The Runaway Bride. Patricia Johns
did they tell you about me?” Lucille asked. There was tension in her voice, and she looked away.
“Oh, you don’t want to know that.” Bernie laughed uncomfortably. Her father had never had anything good to say about his sister.
“No, I do.” Lucille looked back. “I always hoped your dad would come around one day and make contact. He never did. Then I hoped that you’d get curious about your aunt...”
“Why didn’t you come around?” Bernie asked.
“I wasn’t welcome. I was also a little scared. I didn’t know what he’d told you.”
Bernie grimaced. “He said you were a social and political liability.”
That was the kind way of putting it. What her father had actually said was that Lucille was low-class, and even with money, she acted like a poor person with nothing to lose. He said she was grasping and selfish, and he suspected that she had some untreated mental illness.
“My father told me about your grandmother’s engagement ring,” Bernie said after a moment. “Is that really what started this whole feud—a ring?”
“It was more than a ring.” Lucille’s mouth turned downward, and she fell silent.
“What was it?” Bernie pressed.
Lucille heaved a sigh. “It was your father’s domineering ways. He didn’t ask me for the ring, he demanded it. He told me that unless I came with a sincere apology for my insulting behavior and the ring, then I was dead to him.”
“And you couldn’t do it.”
“I had my pride,” she replied. “I still do. He demanded that I genuflect like the household help, tug at my cap like a chauffeur. He’d inherited the whole shebang, and I was slotted in below him. He liked that role—ruling us all. And I didn’t.”
Bernadette could understand that, actually. Her father was a prideful man, and he took his position in society and in the family very seriously—perhaps more seriously than anyone else did. A lot of people would have complied with that demand, but they weren’t his sister.
“I get it,” Bernie said. “But you walked away from an awful lot of money.”
“I still get my lifelong allowance from my father’s inheritance,” Lucille replied. “It’s enough to live on now that Arnie’s gone. I didn’t walk away from that. I walked away from the duties, the social obligations. I walked away from the houses that would be paid for by my brother—and all the strings that came with them. I refused to be handled. And Milhouse wouldn’t bend. So—” She spread her hands. “It is what it is.”
She’d refused to be handled. Bernie had just done the same thing when she’d turned off her phone and driven west. Her parents had always “handled” her, and until today, she’d never minded. She’d done her duty, shown up at cocktail parties and dinners and made nice with various politicians. She was a general media favorite, and she liked the attention.
But now she wouldn’t do what they wanted. She wouldn’t smile for the press and say something sweet and submissive like, “Calvin and I are so sorry to disappoint everyone today, but we’ve done some soul-searching together, and we really feel...”
That would be a lie. They’d done zero soul-searching, least of all together, and she wasn’t going to stand there, making the cad look like a decent man to protect his ambitions.
“I think I want some of that pie,” Lucille said, rising to her feet. “I’ll bring you a piece.”
Looking around that living room, Bernadette saw the worn patches on the sofa, the slightly shabby furniture, her aunt’s wide hips and grubby slippers. Lucille had walked away from the obligations and social demands that came with wealth and a privileged family, and she’d landed here, in a town called Runt River. Here, in the midst of ordinary. There were no maids or housekeepers. Everything looked faded and worn instead of chic and elegant. Personal indulgence came in the form of a mug of hot chocolate made from a pouch of powder, instead of European truffles or a crystal dish of chocolate mousse. Gone were the luxuries and comforts Bernadette had been accustomed to, because with a similar sense of outrage and commitment to utter truthfulness, Bernadette had done the same thing her aunt had done—defied Milhouse Morgan.
What have I done?
IT WAS THREE in the morning, and Liam stood in the middle of his living room in a pair of pajama bottoms and an undershirt, with Ike screaming in his arms. When Leanne died, he’d gone down to her apartment and gotten Ike’s things—toys, clothes, diapers. Her parents had died years ago, and she had a cousin who had some addiction issues, but no one else. Liam hadn’t put together a funeral. Leanne had been cremated, and he’d sprinkled her ashes in a field.
She hadn’t owned her home or anything like that, so besides paying off her credit cards, there hadn’t been too much to deal with. He’d left the last of her things in the apartment for the landlords to clear out. It might not have been their job, but he’d done as much as he could with the help of his foster brother, Tim. He couldn’t face any more.
A few local moms had dropped off some hand-me-down clothes for Ike over the past few weeks, but the boy was wearing pajamas with trains on them that Liam had brought from the apartment. They were a bit small, but he seemed to sense that they were part of his life with his mom, and he wouldn’t wear anything else. Liam didn’t push the matter. The poor boy had enough change to deal with.
Ike’s face was wet with tears, and his crying hadn’t slowed. They’d both been up for an hour already.
“Hey, buddy,” he said, raising his voice above Ike’s wails. “Let’s talk about this.”
Ike didn’t seem so inclined, and Liam heaved a sigh, closing his eyes for a moment, looking for his own calm. He understood Ike’s anger—his mom was gone, and he was with a bunch of strangers who couldn’t possibly make up for her absence. But Liam was trying.
For the past month, Ike had responded to being held, liked some stories. Liam had let Ike stay awake in front of the TV until he dropped off in exhaustion and slept through until daybreak. But tonight was different—something had triggered a meltdown, and Liam couldn’t help but wonder if it had been Bernie’s arrival. Ike had been raised without a father, and maybe right now he needed a woman’s touch.
Ike’s sobs weren’t abating. His hands were bunched into rage-filled fists, and he stiffened like a board as he howled.
“Hey, buddy...” Liam looked across the street, and there was a light on in the kitchen at Lucille’s place. That meant she was up, and he wouldn’t be imposing. Not too much, at least. Lucille had been here for him for all the bumps this month, and while he always swore he wouldn’t impose again, he always did. He picked up the cordless phone and dialed his neighbor’s number. It rang twice before a female voice picked up.
“Hello?” She sounded cautious, and was barely audible above Ike’s crying, but Liam could tell it wasn’t Lucille.
“It’s Liam, across the street,” he said.
“Hi, it’s Bernadette. Is the little guy okay?”
“Not really. I can’t seem to calm him down. I was trying to reach Lucille to see if she’d give me a hand. Is she up?”
“No, just me. Don’t worry. I’ll be right over.”
Liam blinked at the phone when he realized she’d hung up, not giving him a chance to decline. Not that he wanted to, exactly. He needed help; Ike needed help. He’d just preferred that help from the neighbor he knew.
“Come on, Ike,” Liam pleaded. “I know you’re upset...”
He really had nothing to offer,