Distant Blood

11

I stormed down to the beach, anger cours ing through my marrow. I despise bullies of any sort and I particularly disliked Philip. So much for cousinly accord. He'd struck a sore spot with me and I'd seen he knew so in his beady, damp eyes.

I felt hot shame that Philip might have detected any vestige of greed in my face. I was here for Bob Don's sake; and no one else's. How could I have known that Uncle Mutt was dying? No one-

I stopped dead in my tracks, nearly stumbling over the sand-gritted balloon of a beached jellyfish. Philip implied that I'd come here for the sole reason of cajoling my way into Uncle Mutt's will. But how was I to know his will would be put into use soon? I couldn't. No one knew that Mutt was dying-or did they? Had Philip known? Was that why he was willing to endure Mutt's jabs, knowing that they were destined to end soon? The thought gave me definite pause.

And the hatred that oozed from this family: the venom of Aunt Sass, the callow threats of Philip, the deliberate spite that flowed from Aunt Lolly during her fatal dinner-why? Some force, unseen, warped this family as surely as an inexorable weight warps a support. I self-indulgently had supposed that it was simply me, the unwelcome bastard. But I suspected, despite Philip's baiting, that I was merely a bruise on the mortal wound of this clan. Thank God I had my sweetheart here to help me, to talk to me, to help me understand-

My God. I realized, with a jolt, that I'd brought the only guest to this reunion. Philip, Tom, Aubrey, Sass, Deborah- why didn't they bring their significant others, their Can-daces-to a gathering of the Goertzes? Maybe they knew from experience no fun was to be had on this island.

Why not? After all, the beach where I stood was the site of mass murder. I felt a cringe in my legs as I surveyed the beach, the remains of jellyfish scattered about like victims of a more recent massacre. Did those boys from the Reliant cry and beg for their lives, or did they stare straight ahead as the blades sliced open their throats and their blood ran like a crimson tide? The sand felt seductively warm beneath my feet; I didn't have to dwell on the dark past. The day was beautiful and the relaxing whoosh of the surf reminded me I was supposed to be on vacation, viciousness and death and secrecy aside.

I skirted the littered jellyfish corpses and headed toward the dock. Mutt's second boat, the Little Brutus, bobbed in the waves. He'd taken the boat Rufus had ferried us over in to Port Lavaca.

I could see Deborah and Candace still standing on the edge of the dock-but Candace stood with one hand on Deborah's shoulder, her head bowed with some great weight. She was crying.

Sudden pain nipped at my heart. I can't bear to see women weep, and Candace's rare tears always drain me. I suspected I was the source of her distress and a hot flush of guilt crept up my face. I didn't mean to make her cry. We'd argued, but surely not intensely enough to evoke weeping. My throat dried and I stood still, unsure if I should encroach on her private moment. She might not want my brand of comfort.

She wiped her eyes and saw me. She turned away, toward the bay and the wind. Deborah glanced over at me, a sad look painting her face.

Hell's bells. I walked slowly onto the dock. “Candace? You okay?”

“I'm fine,” she said softly, glancing back at me. “Deborah and I were just chatting and I got a little emotional. That's all.”

I reached out for her shoulder; she didn't flinch away. “I'm sorry.”

“Excuse me,” Deborah murmured. “I think I'll run up to the house and get a Coke. Candace, you're sure you're okay?”

“I'm fine, Deborah, thanks.”

Deborah smiled softly at me, turned, and hurried toward the house.

“She's sweet,” I said, feeling awkward. I looked at Can-dace; she stared up at the vast vault of summer sky. The clouds resembled old, sculpted bone.

“She is kind,” Candace finally said. “I like Deborah.”

“I like her, too.” The topic of Deborah exhausted, I cast about for the words to frame my apology in. “Sugar, I'm sorry I blew up at you. I had no call to say what I did. I'm feeling awkward around these folks, I don't know how to be myself here, and I should have listened to you. I'm really sorry.”

“Are you apologizing to me because I feel bad or because you feel bad, Jordy?” She kept her gaze on the whitecapped waves lapping at the beach. One strand of walnut-brown hair kept whipping around her face and I slowly guided it back into place. The cup of her ear felt warm against my fingers.

“Both.”

She smiled then, the vaguest trace of a grin, and she turned her face into my palm, her breath tickling my life line. I kissed her cheek and she kissed my hand.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered into her soft hair. “I'm a real butt sometimes.”

“I'm sorry, too.” Her voice was whispery and strong, like silk. “I should have told you how I got Arlene on the side of this trip so you wouldn't find out the wrong way. And I shouldn't have used that tactic-it wasn't kind.” She sighed. “You're in such a weird situation with these people, and I just mouth off with my free advice. You've got to decide what your relationship is with your father. I can't tell you what it should be, nobody can.”

“No. You were right. I've pretended far too long that I can just sweep Bob Don under the rug, that he'll be satisfied with only being my friend. I've got to let him be a dad to me.”

She stared up into my face with such tenderness I felt the breath in my throat halt. It's a terrible responsibility for someone to look at you with such love. I didn't deserve her-her strength, her kindness, her forgiveness of my multitude of faults. I specialized in alienating people and raising hackles. I couldn't walk past the anthill without kicking it over to see what ruckus I could raise. I could not be an easy man to love.

One of her eyebrows arched. “Oh, babe, don't give me that look. It wears me out for you to think I'm perfect.”

I blinked to clear my face of any offending expression. “You may not be perfect, but you're the perfect one for me.” I bent down to her. As we kissed, her hands tangled in my hair. I reveled in the gentle scratch of her fingernails against my scalp, the pressure of her arm against my neck, the nip of her tongue against my lips. I lifted her up into my arms.

“My big, tall boy,” she teased, then her tone grew serious. “Do you love Bob Don?” she asked, her voice a thrum against my neck.

The dreaded question, given air at last. “I'm-I'm glad he's part of my life now.”

“Well,/love him. He's a wonderful man. I wish my father was more like him. Kind, generous. You could be a father like him someday yourself,” she whispered in my ear.

“Maybe I will be,” I said.

“Maybe. Now, you put me down, all those folks in the house will be talking. And it's not right we be out here kissing on each other, after poor Lolly's death.”

I set her down gently. “This isn't a house of mourning like any I've ever seen. Deborah, Gretchen, and Uncle Mutt seem upset, but the rest-they seem disconnected. As if they don't believe Lolly's dead. Or worse, that it doesn't matter.” I told her quickly about my conversations with Aubrey and Philip. I did tell her about finding Lolly's letter, but I left out the part about snooping after Deborah and getting caught by Wendy. No need for her to know just how much of an idiot I'd managed to be in one short morning. “I'm not sure dysfunctional's the word for this bunch.”

“I don't understand why Lolly sent you the letters.”

“I don't know what she hoped to gain, either.” I let the bay wind caress my face. “But she's dead now, and she can't hurt us.”

“Jordan-” she began to speak, her upturned face earnest in the bright sunshine. She stopped.

“What? What's wrong?”

She shook her head. “It's nothing. Why don't we go back to the house? I'm sure Deborah's wondering if we've fallen off the deck.”

“Fine.” I took her hand and we began to walk toward the house, my heart lightening ever so slightly, and for the first time since our arrival. The feeling didn't last long enough to savor. Because I saw Gretchen stumbling down from the house, the bottle in her hand glinting like a blade in the fierce summer glare.

“Gretchen?” I ventured. We'd stopped on the path leading back to the house, and Gretchen nearly barreled into us, her gaze concentrated on some inward journey.

“Oh, Jordy. Candace. Hi.” Gretchen awkwardly gestured with the bottle, a Texas vintner's Chardonnay, opened but recorked.

Candace and I were silent.

“Oh, the bottle?” She laughed, a feeble twitter like a bird's. “Oh, this. Yes. This. I was taking it to Tom and Rufus. They're scouring about on the other side of the island.”

“You were going to walk a mile or so to take them a bottle of wine?” I tried not to make my voice sound accusing. I could smell the bitter tang of alcohol on her breath, covered up with the thin camouflage of mint gum. My heart sunk like a stone after its last skip on the water.

She saw the fear in my eyes and swallowed.

“Gretchen. Why have you done this to yourself?”

“Done what? I-I told you, I'm taking this to Tom and Rufus. Thirsty work they're doing. Well, you wouldn't believe me anyway.” Her voice took an edge, like a newly sharpened knife. A sneer, one I had not seen in many months, curled her lip. “You little bastard. You just can't wait to manufacture a lie about me, can you?”

“Gretchen. Let's go sit up in your room, have some coffee and a nice talk-” Candace attempted.

Gretchen surrendered no ground. “No, no. Don't need that. Don't want that. I just want to go for a walk.” She wobbled on uncertain legs. “I don't feel so good.”

I didn't speak. I just took her arm and steered her back toward the house. She stumbled along the first few steps, leaning against me for support. Then she wrenched away, as if I smelled foul and she couldn't bear another whiff. She pivoted and bolted down the path.

I grabbed her arm and she didn't try to wriggle loose. She stood there, penitent, her head cast down in silent shame. Her muscles trembled beneath my fingertips, and her skin felt like a furnace.

“Gretchen.” I kept my voice soft and nonjudgmental.

“Just… just get me up to the house. Don't let nobody see me.” She leaned against me, dropping the wine. It fell onto the soft grass by the path and Candace retrieved it. I watched the liquid-poison to Gretchen's system-roll languidly within the clear shell of the bottle.

We smuggled her into the house, entering through a rear door near the kitchen. Uncle Jake sat in the study, in full view as we tried to ascend the staircase with the stealth of burglars.

“What's wrong?” he called.

“Nothing,” I answered. “The sun just got to Gretchen.”

Uncle Jake didn't challenge us further, but I could feel the weight of his stare against my back.

Bob Don wasn't in their room. I eased Gretchen down on the bed. Her eyelids fluttered and she let out a small moan.

“Gimme something damp,” she begged, and I hurried to the bathroom, rinsed out a washcloth, squeezed out the excess water, and laid it across her forehead.

“I'll go find Bob Don,” Candace said.

“No, don't,” Gretchen murmured, but Candace was already gone.

I am usually a resourceful man, but my limbs and mind felt numb. I didn't want to sit through Gretchen's drunk. I wanted to bellow at Gretchen, but I kept my mouth shut. I sat next to her on the bed, watching the gentle flutter of flesh beneath her eyelids. Slowly those eyes opened and fixed upon my face.

“I don't understand how it happened,” she whispered, her voice barely louder than a sigh. “I didn't want to drink anything. I didn't. Never again.”

“What upset you?” She didn't answer me. Perhaps Lolly's death had nudged Gretchen back toward the demon rum. Seeing her die in front of all of us had been one of the most unnerving experiences of my life. I couldn't blame Gretchen for wanting to dull her own pain, but I felt disappointed in her.

“Gretchen, you don't need booze. We'll go over to the mainland tonight, find an AA meeting in Port O'Connor. You need to talk to folks about why you drank.” At least I assumed she did. What I knew about AA was gleaned entirely from television. I had done little to participate in Gretchen's sobriety other than offering unobtrusive support. I knew, with a keen and sudden tightness, I could have done more.

“Not AA. Not right now. Later.” She put her hand on the cool wetness of the cloth. “I don't understand. All I drank today was a little coffee and then a couple of Dr Peppers. Then-all of a sudden-I felt funny, craved a hit of wine. Couldn't-couldn't help it, Jordy! I couldn't help it!” She began to sob, a deep crying like she'd lost a part of herself that could never be regained.

I surprised the hell out of myself by taking her hand. She clasped my fingers hard. I bent over, whispering, “It'll be okay. It'll be okay.”

“No, no, it won't. He'll leave me. Bob Don said he couldn't take me drinking, he'd leave me if I fell off the wagon.” Dread widened her eyes. “Oh, God damn me for drinking!”

I squeezed her hand and said, “God won't desert you. Neither will Bob Don, or any of us.”

“Why”-she swallowed-”must you be so like him? Why? I can't give him a baby, I never could.” Her words slurred together like voices raised in distant hue and cry. Her drawl slowed and deepened; she almost sounded like a man.

“I'm sorry, Gretchen.”

“Oh, Jesus, don't be. I wanted his baby to grow inside me. Never could. Not meant to be, my mama said. She said God knew I'd make a lousy mother. God doesn't give babies to drunks.” Her eyes stared past my shoulder, riveted to the arabesque swirls on the ceiling. “Now Bob Don's got you, he's got his child. I don't got nothing.”

“You have your husband, Gretchen.”

“He'll leave me-” she sobbed, then hiccuped loudly. She covered her mouth with her fingertips and belched softly, a tear running down her cheek. Fear made her body as rigid as a board.

“He won't leave you. I won't let him,” I soothed. “Now, how much did you drink?”

She swallowed. “One whole bottle, and part of another. I snuck it out of the bar. I drank it up here. It made my mouth all cold, so I wanted to get warm. I decided I wouldn't- couldn't stay in the house. So I wanted to go to the beach, on the other side of the island. I could drink down there, yes I could. Maybe take a swim. A long swim…” She closed her eyes again, her breathing labored, her words mumbled. “I used to swim down there, when I was younger. Tom told me the sand's still soft. I used to swim there with Paul. We'd watch the egrets fly. We'd laugh at them clowning around in the shallows, scaring up fish.”

Her memories seemed as delicate as old lace. “Who's Paul?”

Her eyes were distant. “I thought I saw him again last night.”

“Who? Paul? Who is he?”

She shook her head.

I held her hand and didn't know what else to do. “And you don't know why you drank?”

“I was drunk before I knew it,” she muttered, absently rubbing her eyebrows. “I'm sorry I hit you this morning. I lost my temper. Stupid of me.”

I released her hand and walked over to the vanity, where a glass of Dr Pepper sat in its puddle of condensation. Some soda, its color lightened by melting ice cubes, remained in the bottom. I sniffed at the glass. Nothing. I sipped cautiously, rolling the liquid in my mouth. I went and spat the mixture in the sink just as Bob Don came in, followed by Candace and Aunt Sass.

Sass took one look at Gretchen. “Oh, dear. Drunk again.” She said it without malice, but also without pity. Pain stiffened Bob Don's face. Gretchen turned her face away into the comfort of her pillow, her shoulders hunched.

“Not exactly,” I said softly. “Her soda's been laced with Everclear. Someone set Gretchen up to drink.”

Bob Don convened an unlikely war council in Aunt Sass's room. Gretchen was napping off the wine, calmed and reassured by Bob Don that he wasn't bailing out of their marriage. Sass, Candace, Bob Don, and I sat on Sass's unmade bed. I kept a fair distance from Sass. I don't believe either of us had forgotten the harsh volley we'd exchanged after breakfast.

The room, even being one Sass occupied only as a guest, already bore her indelible imprint. Clothes lay haphazardly on the floor and across furniture, dropped where she'd shed them. Earrings lay in scattered profusion across a side table, and a forest of cosmetics bottles sprouted before a mirrored vanity.

“I hate to say it, Bob Don,” Sass began, after a hesitant glance toward Candace and me, “but she could have spiked her own drink and just claimed that she didn't mean to get drunk.”

He nodded. “But I don't believe she'd lie.”

“Alcoholics fib if they want to drink, hon. Remember that second husband of mine.” She glanced again with discom-fort toward me. “Aubrey's daddy was a heavy drinker. Very heavy. I know how hard it's been for Bob Don.”

I said nothing. Her own imbibing last night had been of epic proportions. And I was no more comfortable with seeing Aunt Sass's pain than she was showing it to me. “I think her soda was laced. She was too miserable at the thought of Bob Don finding out she'd drunk.” I tugged at the corner of the comforter. The room felt stifling hot, despite the gentle circling of the ceiling fan overhead. The air smelled of Aunt Sass's perfume-sweet and slightly smoky, like a singed rose.

“So we're left with the idea that someone spiked her drink,” Candace said. “Why would someone want to get Gretchen drunk?”

“To hurt her,” Aunt Sass answered immediately. “If she's worked so hard to stay sober, like Bob Don says, nothing would hurt her more than to tank her up.” She reached for her brother's hand. “Honey. I'm so sorry. I feel so bad for her.”

I couldn't forget the slightly sneering tone that Aunt Sass had used yesterday when Gretchen announced her new sobriety. Perhaps I misinterpreted. Or perhaps Sass was just sporting her kindest face for the sorrowful moment.

“But why?” Candace persisted. “Who'd want her off the wagon?”

“Maybe there's no motive but meanness.” I stood and went to survey the beautiful bay from the window. The ocean offered no sign of a returning Uncle Mutt. I wanted time to speed up so we could leave this island. Lolly's corpse had been removed, but a pervading sense of death still itched at my skin, like a tendril of smoke.

“I don't understand, son,” Bob Don said to my back. I faced him.

“Meanness,” I repeated. “There's more tension in this family than kindness. Someone could have tampered with Gretchen's drink just out of sheer cussedness.” I” avoided casting accusing eyes toward Sass.

“Granted, getting Gretchen inebriated would hurt her,” Sass countered, “but I don't see anyone here wanting to inflict that pain. I don't want to pick another fight with you, Jordan, but I've lived with a drunkard myself. I hate to play devil's advocate, but it's much more likely that Gretchen poured out that booze than any mysterious gloved hand with an ulterior motive.”

“You're right,” I said, and she blinked. “I would agree with you. Normally. But I've seen how hard Gretchen's fought for her sobriety, and I don't believe she'd toss it away on a whim. Either something upset her so badly she drank, and she doesn't want to tell us, or someone spiked her Dr Pepper.”

“Uncle Mutt terminally ill, Lolly dead, now this.” Bob Don shook his head. “Bad, bad days for this family.”

I, unknowing, proceeded to make them worse.

“Who's Paul?” I asked. Bob Don studied the brightly stitched rug on the floor. Aunt Sass conducted a careful examination of her flawless fingernails.

“Am I talking to myself here? Gretchen mentioned someone named Paul, thought she saw him last night.”

“Then she was drunk last night, too,” Sass said in a colorless tone. “Paul was our younger brother. He's dead. He was Deborah's daddy.”

“Oh.” The alleged murderer and suicide. “Were he and Gretchen close?”

Bob Don stood and walked out of the room. I felt a familiar pang that suggested I was tasting my own shoe leather.

“Yes, Jordan, they were. Once,” Sass answered, watching the doorway where her brother had retreated. “Paul was Gretchen's first husband.”

Bob Don had withdrawn to his own room to care for his wife. Candace claimed a headache. And I didn't feel like lingering in Sass's domain any longer than necessary. I took to the porch with a tall glass of Dr Pepper, ice, and a lime slice.

The stalwart Deputy Praisner no longer stood sentry there. Instead, I saw a bored-looking young female deputy tossing pebbles off the dock. The sunlight glittered against the gun in her holster.

I sipped at my drink and considered the latest anthill I'd kicked over.

Odd, the minutiae you unearth around the roots of the family tree. I'd never known that Gretchen was previously married, much less to Bob Don's own brother. The Goertz family Christmas must've been extra festive the year that Bob Don and Gretchen exchanged vows. Marrying your sister-in-law-the surest way to drive two brothers apart.

I sucked on my lime, dumped its scraggly crescent back into the ice, and poured the rest of my soda over it. The sun felt warm on my face and the breeze was cool and fresh. I was at the coast-I should have been happy and relaxed. Instead I felt the pulsing rhythm of a nascent headache and a homesickness for my dull, plain family. No announcements of terminal illnesses at the dinner table, no gasping deaths on the dining-room floor, no drunken stepmothers sobbing out their sobriety. Only the gentle nagging of my sister about my latest misadventure, the repeated requests of my nephew to go horseback riding, the silent perambulations of my fading mother around the furniture at our new house, where she always seemed bound on some dear and secret journey. The Poteets were downright dull compared with the Goertzes. I preferred dull.

“You stare out at the ocean any longer, you'll go mad,” a voice observed. My cousin Deborah leaned against the white wood of the porch and smiled thinly at me.

“Madness fits here.” I spoke without thinking, hoping I hadn't offended her. She simply shrugged.

“Aunt Lolly.” She sighed. “I can't quite believe that she's gone. I keep expecting her to round that corner, chirping at Sweetie to come cuddle in her lap. Or hollering at me for some imagined crime.” Deborah stared out at the ocean, watching the great, mothering waves sliding across the sands.

I said nothing, enjoying the companionable silence and the whoosh of wind and water. I waited for her to talk; I guessed she wanted to voice her burdens. Her fingers drummed a regular beat against the wooden rail of the porch, a metronome for her nerves.

“I don't want you to get the wrong idea about Lolly and me.” Deborah kept her gaze firmly on the expanse of water.

“I take it y'all didn't get along.”

She hung her head over the porch railing. “Oh, it's so complicated.”

“Hey, I'm the illegitimate kid. I'm the personification of complicated.”

It garnered a tense laugh from her. “You know Lolly took me in when my mother died.” She made no reference to her father.

“Yes.”

“Well”-Deborah ran a hand through her thick, dark hair and seemed to cast about for the right words-”that wasn't my decision. Had I my druthers, I'd have gone to live with Uncle Mutt. I've adored him since I was little. But he didn't want a child underfoot then; he was the fast and easy bachelor. So Uncle Mutt, in his grand role as patriarch, dispatched me to live with Aunt Lolly. It was kind of an arranged marriage, y'know? Neither of us were very thrilled.”

I thought about how badly Gretchen wanted a child. “Bob Don and Gretchen didn't offer to take you in?”

“No. Aunt Gretchen was… still drinking.” Deborah shook her head. “She wouldn't have wanted kids anyway.”

The child of her ex-husband. I could understand why. Gretchen, Bob Don, his brother Paul-untangling that web would take time if I relied on Gretchen and Bob Don to speak up.

“Why was Lolly not a good match for you?”

“Because family propriety matters so to Lolly-perhaps more than it should.” She still referred to her aunt in present tense and I wasn't heartless enough to correct her. “Brian and I weren't anything more than stains on the Goertz name to her.”

“Brian?” I asked.

Her jaw worked for a moment, reining in strong emotion. “My brother. My little brother. He's dead, too.”

“Oh, Deborah, I'm so sorry.”

Her eyes filmed with tears, but she quickly blinked them away. “You'd have liked him real well, Jordan.”

“I'm so sorry,” I repeated. I make for a lousy comforter.

“Don't listen to the lies they tell,” she stormed with sudden fury. “Because they do lie.”

“Who's they?”

“This whole goddamned family.” Anger reddened her face and she grasped my hand, her trimmed nails digging furrows in my skin. “They'll tell you my dad murdered my mother and then went off and killed himself. But he didn't. He didn't.”

I took both her hands in mine. Her skin quivered against my touch. I saw now she was too mad to cry. Fury contorted her face into a vengeful grimace.

“Do you want to tell me what happened? What's the truth?”

She didn't look at me; she stared back out at the lapping bay as she talked. “My mother-when I was just six, and Brian was only two-was found shot to death. In my father's studio. Her face had been blown off.” She stifled a shudder. “My father went missing. Later we-I mean Uncle Mutt-found a note that my father had left. He said he'd shot my mother, then snuck out here to Sangre Island and walked into the ocean. He said he was sorry for what he'd done and couldn't live with himself anymore.”

“Uncle Mutt found this note?”

She nodded. “It was taped to the door of the house. The family had gathered here for my mother's funeral. He left the note-and then vanished.”

“And you don't believe your father killed your mother?” I didn't mean for the question to sound so heartless, and I squeezed Deborah's hands in support.

“Would you?” She looked at me with tearless eyes. “My father was an art teacher, Jordan. A sculptor. He worshiped my mother's face. She met him when she was one of his regular models. Sculptors don't destroy works of art. If he was going to kill her, it wouldn't be shooting her in the face.”

Her reasoning seemed wishful to me. Why should an artist lurk on a higher moral plane? And I'd known painters who'd obliterated canvases with no hesitation. But to contradict her would be cruel. “I take it the rest of your family didn't agree with your reasoning.”

“No.” Her voice cracked. “Do you know how that feels? They didn't want to talk about it. They didn't want to acknowledge that something as distasteful as a murder had happened in our family. Tight asses, all of them. But Bob Don was kind to me, and Tom-he was really kind to Brian. Aubrey was good to him, too.” She paused to draw a restoring breath. “The Goertzes personify the delightful combination of German immigrant stiffness and Old South propriety. You just don't have murderers in the family. It's simply not done. So everyone closed together in a tight circle and pretended it didn't happen. They pretended my parents didn't matter because they died in a distasteful way.” Bitterness scored her words. I couldn't speak; I watched her bottom lip quiver with anger.

She continued: “Aunt Lolly considered Brian and me as nothing but pockmarks on the family skin. She had a warped sense of family honor. What Dad did-what she thought he did-was unforgivable. And Lolly definitely believed that the children were liable for the sins of the father.”

“Was she just horrible to you and Brian?” I asked.

Deborah shrugged. “She never laid a hand on either of us. But everything we did was wrong, a further embarrassment to the family name. As if Brian and I were defective, being the children of 'a woman who let herself get killed and a man too cowardly to face up to what he did.' “ Her voice mimicked Lolly's sugary tone. “Those are her words, not mine.”

I thought of the sick mind that could punish children for an unproven act of a parent. I could imagine her hating me now, with precise clarity-the end result being a vicious cycle of mail sent my way. Don't punish the wayward bachelor. Punish his wayward sperm instead. Make the bastard pay for the crimes of the sire. Acrid dislike for Lolly surged in me. Who the hell was she to sit in judgment of me? Or poor Deborah?

Had she treated others the way she'd treated the two of us? The sharp edge of her hate might have turned back on her. I saw her gasping, purpling face again and, coldly, could not muster much pity for her. I did not feel like an honorable man at that moment.

“The police accepted this suicide note?” I ventured.

“Yes. But Dad's body was never recovered, there was never a sense of closure.” She laughed, and it was a sickly, ragged sound. “Brian used to be sure that our father was alive somewhere, working to clear his name. Like The Fugitive.” She glanced out again toward the bay that had swallowed her father.

“If it wasn't your dad-who would have had a motive to kill your mother?”

Her mouth worked, as though restraining unbidden words from speech. “I don't know. Her name was Nora. Did you know that? You had an Aunt Nora.”

I shook my head. “It's a lovely name.”

Her mouth tightened. “I know my dad wasn't a murderer. Please don't listen to the others. They're wrong, wrong as can be.” She fostered a weak smile. “Your uncle Paul was a good man. I think you and he would have liked each other real well.” The pain of her loss was nearly tangible; I could imagine her reaching out and giving her sadness a loving stroke.

“I'm sure we would have.” I smiled back at her. A sudden thickness sat in my chest. “I wish you could have known my dad. And my mom, before she got Alzheimer's.”

“But you've got another dad now. Lucky boy,” she murmured.

“I guess. Yes,” I managed to say. She saw the doubt in my eyes.

“Oh, don't feel funny about it. Count yourself blessed. If Lolly could have been another mother to me after I lost mine-I would have given anything to have a relationship like that. I needed a mom, and a dad. You've got a second chance, Jordan. Bob Don's the kindest man I know. He was so good to me after my folks died…”

“You sound like Candace,” I cajoled, trying to lighten the gloom that had enveloped us both.

“I assume you and Candace mended fences,” Deborah offered after a long silence.

“Yes, we did. We try not to stay mad at each other.”

“Look, I've had so little luck in my life I always spot it in others. Know that you're fortunate. I like Candace. She's got a spark to her.” Deborah's voice was small.

“She's a pistol,” I agreed.

“She's lucky, too. Good-looking fellow like you.” I felt the easy weight of her arm against mine.

I didn't blink and kept my eyes firmly focused on the crashing foam. Thoughts of Greek tragedy and four-fingered babies flashed through my mind and I admit to wondering, for the briefest of moments, exactly what the incest laws of Texas were. Not that I was about to wade into my own gene pool.

My face, never a subtle instrument, betrayed me.

“Oh, my Lord.” Deborah giggled. “You don't think I'm flirting with you, do you?” Her eyes were bright with mirth for the first time since we'd begun this rather sad conversation. I think, sad stories told, we both felt the need for human touch. We took refuge in teasing each other.

I grinned, feeling utterly foolish. “Of course I didn't think that. It's just I'm not quite used to thinking of you as my cousin yet.”

“Hmmm.” Her voice was a lascivious alto. “And what if I wasn't your cousin?”

Okay, we were back on suspiciously come-hither territory-not my comfort zone with lovely women who share common ancestors.

“Then I'm sure we'd be friends,” I ventured. Right answer. She rewarded me with a beautiful smile. Her heavy burden of sadness seemed vanished, at least for a few minutes. “Surely you don't talk this way with Aubrey.”

“Aubrey? No. Aubrey is too wrapped up in his spirituality and holisticness and what all else to show much interest in romance.”

“He's too busy solving everyone else's problems, I guess,” I said.

“Odd that he's that way. He was such a wild boy. Thank God for Aunt Sass's sanity he straightened himself out.”

“Aubrey? Wild?” The description didn't match my prudish cousin.

“Oh, Jordan, I keep forgetting you're not exactly privy to all our soiled family linen.” She drew back slightly and a strand of hair whipped around her face. The shape of her eyes was very much like Bob Don's and for one peculiar moment I wanted to reach out and take her hand and ask, Tell me something I don't know about Bob Don. Tell me something only another Goertz would laugh at. Make me feel like I belong here. I want to know him better than I'm ready to admit. But I didn't speak.

“I don't want to be seen as a gossip,” she said.

I shook my head. “You're right. I don't know these people and I wish I did. Tell me. Tell me whatever you want about them.”

She gazed out again at the sea. “Well, Aubrey's had a tough time. Stepfathers aplenty, none of whom ever gave a rat's ass about him. He turned bad as a kid-or maybe rancid is a better word. He ran away from home when he was fifteen and was gone for two whole years. Sass nearly went out of her mind. He showed up again at her house, skinny as a rail, high on dope, but wanting to come home and clean up his act.” She shook her head. “The men in this family tend to vanish at times. At least Aubrey came back. He never told me what happened to him.”

“You really care about Aubrey, don't you?”

She nodded. “After Brian died-I nearly had a breakdown. It was so hard to lose him, and Aunt Lolly was devastated, even though she'd never been real sweet to either of us. Aubrey took care of me. He was my best friend. Maybe that experience strengthened his interest in helping people. I hated it when he ran out on all of us. I hope you never have anyone you love walk out of your life that way, Jordan. It's God's own pain to deal with.”

I didn't explain to her that I had known that very pain. My best friend Trey, a brother to me, had turned and walked out of my life years ago. He had left his wife and son behind-who also happened to be my sister and my nephew. I had hardly seen my friend again when he died at my feet, bloodied with bullets. There is no way to retrieve that lost time. The thought of Trey-of his death-still stung me.

“Can I ask a tough question, Deborah?”

Deborah nodded.

“Do you know if Bob Don and your father were close?” I asked. I had a sudden, heavy feeling that maybe Bob Don and I shared a sad experience; that of our brothers having turned tail and disappeared from our lives, without a trace. Trey had not been my blood brother, but he'd been the closest substitute I had.

“Close? They hated each other's guts.” Deborah tugged again at her lip. “Brotherly love was not their forte. At least that's what Uncle Mutt told me. I'm sure it was because they both loved Gretchen. But it shouldn't have been that way. They were just two wonderful men who just didn't understand each other.”

“So what was the deal? Gretchen was married to your dad first, they divorced, then Bob Don married her? You've got to admit that's a little weird.”

“Little weird is a phrase that's never done our family justice. The whole dirty story is-” and she was cut off by a scream from the direction of the greenhouse. It sounded horrible, fueled by a man's last breath. Deborah moved faster than I did, sprinting past me and off the porch. I followed. The scream cut off abruptly as I vaulted to the ground.