In Wilde Country (9 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A
fternoon had given
way to evening; the rain had turned into a steady downpour.

They sat in the tidy, tiny kitchen, two civilized people drinking tea.

Connie had insisted on making some.

She’d drunk hers in delicate sips.

He had forced down a few mouthfuls to keep her from hovering over him and asking if
he’d prefer something else.

The truth was, he never drank tea; he was strictly a coffee guy, but that was how
little they knew about each other that she liked tea and he liked coffee, and all
her fussing had only increased the tension.

He understood the fussing.

It had been to avoid what really mattered.

The pregnancy. The reality of a situation he could not believe.

“Christ,” he’d said when she’d opened that door, “Christ almighty, Connie…”

They’d stared at each other. She looked tired. Worn. And, of course, pregnant.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he’d said. “Why didn’t you call me? Write to me? Dammit,
why?”

His voice had risen. She’d put her hand on his arm and drawn him inside.

“Don’t you want to know if the baby is yours?”

John’s jaw had tightened.

“Don’t play that game, dammit! It’s mine and we both know it.”

Her shoulders had sagged.

“I didn’t know how to find you,” she’d said wearily, “and besides, what was the point?”

“The point,” he’d said sharply, “was that I knocked you up.”

She’d flinched at his coarse words.

“And what would you have done if you’d known, John?”

“The right thing, dammit! That’s what I’d have done.”

“Exactly. And the last thing I wanted, was for you to change your life by marrying
me.”

“The choice isn’t yours to make! I made you pregnant. I’m responsible. I’m—I’m—”

I’m already married to a woman who is pregnant with my child!

The room had started to spin.

Connie had led him to a chair. Told him to sit.

“I’m OK,” he’d said, fending off her offers of a cold compress, of aspirin, of water.
“I know it’s a terrible shock,” she’d said, and he’d wanted to laugh, to cry, to put
his fist through the wall because there was no way in hell she could possibly know
what a shock this really was.

“I’ll make some tea,” she’d said, and he’d nodded, followed her into the kitchen,
sat down at the old-fashioned maple table and tried to get his head to function as
she put on the kettle, got out mugs, napkins, spoons…

Then they’d sat across from each other, mostly in silence, the patter of the rain
filling that silence, but they couldn’t go on in silence any longer and he knew it.

“I never meant…” He cleared his throat. “I never meant for this to happen.”

“I know that.”

“I wore protection.”

She flushed a bright pink. “I know that, too. Sometimes—sometimes, the doctor says,
those—those things don’t work.”

“What doctor are you seeing?”

“You wouldn’t know her. She’s in Dallas. Not here.”

John nodded. Of course, not here. Yeah, this was the ’80’s and kids were being born
to single women everywhere in the U.S. of A., but this was Wilde’s Crossing…and that
led to the next obvious question.

“What are you living on?”

He knew without having to ask that the school board had surely fired her once her
condition showed.

And it showed.

God, did it show.

She was not as big as Angelica, but then she wasn’t quite as far along as Angelica,
and—and shit, shit, he couldn’t think about that now.

“I have some savings.”

She said it with quiet dignity, and he knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

Hell, how could it be?

Connie was a proud woman.

And he—he had a wife in Sicily—well, maybe not exactly a wife because he’d handed
in a fraudulent
Dichiarazione Giurata…

Jesus.

His head was going to explode.

“I’ll see a lawyer tomorrow. Somebody in Dallas.”

“Why?”

“For the same reason you chose a Dallas doctor. I don’t want you to have to deal with
gossip…” He stopped, their eyes met and he groaned. “I’m an idiot,” he said softly.
“You’re dealing with it already.”

“I can’t stop people from talking.”

Her voice trembled. Without thinking, he reached across the table for her hand. It
was small and fragile within his.

“But I’ve told them nothing. It’s no one’s business but mine.”

“But ours,” he corrected, and he brought her hand to his lips.

Her eyes glittered. She looked down at her tea, but not before he saw the tears on
her cheeks.

“Connie. Don’t cry. I’ll take care of you. I’ll see a lawyer, set up funds for you
and the baby.”

“I can take care of myself!”

Johnny smiled. No, she wasn’t fragile. She was feminine. There was a difference.

“I bet you can. But I’m part of this. The baby…”

Connie tore her hand from his and shot to her feet.

“See? This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen. I don’t want you involved in this,
John. I’ve already made arrangements. I’ve sold this house. I’m moving to Austin.”

“Austin?” He stood up, too. “Who do you know in Austin?”

“Nobody. That’s exactly the reason I’m moving there. The baby and I will get a fresh
start.”

“Goddammit!” His hands closed on her shoulders. She stood stiff and unyielding under
his touch. “The baby and you,” he said, turning her towards him. “What about me? This
is my child, too.”

He could almost see her thinking through those words.

“Yes,” she finally said, “you’re right. If you want to see him from time to time,
I won’t object.”

“Him?”

Her expression softened. “I’m having a boy.”

“
We’re
having a boy,” he said.

And he knew, as he said those words, that there was only one “right thing,” just as
he knew precisely what that right thing was.

How could he not have seen it sooner?

Constance Elizabeth Grimes, the girl he’d thought of as his brother’s drab little
mouse, was neither mousy nor drab.

She was a woman of courage and conviction.

If Alden had lived, if his life had gone as planned, he’d surely have married Connie
on his graduation from the Point despite Amos’s disapproval.

She’d have been at Alden’s side ever since, making the kind of home to which he could
have brought his friends—officers, diplomats, even General Halvorson himself. She’d
have been on his arm at parties, as comfortable at casual staff gatherings as at the
most prestigious of events and wherever she went, she’d have dressed properly, talked
properly, shown the correct table manners.

She’d have given him strong, smart children.

She was even good in bed.

Not exciting, like Angelica. Not wild. Connie was sweet and soft and tender, and if
he could not imagine her fucking him on a beach, at least he could not imagine her
fucking him over in life.

He knew his thoughts might seem cold, even calculating, but until now he’d followed
the male compass otherwise known as a penis, and look where that had led him.

He put his hand under her chin and raised her face to his.

“Connie,” he said softly. “Sweetheart. You’re a brave, wonderful woman.”

Another of those sweet blushes swept across her face.

“I only wish you’d let me know that we were having a child.”

“John. Johnny—“

“It’s John.” He dipped his head, brushed his lips lightly over hers. “That’s who I
am, who I want to be.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “I don’t understand.”

He smiled and kissed her again. This time, he felt her mouth soften under his.

“Understand this, honey. You’re not alone anymore. And you’re not moving to Austin,
you’re moving to D.C. Or to Virginia. Maybe to Maryland.” He chuckled at the expression
on her face. “I haven’t given much thought to where to settle and now I’m glad of
that because part of that decision will be yours.”

He could see dawning awareness in her eyes.

Such gentle brown eyes, nothing like the hot black of Angelica’s.

Hell.

No way was he going to think about Angelica right now. She was the past; Connie was
the future. OK. Angelica couldn’t stay in the past; he knew that. But she would never
be what Connie would be to him.

Yes, there’d be…difficulties.

Difficulties? How about impossibilities? Yes, but he’d work them out.

He wasn’t actually married to Angelica. Why not admit that? He’d always take care
of her and the child she was carrying, of course; money would not be a problem, especially
now that he’d inherited
El
Sue
ño
. He’d visit her from time to time; he’d want to, because he’d want to be part of
his child’s life…

“What are you saying, John?” Connie asked, and he drew her close, kissed her until
she gave a little sigh and responded to the kiss.

“I’m saying that we’re getting married. In the church here, at Wilde’s Crossing, with
the whole town watching,.

“But—”

“No buts,” he said firmly. “We’re getting married, and that’s that, and I don’t want
to delay our wedding a minute longer than it’ll take us to get a license.

He smiled. It took a little while, but finally she did, too.

He gathered her close against him.

As for problems… If the Point, the army and life had taught him anything, it was that
no problem was insoluble.

Married men had affairs. They had mistresses. They had illegitimate children. Even
high ranking army officers. Nobody talked about it, but everybody knew such things
happened despite it being grounds for dismissal.

He was Johnny.

He was John.

Either way, he was smart.

There was no reason he wouldn’t be able to keep his two worlds from colliding.

An American wife in the States. An American son.

And, in Italy, a Sicilian not-quite-a-wife. An Italian son. Or daughter. Whichever,
he’d provide for that family, too.

He’d manage the details.

Manage them with care and thought and skill.

And, for a long time, he believed that…

Believed it, for more than thirty years.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Texas, the
El Sue
ñ
o
ranch, July 2014

D
awn.

The sky blazed with tendrils of pink and crimson.

The world was on fire, and the sight hurt General John Hamilton Wilde’s eyes, but
then he’d never been a particularly good drunk and, man, he was drunk to the eyeballs.
To his dried out, sand-filled, aching eyeballs.

Yeah, but that didn’t stop him from wanting another drink.

Hell, no.

Another shot of Jack was what he needed. Trouble was, he’d emptied the second bottle
to the very last drop and though he wanted to check and see if maybe there was one
more bottle he’d missed finding, he’d have to get up.

And getting up was out of the question.

As it was, he sat with his hands clinging to the arms of his big leather chair . Otherwise,
the chair would spin the way the room was spinning and he’d fall out of it, squarely
onto his ass.

You couldn’t have a four-star general doing that.

Right.

But he had to do something. The housekeeper would be stirring pretty soon. Or one
of the guests tucked away in the ten trillion bedrooms upstairs might come wandering
down for a cup of coffee.

Guests?

The general laughed. Tried to, anyway, but the sound came out a groan.

There were no guests at
El Sue
ño
this weekend. The house was filled with family. His sons. His daughters. Five sons,
five daughters, and half had never known the other half existed until last night.

FUBAR. Old army slang. Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition.

Jesus, what a freaking disaster.

Bile rose in his throat.

OK. He had to do something. Get out of this chair. Haul himself to the bathroom. Take
a piss. All that whiskey was having an effect on his bladder. And he had to find a
way to sober up fast. Poke through the medicine cabinet until he found some of those
fizzy antacid tablets. Run some water into a glass, drop one or three or six tablets
in the water and see if he could keep down the resultant brew.

The general leaned hard on the arms of the chair. Tried to stand.

“Shit,” he said, and fell back.

What would his men say if they saw him now? Drunk. Disheveled. He knew what they called
him behind his back. Hard-nosed. Hard-assed. A martinet. Wilde the perfectionist.

His children, too.

He snorted.

They weren’t children anymore. They were all grown up. Jacob, his firstborn with Connie;
Matteo and Luca, his sons by Angelica.

Twins, like Alden and him.

No wonder Angelica’s belly had been so big.

Despite everything, he smiled at the memory.

Then, after Jacob, Connie had borne him Caleb and Travis in quick succession.

That, he’d told himself firmly, would be the end of it…

But it wasn’t.

His mouth thinned.

Connie had died.

Of pneumonia. People didn’t die from pneumonia anymore… Except, it had turned out
that they did.

Pneumonia had killed his Connie.

He’d missed her terribly. So had his three toddler sons. They’d needed a mother—he
was rarely home—and he’d remarried quickly for their sake if not his, taking Eleanor
Halvorson, his old boss’s niece, as his wife.

Eleanor had been a good mother to his three sons, but to no one’s surprise, she’d
wanted kids of her own.

Almost before he’d blinked, she’d given birth to three daughters. Emily, Jaimie and
Lissa.

Beautiful girls, all of them.

And during those same years, Angelica had given birth to Alessandra and Bianca.

Nobody’s doing but his.

Somehow or other, his initial vow not to spend much time with his beautiful Sicilian
spitfire had not quite worked out. Angelica was a seductress. He’d never been able
to keep his hands off her.

His marriage to Eleanor had been good if not great, but he’d lost her to a car accident.

After that, he’d decided enough was enough.

He was done with women, done with marriage, he was tired of juggling an American family
and an Italian family, spending not enough time with either, always afraid he’d use
the wrong name at the wrong moment, awakening sometimes in the dead of night wondering
where he was, in which house, with which woman, with which children, wondering if
he was John or Johnny…

Ridiculous.

He was General John Hamilton Wilde, and all his offspring had better keep that in
mind.

If only the whole tangled mess had not come apart.

But it had.

In the end, it was his fiery Sicilian wife-or-maybe-not-a wife who’d done him in.

Angelica had left him the same way Connie and Eleanor had. She’d died, swimming in
the blue, blue sea at the foot of the cliffs below the house in Sicily. The house
had been expanded half a dozen times; he’d offered to build her a new house, but she’d
loved those cliffs and that sea, and after she drowned he’d missed her terribly.

It turned out he’d loved her, needed her more than Eleanor or even Connie.

A sob broke from his throat.

And then, two weeks later, Luca and Matteo had showed up in his D.C. office, sweet
Jesus, in his
office
, their eyes burning with hate.

His heart had banged up into his throat.

“Sir,” the captain who was, basically, his guard dog had said, ready to arrest them
or shoot them, and he’d held up his hand and said no, it was OK, he’d see these two
young men, and once they were in his private office they’d told him that they knew
everything, they knew the truth, that they’d suspected for years and kept silent out
of love for their mother.

“You are a bigamist,” Luca had snarled in lightly accented English, and Matteo had
called him other things, ugly names spat at him in Italian and in their mother’s harsh
Sicilian dialect…

“Sir?”

And after all those years, the years of fabricating one lie more elaborate than the
other, his world had come apart.

“General Wilde?”

He turned and saw his housekeeper standing in the doorway. Her gaze swept over him;
he saw the shock in her eyes. He could only imagine how this looked: he, unkempt;
the empty whiskey bottles; the head of the bull elk he’d wrestled hours ago hanging
crooked on the wall.

“I’m sorry to bother you, General, but I heard a noise and—and—” She swallowed dryly.
“May I get you something, sir? Would you like coffee?”

Decades of command took over.

“Thank you,” he said politely. “Coffee would be excellent.”

The housekeeper nodded. He knew she wanted to ask him if he was all right, but she
wouldn’t. He’d never encouraged personal conversation with his staff, his children,
or anyone else.

“Yes, sir. I’ll put up a pot.”

“Do that…” He hesitated. Lorena? Was that her name? “Do that, Lorena. That will give
me a chance to shower.”

“Yes, sir,” she said again, and he half expected her to curtsy as she left the room.

He waited until he was certain she was gone. Then he hoisted himself to his feet,
made his way to the stairs, climbed them by hanging on to the banister and carefully
putting one foot ahead of the other.

He stumbled to his rooms.

He knew what he had to do.

First, he located the antacid tablets, dumped four into a glass of water. Why not
keep things even? he thought, and swallowed four aspirin.

Then he shaved. Brushed his teeth. Showered. Combed his close-cropped hair. Put on
his uniform. His dress uniform, the four stars on his shoulders as bright and shiny
as buffing with a polishing cloth could make them.

He stood before the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. Frowned. Adjusted his
sleeve. Smoothed back his hair.

Good.

He looked like the professional soldier he was.

He went to his closet.

Took down a small box.

Unlocked it.

Took out his Beretta M9. He owned other handguns, but the Beretta, the look of it,
the feel, had long been his favorite.

He rubbed it briskly with the same cloth he’d used to buff his four stars. Then he
slapped in a loaded magazine, held the Beretta in his outstretched hand and stepped
before the mirror again.

He pointed the gun at his image.

Fine.

Excellent.

His hand was steady, his posture straight and proud. He looked like John Hamilton
Wilde, even if Johnny Wilde still lived inside him.

He went briskly down the stairs, the Beretta held against his thigh, and went straight
to the den. Lorena had been there. She’d disposed of the empty Jack Daniel’s bottles,
straightened the chair cushions.

The elk leered at him, glassy-eyed, from the wall.

A silver tray stood on a small round table. It held a small pot of coffee, a white
mug, a small pitcher of cream, a small bowl of sugar, a linen napkin, a silver teaspoon,
even a small plate with a muffin centered on it.

She had thought of everything.

Almost everything, the general thought, as he shut and locked the door behind him.

He went to his desk. Took a single sheet of stationery engraved with his name and
rank from a drawer along with a matching envelope.

He picked up a pen.

And paused.

What was he going to say? He chuckled.

He’d never written a suicide note before.

He sat down at the desk. Thought. Thought some more, and then he wrote three simple
sentences.

I love you all. I loved your mothers. I never, ever meant to harm any of you
.

He signed it
General John Hamilton Wilde
. Then he scratched that out and signed it, instead,
Your father
.

Done.

He folded the paper into three neatly creased sections. Tucked it into the envelope.
Sealed the envelope. Hesitated, and then addressed it
To my beloved children.

He laid the envelope on the desk, neatly centering it, and put a round into the chamber
of the Beretta.

It felt comforting in his hand.

He felt…he felt calm. Serene. Ready for what had to be done.

It was the right thing to do. He was—he was supposed to be—an officer and a gentlemen.

His hand was steady as he raised the Beretta to his temple.

An officer and a gentleman. A code of honor—and he had never lived up to it.

He had lied. Cheated. He had indulged his own appetites and ignored the needs of others.
He had used the women who’d loved him, made a mockery of the vows he’d made to his
God, his country…

To the memory of his brother.

His hand shook.

And now he was telling himself what he was about to do was honorable.

A fist thudded against the door.

“General,” one of his sons bellowed.

“General,” one of his daughters said. “We know you’re in there.”

General
. Not
father
.
General
.

“Open the door,” another son demanded. “You can’t hide from us forever.”

But he could. One pull of the trigger…

Johnny,
a voice inside him said gently,
I know you’re better than this.

The general blinked. “Alden?”

You have to face them, Johnny. You owe them answers. You owe them something better
than taking the coward’s way out.

“I can’t. I can’t face them. What can I say to them? Dear God, what can I say?”

You can tell them what you wrote in that note, Johnny, that you love them, that you
loved their mothers, that you did the very best you could.

The Beretta trembled in Johnny Hamilton’s hand.

He bowed his head. Tears filled his eyes.

Then he ejected the round from the gun and put it and the gun in the bottom desk drawer.

“Father,” one of his daughters called out, one of his beautiful, bright daughters.
“Please. You have to talk to us. We
need
you to talk to us.”

He tore the envelope and the note inside it into small pieces. He leaned toward the
fireplace and scattered the bits of paper on the kindling that always stood ready
on the hearth, struck a match and set the paper on fire.

He took a steadying breath, got to his feet and walked to the door, head up, shoulders
back, spine straight, the way he had on the parade ground at the Point dozens of years
before.

Good, Johnny. That’s good. You know you’re doing the right thing.

Johnny smiled.

“What a strange road we’ve traveled, Alden,” he said softly. “I’m just glad we’ve
always been together, you and I.”

General John Hamilton Wilde wiped the tears from his eyes.

“I love you, Alden,” he said, and then he reached out, unlocked the door and opened
it to his sons and to his daughters, and to the long-buried truth that was his life.

THE END