Читать книгу In Silence - Erica Spindler, Erica Spindler - Страница 12

Avery bolted upright in bed, heart pounding, her father’s name a scream on her lips. She darted her gaze to the bedroom door, for a split second a kid again, expecting her parents to charge through, all concerned hugs and comforting arms.

They didn’t, of course, and she sagged back against the headboard. She hadn’t slept well, no surprise there. She’d tossed and turned, each creak and moan of the old house unfamiliar and jarring. She had been up a half dozen times. Checking the doors. Peering out the windows. Pacing the floor.

In truth, she suspected it hadn’t been the noises that had kept her awake. It had been the quiet. The reason for the quiet.

Finally, she’d taken the couple of Tylenol PM caplets she’d dug out of her travel bag. Sleep had come.

But not rest. For sleep had brought nightmares. In them, she had been enfolded in a womb, warm and contented. Protected. Suddenly, she had been torn from her safe haven and thrust into a bright, white place. The light had burned. She had been naked. And cold.

In the next instant flames had engulfed her.

And she had awakened, calling out her father’s name.

Not too tough figuring that one out.

Avery glanced at the bedside clock. Just after 9:00 a.m., she noted. Throwing back the blanket, she climbed out of bed. The temperature had dropped during the night and the house was cold. Shivering, she crossed to her suitcase, rummaged through it for a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt. She slipped them on, not bothering to take off her sleep shirt.

That done, she headed to the kitchen, making a quick side trip out front for the newspaper. It wasn’t until she was staring at the naked driveway that two things occurred to her: the first was that Cypress Springs’s only newspaper, the Gazette, was a biweekly, published each Wednesday and Saturday, and second, that Sal Mandina, the Gazette’s owner and editor-in-chief had surely halted her father’s subscription. There would be no uncollected papers piling up on a Cypress Springs stoop.

No newspaper? The very idea made her twitch.

With a shake of her head, she stepped inside, relocked the door and headed to the kitchen. She would pick up the New Orleans Times-Picayune or The Advocate from Baton Rouge when she went into town this morning.

That trip might come sooner than planned, Avery realized moments later, standing at the refrigerator. Yesterday she hadn’t thought to check the kitchen for provisions. She wished she had.

No bread, milk or eggs. No coffee.

Not good.

Avery dragged her fingers through her short hair. After the huge meal she’d consumed the night before, she could probably forgo breakfast. Maybe. But she couldn’t face this morning without coffee.

A walk downtown, it seemed, would be the first order of the day.

After changing, brushing her teeth and washing her face, she found her Reeboks, slipped them on then headed out the front door.

And ran smack into Cherry. The other woman smiled brightly. “Morning, Avery. And here I was afraid I was going to wake you.”

“No such luck.” Avery eyed the picnic basket tucked against Cherry’s side. “I was just heading to the grocery for a newspaper and some coffee. You wouldn’t happen to have either of those, would you?”

“A thermos of French roast. No newspaper, though. Sorry.”

“You’re a lifesaver. Come on in.”

Cherry stepped inside. “I remembered that your dad didn’t drink coffee. Figured you’d need it this morning, strong.”

Her mother had been a coffee drinker. But not her dad. Cherry had remembered that. But she hadn’t. What was wrong with her?

“Figured, too, that you hadn’t had time to get to the market.” She held up the basket. “Mom’s homemade biscuits and peach jam.”

Just the thought had Avery’s mouth watering. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I had a real biscuit?”

“Since your last visit, I suspect,” Cherry answered, following Avery. They reached the kitchen and she set the basket on the counter. “Yankees flat can’t make a decent biscuit. There, I’ve said it.”

Avery laughed. She supposed the other woman was right. Learning how to make things like the perfect baking powder biscuit was a rite of passage for Southern girls.

And like many of those womanly rites of passage, she had failed miserably at it.

Cherry had come prepared: from the basket she took two blue-and-white-checked place mats, matching napkins, flatware, a miniature vase and carefully wrapped yellow rose. She filled the vase with water and dropped in the flower. “There,” she said. “A proper breakfast table.”

Avery poured the coffees and the two women took a seat at the table. Curling her fingers around the warm mug, Avery made a sound of appreciation as she sipped the hot liquid.

“Bad night?” Cherry asked sympathetically, bringing her own cup to her lips.

“The worst. Couldn’t sleep. Then when I did, had nightmares.”

“That’s to be expected, I imagine. Considering.”

Considering. Avery looked away. She cleared her throat. “This was so sweet of you.”

“My pleasure.” Cherry smoothed the napkin in her lap. “I meant what I said last night, I’ve missed you. We all have.” She met Avery’s eyes. “You’re one of us, you know. Always will be.”

“Are you trying to tell me something, Cherry?” Avery asked, smiling. “Like, you can take the girl out of the small town, but you can’t take the small town out of the girl?”

“Something like that.” She returned Avery’s smile; leaned toward her. “But you know what? There’s nothing wrong with that, in my humble, country opinion. So there.”

Avery laughed and helped herself to one of the biscuits. She broke off a piece. It was moist, dense and still warm. She spread on jam, popped it in her mouth and made a sound of pure contentment. Too many meals like this and the one last night, and she wouldn’t be able to snap her blue jeans.

She broke off another piece. “So, what’s going on with you, Cherry? Didn’t you graduate from Nicholls State a couple years ago?”

“Harvard on the bayou to us grads. And it was last year. Got a degree in nutrition. Not much call for nutritionists in Cypress Springs,” she finished with a shrug. “I guess I didn’t think that through.”

“You might try Baton Rouge or—”

“I’m not leaving Cypress Springs.”

“But you’d be close enough to—”

“No,” she said flatly. “This is my home.”

Awkward silence fell between them. Avery broke it first. “So what are you doing now?”

“I help Peg out down at the Azalea Café. And I sit on the boards of a couple charities. Teach Sunday school. Make Mom’s life easier whenever I can.”

“Has she been ill?”

She hesitated, then smiled. “Not at all. It’s just … she’s getting older. I don’t like to see her working herself to a frazzle.”

Avery took another sip of her coffee. “You live at home?”

“Mmm.” She set down her cup. “It seemed silly not to. They have so much room.” She paused a moment. “Mama and I talked about opening our own catering business. Not party or special-events catering, but one of those caterers who specialize in nutritious meals for busy families. We were going to call it Gourmet-To-Go or Gourmet Express.”

“I’ve read a number of articles about those caterers. Apparently, it’s the new big thing. I think you two would be great at that.”

Cherry smiled, expression pleased. “You really think so?”

“With the way you both cook? Are you kidding? I’d be your first customer.”

Her smile faltered. “We couldn’t seem to pull it together.

Besides, I’m not like you, Avery. I don’t want some big, fancy career. I want to be a wife and mother. It’s all I ever wanted.”

Avery wished she could be as certain of what she wanted. Of what would make her happy. Once upon a time she had been. Once upon a time, it seemed, she had known everything.

Avery leaned toward the other woman. “So, who is he? There must be a guy in the picture. Someone special.”

The pleasure faded from Cherry’s face. “There was. He—Do you remember Karl Wright?”

Avery nodded. “I remember him well. He and Matt were good friends.”

“Best friends,” Cherry corrected. “After Matt and Hunter … fell out. Anyway, we had something special … at least I thought we did. It didn’t work out.”

Avery reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry.”

“He just up and … left. Went to California. We’d begun talking marriage and—”

She let out a sharp breath and stood. She crossed to the window and for a long moment simply stared out at the bright morning. Finally she glanced back at Avery. “I was pushing. Too hard, obviously. He called Matt and said goodbye. But not me.”

“I’m really sorry, Cherry.”

She continued as if Avery hadn’t spoken. “Matt urged him to call me. Talk it out. Compromise, but … “ Her voice trailed helplessly off.

“But he didn’t.”

“No. He’d talked about moving to California. I always resisted. I didn’t want to leave my family. Or Cypress Springs. Now I wish … “

Her voice trailed off again. Avery stood and crossed to her. She laid a hand on her shoulder. “Someone else will come along, Cherry. The right one.”

Cherry covered her hand. She met Avery’s eyes, hers filled with tears. “In this town? Do you know how few eligible bachelors there are here? How few guys my age? They all leave. I wish I wanted a career, like you. Because I could do that on my own. But what I want more than anything takes two. It’s just not fai—”

Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard; cleared her throat. “I sound the bitter old spinster I am.”

Avery smiled at that. “You’re twenty-four, Cherry. Hardly a spinster.”

“But that’s not the way I … It hurts, Avery.”

“I know.” Avery thought of what Cherry had said the night before, about loving someone to the point of tragedy. In light of this conversation, her comment concerned Avery. She told her so.

Cherry wiped her eyes. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything crazy. Besides,” she added, visibly brightening, “maybe Karl will come back? You did.”

Avery didn’t have the heart to correct her. To tell her she wasn’t certain what her future held. “Have you spoken with him since he left?”

Fresh tears flooded Cherry’s eyes. Avery wished she could take the question back. “His dad’s gotten a few letters. He’s over in Baton Rouge, at a home there. I go see him once a week.”

“And Matt?”

“They spoke once. And fought. Matt chewed him out pretty good. For the way he treated me. He hasn’t heard from him since.”

Avery could bet he had chewed him out. Matt had always returned Cherry’s hero worship with a kind of fierce protectiveness.

“He’s missed you, you know.”

Avery met Cherry’s gaze, surprised. “Excuse me?”

“Matt. He never stopped hoping you’d come back to him.”

Avery shook her head, startled by the rush of emotion she felt at Cherry’s words. “A lot of time’s passed, Cherry. What we had was wonderful, but we were very young. I’m sure there have been other women since—”

“No. He’s never loved anyone but you. No one ever measured up.”

Avery didn’t know what to say. She told Cherry so.

The younger woman’s expression altered slightly. “It’s still there between you two. I saw it last night. So did Mom and Dad.”

When she didn’t reply, Cherry narrowed her eyes. “What are you so afraid of, Avery?”

She started to argue that she wasn’t, then bit the words back. “A lot of time’s passed. Who knows if Matt and I even have anything in common anymore.”

“You do.” Cherry caught her hand. “Some things never change. And some people are meant to be together.”

“If that’s so,” Avery said, forcing lightness into her tone, “we’ll know.”

Instead of releasing her hand, Cherry tightened her grip. “I can’t allow you to hurt him again. Do you understand?”

Uncomfortable, Avery tugged on her hand. “I have no plans of hurting your brother, believe me.”

“I’m sure you mean that, but if you’re not serious, just stay away, Avery. Just … stay … away.”

“Let go of my hand, Cherry. You’re hurting me.”

She released Avery’s hand, looking embarrassed. “Sorry. I get a little intense when it comes to my brothers.”

Without waiting for Avery to respond, she made a show of glancing at her watch, exclaiming over the time and how she would be late for a meeting at the Women’s Guild. She quickly packed up the picnic basket, insisting on leaving the thermos of coffee and remaining biscuits for Avery.

“Just bring the thermos by the house,” she said, hurrying toward the door.

It wasn’t until Cherry had backed her Mustang down the driveway and disappeared from sight that Avery realized how unsettled she was by the way their conversation had turned from friendly to adversarial. How unnerved by the woman’s threatening tone and the way she had seemed to transform, becoming someone Avery hadn’t recognized.

Avery shut the door, working to shake off the uncomfortable sensations. Cherry had always looked up to Matt. Even as a squirt, she had been fiercely protective of him. Plus, still smarting from her own broken heart made her hypersensitive to the idea of her brother’s being broken.

No, Avery realized. Cherry had referred to her brothers, plural. She got a little intense when it came to her brothers.

Odd, Avery thought. Especially in light of the things she had said about Hunter the night before. If Cherry felt as strongly about Hunter as she did about Matt, perhaps she’d had more interaction with Hunter than she’d claimed. And perhaps her anger was more show than reality.

But why hide the truth? Why make her feelings out to be different than they were?

Avery shook her head. Always looking for the story, she thought. Always looking for the angle, the hidden motive, the elusive piece of the puzzle, the one that broke the story wide open.

Geez, Avery. Give it a rest. Stop worrying about other people’s issues and get busy on your own.

She certainly had enough of them, she acknowledged, shifting her gaze to the stairs. After all, if she got herself wrapped up in others’ lives and problems, she didn’t have to face her own. If she was busy analyzing other people’s lives, she wouldn’t have time to analyze her own.

She wouldn’t have to face her father’s suicide. Or her part in it.

Avery glanced up the stairway to the second floor. She visualized climbing it. Reaching the top. Turning right. Walking to the end of the hall. Her parents’ bedroom door was closed. She had noticed that the night before. Growing up, it had always been open. It being shut felt wrong, final.

Do it, Avery. Face it.

Squaring her shoulders, she started toward the stairs, climbed them slowly, resolutely. She propelled herself forward with sheer determination.

She reached her parents’ bedroom door and stopped. Taking a deep breath, she reached out, grasped the knob and twisted. The door eased open. The bed, she saw, was unmade. The top of her mother’s dressing table was bare. Avery remembered it adorned with an assortment of bottles, jars and tubes, with her mother’s hairbrush and comb, with a small velveteen box where she had kept her favorite pieces of jewelry.

It looked so naked. So empty.

She moved her gaze. Her father had removed all traces of his wife. With them had gone the feeling of warmth, of being a family.

Avery pressed her lips together, realizing how it must have hurt, removing her things. Facing this empty room night after night. She’d asked him if he needed help. She had offered to come and help him clean out her mother’s things. Looking back, she wondered if he had sensed how halfhearted that offer had been. If he had sensed how much she hadn’t wanted to come home.

“I’ve got it taken care of, sweetheart. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

So, she hadn’t. That hurt. It made her feel small and selfish. She should have been here. Avery shifted her gaze to the double dresser. Would her mother’s side be empty? Had he been able to do what she was attempting to do now?

She hung back a moment more, then forced herself through the doorway, into the bedroom. There she stopped, took a deep breath. The room smelled like him, she thought. Like the spicy aftershave he had always favored. She remembered being a little girl, snuggled on his lap, and pressing her face into his sweater. And being inundated with that smell—and the knowledge that she was loved.

The womb from her nightmare. Warm, content and protected.

Sometimes, while snuggled there, he had rubbed his stubbly cheek against hers. She would squeal and squirm—then beg for more when he stopped.

Whisker kisses, Daddy. More whisker kisses.

She shook her head, working to dispel the memory. To clear her mind. Remembering would make this more difficult than it already was. She crossed to the closet, opened it. Few garments hung there. Two suits, three sports coats. A half-dozen dress shirts. Knit golf shirts. A tie and belt rack graced the back of the door; a shoe rack the floor. She stood on tiptoe to take inventory of the shelf above. Two hats—summer and winter. A cardboard storage box, taped shut.

Her mom’s clothes were gone.

Avery removed the box, set it on the floor, then turned and crossed to the dresser. On the dresser top sat her dad’s coin tray. On it rested his wedding ring. And her mother’s. Side by side.

The implications of that swept over her in a breath-stealing wave. He had wanted them to be together. He had placed his band beside hers before he—

Blinded by tears, Avery swung away from the image of those two gold bands. She scooped up the cardboard box and hurried from the room. She made the stairs, ran down them. She reached the foyer, dropped the box and darted to the front door. She yanked it open and stepped out into the fresh air.

Avery breathed deeply through her nose, using the pull of oxygen to steady herself. She had known this wouldn’t be easy.

But she hadn’t realized it would be so hard. Or hurt so much.

The toot of a horn interrupted her thoughts. She glanced toward the road. Mary Dupre, she saw. Another longtime neighbor. The woman waved, pulled her car over and climbed out. She hurried up the driveway, short gray curls bouncing.

She reached Avery and hugged her. “I’m so sorry, sweetie.”

Avery hugged her back. “Thank you, Mary.”

“I wish I’d gone to Buddy or Pastor Dastugue, but I … didn’t. And then it was too late.”

“Go to Buddy or Pastor about what?”

“How odd your daddy was acting. Not leaving the house, letting his yard go. I tried to pay a visit, bring him some of my chicken and andouille gumbo, but he wouldn’t come to the door. I knew he was home, too. I thought maybe he was sleeping, but I glanced back on my way down the driveway and saw him peeking out the window.”

Avery swallowed hard at the bizarre image. It didn’t fit the father she had known. “I don’t know what to say, Mary. I had no … idea. We spoke often, but he didn’t … he never said … anything.”

“Poor baby.” The woman hugged her again. “I’m bringing some food by later.”

“There’s no need—”

“There is,” she said firmly. “You’ll need to eat and I’ll not have you worrying about preparing anything.”

Avery acquiesced, grateful. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

“I see I’m not the first.”

“Pardon?”

The woman pointed. Avery glanced in that direction. A basket sat on the stoop by the door.

Avery retrieved it. It contained homemade raisin bread and a note of condolence. She read the brief, warmly worded note, tears stinging her eyes.

“Laura Jenkins, I’ll bet,” Mary Dupre said, referring to the woman who lived next door. “She makes the best raisin bread in the parish.”

Avery nodded and returned the note to its envelope.

“You’re planning a service?”

“I’m meeting with Danny Gallagher this afternoon.”

“He does good work. You need help with anything, anything at all, you call me.”

Avery promised she would, knowing that the woman meant it. Finding comfort in her generosity. And the kindness she seemed to encounter at every turn.

She watched the woman scurry down the driveway, a bright bird in her purple and orange warm-up suit, waved goodbye, then collected Laura Jenkins’s basket and carried it to the kitchen.

The last thing she needed was more food, but she sliced off a piece of the bread anyway, set it on a napkin and placed it on the kitchen table. While she reheated the last of the coffee, she retrieved the cardboard box from the foyer.

She had figured the box would contain photos, cards or other family mementos. Instead, she found it filled with newspaper clippings.

Curious, Avery began sifting through them. They all concerned the same event, one that had occurred the summer of 1988, her fifteenth summer.

She vaguely remembered the story: a Cypress Springs woman named Sallie Waguespack had been stabbed to death in her apartment. The perpetrators had turned out to be a couple of local teenagers, high on drugs. The crime had caused a citizen uproar and sent the town on a crusade to clean up its act.

Avery drew her eyebrows together, confused. Why had her father collected these? she wondered. She picked up one of the clippings and gazed at the grainy, yellowed image of Sallie Waguespack. She’d been a pretty woman. And young. Only twenty-two when she died.

So, why had her father collected the clippings, keeping them all these years? Had he been friends with the woman? She didn’t recall having ever met her or heard her name, before the murder anyway. Perhaps he had been her physician?

Perhaps, she thought, the articles themselves would provide the answer.

Avery dug all the clippings out of the box, arranging them by date, oldest to most recent. They spanned, she saw, four months—June through September 1988.

Bread and coffee forgotten, she began to read.

As she did, fuzzy memories became sharp. On June 18, 1988, Sallie Waguespack, a twenty-two-year-old waitress, had been brutally murdered in her apartment. Stabbed to death by a couple of doped-up teenagers.

The Pruitt brothers, she remembered. They had been older, but she had seen them around the high school, before they’d dropped out to work at the canning factory.

They’d been killed that same night in a shoot-out with the police.

How could she have forgotten? It had been the talk of the school for months after. She remembered being shocked, horrified. Then … saddened. The Pruitt brothers had come from the wrong side of the tracks—actually the wrong side of what the locals called The Creek. Truth was, The Creek was nothing more than a two-mile-long drainage ditch that had been created to keep low areas along the stretch from flooding but ultimately had served as the dividing line between the good side of town and the bad.

They’d been wild boys. They’d gone with fast girls. They’d drunk beer and smoked pot. She’d stayed as far away from them as possible.

Even so, the tragedy of it all hadn’t been lost on her, a sheltered fifteen-year-old. All involved had been so young. How had the boys’ lives gone so terribly askew? How could such a thing happen in the safe haven of Cypress Springs?

Which was the question the rest of the citizenry had wondered as well, Avery realized as she shuffled through the articles. They fell into two categories: ones detailing the actual crime and investigation, and the lion’s share, editorials written by the outraged citizens of Cypress Springs. They’d demanded change. Accountability. A return to the traditional values that had made Cypress Springs a good place to raise a family.

Then, it seemed, things had quieted down. The articles became less heated, then stopped. Or, Avery wondered, had her father simply stopped collecting them?

Avery sat back. She reached for the cup of coffee and sipped. Cold and bitter. She grimaced and set the cup down. Nothing in the articles answered the question why her father had collected them.

She had lived through these times. Yes, her parents had discussed the crime. Everyone had. But not to excess. She had never sensed her father being unduly interested in it.

But he had been. Obviously.

She glanced at her watch, saw that it was nearly noon already. Perhaps Buddy would know the why, she thought. If she hurried, she should have plenty of time to stop by the CSPD before her two o’clock appointment with Danny Gallagher.