Tara Quinn - In Plain Sight

“I didn’t realize you knew the Thorntons all that well.” He adjusted his glasses.

His eyes were brown. She’d never noticed before.

“I don’t really. They drop off fruitcakes at Christmas, but I think everyone gets them.”

He nodded. “Never did figure out the appeal there.”

“Me, neither. But my mother likes them. I give them to her.”

“Good, she can have mine next year, too. I feel like a jerk when I throw them away.”

Jan chuckled with him. Took a sip of mostly orange juice and wished it was mostly vodka.

“A few years ago, my washer valve broke when I was out of town,” she said. “The whole house flooded. The Thorntons had just moved in, and they noticed the water coming out from under my doors and called the city to turn off the water. They also helped me move out all my furniture while the damage was being repaired.”

“Where was I?”

“I have no idea.” She smiled at him again. “That was before I’d actually met you. But I think you were gone. For about a month I didn’t see any papers at the end of your drive when I left for work in the morning.”

Oh. Well. It only took a second for her to realize that she’d just admitted that she paid attention. And remembered something that had happened almost four years ago. That was embarrassing.

“I took a…river rafting trip,” he said, stumbling a bit over the words—as if he was finding this experience awkward, as well. “I was gone for almost a month,” he continued, resting one foot in front of the other. “Must have been then.”

She wanted to look away. And didn’t.

“So how were the Thorntons?”

“Fine. They named him Mark.”

“I hear hesitation in your voice,” he said, his expression curious. “Why? Don’t you like the name?”

Were all writers as observant as he was?

“Of course I like the name.” She shrugged, putting her edgy reaction down to fatigue. “I’m sure it’s nothing. They just seemed to go on and on about how happy they were that the baby’s a boy. I got a pretty strong sense that if they’d had a girl they would actually have been disappointed.”

“Maybe they wanted to please the grandparents or something.”

“Maybe. I can’t imagine the sex of a child mattering to me as long as he or she was healthy, but I realize it makes a difference to some people.”

He switched legs, crossing one over the other. She couldn’t really explain why she wasn’t offering him a seat. Standing just seemed like a better idea.

“I also couldn’t help wondering if my father was disappointed, when I turned out to be female.” Jan’s gaze shot up, stricken when she realized she’d spoken aloud. Simon didn’t care about her anxieties.

And he was only supposed to see what she presented to the world. A daring, driven attorney who did things her own way, but always played by the rules.

“Did he act disappointed?” His direct gaze, the soft tone in his voice, made her knees shake.

She shook her head and took a seat at the table in the middle of her kitchen. Simon followed her, bringing the bottle and the carton of juice.

“I don’t really remember much about him,” she continued, telling her better judgment to shut up. She had to start working through things or she’d go nuts. And really, who was safer to think aloud with than a distant neighbor who didn’t have any reason to care, beyond a generic sense of compassion.

“He died when I was four.”

“He was sick?”

“He accidentally shot himself.”

“What?” Simon’s glass hit the table solidly, his eyes narrowing. “How?”

“He was drunk and got his gun out to load it, to go hunting. It was already loaded and it went off….” She closed her eyes against the assault of memories, as if doing so could erase all the blood. “There was an investigation, and the evidence corroborated events exactly as my mother had said they happened.”

“Where were you at the time?”

“At home, taking a nap.” She tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry. Picking up her glass, she tried again. “I don’t remember the shooting at all, but I’ll never forget standing in the archway leading to the living room and watching while they cut out a piece of living room carpet that was saturated with his blood.”

And she’d never spoken of it, either. Jan peered over at Simon, afraid of what she’d done by telling him. Afraid of what she’d see in his eyes.

He looked confused, lost—like a man who was picturing the horrifying scene through the eyes of a four-year-old child.

“Were the two of you close?”

“I’m not sure. My mom’s been emotionally fragile ever since it happened—at least I’ve assumed it started then. In any case, it’s too hard on her to talk about my dad, so we won’t.”

“Seems like, at four, you’d have some memories, if you and he had much of a relationship.”

Something that had occurred to her, too. “I just have flashes,” she said, finishing her drink and pouring another. “I remember moments of anger, but I can’t ever bring back enough to know what he was angry about or who he was angry with. I can just picture his face, red, his mouth, thin, and his eyes small and kind of black.”

“That’s a pretty clear picture,” Simon said. “Sounds like he was angry a lot.”

“Maybe. I also remember a birthday—maybe my third or fourth. I can’t recall anything about the day, except that he and I laughed a lot and he threw me up in the air and caught me and said he always would.”

She smiled when what she felt like doing was crying. “I like to think he’s still up there, catching me. When my brother was little, he used to tell everyone he was special because his daddy was an angel who watched over him.”

“How old was he when your dad was killed?”

“A few months.”

“So he doesn’t remember him at all.”

“Nope.”

“It’s natural that he’d build him into some kind of hero or loving guardian, but those feelings don’t necessarily have any connection to the kind of man your father really was.”

“I know.”

“And your mother never shared anything that gave you any indication? No story about how they met? What he did for a living?”

“Not much.” Jan sighed, wanting to lay her head on a caring shoulder. For a second. “They were high school sweethearts who married fairly young. And they waited several years before having me. He worked for a trucking company, at some point. I discovered that tidbit when I moved my mother to Sedona. I was helping her get her finances together and I found documents concerning a small pension she’d been getting all these years, though it wasn’t clear from the dates if he’d been working at the time of the accident. I’m fairly certain he was an alcoholic, based on something Clara Williams—she was a neighbor and my mother’s closest friend—said once, when I was telling them about a friend who’d bought a fake ID and gotten drunk.”

“That could explain the anger. Some guys get mean when they drink.”

“Yeah.” And some were nice. Please God, for her mother’s sake if nothing else, let him have been a nice drunk.

“You said your mom had problems. Is she okay now?”

He was really sweet to ask. Surely he’d rather be home at his computer. Or doing whatever else he did until all hours of the night.

“She’s fine.” Jan gave the short version, in deference to his kindness. “She had a pretty bad bout of depression nine or ten years ago. I’d just started law school and moved into my own apartment. Johnny was seventeen and going through the rebellious teenaged crap. It was too much for her to handle alone. But she got help. And then there was a bout a couple of years ago. She wouldn’t get out of bed, wouldn’t eat. She finally agreed to check herself into the hospital and came out with this idea that she had to move to an adult-living community in Sedona. She did, and she’s been doing well ever since.”