A Letter for Annie Read online

  She could taste bile rising up from her stomach and into her throat. She gagged on her tears.

  Somewhere in the riot of her emotions, she heard Auntie G.’s voice, numb but dead calm. “So. I always suspected.”

  Annie waited, knowing she teetered on the brink of the known world, ready to be blasted into chaos. Auntie G. knew.

  Then the word came. The single, odious syllable. “George.”

  Annie barely made it to the bathroom before bile spewed from deep within.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  RAIN FELL IN SHEETS, so Kyle dropped Rosemary at the entrance to the country club before parking the car. Dodging puddles, he hurried to join her, but could not avoid getting thoroughly drenched. Stepping into the men’s room, he dried his hands and face and slicked back his hair. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, getting a brief glimpse of what a condemned prisoner might look like. There was no way this evening could end well. Sighing, he swiped at his suit jacket, straightened his shoulders and marched toward the Nemec Construction table, where Bruce, Janet, Margaret and her husband, Rick Baird, were in animated conversation with an older couple he didn’t recognize. Rosemary sat quietly, hands folded in her lap, watching his approach, a delighted smile on her lips.

  When he reached the table, Bruce rose and gestured expansively. “I think you know everyone except perhaps Gene and Phyllis Hart.” Kyle nodded perfunctorily in the direction of the silver-haired man and his plump, bejeweled wife. “Gene is one of the investors in Coastview,” Bruce said, referring to a condominium development the company was contracted to build.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Kyle said, extending a hand before taking his seat between Rosemary and Margaret. Rosemary looked up at him. “Hi, you,” she whispered softly before reaching out to brush a few remaining raindrops from his shoulder.

  Glancing around, he could see that the club was in full charity gala mode. On each table leather-bound volumes were tastefully arranged among bouquets of wildflowers. Candles, set in Williamsburg brass holders, completed the centerpieces. Blow-ups of classic book covers graced the walls. Animated chatter filled the room. When the waiter set an elaborate surf-and-turf plate in front of him, Kyle couldn’t help wondering how much a table for eight had set Bruce back.

  Throughout dinner, Rosemary chatted about her recent shopping trip to Portland and her decision to get an apartment and move out of her parents’ house. Margaret, on the other hand, had barely said two words to him, concentrating instead on socializing with Phyllis Hart. Tucking a finger between his neck and the stiff shirt collar, he longed for a breath of fresh air, for open spaces. Janet politely inquired about his progress on the Greer cottage, a topic he seized on gratefully, rambling on far too long about wood veneers and extraordinary cabinetry.

  He never thought he’d say it, but he was relieved when the band struck up their first number. He stood and pulled back Rosemary’s chair. “Dance?”

  Her eyes fluttered coquettishly. “I’d love to.”

  She moved gracefully, accommodating herself to his awkwardness. In his ear, she sang the words to each song, and he could swear she put special emphasis on lyrics containing the word love. His collar was strangling him, and for the rest of the evening he moved automatically between dancing and sitting at the table enduring topics of conversation that seemed to have nothing to do with him.

  All the while, dread sat like a lead weight in his stomach. He knew he could no longer play his part in this charade with Rosemary. He couldn’t think what he’d ever done to encourage her, but the proprietary way she adjusted his necktie and ordered extra whipped cream for his sundae signaled ownership loud and clear. These actions did not go unnoticed by Bruce and Janet. Their knowing smiles indicated their approval.

  Finally at eleven he could stand it no longer. “If you all will excuse us, Rosemary and I will be taking off.”

  “So soon?” Margaret’s tone was curious.

  On the other hand, Janet’s voice carried all the delight of a mother cat observing her kitten’s first foray into the world. “You young people,” she said, shaking her head in mock dismay. “Enjoy yourselves.”

  Bruce circled the table and clapped a hand on Kyle’s shoulder. “Thanks for coming, son. Be good to that daughter of mine.”

  Rosemary tucked her arm through Kyle’s and beamed up at him. “He will, Daddy.”

  Kyle acknowledged the Harts, then, feeling worse than he had the whole evening, he escorted Rosemary to the coat-check counter, where he retrieved her raincoat. “All set?”

  She ran a hand over his jacket front. “You bet,” she said breathily.

  It was only when they were in the car that he realized he had no place to take her for the conversation he intended to have. Going to her parents’ house was too weird, and he sure as hell couldn’t give her any ideas by taking her to his place. The truck? Too confining and intimate. “Feel like some coffee?” he asked in desperation.

  She gave him a funny look. “That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

  He forced himself to smile. “I thought that in this stormy weather a cappuccino sounded good.”

  She shrugged. “Whatever. Your call.”

  Yes, he decided. A public place would be best. Neutral territory.

  After placing their order at the local Starbucks, he led her to a window table, partially shielded by a display rack of specialty ground coffees. “We could have ordered cappuccinos at the club, you know,” she murmured.

  “I suppose.” He knew she wanted him to say something like But I wanted you all to myself. He looked over her shoulder, eyeing the pickup counter. “Hey, I think those are ours.” On the way to get the coffees and on the way back, the word coward thundered in his mind. He put down the drinks and settled back into his seat.

  She took a sip of her coffee, then licked the dab of whipped cream from her lips. She sat without saying anything for a while, slowly rotating the cup between her fingers. Finally she looked up. “What’s this about, Kyle? You seemed uncomfortable this evening.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t realize it showed.”

  “Oh, I don’t know if anyone else noticed. You went through the motions just fine. But I had hoped for…” She stared out the window.

  He made the move out of his comfort zone. “What?”

  She turned back. “A deeper connection.”

  “Something more romantic than platonic?”

  “If I’m honest, yes. It’s embarrassing to tell you this, but I’ve had a crush on you my whole life. When you and Pete were in high school, I even kept a scrapbook full of clippings and pictures of you. When Pete would write home from Guard camp and then from Afghanistan, I’d always wait for the good parts…the parts about you.”

  “Rosemary, please—”

  “No, let me finish. It was like a dream come true when you returned from Asia and went to work for my dad. I could see you every day. You would notice me, and then, maybe, you would come to care about me…a lot.”

  Tears pooled in her eyes. Absently she dipped the tip of her forefinger into the whipped cream and slowly licked it off. “I guess it was a foolish fantasy.”

  “Not so foolish. Rosemary, you are a lovely, attractive young woman who will make somebody very happy one day.”

  “Just not you, I guess.”

  The onset of bitterness in her voice was like the scrape of chalk. “This is what I needed to talk to you about and maybe I shouldn’t have waited so long. I don’t know how these things happen or why they don’t. Loving you, marrying you, that would be the Hollywood ending. Pete would’ve approved, your family would accept me, you would provide the kind of home I’ve been missing since I was a kid.”

  “Go ahead. Say it. I’m not the one.”

  He took a fortifying breath. “No, Rosemary. For many reasons, I wish you were. But you’re not. A friend, yes, and I value that friendship. Honestly, though, there’s nothing more. I hate hurting you, but I’d hurt you more if I let this go any further.”<
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  “Is there…is there someone else?” Her voice quivered.

  How could he answer her when he didn’t know himself? All he knew was that, against all reason, Annie had the capacity to make him forget all the times he’d cursed her name on Pete’s behalf—and his own. “Not yet,” he said quietly.

  She picked up her cup and stood. “I think we’re done here, Kyle. Please take me home.”

  They drove in silence to the Nemecs’ house. When he pulled to a stop in the driveway and shut off the motor, he turned and laid a hand on her shoulder. “If I’ve misled you, Rosemary, I’m sorry. I think the world of you and wish you only the best. I hope we can continue as friends. After all, we’ll be working together.”

  He heard the stuttering of her inhalation. “I…I need time, Kyle. The death of a dream isn’t easy.”

  Before he could react, she slipped from the truck, ran to the front door and let herself in.

  The only sound in the truck was the swish of wind-shield wipers. The only smell, the lingering fragrance of Rosemary’s cloying perfume.

  He’d hurt her. For that, he was truly sorry. Rosemary deserved better. She deserved a man who would love her wholeheartedly. And that man, Kyle knew, would never be him.

  ANNIE DIDN’T KNOW how long she’d been sitting on the tile floor, clutching the cool porcelain of the commode, her skin chilled with prickles of fear, the sour taste of memory befouling her mouth. Her hair hung in hanks. When she tucked a handful behind her ear, her fingers brushed her cheek, flushed from the upheaval of her stomach.

  As if from a great distance, she heard the squeak of Auntie G.’s walker rumbling toward her. When she looked up, eyes blurring with tears, her great-aunt stood behind her wringing out a washcloth that she then placed on the back of Annie’s neck beneath her hair. For a moment there was icy shock, then the relief of subsiding nausea.

  For a long moment neither of them spoke, only the drip of the lavatory faucet punctuating the silence. Auntie G.’s hand, cool and dry, caressed Annie’s forehead in wordless comfort.

  Slowly Annie raised her head, puzzled. Something was missing. What? The thread of the question pulled her back into the moment. It was too quiet. Then it came to her and she struggled to her knees. “Your oxygen. Auntie G., your oxygen. Where is it?”

  “Shh. I’m all right. It’s in the other room.”

  “But…why…?”

  “I wanted to move fast. That blasted thing slows me down.” She took a couple of labored breaths. “I needed to get to you.”

  Levering herself up, Annie stood shakily on trembling legs. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”

  The next thing she knew, she was in Auntie G.’s arms, her head buried in the softness of the old woman’s fleece robe, the familiar, faint scent of lavender the sweetest smell in the world. For a fleeting second, Annie felt safe.

  “My darling girl, I had no idea it was so bad. I wish you had told me then. Maybe I could’ve helped.”

  Annie allowed herself to pause, resting against her great-aunt’s shoulder, wishing she could remain there forever. When she finally stepped back, her eyes locked on Auntie G.’s. “No. Nobody could help.”

  In the harsh light of the bathroom, Auntie G.’s face was ashen, her eyes tortured. “We’ve started,” she said. “Let’s finish this tonight.” She turned and began wheeling herself down the hall.

  Finish? Annie clutched her stomach. It would never be finished. Not now. Not ever. But she owed her great-aunt an explanation. Owed her the words she had never shared, words that would come from a subterranean place barricaded by years of shame and silence. Trailing her aunt back to the living room, Annie prayed for strength to the God that had once, on a long-ago night, abandoned her.

  “I HAVE A BETTER IDEA,” Geneva said as she reinserted the oxygen tube once she reached the living room. “Let’s get some extra pillows and pile into my bed with a cup of tea. Far cozier, don’t you think?”

  Annie nodded. “Chamomile or blackberry?”

  “Blackberry.”

  Annie helped her back to the bedroom before she left to prepare the tea. Just as well. Geneva needed time to think. Her immediate reaction had been rage. Rage at whatever fate had left Annie defenseless against her stepfather. Rage at herself for being halfway around the earth. But her anger would change nothing. She needed to focus on tonight. That’s all she had. And maybe a few more short weeks. She needed to marshal every last bit of her strength, wisdom and sensitivity for the task ahead.

  Annie, her face mottled and pale, returned soon enough with the bed tray, on which were a teapot, creamer and sugar and two cups and saucers. She had pulled on an oversize fisherman’s sweater and, after setting the tray on Geneva’s lap, clambered to the other side of the bed, where she sat, knees drawn up, nursing her tea.

  “Where would you like to start, pumpkin?”

  Annie screwed up her face. “You know, from the beginning, I thought he loved me. Really loved me.”

  “George?”

  “Yes. Mother was so happy with her big house, her designer clothes, her country club membership. At last she had a man who could give her the things we never had after my father died in the accident. She wanted me to have more, too—dance lessons, summer camps…everything.” She held the cup to her nose, inhaling, then sipping. “George never denied me anything. And I was so excited to have a new daddy. I thought he was the handsomest man I’d ever seen.

  “When I was younger, he’d ask me to sit on his lap. He’d play with my hair. Call me pet names. Cream puff. Princess.” She choked on the last word. “When I was older, I’d feel his eyes on me and blush when he told me how pretty I was. I was starved for a father’s love and approval. Gradually, though, something about the way he stared at me began to make me uncomfortable. I didn’t know why. Not then.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “She was thrilled that George and I got along so well. She kept saying that he loved me like a daughter and didn’t I appreciate all he’d done for the two of us. Besides, there was nothing overt that I could point to. So…it was easier to try to ignore him. I even managed…for quite a while.”

  Geneva clamped her lips shut in the effort not to lash out at Liz, long dead but no less culpable. “Did you say anything to anyone else?”

  Annie set down her cup and drew a shuddering sigh. “No.”

  Geneva put her arm around Annie and cuddled her back against the pillows. “Tell me about your Pete.”

  “Oh, Auntie G., it’s so hard to talk about him.” She blinked rapidly and swiped a wrist under her nose. “I loved him so.”

  “There, there. Take your time.”

  “He was the love of my life.” A dirge could not have sounded more mournful. “Sometimes I still can’t believe he’s gone. We met sophomore year. In geometry class. He sat across the aisle, one row in front of me. I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. He had thick black hair and beautiful brown eyes that were so full of life and humor. And he was smart, too. He was studying theorems and me? Well, I was studying him. I thought he’d never notice me. I mean, he was a football player, even made varsity that year. Just looking at him, I’d forget what I was about to say.”

  “Then one day he noticed you?”

  She nestled against Geneva, her fingers curled into the fleece of her robe. “One day…the best day. He followed me out of class to my locker. He leaned against the door so that I couldn’t open it. ‘What’s the password?’ he said. Password? I didn’t know what he was talking about. I asked him what he meant. ‘A yes will do.’ He gazed at me with those dreamy eyes of his and I’d have said yes to anything. ‘Will you go to the Homecoming dance with me?’” She rolled over and sat up, once more hugging her knees. “We were inseparable from that day on. I spent a lot of time at the Nemecs’ house. They were such a special family. On some level I think I knew that what they shared was more genuine than what I had with Mother and George.”

  “Things at home must have changed after your mother di
ed.” Geneva winced inwardly. Liz’s funeral. Another time she’d been halfway around the world. She waited, wondering what images were playing through her great-niece’s mind.

  “At first, I was numb. Her death felt unreal to me. One day I went into her room, you know, just to try to feel her presence, smell her smells. Everything was gone. Without telling me, the housekeeper had packed up her things and given them to charity. George’s orders, she said. That’s when I got angry. I screamed at her, at George, at my mother for leaving me, at the fact I was helpless and alone. I stayed up in my bedroom and refused to come out for several days. The only person I wanted with me was Pete. He brought me a bouquet of daisies and simply sat with me, saying little, just holding my hand. I cried as I never had before, and he seemed to know to let me sob to my heart’s content. When I finally stopped and could breathe again, he cupped my face in his warm hands and he looked deep into my eyes. He said, ‘I love you, Annie. I always will. I promise to take care of you, no matter what.’” She turned to Geneva. “And he always did. All but once.”

  The overwhelming sadness in Annie’s voice was pitiful. It was that “once” that had transformed a bright, lovely young woman into a shell of her former self. “What happened that Pete couldn’t keep his promise?”

  Annie drained her teacup, but continued holding it as if clinging to its warmth. “It wasn’t Pete. I knew I could count on him. It was me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t want Pete involved.”

  The story was Annie’s to tell. Geneva knew her role was limited to gentle prodding. “When…?”

  Setting down the cup, Annie raked both hands through her hair, then turned to her great-aunt, her voice brittle. “George raped me.”

  Even though Geneva had been anticipating the words, the sound of them uttered aloud cracked her in two. She reached out to Annie, who sat rigid, lost in her own hell, her hazel eyes expressionless. Impotent, Geneva let her hands drop to her lap, searching desperately for the right thing to say. But there could be no “right” words because nothing would ever change the hideous reality.