He took a moment to think. “You know, that could have been a memory of you being intubated in the ER after you fell,” he said. “I’ve seen it done. It’s horrible. It could traumatize anyone.”
“That makes sense,” she said. She closed her eyes and willed herself to remember it all again, but nothing new came back. Yet, it was undeniable that something about being in this house again was bringing memories to the surface she’d long ago forgotten or buried.
“It hit me when you pushed your fingers in my mouth. It’s gone again.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But you moaned, ‘Oh, fuck, Roland,’ and, well, you know...” He pointed at the ceiling.
“I think your dad knows about us,” she said in a stage whisper.
“True, but I’d like to be able to make eye contact with the man later.”
“You’re blushing,” she said. “It’s cute. Do all monks blush after sex?”
“Yes,” he said. “Although most of us skip the sex and get right to the blushing.” He kissed her forehead. “You okay now?”
“Better.”
“How much better?” he asked, kissing her neck under her ear.
“Are you trying to have sex with me again?” she asked.
“You didn’t come, did you?”
“You are trying to have sex with me again.”
“Yes? No? Maybe?” he asked, kissing her cheek, then her lips and her throat and her chest.
Yes. Definitely yes.
After they finished, Roland stole his flannel shirt back, left her grinning on the bed and went to make dinner while she cleaned herself up. Her shower cleared her head and she regretted that she couldn’t be more honest with Roland. She’d always played her cards close to the chest with McQueen but that was because of the nature of their relationship—the sex was professional, not personal. She didn’t want to have that sort of distance with Roland. But what could she do? Deacon had begged her not to ask Roland about his sister, Rachel. Dr. Capello had instructed her not to tell anyone he thought Oliver was the culprit behind her “accident” and the phone call to her aunt. And what was there to say about Thora forgetting where she was when Allison had her fall? Allison couldn’t even remember where she’d been when she fell—how could she expect anyone else to remember?
Still, she didn’t like how many topics of conversation were off-limits in this house. Too many. But she’d only been home for a day. Not like she had any right to barge in while Dr. Capello was dying and make everyone miserable by dredging up ancient history. But there were things she needed to know. Since she couldn’t ask, she would figure them out on her own. Luckily it seemed the house was on her side. So far she’d been here less than twenty-four hours and she already remembered more than she had in years. The kiss on the beach. The attic door. Roland’s fingers in her mouth. What memory would the house offer up to her next?
At six, they all convened in the kitchen for dinner. It should have made for a pleasant meal, the five of them together again, making small talk about the weather, happy memories and Thora and Deacon’s work at the gallery, but Allison sensed quiet tension. She was worried at first she was the cause of it, until she noticed that Dr. Capello wasn’t eating but merely pretending to. Food moved on his plate but didn’t disappear.
Allison said nothing, knowing it wasn’t her place, but then Roland said, “Dad, you have to eat something.”
“You know what they say,” Dr. Capello said. “I only have to pay taxes and die. And I’m all paid up for the year.”
“Dad,” Roland said.
“Allison, would you please take my son for a walk on the beach? Or anywhere? Off a cliff maybe.”
“Maybe I’ll go back to the monastery where I’m appreciated,” Roland said as he started to stand.
“And celibate.” Deacon muttered the words but everyone heard him.
Roland looked at Deacon, glared at him, in fact, then slowly sat back down. Thora laughed so hard she nearly shot water out of her nose. Meanwhile Allison blushed like a monk. Embarrassing as it was, Deacon’s snark was exactly what the dinner needed. The tension dissipated, and for the first time Allison felt truly back at home.
“Just for that,” Dr. Capello said, “I’ll try to eat something.”
After dinner she and Roland did go for their walk on the beach while Deacon and Thora washed and dried the dishes.
“I’m going to be laughing all night at you sitting back down at the table,” Allison said.
“When Deacon makes a good point,” Roland said, “he makes a good point.”
“Dad’s really sick, isn’t he?”
“I told you.”
“I guess it didn’t hit me until dinner.”
“He’s trying to act healthier than he is,” Roland said. “He’s good at pretending things are okay when they aren’t.”
“He seemed so...himself today when we were walking out here,” Allison said. “Like nothing had changed in thirteen years.” Roland took her hand in his and she was surprised by how much she liked it. She and McQueen had never done much in the way of hand-holding. There wasn’t much chance to as they rarely went out in public together.
“I’m glad you had a good day with him,” he said. “I hate to think how few good days are left.”
“How are you holding up?” she asked, squeezing his hand.
He stopped walking and turned to face the water.
“I’m fine until I think about it,” he said.
“I shouldn’t have asked. Now you’re thinking about it.”
“I would like to be able to be not fine in front of you.” Roland turned to her and she saw the tight line of his mouth, the hard set of his jaw, telltale signs of a man trying very hard to be strong when inside he was falling apart.
“You can be not fine with me all you want,” Allison said.
“Thank you,” he said, taking her face in his hands to kiss her.
She glanced up at the house and saw a face gazing down on them from a third-floor window.
“Wait—Dad’s watching.”
“Let him watch,” Roland said, and kissed her, a kiss she returned, unable to stop from wrapping her arms around his neck. Eventually they broke off the kiss and started ambling along the beach again. A mile from the house stood the basalt caves they used to play in as kids.
“So Dad seemed okay today?” Roland asked.
“Pretty good,” she said. “Tired, he said, but sharp as a tack. A little bit ornery, too.”
“Ornery?”
“Is a Southern word.”
“I like it. Ornery. I hope Dad stays ornery to the end.”
“I’m sure he will,” Allison said.
“What did you all talk about?”
“The past. The future. You.”
“Did you ask him about your fall?” Roland asked.
“I did.”
“And?” Roland asked.
“He made a very good point about why he didn’t tell you all about that phone call to my aunt. He said he didn’t want you all freaked out in the house, afraid of each other.”
“Yeah, that makes sense,” Roland said. “With so many kids in one house...the fewer reasons to fight, the better. And if we thought one of the four of us was to blame for you leaving, it would have been a bloodbath.”
Allison furrowed her brow, stopped walking.
“The four of you? You, Deacon, Thora, Oliver and Kendra. That’s five.”
“You don’t remember? Oliver’s mom took him back home the day after our...you know. On the beach. And you fell or whatever a couple days later. By the time of your accident, there were just five of us.”
Allison went cold.
“Oliver’s mom took him back before I fell? You sure?”
“I helped him pack his stuff,” Roland said. “He was upset with me because I hadn’t gone to the park with them the day before. Your accident was after he left. I know because Oliver said he wanted to stay another week for my birthday, but his mom wouldn’t le
t him. I know he left before your fall. I remember thinking how insane it was we lost both of you in the same week.”
“That...that doesn’t make any sense,” Allison said.
“Why not?”
She didn’t answer.
“Allison, why doesn’t that make sense?” Roland asked again, his voice more demanding this time, almost scared.
“I...I’m not sure I should tell you,” she said. “Your dad asked me not to.”
“Tell me what?”
Roland looked so worried Allison knew she had to tell him. It wouldn’t have been fair to keep him in the dark after she’d already said so much.
“Today when Dad and I were talking about what happened to me, he said he thought Oliver was the one who called my aunt and told her someone was trying to kill me. He said Oliver was jealous of how close you and I were.”
“Dad said that?”
“He did. He said he couldn’t swear it was Oliver, he didn’t know for sure, but that if anyone was responsible for my fall, it was him. But...why—How would Oliver call my aunt or push me down those stairs when he wasn’t even here?”
“He could have called her from his house, maybe?” Roland offered.
“True, but why try to get rid of me when he was already gone?” she asked, to him, to herself. “And even if he did call from his own house, he wouldn’t have been there the day that I fell.”
“Dad really mentioned Oliver by name?” Roland asked.
“He did. He said knowing what he knew about Oliver’s background...that was his theory.”
“Bizarre,” Roland said, shaking his head. “This is not good.”
“Because he lied to me?”
“Dad wouldn’t lie about something like that. What scares me is that he’s slipping. Mental confusion is a symptom of end-stage renal failure,” Roland said. “But...he hasn’t acted confused at all.”
“It was thirteen years ago. People forget things, get dates mixed up.” She thought of the conflicting stories from Thora and Deacon, realizing how hard it would be to determine whose version of events was closest to the truth.
“True,” Roland said. “I mean, maybe I’m the one remembering it wrong. But still...”
“Maybe we could talk to Oliver. Ask him what he remembers. He might ’fess up if we make it clear I’m not trying to get him arrested for something he did when he was a kid.”
Roland exhaled hard. “I have no idea where he is. We lost touch when his mother took him back. I think we got one letter from him and that was it. Parents don’t want their kids confused about what family they belong to.”
Allison understood that. Her aunt had been the same way.
“Do you remember his last name?” Allison asked. “Collins, I think?”
“Yeah, Oliver Collins.”
“Come on,” Allison said, turning to head back to the house.
“Where are we going?”
“To ask Mr. Internet where Oliver is.”
“What if Mr. Internet doesn’t know?” Roland asked as they walked as briskly as they could across the sand.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I have a backup plan.”
Chapter 17
Sadly, Mr. Internet didn’t seem to know anything useful about the Oregon “Oliver Collins.” Allison scrolled through pages and pages of results on her phone, but none of the Oliver Collinses that turned up was the right Oliver Collins. Too young. Too old. Wrong country. Wrong face.
“I hate when Google fails me,” Allison said with a sigh. They were back in her room, Roland on her bed and Allison in her wicker chair by the window. “Everyone should be on the internet. At least when I’m trying to find them.”
“You’re not,” Roland said. “I had a hell of a time trying to find you online.”
“McQueen likes his ladies to keep a low profile. I have a great Pinterest account, though. All book covers.”
“Of course,” he said. “You can’t find me online, either. No computers allowed in our cells.”
“It really was prison, wasn’t it?”
“Not at all. Prisoners get conjugal visits,” Roland said with a grin. He rolled onto his side facing her. “You said you had a backup plan to find Oliver?”
“I do, but you’re not going to like it.” Allison sat forward in the chair and tugged gently on a loose lock of Roland’s hair.
“If it involves digging through Dad’s medical records, I’m not going to do it,” Roland said. “I won’t stop you, but I won’t be part of it, either.”
“I doubt Oliver’s current address would be in your dad’s old files,” Allison said. “I’ve moved three times in thirteen years. I’m sure he’s moved at least once.”
“Good point. What’s the plan?”
“You maybe want to leave the room for this,” she said with a wary sigh.
Roland narrowed his eyes at her.
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
“The thing is... McQueen has a whole company that does venture capitalism. They find start-up companies to invest in. But you don’t invest in a company first without doing lots of background checks on the company founders. You don’t want to accidentally give money to a con man or a sex offender. So McQueen has a couple of women on his staff who do nothing but dig up people’s pasts.”
“You’re going to ask your ex...whatever to help us find Oliver?”
“I was thinking about it,” she said.
“Okay,” Roland said. “Call him, then. As long as his ladies on staff don’t do anything illegal.”
“Nah. They have all the databases that private detectives use. It won’t be a big deal to get a phone number or address. I’m calling. Are you staying?”
“I can handle it,” he said.
“All right. Here goes.”
Allison made the call.
McQueen answered after two rings.
“Allison? This is a quite a surprise,” he said.
“Hey,” she said. “Sorry to bother you.”
“No bother at all, sugar. What’s on your mind?”
Sugar? She did the mental math—it would be right about eleven in Louisville right now. Good chance he was already on his third drink of the night.
“I need your help with something.”
“Name it,” McQueen said.
“Name it?” she asked.
“Name it and claim it. You’re talking to a man sitting in a doghouse. Got nothing else to do in here.”
“What did you do now?” Allison asked.
Roland eyed her with suspicion and amusement.
“I made the mistake of answering my lady love’s questions about you.”
“You said you already told her about me.”
“I apparently neglected to inform her of your age at consummation.”
“Oh...dear,” Allison said in sympathy. “I guess she’s mad?”
“She’s not happy, that’s for damn sure. I’m under orders to make amends.”