Retribution
Retribution
Regina Smeltzer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Retribution
COPYRIGHT 2015 by Regina Smeltzer
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Pelican Ventures, LLC except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version
(R),
NIV
(R),
Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.⢠Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com
Cover Art by
Nicola Martinez
Harbourlight Books, a division of Pelican Ventures, LLC
www.pelicanbookgroup.com
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Harbourlight Books sail and mast logo is a trademark of Pelican Ventures, LLC
Publishing History
First Harbourlight Edition, 2016
Paperback Edition ISBN 978-1-61116-517-3
Electronic Edition ISBN 978-1-61116-516-6
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To my husband, Paul. The best parts of me are because of you.
1
“You got any matches on you?” The boy, not more than sixteen, snickered over his words. He had a crowd of followers: boys dressed in jeans with waists cinched around their thighs and girls wearing shirts that looked as if they had shrunk in the dryer. The teens rallied around the outspoken leader like groupies to a rock-star.
Lillian did her best to ignore the barb even though the pain of his words took her breath away. She had been taking a chance going to town alone, but she only needed to make a couple of stops. Her mother's worried face flashed in front of her. Only one hour out of the house on her own. She used to be a trial attorney, free to do her own thing. But that freedom had disappeared two years ago, along with the rest of her life.
Across the street, Cynthia, who had served as her maid of honor five years ago, walked arm-in-arm with her new husband. Feeling a sudden rush of bravery, Lillian crossed the street. “Cynthia, it's nice to see you. I heard you got married⦔
The woman clutched her leather purse to her chest as her face paled beneath layers of well-applied makeup. “Lillian, it's been a long time.” The sleeve of the man's black cashmere coat bunched beneath her grip. “Sorry we can't stop and chat, but we're already late⦔ Cynthia glanced around, apparently trying to decide where she was supposed to be. The couple walked on; their pace doubled. As she reached the corner, Cynthia turned her apprehensive face toward Lillian.
Wishing she had not tried to resurrect a friendship, to break the ice on a pond that should never have frozen, she stiffened her back and entered the pharmacy. Vitamins for her eyes. That's what the optometrist had recommended.
A middle-aged woman rounded the stack of first aid supplies. “Can I helpâ” She stopped and stared, her eyes narrowing. “What do you want?”
Not rude exactly, but far from jovial. Hadn't she represented this woman's family member once? A cousin or something? The vitamins were quickly rung up, bagged, and thrust toward her. No “good bye.” No “what else can I do for you?” Just steel-cold eyes that chilled her blood.
Anger built as she headed back to her car. After the fire, no one had listened to her side of the story, preferring instead to fabricate their own. Clenching her jaw until it ached she pointed the car toward her parents' homeâher home for the past two years.
The ad for a job in South Carolina had come as a surprise. Even more surprising was her acceptance if she wanted it. She tromped on the gas, decision made. She would escape Cleveland and create a new life for herself.
~*~
Heavy velvet curtains covered the den windows and hid Cleveland's October chill. The air, scrubbed clean twice every hour, thanks to the ventilation system that guaranteed removal of ninety-nine percent of the disease-causing viruses, smelled like fake pine. Thick beige carpet muffled Lillian's footsteps as she entered the room.
Engrossed in their routine after-dinner activities, both her mother and father were oblivious to her presence. The tranquil family scene tugged at her heart, but she was about to destroy it as she wrapped icy hands around her arms. “I have accepted the position at Francis Marion University. I leave tomorrow.”
The silence pounded against her ears even as the tension in the room blistered her face. She swallowed against the thickness in her throat. What could she say that would sway her parents from the verdict they had already chosen?
Ralph Goodson neatly folded the newspaper, pursing his lips to form a hard line across his face. A line-backer in college, Ralph Goodson had maintained his athletic physique through long hours of personal training. Graying only around the temples, he still turned the ladies' eyes.
Even though they had been over this before, she knew he would bring it up again, perhaps hoping she would change the story about how a faculty position became available in the middle of a semester, and why she needed to leave home.
Attorney Goodson stared at Lillian with his intimidating trial-glare for several seconds before rising from the leather recliner. Perhaps out of habit, perhaps buying time to compose his deposition, he hesitated long enough to pick a speck of invisible lint from his jacket before walking to the fire place.
As she waited, her heart pounded against her ribs more violently than at any trial she had led. Hours spent researching her adversary had allowed her to arrive in court, prepared to battle wits with the opponent, and she had been successful.
But this man used to bounce her on his knee, share pretend tea parties, and even play dress-up on occasion. Together they had buried Goldie the goldfish. As his reputation as a top-rate trial attorney grew, Ralph Goodson's time at home had diminished. Now she hardly knew the man who leaned against the white brick with one arm draped across the polished walnut mantle.
“We knew you were considering the job,” her father said, running a long finger across the wood. His stare threatened to burn a hole through her retina. “Considering is fine. Consider all you want, but accepting is another matter altogether. You should have consulted me.”
Anger shot from her heart. “This is one of the reasons I need to leave! You control everything I do.”
“Sweetheartâ”
“No, don't start, Mom. You know I'm right. I can't leave the house without your approval. When I'm on the phone you hover just around the corner. You tell me when to go to bed and when to take a shower, as though I no longer have a mind of my own.” She sounded more like an adolescent than a grown woman, and she hated the reversion.
Her father thrummed his fingers against the wood. “Have you discussed this with Dr. Widder?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Lillian matched her father's gaze; she had learned from the best. “He thinks it's too soon to go off on my own.”
“You should listen to him. He
is
your psychiatrist.”
Lillian's back stiffened as she tried to control the emotion that welled up. In the past two years, her feelings had coiled together in her gut like a nest of snakes, impossible to separate anger from fear or hate.
“Why won't you listen to the advice of your doctor?” Her father's dark eyes narrowed. “All of a sudden you think you know everything?”
“I've asked advice from the wisest of all. I've been talking to God about this move ever since the announcement came in the mail.” She sighed, knowing her parents held little regard for the power of prayer.
Mr. Goodson rolled his eyes. “You know what I think about that. Why even bring it up? I regret the day you ever met that manâ”
“That man has a name. It's Craig, and he was my husband.” She spit the words toward him. “And yes, he shared Jesus. It was the best thing that ever happened to me.” She took a deep breath and allowed the pressure to escape through her nose. “If you only understood the peace that God can bringâ”
“Peace! I didn't see peace on your face a couple of years ago when we had to practically carry you home. Where was Jesus then? And for that matter, where has he been for the past two years?”
Mrs. Goodson shifted in her chair. Her artfully applied cheek color now appeared clown-like against her pallor. “What do you hope to do in South Carolina that you can't do here?” She placed her cup in its saucer. The cheerful ting of china against china sounded incongruent next to the pounding tension. “I just don't understand why you need to move so far away.”
“I can't live the rest of my life inside this house.” Lillian looked at her mother.
Designer clothes and sculpted hair battled against Lillian's soft curls and sweat shirt. Two years ago, her parents' home had felt like a womb, protecting and safe. Now the walls loomed over her like a prison, both of her parents acting as wardens.
The furnace turned on and its low rumble broke the hard silence. The curtains puffed away from the window as air blew from the vent. The artificial scent caused her stomach to churn.
“If you insist on going,” her father said, “I'll go with you. Help you get settled.”
“I should go, I'm her mother.”
She sighed. “Neither of you are going. I am capable of doing this myself. I'm not a baby anymore. I'm adult, an attorney.”
“You
were
an attorney,” her mother mumbled, “and we still don't know who set the fire thatâ”
Lillian's mouth tightened. “According to most of Cleveland, I set that fire.” It always came back to the fire.
Her mother studied her hands. “No one believes that, dear.”
Unfortunately, many did. Lillian had no alibi for the time in question.
She squeezed her eyes against the scenes that rolled across her memory. Her heart thundered against her ribs, trying valiantly to seek escape from its confinement. She pushed both fists into her chest, wishing she could force her fingers through tissue and muscle and create an escape for her dead heart.
The movie was playing; she had to narrate for her parents or be alone in the horror. “It was Sunday afternoon,” her voice shook. “Craig begged me to stay home, but I wanted to go to the office and clear away the papers from the trial. I promised to be back in time to put Susan to bed.” Tears streamed down her face. “She was only two. Two years old. She needed her mommy to be home, and I left her.” The pounding heart became quivering gelatin. It swelled and filled her throat, choking her words. “The next time I saw her⦔
“Lillian, stop!”
She turned to her father. “If you think you can fix this, you can't. My husband is dead, and my daughter is dead, and it's my fault.”
“Lillianâ”
Wild with grief, she faced her father. “You know it's true. The two of you have done everything in your power to keep your feelings from becoming public. It isn't good for your social status or your profession to have a daughter who was suspectedâ”
“Lillian, stop this nonsense!”
“Too many conversations have ended when I came into the room. You always ask me about my mood.” She turned to her mother. “If no one believes I set the fire, then why did you stop going to the bridge club on Thursdays?”
Martha Goodson looked toward the curtains that now lay flat against the windows, centurions against the dark. “You know I don't like to leave you alone.”
“You quit because you didn't like defending me every week against your so-called friends.”