Whispers Read online

Standing, Sean fidgeted and shoved his hands into the ragged back pockets of cutoffs that looked as if they might at any moment slip off his slim hips. “I hate Oregon.”

  “It’s a big state—a lot of country to hate.”

  “I won’t stay.”

  “Sure you will.” But she detested the sound of determination in his voice. “Grandpa’s there.”

  He made a deprecating sound of disdain.

  “I might have a job there.”

  “As a substitute teacher. Big deal.”

  “It is. We can’t stay here, Sean. You know that. You’ll adjust.” She glanced up to the dusty mirror, where she could see his reflection, tall and muscular, a few hairs beginning to sprout over his upper lip and chin. Defiance edged the corners of his mouth and his jaw, once soft with childhood, had begun to take the hard, forceful shape of a man’s.

  “All my friends are here. And Samantha, what about her? She doesn’t even understand what’s going on.”

  Neither do I, son. Neither do you. “I’ll explain it to her someday.”

  He snorted in disbelief. “What’re you gonna tell her, Mom? That her freak of a dad was balling a girl only a few years older than her?” Sean’s voice was a harsh, disbelieving whisper. “That he was screwing my girlfriend?” He hooked his thumb to his chest. “My goddamned girlfriend!”

  “Stop it!” She tossed her nightgowns into the box with her socks. “There’s no reason to swear.”

  “Like hell! There’s plenty of reasons. Admit it. This is why you finally divorced Dad after all those years of separation, isn’t it? You knew!” His face had turned scarlet, his eyes filled with tears that he wouldn’t shed. “You knew and you didn’t tell me!”

  Fury and humiliation burned through Claire, and she stepped over to the door and shut it so that the latch clicked softly. “Samantha’s only twelve; she doesn’t need to know that her father—”

  “Why not?” Sean demanded, angling up his chin. “Don’t you think she’s heard things—all our dirty little secrets, from her friends?” Then he smiled without a trace of humor and shook his head. “Oh, that’s right, she doesn’t have any, does she? Lucky for her. Then she doesn’t have to listen to ’em tell her that her old man’s a perverted rapist—”

  “Enough!” Claire cried, her voice strangled as she shoved hard on the second drawer of her bureau and it shut with a bang. “Don’t you think this bothers me? He was my husband, Sean. I know you’re hurting, you’re embarrassed and mortified, but so am I.”

  “So you’re running away. Like a chicken-shit dog with her tail tucked between her legs.”

  So cynical for one so young. She grabbed him by both of his shoulders, her fingers digging into his muscles, her head tilted back so she could look squarely into his angry young face. “Don’t you ever talk to me like that again! Your father made mistakes, lots of them and . . .” She saw the wounded look in his eyes and something inside of her broke—a fragile dam she’d tried so hard to erect. “Oh, Sean.” Folding his stiff unforgiving body into her arms, she wanted to break down and cry. But falling apart wouldn’t do any good.

  She whispered, “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. So sorry.” Sean remained immobile in her embrace, a statue who didn’t dare hug her back. Slowly she released him.

  “It’s not your fault, is it? You . . . you didn’t drive him to—” He looked away, bright color climbing up his neck.

  The insinuation ricocheted through her brain. She’d asked herself the same question a thousand times over. Was she not woman enough to keep her man? Her man. What a joke! Deep inside she knew that what had happened wasn’t her fault. She only wished she’d seen it coming so that the ugly accusations, the whispered rumors, the dark soul-scraping pain hadn’t blind-sided her children. All her adult life she’d only wanted to protect them. “Of course not,” she answered shakily. “I know this is hard for you. Believe me, it’s hard for me, too, but I think it’s best for all of us—you, me, and Samantha—if we start over somewhere.”

  “We can’t hide.” His gaze was hard and had seen far too much for his tender age. “It’ll catch up to us. Even in some little backwater town in friggin’ Oregon.”

  Rubbing the back of her neck, she shook her head. “I know. But by the time it does, we’ll be stronger and—”

  “Mom?” The door creaked open and Samantha, lines of worry marring her smooth forehead, slid into the room. At twelve she was gawky, her arms and legs a little too long, her body lanky and athletic rather than curvy. For nearly a year she’d been hoping to grow breasts, but the little nubs on her chest barely filled out the training bra she disdained to wear. Most of the girls in her class had already developed, and everyone seemed to know who wore a B cup, who filled out a C and, God forbid, who was cursed with a double A. Samantha was a late bloomer. A curse as far as Samantha was concerned; a blessing to her mother’s experienced eyes. “What’s going on?”

  “Just packing up,” Claire said brightly—too brightly. Her cheer sounded as false as it was. Sean rolled his eyes and flopped onto the bed—stripped of sheets and blankets and now covered with belts, T-shirts, shorts, slips, and pajamas. Claire tossed a mateless shoulder pad into the throwaway bag near the door.

  “You were yelling.” Samantha’s worried gaze moved from her brother to her mother.

  “Not really.”

  “I heard you.”

  Not now; I can’t deal with this now. “Sean doesn’t want to move,” Claire explained, frowning at a purse that she tossed into another bag with items to be given to the Salvation Army. “He doesn’t want to leave his friends.”

  “His friends are all jerks and stoners.”

  He sat bolt upright. “You don’t know anything!”

  “Benjie North’s mom found his stash—right in a fake mailbox in his bedroom. Marijuana and hash and—”

  Claire’s gaze fell on Sean, her worst suspicions confirmed. She could barely breathe. Her fingers curled around the strap of a second purse. “Is this true?”

  “It was a setup.”

  “A setup. By whom?”

  A beat. Just a moment of condemning hesitation. “His older brother,” Sean lied. “Max hid his stuff in Benjie’s room to fake out his parents. Benjie’s clean. I swear.” He shot his sister a look that could cut through steel.

  “Max is only seventeen.”

  “You can do dope at any age, Mom.”

  “I know.” She let go of her death grip on the purse’s handle. “That’s what worries me.”

  “Worries you?”

  “What about you, Sean?”

  “I’ve never done anything!” Defiance sparked in his eyes.

  Samantha started to open her mouth, thought better of it, and sealed her lips.

  Sean swallowed hard. “Well just cigarettes and some chew, but you already know about that.”

  “Sean—”

  “He’s telling the truth,” Samantha said, her gaze meeting her brother’s, a secret hanging between them. With a chilling start, Claire was reminded of the secrets she’d shared with her sisters.

  “How would you know?” Claire asked her daughter.

  “I go through his room.”

  “You what?” Sean whispered in quiet fury.

  Samantha lifted a shoulder. “All he’s got is some condoms, a couple of Playboys, and a lighter.”

  “You sneaking little creep!” Fists clenched in frustration, he crossed the room and loomed over her. “You had no right to go through my things! You stay out of my room, or I’ll read that damned diary you think is so secret.”

  “Don’t you ever—”

  “Stop it!” Claire ordered, realizing they were getting nowhere. “Enough! Both of you—stay out of each other’s things.” Then, to lighten the mood, she added, “That’s my job. If there’s any snooping, I’ll be the one to go through drawers and closets and secret hiding places—”

  “Oh, sure,” Sean mocked.

  “Try me.”

  Yanking the rubber band from
her ponytail, Samantha checked her face in the mirror and scowled at a pimple as she shook out her hair. “Well, I’m glad we’re moving. I’m sick of everyone staring at me and saying all those lies about Dad.”

  Give me strength! Crossing her arms under her chest, Claire leaned a hip against the bureau for support. “What lies?”

  “Candi Whittaker says that Dad is some kind of weirdo, that he did something nasty with Jessica Stewart, but I told them they were wrong; that Jessica used to be Sean’s girlfriend.”

  Sean groaned and turned his back on his sister.

  “And what did Candi say to that?” Claire hardly dared ask.

  “She laughed—a real creepy laugh, it gave me the willies—and then she told Tammy Dawson that I was in a classic case of denial and that she should know because her father’s a psychiatrist.” Samantha’s gaze was troubled, but she lifted her chin, refusing to be beat down by what she assumed were lies about her father. “It’s not true, is it?” Her voice was suddenly so small, her fingers lacing and unlacing in worry. “Daddy didn’t do something awful with Jessica, did he? That isn’t why you left him?”

  Claire’s heart sank. Biting her lip, she fought an onslaught of fresh, hot tears and took Samantha into her arms. Sick inside, she admitted the truth. “Daddy and I had lots of problems, you know that.”

  “Everyone does. You said so.” Doubt cracked Samantha’s voice. Her blond head, so recently proud, bowed.

  “That’s true, honey. Everyone does. But—”

  “No.” She tried to wiggle away, to hide from the truth, but Claire decided that there was no time like the present, especially if Samantha’s friends were giving her a bad time.

  “But it’s also true that Jessica says she and Daddy were . . . well, were intimate.”

  Samantha’s body began to tremble violently. “Intimate?”

  “Meaning that he fucked her,” Sean clarified.

  “No!”

  “Sean, hush!” Claire clung to her daughter. “Don’t use that kind of language around this house—”

  Samantha’s eyes were wild. “But he didn’t, did he? Daddy would never, ever—”

  “Whatever happened, you have to have faith in your father,” Claire heard herself saying, though the words rang like the hollow sound of a lonely bell. She’d lost faith in Paul a long time ago; she’d given up on him and their sham of a marriage years before. She’d only stuck it out for the kids. Now that seemed like a cruel, disgusting joke. Her children would forever bear these scars. “Daddy and I were already separated when . . . well, when Jessica said that it happened.”

  “You’re saying that Jessica lied?” Samantha asked, hope in her tiny voice.

  “No way!” Sean sneered. “I walked in on them. They were humping like dogs in heat!”

  “Stop it, Sean!”

  “No!” Samantha shook her head violently. “No! No! No!”

  “Honey, I’m just telling you what Jessica is saying.” Claire’s throat was suddenly raw with the pain her daughter felt.

  “But why?” Samantha’s voice was an octave higher than normal.

  “Because she’s a slut, and he’s a pervert.”

  “I don’t know,” Claire said. “Sean, I don’t want to hear another word—”

  “No! It’s not true!” Samantha’s body stiffened, and she pushed Claire away. “I don’t believe you!” She ran to the door. “You’re a liar, Sean, a creepy, lowlife liar!”

  The door banged shut behind her, and Claire whirled on her son. “That was uncalled for.”

  “That was the truth.”

  “There are kinder ways—”

  “Yeah, like letting Candi Suck-Up Whittaker rub Sam’s nose in it! Face it, Mom, Dad’s a sex fiend who likes young girls. Samantha’s better off knowing the truth. That way she won’t get hurt anymore.”

  “Won’t she?” Claire whispered under her breath as she ran after Samantha through the house, out the front door, and down the street. A hot breeze turned the leaves of the aspen trees, causing them to shimmer in the sunlight, and somewhere behind the neighbor’s house a dog was barking fiercely. Claire dashed down the sidewalk, dodging a tricycle and a bump in the walk where the roots of a tree had buckled the cement, all the while chasing after her daughter. Samantha was sobbing, her golden hair streaming behind her, her long legs running fast, as if she could leave the horrid words and accusations back in the house.

  Running away. Just like you, Claire. But you can’t run. Sooner or later the past catches up to you.

  At Center Street, Samantha ran against the light and a pickup squealed to a stop, narrowly missing her. Claire’s heart stopped and she screamed. “Watch out!” No. No. No.

  “Hey, kid, watch where you’re goin’,” the driver barked, a cigarette wobbling in the corner of his mouth.

  Heart pumping with fear, Claire held out her hand and ran in front of his rig.

  “What the hell—”

  “Samantha, wait, please,” Claire yelled, but Samantha didn’t even glance over her shoulder.

  “Friggin’ idiots!” The truck roared off.

  Breathing hard, Claire caught up with her daughter a block away from the park. The sun was blistering, blinding as it reflected off the sidewalk and fenders of cars parked along the street. Tears tracked down Samantha’s red cheeks.

  “Oh, baby,” Claire whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  “You should have told me,” Samantha charged.

  “I didn’t know how.”

  “I hate him!”

  “No, you can’t hate your father.”

  “I do! I hate him.” She swallowed hard, and as Claire reached for her, she yanked away. “And I hate you, too.”

  “Oh, Sami, no—”

  “Don’t call me that!” she nearly squealed and Claire realized Paul had always called Samantha by her nickname.

  “All right.”

  Sniffing loudly, Samantha rubbed the back of her hand under her eyes. “I’m glad we’re moving,” she said, blinking rapidly. “Glad.”

  “So am I—”

  “Oh, no!” Her face suddenly drained of color. Abruptly Samantha turned around, facing the other direction, willing her body to stop shaking. Claire glanced over her shoulder and saw Candi Whittaker, a slim girl with a tiny waist and breasts no decent twelve-year-old should own, sauntering up the street with another girl Claire didn’t recognize. At the sight of Samantha and her mother, both girls stared, swallowed smiles, and began to whisper. Claire used her body as a shield, blocking the little snips’ view of her daughter, waiting until they’d taken a path that wound past the tennis courts and stopped looking over their small, self-righteous shoulders.

  “It’s all right. They won’t bother you. Come on.” Claire ushered Samantha back along the street, leading her home. Sean was probably right; moving wouldn’t solve their problems. They couldn’t run away. She’d tried that once before a long time ago and the past seemed to forever chase her, nipping ferociously at her heels.

  Now, it had finally caught up to her. She didn’t tell Samantha or Sean that there was another reason they were moving back to Oregon, a reason she didn’t want to face. But she had no choice. Her father, a rich man used to getting his way, had called last week and demanded that she return to Lake Arrowhead, a place that brought back so many nightmares she couldn’t begin to count them.

  She’d protested, but Dutch hadn’t taken no for an answer, and she had no choice but to agree. He knew of her trouble with Paul and had promised to help her relocate, put in a good word with the school district, let her live rent-free in the huge house where she’d grown up, give her a hand as she struggled to find her footing as a single mother.

  She would have been a fool to say no, but there was something more that bothered her, a dark tone in his voice that caught her attention and caused the hairs on the back of her neck to rise.

  Dutch had intimated that he knew something about the past—not all of it—but enough to convince her that she had to face
him as well as what had happened sixteen years ago. So she’d agreed to meet with her father, though her stomach revolted at the thought.

  “Come on,” she said to Samantha. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  “It can’t be,” Samantha grumbled.

  You’re so right, sweetheart. “We’ll make it right. You’ll see.” But even as she said the words, she knew they were lies. All lies.

  Tessa flipped on the radio and felt the warmth of summer stream through her short hair as her Mustang convertible raced through the Siskiyou Mountains near the Oregon border. The northern California landscape was sun-bleached and desolate, the hills dry. She’d been driving for hours and would have to stop soon, or her bladder would burst from the beer that she’d sipped all the way from Sonoma. An icy bottle of Coors was cradled between her bare legs, the sweat from the glass cooling her skin and soaking the hem of her shorts. Open containers of alcohol were illegal. Drinking and driving was illegal. Well, for that matter most of the fun in life was either considered illegal or immoral. Tessa didn’t really care. Not now, when she, at her father’s behest, was returning to Lake Arrowhead.

  Dread skittered down her spine. The old man had always tried to put the fear of God into her and sometimes succeeded. Nonetheless she rebelled. Just wait ’til old Dutch caught a glimpse of her latest tattoo.

  “Bastard,” she muttered as the radio crackled and groaned. She punched button after button and heard only screeches and static, as the canyons were steep, the stations distant, the only station she could get played oldies, ancient rock and roll. Right now Janis Joplin was screeching through the speakers. My God, the woman had been dead for years, had passed into the next world, whatever that was, long before Tessa had any interest in music, but today the hard-driving rock and gravelly voice of Joplin touched Tessa in a dark, private spot. Janis sang as if she knew pain—real gut-wrenching agony. The kind of anguish Tessa lived with daily.

  Music pounded through the car.

  Tessa took a long tug from her bottle and reached into her fringed purse for a pack of cigarettes.

  Take a,

  Take another little piece of my heart now, darlin’