The Ninth Step (25 page)

Because he had felt safe.

His vision watered. He pressed his fingertips to his eyes, felt her touch cool on his arm, heard Charlie growl: “Livie.”

Heard her tell him in a low voice, “It’s my business, Charlie.”

“No, Livie, he’s right. You don’t need to be involved in this or with me, not anymore.” Cotton brought his glance to Charlie’s. “Everything you think about me is the truth. I don’t have any business being here.”

Livie came after him when he left the kitchen. “Wait,” she said.

But he didn’t. He went through the house, out the door, down the front steps.

“Please, Cotton, wait.”

He stopped now but kept his back to her.

“We should finish this,” she said. “Making the arrangements, I mean. I want to help, for Delia’s sake.”

#

 She drove her own car, but she came and when they arrived at his mother’s house, Cotton pulled into the driveway. Livie parked at the curb. She came up the sidewalk and waited while he fumbled for the key. He couldn’t have said what he was thinking. Nothing stood out. White noise, an explosion of hope, desire, love and regret hammered against his ears. Just as he got the door open, he heard a jangle of notes from a cell phone.

Not his.

Livie’s.

She turned from him when she answered, but not before he heard her say her sister’s name, “Kat?”

Cotton grimaced. Neither Livie’s mother or her sister had liked him much before he’d gone AWOL. He’d called Kat on it once, cornered her in her cavernous kitchen and asked her what he’d ever done to piss her off. “Nothing,” she’d said like she couldn’t imagine what he was getting at, but then he’d pressed her and she’d slanted a look at him that would have fried hell and said. “I just can’t figure out what you see in Livie, that’s all.”

He’d snorted. “Well, that’s a nice thing to say about your sister.”

And Kat had laughed like she had cause to celebrate. “There it is. Do you hear yourself, pretty boy? Party boy? But no, I doubt it. You’re so damned egotistical you actually believe you’re in a different league. You don’t even see Livie,” Kat had added. “You don’t even know who she really is. You don’t deserve her.”

Cotton dropped his keys onto the coffee table. He’d denied it. He’d actually thought Kat’s real problem was that she had a thing for him; she was coming on to him. He sat on the sofa, dropped his head into is hands. He was so damned tired, of himself, of fighting himself.

And he hurt; his heart hurt, every time he looked at Livie,  at her beautiful face. It was killing him, having her steps away. He wanted to draw her indoors, to put his arms around her, to fit her to himself, to blot out their history and start over. He remembered their wedding rehearsal, when they’d stood at the altar practicing to be bride and groom, she’d turned to him; she’d put her hands in his; she’d put her faith in him, her trust, her life, everything, without reservation. He hadn’t given it a thought. After the rehearsal, they had presided over a dinner, the princess and her prince, then his buddies had taken him out. The next morning, feeling rough, he’d mixed the Bloody Mary, a tried and true remedy. All of that he understood. Even the accident. Yeah, okay, it was hideous, tragic, but shit happened. What he didn’t get--would never get--was what he’d done after.

Rats ran.

Cockroaches and cowards ran.

He had not figured on that about himself. He had never thought he would run. Livie would be sickened to hear it and she would have every right to be. Cotton thought he couldn’t stand for her to know.

“. . . what Delia wanted. . . .”

Livie’s voice drifted into the living room.

“. . . came here to help him find . . . for Delia . . . I know I don’t . . . well, yes, I am thinking of attending . . . no, I haven’t heard from. . . .”

Cotton was uncomfortable eavesdropping. He went into the kitchen. An open fifth of gin was sitting next to a glass on the table. It didn’t look as if his mom had had more than a couple of shots. Cotton wondered again where it had been hidden or whether someone had brought to her.

His eye followed the blood smeared on the table’s edge, the back of one chair. A trail of blood led out the door. Not as much as last time, but it was enough to make Cotton’s stomach roll. He opened the freezer compartment and breathed in a chest full of chilled air, then filled a bucket, lowered the sponge mop into it and wrung it out. He set the bottle of gin on the counter where he could keep his eye on it while he scrubbed. The motion felt familiar, even having the bottle in the picture was a known quantity. He wondered if he would ever be done with it.

“That was Kat.” Livie halted in the doorway.

Cotton looked around at her. “I worked as a janitor when I was in Seattle, when I wasn’t drinking, or even when I was. I pretty much drank all the time then. I still want to.”

Livie was quiet. She didn’t seem surprised or revolted. Her glance went from his face to the open bottle of gin and then came back to rest on his face.

“That’s not mine; it’s Delia’s, but the thing is, I--” Cotton concentrated on the floor, on standing in one place, on making himself say the words, not knowing if it was the right thing or the wrong thing. “I’m-- I have a--” His voice broke and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, taking a moment.

“You don’t have to do this now.”

Cotton ignored Livie’s protest; he did have to. He might never have the will to start again. “I did something on the day of our wedding, something really bad and--”

But now the sound of car doors slamming cracked into the room. Someone shouted Cotton’s name. He frowned. “Scott?”

“I thought he wasn’t coming.” Livie sounded relieved.

Cotton didn’t know how he felt. Confused. Frustrated. He went to the back door and looked out. “He’s brought the whole family, Sharon and the girls, too.”

“I didn’t know he was married, that he had children.”

“He isn’t married. Beth and Megan are Sharon’s kids.” Cotton pulled open the door.

Scott was at the foot of the steps, looking at them, at the blood on them. He met Cotton’s glance.

“I didn’t get a chance to clean that off yet.” Cotton held up the mop. “I’m working on the kitchen.” He looked past Scott, tried out a greeting. “Hey, Sharon. Kids. It’s nice to see you.”

“Hey, yourself.” Sharon looked tired, unhappy. Her girls, who Cotton remembered were seven and eight, didn’t look much more enthusiastic to see him. But then Cotton hadn’t had much use for sloppy drunks when he was their age either.

“Megan needs to use the bathroom,” Sharon said.

“I do too, Mommy,” said Beth.

Sharon offered her cheek to Cotton.

In answer to his question, Scott said they hadn’t driven, they’d flown and rented a car at the airport. Sharon added something about having found a special bereavement rate.

“Otherwise we couldn’t have afforded it,” she said.

Falling in behind her, Cotton had the sense that she didn’t believe they could afford it under any circumstance.

Now they were all in the kitchen, the herd of them on one side, and Livie, wearing a tentative smile, on the other.

When she realized introductions were beyond Cotton, she made short work of them, giving her name, extending her hand, first to Scott.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said and his curiosity was obvious, at least to Cotton. “It’s nice to finally have a face to go with the name.”

Livie nodded. Cotton thought she didn’t know enough about Scott, or his family, to do much else. He watched as she shook hands with Sharon and each of the girls. He listened while she told them where they would find the bathroom and when they were gone, he watched her turn to Scott and say she was sorry for his and Cotton’s loss.

And he was floored by her grace.

She looked at him. “I should go, I’m late.”

“We haven’t looked for the box,” Cotton said.

Scott divided his glance between them. “Is there something I should know?”

Livie smoothed a half circle around her ear while Cotton fielded the intensity of Scott’s gaze, another of his questions, “Are you two--”

“No,” Cotton said, “It’s nothing like that. She--”

“Whoa.” Scott’s attention derailed. Cotton followed his glance to the fifth of Gilbeys on the counter.

“It’s not mine,” Cotton said before Scott could ask.

“Better not be or we’re out of here.”

“I told you it wasn’t.”

“Then you won’t care if I pour it out, right?”

“I don’t give a damn what you do with it.” Cotton stared hard at Livie, as if by his eyes alone, he might lock her into place. He heard the water come on. The smell of gin rose like a plume. A burst of saliva warmed Cotton’s mouth.

“You’ve been sober how long now?” Scott asked. “You make ninety days yet?”

“Sixty-three.” Cotton crossed his arms keeping Livie within his gaze.

The water shut off. “That’s why we came.” Scott walked to where Cotton could see him. He was drying his hands. “I don’t know why you care how Delia gets buried and I damn sure don’t know where you think you’re gonna get the money to do it, but--”

“She has a little. Enough.”

“Huh. Well, since it matters to you, I wanted to be here.”

“I don’t need a watch dog, Scotty.”

“No, but I thought maybe you could use a brother and since I’m the only one you’ve got, the only family--”

Cotton looked at him.

He shrugged. “You’re making a serious effort, right? I want you to know I’ve got your back.” He took a step forward.

So did Cotton. They grasped hands, shared a one-armed embrace; Scott thumped Cotton’s back. His eyes burned. Scott’s showing up for him like this, it was so unexpected, so out of left field.

It made Cotton feel as if anything was possible. Survival. A life.

He split from Scott and looked toward the door where Livie had been standing, grinning, feeling goofy, wanting to see her reaction.

But the doorway was empty. She was gone.

#

He caught up to her at the curb.

“It seemed as if you and Scott had a lot to catch up on,” she said, “I didn’t want to intrude.”

“I can only imagine what you’re making of all this.”

“I’m thinking things are very complicated for you right now.”

“Yes.” It was in an almost absent sense that he set his palm against her upper arm, making a gentle cup of his fingers. She touched his knuckles, closed her hand in a circle around his wrist. Their eyes held. The step she took toward him was almost imperceptible, but he could not have felt her presence more strongly if she had pressed herself against him. A lifetime passed and then she stepped away.

Cotton felt his body cool.

“It’s good for you to be with your family now, Cotton.” She hesitated. “You know, no matter how either you or Scott feel about Delia, the mistakes she made in the past, she was your mother and I know she loved you.”

Cotton swallowed. He took a chance and with the tip of his finger touched her cheek, drew a line to the corner of her mouth.

Her eyes closed.

He thought of kissing her, but he knew better. “You always did know the right thing to say, the right thing to do,” he told her.

“You’ll let me know when the funeral is.”

“You’ll come?” 

“Yes, of course. I wrote down the name of the funeral home and left it on the counter in the kitchen if you need it. You can give Hamp my name.”

Cotton thanked her.

Livie got into her car and he thought that was it, but then she lowered her window. “Look, I don’t know how reliable this is, but evidently a woman called the sheriff’s department about you a few days ago. She wouldn’t give her name, but she seemed worried someone was after you?”

Cotton shot his glance down the street, thinking,
Geezus
, thinking, Somebody ought to make a reality TV show out of my life. He brought his gaze back. He said, “I heard about that. It was a mistake.”

Livie studied his face. “Huh, well, okay then.” She started to key her ignition, stopped and turned to him once more. “Before I go I should--I want to thank you for the irises and the basket of eggs. They were lovely.”

He frowned. “Irises--?”

“You left the irises on the front porch and a few days later the Aracauna eggs, in a little basket?”

He shook his head; he had no idea what she was talking about. He could only wish he had been the one to think of it.

“You said you’d been out to my house so I just assumed--”

“I have, but it wasn’t me. Must have been some other guy.” He couldn’t keep the injury from his voice and he had no right to it. He knew that.

She didn’t seem to notice. He could see that even though she was holding his gaze, she was a million miles away.

Chapter 19

They were waiting for her when she got home. Her mother, Kat and Charlie were seated around the table in the breakfast nook and when Livie came to the back door their faces turned toward her. She felt a rush of dismay tinged with alarm.

“I made tea. Would you like a glass?” Kat asked.

“No,” Livie said. “Why are you here?” Her question addressed them in general, but she was looking at Charlie. Looking hard at him.

“Ask your sister,” he said.

But her mother answered. “We’re concerned, sweet. This business with Cotton--”

“What business?”

Kat said, “It’s like he’s stalking you.”

“Stalking me?”

“He’s been here three times at least, Livie. He’s left things on the porch in the middle of the night. Sane people don’t do that.”

“No, it wasn’t--”

“And last night, apparently, he slept here.” Kat was indignant.

“Delia died. He was alone. He doesn’t have family other than--”

“You aren’t his family, Livie.” Kat’s eyes were grave.

Gus patted the chair next to her. “Come sit down.”

Livie ignored the gesture and went through the breakfast nook to the kitchen. She set her satchel on the island and turned to glare at them. “I don’t believe this.”

Kat said, “Don’t you think you have enough on your plate now?”

“Why? Because of the baby? For heaven’s sake, Kat, you told Charlie, too? Can’t you keep anything to yourself?”