A Bad Boy is Good to Find(48)

“Little did I know,” she said coolly.

“Well, exactly.” Con shrugged and smiled. “You’re a smart cookie.”

“Not smart enough, apparently.”

“Hey, I had more tricks up my sleeve. Champagne being one of them. A glass here, a glass there, and soon you were bubbling over into my affectionate arms.”

His smile threatened to break into a grin.

“You know, you really piss me off, Conroy Beale.”

“I’m just being honest. I guess that’s new for both of us, but I think it’s the best way to go, don’t you?”

His wary glance, suddenly shy and boyish, snuck under her skin.

“I guess I do. So you felt guilty about getting me started drinking when your father did exactly the same to your mother.”

The whole concept gave her a chill. She was nothing like Con’s mother! Some poor downtrodden woman getting beaten senseless by a brutish husband. Goose bumps pricked her arms at the comparison.

“I didn’t want to see you going down the wrong road, making poor choices—”

“I hardly think I’d have ended up like her.”

“I don’t expect she did either. But there was nothing I could do to help her. I could help you.”

“You know, you make yourself sound almost heroic,” she said, trying to squelch the weird warm sensation growing inside her.

Con’s eyes looked distant for a moment. “She always used to say she came from a nice house, a nice family. Said she was rich even. None of us ever believed it, of course, since she was usually pretty buzzed when she came out with that stuff. But looking back, who knows?”

“Where did she come from?”

“I don’t know. She was from Louisiana, for sure, but she never talked about where exactly she came from. It was like her whole past just got left behind somewhere. Forgotten. Anyway, if she started talking about the past or anything like that when my dad was around…” he trailed off.

“He’d hit her.” Lizzie was surprised by how calmly she said it.

“Yes.” Con looked down. “It’s sad, I hardly know anything about her at all. Just that she tried to be a good mother to us, and she prayed a lot. Didn’t do her a damn bit of good to pray, that’s for sure.”

“What about your father, where was he from?”

“Right there. Rose up out of the swamp for all I know. His parents died when I was a kid. I don’t really remember them. Heavy drinkers too, though. The whole family was pretty much notorious as a bunch of total *s. Lived on the same patch of swamp by the bayou forever. No stores would lend us credit, and they didn’t have any friends. If my parents had other relatives they were all long gone. I guess disappearing without a trace is kind of a family tradition. I don’t know how my mom got mixed up with the Beales, but she said my dad was very handsome and charming when he was young.”

“Like you.”

Con’s eyes met hers with a look that ate right into her. “Yeah.” He paused, then seemed to see through her into another world. “Like me.”

“Well, then I guess I can see how that would happen.” She stretched, trying to look casual, as tension crept through her muscles.

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m beat. You should get some sleep. You look tired. I know you had a rough night last night, even if you deny it.” He stroked the end of her nose with his thumb. “You’ll sleep just fine with my arms around you, though.”

She tried to brush off the sensation that rushed through her. “I’m not really sleepy. I think I’ll read for a while.”

“Alright. I’ll be right here if you need me.” He gave her a quick, soft kiss on the cheek, then settled his head on his folded arms. “Night night, Lizzie.”

“Night, Con.”

She eased off the bed and pulled on a satin wrap. Despite the heat, she still had goose bumps. Unease. Too much sensation, too much emotion, too much everything.

She unzipped her suitcase of personal items to rifle around in there for a good engrossing read. In its search for a thick paperback, her hand settled on the little pile of letters she’d found inside the bedpost.

Her heart started beating faster. Why did she feel like she shouldn’t read them? She closed her hand around the small stack of envelopes. Her fingertips stung with anticipation, with anxiety. Why? For all she knew they were a bunch of unopened bills.

She glanced back at Con on the bed. He’d rolled over and now lay with his back to her and the light. For some reason she didn’t want him to see her reading them. Maybe because it felt like prying?

It wasn’t prying. It was…research?

Yes, research into the history of the house. The letters were addressed to a Mr. Thomas Milford at the address of the house. Still, she felt like a spy as she stuck the edge of her nail file into the corner of the envelope and ripped a neat slit along the top.

The thin, yellowed paper tore easily. It was one of those privacy envelopes with the printed interior, and Lizzie inhaled a shaky breath as she drew out the piece of paper inside.

A single sheet of pale blue paper. Just a few lines of careful script, written in blue ballpoint pen.





Chapter 18





Dear Father,

It makes me so sad that we parted on bad terms. I still feel like your little girl, even though I’m all grown up now.



An uncomfortable lump formed in Lizzie’s throat as a chill crept down her spine.



I know you don’t approve of my choice of husband, but I’m a woman now and old enough to make my own choices. He’s very kind to me. I’m sure you’d like him once you got to know him. He’s saving money and hopes to buy his own shrimp boat soon. There’s a lot of money to be made in shrimp and crabs, not that money is important to me. There’s a lot more to life than having money and holding on to it, and I do wish you understood that.

But I didn’t write to scold, just to say that I miss you and I hope one day soon we’ll be friends again.

K



Yeesh. Maybe opening these letters wasn’t such a great idea after all. A black hole had opened up in Lizzie’s stomach.

She glanced up at Con. His shoulders moved slightly with each long, slow breath. Asleep.

She spread the letters out on the floor. There were six of them altogether, and it suddenly seemed important to read them in order. By chance—or because it was on top—she’d started with the first one. She studied the postmarks and noticed with alarm that there was more than ten years between the first and the last.

Someone here had received letters for ten years and never opened them?

Her scalp prickled and goose bumps rose on her arms. Part of her wanted to gather the letters up, put them on top of the dresser and…what? Throw them away? Hand them over to Maisie?

Like someone who can’t take her eyes off a car wreck—because the car looked so much like her own—she picked up the next envelope and slit it open.



Dear Father,