Fay Robinson - Mr. And Mrs. Wrong

“And what about your other problem? This baby changes everything for you and Jack.”

“I know. That’s what worries me. We’re already separated. What’s a baby going to do to us?”

“Lucky, if the marriage isn’t working and you’re not happy, then, for God’s sake, file for divorce and save yourself a lot of grief. It is possible to raise a child without a man around. I’m doing it and getting along fine. In fact, you’d probably be better off without him, if you want my honest opinion.”

Lucky didn’t respond. At this point she didn’t know exactly what she wanted. Maybe her sister was right. Leigh was certainly better off without Keith. The bastard had demoralized her, cleaned out their bank accounts and taken off with her best friend.

But Jack wasn’t Keith. And despite his annoying quirks, Lucky loved him and didn’t want to raise their baby alone. Jack would never allow that, anyway. He’d demand to be a part of his child’s life.

She thought she heard a noise, so she peeked out the door to make sure Cal hadn’t followed Leigh and might overhear them.

“If you’re worried about Cal, don’t be,” Leigh said. “I asked him to put together some projected advertising figures for the remainder of the year. That should keep him busy for an hour. He’s absolutely orgasmic about being able to run a spreadsheet. You know how he is with that stuff.”

“I want you to be careful what you say to him, Leigh. I don’t feel right that you know before Jack does. And if Mom or Mema should find out, Lord…the whole town will know.” She agitated the tank another five seconds and checked the timer. “I think I’ve given everyone enough cause for gossip for one year.”

“I doubt I’ll have to drop hints. You’re so thin it won’t be long before you start showing and everybody guesses. You’d better tell Jack as soon as possible.”

“I will,” she said, but with little conviction.

“Lucky, do it. Don’t make things worse by having him find out some other way.”

“I will, okay? Nagging me about it won’t help. I’ll tell him.” And she would, but she dreaded it because she knew how Jack would react. He’d be thrilled. He’d want to move back in. But not for her. Not because he wanted to be with her. Only for the sake of the baby. And when that happened, she’d never be able to trust his feelings again.

She put her hand to her stomach. Her elation at becoming a mother was wrapped in resentment. A part of her wanted this baby very much. Another part of her didn’t. Because she was certain, beyond a doubt, what the news of it would do. This pregnancy would destroy any hope she had of saving her marriage.

LEONA HARRISON stood before the security gate and stared at the house beyond. White shutters hung at the windows and wind chimes on the porch played random notes in the breeze. The yellow paint and the flowers bordering the walk gave the place a cheery look. The yard had jasmine; she could smell it even though she couldn’t see it.

She’d learned, though, that facades, just like faces, could hide something different within. That was true of Horizon House, as well as the people of Potock. That was particularly true of the man Leona was about to visit.

Her husband had refused to come, and she guessed that was a good thing, considering how he felt. He hated Terrell. Everyone in town did. Because she was Terrell’s aunt and only surviving blood relative, they hated her, too. Twenty-one years after the tragedy, some people still crossed the street to avoid having to talk to her.

No one ever said anything ugly to her face, but the seats next to her at church were always left empty and, although she’d shopped at Hanson’s market for nearly thirty years, she’d long ago quit getting decent cuts of meat from the old man or even a polite hello from his son. The good people of the town had branded her guilty by association, just as they’d branded her nephew a killer without the benefit of a trial or a body.

Leona hesitated with her finger over the call box, wanting nothing more than to get in the car and drive home, but a promise to her dead sister, Margaret, to watch over Terrell made her go ahead and push the button. She gave her name and was let in. The residence manager came to the front door and ushered her inside.

The state had moved Terrell here five weeks ago in response to some court ruling Leona didn’t really understand. Before that, since he was seventeen, he’d lived at an institution for autistic adults up in Huntsville, and she’d dutifully driven the 240-mile round trip once a month to see him.

This place was more convenient, but having him back in the community was causing problems. The anonymous hate mail had started again, and two nights ago someone had written murderer in red paint on her front door. Since Terrell’s arrival, Horizon House had reported threatening calls.

Leona talked briefly to the manager, then made her way to the common room where Terrell spent his days staring at the aquarium or working on his drawings. Today he had out a pad and pens and an assortment of colored inks and was sitting alone at one of the round tables they used for activities.

The years had not been good to him, and he appeared much older, more used up, than he should at thirty-eight. Deep lines etched his face. He’d once been a handsome boy, but now he was nearly bald on top, and the sides and back of his hair had turned the color of new tin.

He didn’t look up or acknowledge her presence, only turned to a clean page of his art pad. As he started a new picture, he rocked from side to side, a mechanism he used to comfort himself.

“Hello, Terrell,” she said, sitting across from him. “It’s Aunt Leona. I hope you’ve been well.”

She didn’t expect a response and didn’t get one. Terrell had never said a word, to her knowledge, but he could make sounds, and Margaret had told her he’d often cried all night as a child, as if life was simply too painful for him to bear.

She didn’t think he cried anymore. A few tears, the attendants said, once when they’d transferred him here and the second time when they’d drained the fish tank to clean it, and he hadn’t been able to watch the water.

The only problem they’d encountered was keeping him contained. Sometimes he scaled the wall and disappeared, not running away from the house but running to something, the irresistible something that drew him as strongly now as it had when he was a boy—the river. Years away hadn’t diminished his fascination with it.

As long as no one interrupted his routine, moved his things or tried to touch him, he was fine—almost invisible and seemingly content. He stayed closed up in his silent world and didn’t bother anyone.

He was a sweet boy, always had been. Never would she believe he had killed Eileen Olenick. Terrell didn’t have it in him to hurt anyone.

But thanks to Matt Mathison’s editorials in the Register at the time, Leona hadn’t been able to convince anyone of her nephew’s innocence. In truth, it was the Mathisons’ youngest daughter—Lucky they called her—who had really been the one to seal Terrell’s fate, and with only a few words. People had taken the unfounded fears of a child and accepted them as truth.

Leona removed her cross-stitch sampler from her purse and worked on the S of Home Sweet Home as she talked. Terrell continued to ignore her. He occasionally swapped colors. A couple of times he traded his pen for a brush and dipped it in an ink bottle or a small jar of water, swishing it lightly along the paper or painting with painstaking slowness.

Did he remember her house? she asked him. “Of course you do,” she answered for him. “Your mama used to bring you over to see me and Uncle Edwin and you’d make so many pretty pictures. Even then you had talent.”