Whiskey Island (23 page)

“And you believe Rooney didn’t want help?”

“I believe the real world was just too tough for him to live in.”

“Megan, you’re a person who’s completely grounded. It might be hard for you to see the world through the eyes of someone who isn’t….”

“Damn it, life’s filled with choices. I make mine, Rooney made his.”

“But now you want to see if you can influence his a little?”

“I just want to be sure he’s safe. And I want to warn him to be careful. That’s it. I’m doing this for the others more than myself. Casey’s all upset now. I know Peggy’s going to find out eventually, even if we try to keep this a secret.” Megan shook her head, and unexpectedly her eyes filled with tears.

“The bastard,” she whispered.

He didn’t reach out to her. Maybe he realized how much she would hate it. He sat quietly until she had blinked away the tears and composed herself.

“I’ve been back to the place where I found the photograph five, maybe six times since then, Megan. There’s no sign that he’s been back. I left him a note. It’s still there, along with everything else.”

“The snapshot, too?”

“There’s a newspaper clipping, as well. An old one about a man named James Simeon. Does that name sound familiar?”

“No.”

“I haven’t followed up on it. It may not mean anything.”

“It’s possible Rooney was never there. Maybe someone found that photograph….” She knew how unlikely that was.

“Would that make you happier?”

It was a fair question, but she resented it. She sat stiffly until he reached over and took her hand. “Give that one some thought,” he said.

“Do you have time to look for him now?”

“Of course.”

“You know, your life hasn’t changed all that much, Nick. You used to take care of people. You still take care of people. You still drop everything to lend a hand.”

“Some things
have
changed, Megan.”

She knew he was right.

A punishing wind swept off the lake, offset at least partially by a light snow cover that sparkled from every crevice and dip in the landscape. Once they’d parked, Niccolo took Megan’s arm to guide her along the path back through the woods.

He could think of better days and better errands for a walk beside the lake. He liked having her beside him, had enjoyed it so much all day that he was reluctant to see it end. At the same time, he wished they were not here now, that they were sharing another bottle of wine, cooking a meal together, talking about the things that mattered in their lives.

Megan stopped and held her face up to the sunshine. “I went to the Virgin Islands one winter for a long weekend. I couldn’t adjust. I wanted to spend the whole time in the hotel room with the curtains drawn. All that sunshine didn’t seem natural.”

She had carefully left out why she’d gone, and with whom. But the thought of Megan with another man troubled Niccolo. And the fact that he was troubled troubled him more.

“Did you ever adjust?” He sounded interested and nothing more. He was pleased with himself.

“My…companion was so distressed by my behavior, I ended up alone for most of the weekend.”

Niccolo wasn’t a bit sorry.

“Of course, that was a long time ago,” she added. “In those days, the only time I was comfortable was when things stayed exactly the same. I’ve changed.”

“Now you’d enjoy the sun?”

“Now I’d probably be smart enough to go skiing, instead. Sun and snow. At least half of it would be familiar.”

“Maybe it was the companion, not the weather.” Niccolo wondered where that had come from.

“Maybe it was.”

They were chatting as if nothing was about to occur. He decided Megan probably wanted to keep it that way, that this was her preferred method of dealing with pain. He cast around for something else to say, something to help her keep her mind off Rooney, but he wasn’t quick enough.

“How could he survive out here, Nick? Even with the sun shining, with that wind off the lake, it’s probably ten below.”

“We know he’s survived this long. He’s found ways.”

“If it really is Rooney, he’s nearly sixty. Maybe a younger man could adapt, but the way he’s lived can’t have made him stronger. He probably doesn’t get enough good food, enough rest—”

She stopped speaking so suddenly that Niccolo was sure if he looked at her, he would find that she’d clamped her lips together. “He was clever enough to sneak up on the carjacker and strong enough to knock him out,” he reminded her.

“He won’t even know who I am. I was a teenager the last time he saw me.”

“I think he’ll know.” The words were meant to be comforting—he wasn’t at all sure Rooney would remember anyone.

“He did come home. He was there the night of the carjacking. If it
was
Rooney, that is. Did he recognize Casey or Peggy that night, do you suppose? Did the carjackers trigger some left over paternal feeling?”

She was thinking out loud, and Niccolo let her. The words seemed to give her strength.

“For all we know, he thought Ashley was one of us,” she continued. “It’s been that long. Maybe he thought Ashley was Peggy.”

“Whatever he thought, he was courageous enough to act against a man with a gun.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to live.”

“Maybe we should wait before we make judgments.” They were nearing the place where Niccolo had found the brush pile and the coffin-size hole that was too sad to contemplate.

Megan lowered her voice. “I wish we hadn’t come.”

“No, you don’t. You wish this wasn’t necessary.”

Niccolo stopped and pointed. He watched her follow the trajectory with her eyes, ending at the slight, brush-covered hollow. “Do you want to go alone?” He kept his voice low.

She shook her head. “Will you come with me?”

He took her hand, threading his fingers through hers. Then he started toward the pile. He was almost sorry now that he’d found this place, that he’d put the story together and it had led them here. He had never experienced family heartache. He had been raised by two loving parents, given the chance to be a kid and a rowdy adolescent. He had not been forced to shoulder the burdens of the world at a time when he was barely old enough to recognize them.

They covered the ground in seconds, although it seemed longer. Finally they stood together at the edge of the brush. Megan didn’t speak. He wondered if she could.

“Mr. Donaghue,” Niccolo said. “Are you there?”

There was no answer. He hadn’t expected one, but he was somehow unable to glance at Megan. “Mr. Donaghue,” he called again.

“Rooney, are you there? It’s Megan.” Megan dropped Niccolo’s hand and stepped closer. “Are you in there, Rooney?”

Niccolo watched her kneel and delve into the tangle, moving the same brush he had on his first trip here. When he had found the snapshot and the newspaper article.

Megan was silent, digging deeper and pushing more of the branches aside until a small clearing exposed the scooped out hollow beneath. It was still lined with newspaper and plastic bags. Niccolo squatted beside her.

“No one’s home.” Megan sounded as if she were strangling.

Niccolo bent his head lower and peered inside. He saw immediately what she couldn’t. He sat back on his haunches. “Someone’s been here since the last time I came.”

“How do you know?”

“My note’s gone. So are the papers.”

“Papers?”

“The snapshot, the newspaper article.” He paused. He had forgotten the other until now. “There was a child’s drawing. Three children dancing across a page.”

“Casey. Casey was the one who liked to draw. Still does, when no one’s watching. As a little girl, she was always giving Rooney pictures. Sometimes he’d even remember to put them on the refrigerator.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He’s gone, then?”

“We don’t know that. We just know he’s been here.” Niccolo had to be honest. “Or someone’s been here and taken his things.”

“Who would want them?”

It was a good question. If anyone official had discovered this place, either they would have turned a blind eye until spring or destroyed it. But they certainly wouldn’t have removed a few papers and left everything else intact.

Niccolo got to his feet. “He might come back, Megan. We can leave another note.”

“And what do I say? Come home, Rooney? We need you? We love you?”

He knew she was being sarcastic, but he answered seriously. “I wouldn’t put that kind of pressure on him. Tell him you’re still lighting the lamp in the window. He’d understand that, wouldn’t he?”

“It’s
not
lit, Nick. I want him safe. I don’t want him in my life.”

She was struggling to sound calm. He knew she wasn’t. “Shall we walk some more? Look for signs he’s still around?”

She shook her head. She snapped open her purse, something that looked more like a football than a serious handbag, and took out her checkbook. She tore off a deposit slip and circled her name and address, scrawling “be careful” underneath. Then she knelt and slid it inside.

When she’d gotten back to her feet, he cradled her face between his palms. “I’m sorry he’s not here, and I’m glad you came.”

Her expression was frozen, but her eyes were wounded. She gave a curt nod, as if to end the conversation and the contact. Somehow his fingers spread into her hair, and he pulled her closer. He had not been able to kiss her in her kitchen, when they were filled with wine and warmth and newly budding emotions. Now there seemed to be no choice. He had not kissed a woman in all the years of his adulthood, but he had not forgotten how.

Her lips were soft and yet resistant. He knew she was afraid to feel anything. He knew that was why she had to. Her body against his felt fragile, yet defiant, one last enemy on the victor’s battlefield. She made a noise of protest, and he murmured reassurance as he kissed her again.

And then she opened up to him. Her arms came around his neck, her breasts pressed against his chest, and suddenly she was sobbing. He kissed her cheeks, her forehead, her hair, and finally he simply held her until there were no tears left.

15

F
or a week Casey had hardly spoken to Megan. She presented her sister with food orders. They discussed schedules and other Whiskey Island business, but Casey cut Megan off when the conversation turned personal. She was too upset for a heart-to-heart and too afraid of what she might say. Once before, angry words had driven them apart. Now they were older and wise enough to know it could happen again.

Late Friday afternoon Casey was preparing to turn over the bar to the due-momentarily Barry when Megan came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

“Bad news. Barry just called. He slipped on the last sliver of ice on his front steps and landed on his arm. He’s at the emergency room. Might be a sprain or a break.”

Casey felt bad for Barry but kept her response short. “Bummer.”

“He’s not sure if he’ll make it in later. I can tend bar tonight, I guess. Artie can handle the pierogies without me, and I can come in extra early tomorrow to prepare the special for lunch if I can’t get to it tonight.”

“Sure, why don’t you do that, Megan? The rest of us are too lazy or stupid or fucked-up to manage without you.”

“You do speak in sentences. I was beginning to wonder.”

Casey started wiping the shelves at the back of the bar, lifting bottles and wiping around them, even though there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere.

Megan spoke from behind her. “Look, I’m sorry. I really blew it, okay? I should have told you about Rooney right away. But it took me a while to get used to the idea. I didn’t want to believe it. I guess I was in denial.”

Casey didn’t turn around. “We could have been in denial together.”

“Casey, the only way I got through our childhood was to convince myself the world would fall apart if I didn’t hold it together. And I’ll probably never outgrow that, especially not where
he’s
concerned.”

Casey could feel her anger seeping away, but there was still plenty to share. “He’s my father, Meg, and maybe I’m angry about what he did to us, but you had no right to keep anything about him from me.”

“Have you told Peggy?”

Casey didn’t answer.

“Rooney’s her father, too.”

Casey faced her. “I’m just waiting until we find out a little more.”

Megan didn’t have to say another word.

Casey sighed. “I get the point.”

“When should we tell her? I’ll turn that decision over to you. She seems okay, but she
has
dropped out of school for the semester, which is a surefire sign things aren’t going all that well inside her head. Does she need this now?”

Casey considered. Peggy had put off telling Megan she wasn’t going back to school until she couldn’t put it off any longer. Casey knew her big sister was worried, and wondering, as always, what she could do to make things right.

“She needs to know, Megan, no matter what else is going on. He’s her father, too. We can tell her together. Maybe we could have a Sunday dinner, just the three of us, like we used to.”

“You’re just angling for roast lamb and all the trimmings.”

Casey still didn’t smile. “What’s she going to say?”

“I don’t know. She was so young when he left. That made it harder, and it also made it easier. And there’s still no guarantee she’ll ever see him again.” Megan took a deep breath. “Casey, I went to Whiskey Island with Nick, to the place he told me about. I saw where Rooney’s been—where he might have been living. It was terrible.”

“Another thing you didn’t tell me?”

“You weren’t speaking to me. It was pretty darned hard to get an audience.”

“Really? Or maybe you were afraid if you
did
tell me, I’d repeat my suggestion that we sell this damned saloon and get out of town before Rooney remembers it used to be his!”

“Maybe I was afraid! That’s always been your answer, hasn’t it? Sell, get out, run away, start over! Well, guess what? We could be living on Mars and it wouldn’t change a thing. He’d still be alive. He’d still be out there somewhere. He’d still be our father!”