Words Unspoken (16 page)

“I suppose you can’t blame him really, Lissa. He wants you to move forward, wants the best for you. And he knows you’ve got the brains to get into a good school.”

“Oh, yeah, I have the brains. But maybe I don’t have the mental stability. Maybe I’m not going to get over all these panic attacks, and maybe his dream for me is never going to come true.” Her voice grew louder, almost strident, her fists coiled tight in her lap. “He hates me because I killed my mother.”

She said it forcefully, her deep brown eyes boring into Ev’s, eyes filled with hurt and anger and conviction. “That’s what he thinks. That’s what I see every time I look in his eyes.”

Ev massaged his chin with his hand and nodded.
Perhaps it’s not accusation, Lissa. Perhaps it is grief and fear. Parents don’t always know how to communicate the depth of their love and hurt.

“I already have a car, and I’m saving up my money so that as soon as I can get my license, I can move out. We’re just stuck right now. I need to be able to drive. It’s urgent, so I can drive over to see— So I can drive. That’s all I dream about.” She had calmed down as she spoke, and now she cocked her head, stared at Ev. “I used to have other dreams, though. I used to dream of being a writer.”

“A writer, you say?” That came from out of the blue, and he welcomed the tangent.

“Yes, sir. I was always making up stories in school, scribbling down ideas in my notebooks. My teachers said I had talent.” She blushed. “I’m sorry. I’m talking too much.”

“Lissa Randall, don’t analyze. Just talk.”

She frowned at him, almost a playful pout, almost—but not quite— annoyed. “But with the accident and everything, well, I’ve given up that dream. At least I’ve tried to. But the urge to write is still strong. It’s just this … this need, I guess. You know what I mean?”

The crease in her brow told him she couldn’t imagine that he did.
This old man doesn’t understand much besides cars and drivers’ tests,
he guessed she was thinking
.
“What about your stories?” he asked. “Did they go away?”

“Huh?”

“You said they were always crowding in on you. Do they still?”

“Oh, I still hear all kinds of stories in my mind—when I’m not paying attention to the other stuff. But I don’t seem to have enough time to write them down. The only thing I write down is in my journal—for the therapist.”

At last he had something to grab on to. “Lissa, that’s your homework for next time. Write down whatever story you hear in your head. Write it down.”

The annoyed frown again. “I don’t see what good that’s going to do, Mr. MacAllister.”

“You don’t have to understand it, Lissa. Just do it. Now drive us back to the visitor center, will you?”

________

Ev swallowed the little yellow pill quickly, refusing to think about it. The pill defied mortality, for a few more years at least. He did not fear death. Of course not—he anticipated it—
for to me to live is Christ and to die is gain
. Still the pill was bitter. Weakness.

The horrible pain shot through him like a blast from a shotgun. Ev grabbed his chest and called out for help. “I’m a young man. I can’t be having a heart attack… .” But he was.

A quick-thinking friend had saved his life all those years ago. Another ten minutes, and Everett MacAllister would have been history. Now a pill and a good diet and exercise kept him healthy—healthy enough that no one asked questions like, Are you sure it’s safe to be teaching driving lessons with your heart condition?

He went over the conversation with Lissa and thought of the agony in her eyes, so reminiscent of Tate. And there he went with the memory.

The white house was lit up with candles, hundreds of them so that it looked almost on fire. People were buzzing on the lawn, adults with cocktails, a happy, slurred noise of too much alcohol.

“Congrats to you, Mr. MacAllister!”

Ev saw himself in the tuxedo, his hair greased back, a cigar hanging from his lips, a martini in hand. Boisterous laughter. Annie on one arm, in her slinky dress, laughing, laughing.

A lovely redhead caught his eye from across the yard. She gave a wink, then, eyes dancing, turned and walked toward the house.

“Excuse me a moment,” Ev said to his guests, kissing Annie on the cheek.

He hurried into the house and up the steps, following after Frieda—the redhead—in her low-cut white dress, her hips swinging. On the second floor landing, he grabbed her around the waist and kissed her hard, passionately, both of them laughing in their drunkenness. They pushed down the hall to a bedroom. Laughing, carrying her, he flung the door open.

Tate sat with her back to them, retching. Ev set Frieda down and shooed her out without a sound.

“Tate! Tate, what’s the matter?” His words slurred with the simple phrase.

She turned red-rimmed eyes to him. “Is it true? Mother and Father are crooks?”

“Tate?”

“And you with Frieda! Is that true too? I hate this life.”

Tate, fragile, porcelain china doll Tate. Striking brunette. Perfect curves at sixteen. Innocent and yet wise beyond her years. Hating life, hating the parties.

He came to her side and saw the blood on the wrists. “Tate!”

“Let me go! Let me die! Don’t you pick me up. You selfish cheat! Leave me alone!”

Ev was carrying his little sister down the steps, her wrists wrapped in linen napkins, his eyes blurred, not from alcohol but from tears. Tate.

________

Lissa flopped on her bed, glad that she had spoken truth to Mr. MacAllister. She did dream of writing. She dreamed of many things. No, she
had
dreamed of many things. No more.

The gelding’s head was high, his ears pricked forward as they headed into the final line of fences. Only one more line and they would have a clean round. Up and over the intimidating oxer. The in-and-out went smoothly. No problems. And the last fence, the brick wall. He sailed over, his hooves not anywhere near the jump.

“And another clean round for Lissa Randall and her gelding High Caliber,” the announcer was saying.

She left the ring, collapsed on the gelding’s neck, arms on either side. “Good boy. Good boy. We did it!”

Momma was laughing, rushing up to them both, eyes sparkling. Dad was even there, with a look of distinct approval in his eyes. He was holding the new camcorder, and had doubtless filmed the whole sequence. “For your college applications,” he said with a wink. “They like to know that you have lots of different interests.”

I have no interests now!
She might have said it out loud, but it didn’t matter. Even if he heard it, her father would swiftly put it out of his mind. He could not accept reality.

Helena had not replaced the photos. No picture of her standing beside High Caliber, the ribbon attached to the gelding’s bridle, rippling in the wind. No smiling Momma in her sequined dress.

“Just call me the girl who can’t quiet the voices.” This she did say out loud. With no other transition, the story twirled in her mind until she made her way to the desk, took out an old notebook, and began to write—anything and everything that came into her mind.

Thirty minutes later, she laughed to herself. For whatever it was worth, Lissa had done her homework.

CHAPTER NINE

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 2

Discretion
, they called it in the stock market. All those years ago she had given Jerry Steinman permission to choose the stocks, the bonds, and the funds in which to invest her money. Implicit trust. Now it was Ted Draper’s turn. The young man had handled himself well—gotten to know her portfolio, taken the time to reassure her that he understood what type of client she was—only interested in the blue chip stocks and mutual funds. In the months to come, she knew she would feel as safe with him as she had with Jerry. It would take a little time, but that was fine. He respected her demands: no questions asked about the foundation, no information revealed about her to others, complete anonymity.

Stella looked at the folder he had left for her. The young man was thorough, much more than competent. A little cocky, she thought, but she trusted Jerry’s judgment. Once again she signed the form.

She had not studied her portfolio for several months. It was time, with the new novel coming out much sooner than she had expected. The foundation was worth over seven million. Amazing what the years of careful investing had done for her, for them.

Young Mr. Draper was curious about the Stash Green Cash Foundation. She smiled at the name. Jerry would set him straight. It would all be okay.

But worry seeped into her mind, so slippery and devious. Before she could stop it, a scene from yesteryear played itself out in her mind once again.

“Stella?”

“Yes?”

“Who was it?”

“
Eddy Clouse, saying the
New Yorker
called him. Same request as always.
An interview.”

She let the screen door shut on itself, turned, and went into the study, where her husband was bent over his desk. She studied him from behind.
She had always loved the way his sandy hair curled up to the right whenever he was in need of a haircut. She placed a hand lightly on his back, leaned forward, and kissed him on the top of the head.

He swiveled around in the metal chair, his face erupting into a dimpled smile. “Sweetheart,” he whispered and enlaced her with his arms. She settled softly in his lap, threw her arms around his neck, and pressed herself into his chest, her face against his, her attention on the steady beating of his heart.

An image from the first review flashed before her, a newspaper opened to the headline
Stella Is Stellar! Debut Novel a Jewel.

The second novel
—Stella Is Stellar Again, Anonymous Author Just Gets Better.

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this,” she whispered, nodding to the half-finished manuscript. “If I should. I’m sorry.”

He hugged her tighter. “You’re the strongest woman on the planet, and if you think it’s time to quit, then you’ll quit.”

“But what about you?”

“I’ll figure something out. Don’t worry about me, darling.”

But she did.

They held each other for another minute, neither of them speaking. Then she hopped off his lap, kissed him briefly, playfully on the mouth, and said, “I’ve got lunch to fix, and the kids’ll be home in a sec.”

She started off; he caught her arm, pulled her gently backed to him again. She met his eyes, letting herself smile into them.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“You’re welcome.”

Stella reached for the phone to call her daughter. She needed to hear a friendly voice. She could not dial the number. Instead, she saw the notebook filled with Eddy Clouse’s suggestions. She was getting too old for the charade. A long time ago it had all been right. But now? Now she was not sure. Seven million dollars in the foundation. Wasn’t that enough?

She knew the answer before she had even formulated the question. It was never really enough if she wanted to be sure the job was done right. Why did it seem like it always depended on her? She did not want to go down that woe-begotten lane. Better keep her mind on the present. But the lingering memory pushed through and she surprised herself by uttering his name out loud for the first time in so many years.

“Ashton.”

________

Katy Lynn hesitated before tapping on the office door. Two days ago, Lanie’s husband lawyer, Chad, had given her the reference for Cannel Corporation, Private Investigators
,
a firm with impeccable credentials, well respected—and feared—among the elite of Atlanta’s Buckhead. He had assured her that this firm would do her right.

The meeting went smoothly, all things considered. Katy Lynn concluded her little speech. “I will want a full report when I get back. Photos, dates, history. Everything. I want an airtight case! If Hamilton expects to get away with this little adventure, well, he is going to pay through the nose!”

“Mrs. Pendleton, we will handle this with the utmost discretion. You will have your report for the end of October.”

She let out a long sigh and mentally reviewed her list: plane tickets bought, Gina staying for two weeks with the Lewises. Jazz practices, check; piano lessons, check; visit to the psychiatrist, check.

That had been the trump card for Katy Lynn to agree to Gina’s “break from home.”

The appointment was for next week, and Ellen Lewis, a Southern belle if ever one existed, knew exactly what questions to ask and what to leave unsaid. “I’ll be happy to get her to the appointment, and I’ll be watching for any unusual behavior.”

Already Gina seemed lighter, happier when she called her mother every evening after school. “That is so cool, Mom, that you’re visiting Aunt Janelle and Uncle Brian. France, the beaches. Have a great time, and don’t worry about me. Caroline and I are having a blast.”

Katy Lynn congratulated herself on the plan. Everything was in order once again. Now all that remained was packing her bags for the south of France. Montpellier. Halfway between Marseille and Spain, on the coast. She closed her eyes and smiled, imagining herself stretched out on some beach surrounded by half-nude women. She remembered Janelle describing their first trip to the beach. It made Katy Lynn chuckle even now. Prudish little sister Janelle going to France to save the Catholics— or was it the Muslims? And there she was, flipping out over women’s bare breasts on the beach. Poor Brian! Such a fine young Christian man. He probably loved going to the beach, although he couldn’t admit it to Janelle.