Distant Blood

14

My head ached, and I felt slightly ill My -self. I didn't relish further talks with a nut like Uncle Jake, and I wasn't about to go chasing around the island to find out what Bob Don and Aunt Sass were doing. So I retreated to my room and lay on the coolness of the cotton quilt covering my bed. I wondered, idly, if Goertz hands from long ago had shaped the quilt. With the crisscrosses of intrigue, lies, and deception that seemed to stitch this house together, the idea that anything fashioned by Goertzes could provide a momentary refuge made me laugh. I stared at the ceiling until my eyes began to feel heavy with sleep. The only noise in the room was the soft rise of my breath, and the counterpoint of the waves of Matagorda Bay crashing into the sand.

I was nearly asleep when my skin prickled and I felt- and I will swear to this until the day I die-a gentle stroke of a finger across my closed eyelids.

I didn't move. I didn't open my eyes. My whole body felt as though it would sink through the quilt if I remained motionless. I waited for the telltale footstep, the hiss of human breath, the creak of a floorboard to reassure me that I'd simply dozed, and while unawares, Candace or Bob Don or someone else had ventured into my room to awaken me.

Silence. I remembered to breathe.

Slowly I opened my eyes. Light, filtering in from the old and faded curtains, held dust motes in its grasp and I watched them spin. My face felt warm and crinkly, sure signs of a summer nap. I'd probably just dozed off and dreamed. I fingered the corners of my eyelids, but there was no sleep grit in them to clean away.

I sat up on the bed, my mind still fuzzy. I hadn't slept well since our arrival, and the unrelenting feeling in this house-of tensions smoldering, ready to burst into crisp flame-made me edgy. Occupied with my own fears about meeting my new family, I hadn't thought objectively about what might be transpiring within these walls. Forces I didn't yet understand warped this family tree.

I scooted so I could lean back against the polished headboard and got comfortable for a long hard think.

Uncle Mutt was dying. My throat tightened at the thought. I'd no doubt that there was much to disapprove of about Emmett Goertz-he was a womanizer, a bit of a dictator, a fellow who'd stake unholy odds in a poker game to win an island. I wondered if he would have obliterated the family fortune if he'd lost that particular hand of cards. But at the same time he had a warmth and a gentleness about him that drew folks to him. For all the acrid dislike that volleyed between the Goertzes, Uncle Mutt avoided the venom. I wasn't sure if it was because of his undeniable charisma or because he held the fat wallet.

And with him dying, a vast fortune tottered above grasping hands. He had no children. He had never married. Assuming that he wasn't leaving his entire wealth to charities or pet causes, surely enough money was available for everyone-from Tom to Aunt Sass-to come into substantial funds.

Assuming, of course, that Uncle Mutt equitably distributed his money. I knew nothing about his will, except that he had mentioned Lolly's death would force him to rethink his legacies. Perhaps he'd intended to leave most to his sister. If so, had the rest of the family known that Lolly stood between them and millions?

Within thirty minutes of Uncle Mutt's announcement to the whole family that he was terminally ill, Aunt Lolly died. By a means that technically could have fallen under suicide. Or, of course, she simply had a heart attack.

But now I didn't believe Lolly took her own life. Aubrey contended that she was either actually mentally ill or dominating her family through her ruse of eccentricity. If she was sick, she might be suicidal. But if she was unrelenting in her need for control, I didn't reckon an egoist like Aunt Lolly would ever kill herself. It would mean ringing down the curtain on her starring role. And leaving Sweetie. Her devotion to her little dog seemed comical when she was alive, but I didn't doubt for a second that it was genuine. Not to mention that her death came along with viciously threatening letters to me, a doping of Gretchen's drink to drive her back to the bottle, and Philip's scam to hustle money out of Mutt. Much seemed afoot.

So, if Lolly hadn't taken her own life, she'd either been murdered or died of natural causes. If her heart couldn't bear the news that Mutt was dying, wouldn't her attack have been far more sudden? I knew nothing about heart seizures, but I supposed she would have keeled over at the news if prone to episodes. Only the autopsy could answer that question. If the verdict was natural causes, then we could continue our mourning-as it existed, and the grief in this house was frighteningly, eerily minimal-and the death-watch over Uncle Mutt could begin again. If murder-there was one less heir to contend with.

A prickle of fear ran along my back. One less heir. And here I was, an unexpected addition to the rank of possible legatees, unwanted, unwelcome. And Aubrey, Wendy, and Philip had already commented on Uncle Mutt's warming reception toward me.

I didn't want his fortune. I wouldn't have turned money away if it came into my hands, but I had come to this island looking for lost parts of myself, not cash. I thought of Uncle Mutt, unseen, unknown, watching me during that long-ago junior-high baseball game. I could picture him standing next to Bob Don in the weathered gray bleachers, shading his face with the flat of his hand while he watched a skinny blond boy pound a fist into his shortstop's glove and shout encouragement to the pitcher. I thought it likely he had silently sent his own cheers to me. And wasn't Bob Don cheering you, too?

I forced my mind back to the issue at hand. With Uncle Mutt gone, I suspected the very heart and center of the Goertz family would be gone, too. I found it hard to envision Deborah dropping in on Philip for a long weekend visit or Uncle Jake calling up Aubrey just to see how his next book was coming. Would the members of this family wander away from each other once the common center of gravity vanished?

Make the leap, I told myself. Assume Lolly was murdered. Who had motive and opportunity? I got up and walked to the window and opened it. The bracing sea breeze wafted over my face, heavy with the smell of salt, fish, and time. I ran down a mental list of motives.

Uncle Mutt. I couldn't see any reason why he'd want his sister dead, and he seemed genuinely distressed and troubled over her death. Besides, he was dying. The concerns of the living were only his for a short while. I thought I could strike him from my list.

Uncle Jake. He struck me as an ornery, demanding, even calculating man, and if Lolly had been poisoned, his Digoxin medication was the likely source of the fatal dose. He would have had plenty of opportunity to amass a deadly amount of digitalis. With Jake, the stickler was motive. He had no reason to wish Lolly dead.

Aunt Sass. My initial dislike for Sass hadn't budged much. She outright hated me for how I'd treated Bob Don and she obviously resented anyone who encroached on what she considered rightfully hers and Aubrey's. My status as newest family member had earned me only loathing as far as she went. And Aubrey had mentioned that Aunt Sass was devoted to Lolly-but I couldn't help but remember the standoffish stance Sass assumed as Lolly lay croaking her last words. Aubrey's claim that Sass was inordinately fond of Lolly might be a diversion from a far more unpleasant truth.

Aubrey. His uninspired platitudes covered a much more subtle mind than I'd initially suspected. And his row with Tom-and the venom that followed-suggested Aubrey had a mean streak that his glib self-help rigmarole belied. He'd survived as a runaway for two years and could no doubt take care of himself. He'd angered most of the clan with his plan to write a book on families, and he was already in violent conflict with one family member: Tom. And I wondered if his devotion to his mother might include doing her bidding, even if the cost was another human life.

Tom. The quietest member of the family had also shown the most violent temperament. His pale eyes made me uneasy with their furtive glances. He would have, I was convinced, beaten Aubrey senseless if Deborah and I had not intervened. His own unwillingness to explain his actions doubled my apprehension. Tom was a tightly reined fury, biding time for release. Had Lolly gotten in his way? He'd brought down the empty bottle of heart medication after her death, placing his fingerprints on it. Were they already there before the tragic dinner? I could almost imagine those cold, pale eyes watching the pills spill into his open palm, measuring out a dollop of death.

Philip. He was at cross-purposes with Uncle Mutt over some failed financial venture, I believed. I needed to know more. And his odd partnership with Wendy Tran to chisel money away from Uncle Mutt only heightened, in my mind, suspicion on him for Lolly's death. Wouldn't one crime naturally link to another within this closed group? Why did he need money nowl Why not simply wait until Uncle Mutt was dead and buried? Even if his alleged mismanagement of Uncle Mutt's money meant he didn't benefit under the will, Philip could hit up one of his more favored relatives for a needed loan. And I could hardly forget that true-crime story of digitalis poisoning, subtly slipped back on the shelf by Philip's own hand. He quickly vaulted to the top of my suspect list.

Deborah. Her quick and easy friendship with Candace, her supportiveness of Gretchen's sobriety, and her openness toward me had won me over. But I'd still seen her sneak into Lolly's room with distinct slyness. Her unwillingness to talk much about her own branch of the family tree's tragic past, her complicated relationship with Lolly, and her row with Jake made me wonder if even darker secrets lurked there. And, my liking for her aside, she was a nurse.

She'd know, better than anyone, the amount of Digoxin needed to silence Lolly forever.

Rufus. I couldn't quite fathom how Rufus Beaulac could have possibly benefited from Lolly's death, but an unquiet thought about him disturbed me. First, he struck me as a man much like a lapdog; he'd do the bidding of whoever he considered, as medieval as it sounds, his master. I'd no doubt that Uncle Mutt's ego was fueled to a degree by Rufus's loyalty. I wondered if when Uncle Mutt found a task too distasteful, Rufus became his errand boy. With a shudder, I envisioned Rufus nodding slightly as Uncle Mutt told him to get rid of Lolly. I didn't believe Rufus would use poison; his methods would be far more direct. Unless, of course, his hands were directed by Uncle Mutt or some other intelligence.

Wendy. I thought her beautiful and dangerous, like a blossoming rose with piercing thorns. One moment she was leaning against Uncle Mutt in the casual caress of a lover; the next she was conniving with Philip to bilk Mutt. I did not like her or trust her, and I could easily imagine her poisoning anyone who got in her way. Also-she had the greatest opportunity. She'd prepared the food we'd eaten. And even though we'd dined buffet style, had she managed to give Lolly a select deadly portion?

Gretchen and Bob Don. Of course I didn't suspect them. While Gretchen had proved in the past she could scheme with the best of them, I did not believe her capable of murder. And Bob Don… the very idea was ridiculous. But they were as inexorably caught up in the wire-edged web of this family's pain as any of the others.

Gretchen's past with Bob Don's brother Paul still seemed a sore wound, and Bob Don's own ignoring of Sass's numerous faults might blind them to further tragedies. I was convinced Gretchen's drunkeness wasn't due to her own failure, but rather to the cruelty of one of our own. I resolved to protect Bob Don and Gretchen from whoever might have targeted them for such vicious behavior. And was that person necessarily Lolly's killer?

Lolly had sent me terrifying mail. Had she terrorized anyone else? If so, had that other victim struck back with annihilating force?

I also weighed the possibility that Lolly wasn't the intended victim. Poison can be used with uncertain aim. What if someone else at the dinner table was the mark?

And even if I dismissed that possibility and accepted Lolly as the target for the digitalis, I had hardly considered the puzzle of opportunity. The family had bustled in and out of the dining room before the meal. Candace claimed only Lolly had drunk red wine, and a fair amount of it. I remembered her arm lashing out in her initial convulsion, spilling her wine across the snowy tablecloth. If Jake's Digoxin pills were the source, the capsules could have been opened and emptied into Lolly's wine. But when? If Lolly's dinnertime cocktail was consistently a red wine that no one else touched… I needed to ask some hard, hard questions. Someone had the time to dope her wine, or her food.

I rubbed my temples. My theories were all well and good, but they were more insubstantial than the ocean spray that scented the air. I didn't have proof and I didn't have a clear path to follow to a suspect. And no confirmation that Lolly had even been murdered. If it was foul play, no doubt the police here would catch the murderer. After all, it had to be one of us. And while they completed their investigation, we might all be stuck on this island a lot longer than anyone had planned-trapped with a murderer cold enough to kill within his or her own family.

I decided to check on Gretchen and found her in her room, drinking a large glass of ice water.

“Can I come in?” I asked. She didn't answer but closed her eyes and placed the cool glass against her forehead. I ventured inside her room, shutting the door behind me, and stood before her bed.

“How do you feel?” I asked. She sat on the edge of her mattress and didn't look at me.

“Gretchen?” I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice. Her earlier, pain-filled confession made me more patient than my hair-trigger temper generally allowed. I didn't want her to hurt any more.

“Bob Don said you think someone spiked my soda with alcohol.” Her tone was colorless and flat.

“Yes. Unless you've changed your story about what happened.”

“No. Not at all.” She rubbed her cheek with her hand, as though stinging from an invisible slap. “I don't know why anyone would slip me a mickey, though.”

I chose my words carefully. “Although no one here seems willing to admit the possibility quite yet, I think Lolly was poisoned.” Gretchen's head jerked up, shock lighting her eyes. I continued: “If someone here was cruel enough to kill her, spiking your drink for a laugh wouldn't be hard to imagine.”

She stared at me. Darkness bagged the skin beneath her eyes. She absently rubbed the hollow of her throat. “But the family always wanted me to be sober. What's the point of derailing me?”

“They can't derail you. Not if you don't let them.” I sounded like Aubrey, but I didn't know what else to say. Meaningless advice works-at least to assuage the giver's guilt.

The ploy didn't play. Gretchen answered me with a hard smile. “You're being awfully nice. I guess it's easy for you to feel superior to me right now.” Her voice had taken on an unpleasant edge I was all too familiar with.

“What?”

“I can see the goddamned pity in your face, Jordan. You're just looking at me like I'm a worthless drunk all over again.”

“That is about as far from truth as you could wander, Gretchen. I've been worried about you.”

She shook her head and stared again at the window and its bright canvas of sky. “How could you worry about me? After all the bad blood that's passed between us?”

“I don't know. It's not like you and I have ever been close. And we may never be. But I know how hard you've worked for your sobriety and it pisses me off beyond belief that anyone would casually shove you toward the bottle.”

“We never have been close,” she murmured, echoing my words. She tented her hands before her face, hiding her eyes from me, breathing in her own breath. “Do you know how much I loved Bob Don when I first met him? How painful it was not to be with him?”

“Because you were married to his brother?” I asked.

“No, Jordan, because he wore too much plaid,” she snapped. My heart lifted a little-she still had a sense of humor, albeit twisted. I didn't answer. I only laughed softly. She laughed, too, but an undercurrent of deep sadness cooled any frivolity in her voice.

She continued: “Yes. And Paul wasn't a good man. He was… empty inside. I don't know how else to describe it. Deborah would never speak ill of him-she's kept only the kind memories of her daddy. But Bob Don was so different from Paul.” She lowered her hands and tears glimmered in her eyes. “I thought if I could be with Bob Don, I'd never do anything to ruin it. And when I'd divorced Paul and married Bob Don, I was the happiest woman alive. Until the booze stole my life.”

I remembered once when Bob Don had told me that Gretchen drank because she suspected someone mattered more in his life than she did-that person being me, his secret son. Now I wondered if there wasn't another reason, locked in the meshwork of relationships between Gretchen and the Goertz brothers.

“So why did you start to drink, Gretchen?” A terrible question, finally asked.

Her lips, pale and clean of her usual makeup, trembled. “What does it matter now? I drank. I craved it and I drank my fill, every day, for years.” She stood and crossed to the window. She laughed, a low, throaty chuckle. “I'm amazed my liver's still with me. Remember the bad flu epidemic several years ago? I got terribly sick, and I still drank. Bob Don had to put me into the hospital in Austin. He didn't want everyone in Mirabeau to know how bad off I was. Protecting my reputation, which was like holding rainwater in a leaky barrel. I probably should have died then. I didn't. I got a second chance.”

“And we're not going to let anyone take that away from you.” I reached out-very tentatively, like petting a spider-and touched her shoulder. She flinched at my fingers.

“I promise you, Jordan, I'm not lying. I'm not. I didn't intend to drink. I didn't spike my own soda.”

“I believe you. And we're going to find out who messed with you.” She heard the anger heating my voice.

“I don't need you to be my knight, little boy.”

“Did you know Lolly was screwing with my head?” I don't know why I felt the need to share my own sorrows with her, but I quickly related the story of the vicious hate mail I'd received.

“You didn't say how you knew it was Lolly,” she finally said. Her shoulder trembled under my touch.

“I found another hate letter in her closet.” I had forgotten that explaining how I knew my torturer's identity would mean confessing to searching Lolly's room.

“She was a rotten bitch,” Gretchen said. Her voice sounded like she was uttering a prayer. “She hated me for hurting Paul. He was her pet, her joy. She never had children of her own and she loved Paul like he was hers. Strange, because God knows no one else could abide him. She could never forgive him for what he became.”

She glanced over her shoulder at me, one stray lock of grayish hair dangling in her forehead, and I saw then that she must have been a strikingly pretty girl. Her beauty was only an echo now, though, distorted by time and the havoc she'd wreaked upon herself. I wished she would answer my question as to her drinking trigger from so long ago. I tried again.

“So why'd you start drinking? Paul's positive influence?”

She searched my face; for what, I didn't know. “I-I don't want to discuss this anymore. I can't-”

“Can't? Why?” I stiffened. “Does it have to do with Bob Don?”

“Playing detective again?” She ventured a half smile.

“You needn't bother on my behalf. And as far as whoever spiked my Dr Pepper, I plan to track down that particular skunk myself.”

“You might need a little help.”

“I might. But my brain's not so pickled I can't figure out who's screwing with me.”

Her mouth set in a fierce line, and from my own experience, I nearly felt sorry for whoever had dared to tangle with Gretchen. Revenge was her best dish.

I wanted to talk with Deborah again, but she was napping in her room and I didn't disturb her.

Candace still felt unwell and lay on her bed, paging through an old issue of Southern Living. I offered to bring her up some lunch, but she said she'd had a glass of tea and some crackers and felt better. I left her to her magazine and went in search of Bob Don.

I found him alone on the porch, sitting on the swing. The bright chain that connected the swing to the porch ceiling squeaked quietly as he rocked back and forth. I stood in the doorway, watching him, this man who'd come in and completely capsized my life in the rough waters of truth. The breeze from the bay, blowing with greater force now, ruffled his hair and he looked like a little boy, forlorn without his playmates. I came and sat next to him. We rocked quietly for a moment.

“I just talked with Gretchen. She's awake and feeling somewhat better,” I offered.

“I know. I took her some water to drink earlier.” His voice sounded soft, as usual, but it lacked the sharp edge of persuasion he always used to close his deals. He sounded exhausted; he sounded angry. I suspected his ire was directed not only at me, but at the terrible situation we were locked in.

We creaked along for a while, not talking. He did not-or would not-look at me. I stayed quiet, hoping the hush would force him, a dedicated extrovert, to speak. But he stayed intractably mute. I'd committed the wrong; the first words in the treaty would be mine to write.

“I'm sorry if I upset you by asking about Paul. I had no idea it was a tender subject with you.”

He moved his khaki-clad legs back and forth, the squeak of the swing his only answer.

I forged ahead. “I meant no harm, and I hope you're not mad at me.”

“I expect it. You always poke your nose in where it don't belong.”

Bitterness wasn't his standard reply. I knew he must be terribly upset and I resisted my natural urge toward sarcasm. “That's not entirely fair, Bob Don. You can't expect me to be around your relatives and not hear about some dirty family linen you'd just as soon I not know.”

“Jordan, you could find dirty linen if it was burned and buried beneath the clothes hamper. But I don't want you playing detective here. Not with my family.”

“What are you worried I'm going to find out about?”

“Nothing. I just don't want you getting hurt.” His voice quavered on the last word.

I grabbed his arm. “What do you mean, get hurt?”

He covered my hand with his own. “Son. I brought you here because I love you and I want my family to know I have a son I love. I want them to see you and know you and maybe in time love you like you were always one of us.” His mouth tightened. “Every holiday with them, every reunion, I felt like something was missing because you weren't here. I'd watch Aubrey and Deb and Brian tear the paper off their Christmas presents and I couldn't even tell them you existed. Never got to watch you unwrap a gift. Never got to give you a toy.” His voice choked. “It left a mighty hard hole to fill.” He cleared his throat. “But I didn't bring you here so you could go snuffling around the family garbage like an old hound dog. This isn't one of your little hobby cases-”

“Excuse me?” I managed to sputter, anger coloring my face. His gaze held mine like a vise.

“I don't want you poking around here. As soon as Uncle Mutt gets back, and that justice lady says we're free to go, you and Candace are leaving. You're right. There's no need for you to stay for Lolly's services. Y'all can take my car back to Mirabeau. This ain't got a thing to do with either of y'all.”

“Yes, it does,” I parried. “Lolly threatened me.” His face drained of blood. I explained about the scarred greeting cards.

“Christ a'mighty,” he finally gasped. “How do you know it was her?”

“I snooped in her room,” I answered. “Were you snooping in there, too? Wendy says you were.”

The color that had evacuated from his face surged in an angry return. “I don't know what she's talking about. But like I said, nothing here's got anything to do with you.”

“Being here,” I said slowly, “has everything to do with me. And with you. You were the one who begged me to come here, begged me to give your family a chance. You want me to be a Goertz, but you don't want me around when the going gets tough.” I could not keep the edge of anger out of my tone. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Oh, so now you're a Goertz.” Sarcasm was a stranger to his voice. “Just because there's trouble brewing and you can't keep your hands out of it. It never seemed to matter much to you to be a Goertz just because you were my son and it might matter to meT

“I can't be your son if you don't trust me. Now I've been threatened, and the woman who tried to scare me away from this reunion is dead. I find out you married your brother's wife, and that said brother killed his second wife and himself. I think something's off here. And I think you know a hell of a lot more than you're telling, Bob Don. How am I supposed to be a son to you if you don't trust me?”

“Maybe you ought to trust me when I say it's none of your goddamned business.” He stood. “If you ain't gonna act like my son, then I guess you don't have to listen much to me. But I think it'd be best for all concerned if you and Candace left.”

I kept my voice steady. “Contradiction doesn't suit you, Bob Don. First you wanted us to stay for Lolly's funeral, now you're bound and determined to get us off the island. Why the change? What are you afraid I'll find out?”

His lips, dried by the sea breeze, twitched into a lean, hard smile. “I'm not afraid of anything. I just want you to go. This trip wasn't a good idea.”

I should have kept the heat I felt close to me, away from him. But I didn't. “Bullshit. You can't screw around with my head this way, Bob Don. You want me to come here, put my neck on the chopping block with your family, and now that you're concerned I'm going to find out some dirty secret of yours, you want to pack me off. Either I'm your son, or I'm not. Finding out something unpleasant about you isn't going to change the way I feel-”

“You feel? How do you feel about me?” He thrust the words in like a sword.

I fumbled for the swing's chain, steadying myself against it. “I care about you. I respect you. I want you to be happy. I just-”

His words cut through my litany of meaningless syrup. “You don't love me, Jordy. You don't love me like a son should love a father. And you never will.”

“You haven't given me time,” I started meekly, but I stopped as he stared into my face. Pain, direct from the heart, made his features tremble.

“Time? How much time do you need? You've had over a year, with us seeing each other nearly every day. I've saved your life once, nearly at the cost of my own.” I felt the heat of Sass's accusation against me in his voice. “I've provided a nurse for your mother so you and your sister don't have to slave away day and night. I've been there for you in thick and thin. And I'm sick, sick of being kept an arm's length from you like I was a goddamned leper.” His voice broke with emotion, and he clumsily wiped an arm across his eyes. When he looked at me again, he was flush with hurt and he jabbed a finger toward my face.

“Either I am your father, or I'm not. For all those long years I wanted to be your daddy. I couldn't. And maybe those empty years mean I never can be. If that's true, I'd just as soon cut my losses and go on. Pretend once again I don't have a son.”

“All those years you wanted to be a father?” My voice sounded like a stranger's, riddled with its own hurts. “Why didn't you ever step forward, then? Why'd you let me live for years thinking I was a Poteet?”

He shook his head, his expression hard. “Oh, no, you don't. You ain't gonna lay this on me, Jordan. I did as your mama asked-”

“Bullshit!” I hollered. Pain I didn't recognize had me in its grip. I felt like I'd been endlessly prodded by a bully who finally faltered and I was flailing back. “You could have done what you wanted, never mind my mother! You could have claimed me as yours! You let my whole life be a lie-”

“I let your life be normal!” he roared. “With a mama, and a daddy who loved you, and a sister! I let you have it all while I had nothing but a drunken wife and all the pain God could give a man.” He glared at me with eyes too much like my own. “You think you know what hurt is? Poor, poor Jordan. So you found out you got the wrong daddy, and you've had a tough year. Hell, I've had thirty tough years, watching you and never being able to reach out to you-”

“Your choice!” I snapped back. “That was your choice.”

He lowered his arm, tired of pointing. “Yes, fine. If you want to play it that way-my choice.”

“You chose not to be my father. And now you want me to choose to be your son-” Anger wobbled my voice. I saw Aubrey watching us from the safety of the gardens. When he saw me see him, he turned and fled.

“I am choosing to be your father, if you'll let me.” Bob Don lowered his voice. “But now you have to go, Jordan. You get out of here. Or you and I never speak again.” His hands closed into fists and he could barely speak. His lips tightened into a vicious frown.

I managed to form words with my bone-dry mouth. “I don't respond very well to emotional blackmail, Bob Don. I don't like ultimatums.”

For a moment the only sound was the rush of the waves on the beach below us. “I don't like doing my damnedest to be a father to you and being made to feel like a redheaded stepchild. You've made it quite clear you think you don't need a dad. I won't trouble you anymore. Get your bags packed and go, then. Take my car. Gretchen and I'll make arrangements to get back to Mirabeau.” Fear played along his face. He glanced away from me, toward the front door.

I shook my head and took his arm. I kept my voice soft. “Stop this. Just stop it. You don't want to push me away. I know you don't.”

“What I don't want is to hurt anymore about you, son. I wish you'd never found out I was your father. Then you could have stayed the ideal son in my mind. I never would have sullied my picture of you with a real person.”

We'd sparred with the truth that lay between us for the past year. I had tried to reconcile the lie my life had been. He had tried to father me past the thirty years we hadn't shared. His abandoning the quest to integrate us into a family seemed completely out of character. I stood my ground.

“I don't believe you. Tell me what it is you don't want me finding out.” My mind nimbled over the possibilities. “Is it about whatever might have happened between you and Paul and Gretchen all those years ago? Or why Sass is such a terror? Or why Tom seems to hate the rest of this family? Or whatever happened to Deborah's parents? Or what Wendy might be up to? Or is it some dirty secret of Uncle Mutt's?”

His eyes were blue steel on mine and I realized, sickeningly, that I'd completely miscalculated. Bob Don meant business, and in the worst way. “This isn't Mirabeau. You are here by invitation, boy, and that invitation has just been revoked. As soon as Mutt gets back, you go. You leave here. If you don't, I knock you out and dump you on the boat back to the mainland myself. Whether or not you and I are still father and son-and the whole concept kinda seems a joke right now, since you won't show me a dog's consideration- will depend on what happens when I get back to Mirabeau.”

Anger coursed into my face; I could feel the blush deepen my skin. Hurt forked my tongue into a weapon. “I haven't exactly behaved like the model son? I'm sorry to disappoint you. But that's inevitable when you stick me up on a pedestal so high I can't even see you or the ground. You haven't treated me like a son; you've treated me like a pathetic charity case, like I'm some mistake you've got to make up for.” Sass's cruel words rang in my ear. You're a mistake. “A mistake. Is that how you view me?”

“Your mama was sharp-tongued, too, when she got riled,” he muttered.

“And what's that shit?” I barked. “I'm sick of these little insights into my mother's character you seem compelled to offer me. Do you think I don't know her? I spent a hell of a lot more time with her than you ever did!”

“That wasn't my choice. I loved her,” he said through gritted teeth.

I shook my head. “It still amazes me she cheated on my father with you. I can't quite picture it. Maybe it wasn't the grand passion you've painted. Maybe it was two or three quickies in the toolshed. God knows there aren't any other witnesses to back you up. Maybe I am a mistake, then. Maybe my mother wasn't anything to you but a convenient piece of ass and all I am is you not having a rubber in your pocket when you got a bad itch to fu-”

He stepped forward then, quickly, and slapped me across the face. The force of the blow was not hard, but I rocked back on my heels, my hands groping for the swing's chain. Shock and surprise lit his own eyes, and as I rubbed my stinging cheek I saw the hand he'd struck me with quaver.

“Jordan-” he croaked.

“You hit me,” I said, my voice shockingly mild.

“No.” He shook his head. “I won't have you talk about your mama and me that way.”

“I don't want to hear the same old litany, Bob Don. You made your feelings clear just now.” A sharp stabbing pain lanced my heart. Oh, what had I done?

He stepped forward, remorse etched in his face. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to hold him. I wanted to turn away and pretend that this terrible exchange had never taken place. Instead I looked past his shoulder to see two boats roaring across Matagorda Bay toward Sangre Island.