“It’s a complex situation with Beno?t’s wife—his ex-wife—but we are managing to work it out. And he and I love each other, which is the most important thing. Of all people, you should understand.”
I swallowed uneasily. What did she mean by that? Was she talking about me and Graeme? Or the two of us?
“Remember the time we saw that revival of Oleanna in LA?” she said suddenly. “Remember how we argued about the ending?”
I did remember. It was one of the few nights we’d done something just ourselves, out of the spotlight. We’d gotten hamburgers afterward in a dumpy diner and argued until closing time and they chased us out. I’d had fun.
“I remember,” I said.
“I do too.” She folded her arms. “I enjoyed that argument we had more than any pleasant conversation I’ve ever had with anyone.”
I didn’t know what to say. Just when you thought Frances had opened a door that you could walk through, you got that shit slammed in your face. I wasn’t venturing into the open door. Not yet.
“Anyway,” she said and turned away from me.
“You get a prenup?” I asked, angry but not wanting the conversation to end.
“Ironclad. But I trust him. He’s not going to hurt me.”
“Everybody hurts everybody, Frances.”
She gave me a twist of a smile. “I know you believe that, and maybe it’s my fault. That’s what I taught you. But he’s committed to this marriage, just like I am.”
I snorted.
“Is that so hard for you to believe?” she asked. “That someone could actually love me?”
“Oh, Mom.” I heaved a sigh. “Not what I meant.”
“But that’s what you think, isn’t it? That no one could possibly love me?”
“No.” I took a deep breath. “You’ve got it backward, actually.”
The look she gave me was so wounded, so utterly full of despair, that my throat constricted. But I meant it. And she knew it. I couldn’t apologize to cover my intentions or lessen the sting.
“I’m sorry, Megan,” she said. Her voice was a ragged croak. “I’m truly sorry for whatever it is I did that turned you against me.”
She moved to me. Touched her fingers to my cheek, then flattened one palm against my skin. I shivered. Her hand was cold.
“So I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
I waited.
“Doro killed Kim Baker all those years ago,” she said simply. “I knew the truth, Megan. I mean, I suspected it. I suspected it strongly.”
My thoughts rose and whirled together like a tornado. How could this be? How could she be saying this? After all these years?
“Why didn’t you tell anyone that what you wrote in the book was true? Why did you keep saying it was fiction?” I said. “I don’t understand.”
“I . . .” Her eyes softened. “I was nineteen years old. Immature and foolish. So foolish.” She faltered. “And because . . . because I saw that the story was good—so good. I wanted it for myself, Megan. It was a horrible, selfish thing to do, to keep quiet, but I wanted Doro’s story for myself. I wanted people to think I had come up with it.”
I pushed her hand from my cheek. Backed away. “Stop it.”
“Megan—”
“No.” I held up one finger. “The rest of the world might enjoy being led down your dark, twisted trail, but I don’t.”
“It’s not a story, Megan. I’m telling you the truth. I lied to everyone else. I always have.”
“No!” I was trembling now. “No, you can’t throw that bullshit reverse-reverse psychology at me now. Doro is my friend. My friend. I’m not going to let you slander her. I’m not going to let you keep tearing her world apart so I’ll stop writing this book.”
“So write your book. But do it somewhere else. In Carmel or LA or New York. Just not here. Anywhere but here.”
I stood taller. “No. I’m staying. You lose, Frances. Do you understand? You lose.”
She stared at me for a moment, her face unreadable. Then she said, “I need some air,” and turned and slipped out the front door of the cabin.
I stood in the middle of the fusty room, frozen in a fighter’s stance. Panting as if I’d just gone six rounds in a boxing ring. I’d won, but I didn’t know how much longer I could keep this up.
When I finally went outside, Frances was standing just off the side of the house, close to the dense thicket of trees.
“Come on,” I said wearily. “Let’s go back.”
She didn’t turn, just kept staring. “There was someone here. They were watching us.”
KITTEN
—FROM CHAPTER 13
Kitten spoke again, in a quiet voice. “Fay? Cappie says it’s in Father’s desk. In the back.” She pointed to the lower drawer, then stepped back, her eyes darting from the drawer to Fay.
Fay took a wadded handkerchief from the desk, opened the drawer, and reached behind stacks of papers and folders. A few seconds later, she felt something hard. She pulled the thing out—a jagged, reddish-brown, oblong stone with one flat side and a shallow depression on the other.
“Goodness,” she said. “Did Cappie’s ghost happen to mention it was an ashtray?”
Kitten glared. “It’s the mico’s bowl. The chieftain used it for grinding herbs.” Fay held the rock up in the moonlight and studied it. It had traces of black ash in the depression.
Then something on the underside caught her eye—a dark, irregular stain along the jagged edge. A stain that resembled blood. Kitten snatched the rock from her and pressed it to her chest.
“We have to throw it in the ocean,” she said. “Then Cappie will leave us alone.”
Ashley, Frances. Kitten. New York: Drake, Richards and Weems, 1976. Print.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Frances and I pulled into Ambletern’s front drive, passing Doro along the way. A basket was looped over her arm. She smiled and waved at us. When I parked, Frances made a beeline for the porch. Like magic, Laila materialized beside her with a cocktail and a plate of something that looked suspiciously like hors d’oeuvres.
“Well, how do you like that,” I muttered as Doro sauntered up.
“I guess you’re used to the royal treatment.” She nodded at the pair of them. “But I’ll tell you—I have a hard time thinking of Frances as anything but that sweet, redheaded college girl who played with me the summer I was eight.”
“If you say so. I wish I’d known her then. Maybe I’d be able to look past all the shit she armors herself with, and see who she is. She’s just so damn . . . opaque.”
“Sometimes the best people have the hardest shells to crack.”
I eyed Doro’s basket. “More blackberries?”
“Got to get them when they’re ripe.”
I peered up at the porch where Frances was slumped in the swing. Marie Antoinette, after a long day pretending to milk cows. Then I looked back down at Doro and her basket of berries.
“Pie tonight?” I said.
“Berry tarts.” She gave me a sly wink. “Just like in the book.”
“Need any help?”
“No, thanks. Laila and I have got it. You keep working on your project.”
We walked up the steps.
“Will you be joining us for supper, Frances?” Doro called out brightly.
“I’d love to, but I’m exhausted and on deadline. Would Laila mind terribly bringing it up to my room?” Frances stood. Sighed. Tossed her hair.
“Mom,” I said.