Misfortune (48 page)

“Fairness plays little part in this world. You know that, Fanny. I can’t think of anyone who has passed through life getting only what they deserved, no more, no less. Some are lucky. Their lives are unscathed. They don’t have to suffer. For the rest of us, the best we can do is try to live through the adversity, to not get bogged down in whether or not what happens to us is fair in some global scheme, and to continue to feel joy in what is good. I’ve been lucky because I’ve known what it is to love, both wives, three children, and my work. You need to find some joy, something to live for. Blair has Jake, the gallery. You, Frances, must find your own peace.”

“I can’t,” she said.

Richard seemed not to have heard. He inhaled several times without appearing to exhale and then continued. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes. I know that. Perhaps I didn’t want to see my own shortcomings as I went along, how I failed your mother, and how I failed you.”

“That’s not true.” As she spoke, Frances realized she was lying. She couldn’t bear for her father to suffer anything more.

“I think I knew all along that you and Blair were hurt, that I had let you down, but I relied on your silence, especially yours, Fanny. It became my protection. ‘They don’t seem unhappy,’ I could say to myself. ‘Look what I’ve given them. Look at the wonderful times they are having here in my house. Look at all they have because of me.’ I needed that to be true.”

Frances wanted to placate him, assure him that his memory was exactly right. She could remind him of the special moments in their childhood, nights of bingo with their father, pizza and the movies with friends, days at the beach, playing tennis, riding bicycles, all the activities of childhood transpiring in a beautiful, idyllic setting. It hadn’t been bad, Frances wished she could say, but she couldn’t deceive him. She hadn’t been able to deceive herself. Beneath the facade of the Pratt family was a dark reality, one in which two young girls dreaded returning to a home where they were despised because they were the product of a first wife. And neither their father nor their mother had done anything about it. Until now.

“I look at you, Fanny, my own daughter, who didn’t feel safe enough to tell me how she felt. You internalized your emotions, and I let you do it. Now I wonder whether you can really feel, feel deeply, passionately. You’ll let me go to my grave without hearing a word of criticism from your lips, and that’s the damage I’ve done.”

Frances’s arms and legs felt numb. She stood quiet, staring past her father into the foyer beyond. Her reflection in the carved wood mirror looked completely unfamiliar.

“I can’t make it up to you. Even if it were possible, there isn’t time left in my life. You’ll have to help yourself. I can’t make you trust. I can’t make you safe. But you must never doubt that I loved you.”

Frances felt weak, and she eased herself to the ground. She sat on the threshold for a moment and then allowed her head to rest against her father’s leg. She closed her eyes. Her stiffness relaxed as Richard’s slim fingers, shaking slightly, caressed her cheek.

“Are you wanting to talk, or shall we just sip our Scotch?” Sam asked, gently resting a hand on Frances’s shoulder as he settled beside her on the porch steps. She nodded in recognition of his presence but said nothing.

The last several hours had passed in a thick fog through which she remembered calling Sam from Main Street in Southampton. She’d hardly managed to convey where she was, but Sam had somehow found her more than an hour later, leaning against the steps of the white clapboard Methodist church catty-corner from the public telephones. He had helped her into his Jeep Cherokee and tucked an old quilt around her shivering frame. It was possible that she’d fallen asleep on the way home, staring at the underside of the car’s canvas roof, but she couldn’t be sure. All she knew was that the familiar sight of her farmhouse, the smell of her flower beds, the warmth of her loyal dogs as they scrambled down the steps to greet her, had awoken something inside her. She was home.

Frances turned her head upward and smiled at Sam. “Thank you,” she said. Her voice sounded hoarse, a strange gruffness brought on by lack of use.

“I’ve never seen someone so in need of a ride.” Sam shrugged lightheartedly. “A lost orphan,” he added, pushing a stray hair off her face with his thumb.

“I’m sorry about dinner last night.”

“I don’t know what you’ve been up to the last couple of days, but you don’t need to apologize to me. Ever. You should know that by now.” He took a sip of his drink. “Nothing like a single-malt to soothe the spirit,” he said.

Frances took a sip as well and felt a pleasant burn in the back of her throat. She stared at the whites of his eyes and noticed for the first time that they had a slight tint of blue. “Sam,” she said, humming the end of his name.

“Yes?” His quizzical look seemed a mixture of amusement, curiosity, and concern.

“If someone you loved did something terrible, illegal, what would you do?”

Sam furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

Frances thought for a moment. Although she trusted Sam, she couldn’t share her secret. She couldn’t place the burden of her knowledge on his shoulders, but she needed his advice. “Suppose, for example, your wife had told you that she robbed a bank, shot a guard in the course of escaping with the money. You know if you turn her in, she’ll spend the rest of her life in jail. Would you do it? Would you tell the police?”

Sam was quiet, perhaps taken aback by the sudden reference to Rose Guff, perhaps pondering the question Frances had posed. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “I don’t know. I’d like to think I would, it’s probably the right thing to do, but I can’t be sure. Really loving someone is rare. It’s almost indescribable in its specialness. You feel blessed. Loss of that person is the hardest thing in the world. I’ve been through that, and I don’t think I could live with myself if I had played a part in ruining her life. So I can’t say.” He paused and looked at Frances. “I guess that’s not much help to you with whatever’s on your mind.”

Frances smiled faintly. “You’re wrong.” She closed her eyes and leaned toward him until she felt the softness of his lips against hers and she could taste his breath. Their kiss lasted long enough to establish that they both wanted it to happen again.