The After House (6 page)

“Not if I can help it,” Brian growled.

“Dad, we’ll find a way to work with each other.”

“He hit you!” Brian stood to place the dirty dishes in the sink, his back rigid.

“I have a protective order. He can’t come near me except to pick up Olivia. Please, Dad. I have to find my way in this thing. You have to stop being mad. Millions of women live like this.”

“Not my daughter!”

Remy sighed and smiled. He loved her so, her dad. When she showed up on his doorstep with a black eye, both she and her mother had to restrain him from going after Scott.

“Yes, your daughter. But I am not a victim anymore. I left, and no one is going to bully me ever again.” She stood and wrapped her arms around him, her nose squashed against the bulky fisherman’s sweater he wore. She heard the reassuring thud of his heart and closed her eyes. The familiar smell of her father, and safety, enveloped her.

“Look, Dad, let’s put it all behind us. It’s time to move on.”

He kissed the top of her head, then rested his chin there. “You know it wasn’t you. You were a great wife.”

Remy opened her mouth to reply, but the words caught in her throat. She wanted to believe that, but she accepted that some of the failure in the marriage may have rested with her as well. She just wasn’t quite sure how. Something was just not right. She knew now that what she felt for Scott was enjoyment, affection, but not love. She understood love better since having Olivia. If Scott had really loved her, he couldn’t have looked at her the way he did toward the end. She winced, the memories
of Scott’s red face screaming at her, blaming her, filling her head.

Her father shook her gently. “I mean it, Remy. Scott’s an asshole.”

“You won’t get an argument from me about that.” She smiled up at him.

“Let’s go find Mom and have a snack in town before we head home. Oh, I forgot. Mom asked me to drop this off.” Brian reached over and pulled out a framed needlepoint from a shopping bag he’d left by the back door. He smiled fondly as he looked at it. “She made it for you.”

Remy admired it. “Oh, Olivia’s going to love it.”

They placed it on the kitchen table, then bundled up in layers to walk in the snow toward the library in town. The door closed behind them, muting their conversation.

Captain Eli waited for them to leave, then circled around to float over the picture.

The needlepoint rose off the table and fell with a crash onto the floor, the glass frame shattering. Eli kicked it against the wall, breaking the wooden frame. He stood above it, then jumped down, smashing it.

The sentinels observed calmly from their spot in the upper level.

“Do we interfere?” Marum asked as the broken needlepoint flew past them.

“You know the rules,” Sten said softly. “He’s really not doing anything too harmful.”

“Captain Eli is having a moment,” Marum said sarcastically.

“A temper tantrum, nothing more.” Sten was bored. His laser-blue eyes watched dispassionately.

“This kind of behavior is getting him nowhere.”

“Isn’t that the problem, Marum? He’s as stuck as we are right now. I can’t watch. I’m going.”

Eli wailed furiously, holding the tattered remains of the picture in his shaking hands.

“I don’t believe this! Look what they’re doing to my ship.” He hissed with distaste. “Kittens!”

udith Tanner was attractive, with short gray hair cut in the same fashion since her twenties. She had a trim figure, with sparkling, blue eyes. She turned those orbs toward her daughter, smiling as Remy related her first night alone in the house. She neatly pleated the napkin. She was used to her hands always being busy. They were in a small shop on the main street, drinking tea with delightful lemon cakes. They sat by a picture-frame window, surrounded by shelves filled with lacy dolls and assorted accessories. There were tatted bags, flowered shawls, fingerless gloves—Judith was in heaven. She adored antiques, even if they were twenty-first-century reproductions.

Brian looked uncomfortable in the flimsy chair, his big frame filing the tiny seat. His thick fingers looked incongruous with the delicate porcelain tea set. Outside, traffic built up on the narrow street, the slush from last night’s storm muffling the sound.

Judith couldn’t wait to bring her granddaughter here. “When is Olivia coming home?” she asked.

Remy shrugged. “Not until this afternoon. Scott’s dropping her off at school, and she has a playdate. He’ll
get her every Wednesday and then alternate weekends.” She frowned. “I’ll pick her up after five.”

“A playdate.” Judith brightened. “With whom?”

“One of her classmates. Her mother is a dance teacher, and her father is a realtor in the neighborhood. Nice people,” Remy said wistfully, her gaze focused out the window.

Brian and Judith exchanged glances filled with silent communication. “Your old room is all prepared if you want it,” Judith said. “You don’t have to stay alone. Nobody will think less of you.”

Remy smiled at them. She loved how her father knew what her mother was thinking before she even said it. She observed their shared looks, the ways their eyes caressed each other.

Once she asked her mom why she picked her father to marry.

Her mother had smiled cryptically and said, “Once you know, you just know.”

Sometimes she felt like an intruder when she was with them, as if they belonged to a separate world all their own. She had expected the same relationship with Scott. Why didn’t she get that knowing feeling with Scott? Remy shook off her feelings, then took a sip of her tea.

“Can’t. I have a private at four.”

“Oh, who?” Her mother raised a penciled eyebrow.

It aged her so, her makeup, but no matter how much Remy protested, she refused to update her style. It really didn’t matter. She loved watching her father’s expression when she caught him looking at her mother. The amber
softened to a buttery glow. His love was palpable. It made her go all mushy inside every time she saw it. “Did Scott ever look at me like that? she wondered.

“Everything OK?” Her father’s concerned gaze locked with hers.

“Yep.” She sighed. “I’m fine. Molly booked a whole package. She’s the woman who rented the cottage to me. She wants to give yoga a try.”

“Go gentle with her,” her father advised. “She’ll bring you a lot of new clients.”

“Yup. I’ll take it slow. She knows everybody here.”

Brian shook his head. “You should put up signs in all these stores.” His sharp eyes scanned the room. “It’s all, you know…”

“What, Dad?”

“You know, those yoga kind of people here.”

Remy agreed with a contented smile. “I love it. It’s like an artist’s community.”

Brian tapped his foot impatiently. “I don’t think you’re going to make enough to support—”

“It’s lovely here,” said his wife as she shot him a warning look. She patted her daughter’s hand reassuringly. “It is like an artist’s colony. I spoke with the curator of the museum.”

“Museum?”

“The church has been bought by some kind of historical society. There’s a very nice young man…” She took out a sheaf of papers from her purse. “Hugh.” She read absently from the top paper. “He runs the museum, and he’s very handsome—a little shy, but very good-looking.”

Remy rolled her eyes. “Hugh who?” Remy asked, and then she laughed out loud. It was the first time she’d laughed in a long time, and she watched her parents enjoy it.

“Hugh Matthews. Tall, dark, and—”

“And I am so not interested. What does that have to do with artists?”

“Oh, the cottage—the one you’re renting—was previously owned by an artist. Patrick Redmond. Look.” She showed her a pamphlet. “He was famous for recreating oils of the whaling ships that sailed here. His paintings were somewhat of a mystery because of their accuracy. I mean, it was before the days of the Internet.”

“I’m sure there was a way to get records,” Brian said.

“It’s the oddest thing.” Her mother’s face was alight with interest. “Hugh said—”

“Hugh?” her father asked. “How long ago did you meet him?”

“Just this morning. He’s writing a book about Redmond. He’s adorable, available, and he’d like to have coffee with you.”

“With me?” Brain asked incredulously.

“No. Remy.” She smiled encouragingly at her daughter.

Remy shook her head and whispered, “No. Told you…not interested. Not yet.” Remy admitted to herself that she was gun-shy. “Dating,” she thought with a shudder. She wanted to gag.

“Me either,” Brian added with a nod. He didn’t know if he wanted Remy with someone yet. She looked so small in her chair, so vulnerable.

Judith shook her head in exasperation. “Anyway, Hugh said the records were destroyed in a fire a hundred years ago. Recently they’ve been able to compile information with the help of the folks at Huntington Harbor. Patrick Redmond was a recluse, never left the town, yet he reproduced paintings that illustrated sailing techniques and the movements of the ships with precision. He’s so bright.”

“Patrick Redmond?” Remy asked, her mouth filled with a cranberry square.

“No, Hugh.”

“Who?” Remy asked.

“Not who, Hugh.” Judith drew out his name patiently.

“I’m sure there were letters or books,” Brian said impatiently. “He lived here. He must have been a sailing man.”

“Who, Hugh?” Remy asked, darting a puzzled look.

“No, Patrick Redmond.” Judith shook her head. “That’s the thing. Redmond was afraid of water and never went on the boats. There are no records of letters coming to him. You know the cottage had no phones, television, or Internet.”

“That’s the truth,” Remy said after she took a sip of tea. “They’re having a real difficult time finding ways to wire it up.”

Brian raised his white brow in skepticism. “He should have given you a better price on the rent.”

“Well, it is a small town,” Judith retorted, ignoring their tangent.

Remy bit into another scone. “I read about something like that last week in a magazine at the dentist’s. You know that movie
Ben Hur
, with Charlton Heston?”

“The one they play Easter time?” her mother asked as she pulled apart a turnover. She popped half in her mouth.

Remy really had to talk to her about that lip color. It was probably popular during the real Ben Hur’s lifetime. “Yeah, well, it’s based on a book written by some guy who never traveled to the Middle East, never studied anything about ancient history. He wrote a book that was incredibly historically accurate. He said he was directed by a greater power.”

“Greater power!” Brian growled. “It’s all bullshit as far as I’m concerned.”

“What about Mozart or Einstein?” her mother said. “They say sometimes these people’s genius comes from the unfinished lives of souls that lived before them.” Judith’s penciled brows rose until they were hidden by her bangs. Remy thought they looked better that way.

“Oh, come now, Judy!” Her father was ready to debate. “That’s a crock, and you know it.”

“I don’t know, Brian. There are mysteries that beg to be solved. I watched a program on Bravo—”

“I don’t want to hear about those housewives,” Brian said.

“It was about people who communicate with the dead.”

“TLC,” Remy said.