The Forgotten Hours(85)

The sharp odor of his sweat rose off him. Her logical self kept repeating: Just because he committed adultery does not mean he is a rapist. But she wasn’t actually his baby girl anymore, and she resisted the urge to put her nose into the folds of his shirt and tell him how the logic of her world was being turned upside down. She wanted him to tell her something that would make it all right again. She needed to hear him say that his endless cheating did not mean he was a monster, capable of harming a child.

The cabin was clean and warm. Above the stone fireplace hung a new flat-screen television. On the side table stood a framed photograph of John and Charlie holding pink cocktails. John’s arm was draped around her shoulder, his hand dangling above her left breast, gesturing as though he would grab it. His face split wide in a grin, Charlie rolling her eyes.

“So how was the old geezer?” John asked. “Did you have rain?”

“Dad, you haven’t been honest with me,” she said. She remembered the baby in her stomach, the life she was responsible for. Her skin was clammy with fear, but she couldn’t let herself falter. “I spoke to Grumpy; I know you weren’t faithful to Mum.”

“What on earth are you talking about? He was always one to mess around in other people’s business,” he said. His face registered nothing, no surprise or fear. Disappearing into the kitchen, he kept talking. “He’s an engineer, you know, a busybody. Thinks if he gets involved, he can solve the problem, be the savior.” When he came back in, he had a drink in each hand and passed one to her. “You know, he’s the one who causes trouble, not the other way ’round. Doesn’t mean to, but you know how it is.”

“He showed me the investigator’s reports, Dad. I saw them with my own eyes.” Her throat was as dry as chalk. She sniffed at the drink and took a sip; it was water. She was relieved. Lying in bed yesterday, she had realized that in many of her memories of her father, he had had a drink in his hands. It had never occurred to her before that this could have something to do with why people made excuses for his behavior. Because she was sure people must have known about the affairs. Her hand shook so much she spilled some water down her chin.

“Your grandfather, he never quite came around to me, even in the early days. There was another guy Charlie’d liked; they’d been dating awhile. He was from where they grew up, became a hedge fund guy or something. Harry, he’s someone who doesn’t like surprises. Not one bit. He didn’t like it when she picked me instead.”

“You’re saying you never had any affairs?”

“Your mother, she was the—”

“Is it true you’d been fired from your job before you were arrested? Who paid for the lawyers?” she interrupted, flustered by his evasions.

“My job? No,” he said. “He’s been confusing you, honey. I worked for Citigroup for years—I brought in tons of clients. They loved me at that place.”

“But you lost that job, right? They let you go?”

“And we paid for the lawyer.” John took a swig of his drink. He pursed his lips and studied his daughter. “Took out an extra mortgage on the house, as a matter of fact.”

“So we owned it, the West Mills house?”

“Well, Harry gave it to Charlie. It was ours.”

“We bought it from him?” she asked.

“I’m really not sure what you’re getting at,” John said, his voice tight. “Your grandfather was generous. He helped us when we needed help.”

“And still, you think he made this stuff up, about you and Constance Nichols, for example?”

A flicker of something—discomfort? alarm?—crossed John’s face. “Constance was your mother’s friend,” he said. “She was good fun. Her kids, though. Wild, totally wild. I was always glad you steered clear of them.”

“Am I hearing what you’re saying, Dad? You’re saying you never cheated?”

“I adored your mother. And I adore her still. I’d have her back in a heartbeat.” John tipped his head to one side. “You know, I thought you were smart enough to make up your own mind about things. You always seemed to have a good head on your shoulders. I worried about Davey, but I never worried about you. I don’t know what’s been going on while I’ve been gone, but you’re acting like a spoiled teenager.”

“We’re not talking about me right now. We’re talking about you.”

“Well, I don’t think an interrogation is necessary or fair. Haven’t I already been blamed enough? Let’s get things back on track. I don’t know where you’re headed with this, and I don’t like it. I’m getting something to eat.” He went back into the kitchen and rustled around in there for a while. She leaned against the doorjamb and watched him. He was calm, taking out a frying pan and some bread. Unpeeling plastic from a slice of American cheese. “Want a grilled cheese sandwich?”

“No. No, I don’t.” She filled her glass with water from the faucet. The afternoon was slipping away. “Why didn’t you testify during the trial?” she asked, leaning back against the edge of the countertop.

“Herb advised me not to. It’s always like that in these kinds of cases. It doesn’t work to defend yourself. Such a scam, but people are people. They base their decisions on things like how contrite they think you look.”