Isabella Moon (39 page)

And yet.

She gently pushed Paxton’s arm away. As she stood up from the bed, she felt semen run down the inside of her leg in a warm stream. She dabbed at it with the sheet, then slipped into her robe.

Out in the kitchen the sounds continued—a chair scraping its way across the floor, utensils being dropped in the sink. Strangely, she was unafraid as she crept silently down the hall on the thick carpet that Lillian had installed only a few months before.

“Mama?” Francie whispered as she approached the kitchen doorway.

The light was on in the kitchen. She’d expected it to be a mess, but nothing was out of place except the few dishes Paxton had used to make their supper and the plates and utensils on the table. But the room didn’t smell of encrusted tomato sauce and cheese. It smelled thickly of honey. The smell was so strong and suffocating that Francie put a hand to her mouth.

“Mama?” she said.

There was a movement at the window in the back door. When she hurried to open it, she found that it was ajar the slightest bit. The fresh night air hit her with all its cold force, but even outside she could still smell the honey.

The night beyond the doorway seemed deep and unyielding; it might have been eleven o’clock or two in the morning. The neighbors’ houses were dark.

Francie stepped out onto the patio, tripping the automatic security light.

“Are you out here, Mama?” she said.

There was an answering sound, the clatter of metal and wood, and she looked toward the garage.

Francie’s breath caught in her throat when she saw her mother standing near the garage. She was struggling with an armful of gardening tools as though she were getting ready to put them away after her late-day gardening. Lillian’s back was to her, but Francie knew it couldn’t be anyone else.

Before she could call out to her, something stirred near the garbage cans at the edge of the patio.

“Pudding!” her mother said, turning around. “Scat!”

Francie wanted to weep at the sight of her mother’s face. It didn’t matter that the light was poor. Her mother looked much as she had the last time they were together. Her features seemed softer, but, as always, there was kindness in her face.

Francie put out her hand, wanting to touch her mother even though they were so far apart. It was then that she saw the little girl rise up from behind the garbage can, where she seemed to have been hiding from Lillian.

Lillian started toward the girl, a look of intense concern on her face.

“Child,” Francie heard her say. Her mother held her hand out to her, but the girl turned away from Lillian and looked at Francie. She was a drawn and pale thing, clad in a yellow coat. Francie held the gaze of her dark, sad eyes for a moment.

“Mama!” she called out, aching for the touch of her mother’s hand.

But Lillian was turning the other way, toward the yard, distracted by something Francie hadn’t yet seen or heard.

Then Francie did see. Paxton, his golden blond hair shimmering in the dim light, rushed up behind Lillian. Raising his arms in the air, he swung some kind of tool at her. He swung it, hard, against her head. He hit her two, three times as Francie watched, a scream frozen in her throat.

Lillian fell to the ground. Finally, Francie found her voice and screamed, the sound of it rising into the sky so that she thought she could never stop, so filled she was with terror and longing and fear.

The scream seemed to twist and wind, and she closed her eyes to block out what she knew she would see next, and she couldn’t stop the scream. It reached and grew until she heard another sound, a voice, calling her name. Someone was shaking her violently and she opened her eyes to see Paxton, begging her to stop screaming.

Francie threw herself backward, away from him, and the sleeve of her robe rent in two, the larger part of it remaining in Paxton’s clenched fist. He moved off the edge of the bed and stood facing her.

“Get away from me!” Francie screamed. “I saw you! I saw you!”

“Calm down,” Paxton said, trying to get his own breath. “Don’t do this,” he begged.

“How could you do that? You hit her with that—that thing! How could you do that? How could you kill her?”

“I tried to tell her, Francie,” Paxton said. “She wouldn’t listen to me. She hated me, Francie. She always hated me. You don’t understand.”

“Oh my God,” Francie said. “You have to get away from me. You have to get away from me. Oh my God.” Francie grabbed Paxton’s abandoned pillow and held it to her stomach. She felt as though she would retch.

“Please, Francie, please,” Paxton said. His voice now was full of tears. “Don’t send me away. We’re together now. It’s a whole new start. We can go anywhere you want, do whatever you want to do. Please, please.”

At that moment the only thing keeping Francie from leaping across the bed and strangling Paxton with her hands was the grip she had on the pillow. Even now it smelled of Paxton, of the shampoo he used.

“Baby, please. We’ll go to Paris. Tomorrow,” he said. He was pulling on his pants as he spoke. “You told me you love Paris. Anywhere. We’ll get away from these memories. All this bad shit.”

At that moment she knew that Paxton was insane. Did she pity him?
Yes, dear God forgive her, she did pity him!
But she wouldn’t be moved.

“You have to leave, Paxton,” she said, gaining some control of her voice. “You have to leave, now, and don’t come back here. Do you understand? You cannot come back to me.”

“You can’t,” Paxton said. “We have to be together. I know
you
understand, Francie. Please tell me you understand.”

Every nerve in Francie’s body demanded that she do her best to kill this man who stood, half naked and crying in front of her. But was he even a man? He’d always been a boy. He always would be. What had she done to herself, loving him? She already knew what she’d lost.

“Now, Paxton,” she said, calmly. “You have to give me time. You have to give me this. You have to get away from me now.”

He saw that it was something. His face brightened some and he wiped away the snot and tears with the sleeve of the shirt he’d put on.

“All the time you need,” he said. “You don’t think you’ll forgive me, but you will, Francie. I swear you’ll forgive me. And you’ll even see…Well, we won’t think about that right now. We have to concentrate on being together.”

Francie didn’t trust herself to say anything more. But she watched Paxton as he gathered up his shoes and belt and wallet and keys. When he passed near where she sat on the bed, she saw how he almost leaned close to kiss her but stopped himself. He gave her a small nervous smile.

“All the time you need,” he said. “It’ll come out all right. You’ll see, Francie.”

A minute later she heard the Mercedes start up in the driveway. The light from the car’s headlights swept the wall above her as she sat there waiting, wondering what in the hell she would do, now that she was truly, horribly alone.

42

THE PICTURESQUE INN
where Miles had a room hadn’t been his first choice. There was a decent chain motel out near the highway, but it was closed for remodeling. He didn’t like the eccentricities of the inn, its hundred-year-old floors that ran downhill in odd places, the peeling horsehair plaster, the attitude of the staff that half measures were excusable because the inn was “historic.” Its single amusing attraction was an oak-paneled pub room in which hung antique maps and large game heads, each wearing a look of surprise that seemed to indicate that it had no idea why it was indoors, stuck on a wall. Below the heads were homely wood-burned plaques bearing their names: Bocephus, Tom T. Bull, Mr. Sparky, Miss Trotters, Deer John.

His dinner in the restaurant had been unexceptional, a cassoulet of sorts that the waitress said contained buffalo meat and local farmers’ beans and vegetables. Given that it was early spring and he wasn’t completely stupid, he knew she was lying about the vegetables. But the bread had been good, a rye sourdough that seemed an appropriate accompaniment to the cassoulet. He washed the meal down with a cabernet that he suspected had been gathering dust for a long time, given the quality of the few diners that surrounded him.

Bored after dinner, he’d gone to the pub for a nightcap, though it was only about ten. He wanted to get a good night’s sleep so he’d be fresh for his Mary-Katie.

From where he sat drinking his cognac, he had a particularly good view of the pub’s single corner booth. The woman seated there commanded—no, demanded—attention. She was definitely feeling no pain, but she was keeping it together. Her black hair looked like it had been hurriedly pulled back into a loose chignon, but the rest of her was crisp in a bright fuchsia blouse and slim black pantsuit. As she lifted her glass, Miles could see how beautifully manicured her nails were. Her substantial white gold jewelry and heavy diamond rings put off their own intense light. When she turned slightly to glance about the room (Was she looking for someone? Waiting for someone? In a town like this, a woman like her could hardly expect to remain alone for long), he saw that she had high cheekbones, but they were full and doll-like. As a baby, she would have been one of those round-faced darlings that people couldn’t keep their hands off. Her lips were made up to look pouty, as was the fashion, but he could tell that she wasn’t the sort to take any crap from anyone. But the most charming thing about her was that her stockinged feet had slipped out of her shoes, one tucked up beneath her on the banquette. He hadn’t expected to run across a woman like this.

Miles told himself that he was here for his Mary-Katie, no one else. Another woman would be a distraction, and he needed to stay focused. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t look. Appreciate.

The waitress leaned against the bar, talking community college drivel with the older bartender, whose amused expression barely hid the fact that he would happily screw her with or without her consent if she let her shirt fall open any farther. After a few minutes she disappeared into the nearby restaurant.

“Crystal.” The woman in the booth leaned forward a little to see where the waitress was.

“I think she stepped out for a smoke,” Miles said. The innocuous jazz coming from the ceiling speakers was low enough that he didn’t have to raise his voice much.

The woman nodded, obviously satisfied. She seemed the sort of woman who was used to getting her questions answered quickly and directly.

“This place gets quiet pretty quick,” Miles said. “Folks must wake up early around here.”

“We’re not all farmers,” the woman said.

“Thank God for that,” Miles said.

“You’re not one of the timber people,” she said. “What? Are you here selling pharmaceuticals or something?” Her words were crisp; she was forming them carefully.

“You might call me a banker,” Miles said. “But it’s mostly pleasure.”

The woman shook her head as though he were speaking nonsense. “I hope you brought your own,” she said. “This place ran out of pleasure a long time ago.”

“Too bad,” Miles said.

Without another word, she slipped her shoes back on her feet and gathered her purse. She left two tens on the table.

“Good night,” she said as she walked past his table. He saw her glance catch on the red head of the cane, and there was a flicker of consideration in her eyes.

“To pleasure,” Miles said, raising his cognac glass to her.

When she was gone, the waitress reappeared and headed for the abandoned booth, slipping one of the tens into the pocket of her black apron.

“May I have my check?” Miles asked.

The waitress fumbled in her apron pocket for a moment, then pulled it out. She dropped it on the table.

Miles handed her a twenty without looking at the bill. This was strictly an all-cash trip. The woman at the front desk hadn’t wanted to let him take the room without a credit card, but an extra hundred had changed her mind.

“Keep the change,” he told the waitress.

There was no thank-you from her, just a perfunctory “Good night.”

Out in the large, empty foyer that served as a lobby, Miles found the woman from the bar standing in front of the brochure rack. A bright orange folder that had
HIDDEN CAVES
emblazoned across its front dangled from her fingertips. Her eyes were reddened from whatever she’d been drinking and her lipstick was slightly smudged, but she looked damned good to him. The pantsuit was cut so it didn’t hide any of her curves—in fact, its severity seemed to accentuate them.

She glanced again at his walking stick before she spoke.

“I live one street over,” she said. “Second house on the right. If you want a nightcap.”

Miles had no compunction about taking advantage of a drunk woman and he suspected that she would be an enthusiastic lay. But she wasn’t what he wanted. He needed to stay focused on why he was in this stupid town, and getting involved with a woman like this one would only complicate things. In a town this small, she could even be a friend of his Mary-Katie’s. (Though he doubted it. He suspected that this woman had very few female friends.)

Part of him hated to say it, and he tried to say it gently, so she wouldn’t be offended. “Maybe some other time. Thanks.”