

“You shouldn’t think about it as giving an answer to
me
but more that you’re doing it for yourself,” Christina said. “If you tried to deal with the problem by acknowledging it, maybe you’d find a solution.”

Sighing deeply, he said, “I don’t want to end up like Archie…”

“Then start changing your life by telling me why you inject yourself with morphine.”

Christina hoped that she was reaching him. If he could just break through the wall he had built around himself, there might be a way for him to avoid the future Archie represented.

“I know that what you’re suggesting might be what’s best,” Dr. Barlow said, “but I…I just can’t. Not yet…not now.” He paused, looking her in the eyes. “But if I
did
decide differently…I suppose that you might be someone I would be willing to let listen…”

“I’d do whatever it took to make things better,” she answered honestly.

“If I ever change my mind, I’ll hold you to that.”

“I’d be honored.”

Once she had left the clinic, walking home to her apartment, Christina was filled with the desire to reach out to someone else, to stop that person from meandering to the same rough place that Archie had found himself, where Dr. Barlow was unfortunately headed, albeit by taking a different path.

Now it was time for her to help Holden.

Y
OU CAN DO IT
…just raise your hand and knock.

Christina stood outside Holden’s bedroom door, unsure of what to do. She had been in this situation before; on the night she’d first met the Sutter brothers, she had carried Holden’s tray to this very spot, thinking that she would just knock on the door, introduce herself, and maybe make a friend in her new town. Thinking about how
that
had turned out nearly made her laugh.

But today, she desperately wanted things to turn out differently…

Though she hadn’t been able to achieve the breakthrough she’d hoped for with Dr. Barlow, Christina felt more strongly than ever that she needed to reach out to Holden. After their breathtaking chase through the darkened streets of Longstock, she was convinced that he needed to unburden himself of the demons he carried.

To that end, she felt she needed a reason to see him.

Returning home from work, she had telephoned Clara Sutter in the hope that she might be invited to dinner the following night; Christina had no doubt that her grandmother would have been appalled at such forward behavior, but she’d felt as if she had little choice. She’d considered asking Tyler, but he would have wanted to know why and she didn’t think telling him the
truth
was an option; she remembered the way he’d overreacted to her speaking with his brother; he would have to find out later.

Fortunately, Clara had been happy to hear from Christina and immediately asked her to come for dinner. So, with a freshly baked loaf of bread tucked under her arm, she’d headed to the Sutter home, arriving early so that she might find some time to be with Holden.

“Are you sure you want to go up there again?” Clara asked when Christina told her of her intention. Clara’s face pinched up uncomfortably, as if she had bitten into a lemon. “The last time didn’t go well for
anyone
.”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Christina tried to reassure her, but from the worried crease in Clara’s forehead it didn’t seem to work.

Now Christina stood before Holden’s door, hesitant.

In the end, it was remembering how he had hurried to her, putting his hand on her arm with a surprising gentleness, that convinced her. As she thought of that moment, it was impossible to believe he would be as bad tempered as the last time she entered his room.

Taking a deep breath, Christina knocked.

Holden was surprised by the sudden sound at his door. He glanced toward the clock, but doing so only increased his confusion; his mother wouldn’t be bringing his dinner for more than an hour. Maybe he’d just imagined it, a popping or groaning of the house that only sounded like someone rapping at his door, but no sooner had he created such a fantasy than it was dispelled by another, more insistent knock.

“Who is it?” he asked, more than a little curious.

“It’s Christina. I was wondering if we could talk.”

When he heard her voice, Holden’s heart began pounding so hard in his chest that he worried it might start a tremor in his arm. Ever since she had doggedly chased him through the streets of Longstock, he’d been unable to get Christina Tucker out of his mind. Hell, from the first time he had met her forgetting her
wasn’t
possible. That was why he had been standing outside her window in the middle of the night, why he’d made the mistake of walking up the stairs to her apartment, and why he was now frozen in place.

His bedroom was in the same state it had been on her first visit, with tall stacks of books spread everywhere. Once his books had been a comforting sight, a barrier against the world outside his door, but looking at them now embarrassed him. But he also knew that he couldn’t make Christina go away, he didn’t
want
her to go away, and she’d be stubborn enough to stand there for hours. Besides, she’d seen it before. Nervously, he went to the door, took a deep breath, and opened it.

“Hello,” she said simply, paralyzing him.

“He-hello, yourself,” he managed to reply.

Every time Holden had been around Christina, he’d found himself dumbstruck by her looks. Today was no exception. With her long black hair cascading over her shoulders, a smile that lit up her eyes as surely as if they were stars in the sky, and the gentle curve of her cheek, he wanted to drink her in, to revel in her as if she were a painting in a museum.

The problem was that this work of art
spoke
to him.

“May I come in?” she asked.

“Of…of course.”

Holden stepped aside to let Christina enter, shutting the door behind her. For a moment, he rested his head against the door, trying to compose himself. He was so nervous that beads of sweat dotted his forehead.

What in the hell’s the matter with me?

Holden had been around other women before, gone on dates where he’d been charming, funny, the life of the party. Then, it had been natural, easy. But now, he was cottonmouthed and tongue-tied, both at the same time.

If you don’t pull yourself together, she’ll leave…

Christina moved a small stack of books and sat on a corner of the bed, her hands in her lap. After almost dropping a couple of volumes of encyclopedias, Holden freed up a chair opposite her.

“I’ve done a lot of thinking about the other night,” she began. “Especially about the things you said before…before you left…”

“I’m sorry that I left so abruptly,” he said.

“I understand why you did.” Christina smiled, gently reaching over and placing her hand upon his, on his
left
hand; Holden marveled at how comforting her touch felt, about how he never would have allowed anyone else to touch him in such a way.

“I hope I didn’t frighten you,” he said.

“You didn’t. Well,
maybe
a little…”

“It wasn’t my intention,” Holden replied truthfully; in fact, it was the absolute last thing he would’ve wanted.

Christina gave his hand a soft squeeze. “Though I have to admit that I was surprised to find you lurking around my apartment in the middle of the night,” she said, her eyes narrowing teasingly, “there’s a part of me that’s glad you were there.”

“There is?”

“Of course,” she answered, “because now we’ve got an opportunity for a discussion. We have the chance to help you get off your chest what’s bothering you, so you can begin the return to the life you clearly still want.”

Though it truly pained him to do so, Holden removed his hand from Christina’s. “You want me to talk about what happened.” He frowned deeply. “You want me to tell you about what happened during the war…”

“You said that you’d be willing to talk about it.”

“I said that I
might
want to,” he disagreed. “I didn’t mean
now.
I meant someday in the future.”

Christina frowned deeply. “Holden,” she began, “the only way things are ever going to get better is if you let go of the burden you’re carrying. Your tremors will never improve if you stay in this room. You have to stop turning your back on every offer of help. You have to
let it go
.”

Holden wanted to trust her; he hadn’t been lying when he’d said that she was the one person he could see himself telling. But
actually
letting it out was proving to be a different matter. No one else knew what he had seen that day, not a doctor, not his fellow soldiers, not his family, no one.

“I…I don’t know if I’m ready.” He looked away.

“I don’t believe that.” She shook her head, contradicting him. “The reason you leave this room and walk around town in the middle of the night is because you
want
to return to the life you’re keeping at arm’s length. You need to take a chance, Holden. You need to let it all out.”

“I’m…I’m afraid to…,” he answered, the shame of his fear coloring his cheeks.

“Talking about it will finally set you free.”

“I don’t want you to think that I’m weak…”

“I would
never
think that about you,” she said emphatically. “All that I’m asking is that you trust in me. I promise that if you stop holding it inside of you, things
will
get better.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“With all of my heart.”

And so, Holden did as she asked.

Normandy, France
June 24, 1944

Holden Sutter smoked the last of his cigarette, savoring the burn of tobacco in his lungs, before crushing the butt beneath his booted foot. Tugging his rifle closer against his shoulder, he struggled to keep his eyes open. The hours before dawn were the most difficult of guard duty; he was at his most exhausted, while it was simultaneously the best opportunity for the Germans to attack. Thankfully, so far the only thing he’d heard was the faint chirping of the few birds stubborn enough to still live in the unforgiving midst of war.

June in northern France was far chillier than he’d expected. Bruise-colored clouds drizzled rain at all times of day, blotting out the sun and the meager warmth it provided. Thick droplets of dew clung to the tramped-down grass of what had once been a cow pasture, the animals long since eaten. His feet felt as if they were encased in blocks of ice. A persistent wind chilled his bones, making him long to be inside near the fire.

Holden looked back at the enormous country manor his unit had occupied during their pursuit of the retreating Nazi forces. The home carried the same name as the town in which it sat, La Boissière, a fact that Holden found quite strange. Three stories tall, it had been built in the middle of the eighteenth century, the consolation property of a nobleman whose love of a common woman had caused him to fall from standing. It had more rooms than Holden could have ever imagined necessary, two kitchens, and a huge great room warmed by a fireplace large enough for a man to stand upright inside; he fervently wished that he was before it now.

From the outside, La Boissière was impressive to behold. Its grounds stretched far and wide, full of ponds, pastures, and forests. Beside the house were two long rows of trees, their canopies thick enough to prevent detection from the air; the Germans had placed their military beneath them during the D-day invasions, and now the Americans did the same.

They had learned how the Germans had used the property, as well as its remarkable history, from the woman who owned it. Yvonne Duval hadn’t left when the Nazis arrived, coming at midnight to take claim of the home that had been in her family for nearly two hundred years. In her mid-forties, she had been aged dramatically by the war. Her long brown hair was streaked with grey, but now, with her family’s freedom finally restored, she’d gone about welcoming their American liberators with a smile and no shortage of gratitude.

One day, Yvonne had approached Holden as he stood in front of the house.

“Est-ce que vous voulez manger?”
she’d said.

“I’m…I’m sorry, but I don’t understand…”

When she’d made the motion of eating, Holden had followed her into the kitchen, where she’d prepared what little food she and her family had left. His unit had taken an instant liking to her.

Still, Holden couldn’t wait for the war to end.

The weeks leading up to the invasion of Normandy had been ones of great stress, but they had also been filled with the desire to finally start doing what his nation had gone to war for: driving the Nazis from Europe.

Finally, the time had arrived.

Holden’s unit had been in the third wave that came ashore at Omaha Beach; it had been a struggle not to vomit on the wave-tossed ride across the English Channel. The carnage he had seen that day would stay with him for the rest of his life: watching men make the ultimate sacrifice by giving their lives, bleeding to death upon the rocky beaches of a nation that was not their own. Holden had fought hard that day, protecting his fellow soldiers, taking the lives of the enemy, and was proud of what he had done.

But that didn’t stop him from longing to return to the life he’d left behind.

For as long as Holden could remember, he’d wanted to be a teacher, to stand in front of a classroom of children and fill their minds with knowledge, with curiosity, with virtues they would carry with them for the rest of their lives. He wanted to paint, to carve figures out of wood, and, most important, to meet someone he could love.

Only the Good Lord knew what his brother, Tyler, wanted out of life, but as for himself, he knew
exactly
where he was headed.

Looking back at La Boissière, Holden could see no lights; blackout rules were in effect. There was no sense in giving the Germans a target.

Digging into his pocket, Holden found that his last Army-issued pack of cigarettes was empty. Before the war he hadn’t been a smoker, had believed smoking to be a bad habit, but nowadays he could not deny that cigarettes calmed his rattled nerves. Right then he needed a smoke to help keep him awake.

The only thing left to him was a pack of German cigarettes he’d found in La Boissière. They’d been sitting on the fireplace mantel when the Americans had arrived, as if someone had just set them down for an instant, intending to come back for them later. Holden didn’t know why he had done it, but he’d pocketed them. They’d been with him for the three days he had been stationed here, but he hadn’t gotten around to smoking any of them; something about lighting one felt like treason. Still, he hadn’t thrown them away, either.

Why in the hell not?
he thought to himself.

But just as Holden was about to strike a match, careful to cup it so that no one could see the flickering of the flame, he heard the crack of a stick behind him. Immediately dropping the smoke, he yanked his rifle free and aimed it where he’d heard the sound.

“Who’s there?” he hissed.

“Keep your shorts on, Sutter,” a voice answered him as a soldier stepped out of the brush and into the scant light of the early morning.

Vinnie Burretti was as typically a New Yorker as Holden imagined one would be, especially since he’d never been to the famous city and really only knew about them from the movies. Vinnie’s greased-back jet-black hair, the wild way he gestured with his hands whenever he got excited, and the way he never stopped talking recalled his Italian neighborhood back home. His accent, his slang-filled vocabulary, and his constant joking all helped him become an instant favorite among the other men, except when it came to playing cards; to get involved in a poker game against Vinnie was to be soon parted with your hard-earned money.