Woman in Black (22 page)

“Well, she's not the only one who knows what it's like to be desperate.” Abigail felt the old bitterness creep up on her. “I lost my home and everyone I loved, all in one fell swoop. You were the only one who didn't turn your back on me.” She felt the prickle of impending tears and willed herself not to cry. She didn't want Vaughn's pity. Hadn't she come here to offer
him
comfort? “You don't know how much it meant to me, those letters you wrote. There were times when they were the only thing that kept me going.”

“I don't remember what I wrote, but knowing what I was like back then, I'm sure it was pretty boring stuff.” He looked pleased but somewhat embarrassed. “If I'd known it would mean that much to you, I'd have at least tried to come up with something less mundane.”

“It didn't matter
what
you wrote. It was the fact that you wrote to me at all.”

He reached over to lay his hand over hers, a light touch that she was accutely aware of. “Don't punish Lila because of what our parents did. I know she let you down, but she was just a kid.”

So were you
, Abigail thought. But she bit back the retort, knowing how protective he was of his sister. “I don't blame her for that,” she said. She'd been hurt and angry at the time, yes, but the main source of betrayal was what had come after—Lila's inexplicable lack of communication, which had left her feeling utterly abandoned. “Actually, there's more to the story than you know.”

Vaughn arched his brow in a questioning look. “I always suspected as much,” he said. “So are you going to tell me what really happened?”

She hesitated a moment before replying, “It has to do with my mom and your dad.” She paused, wondering if she'd be destroying any illusions he might still have about his father. But from the look on Vaughn's face, she got the feeling that he wouldn't be all that shocked by her revelation. “They were sleeping together,” she went on. “Your mother must have found out. I guess that's why she cooked up that whole story about the stolen necklace, so she wouldn't have to confront your dad.” She hastened to explain, “It wasn't that Mama was in love with him. I don't think he loved her, either. They were
fond
of each other, but it was more complicated than that.” The whole sorry tale had unraveled in the months before her mother's death; Rosalie's need to unburden herself had been so great that it had outweighed her better judgment in revealing it all to her young and impressionable daughter. “You know what she was like. How devoted she was to your family. She would have done anything—even
that
—to keep it together, keep your dad from straying outside the home. Oh, I know it was terribly misguided of her, and believe me, she paid the price. But, as strange as it might seem, her intentions were good.” Rosalie hadn't been a duplicitous person by nature; it was just that her boundaries had become so blurred that she'd lost sight of where she left off and the Meriwhethers began.

Vaughn sat there in silence, taking it all in. At last, he sat back and let out a breath. “Wow. That's quite a tale.”

“Are you sorry I told you?” she asked somewhat sheepishly.

“Just the opposite. I'm glad you did.”

“Even if it makes your father out to be a cad?”

Vaughn's mouth flattened in a mirthless smile. “I didn't need you to tell me that. And if you're worried that it might have had something to do with my parents getting divorced, don't be. They'd have split up no matter what.”

“So you don't hate my mother?”

“Hate her? No, I could never hate Rosie. She was like a second mother to me.” Vaughn's expression softened, a look of affection crossing his handsome, weathered face.

“And you were the son she never had.” Abigail smiled, remembering how her mother had doted on Vaughn.

“She loved Lila, too.”

He was reminding her that, in Abigail's place, Rosalie would have forgiven Lila long ago. In fact, she
had
forgiven her, as she had Ames and Gwen, never once blaming the Meriwhethers for their shabby treatment of her at the end. Her mother's heart might have been in the wrong place at times, but there had been no room in it for bitterness.

Instead, she'd left her daughter to become the receptacle for all that.

Now, looking into Vaughn's clear blue eyes, in which she saw herself reflected in a pure light untainted by the passage of time, as the innocent girl she'd once been, Abigail wished with all her heart that she could be that girl, free of all the resentment she'd accumulated like radioactive waste through the years. She had hoped that Lila would provide the key to some sort of understanding, but it wasn't exactly working out that way. If she and Lila were playing out some sort of psychodrama, it was shaping up to be a battle with no clear winner.

“I'm not heartless,” she said in her own defense, but it sounded weak even to her own ears.

“I don't think that. The girl I knew, the girl who answered every one of my letters, she wasn't heartless.” Vaughn spoke softly, holding her pinned with his gaze.

“Maybe that girl doesn't exist anymore.”

“Oh, I think she does. I think she's in there somewhere.” Lightly, he brought a finger to her chest, his touch sending a warm shock through her. “Keep looking and you'll find her.”

A memory surfaced. In her mind, she saw herself peering through the living room curtains in anticipation of the mailman's arrival, hoping he would bring another letter from Vaughn. Then the thrill when she'd open the mailbox to find an envelope with Vaughn's handwriting on it, the delicious feel of the crinkly stationery in her hand, and the way her fingers had trembled tearing it open.

But she could only bear to remember so much at a time, and with Vaughn, the memories were coming too fast and thick. She drew the curtain over them for the time being, withdrawing into her safety zone, where she wouldn't have to feel so much.

“Thank you, Dr. Freud. But, just to set the record straight, I came here to see if there was anything
I
could do for
you
,” she told him.

“As you can see, I lack for nothing.” He gestured about him. “There's only one thing I want from you.”

“Name it,” she said.

“Come see me again.”

Moved by the obvious sincerity with which he spoke, she was unable to reply for a moment. “That's it?”

He laughed. “You were expecting more?”

“I thought I could be of use to you in some way. You know, your every wish is my command.” She spoke lightly so he wouldn't view it as charity, but at the same time, she wanted him to know that she had deep resources.

“I don't need a genie,” he said, “but I can always use a friend.”

Abigail smiled at him. Far from her mind just then was any thought of Lila, or her shaky marriage, or the pressing problems at work. She realized that all these years she'd been carrying an idealized version of Vaughn in her head. But she very much wanted to know the living, breathing man seated beside her now, however much time he might have left on this earth.

“In that case, I shall return,” she said. “Right now, though, I should get going. I don't want to overstay my welcome, or Gillian might have me thrown out.” Reluctantly, she rose to her feet.

He gave a knowing chuckle even as he came to Gillian's defense. “She's really nice once you get to know her.”

Somehow, I don't think I'll ever be given that opportunity
, she thought. She was reaching for her coat when some impulse made her ask, “It's none of my business, but were you ever in love with her?”

“You're right, it's none of your business,” he said with a laugh.

She hugged him good-bye at the door. He smelled not of sickness but of the outdoors. He must have gone for a walk earlier. She imagined him bundled up in his jacket, tramping along the sidewalk, no particular destination in mind. How long since she'd done that herself? Since she'd taken the time to appreciate the joy of simply being alive?

Reflecting on it as she rode down in the elevator, Abigail knew she would most certainly be back. As often as Vaughn would have her. Not just because she wanted to get to know the person he'd become—she wanted to reconnect with the person
she'd
been.

It wasn't until she stepped outside into the chill air that she was reminded of the person she was today—a woman whose business might be on the brink of ruin—by the shrill ringing of her cell phone.

It was Señor Perez. “I'm afraid I have some rather disturbing news to report,” he said in a somber tone after bringing her up-to-date on the progress in rebuilding the factory. “The girl's mother—Señora Delgado—appears to have vanished.”

“Vanished?” In that moment, with her mind still wrapped up in thoughts of Vaughn, Abigail couldn't think of a reason why the girl's mother would have disappeared. “Where could she have gone?”

“I can't say for certain, but I have a strong suspicion it was a
coyote
that carried her off.” Perez's voice was heavy with portent. Abigail shuddered at the image of the woman being devoured by a wild animal before she realized that he meant the two-legged variety—men who extorted large sums of money to guide those desperate to get across the border into the United States by any means necessary. “If that's the case, she'll be lucky to make it across the border alive,” he said ominously.

Abigail had the awful suspicion that he wouldn't shed any tears should that prove to be the case. “And if she does?” Shivering, she pulled her coat more tightly around her.

“I can't say, Señora,” he said darkly. “All I know is that she's a formidable woman, this Concepción Delgado.”

8

By noontime, it was well over 100 degrees in the shade. What little shade there was. The only relief from the sun in all that blasted expanse of desert was the scant protection provided by the paloverde trees that straggled along the banks of the arroyos and by the boulder formations that dotted the landscape like remnants of a lost civilization. Except for that, as far as the naked eye could see, there were only endless stretches of baked hardpan dotted with scrub and cacti and the mountains, shimmering in the distance like the fabled city of Cibola, which never seemed to grow any closer. None of the creatures that slithered and skittered about in the relative cool of the mornings and evenings were stirring at this hour. The only thing moving was the ragged band of travelers trudging with weary, numb, mindless determination on their way to God knew where, their stunted shadows trailing in defeat alongside them under the harsh noonday sun.

Concepción had never known heat such as this. Not as a girl toiling under the hot sun on her family's farm in San Juan de Córdoba. Not as a young wife selling mangoes and papayas by the side of the road to earn extra money after her husband had spent all of his in bars. Not in all the years of working in poorly ventilated factories amid the collective heat of so many other bodies. That was a warm breath compared to this. This sun was merciless, unrelenting, pummeling her into submission. Even death had come to seem a welcome alternative. The only reason she was still alive, she was sure, was because God wasn't ready for her to die. She had almost no strength left in her body. She was weak from lack of food and so parched that her swollen tongue felt like a foreign object in her mouth. What else could it be but His grace guiding her steps, coaxing her onward?

When they'd first started out, there had been ten of them. Now there were only seven. Elena Gutierrez had been the first to go. Overweight and not in the best of health to begin with, she had sickened and died before they'd even reached the border, crammed into the airless back of the truck along with the others. There had been times, bumping along those endless roads, breathing in dust and exhaust fumes, when Concepción had wondered if she herself would survive the trip. But she'd only to remind herself of her purpose in coming in order to strengthen her resolve. Unlike the others, she wasn't driven by the prospect of work in the land of the Norte-Americanos. What she wanted was justice.

The Señora, whose greed had cost Concepción's daughter her life, had to be made accountable.

They'd laid Elena to rest in a ditch by the side of the road. The
coyote
was a hard man named Hector González, his face pitted with old acne scars and his eyes like two holes bored into his head. He'd refused to let them give Elena a decent burial, insisting that it would only slow them down. The most Concepción could do was offer a prayer as they'd covered the body with rocks and brush, marking the spot with a small cross fashioned out of two sticks. At least Elena had fared better than Milagros, who'd died in agony, burned almost beyond recognition.

They'd arrived at the border in the dead of night, some miles west of Nogales, a place far from any known road, accessible only by the dirt track—little more than a trail in spots—over which the truck transporting them had bumped and lurched for the better part of an hour. Hector had cautioned them to keep an eye out for the border patrol, nonetheless. Off-road vehicles and helicopters regularly patrolled this stretch, he'd warned. With that, he had given them what remained of their meager supply of food and water and wished them luck.

Santos Nuñez, just shy of seventeen, with a mustache struggling to take hold on a face as smooth as a baby's bottom, grabbed the
coyote
by the arm as he was turning to go. “You can't just leave us here. You promised to take us to America!” he cried. Concepción heard the fear in his voice.

Hector shot him a look of contempt before hawking up a great gob of spit, which he aimed at the boy's feet. “That,” he said, pointing out at the great shadowy expanse beyond the wire fence in front of which they stood, where the only sound was the rustling of the wind, and the mountain range in the distance wasn't so much a shape as an even blacker void against the nighttime sky, “is America.”