John Hart - Iron House

“I’ll try,” he said.

“Smile for me, now.” She waited for the smile, then wiped an imaginary smudge from his cheek. “Ten minutes. I’ll meet you out front.”

She left, and Julian watched his smile fall apart. In the mirror, he was tall and thin and perfectly dressed; but that’s not what he saw. He saw the boy who’d put a knife in Hennessey’s throat and let his brother take the blame, the same boy Michael would see, the weakling and the failure, the child he’d been. He swallowed past a lump in his throat, then took off the suit and hung it in the closet. His arms were thin, his chest bony. He felt guilt for all the wonderful things in his room, for the mother and the money and all the other things Michael had lost when he took the knife and ran into the snow. He felt guilt for his life, then sat on the bed and hugged himself as small certainties crumbled like sand. “Make me like Michael,” he said. “Make me strong.”

But in the mirror he was pale and weak and small.

“Please don’t let him hate me…”

He listened for an echo in his mind, but heard only silence.

“Please, God…”

He put on jeans and tucked in a shirt.

“Please don’t let him hate me.”

Jessup drove them to a small park forty miles from the estate. It was anonymous, he said, a good place to meet far from prying eyes. “You guys okay back there?”

“We’re fine,” Abigail said.

But Julian’s mouth was dry; his hands itched. “Are we late?”

“Right on time.” Jessup turned into the park, and followed a narrow lane to a shady place with benches and tables and views of a lake. Julian saw a car parked by itself, a man alone by the hood.

“Is that him?”

“It is,” Abigail said.

They drew close, and Michael stepped out to meet them. Julian took his mother’s hand. “Will you come with me?”

“This is for you and Michael.”

Julian peered out. “He looks stern.”

She smiled and said, “He always looks like that.”

Julian hesitated, terrified. “I’m frightened,” he said.

“Don’t be.”

“But what if…?” The words trailed off, and he heard the rest in silence.

What if he hates me?

What if he looks into my soul and simply leaves?

“Have faith.” She squeezed his hand. “Be strong.”

Julian took a deep breath, then opened the door and stepped out as if onto another planet. Colors were too bright, the sun like a palm on his cheek. Michael looked tall and broad, and Julian studied the lines on his face as they walked toward each other. He looked for reason to hope, for something to take the great, giant weight off his chest. When they were two feet away, Michael said, “Hello, Julian.”

A vacuum opened in Julian’s head and sucked away every clear thought he had. Michael looked the same, but different. Slight stubble covered his cheeks and his eyes were very bright. His hands were large and twitched once as Julian looked for words and failed.

“I…”

His voice was a bare whisper, but Michael nodded, the clean lines of his brow coming down, eyes softening. Julian saw then how he would draw him, a square-shouldered man with one hand rising up, head tilted slightly down as he said, “It’s okay.”

Michael stepped closer.

“I’m sorry,” Julian said.

Michael’s hand settled on the back of Julian’s neck. He was shaking his head, but smiling. “For what?”

“I’m so sorry…”

Then the arms wrapped Julian up. He felt heat and strength-his brother-and there was no anger in him. His cheek was rough on Julian’s, something warm and wet. “It’s okay,” Michael said.

He was crying.

“We’re okay.”

They met again the next day, and the day after that. They sat in the sun and talked, and it was a strange thing for both of them. So many years had passed; so many things had changed. But they were brothers, so they found their path. They talked and they grew and their time apart seemed less monumental. Michael didn’t tell Julian everything about his life-not the killing, not yet-but he opened up about Elena and the baby, spoke with great truth about the things that truly mattered.

“You still haven’t heard from her?”

“Not yet, no.”

There was pain there, raw and deep. “I might be in love, too,” Julian said.

Michael looked across the park to where Abigail sat at a picnic table with Victorine Gautreaux. They, too, were trying, but the struggle was hard to watch. A gulf still existed between them, but occasionally they laughed. “Tell me about her,” Michael said.

They were sitting on a bench in the same park. Shade made the place cool, and children played across the lawn. Julian watched a small boy kick a ball, then said, “She’s a lot like us.”

“Screwed up?”

Julian laughed awkwardly. “Yeah.”

Michael nudged him with a shoulder, smiled. “The poor girl.”

“Are you serious?”

Julian looked worried, so Michael shook his head. “She’s beautiful and strong. She knows what she wants.”

“I’d like to marry her, I think.”

Michael looked at the girl, saw cold blue eyes and the careful mask that hid her fear. He thought of her childhood, and what he knew of Abigail’s. “You should do that,” he said.

“Yeah?”

He nodded, certain. “You should do that soon.”

Those times in the park were the best parts of Michael’s day. Afterward, he would return to the hotel and stare for long hours at his silent phone. Abigail had asked him twice to stay at the house, but he’d declined, pleading the need for discretion. But that was only part of it. He needed time to be alone, time to miss his woman and mourn.

Jessup called once, and asked to meet. “Abigail doesn’t know,” he said. “This is just me talking.”

“Where?” Michael asked.

They met in a parking lot halfway between the estate and Chapel Hill. Jessup was in the Land Rover; Michael slid into the front seat beside him. “How’s Julian?” he asked.

“Better, I think. You’ve seen him.”

“He puts on a strong face.”

“You should see him with Victorine, though. She’s hard and opinionated and ignorant about a million things-but she’s smart and fierce and unbelievably talented. She’s good for him. They fit in a way that’s satisfying to watch.”

Michael nodded because that was his read, too. One was strong, the other less so. Both damaged, both artists. “How about you and Abigail?”

“There’s a wall between us,” Jessup said.

“You should tear it down.”

“I don’t know…”

“Tear it down,” Michael said. “Don’t wait. Just do it. Talk to her. Tell her.”

“Look, this is not really why I called you.”

“I’m sure it’s not.”

“Abigail asked me to go through some of the senator’s effects. Papers, files she lacked the heart for. I found some things you might be interested in.”

“For instance?”

“The senator had the autopsy report on the girl that drowned all those years ago.”

“Christina?”

“Christina Carpenter, yes. He had the report in his private safe. It turns out she’d had an abortion the day before she died. The cops kept it quiet, but the senator knew.”

“And didn’t tell Abigail.”

“For whatever reason.”

Michael thought about that: a teenage girl dies the day after an abortion. There was a lot of emotion wrapped up in that simple scenario, a lot of tension, too. “Was Julian the father?”

“Blood type was inconsistent. I don’t know. Maybe she drowned herself on purpose. She was a kid with religious parents and an unplanned pregnancy. Maybe Julian tried to save her but couldn’t.”