“How did your dad know if she confessed to Daniel?”
“Because my dad was the parish priest before Daniel. He might not practice or whatever the word is, I’m not remotely religious, but, I guess, Daniel confided in him, thinking he would give him answers. I get that Daniel was troubled and he was torn. But he chose his faith over me, and that didn’t sit well with me. I can’t honestly say I’d have done the same had I been the priest.”
“Was it your dad at…?” I didn’t want to say the words.
“No, he retired and until Daniel came here, there was a temporary vicar. Do they have temporary vicars? I don’t know if that’s the right word, but you know what I mean.”
I had settled into the corner of the sofa again and the whisky was having the desired effect of numbing my brain, and my legs. It wasn’t the largest shot but I wasn’t a drinker, and perhaps, if it was a little aged, it was also more potent.
I rested my head back and closed my eyes. “I like this whisky,” I said, letting the alcohol wash over me.
“Do you think, if you tried, you could forgive Daniel?” I asked.
“If I tried, maybe, but there’s more to it than that. For now, though, I think you’re about ready to pass out.”
“I’m not drunk,” I said, opening my eyes.
“Didn’t say you were, but I bet you’re fucking exhausted. I’ll leave now, let you get some sleep.”
I reached to place my glass on the coffee table; instead Miller stood and took it from me.
“Don’t get up, although don’t fall asleep there, either. When that fire dies down, you’ll be cold.”
“Pam was a silly woman. You’re a very considerate man,” I said, and then clamped my mouth shut for fear of having overstepped the mark.
“Yep, that she was,” he said. He walked through the living room door and I heard the kitchen tap run, I assumed he’d rinsed the glasses.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he called out, as he walked out the back door.
I listened for the rumble of his truck engine and the crunch it made driving over the gravel and then sighed. I stretched out my legs and pulled the old throw from the back of the sofa over me.
It had to be early hours of the morning that I woke, stiff and cold, as Miller said I would be, after the fire had died out. I climbed from the sofa, still clutching the throw around me and made my way to bed. I was thankful that at least I’d had a few hours of dreamless sleep, and had no doubt the whisky was to be thanked for that.
Chapter Fourteen
Footsteps along the hall woke me. I lay still and listened to the shower run in the bathroom, then the buzz of an electric razor before the toilet flushed. I guessed it to be Dad, not expecting that Christian would be bothered to shave. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat for a while. Like a movie in slow motion, the events of the previous day filtered through my mind, and the sickness I’d felt washed over me again. I looked over to the chest of drawers to see a photograph of Trey and me on a holiday somewhere. We were laughing at something, we looked young and in love. I walked over and laid the photograph face down. I didn’t want to see his face.
The footsteps crept past my door and continued down the stairs. I heard the radio being turned on and a tap run as Dad filled the kettle for his morning tea, I imagined. My legs ached, my whole body ached as I stood and grabbed a fresh towel from the stack on a chair.
Once I had showered and dressed, I joined Dad in the kitchen.
“Did you manage to sleep?” Dad said, as he slid a pad over to me.
“On and off,” I replied, not needing the pad.
“I wasn’t sure…” He indicated to the pad, I guessed he thought I’d gone mute again.
“Like I said, shock took my voice, shock gave it back,” I said, noticing the bitterness in my voice.
“I suppose we should cancel the speech therapist appointment, but I wonder if you’d still like to talk to someone.”
“I don’t know that I need to. What can anyone say to me, Dad? My husband had an affair, fathered a child, and then died.”
“I don’t know what to do to make this all better.” Dad turned away from me and I wondered if that was so I didn’t see the sadness that settled over his face. He busied himself making tea.
“There’s nothing you can do, I don’t think. We just have to work through this ourselves, I guess.”
For a moment we were silent, and I watched his shaking hand lift the kettle to pour hot water into the pot.
“Your voice is different,” he said quietly.
“How?”
“I don’t know, raspier, I guess. I imagine it will take some time to get back to normal.”
“I don’t think any part of me will ever be normal again,” I replied, taking the mugs to the table.
Dad joined me with the pot of tea and poured.
“No, I don’t suppose you will.”
“Something I remembered during the night, Chris said the name in Helen’s phone was Kitt. Trey has never been called that, to my knowledge. Do you think Chris has it wrong?”
“He said Helen admitted it was Trey.”
“Convenient, though, since he’s dead.”
Was I trying to find a reason that she could have lied? The more I thought about it, the more I wondered. There had been absolutely no evidence that Trey had been having an affair. Not that I was aware of the times they were together, but surely I would have noticed something, wouldn’t I? I didn’t believe Trey to be so devious, so calculated, and so good at concealment he could have had a two-year affair and fathered a child without one wobble in our relationship.
“Ring Patricia for me. Ask her if Trey ever had a nickname. I’m not sure I can speak with her right now, just in case I break down. I’d hate for her to know what might have happened.”
“Are you doubting Christian’s story?” Dad asked.
“Not Christian’s, Helen’s. I want some proof, Dad. I want evidence that Alistair is Trey’s son. I need that.”
The previous day I’d been ready to dig his bones from the grave he shared with my daughter, and I wasn’t sure what had happened overnight, but I couldn’t just accept her word. By having an affair in the first place, she’d proven herself not to be trustworthy, or was I clinging on to some mistaken belief that I had the perfect husband?
I sat bolt upright in my chair. “I need to go to the storage unit, where my things are.”
“What do you hope to find?”
“Evidence, Dad. If they exchanged letters, where are the ones she sent to him?”
“Do you want to put yourself through that?”
Dad’s comment surprised me.
“Not only did I lose him in an accident, for which I have no closure because it was all so sudden, I can’t confront him. I can’t look at him and get an explanation, he can’t tell me it’s all lies.”
“Or the truth,” Dad said quietly.
“Do you believe her?”
Dad sighed deeply. “I just don’t see why she would have named Trey, knowing the devastation it would cause. Why not make up a stranger that no one knows? Surely that would have been easier, wouldn’t it?”
“Because Christian can confront a stranger, he can’t confront a dead man.”
My voice became raspier the more upset I was becoming. I took a large swig of my tea.
“It’s too convenient, Dad. Can’t you see that?”
“Of course I can, I’m just not sure that you aren’t grasping at something just to be let down, feel even more hurt when the truth comes out. I’ll ring Patricia a little later, at least we’ll start there.”