Catherine Coulter - Born To Be Wild

“Actually, Mrs. Beverly, one of the reasons I came over was that Dr. Hughes, the medical examiner, just called me,” Jack said. “The rope she used was quite thick and heavy, and I really couldn’t see how she managed to fashion a noose and, well, to pull it tightly enough. I doubted she had the strength to do it. But the fact is, she somehow managed it. Dr. Hughes said there were rope burns on her palms where she’d yanked on the rope, and hemp fibers beneath her fingernails. He said she worked really hard but she handled it. She killed herself, Mrs. Beverly. I’m very sorry.”

Kathleen’s harsh choppy breath was the loudest sound in the living room. She looked at each of them, her face utterly without expression, and said, “I don’t believe that,” and she left the living room.

George Beverly sighed, looked down at his clenched hands. He unclenched them, splayed his palms on his thighs. “Until a month ago, our lives were quite pleasant really, never too much excitement, but enough to stave off boredom. Now, I seem to be standing in the midst of a shambles.” He rose, walked to his daughter, kissed her brow. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but you’re used to her ways, aren’t you?”

She hugged her father close. She really didn’t want to let him go. He had been her support for so long. He whispered against her ear, “You did well with her. You’re a brave, good girl.”

“Yeah,” she said, nodding, “that’s me, brave and good. I’m so sorry about all this, Dad. I probably shouldn’t have come, but I had to. She’s so terribly hurt.” She paused a moment. “Do you know I’ve never before seen her makeup smeared?”

“And you’re always trying to fix things. Maybe your mother will learn to expand her borders a bit at long last. There are very nice people in Goddard Bay. Who knows, maybe she’ll let herself get close to some of them now that Olivia’s gone.” He saw the pain in his daughter’s eyes-his eyes-and couldn’t help but add, “Dearest, dredging up the past would cause too much pain for everyone, myself included, and it would be for your mother to do, in any case. But know this. None of what your mother feels is your fault. You are a very fine woman, and you are the child of my heart.” He nodded to Jack, and followed his wife from the living room.

Mary Lisa looked over at Jack. Her frown smoothed out. “Jack, I don’t know if I can do as my father says, stop banging my head against this particular wall, stop trying to understand my mother. I’ve always trusted him, and I know I should try to let it all go, but how can I? What did he mean, it would bring them too much pain? What happened?

“Oh, all right, so be it. At least I know it’s not about me, me as a person. You know something else? I am a good person and I will be the child of my father’s heart until I die.”

And the woman of my heart, he thought. She didn’t respond and he realized the words were only in his mind.

She was shaking her head. “Do you know I actually had the half-baked idea that I could find out something important, not just about Mrs. Hildebrand, but maybe about my mother? I didn’t find out anything, not really.”

“It seems to me you got a whole lot out of coming here, Mary Lisa. You got a little understanding, and maybe a little peace. And now, maybe, you’ll get more.” He pulled her against him. “Mary Lisa, there’s something else. I came here to show it to your mother privately, but now I want to show it to you first. There was a note, Olivia left it for her. She left it in the garage for some reason, probably where that thick rope was lying. I don’t know why.”

“A note? For my mother?”

He took an unsealed white envelope from his jacket pocket. It had her mother’s name on it. She looked down at it, realized she was afraid to read it. Slowly, she let Jack place the envelope in her hand, and saw him turn away from her to give her privacy.

She pulled the single piece of folded stationery out of the envelope and opened it.

My dearest Kathy,

I know you’re in great pain at this moment and very angry with me as well. I take solace only in knowing that the pain of my death will ease, and perhaps the anger as well. It’s time for honesty between us, too rare a commodity in both of our lives, I think.

You are the only person, besides Marci, who has mattered to me, Kathy, and though I have prized you both, isn’t that a shattering indictment of me? After you left last night, Marci came to see me, but only to tell me she would never see me again. I had told her the truth, you see, that it was I who poisoned Milo, her precious father, that I couldn’t stand to see him alive anymore after he killed Jason for nothing more than money, just stupid money, the only important thing in his life. Marci’s feelings never even entered his mind. I thought she would understand it, Kathy. She says she hates me now, hates me. At least the monster is dead.

And now I will die too. I am not sorry for what I did.

Forgive me, Kathy, I admire you and I love you. But listen to me now. I’m dying with Marci’s hate tearing my heart. I want you to make peace with Mary Lisa.

You told me you simply can’t help yourself, but Kathy, you have to let the past go. Let your beautiful daughter into your heart. The affair George had so many years ago while you were pregnant with her, even that terrible time you spent in a psychiatric hospital where you gave birth to her, surely it has lost its importance. You cannot let it tear at your life forever. He came back to you and his family and you recovered. Forgive him. Forgive her. Forgive yourself. Let it go, dearest, let it go.

Your dearest friend,

Olivia

Mary Lisa had a sheen of tears in her eyes as she folded the letter into the envelope and handed it back to Jack.

“Shall I tell her you read it?” he asked her.

“No, Jack, let it be up to my mother. Olivia’s letter has already made a difference, at least to one of us. Who knows what else it will accomplish?”

And this time, he said it aloud, “You are the woman of my heart, Mary Lisa Beverly.”

There are approximately fifty hours of soap operas each week on the three major networks.

BORN TO BE WILD

Sunday Cavendish is staring out the window of her office, her arms crossed over her chest. She’s wearing a black suit with a white silk blouse beneath, and three-inch black heels. Her red hair is piled atop her head, tendrils lazily curling down in front of her ears. She’s thinking about the scene with her mother at her club when she’d bared her soul.

They roll the club dining room footage, gauzy and vague as Sunday’s memory, then clear. She sees her mother’s pain, the sheen of tears in her eyes-it left her with no doubt that her mother loved her father dearly, and perhaps she still does. Sunday knows it wasn’t an act, but real as it gets. And now he is back.

She shakes herself, pours a glass of water from the crystal carafe, sips slowly. She thinks about her father the last time she saw him, three days before.

They roll the footage of father and daughter in her living room, fading it in again as her remembered thoughts strengthen. Looking somehow diffident, his voice soft, nearly pleading, he told her how much he’s missed her, the awful hollowing pain he’s felt all these years without her. Her uncertainty, her desire to believe him, the tug she’s feeling toward him, are all clear on her face.

She says aloud, barely above a whisper, “Who are you? Who are you both?”

There’s a knock on her office door, pulling her back to the present.

“Enter.”

Her father walks in. “Sunday,” he says, then crosses the distance between them and bends to clasp her hands and kiss them. He straightens and she pulls her hands away. “I wanted to see you. I couldn’t wait. Your secretary said you don’t have an appointment for ten more minutes.”