Butterfly Tattoo Page 23

  “Yeah, it sure is complicated,” I laugh, closing my eyes as I lean against him. “She’s Andrea’s mother.”

  “Look, but Andie has no idea, okay?” he says. “You do realize that, right? And she can never know.”

  “Why did you keep it from her?” I ask, feeling confused about the logistics. “If Laurel’s her mother, then…”

  “We had to protect her,” he says. “And especially with Al gone, I had to make sure she never knew the truth. She has to believe he’s her natural father, not me.”

  “You?”

  “Yeah, I’m her real father.”

  Yes, if Alex isn’t the father, of course it’s Michael. Michael and Laurel are Andrea’s parents, only she has no more idea of it than I did until now. Suddenly, I remember that photograph of Michael’s mother, and realize that what unsettled me about it was how much Andrea looks like her—and like Michael at the exact same time. Andrea’s a crystal-clear reflection of her natural father’s bloodline, while still carrying Alex’s DNA. Quite literally, they found a way to have a child that came from both their families.

  “So Alex was her adoptive father?”

  “He adopted her at birth, but we wanted her to think it was the other way around. That I was the one who did the adopting. She thinks we used a surrogate through one of the agencies. We never wanted her to be…” he pauses, rubbing his eyes wearily. “Confused. We just never wanted her to be confused about her family. How it all held together. We wanted to avoid questions like why her aunt was her birth mother…why her father was her uncle.” He looks up at me, pain in his eyes. “See what I mean? It was too messy any other way.”

  “I guess discovering that your aunt is really your birth mother would be pretty confusing,” I agree. “You’re right.”

  “And that the daddy you worshipped was actually your uncle.”

  “But you’re forgetting one thing, Michael,” I remind him.

  “What’s that?”

  “She deserves to know that her real father—”

  “Alex was her real father too.”

  “Well, but that her natural father,” I amend, “is alive. Andrea should know that. Don’t you think?”

  “No.” He shakes his head vehemently. “No way. It would devastate her.”

  “What makes you so sure?” I’m remembering my conversation with Andrea that day in the pool, how lost she sometimes seems. “That little girl thinks her natural father died.”

  “I’d be taking away the last bit of Al that she’s holding onto.”

  “But they’re still blood relatives,” I argue. “That wouldn’t change.”

  For a long moment he seems to consider what I’m suggesting, growing quiet. “It’s what every couple wants, you know,” he finally says, smiling pensively. “A child that reflects them both. Reflects the best of what they are. That Andie popped out with a head full of auburn hair was like a gift. If she’d had my dark hair, she’d have known everything eventually.”

  “But maybe it’s time that she did know, Michael,” I suggest gently. “Don’t you think Alex would’ve wanted that?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve made myself sick trying to figure all the things Allie would’ve wanted. For Andie, for her future, our family.” He rubs a hand across his eyes, shaking his head.

  Closing my own eyes, I envision Alex from the photo in the bathroom. I envision him entrusting me with his family. “I don’t believe Alex would want you in so much pain, Michael. I believe he’d want Andrea to know you’re her father.”

  “Rebecca, you don’t get it,” he disagrees, voice rising irritably. “She can’t know. ’Cause if she does, then she’ll know who her mother is. And I can’t risk losing her to Laurel like that!”

  “But why does Laurel scare you so much?”

  “Because she wants to take her!” he cries. “Don’t you understand? She wants our daughter, Rebecca. That’s it.”

  “She wouldn’t do that, would she?”

  “Oh, sure she would, you bet.” His voice seethes with anger, reflected in his face. “She filed papers after Alex’s death.”

  “But why?” I can’t believe that it’s true, not after spending the evening around Laurel, seeing how gentle she seems to be. After seeing her unabashed affection for Michael and Andrea.

  “She backed down after a few days,” he explains. “I begged her. I swear to God, I wasn’t above begging. I begged her not to try and take my baby. She was crazy with grief. I know that. Told me so later, and apologized, but…” His jaw twitches as he stares back at the house, as if Laurel could hear him from this end of the street.

  I finish for him, “It’s hard to forget something like that.”

  “Yeah, it is. There’s just this fear, always, that she’ll come after Andie again,” he says. “If her mother hadn’t talked some sense into her, God knows what would’ve happened. So I live with it, this insane fear that one day she’s gonna tell our daughter everything.”

  “Well, you could tell Andrea the truth,” I suggest delicately. “That would take a lot of that fear away.” I shiver, feeling the chilled hush that’s fallen over the nighttime street.

  He shakes his head, walking slowly up the sidewalk. “When Al and I decided we wanted a family, the one thing we both agreed on was we didn’t want our kids to get hurt. That we wanted things to feel as normal as possible for them.”

  I’m not sure what to say, or even what he needs me to say. All I know is that these secrets that worked when his partner was alive now seem to be tearing their family apart. In profile, he’s the picture of resolute strength—the aristocratic nose, the strong jaw and chin. Too bad I realize that on the inside of the man, the empire is crumbling.

  “And now Andrea blames you for everything that’s wrong in her life,” I finish for him. “Even her daddy’s death.”

  “Kind of ironic, isn’t it?” Tears fill his eyes; I see them even in the darkness.

  “She loves you like a daddy, Michael,” I assure him, as we walk slowly back toward the house. “Anyone can see that.”

  “Yeah, I do know that’s true,” he agrees. “But she has so much anger toward me. Can’t let it go no matter what.”

  I turn toward him and don’t bother keeping a distance; I reach for his hand and pull it close against my face. He smells like the earth and everything that’s natural, as his long fingers mesh together with mine. It’s almost like some kind of invisible tension that’s been holding him tight ruptures. He even sighs in relief as my hand closes around his.

  “She has to blame someone, Michael,” I whisper, pressing his hand against my cheek. “And it’s a lot easier to blame you.”

  “Why? Why not blame Robert Bridges, that son of a bitch who was driving the SUV?”

  “Oh, Michael, don’t you understand?” I ask. “If she doesn’t blame you, then it gets a whole lot harder.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she has to blame Alex,” I explain softly. “For dying.”

  Nothing prepares me for the pained, wounded cry that he makes, a keening noise that echoes down the whole street, as he pulls his hand from mine. Or for the way he bolts from me, gone before I can blink, like a deer into the night, back up the street.

  Chapter Eighteen: Michael

  Out in my driveway, Rebecca and I sit on the tailgate of my truck, holding hands, really quiet. She doesn’t push me, doesn’t ask why I bolted, and I’m thankful for that. ’Cause if she did, I’d have to admit that I’m not so different from my daughter. That all this roiling anger inside of me keeps searching out a target, and not all of it’s reserved for Robert Bridges.

  Alex really did a number on me—no chance for goodbye, no final kiss. No last moment to tell him how damn much he meant to me. Not even a visit in my nightly dreams, like everybody else seems to get. Oh, he’s in my dreams, all right, but never to touch me or even talk to me. Forgotten memories, fragmented hopes: I have those in abundance. But never Alex Richardson himself.

  Rebecca’s
the only woman I’ve ever been around who doesn’t try and push me too hard. Alex understood that in me—that he could take me to the edge, but there came a point to back down. Somehow, without any need for translation, she seems to realize how to give me that same amount of room. Where Alex was all firestorm and energy and bluster, she’s my calm center. She draws me inside of herself, without so much as a word.

  “I still have to file his taxes,” I say, after we’ve lingered in silence for a while. “His income tax for last year, the estate tax, it never seems to end. And it just pisses me off, that he left me to deal with all that shit.” I turn to her, expecting her disapproval or judgment, but she smiles—an open, honest smile, nothing hidden from me. “You think he knows what a prick I am?”

  She laughs. “I don’t think he’s worrying about that, Michael.”

  “You think he knows what a jerk I’ve been to you?” I demand, and she withdraws her hand from mine. “That was lousy, the way I set you up tonight, Rebecca. I’m really sorry.”

  “You used me with Laurel. To get at her.” Her voice is quiet, but edged with raw emotion. She understands exactly the game I was playing; no wonder her anger has surfaced. “To shock her, I suppose.”

  “Yeah, some way to treat the woman I…” Love. The woman I love? The emerald eyes fix on me, expectant. I have to be sure, before I tell her for real—after all that she’s been through, I owe her that much. “I should never have brought you here tonight without more preparation.”

  Her face flames hot; I can see it even by the dim street light above us. “Michael, being honest is important to me. Jake lied to me in dozens of ways, and I swore I’d never go back to that again. I need you to be truthful, even when it’s not pretty.”

  “What you see is what you get with me. You know that.” I pause, wondering how I can rationalize the secrets about Andrea. “Protecting my daughter, though, you got to know how tough that is.”

  “I understand that,” she says, nodding her head adamantly. “I do. I just wish you’d told me about Laurel before, that’s all.”

  “Me too.” I run my hand down the length of her hair, wanting her to know how damn much she means to me. None of this is about her. I want her to know that, too.

  “And it makes me uncomfortable, when people figure out who I am,” she continues, her voice trembling slightly with emotion. “Figure out what happened. I mean, of course people know. The world knows, but when I go into something like this, and then someone remembers or recognizes me—well, Andie told her, but you get my point.”

  She’s rambling like she does when she’s nervous and self-conscious, and I hate that I made her feel this way. “Baby, it’s just that people find you interesting, your acting career and all,” I try, knowing it sounds lame. “That’s good.”

  “But when people figure out my story,” she presses, winded again, like earlier. “About Ben and—and my attack, you know. I hate that.”

  She touches her cheek, reflexively going to the scars, and for once I catch her hand in mine, stopping her. “I love what you are,” I insist. “Exactly what you are.”

  “Michael, stop.” She wriggles her hand out of mine, but this time I capture her face within my palms, turning it upward until I stare into her eyes, glittering with emotion.

  “You are beautiful, Rebecca. Hear me when I say it.” She searches my face, her eyes shifting. I know she wishes I’d stop, that I’d let her hide, but damn it, I don’t feel like it tonight. “I like the scars, Rebecca,” I repeat, still holding her firmly under the spotlight of my full gaze. “I like that you’re different and real. Hell, I love everything about how you look, baby.”

  She winces visibly, but I won’t back down. I’m fueled by all the emotion of this night. “Don’t you get how proud I was to introduce you to Laurel? It wasn’t just about shocking her or pissing her off. I wanted her to meet my girl.” The mask of pain vanishes, replaced by her quirky, lopsided grin. “And for what it’s worth,” I add, “you’re the only woman in forever who’s managed to light my fire. That alone is some kind of major accomplishment.”

  And then, we’re kissing. I don’t even know who moves closer, who breaks through the veil separating us, but suddenly her lips are meeting mine. Her breasts press against me, her long hair brushes soft as silk against my cheek, and I’m touching her everywhere, all the curves and softness. I find her hips, feel the buds of her nipples, hard through the cotton material of her blouse. And I feel her exploring me. Whatever’s not been working between us physically—whatever’s held us back—has been unstopped, that desire and heat always shimmering between us has rushed to the surface. We’ve broken free, found our way to sunlight and air and life, right here in my truck.

  “Here.” Reaching behind us with one hand, still holding her with my other, I quickly spread out a tarp, a work cloth left here in the bed of my truck. “Here, Becca,” I urge her into the back of my pick up. Like two good southerners, we’re ready to lose it all in the bed of a 4x4.

  Together we curl there, obscured from all my neighbors, wrapped in one another’s arms. Her hands seem so small as they explore my chest, my back, as they trail up beneath my T-shirt, her warm flesh pressed against my own. It seems we can’t stop touching one another, that we each need to know that the other is real.

  “Michael,” she moans in my ear as I begin toying with the button of her capri pants, working frantically to open them. “Michael, we’re in your truck.”

  “I know.” I laugh breathlessly, pressing her onto her back, being gentle as I can be under the circumstances. Feeling hard metal against my knees, even through the thick material of the tarp.

  She laughs with me, clasping my face in her hands, steadying me until I’m staring hard into those warm eyes of hers. “Michael, this is a truck,” she enunciates clearly. “I am a good girl. I do not do it in a truck.” See Conan Strike Out. Here we go again, I think, and bury my face against her neck with an anguished groan of sexual frustration. I can almost hear the sound of Chuck Barris’s giant gong.

  “Michael,” she whispers in my ear, a soft panting sound that’s all girl. “I want our first time to be really special.”

  “Me too.” I nearly beg, “But soon, baby.”

  “Maybe in Malibu?” she suggests, running her fingers through my hair, reminding me of our Fourth of July plans for next weekend at Casey’s house.

  “Yeah, maybe in Malibu,” I mumble, feeling the crash of sexual hope. “Maybe Marti’ll take Andrea out one night or something.”

  And I want our first time to be special too. Sure as hell don’t want it in the back of my truck in the driveway. Of course she’s right; I’m just a little out of my head lately. Rolling off her, I collapse with a sigh.

  One of these days, this queer boy is going to figure out how to get a damn girl in bed.

  “Just for the record, I don’t think Alex is worrying about what’s happening here,” she says, snuggling close in the crook of my arm. We’re still lying together under the dark, open sky, cuddling like a pair of lovers, even though I’ve barely even touched her breasts. I feel like we’re lovers already, though. That’s the weird thing about being with Rebecca.

  “You don’t know, though.” Stroking her hair, I nestle closer. “Maybe it goes both ways. Maybe Al knows how mad I’ve been at him. Maybe he’s watching everything.” I glance back at the house, lowering my voice self-consciously. “And maybe he’s pissed at me.”

  Her green eyes narrow, but I see warmth glinting in their depths. “Michael, Alex isn’t worried with the things of this world.”

  “Yeah? How do you know that?” I ask, voicing the question that perpetually stays on my mind.

  “He’s gone on,” she says quietly. “To someplace else. Someplace better.”

  “I’m not sure I buy the whole afterlife idea.”

  She stares at the sky, considering. “Then where do you think he is?”

  “I don’t honestly know. Maybe he’s right here with you and me.” I sno
rt with ironic laughter. “Now there’s a thought.” I look around and imagine what he’d say about the deep, toe-curling kiss we shared a while ago. Oddly, I have the sense he’d approve. Especially of Rebecca.

  “Was Alex a spiritual person?” she asks, the blonde eyebrows drawing together in an expression of intense concentration that I find adorable.

  “What do you mean, exactly?”

  “Well, did he believe in God? Have faith in something bigger?” she explains, choosing her words carefully. “Someone guiding us beyond this world.”

  “Oh, absolutely, yeah. I was his pet heathen,” I laugh, feeling a surge of love for him. “He never gave up on converting me. He believed in God. Jesus. All that stuff.”

  She loops one arm around my neck. “But you don’t?”

  It’s impossible to hold back the derision I feel. “According to the Christians, Jesus isn’t interested in my kind.” According to my father, I want to say, but keep those words inside myself. “Not a hom-o-sexual.” I imbue the word with all the southern gusto of a tent-revival preacher.

  She shakes her head in denial. “Jesus came to the world. The whole world.”

  Dropping my charade, I become serious again. “Alex always believed. Truly. He was passionate about his faith.” I feel something strange catch fire inside of me. “So yeah, maybe Al’s in heaven. I’d like to believe that.”

  I wonder if all those kids he loved and lost at the hospital were waiting for him, when he made it there. Sometimes I even picture them forming a joyful knot around him, like a garland of flowers to crown his good deeds, all their tiny bodies pressing in. I’ve pictured him with his father, too, the man he worshipped as a child but lost too soon; I’ve pictured them together, catching up on years’ worth of lost time. That’s a lot more comforting than the notion that all his fire and vigor were simply extinguished in the blink of an eye.

  “When you were in the hospital, did you think about death?” I ask her, since after all, she came close to the other side.