In Silence

Avery didn’t have the heart to correct her. To tell her she wasn’t certain what her future held. “Have you spoken with him since he left?”

Fresh tears flooded Cherry’s eyes. Avery wished she could take the question back. “His dad’s gotten a few letters. He’s over in Baton Rouge, at a home there. I go see him once a week.”

“And Matt?”

“They spoke once. And fought. Matt chewed him out pretty good. For the way he treated me. He hasn’t heard from him since.”

Avery could bet he had chewed him out. Matt had always returned Cherry’s hero worship with a kind of fierce protectiveness.

“He’s missed you, you know.”

Avery met Cherry’s gaze, surprised. “Excuse me?”

“Matt. He never stopped hoping you’d come back to him.”

Avery shook her head, startled by the rush of emotion she felt at Cherry’s words. “A lot of time’s passed, Cherry. What we had was wonderful, but we were very young. I’m sure there have been other women since—”

“No. He’s never loved anyone but you. No one ever measured up.”

Avery didn’t know what to say. She told Cherry so.

The younger woman’s expression altered slightly. “It’s still there between you two. I saw it last night. So did Mom and Dad.”

When she didn’t reply, Cherry narrowed her eyes. “What are you so afraid of, Avery?”

She started to argue that she wasn’t, then bit the words back. “A lot of time’s passed. Who knows if Matt and I even have anything in common anymore.”

“You do.” Cherry caught her hand. “Some things never change. And some people are meant to be together.”

“If that’s so,” Avery said, forcing lightness into her tone, “we’ll know.”

Instead of releasing her hand, Cherry tightened her grip. “I can’t allow you to hurt him again. Do you understand?”

Uncomfortable, Avery tugged on her hand. “I have no plans of hurting your brother, believe me.”

“I’m sure you mean that, but if you’re not serious, just stay away, Avery. Just … stay … away.”

“Let go of my hand, Cherry. You’re hurting me.”

She released Avery’s hand, looking embarrassed. “Sorry. I get a little intense when it comes to my brothers.”

Without waiting for Avery to respond, she made a show of glancing at her watch, exclaiming over the time and how she would be late for a meeting at the Women’s Guild. She quickly packed up the picnic basket, insisting on leaving the thermos of coffee and remaining biscuits for Avery.

“Just bring the thermos by the house,” she said, hurrying toward the door.

It wasn’t until Cherry had backed her Mustang down the driveway and disappeared from sight that Avery realized how unsettled she was by the way their conversation had turned from friendly to adversarial. How unnerved by the woman’s threatening tone and the way she had seemed to transform, becoming someone Avery hadn’t recognized.

Avery shut the door, working to shake off the uncomfortable sensations. Cherry had always looked up to Matt. Even as a squirt, she had been fiercely protective of him. Plus, still smarting from her own broken heart made her hypersensitive to the idea of her brother’s being broken.

No, Avery realized. Cherry had referred to her brothers, plural. She got a little intense when it came to her brothers.

Odd, Avery thought. Especially in light of the things she had said about Hunter the night before. If Cherry felt as strongly about Hunter as she did about Matt, perhaps she’d had more interaction with Hunter than she’d claimed. And perhaps her anger was more show than reality.

But why hide the truth? Why make her feelings out to be different than they were?

Avery shook her head. Always looking for the story, she thought. Always looking for the angle, the hidden motive, the elusive piece of the puzzle, the one that broke the story wide open.

Geez, Avery. Give it a rest. Stop worrying about other people’s issues and get busy on your own.

She certainly had enough of them, she acknowledged, shifting her gaze to the stairs. After all, if she got herself wrapped up in others’ lives and problems, she didn’t have to face her own. If she was busy analyzing other people’s lives, she wouldn’t have time to analyze her own.

She wouldn’t have to face her father’s suicide. Or her part in it.

Avery glanced up the stairway to the second floor. She visualized climbing it. Reaching the top. Turning right. Walking to the end of the hall. Her parents’ bedroom door was closed. She had noticed that the night before. Growing up, it had always been open. It being shut felt wrong, final.

Do it, Avery. Face it.

Squaring her shoulders, she started toward the stairs, climbed them slowly, resolutely. She propelled herself forward with sheer determination.

She reached her parents’ bedroom door and stopped. Taking a deep breath, she reached out, grasped the knob and twisted. The door eased open. The bed, she saw, was unmade. The top of her mother’s dressing table was bare. Avery remembered it adorned with an assortment of bottles, jars and tubes, with her mother’s hairbrush and comb, with a small velveteen box where she had kept her favorite pieces of jewelry.

It looked so naked. So empty.

She moved her gaze. Her father had removed all traces of his wife. With them had gone the feeling of warmth, of being a family.

Avery pressed her lips together, realizing how it must have hurt, removing her things. Facing this empty room night after night. She’d asked him if he needed help. She had offered to come and help him clean out her mother’s things. Looking back, she wondered if he had sensed how halfhearted that offer had been. If he had sensed how much she hadn’t wanted to come home.

“I’ve got it taken care of, sweetheart. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

So, she hadn’t. That hurt. It made her feel small and selfish. She should have been here. Avery shifted her gaze to the double dresser. Would her mother’s side be empty? Had he been able to do what she was attempting to do now?

She hung back a moment more, then forced herself through the doorway, into the bedroom. There she stopped, took a deep breath. The room smelled like him, she thought. Like the spicy aftershave he had always favored. She remembered being a little girl, snuggled on his lap, and pressing her face into his sweater. And being inundated with that smell—and the knowledge that she was loved.

The womb from her nightmare. Warm, content and protected.

Sometimes, while snuggled there, he had rubbed his stubbly cheek against hers. She would squeal and squirm—then beg for more when he stopped.

Whisker kisses, Daddy. More whisker kisses.

She shook her head, working to dispel the memory. To clear her mind. Remembering would make this more difficult than it already was. She crossed to the closet, opened it. Few garments hung there. Two suits, three sports coats. A half-dozen dress shirts. Knit golf shirts. A tie and belt rack graced the back of the door; a shoe rack the floor. She stood on tiptoe to take inventory of the shelf above. Two hats—summer and winter. A cardboard storage box, taped shut.

Her mom’s clothes were gone.

Avery removed the box, set it on the floor, then turned and crossed to the dresser. On the dresser top sat her dad’s coin tray. On it rested his wedding ring. And her mother’s. Side by side.

The implications of that swept over her in a breath-stealing wave. He had wanted them to be together. He had placed his band beside hers before he—

Blinded by tears, Avery swung away from the image of those two gold bands. She scooped up the cardboard box and hurried from the room. She made the stairs, ran down them. She reached the foyer, dropped the box and darted to the front door. She yanked it open and stepped out into the fresh air.