Trophies (12 page)

In that second, I realized the name of the
living emotion encircling and protecting my heart.

"Then why did you abandon me all those years
ago?"

He paused and I realized he didn't understand
my words. But before I could digest that he shifted, looked with
blank eyes at the nearest painting — it was obvious he didn't see
it — then he turned back and met my mounting anger without
flinching. The moment lodged in my mind with an unsettled clarity;
I knew I'd remember it and resented that, too.

"We needn't speak of this now."

But I wasn't ready to quit yet. I was an
Ellandun, after all, and there was far too much I needed to say.
"Of course we should." The pulse in my ears was louder than ever.
"You exiled me. You abandoned and disowned me. Tell me this,
Father: what would have happened if Aunt Edith hadn't agreed to
take me in?"

"I hadn't considered the possibility." The
tension wrapped itself about him and his upper lip was stiff. Yet
his voice remained gentle.

Good English breeding. Pity I didn't practice
it, and I wondered what it would take to get an answering rise from
him. It seemed an Ellandun family fight was after all what I wanted
and to hell with dignity, mine or anyone else's. "I suppose there's
a first time for everything. But I've never before known you not to
have a Plan B."

Finally his eyes flashed. "Charles, are you
calling me a liar?"

For some reason, answering that was harder
than I'd expected. I forced myself to say it and damn the
consequences. "Yes, Father, I'm calling you a liar."

The tension widened until it stood not only
between us but around us. Rationally I knew there was a display
within easy arm's reach. I knew several dozen people filled the
showroom. But all I could see was Father, anger finally etched into
his face like a carving in granite, and all I could hear was my
breathing intertwining with the pounding rhythm of the past between
us. I wondered if he had tunnel vision, too.

But his voice remained calm. "That
arrangement was never intended to be permanent, you know."

"That's not what you said. Do you
remember?"

For years I'd waited for this moment. For
years my abandoned heart had longed for the chance to reply to his
indifference. Damned if I'd let a little thing like an olive branch
get in my way.

His face was frozen now, emotions locked away
where I couldn't touch them. Only his lips moved. "No, Charles. I
don't remember. But it seems you do, and perfectly at that. What
did I say?"

I'd forgotten all about elegant put-downs and
dignified forbearance. When it came to the climax of the argument,
I quoted his own words back to him.

"You said Aunt Edith and I deserved each
other."

The most amazing thing happened. Father's
eyes closed. The anger drained from him like stale water from an
overturned vase. He looked suddenly older. And I realized I hadn't
simply focused on him to the exclusion of everything else, but
everyone had fallen silent around us. How loudly had I spoken?

I managed to drop my voice. "Did she ever
tell you she taught me to pick locks?"

But his eyes did not re-open. He remained
locked away, and it was a satisfying rush, slipping through his
defenses and cutting him first. "Good night, Father." I ducked
around the display.

Everyone, of course, stared my way, strangers
and family alike. Dignity died an ignoble death. I threw Uncle
Preston — white and still beneath his spotlight — a venomous
glance. The door was on the far side of the showroom and hot blood
climbed my face as I stalked past the gossipy eyes. William pushed
forward as if to block my path
en route,
but Linda stopped
him, so I escaped outside without a further public fight.

I paused on the landing above the stairs. The
streetlamp was repaired and the electric truck gone. The new bulb
cast its yellow light like the spotlight from a nightmare. The dark
had thickened until I couldn't see the end of the block, much less
the end of my problems. Slow, deep breathing, as usual, didn't calm
me. The tunnel vision didn't expand. Claws still dug into my heart.
If we hadn't been in such a civilized location, would my military
training have taken over? Would I have hit him? The thought made me
shudder; no matter what he'd done, he was an old man and that was
not acceptable behavior.

And as I considered that, the door opened
behind me.

Of course it was William. His face was so
flushed, I could see the color even in that ugly light. He stalked
up and made it a point to invade my personal space.

"Some things never change, do they,
Charles?"

William was not an old man. And the sidewalk
wasn't nearly as civilized even if Aunt Edith's blood had been
washed from the bricks. My tunnel vision narrowed on this new
target. I said nothing, my breathing quickening.

"Is it asking too much for you to treat
Father decently?" Halfway through the sentence his voice started
climbing. "Anyone normal—"

"But I'm not normal, William." He could bully
me when we were younger. Those days were over, and it was time he
learned that despite his boxing trophies. "None of us are.
Collectively we comprise about the most dysfunctional family I know
of, including the royals."

He stepped even closer and leaned toward me.
We almost touched. For a moment a flash of the fear he'd once
aroused in me shivered my soul. But I was no longer a defenseless
teenager. The day's sundry emotions swelled in my chest, like a
rising musical note that built and built until the movie's tension
became unbearable. Pressure had mounted within me all day and it
screamed for release. No clue how long I could control myself or my
brain through such frustration. And William within swinging reach?
Glorious thought.

"You're wrong, Charles. There's only one
dysfunctional member of this family and you're it."

As usual, his accusation was horribly unfair.
There were so many examples of wrongness in our family, from Aunt
Edith's exile almost forty years ago to his own refusal to greet me
when I entered the gallery, that I didn't respond because I
couldn't decide where to begin.

I should hit him. Just hit him. No, bad idea.
On their own, my fists clenched. I locked them against my trouser
seams. Part of me yearned to let go. But with this pressure
fighting for release I'd kill him, and I didn't want to give that
bloody perfect detective any excuse to arrest me. I couldn't trust
myself to remain rational. My heart and breathing slowed, each
calmer than the last as I conquered the urge. Then I considered the
feel of my fists sinking into William and the sensuality aroused me
again. To hell with Brother Perfect, too.

William's expression didn't change. But
something — the angle of his body, the set of his shoulders, the
temperature of the air — something did. He eased back, no more than
half a step, but enough. It wasn't fear; reassessment, perhaps. He
returned my stare without flinching while I measured him for a
coffin.

He turned on his heel. The security guard,
silent in his background, was ready, and closed the new gallery
door behind them both. The interior bolt slammed home.

The stoop and sidewalk were clean now. Runoff
water stood in the gutter. The night pressed closer as if to
enclose me within my damaged mind. Overhead, rain clouds blocked
the stars and absorbed some of the ambient city lights. No one was
near. Aunt Edith was dead and Patty'd clearly had enough of me. I
was alone, the way I used to be as a child, and I never wanted to
be that way again—

—three neat entry wounds drilled through the
silk of Aunt Edith's blouse, stiffened and blackened by crusted
blood. The underlying color was unrecognizable—

current time

—again the gallery door opened behind me.
"Good, you haven't left yet."

It was Patricia and she carried her things in
a heap. I took her shawl and hugged it close to hide my shaking,
not caring how obvious my relief and gratitude might be, while she
sorted herself out, then I managed to drape the lacy thing across
her shoulders without dropping it. If she noticed my lack of
composure she gave no sign.

"Right here," I said, finally breathing more
naturally.

"What's that?" She dug her keys from her
purse.

"She died right here." I couldn't believe I
had to explain. "Patty, doesn't that bother you?"

"Of course it bothers me, Charles." Her voice
was suddenly tight, but when she looked at me, I could see I wasn't
forgiven and she wouldn't be distracted. "And so does your
behavior."

For a vengeful moment I considered having yet
another argument. I could always harangue her about blackmailing me
into attending this bloody party in the first place; in that sense,
it really was all her fault. But even in that light she looked
stricken beneath her anger, and I couldn't do it.

Instead, I reached for our comfortable
routine and asked what I knew she expected me to ask. "May I assume
you're leaving, as well?"

"I thought I might offer you a ride." She
paused. "Save you the cab fare."

And have me all to herself so she could tell
me precisely what she considered so obnoxious regarding said
behavior. My cell phone was on my belt. It would take a mere moment
to ring a cab; I had all their numbers programmed into my contact
list; and it would hurt her feelings no end.

I closed my eyes and counted to ten. Like the
breathing exercises, it never helped and I was beginning to wonder
why I bothered. But Patty's loyalty eased the unbearable pressure
built during the family confrontations. I wasn't alone, and that
helped more than all the exercises ever invented.

For Patty's sake, I said what she expected
and not what I wanted. "Why can't my end of the family behave more
like you? Kind, sweet, beautiful—"

"Oh, stop it and come on."

The street was packed with expensive heavy
metal, including a Jaguar, several Mercedes, multiple Beamers, even
a Rolls. Patricia's modest Taurus was squeezed so tightly into its
parking space, sandwiched between a Suburban and a half-size
Hummer, that she had to back and fill several times before she
could pull out. Then she turned onto Mass. Ave. and headed for
Cambridge.

Within seconds — when she slanted from one
side of her lane to the other and back again — I could tell
Patricia's mind was somewhere, but not on Mass. Ave. Even a fight
was preferable to her driving when she was lost in thought. Even
now. I cleared my throat to grab her attention.

"You know, I'm serious. Why is my family so
hateful?"

A glance showed her lower lip between her
teeth, which meant she had something to say that was going to hurt
at least one of us and all the betting was one-way. I was expecting
it, of course; I braced for impact, but still considered it
preferable to a physical impact with another car, the Harvard
Bridge, or the Charles River.

"I didn't hear Uncle William's end of the
conversation. Just yours."

Braced or not, she scored. I reddened.
"You're saying I'm the one who raised his voice. I'm the one who
was hateful and not him."

"No, I said I didn't hear it all. But perhaps
you should think that over."

"Patty—"

"No, think about it. I know he wasn't
intending to be hateful because he discussed this with me and Dad.
He wants to make peace with you."

"So the entire family is conspiring against
me?" I thought longingly of the cab I hadn't called, of the
peaceful ride and the quiet I could have drawn about me for
comfort. The pressure wasn't building as ferociously, I'd never hit
Patty, but nor did I want to blurt out something ugly and wound her
again. Next time, oh, yes, next time would be different.

The look she gave me was not pretty. "He's a
good man. And he's becoming an old man because this is weighing on
him. Every time I see him he's a touch greyer, and I don't mean his
hair. He's your father, you know."

"You don't say." Snide didn't count.

In the light of a passing streetlamp, her
breasts lifted as she gathered a deep breath. "What was that about
Aunt Edith teaching you to pick locks? Is that honestly where you
learned it?"

Damn. I'd hoped she'd missed my parting shot.
"Yes."

"And why was it important he know that?"

That death-grip on my self-control weakened.
Aunt Edith had never pressed me for information I hadn't wanted to
share. When we were younger I'd kept Patty at the same distance,
but lately the tactic seemed to be rather less effective.

"Because I wanted to hurt him, all right? I
wanted him to know that, when he exiled me from home to live with
Aunt Edith, he didn't discourage me from becoming a thief but
actually made it possible."

Now I'd really done it. Now I'd admitted, not
only had she been wrong about me, she'd known nothing of Aunt
Edith, either. And I was certain I'd hear about it the entire way
back to Cambridge.

There was nothing left to do but admit the
truth. "I've wanted to tell him this for years and never thought
I'd actually get the chance. So I took it when offered."

She was silent for almost a mile. I was
certain she was chewing my words over and was about to give me a
lecture on forgiveness and respect for one's elders and drive into
a lamppost. So her change of subject caught me utterly by
surprise.

"Did he really disown you?"

The squirming discomfort I'd felt in the
gallery flooded through me again, almost as if we had tumbled into
the river.
Yes, Father, I'm calling you a liar.

But was he? Those words had been hard to say.
From Aunt Edith's and Uncle Hubert's teachings, I valued honesty
and accuracy. Was my conscience, tired and jaded as it was, trying
to tell me something?