The Baby Bargain (16 page)

And of leaving her children to cope with a lunatic, Dan thought sourly but he didn't say as much. It was obvious that Kelly's memories of her mother were pleasant. He wasn't going to spoil them by pointing out that retreating was hardly the best way to deal with a bully.

"What about Devlin? You said he left home when you were little. Were you close to him?"

"Oh, yes." Her smile was sweet, with none of the sadness that usually haunted her expression. "He's ten years older than I am, but we were always close. He never seemed to mind having me tag along. Mama wasn't well for a long time after I was born and Devlin watched over me quite a bit. I guess that's what made us so close."

In other words, her mother had allowed a ten-year-old boy to take on the responsibility for his infant sister. Dan concealed his sour expression by swallowing the last of his cocoa.

"When did Devlin leave home?" he asked, wanting to take advantage of her unusually talkative mood. He almost regretted asking when her soft expression faded, replaced by the familiar tightness around her eyes.

"He was eighteen."

"And you were eight," he calculated. "That must have been tough, losing your older brother."

"I cried for days. I couldn't understand why he left, not then, anyway. Later, when I got older, I realized that he'd probably stayed as long as he had because of me. I think if it hadn't been for me he might have left even sooner."

"Why?"

She shrugged without answering but Dan didn't really need an answer. He could guess the answer on his own.

"Did your father beat him, too?" he asked softly, watching her face. She winced and started to shake her head. Her eyes flickered over his face and the gesture changed to the merest hint of a nod.

"I think so," she whispered. "Sometimes Devlin would have bruises, and when I asked him about them he always said he'd fallen or run into something. But later I thought maybe he hadn't fallen at all."

" 'Later' being when your father began to beat you?" he questioned boldly. "When did that start, Kelly? After Devlin left?"

She didn't answer at first. The silence stretched until Dan could hear the faint hiss of a soft rain falling outside.

Kelly stared at the tabletop, quiet for so long that Dan thought maybe he'd tried to go too far too fast. Perhaps she wasn't ready for this. But he'd always believed that the best way to get rid of an infection was to lance the wound. What her father had done to her was festering inside her. Maybe talking about it, getting it all out in the clean air, would help start the healing process.

"He wasn't a bad father," she said, just when he'd begun to give up hope. Her voice was husky, the words a little fast as if she had to rush to get them out. "Not really bad, not when I was little. He wasn't an affectionate man but that was just his way. He was never the sort to hug and kiss or play silly games with you or anything.

"He was always very involved with the church. Mama never went and neither did Devlin and me. Most nights he went to church to pray and every Sunday he was gone. He didn't have much patience with children—some people don't, you know," she said as if he had suggested otherwise.

Dan said nothing, his expression neutral. Kelly waited for a moment before continuing.

"I didn't see all that much of him, really. He was usually gone early in the morning, then he'd come home for supper and go out again and he usually didn't get home before I'd gone to bed. I don't think I missed him all that much. I had Devlin. And Mama," she added.

Dan wondered if it was just his imagination that made the addition seem perfunctory, as if she included her mother more out of loyalty than conviction.

"Devlin sounds like a brother in a million," he said, the one sincere positive comment he could make.

"He was. I don't think it was easy for him. I never blamed him for leaving, not once I got old enough to understand how it must have been."

"Was that when your father started beating you?" he asked again, determined to get the subject around to her.

"No," she whispered. "That didn't start till after Mama was killed. He was so angry with her. I think maybe he took it out on me. He said that she was running away with a lover when she was killed." She pushed the empty mug away, lifting her head to look at him, her eyes daring him to say anything. Dan wisely chose a noncommittal position.

"You don't believe that?"

"No. She wouldn't have left me there. If she were running away she'd have taken me with her."

"Makes sense," he said, keeping his thoughts to himself. A woman who'd lie in her bedroom staring out the window while her son took care of an infant, who had apparently let her husband beat that same son, hardly struck him as the sort to give much thought to her daughter if she decided to run away from what had undoubtedly been a less-than-pleasant life.

"What happened after she died?"

"He was very withdrawn for weeks," Kelly said, her eyes dropping back to the tabletop. She drew her finger through the dark ring that marked the table where cocoa had sloshed out of the mug when Dan set it down. "I tried to talk to him. I was twelve and I was trying so hard to be an adult. He didn't want to talk to me. He didn't even want to look at me. We settled into a pattern, I guess. I took care of the house—we had a house then, not a trailer. I thought we were doing okay.

"And then, about six months after Mama died, I was cleaning and I found her makeup case under the bed. I should have known better, really. I mean, it was so soon and I know he must have missed her."

"What happened, Kelly? Was that the first time he hurt you?"

"Yes." She couldn't seem to get out any more than the one syllable for a moment. "I was playing and he came home and saw me with all the makeup on." She closed her eyes, twelve again and seeing her father's face twist with rage.

"He was so angry," she whispered. "He said I looked like a painted hussy, a whore. He said one whore in the family was enough and he wasn't going to stand by while I became the second. He said that woman was born of sin and that the only means to prevent them from following the devil's ways was to beat the sin from them."

Dan became aware of pain in his hand. He had to force his fingers to relax their grip on the mug. Only the fact that it was made of thick, sturdy china prevented it from shattering beneath the pressure.

"Why didn't you tell someone? Why didn't you go to someone for help?"

"I don't know." She shook her head, looking older than her years in the light that slanted across the table. "He was all the family I had left. I was afraid to lose him, too. I was ashamed and I was scared. I ran away once, when I was almost sixteen."

"What happened?"

"He found me. I didn't dare try again." She didn't add anything to the simple statement. She didn't have to.

"Didn't anyone notice?" Dan asked, shoving away from the table to pace restlessly. "What about your teachers? Your friends?"

"I didn't have any friends. After he sold the house and bought the trailer, I was ashamed to bring them home, afraid they would find out we weren't a perfect family like I was sure they all had. I used to pretend we were a perfect family."

"What about Devlin? Didn't he ever come back, ever see what was happening?"

She shook her head. "He sent an address a few months after he left, a post-office box in South Carolina. I wrote there and he answered for the first few years. Then he stopped answering the letters. The only time I heard from him after that was when Mama died. He wrote and said he couldn't come to the funeral and that I shouldn't grieve too much."

"Did you ever tell him what was happening? What your life was like?"

"No. I didn't want him to worry. So I always let him believe everything was all right. I've written once a month."

"And you haven't had a response in—what—six years?"

"I know it seems foolish/' she said, raising her chin. "But if he weren't getting the letters they'd be returned, wouldn't they? And I'm sure there's a good reason he hasn't written."

Dan sank back into his chair, staring at her. The story she'd just told him was the stuff of lurid headlines. She had lived a life that would have destroyed most people, left them embittered and scarred. A mother who'd abandoned her in mind if not in body, a father who'd ignored and then beaten her, even her beloved brother had left her. And yet she could still say that he must have had a good reason for not writing in six years.

Maybe she was only clinging to the last vestige of the family that had dissolved around her. Maybe she didn't dare believe that Devlin had left her just like her mother had.

And maybe she was strong in ways he was only just beginning to understand.

"I should never have let you go back there," he said as much to himself as to her, thinking that he could have saved her at least one beating.

Kelly reached across the table, her fingers touching his fleetingly, darting away almost as soon as they'd contacted his.

"It wasn't your fault."

Dan's mouth twisted. "Thanks. But it was my fault, almost as much as his. I shouldn't have brought you back here that night. Having done that, I shouldn't have let you go back to your father once you'd told me about the baby. I could see that you were scared. I should have tried to find out why."

"I wouldn't have told you then. I'm not sure why I've told you now," she said, half to herself. "I've never talked about it, not with anyone."

"Maybe it was time you got it out in the open," Dan suggested. "It's easier for things to heal in the fresh air."

"Maybe." She frowned and shook her head, getting back to the subject at hand. "You can't blame yourself for what happened."

"I don't see how you can be so forgiving about this." He stood again, emotions boiling inside him. He covered the distance to the kitchen counter in a few long strides, spinning on one heel to look at her.

"If it wasn't for me, none of this would have happened. The baby, your father." He gestured sharply with one hand, words failing him.

"That's true in a way," Kelly admitted slowly. "But that doesn't make it your fault." She stopped, her cheeks blushing brightly as her eyes dropped to the table. "No one forced me to come back here with you."

"I didn't force you but I should have known better. And even if I didn't know better, I could have at least used protection."

The color in her cheeks deepened, reminding Dan that this was undoubtedly the first time in her life that she had ever talked about contraception; reminding him that he was the one responsible for introducing her, rather dramatically, to the need for such things. Guilt, an all-too-frequent companion these days, washed over him in a new wave.

"If it wasn't for...what happened," Kelly said. "If it wasn't for the...baby." She stumbled over the word, getting it out with difficulty. "I might never have gotten the courage to leave. And it was my fault for going back to the trailer. I should have known better. I'd been sick in the mornings, I knew I couldn't keep it from him forever."

"Why did you go back?" Dan leaned back against the counter and stared at her intently.

"There were some things I wanted to get. Silly things." She shook her head, dismissing something that must have been important to her.

"Keepsakes?"

"Nothing really important. There was a loose panel in my closet and a place to hide things under it."

"If you want them, I'll get them for you."

His offer brought her head up, her eyes wide. "There's nothing of value."

"If you want your things, I'll get them for you," he repeated, his jaw set. There was something in his eyes that suggested he wasn't averse to the idea of a chance to confront her father.

"No." Kelly shook her head. "It's nice of you to ask but I'd rather you didn't. I don't want to stir up any trouble. I just want to put it behind me."

A sudden yawn caught her unawares. She pressed her hand over her mouth. "Excuse me."

Glancing at the clock, Dan saw that it was nearly midnight. He pushed away from the counter, moving to the table. "It's late. You ought to be in bed."

Kelly stood. "I am tired."

She reached for her empty mug, her hand colliding with his as he did the same. For a moment, their fingers were nearly entwined. There was an instant of silence, too tense for such a minor incident, and then Kelly pulled her hand back.

"Well, it's late," she said, as if it were news. "I guess I'll go to bed. Good night."

"Goodnight."

Dan watched her leave, his eyes skimming the slender line of her back, somehow emphasized by the bulky sweater she wore. He didn't move until he heard the bedroom door shut behind her. Absently he picked up the mugs and carried them to the sink.

He had the feeling that Kelly Russell was going to bring even more changes to his life than he'd originally expected.

"Your friend Brittany stopped by this afternoon." Kelly was reaching for a plate on the bottom rack of the dishwasher as she spoke, her back to Dan, so she missed his startled look.

"Brittany Sinclair?" The bank statement he'd been reading was forgotten. What had Brittany been doing here?