The Summer Bones (22 page)

“They aren't so young anymore,” Michael pointed out, as if they were naive for worrying about such a normal event in the average life of someone past eighty. “My grandmother seems to nap all the time.” He plucked at his damp shirt and grimaced. “Would you mind if I showered first? I'm afraid I'm offending even myself.”

Damon moved forward, setting his glass on the counter. “Not at all. Help yourself. And thanks again for the help.”

With a wave, Michael left the kitchen. Victoria watched him go, unsmiling. Damon found it necessary to say, “Sorry.”

“About what?” Blue-green eyes moved back his way.

“We were out a long time. In this killer heat …”

She shook her head, “It's fine. Michael was glad to help. It gave him something to do. I'm afraid I haven't been very entertaining so far.” She tilted her chin and her hair brushed her bare shoulders. “Last night we watched television with Grandma.”

“High excitement.” Damon spoke lightly.

Her smile was weary. “Yes. Exactly. Michael is used to Chicago—meetings, traffic, phones ringing, lights everywhere. He says he chose to come to be with me and doesn't mind the quiet, but I'm sure he's at least a little bored. This isn't exactly a fun time, is it?”

“Being with you is probably enough, Tori.”

“Maybe.” She looked doubtful, then scanned the table and sighed. “I was fooling myself. I can't work.”

Damon looked at the clock. He saw the chance to redeem himself, to feel better about the afternoon. No matter what his cousin said, he knew he'd pushed a little harder than necessary, worked longer, to prove some absurd point that meant nothing in the long run.

“Why don't you and Michael join Andrea and me tonight?” he suggested easily. “We're not doing anything special, just dinner and a movie, but it'll be a … distraction.”

“A distraction?” she murmured.

“Might do you good.”

“With you and Andrea?” A tiny frown creased her forehead.

“Just a thought.”

* * * *

Victoria wasn't really eating. She poked at her salad, frowning at a lettuce leaf before she put it into her mouth. Across from her, Michael covertly observed her dallying and decided to offer everyone more wine. His eyes followed her every movement, every change in expression, and even as he refilled Andrea's glass he was watching Victoria. He raised his eyebrows at her, bottle still posed in midair.

“Why not?” Victoria said, her voice husky like a sulky child.

Damon glanced up from his plate. It wasn't hard for Michael to decipher what Paulsen was thinking. She'd had three glasses already and she wasn't normally much of a drinker. Damon lowered his gaze back to his plate, fingers going idly to his half-drunk glass. He shook his head, declining a refill when Michael tilted the bottle his way.

“Why not is right,” Andrea Martin said brightly, holding up her glass so that the contents were struck ruby by the inadequate overhead lighting. “They're saying on the news that wine is good for you. How fun.” She smiled and took a small sip from her glass. Pretty in a pink dress with a neckline cut to show her figure to advantage, her fair hair pulled up in a demure chignon, she was managing to carry a good deal of the conversation. The evening wasn't faltering as much as it could have been.

The waitress came by, frowning faintly at Victoria's full salad plate, then reluctantly whisked it away into the shrouded depths of the kitchen. The place was a renovation of an old Victorian-style home-turned-restaurant with small rooms, lovely old oak tables, fireplaces, and displays of antique dishes. Paulsen had chosen well. As far as Michael could tell, the food and service were as excellent as the surroundings. The wine list, in an Indiana backwater, had been surprising as well. He savored the fragrance of a superior 1989 Merlot that he'd drunk before, and then touched the glass to his lips.

It had been an interesting day, if you could call wrestling with bundles of fencing wire in three-digit temperatures interesting. The evening wasn't proving less so. Victoria, pale and slender in a blue dress with tiny white stripes, had been listless and distracted. She'd answered most direct questions or comments with one-syllable words, and kept her expression shuttered. It was hard to know what she was thinking, but Michael did know this much: she hadn't been enthusiastic about going out in the first place. On the other hand, he hadn't wanted to face another evening of banal television while her grandmother snored gently in the background. If they couldn't sleep together, at least they could enjoy a little wine and some adult conversation. So he had insisted. Not that it had helped. She wasn't talking.

Everyone but Damon drank more wine. The waitress arrived with a giant tray, propping it on a stand nearby. Andrea was telling a story about a school field trip as their steaks were delivered, sizzling and smelling delicious, oozing pink juices. Victoria looked at hers as if she didn't know what it was.

They began to eat, or at least, three of them did. Victoria cut off a tiny piece and pushed it around her plate. Her long lashes left shadows on her cheeks.

“It's quiet here tonight,” Andrea remarked, lifting her napkin. “It's usually quite difficult to get a reservation.” She was obviously making a statement of approval on Damon's behalf, for she smiled at him.

He looked up and smiled back, though his dark eyes were somber. “My parents like to come here. Mayville doesn't exactly offer the options of, say … Chicago, but this isn't a bad place to eat.” His gaze moved toward his cousin. “How's your steak, Tori?”

It was a quiet question, asked in a low voice. A pointless question, since she had barely tasted her dinner.

“Fine,” she lied, not bothering to look at her cousin. She turned. “Could I have more wine, Michael? This is really wonderful, isn't it?” Her voice was just a trifle unsteady.

Michael obliged. The waitress saw his small gesture and came over. He ordered another bottle. He wasn't being deliberately subversive, he told himself, he just wanted to understand the undercurrents. Even Andrea didn't seem immune to the subtle tension at the table. It wasn't just the missing presence of Emily Sims; he had become convinced of that two hours ago over predinner drinks at Andrea's tiny house. It was more. How much more was the question he was grimly asking himself.

“You'll have another glass, won't you, Damon?” he asked pleasantly.

“I've got an early morning.” The response was even, deadpan. Paulsen wasn't eating much of his dinner either, not like the hungry field hand he should be.

“Ah.” Michael lifted his brows. “Every day is an early morning, I imagine. I don't suppose I ever thought about it, but farming is more than a full-time endeavor. It must be. Do you ever vacation? Take time off and just go away?”

Victoria answered, “No, he doesn't.” Her smile was bright and brittle. “He knows that Grandfather can't handle it alone anymore.”

“Farming has some advantages and disadvantages, just like any other job,” Damon interjected on his own behalf, the statement careful. His long fingers moved to the stem of his glass. He lifted it, spun it slowly, set it down. His mouth was a shade tight.

“Did you know,” Victoria settled her glass, “that farming is a very dangerous occupation? Just as much as being a police officer or firefighter. Farmers are killed often in accidents doing their job. And they lose limbs pretty often.”

Andrea looked appalled. “Really?”

“Paulsens have always managed pretty well,” Damon replied steadily. He smiled at her. “So don't worry.” He held up a hand. “See, all my fingers.”

“Speaking of Paulsens,” Michael said then, grabbing the opening he'd been waiting for. “You two have an interesting relationship.” He waved his glass in friendly fashion, feeling expansive.
Enough with the polite small talk.

Damon leaned back in his chair and set aside his fork. “Tori and me, you mean?” His voice was pleasantly inquiring—nothing more. As a witness being cross-examined, he would be first class.

Michael had had a few glasses of wine himself, a fact he considered with due weight. He felt a bit flushed but still in control, still sharp. He let the urge to speak goad him on. “Yes, indeed. You and Victoria.”

The waitress arrived with another bottle. He smelled, swirled, and tasted it. Refilling all glasses, Michael was pleased to see his hand looked as steady as ever.

“Genetically speaking, that is,” he continued, as if there had been no interruption.

“Well … we are cousins.” It was a mild reply. Damon's dark eyes gave nothing away.

Victoria had shifted her gaze from her uneaten food to Michael's face. Her expression was perturbed. She took two large gulps of wine with utter disregard to the taste.

Michael smiled, his voice smoothing consciously into the tone he normally reserved for courtroom purposes. “Legally, yes. Certainly. First cousins.” His smile was designed to be benign, to take in all parties with good will and generosity. “But, technically, we are talking about something more, aren't we? Your fathers are identical twins. The resemblance is startling, really it is.”

Andrea said eagerly, “It is. I don't think I ever realized how much twins could look alike until I met Dr. Paulsen and his brother.”

Victoria's face went still. Blank.

“The whole thing brings up some interesting questions,” Michael added sagely.

Andrea Martin could have been a perfect straight man. She said doubtfully, “What questions?” Her cheekbones held a flush from the wine. Brightly, she looked from person to person.

Michael was only too happy to explain, looking at her with approval. “First cousins generally have two different parents, sharing nothing closer than one set of mutual grandparents. In this case,” another broad wave, “Victoria and Damon have to be considered, from a genetic standpoint, to have been fathered by the same person. Identical twins are the only people known to have matching DNA. It's quite amazing.”

Even Andrea seemed to catch the hint of an overtone she didn't understand, something hedging on the edge of good taste. She murmured, “Really?”

“Do you have some point, Michael?” Victoria asked acidly.

“I just wondered about legal ramifications. For instance, some states allow first cousins to marry. In your case, however, I don't know if you would be denied a marriage license or not. There must be some kind of legal precedence.”

“For God's sake.” Victoria took a vicious stab at the meat on her plate.

“I just thought it was interesting,” Michael said blandly, his eyes narrowing. “It's a small hobby of mine. I like to think about little legal puzzles. More wine anyone?”

Andrea Martin looked around the table. Damon was sitting in his chair, the light slanting unevenly on his impassive features, his gaze fastened on Michael. Victoria was finally making an attempt to actually eat something, her attention suddenly absorbed by the food she had found so uninteresting just seconds before.

Andrea said slowly, “Why not?”

* * * *

Her head was beginning to hurt and it was her own damn fault. Victoria stifled a small groan as Michael swung the Jaguar into a spot by the barn. The house was dark except for a small light burning in the upstairs hallway. Her grandparents had gone to bed hours ago.

Damon unfolded from the front seat. He opened her door, politely waiting for her to get out and putting a steadying hand under her elbow as she slid from the tiny confines of the backseat. She stood and immediately jerked away, walking toward the house and not caring a bit if either man followed her. The warm night air moistened her face with instant perspiration and she stumbled slightly on the edge of the grass.

The kitchen was dark and deserted. She fumbled at the wall, switching on the light and moving toward the refrigerator. Retrieving a beer, she turned just as Michael and Damon came in the screen door.

The night air smelled heavy with heat. Her hair was sticking to her neck. Pushing it aside, she touched the beer can to her cheek and sighed. Damon, still standing by the door, said, “What are you doing?”

She lifted the beer can in her fingers. “Having a drink.”

He looked at the beer can, and then her face. He asked slowly, “Haven't you had enough, Tori? You usually don't drink at all.”

It was the wrong thing to say
.

She deliberately and loudly popped open the can, feeling absurd fury burn upward into her face, saying hotly, “It's none of your business, Damon, what I do.”

His face went blank, much as hers had earlier when Michael had mentioned identical twins and she had thought of Emily, her own twin, her missing sister. The blankness summoned by hurt, by resentment at callousness. When he finally spoke, he said softly, “That's right. It's none of my business.” He turned, nodded at Michael. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Michael murmured to his back as Damon left the room. Sitting down and crossing one tailored leg over the other, he looked over and lifted his eyebrows. “I'll take a beer, Victoria. Or better yet scotch, if you have it.”

The stairs creaked in telltale passage as Damon went upstairs. The door to his bedroom remotely opened and then closed.

Victoria swallowed, stood hating herself, and not knowing why. The beer can was cool in her hand. “Take this one,” her voice was dull suddenly, morose with regret and fatigue. “I'm not thirsty after all. I think I'm just … tired.” Her eyes burned.

Michael reached over and took the beer out of her limp hand. He took a deliberate drink. In an Armani suit that was a bit overdone for Mayville, he looked polished, sophisticated, and just a little bit drunk. She hadn't often seen that slackness around his mouth. Usually he could handle his liquor well, but then again, he had drunk quite a bit of wine. Of course, so had she.