Hidden in the Heart (5 page)

He held out his arms and Claire moved into them, her eyes stinging as she rested her head against his wool sweater and allowed the tension of the day to fade. He’d only been out of town a week, but Claire had missed him. His smile disappeared as she drew back. Deep
lines creased his forehead. “How was your visit to the police station?”

Claire went to the sofa, relishing the way it encased her weary body as she sank in to it. “Robert has to get his jollies somehow, I guess.” She massaged her temples with her thumbs.

Her mother’s silver service sat on a tray on the long mahogany table in front of them. Dad grunted as he poured coffee from the ornate pot. He handed her a cup, took one for himself and sat across from her. “Are you telling me you weren’t drinking?”

“I didn’t say that.”

They sipped in silence. Claire inhaled the strong aroma and welcomed the warmth of the hot liquid. Dad studied her over the rim of his china cup.

“I had your car returned. It’s in the garage. I’ll be holding your keys until further notice.”

“You’ll be what?” Claire widened her eyes. Her hand began to shake, coffee spilling over onto the saucer. A drop fell onto her jeans. She put down the cup and saucer and watched the stain spread.

“If I could still ground you, I would,” he went on. “But for now, since you insist on living here and not with your husband, I’m asking you to not to drive. I can’t forbid you to drink, Claire, much as I wish you wouldn’t. But I refuse to have you putting your own life or anybody else’s in danger.”

Claire chewed on a fingernail and tried to come up with a mature response. “That’s so not fair. This is like a house arrest. You can’t do this to me, Daddy.”

“Claire.” He put his cup on the side table and crossed one brown corduroy-clad leg over the other. His hands rested in his lap as he pinned her with the expression he wore when was on the brink of giving a lecture. “If you’re determined to act like a child, we’re going to have to treat you like one. You don’t have to stay here, but if you do, those are my rules.”

“You don’t understand…”

“Oh, I understand plenty.” He leaned forward, his eyes glinting. A mask of sorrow cloaked him. He’d been wearing it since the day her mother died. “You think you’re the only one who knows about grief, Claire? I’ve lived through watching the woman I love being overtaken by a disease with no cure. All I could do was stand by and watch her die. I know it was hard on you as well, and then miscarrying again...I can’t begin to express how deeply I ache for you, for James, for all of us. So don’t tell me I don’t understand.” He cleared his throat and she heard his shaky sigh. “And I’m sorry I haven’t been around.”

Claire swallowed back a word she knew he wouldn’t appreciate and shook her head, unable to look at him. “It’s a little late for apologies.” She wiped away angry tears. Fine and dandy to make her stay home like a prisoner. He’d probably be on the next plane out of here tomorrow. Dad’s way of dealing with problems was to simply pretend they didn’t exist.

He paced the thick crème carpet, his shoes leaving imprints as he walked.

Silence and sorrow separated them.

Claire glanced around the room. It had been her mother’s favorite and somehow offered a measure of comfort. Fine silk curtains of the palest peach hung from thick wooden rods above the long windows. Antique china graced almost every available space on the coffee tables and shelves—English porcelain from the 1700’s and pieces from the Ming Dynasty. Eggshell white walls displayed family portraits cleverly blended in between paintings by the Masters; a Van Gogh, her mother’s prized possession, a Titian, and other artists Claire could never remember the names of.

She sniffed and managed to find her voice. “I just wish…there were answers. I’ve been thinking maybe if I could find out where I came from…” She watched a shadow creep across his face and looked down at her feet.

Talking about her adoption with her father would only serve to increase the ever-
widening chasm between them.

“It won’t help you get better, Claire.”

“How
do
I get better, Dad?” Claire raised her head again. He’d always been able to solve any problem she presented him with. Bail her out of any sticky situation.

But the defeat in his eyes told her he didn’t have the answer for this one.

“You know what you need to do. Go back to counseling. Go to A.A.” He stood at the fireplace and put his back to her, staring up at the family portrait that hung over the mantle.

Claire looked upward with some reluctance. Over the years she’d studied that portrait for hours. She picked out the obvious differences in their appearances by habit. Dad’s blue eyes and dark hair, almost jet-black in those days, a handsome match for Mom’s long elegant nose and aristocratic smile, eyes that wavered between blue and gray depending on her mood. Rich auburn hair waved around a face any model would pay for. And there
she
sat, wedged between her parents, looking nothing like either of them.

Her eyes always caught her attention. Hair color and facial features could be explained away, but those eyes…they gave away the truth to anyone that looked closely.

And as always, Claire was left to wonder whose eyes those were staring back at her.

Chapter Four

“Pass the stuffing.” Robert glared at her across the crowded table. Claire lowered her eyes and pushed the food around on her plate. She was definitely insane. Her very presence here in the Ferguson household on Christmas Day confirmed it.

James begged her to spend the day with him and the family. He and her father joined forces for once and cajoled her into coming. His parents did seem pleased to see her. But now, jammed in between James’ younger sister Brianna and her twin Brian, everyone walking on eggshells and Dad looking at her like she would fall apart any second, the room was closing in.

“Excuse me, Claire? Did you not hear me or are you just ignoring me?”

Claire winced at Robert’s obnoxious tone. She couldn’t recall the last time they’d actually had a pleasant conversation, but it was the holidays after all. She’d vowed to at least make an effort.

She counted to ten and tapped her fork against her mother-in-law’s best Christmas china. Margaret had brought it over with her from Ireland. Shamrocks intertwined with holly. Green and red. Red and green.

Claire was beginning to loathe those colors.

“She’s ignoring me.”

Claire studied the red lampshades on the light fixture above the table. Apparently
Robert’s Christmas spirit had fled the moment she’d entered the house.

“Robert…” James’ voice held a clear warning.

“What? No, I’m serious, Jamie. Look at her. She comes here half-tanked and you’re defending her? Give me a break.”

Break your face. Claire raised an eyebrow, took a moment to make sure she wasn’t about to throw up, then got to her feet. She reached for the big bowl of stuffing and marched over to where he sat. Surprise crept into Robert’s eyes, but a smirk twitched his moustache.

“It was the stuffing you wanted, right?” With a shaking hand she doled out several heaping spoonfuls onto his plate. “There. Is that good?” She banged down the china dish and grabbed the gravy boat. “Looks like you need some gravy with that.” Claire watched the brown sauce trickle over the white china rim, slowly at first and then it gathered speed.

A rushing river of gravy.

Cool.

It splashed onto his plate, swirled into a muddy lake, and spilled onto the green linen tablecloth. And then it spilled over onto Robert’s lap.

“Claire!” Robert jumped out of his seat, a dark stain seeping into his gray flannel pants. “Are you out of your freakin’ mind?”

The loud conversation around the table stopped and the room fell into deafening silence.

James appeared beside her before she knew he’d moved. “Claire, what are you doing? What’s wrong with you?” He pried the gravy boat from her grip.

Claire wrenched her hand from his and realized everyone was looking at her. She trained her gaze on him and stared. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I said, what’s wrong with you?” he hissed, his Adam’s apple jumping.

“What’s
wrong
with me?” She blinked and willed the buzzing sound from her ears.
Drinking a bottle of wine before coming here seemed like a good idea at the time.

James’ mother was about to cry. His dad looked ready to slug someone, probably her. She didn’t dare look at her own father.

“Claire, why don’t we go into the kitchen, maybe you need some air.” James’ sister Melanie stood, wearing a frantic expression. Claire raised a hand.

An infant’s cry pierced the air and shattered what was left of her sanity.

“Sorry.” Robert’s wife shot her past her and ran down the hall.

“Sweetheart, would you like to have a wee rest?” James’ mother offered. “I could make you a cup of tea.” The tremor in her soft voice brought back rational thought and Claire shook her head.

“No, thank you, Margaret. I don’t want to lie down and I don’t want any tea.” Claire took a few steps back, tears blurring her vision. “I just want…”

What?

What she wanted couldn’t be voiced.

Not here.

Not now.

Maybe not ever.

Claire spun and raced from the room, through the kitchen and out onto the back porch. She slid through the slush and almost lost her balance, but made it to the far end and down the three steps into the garden.

The frozen river at the end of the property mirrored the condition of her heart.

A light snow fell, sticking to her hair and eyelashes. Gray clouds moved across the sky with stealth, and loomed over the rooftops of the surrounding homes. Thin wisps of smoke curled from the chimneys.

Claire ignored the cold and took deep breaths, welcoming the frigid air into her
lungs. Noise rushed in her ears and she waited for the bright spots in her eyes to fade.

With any luck she might just freeze to death.

The screen door squeaked open and banged shut. Her coat fell around her shoulders.

Claire gave an involuntary shiver and slipped her arms through the sleeves.

James stood beside her, silent as the winter scene around them.

He cleared his throat but didn’t say a word. She didn’t know whether to be grateful or terrified.

Eventually she swiveled to face him. Her heart began to pound at the anger in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He stared back at her, his expression hard. “You’ve said that so many times I’m sick of hearing it.”

Claire wrapped her coat around her and shuddered. “What do you want from me?”

His eyes widened and he took a step back. “Where do you want me to start?”

“Forget it.” She moved off, trudging through the snow. Her feet were already numb, the wet stuff sliding through her loafers.

“No, Claire, stop.” James caught up with her and grabbed her arm. His blazing eyes gave off the only source of heat in the frigid afternoon. “I’ve been patient. I let you move out, even though I didn’t agree with it. I gave you space. But enough is enough. I want you to get some help. You need counseling. You need A.A. You need to get your life back.”

Claire threw his glare back at him. “I need, I need, I need! Don’t tell me what I need! What about you, Jamie? Am I the only one who’s screwing up around here? The fact that we’re barely speaking to each other is all my fault? Oh, wait, yeah, it is.” She hardly recognized the shrill laughter that shot out of her, like a subway train whooshing by so fast it takes your breath away.

“Don’t.” James ran a hand over his ashen face.

“Don’t what?” She squinted as the sun appeared through the clouds and tried to warm her. “Do you have any idea what it feels like to be in there, looking at those little kids, seeing Robert and Karen’s baby, hearing about Melanie’s visit to the obstetrician…everybody looking at me, wondering why I can’t pull it together, why we’re having problems, why I can’t just be normal…do you?” She kicked at the snow, fury boiling and threatening to bubble over.

“Yes, actually I do. I was in there too, Claire. I have to deal with those questions all the time. And I don’t have answers.”

“Well, neither do I!” She pushed hair out of her eyes and refused to look his way.

“Listen to yourself!” he hissed. “You’re so caught up in your own grief that you don’t even see me anymore. If you do, you sure don’t care.”

She raised her eyes to his and saw defeat in them. Her muscles tightened as she clenched her jaw. “It’s hard to care about someone who doesn’t try to understand how I feel.”

“Give me a break.” James turned toward the house.

“Then tell me it’s not true,” she cried. “Turn around and tell me that you know what I’m going through. That you understand. Tell me!”

Claire drew in a shaky breath and waited. Her lips tingled with cold but hot tears sliced her cheeks. Slowly he swiveled to face her and pierced her with a look that overrode whatever lie he was about to produce.

“I can’t. I don’t.” His voice was low, barely audible. “You want the truth, Claire? There it is. I don’t understand you. I don’t understand the depression. I don’t understand the drinking. And I sure as heck don’t understand why you’ve decided you’re better off without me. Yes, your mother died, yes, we’ve suffered our share of losses. But life goes on. We can try again. We can…”

“See, that’s just it.” She shuddered and shook her head. “How many times do I have
to say it? I. Don’t. Want. To. I can’t.”

She moved her foot back and forth, shifting snow until she’d created a crater. She stared at the path beneath her, unable to push any further. A stray blade of grass poked up between the concrete tiles, a strange and unexpected sight, a promise of the spring to come and new beginnings.

But not for them.

“I talked to Pastor Black, again last night, after Christmas Eve service.” James thrust his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. “He wondered if you might reconsider coming in for counseling. The two of us together, I mean.”

Claire rubbed her nose and watched her breath curl like smoke around her. “Has Pastor Black ever lost a child?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”