Chapter Twenty-six

I’d call it falling in love.

For a second Madelaine couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe. She lay beside him, still naked, the bear rug damp beneath her body. She bit her lip, afraid suddenly that she would say the words she shouldn’t say, the words that, once spoken, couldn’t be taken back, could never be unsaid.

She didn’t want to think about the past now, but it came back to her, creeping into her mind on tiny, whispering feet. All the things they’d ever said to each other billowed up between them, hanging in the air above them. So many of her dreams had been tangled up with this man, and she was afraid—so afraid—to let him have the power over her again. And yet he did, already he did.

She twisted around to look at him. Her lips parted in a silent plea, an invitation.

He lifted himself from the floor and reached out for her. She knew he was moving slowly, as if he were scared she would turn away.

She remained motionless. His hand breezed down her bare arm, setting off a flurry of goose bumps. “Angel …” His name fell from her lips on a breathless whisper of longing.

She stared into his green eyes, mesmerized by the possibilities she saw there. She knew then, as certainly as she’d ever known anything in her life, that he wasn’t the boy he’d been at seventeen anymore. There was a depth of pain in his eyes that was new, a fear and a regret that she understood. He was, in his own way, as terrified in this moment as she. And seeing that, his fear and his insecurity, was like the brush of a warm, soothing wind on her own uncertainty.

He kissed her then, a light, breezing touch of lips that somehow stamped her soul more deeply than any of the lovemaking ever could. Her arms curled around him, held him close. One by one the years of loneliness and loss seemed to fall away from her. When he drew back, she saw the same dawning sense of wonder in his eyes that swelled in her own heart.

“Ah, Madelaine,” he said. Just that and nothing more; yet it felt like everything.

At twelve-forty Lina clicked off the television and stood up. For the tenth time in as many minutes, she glanced at the clock on the mantel. The red and brown papier-mâché turkey she’d made in kindergarten huddled alongside it, a yearly reminder that Thanksgiving was just around the corner.

Where in the hell was Mom?

She crossed her arms and paced back and forth in the room. She had every light in the room on, but still it felt dark in here, a little lonely. It was the first time she’d ever been in her house this late alone. Whenever Mom had an emergency call at the hospital, Francis always came buzzing right over to keep Lina company.

The thought reminded her again of how much she missed Francis, and she sighed heavily. She plopped into the big overstuffed chair by the front door and sat there, waiting, her foot tapping impatiently on the hardwood floor.

Her mother had no right to be out this late—didn’t she know that Lina would be worried sick? When Lina had spoken with Angel earlier, he’d said he had to talk to her mother tonight. Talk, So where were they?

She glanced at the phone and thought about calling the hospitals. She was just about to stand up when she reined herself in. It was ridiculous, worrying this way. Her mother was thirty-three years old; she could certainly stay out all night if she wanted to.

But it wasn’t like her mom. Madelaine was way too responsible for something like this.

It was Angel’s fault.

Suddenly she wondered about Angel. After all, what did they know about him, really? He’d come into their lives on a whirlwind, all smiles and promises and fun. But he had a horrible reputation—what if he’d earned it, what if he slept with anyone and forgot their names in the morning, what if he was really a serial killer and the police looked the other way because he was Angel DeMarco, what if—

“Get a grip, Lina,” she said aloud, trying to shake the worry from her mind. “Mom is fine. She’s probably making him drive at twenty-five miles an hour and wear a crash helmet.”

But she couldn’t make herself believe it. Deep down she knew that something was wrong. She remembered the phone call they’d gotten in the middle of the night about Francis, and her heart started to race. She glanced nervously at the phone. A call like that could come at any time, could strike through your living room like lightning and leave you burning.…

She needed Zach right now, someone to talk to—

From the corner of her eye she saw headlights outside. “Thank God.”

The Mercedes pulled up the driveway and stopped. The headlights flicked off.

She sat there, arms crossed, staring out the window, waiting for them to come inside. They didn’t.

Finally they left the car and strode casually up the walkway. The lock clicked and the door swung open. Mom and Angel walked into the room, holding hands, gazing at each other with starry, faraway looks in their eyes.

Lina felt suddenly excluded. It was the way she wanted Angel to look at her, only her. She knew she was being stupid and selfish and childish, but it hurt God, how it hurt. She’d wanted a daddy who was hers and hers alone. Her best friend in all the world. The way they looked at each other—as if they were in love—made Lina feel angry and empty inside. “Mom?” she whispered.

They looked startled—as if they hadn’t even noticed she was in the room—and their disregard pissed her off even more. Mom blinked and pulled her hand away from Angel’s. “Hi, baby,” she said in a sleepy voice. “We thought you’d be in bed by now. You didn’t have to wait up.”

The words were like arrows, driving deep. They hadn’t even thought about Lina, they’d forgotten her completely. She laughed bitterly. “Yeah, right. Like I could sleep with you out.” She threw the words back at her mother, and felt a tiny thrill when she flinched.

Mom took a step toward her. The understanding in her eyes only made the hurt worse. “There’s nothing for you to be scared of, baby. Nothing could change the way either of us feels about you.”

Lina knew it was a lie. If her mother loved Angel, it changed everything, and suddenly she didn’t want it changed. She wanted her old life back, wanted Francis out on that old porch swing and Mom puttering in the rose garden. She didn’t want this dark-haired stranger to come between them.

She felt as if she were about to explode, but she didn’t know why. It was as if all her little-girl dreams were crumbling around her. She stared at Angel. “You said you were my friend.” Hurt plunged through her at the words, leaving her shaken and angry. Suddenly she wanted to hurt him, hurt them both the way they were hurting her. “You’re not my father,” she said in a cold voice. “You have his heart, but you’re not him.” Her voice broke and it made her furious, that show of weakness. “You don’t deserve his heart.”

“Lina!” Mom said harshly.

“Shut up,” Lina hissed.

Angel frowned suddenly, and the way it changed his face was frightening. He threw his coat toward the sofa and it caught a lampshade. The crystal lamp crashed to the floor. “Don’t you dare talk to your mother that way, young lady.”

It made her laugh, him trying suddenly to sound like her father. But he wasn’t her father. He was up in Heaven right now, and he’d never looked at Lina that way, never made Lina feel like she was an outsider in her own house. “You’re not my father.”

“Lina,” Mom said, “you don’t mean that.”

“You don’t know what I mean. You don’t know me. I hate you … I hate you.” She heard herself screaming at them and she knew it was a mistake, but she couldn’t seem to stop. Anger and hurt twisted her up inside.

“Go to your room,” Angel said in a voice so quiet and calm, it sent shivers up Lina’s spine. “Get out of here. Now.”

Tears choked her, stung her eyes. She spun away from their Christmas-card love scene and stumbled blindly down the hallway, running into the refuge of her own room. But once she got there, it didn’t even feel like her own room anymore. It felt alien and confining. She wrenched the window open and crawled outside.

Yanking her bike from the side of the porch, she jumped onto the hard plastic seat and sped down the driveway, over the curb, and onto the pavement. Anger spurred her on, made her punch the pedals until she was speeding away from the house.

By the time she reached the corner, it had started to rain. Infrequent, drizzling rain spat at her and fell in glistening drops on her handlebars. Wind whipped through her hair and stung her eyes.

With every mile she felt the dreams she’d concocted about her father slip further from her. She’d been an idiot to believe in him, to believe some stranger could come into her life and be her daddy. She should have known better …

I’m afraid he’ll break your heart.

She heard her mother’s warning again, and it made her feel even more stupid and naive. Lina knew better—she knew that dreams didn’t always come true. Hadn’t she always known that? Why had she let herself be so stupid?

At Laurel Street she remembered the Saturday night parties that were an institution at Quilcene Park. She veered left and sped down the hill. Ten minutes later she turned the last corner and whizzed onto the driveway of the old park, her thin tires bumping over the ruts in the road, her fingers frozen around the rubber handles.

She ditched her bike at the edge of the asphalt parking lot and looked around. She waited breathlessly for someone to yell her name, to clap her on the back and welcome her to the party.

But no one came. Kids milled along the river and around the fire. She could hear the cackling of laughter and the quiet buzz of a dozen conversations. But the closer she got to the fire, the older the kids looked. She’d thought this was a party for high schoolers, but a bunch of the boys who were hanging out around the fire looked like they were in college—or should have been.

“Zach,” she whispered, wanting him with her right now. But it was too late to call his house, and he wouldn’t be at a party like this.

Plunging her hands deep in her pockets, she tried to look cool, like she fit in, as she strolled past one group of kids after another, looking for anyone to talk to.

Finally she reached the edge of the river and stood there, watching the swirling current. The anger she’d felt earlier slipped away, and without its heat, she felt cold. All around her, kids were laughing and talking and having a good time, but no one had spoken to her at all. It was as if she were a ghost, invisible and separate.

She heard a quiet, warbling laugh and it sounded familiar. She jerked her head up just as a girl and boy walked past her. Lina’s eyes met the girl’s—Cara Milston. There was a moment of stunned recognition on both their parts. A long time ago—first through seventh grades—they’d been best friends, but now they were worlds apart. Usually they didn’t even make eye contact—the cheerleader and the bad girl.

Lina felt a sudden pang of loss for the girl she’d once been. She wondered what it would have been like if she hadn’t changed friends in the eighth grade, if she hadn’t started smoking down by the river before school, if she’d never taken that first burning sip of whiskey when she was fourteen.

She wanted it all back now, wanted Cara back. A best girlfriend to talk to.

Cara gave Lina a quick, jerking smile and walked past her.

Lina sighed heavily and sank slowly to her knees along the riverbank. She felt the cold, mushy mud squish all around her, chilling her to the bone, but she didn’t care.

She couldn’t remember when she’d felt so lonely. Everything about her life was a joke. No one was ever around when it really mattered. Even now, in the middle of the best school party of the year, she was alone. Forgotten.

Suddenly she wished things were different. She didn’t want to be mad at her mother, didn’t want to have the temper tantrums that seemed as natural to her as breathing. She wanted to be able to sit down with her mom and dad and tell them she loved them.

But she’d felt excluded when they came home, left out. And so, naturally, instead of talking to them like an adult, she’d thrown a tantrum and run away.

The dream of what she’d wanted—a daddy—seemed so far away, a little girl’s nighttime wish. All she wanted now was to love him and be loved in return—loved for who she was. And that meant she had to love Angel for who he was.

He wasn’t Francis and never would be. Francis had loved Lina in his quiet, gentle way; Angel’s way would be different. He was like her—loud and reactionary and hot-tempered. Things with Angel would be unlike what she’d wanted … but had she really known what she wanted?

“No,” she whispered into the night. She hadn’t known until now, this very minute. She wanted them to be a family—all of them. And a family didn’t happen overnight, a family didn’t happen without tantrums and hurt feelings and apologies.

Hot tears squeezed past her eyelashes and streaked down her cheeks, mingling with the cold raindrops and splashing on her muddy pants. She was tired of running and being mad all the time, tired of feeling like she didn’t belong anywhere. She thought of home—the Martha Stewart-perfect yard and her mother’s rose garden, and the porch swing Francis had given them for Christmas—and longing squeezed her heart.

A family, she knew, meant going home.

Angel slammed the bedroom door shut. “She’s not there.”

He spun around, stared at Madelaine. His mouth fell open for words that wouldn’t come.

She stood in the living room, unsmiling, unmoving, the color that had tinted her cheeks earlier replaced by a chalky pallor. She chewed on her lower lip and glanced worriedly at the front door.

“Did you hear me? She’s not there. We’ve got to call the police or something.” He could tell that he was yelling, but he couldn’t control himself. Panic was an ice-cold tingling in his blood. He ran to the front door and flung it open.

All he saw out there was darkness. A gentle rain had begun to fall, studding the walkway, clattering on the roof over his head. She was out there somewhere, alone in the middle of all that blackness, alone and mad and hurt.

What the hell had happened? What had he done so wrong?

Madelaine came up beside him. He could hear the silent padding of her footsteps above the ragged harshness of his breathing. Gently she touched his arm, and he could feel that she was trying to comfort him, but he didn’t want comfort.

“I didn’t know,” he whispered. Regret was a black, bitter taste in his mouth. He realized suddenly how lightly he’d taken everything, how cavalierly he’d accepted the burdens of fatherhood.

“What didn’t you know?”

He heard the tenderness in her question, and it made him feel even worse. He turned to her, and for a second, when he looked in her worried eyes, he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t be Lina’s father or Madelaine’s lover.… Most of all, he couldn’t be what Francis had been to them.

Francis.

His brother would know what to do right now, what to say, how to make it all right. He threw his head back and closed his eyes in prayer. What do I do now, Franco?

The question gutted him. Slowly he turned back to Madelaine, and what he saw in her eyes shamed him to the depth of his soul. She cared about him, even now; he could see it, feel it, and though he wanted to take her in his arms and feel her warmth, he didn’t deserve it. “I didn’t know what it meant to be a father. I thought I could just hang out with her and be her friend. I thought she’d love me unconditionally and never ask for anything I couldn’t give.” Even as he said the words, he heard how hollow and selfish they were. He closed his eyes and shut up, disgusted with himself. “I didn’t know it would be so hard. How did you do it alone all those years?”

She touched him, her warm hand molding to his cold, wet cheek. “I should have told you what parenthood was like.”

His eyes flew open and anger came flooding back. “It’s not about you, Madelaine. Don’t make it about you and what you should have done. I screwed up. Me. I shouldn’t have said I’d be her daddy—I took on that commitment as if it were no more important than deciding what coat to wear. I didn’t think.”

She drew her hand back. “So what are you going to do about it? You spent your whole life running from things like this, Angel. Are you going to run away again go nurse your fear with a bottle of tequila until you forget how much it hurts?”

The words hit him like blows. He flinched. “I don’t know.”

“That’s not good enough. She’ll be back if she follows her usual routine, she’ll be back in about an hour and she’ll be mad as a hornet. What are you going to say to her? Hello or good-bye?”

He shook his head. “Don’t put this on me, Mad. I’m not strong enough.…”

She gripped him by the shoulders and shook him, hard. “Don’t you dare say that to me, not this time. Nobody’s strong enough to be a parent. We just do it, blindly, going forward on faith and love and hope. That’s all it is, Angel. Being afraid, being afraid in the marrow of your bones, and going on.”

He stilled. A tiny shaft of hope flared in his heart. “You’re afraid of her?”

She made a snorting sound that was almost a laugh. “I’ve been afraid since the moment they laid her in my arms. Every time she goes to school or to a friend’s house or out on a date, I’m afraid. I’m afraid of what the world will do to my beautiful baby girl, afraid of what I will do to her. It never goes away, ever. You just live with it and love her and be there for her.”

He let out his breath in a long, shaking sigh. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

She pulled away from him. “Only you can decide that, Angel. Only you.”