Fall Semester (33 page)

Forgive him.

“That he didn’t want me to use him as an excuse not to live my life,” Maren admitted. “But that doesn’t change that fact that Malcolm crossed the line.”

“No doubt,” Helene acknowledged. “He crossed the line....But what makes you think he’d do it again, given how much damage he’s done this time? Do you really think he’s going to go there a second time?”

Maren sighed and answered with complete honesty.

“I don’t know.”

Helene nodded, slowly, sagely.

“Last question: You said that he is what he is, and that’s not going to change, right? So, is your life better with or without him in it?”

Maren started shaking her head, even though the question was like a punch in the gut.

“That’s not a fair question,” she said, evading.

Helene was about to press, but Ryan and Kit approached to make their goodbyes. The sun was going down, and it appeared that the little party—the life-saving burst of happiness in the middle of their sadness—was breaking up.

Through the window to the kitchen, Maren could see that a few neighbors were helping her mother and aunt pack up all the food, but otherwise, the space looked empty. She walked inside with her friends, getting the last of the hugs and promising to get together soon. Even Rob gave her a tentative hug.

“See ya soon,” he said, gently.

“Thanks for coming, Rob,” she said, meaning it. The awkwardness between them had almost completely evaporated, and she was relieved.

Helene closed her in a hug, and Jess stole the opportunity to hug them both, making them laugh and pull back.

“We’re going to Bisbano’s,” Jess said. “Dennis, Amy, and a few others will be there. Why don’t you join us?”

Maren scanned the kitchen, watching as the remaining women put the space back in order. Soon, they would leave. Aunt Jackie was going home tomorrow.

“I don’t know,” she said, shrugging. “Maybe I should hang here tonight.”

Helene nodded, understanding.

“If you change your mind, just text, and I’ll come meet you in the parking lot,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Give my unfair question some thought.”

Maren rolled her eyes.

“Honestly, Helene, I don’t see why it matters to you,” she whispered back.

Helene shrugged.

“I don’t know. I guess it’s the look I see on your face when you think about him,” she said, smiling sagely again. “Definitely unfinished business.”

Helene tucked herself under Jess’s arm, gave a wave, and left.

When the last of the lasagna was packed away, the dishwasher running, and the counters wiped, neighbors and friends slipped into the night, leaving only the surviving Gardners, Aunt Jackie, and one Robin Davis, who might have left earlier if Lane had ever let her out of his reach.

Laurel had made tea, and the six of them sat around the island, adjusting to their new lives moment by moment. Maren sipped her tea and noted that the physical contact between Lane and his girlfriend was definitely not one-sided. She hid her smile in her tea cup at the way Robin ran a soothing hand up and down Lane’s back. His shoulders had gone slack, and he leaned toward her touch like a puppy. It looked comforting.

Maren felt a pang of longing for Malcolm.

It’s better that he broke my heart now, instead of later...Right?

She considered that it would all be well and good—if he had broken her heart without the intention to stick around. By all accounts, Malcolm Vashal now had no desire to walk away.

Helene’s question came back to her. “
Is your life better with or without him in it?”

Maren found herself cataloguing the memories. His condemned eyes that had drawn her in. His laugh, deep and sensual. She remembered the first time she’d heard it as they had stood together at the David Solomon reading. She had been so aware of him.

Her mind skipped to the days at the conference. How they had made each other laugh. The way he’d defended her against Jess, protective even then. Maren’s heart spasmed in her chest when she recalled his devotion while she’d had the flu. Looking back, it was clear to see that a kind of love was embodied in every moment, every touch.

And not long after, she had kissed him. What she had felt for him—what she had felt between them—was pointless to refute. He had tried to deny it then. Why was she trying to deny it now?

Because I can’t bear to lose anyone else.

It was a startling thought. Startling for its truth as well as its strength.

“I’m going up to change out of these clothes,” Maren said, unable to sit still a moment longer. “Mom, would it be okay with you if I joined Helene and the others at Bisbano’s for a little while?”

Erin nodded and gave an encouraging smile.

“I think you should. In fact, Laurel and I had a talk,” she said, eyeing Laurel, who nodded her assent. “I think I want to drive the Touareg for a while, and I think that Laurel and I can get along with one car between us for now. Why don’t you take the Jetta home with you until the semester is over?”

Maren felt her stomach tighten.

“Mom, I don’t need that. I’ve got my bike,” she said, frowning. “And I was even thinking about staying here for a while with you and Laurel.”

Erin slowly shook her head.

“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Laurel and I need to figure out what this house feels like with just the two of us,” she said, coming around the island to stand by her oldest daughter. “Maren, we’re so grateful for what you’ve done for us through all of this, but you need to get back to your life. And we need to get back to ours.”

“This is my life, too, Mom,” Maren said, gesturing to the kitchen, the rest of the family, the grief. Lane and Jackie both wore cautious looks, while Robin had the grace to study her tea cup and feign deafness.

“Of course, darling, that’s why we think you should take the Jetta,” Erin said. “You can come over every night for dinner if you want to. Or not. Whatever works for you with school....and your personal life.”

She said the last words with a meaningful glance that had Maren narrowing her eyes. Lane’s mouth quirked into a smile.

“This is not a discussion, Maren. This is the way it’s going to be,” Erin declared before Maren could protest again.

“Fine,” Maren said. “I’ll take the car. But you have to promise to call me the minute you need it back.”

“Done. Now, get upstairs, change, and pack your bags,” Erin teased. “I’m officially kicking you out.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” she teased back. “because I’m moving out.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder with mock drama and headed for the stairs.

Maren could hear Perry’s whimpers and excited scratches before she was halfway up, so she took the stairs two at a time.

“Perry!” she squealed, opening Lane’s bedroom door. Perry launched himself at her thighs, tail spinning and tongue slapping. His black toenails raked down her legs mercilessly. “Ow! Perry, sit!”

The little rat terrier struggled to obey, but his glee at finally seeing her was nearly too much, and he quaked in a semi-squat, never quite achieving a full sit. Maren joined him on the floor and pulled him to her lap, allowing him to lick her chin as he convulsed with delight.

“I know. I know. I missed you, too, love.” She scrubbed his sleek back until she found his favorite spot just behind his left shoulder, and he folded over in her lap, unable to resist the hard-wired impulse to swipe his hind leg through the air to match the scratches she gave. Perry gave a satisfied moan, finally relaxing. Not one to seem overly sentimental, he sneezed twice on his mistress, stood and shook himself off as though he’d just had a bath, and hopped on Lane’s bed, eager for whatever adventure came next.

Maren stood, brushed the dog hair off her skirt, and grabbed her duffle bag.

“We are going home, Perry.” The canine cocked his head at the familiar word, but he showed no objection.

Maren packed up clean and dirty clothes, trading her funeral attire for a pair of jeans, a garnet sweater, and her Converse. She had just zipped up the overstuffed bag when her phone rang. Over the last few days, Maren had made a habit of checking to make sure the caller wasn’t Malcolm before answering, and she was relieved to see Helene’s name and picture across the screen.

“I’m on my way. I just have to drop Perry at the house first,” she said, by way of answering.

“Maren...” Helene gasped, sounding breathless. Maren could hear the distinct rush of traffic in the background. Clearly, she was not calling from the pizza parlor.

“Are you at Bisbano’s, Helene?” she asked.

“I am, but I came outside,” she said, sounding anxious. “Maren, I have to tell you something.”

The tone of Helene’s voice alarmed her, setting her heart scampering.

“What is it? Are you okay?” The edge in her own voice made Perry’s ears perk.

“Maren, it’s...” Helene whispered into the phone. “It’s Dr. Vashal...Malcolm...He had some kind of accident at the cemetery.”

Accident. Cemetery.

“Oh, God.” Her breath left her in a rush. She
was
going to lose him. Forever. And it would be far worse than any broken heart. Maren turned toward the bathroom; she was going to be sick.

“It’s a concussion, I think,” Helene said. “He’s at Lourdes...I thought you’d want to know.”

“What?!?” Maren cried. Had she heard right? “He’s okay?” She swallowed the bile that had climbed up her throat.

“Apparently. Amy was just repeating what she’d heard in the department office,” Helene explained, sounding incredulous. “It seems that Sheridan is his emergency contact. That shit’s messed up, Maren. Who puts his boss as his emergency contact?”

I should be his emergency contact.

“Oh, fuck,” she muttered, cursing herself. “What happened to him?”

“Amy said he must have tripped or collapsed or something,” Helene ventured. “He hit his head on a gravestone. Evidently, a groundskeeper had to call the ambulance.”

“Oh, fuck!” Maren wailed. “I’m the worst girlfriend in the world!”

“So, I take it this means you still care for him,” Helene leveled, dryly.

“Of course I care for him!” she shrieked. “I love him!”

“Then get your ass over to that hospital and work this shit out,” her friend commanded.

Two seconds later, Maren was tripping down the stairs with her duffel bag slung across her shoulder and Perry hard at her heels. Erin, Jackie, and Laurel still sat at the island, sipping tea. Lane and Robin had disappeared.

“Mom! Can Perry stay over?” she asked, flying past them to the kitchen door. “Where are the keys to the car?”

“Maren, what’s wrong?” her mother asked, looking more confused than concerned.

“I have to see Malcolm,” she said, spotting the keys on the hook by the kitchen door. “I’ll explain later. Perry, stay!”

She didn’t wait for any response, but Maren saw her mother’s satisfied smile as she closed the door behind her.

Night had fallen. She started the car, glancing at the clock on the dash: 6:32. The funeral had ended more than four hours ago. Maren checked her phone before she threw the car into reverse. There were no calls or messages from Malcolm since the night before. He had not tried to reach her from the hospital.

Had he given up on them? Or was he too bad off to call?

Both explanations scared her now. She found herself speeding as she turned from Corona onto Mount Vernon. What if he was hurt worse than Helene knew? What if he was still unconscious?

An image of Malcolm in a coma materialized in her mind’s eye as she crossed Kaliste Saloom. The hopelessness, the powerlessness she’d felt at her father’s bedside came back to her. Maren had told her father a thousand times how much she loved him; she’d thanked him for every day of her life. But she would never know if he’d heard any of it.

She almost hit the brakes when a memory flooded her mind.

“What I really want you to do is to keep talking to me...even after I’m gone....If there’s any faith, any order, any love in the universe—and I truly believe there is—then I will be able to hear you, and nothing in this world or the next could keep me from attending to you. I promise you that.”

“Dad.”

She turned right onto Starling Lane and immediately pulled over. He was gone. She would never see him again.

And yet, saying his name aloud felt...powerful. Maren’s hands shook on the steering wheel. She told herself that it had been an emotionally exhausting day. The news of Malcolm’s accident had been too much of a shock. But she closed her eyes and drew a breath anyway.

“I’m terrified, Daddy,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “I love him, and I’ve terrified of losing him—one way or the other.”

Malcolm did not know that she loved him. What if she never got the chance to say it? What if she said it, and he didn’t feel the same? What if she forgave him, and he failed her again?

“Don’t be so hard on him....He’s exactly what you need....”

Maren opened her eyes, the memory making her smile. It was one of the last things her father had told her to do. Perhaps it was time to listen. Maren took a few calming breaths and pulled back into traffic. She was still on edge, still rippling with fear, in fact, but turning back wasn’t an option; she could only move forward from here.

Chapter 30

Malcolm

T
he day would go down as the worst in Malcolm Vashal’s life. His mother’s death. The day J.J. left him. Those seemed to pale in comparison. They’d lacked both bodily harm and humiliation.

Malcolm stared at the ceiling above his hospital bed where he could do little more than recount the ways in which his life was one fucked over train wreck, bobbing in a sea of shit.

He had been admitted to Lourdes for overnight observation, primarily, Dr. Hamilton, the attending physician had said, because of the risk of post concussive syndrome; Malcolm could not be released unless he was under the care of another adult.

Being alone is a medical liability.

Loneliness was not, Malcolm told himself, one of the four ailments for which he was receiving treatment. The concussion was his most impressive injury, no doubt. And if Malcolm thought he had a headache at the funeral, he had been grossly mistaken. Even the lights in his room seemed to shriek inside his head if he opened his eyes more than half-mast.

The injury that took second place was the two-inch gash just below his hairline and above his right eyebrow that had required 14 stitches to close. This—and the concussion—came from the corner of the granite gravestone of one Mr. Ralph Joseph Wallace, Dec. 3, 1932 - Feb. 17, 1997. If Mr. Wallace would have had the courtesy to lie for all eternity just three inches more to the right, Malcolm would have face-planted in the grass and likely regained consciousness no worse for the wear. Instead, he’d awoken moments later, covered in blood and answering urgently-posed questions in Spanish. Jorge Miguel Castrillo, a groundskeeper at Memorial Park and a native of Tijuana, had been the first to witness Malcolm at his lowest point, but he was hardly the last.

Dr. Hamilton had correctly diagnosed Malcolm’s third condition—dehydration brought on by mild alcohol poisoning—just as Dorothy Sheridan had arrived by his bedside in the ER. The fact that she was Malcolm’s emergency contact had come as a surprise to the English Department head. Malcolm could make no sense of her arrival either, until the nurse showed them the blood donor card in his wallet. Malcolm then vaguely remembered a Lourdes mobile blood drive held in Griffin Hall some years before, just after he had signed divorce papers. He’d had to list a contact in case he’d fainted, and he wasn’t about to put down J.J.’s name.

To her credit, Dorothy had been rather humane, Malcolm thought. Once she saw that he was not going to die, she left him to his misery, telling him that they would speak when he felt well enough to return to work.

“Which will not be tomorrow,” she’d said, meaningfully.

Malcolm was thankful that she had left by the time Dr. Hamilton got around to discussing Malcolm’s fourth—and finest—malady. Panic Disorder. While the dehydration likely had played a part in his collapse, the lion’s share of that episode stemmed from hyperventilation brought on by a panic attack.

“Funerals are actually a very common trigger for panic attacks,” Dr. Hamilton generously explained, running a self-conscious hand through his ginger curls. “Dealing with finality can be overwhelming.”

Alone in his hospital bed, Malcolm laughed mirthlessly as he recalled the doctor’s words.

Dealing with finality. No shit.

Malcolm did not bother to tell the doctor that it wasn’t the death of Mark Gardner that had sent him over the edge; what had stolen his breath was the loss of the man’s daughter.

Maren.

Codeine was no match for this kind of pain. And there was no escape from thoughts of her. He ran his fingers over the bandage on his forehead and felt himself brace against the ache. His one consolation was that she had not been among the onlookers who had seen him strapped to a gurney and loaded into the ambulance.

During his examination, Dr. Hamilton had asked if this was Malcolm’s first panic attack. When Malcolm had reluctantly admitted that he’d had six in as many months, the ginger-haired doctor had raised his ginger eyebrows before recommending that Malcolm see a psychotherapist. The good doctor had even provided a list of referrals.

That list sat folded on the faux wood night stand by his bed. He plucked it up, opened it, and read over the half dozen names and credentials. It was the second to last name on the list that intrigued him. Between the contact information for Jody Hollier and Richard Strother was the listing for one Carlos Navarro, LCSW BCD. One side of Malcolm’s mouth kicked up in a wry smile. If nothing else, they could talk about soccer.

His smile faded. What happened today could never happen again.

It’s either therapy or the AMT.

Malcolm picked up his phone and added Navarro as a contact. He would call in the morning.

Navarro and Madeleine.

He had not heard from her in three weeks, and if
La Fuente de Piedra
was a dead end, he needed to know. And he needed her help in finding something to take its place.

Anything.

If he threw himself into his translations and worked at screwing his head on straight, perhaps getting over Maren wouldn’t be impossible.

Malcolm shut his eyes against the thought. There was no getting over her, and, in truth, he didn’t want to. He cradled his love for her like a newborn child, one he would never get to see grow up.

His eyes watered, and he brushed them roughly with the back of his hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. The nurse seemed to come in nearly every half hour. He’d be damned if she caught him crying.

Such a pussy.

He sniffed fiercely, jarring the vice of pain in his head. Restless, he sat up straighter in bed and checked the time on his phone: 6:54 p.m. An interminable night loomed before him.

“God help me,” he muttered.

And at that moment, the nurse knocked on his door. Except it wasn’t the nurse. The door to his room opened, and there she stood.

Malcolm didn’t allow himself to gasp. He didn’t even breath. Standing in the doorway, Maren winced—clearly shocked at the sight of him—and a hand flew to her mouth. She looked poised to flee, like a startled fawn, and Malcolm felt his whole body tense, ready to pounce and give chase the moment she darted—hospital gown and IV bag be damned.

“May I come in?” she rasped, weakly.

The breath he was holding left his lungs in a rush.

“Of course!” And he made to rise, throwing back the starched blanket when she darted forward in protest.

“No! No! No! Don’t get up,” she insisted. “You’re hurt!” Maren crossed to him and grabbed his hands in the way she had claimed him twice before.

Her hair spilled over her shoulder as she pushed him back into his bed and perched on its edge. The blood orange of her sweater set off the blush of her lips and cheeks, deepened the maple of her eyes.

She was too beautiful. Malcolm didn’t let himself hope.

She hates me,
he reminded himself.

“I’m so sorry,” Maren said, her eyes welling.

Raising his brows in disbelief was painful, Malcolm learned.

“What are
you
sorry for?” he asked, memorizing the feel of her small hands in his. Her fingers were cold and slender, but her grip was strong. Was she sorry because she was leaving him? Was she sorry that she could never forgive him?

“What I did to you today was terrible,” she said, wide-eyed.

He shook his head.

“It’s no less than what I deserved.” Malcolm remembered her loathing expression at the cemetery. His remorse threatened to choke him. “It’s my fault you weren’t by his side that day. You missed his last words because I interfered. Maren, I’m...I’m...”

He gaped at her like an idiot.
Sorry
was a grossly insufficient word. In fact, there was no word in English, no word in Spanish. Nothing that could capture the despairing shame and regret he felt.

“I’m so...”

Maren raised a hand and pressed a finger to his lips to silence him. Her brown eyes were limpid with a sad wisdom.

“Malcolm...my father’s last words were not for me,” she said with a humble shrug. “They were for Laurel and my Aunt Jackie. Before I left that day, I think he told me everything he wanted me to know.”

Malcolm didn’t dare move. A frail filament of hope seemed to have descended into his private hell. He was sure that if he reached out for it, it would fail him. Impossibly, Maren moved her finger past his lips to his chin, which she tilted up until she was peering into his eyes.

“Do you want to know what he told me?” The light in her own eyes had changed. There was still the sadness, but beside it was a hint of wonder. He felt a lock deep inside him slide home.

“What did he say?” he managed.

“My father thought you were perfect for me, Malcolm,” she said, tearing up again. “He told me to forgive you, and then he told me that he loved me.”

Malcolm let go the breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and he sent a silent prayer of thanks up to Mark Gardner. Hesitantly, he reached for her, letting his fingers brush against her cheek, and he pushed past his fear.

“Maren,...
I
love you,” he said, letting loose the words he should have never held back. Then they tumbled out of him. Reckless. Countless. “I love you...I love you...”

Somewhere between the second and third vow, he slipped a hand behind her neck and pulled her in, speaking the words against her mouth until there was no room for them. He kissed her, madly, tasting her honeysuckle tongue, her salt tears. Despite his certainty that she would shove him away and leave him forever, she kissed back, leaning into him and gripping his shoulders until he felt bold enough to tug her from her chair and into his lap.

At this, she splayed her hands against his chest and pushed back.

“Malcolm! Wait—”

But he cut her off.

“I love you, and I’m so sorry,” he rushed. “If you never forgive me, I understand. I can live without your forgiveness, but I’d rather not live without you.”

“Malcolm,” she started again.

“I know I’m a prick sometimes. Maybe even most of the time—”

“Malcolm—”

“And I’ll probably always be superior and aloof and unsociable,...” he stammered, clutching her waist lest she try to slip away. “But I’ll never abuse your trust again. I promise. And I’ll honor your relationship with your family as sacrosanct. I’ll—”

Maren fisted the neck of his hospital gown, and gave it a little shake.

“Stop talking, Malcolm!” she ordered.

He stopped, arrested by the blazing look she gave him. And when she saw that she had his full attention, her eyes softened and took on their humble cast.

“I hold grudges,” she confessed. “It’s my worst flaw.”

Malcolm shook his head in denial.

“No, you are fiercely loyal,” he countered, squeezing her arm. “It’s one of the first things I loved about you—”

“And I
hate
feeling out of control,” she added, ignoring him. Then her voice gentled and her eyes let him all the way in. “But I don’t always realize when I can’t handle it all, and I suck at asking for help.”

Malcolm bit his tongue, ready to hear her out at last.

“Of course, I forgive you, silly.” She leaned in and nipped his bottom lip before straightening up and locking eyes with him. “And I love you completely.”

“Oh, thank God!” he managed, before crushing her to him, kissing her with abandon. She giggled into his mouth, and it felt like he was swallowing stars. Then he was conscious only of the miracle of her body—so soft and ripe—pressed against him, the dizzying relief that made him feel weightless and aloft, and his all-encompassing love for her.

Maren pulled him tighter and ran her fingers through his hair.

“I’ve missed you,” she sighed against his lips. “I’m so sorry. I was cruel.”

“Mmmm...” He kissed her cheek, her jaw, her neck. “I survived.”

“Only just,” she said, lighting her fingertips gently against the edge of his bandage. “I think you’re the one who needs a helmet.”

Just then, Malcolm’s nurse came in to find them tangled together, laughing. She tried to look stern when she spoke, but there was the hint of a smile on her ample face.

“I guess you’re going to be discharged after all,” she ventured.

Malcolm wasted no time confirming her supposition. The process was almost slower than he could tolerate, especially the caregiver instructions that the nurse painstakingly covered with Maren.

Malcolm’s beloved turned out to be disappointingly adherent to the rules, demonstrating this immediately upon the nurse’s exit when he made to attack her again.

“
Uh, uh, uh,”
she sang, pushing against him. “You’re to rest. Doctor’s orders.”

Malcolm knew that his pouting amused her, but he had to content himself with mere handholding until he was officially released. He tried to resist the obligatory wheelchair ride through the hospital doors, hating to look so helpless in front of Maren, but the orderly who escorted him would not yield.

“It’s alright, Malcolm. Once we’re out of the hospital, you won’t have to follow anyone’s rules but mine,” she teased.

Malcolm grabbed her hand as she walked beside his wheelchair and pressed it to his lips. Following her rules would be his every wish.

He felt more than a little out of sorts to be shepherded into her car like an invalid, but once they started the drive to his house, he could only savor the profound happiness at the turn his life had taken in the last hours. When Maren reached for his hand as she drove, he could not contain his smile.

When they arrived at the house, Maren was like a regular
bodyguard—or nursemaid—gripping his elbow as he walked from the car. He took advantage of her proximity to steal a kiss while he unlocked the door, pulling her inside with clear intentions.

“Settle down, boy,” she laughed, pressing lightly against his shoulders. “You need to take it easy tonight.”

“Impossible,” he said, reaching for her waist, but she scooted out of reach with surprising speed. “I just got you back. I have to touch you. Come here.”

She took his hands in hers and gave him a sympathetic smile that told him she would not yield.