Face to Face and Heart to Heart

     

An Important Notice to Readers...

     Although this fiction blog is illustrated with photos of dolls, and dollhouse miniatures, the language and content of the storyline is intended for an adult audience.  Please be advised.

Thank You,

The Author

Maureen hides herself away in the rectory bedroom

       It was about the last thing he expected Beckett to say.  In the weeks that Maureen had been staying with him, the two had made no attempt to reconcile, each choosing to stay firm in their resolve to end the whole thing.  Beckett's name was never spoken out loud within her presence, and if his sister had to refer to her estranged husband in any manner, it was by the monikers of "that asshole" and "the bastard".  Fr. Kevin himself had thought about trying to speak to the Sheriff, but his tentative truce with Maureen, and his lack of the right words kept him from making good on that decision.  Now, here he was, on the rectory's door step, demanding the return of Maureen as if she were a missing puppy located at the pound.

        Hoping to diffuse what was sure to be a volatile encounter, Kevin put on his best clergyman face.  "Sheriff...it's great to see you here.  Why don't you come on in, and I'll pour us both a Guinness.  If you're hungry, I can throw together some sandwiches.  We can talk. "

        "No, O'Kenney.  No drinks.  No food. And definitely no chit chat.  I'll just retrieve my wife, and we'll both be out of your way."  He took a step forward, and attempted to push past the priest into the foyer of the house.

        It was a natural male reaction,  posturing on both sides, and Fr. Kevin slid his shoulder further to the right, blocking the way.  He was actually a few inches taller than his sister's husband, but it was no contest between them, that having already been established several months prior.  The Sheriff looked up at him, an expression so chilly he was surprised he didn't instantly turn to a solid block of ice.  He figured reasoning wouldn't work, but it was all he had to offer.  "Look Ted...seriously...she's in no shape to talk right now.  She has so much unresolved grief.  Anger.  She needs time.  Surely you can understand that.  Let her be for a few more weeks.  I'm sure she'll feel better, and then...maybe you guys can work at healing the wounds."

        The man said nothing, but turned his head and let his eyes wander down the block.  For a second, Fr. Kevin wondered whether the man was contemplating his advice, or checking for possible witnesses.  Then, he looked backed and smiled, an expression that held not the least bit of mirth.  "Here's how it is O'Kenney...I understand you're just trying to look out for your sister's welfare.   I appreciate your loyalty.  I really do.  But if you don't move out of this doorway, and let me pass, I'm gonna move you myself.  And we both don't want to make this harder than it has to be.  She belongs with me, as your Scripture so eloquently states, so step aside and let me retrieve her."

          There was no point in physically taking the man on.  He wouldn't last a minute, and the scene  would surely materialize into something big and ugly.  Besides, if he were being honest with himself, there was truth in the man's reasoning.  They were man and wife in God's eyes.  Maureen had promised to love, honor and obey until death parted the two of them, yet at the first big road block in their life together, she had high tailed and run.  Given up.  If there was any chance that the two of them could reconcile, then it was his responsibility as both priest and brother to try and help them along, even if it meant damaging his own relationship with her.   Besides, it wasn't like she was happy and content without her husband.  She spent her days locked in the rectory's bedroom, his bedroom, staring at the ceiling.  She didn't sleep, she didn't eat, didn't interact with anyone in the family, including himself.  When she left the room, it was to attend Mass, or putter in the church's garden, and little else.  She had lost at least ten pounds, and her clothes hung on her like sheets on a pole.  Maybe a little go around with her husband was just what she needed to snap out of this cycle of misery.  Fr. Kevin shrugged, and stepped out of the doorway.

__________________________

      There were 18 roses in every strip of wallpaper that lined the rectory's bedroom, and the pattern reoccurred every 4 strips, except in the corner, where someone had miscalculated.  There was also a fine spider web crack that ran the length of the ceiling from the east end to the west, and in the late afternoon, beginning at 4:00 PM, the tree in the front parkway cast a series of monster like shadows across the wall next to the stair case.  This she knew for certain, having spent countless hours staring at the same space.  She had shed so many tears, she thought she might have used up her life time allotment, and now would spend the rest of her days with eyes like a creek run dry.  Food tasted like sand in her mouth, chocking it down a daily fight, and she had to think hard when was the last time she had run a comb or brush through her mop of hair.

        Worst of all was facing Kevin, who hovered about her like a well-meaning nanny, cheerful pundits and bakery treats his answer to her dark mood and isolation.  She felt guilty interrupting his life this way again.  He never complained, never turned his back, and never lost his temper with her, all of which made her feel like the most selfish person on earth.  And everyday that passed with no change in her disposition, seemed to make him feel like a failure, which did little to help her own self image.  But she could think of no other place to go.  Returning back to Boston was impossible.  No matter how hard she tried, she would always be "poor little Red...the screw up".  Everything she touched turned to shit, she being nothing more than a short cloud of continuing bad fortune.

        And she certainly couldn't stay here in Dollyville.  Not where she'd run into him at every turn.  See him about town, probably with some other woman on his arm.  That image in her head made her stomach queasy, a possibility that was too hard to face.  No, staying here was out.  That was for certain.  But where she might go, she hadn't a clue.  She had tried making a list, focusing in on the East coast, but stopped after Maryland and Washington D.C., knowing she'd never actually go off by herself.
She watched as the shadow arms began to reach fingers along the wall over the dresser.  It was near 4:30.  Another day slipping by without any decisions.

        The knock on the door downstairs was almost ignored.  People came and went from the rectory all the time, and she had gotten used to giving it no attention at all.  But there was something odd in the tone of Kevin's voice, and she strained to make out the conversation she could hear from the open window.  That's when she recognized the pitch of the other man's answer, the slight drawl to the words, and the deeper timber.  She flew to the window and looked down on the porch.  The overhang blocked most of her view, but she could see the back of his head, the dark hair curling over the collar of his jacket, and her heart squeezed in her chest.  For a second, she panicked, not sure if she should lock the door, or run down the stairs, and out the back.  She couldn't see him.  Not face to face.  For sure she'd fall to pieces, crumble like stale cracker into a mess on the floor.  Then reality sunk in.  Maybe he had just come to speak to Kevin.  Official business.  He was, after all, still the town Sheriff.  She stole another glance, noticed he was not wearing his uniform, and panicked again.

Maureen spies Ted on the rectory porch

         Kevin knew how she felt.  Knew that she never wanted to face him again.  He wouldn't possibly let the man near her, of that she was certain.  She sat on the bed, took deep breaths, and came face to face with her reflection in the mirror.  She blinked at the woman staring back at her, too thin, too pale, her hair a knotted, tangle of curls, her clothes wrinkled and hanging on skeleton arms.  No way could he see her like this.  It would serve as evidence that he had tore her heart out.  Destroyed her spirit, and left her a mess.  He'd take one look at her, and thank his lucky stars he'd severed any ties.

          She strained to hear what was going on, the voices raised in some type of disagreement.  This was followed by the sounds of footsteps on the stairs, heavy confident steps, not Kevin's lumbering gait.  She froze, unable to move, then quickly jumped from the bed, twisted the lock, and shoved a chair against the door.

__________________________

          He heard the click of the tumblers before he hit the top of the stairs, and frowned.  She was poised to make this difficult.  Not that he had expected less.  Nothing about Maureen was easy.  Ever.  Maybe it was that very thing that had attracted him to her in the first place.  She was a challenge, a tiny little flame that sparked without warning, going from match stick to forest fire on a breath of a whim.
Nolan was right.  He couldn't just walk away, despite his attempts to try.  She was his Desert Rose.  There was no denying that.  The single bright spot in his wretched, mess of a life.  So if she were done with him for good, then he'd have to hear it from her lips alone.  Face to face, and soul to soul, before he could think of ever moving on.

          From outside the door, he could hear her shuffling around of furniture, and despite the drama of the moment, smiled.  Was she actually moving stuff in front of the door?  Like she'd keep him out if he wanted in?   This Maureen he could handle,the angry, furious tempest.  It was the weeping, frail, little broken doll he dreaded.  She expected a fight, and he was happy to oblige.

          He rapped on the door.  "Maureen?  It's me...Ted.  Open the door, please."

          "No I will not.  Go away!  I don't want to see you."

          "We need to talk.  Now."

          "I have nothing to say to you.  Just go away, and leave me alone.  I don't know why Kevin invited you in.  He knows how I feel."

          "Kevin didn't invite me.  I invited myself.  Besides, this is between you and I.  Kevin has nothing to do with it.  Now open this door.  I don't want to stand here shouting at you from behind a locked door."

         "There's nothing more to say.  We're done... you and I.  So...so...just go on back to where ever you're living, and leave me the hell alone.  If you need to send me... paperwork, then send it through Patrick."

         "I'm living in our apartment, as a matter of fact.  Where you should also be.  Not hiding out like a spoiled child here at the rectory.  Now, open this door, so we can talk like civil, mature adults."   He could hear the self-righteous indignation from behind the door at being called a spoiled child, the huff that exploded from her lips, and grinned.

        "I'm a spoiled child?  Me?  This coming from a lying, cheating, crazy bastard like yourself?  How dare you...you...you big jerk!  Go away!  I want nothing to do with you!"

        "Look...I may have...left out some key details, but I never lied to you.  And I have most certainly have never been unfaithful to you in the entire time we have been together.  So I take issue with the lying and cheating description.  And if you say you we're through, then fine.  It shall be as you wish.  But I need to see you...look into your eyes... when you tell me you don't want me in your life.  You owe me that much.  Open the door, Maureen."      It was quiet for a few minutes, and he thought maybe he had given her pause to believe him, but the sound of something heavy hitting the wall shattered the illusion.

          "Go away.  Just go away and leave me alone.  I'm not opening the door."

             From the sound of her voice, he could place her position across the room.
"Then you leave me no choice."

           Before she could react to the meaning of those words, the door exploded from the wooden frame, the chair in front of it flying across the room with the force.  Beckett stepped through the wreckage, and blocked her exit.  She retreated the furthest corner, and pulled the drapes across herself like a useless piece of armor.  "Stay away from me!  Don't come any closer!  I mean it!"

             He raised his hands up in mock surrender.  "I won't lay a hand on you without your permission.  All I want is an answer.  Do you, or do you not, want to stay together?"

             She covered her face with the drape, and he could hear the chocking noises as she fought back sobs.  "I don't.  I don't want you.  Go away."

            He marched across the room and tugged the drape away.  "Not good enough.  I want you to look at me when you say that.  As your husband, I deserve that much."

            She turned her head and looked away, forcing him to use her chin to move it back, and when she didn't fight his touch, he ran his thumb across her lower lip.  "Do you want me out of your life for good?  Say yes, and I'll never bother you again.  You have my word."

           The silence blotted out all other noise from the window behind them.  The shadow arms of the tree outside had wrapped completely across the room, and the late day sun changed the rose colored paint on the walls to a shimmering gold.  Beckett stood waiting for her answer, and when it come, it was almost a whisper, causing him to lean in to hear it.

            "No.  Don't go."

Face to face and heart to heart

____________________

       Downstairs, Fr. Kevin tried hard not to listen in, but it was practically impossible not to hear what was being shouted through the closed door.  He said a silent prayer asking the itercession of every patron saint he knew that things might go well for the two of them, and when the door crashed from the frame, his heart almost stopped.  But there was no shout of alarm from his sister, so he stayed put down stairs, and let the Almighty guide the way of things.

         It was quiet after the door incident, and when the two emerged, it was with Maureen in her husband arms, he carrying her like a fragile parcel down the stairs, and out the front door.  They said nothing at all to him except instructions that he should have the door fixed, and send the bill to them.  He watched them continue down the street to their apartment over the deli, much to the amusement of the neighbors who clapped and waved in moral support.

           Fr. Kevin O'Kenney whispered up a grateful prayer of thanksgiving, then went inside, and poured himself a much deserved pint of Guinness in celebration.


Copyright  Victoria T. Rocus  2014
All Rights Reserved

Attention Readers...

       If you're confused as to why Beckett calls Maureen his Desert Rose, you can find the explanation at a back chapter:   http://miniimayhem.blogspot.com/2013/02/desert-rose.html.  It's an oldie but goodie, and relates events early in their "official" relationship.  Every chapter in this story can be easily accessed in the archives located on the right side of the web page going back to June of 2012.

     As always, thanks for your continued support of my humble literary endeavors!
         

     

 
       

     

Tough Times and Damning Decisions

     

An Important Notice to Readers...

     Although this fiction blog is illustrated with photos of dolls, and dollhouse miniatures, the language and content of the storyline is intended for an adult audience.  Please be advised.

Thank You,

The Author

     

Beckett face plants his bed

       There should have been a scandal.  No doubt about it.  It was the kind of tale that folks in small hamlets and big cities love to savor over their morning coffee.  Sordid love triangle, respected law man and dead child, all rolled into a feast of speculation and head shaking. It should have kept the locals busy for at least three or four days, if not the entire week.  But oddly enough, the shooting at the deserted warehouse was a small blurb of a story tucked away on page 12 of the DV Review, a brief summary of general facts and little else.  It did not make the five o'clock news in either Dollyville or Boston, and if people were discussing it over their dinner tables, they were polite enough not to mention it to Fr. O'Kenney.

         It was more than curious in an age of instant news and digital frenzy, and it left him shaking his head.  It seemed that the citizens of the small town were very fond of Sheriff Beckett, a handsome, charming man who had graced the community with a brand new library, top notch little league field, two tot lots and a much desired dog park, and in their gratitude, were willing to overlook any indiscretions that might have accidentally attached themselves to him.  The woman in question, one Cassandra Donaghue aka Cassie McCreedy, was an outsider, a Jezebel who had embezzled a small fortune of money from many of them during her tenure in the community, and unworthy of the tiniest shred of sympathy.

        Though puzzled, Fr. Kevin was thankful for the absence of gossip surrounding the whole tragic mess.  Maureen was already in a bad way, and the side looks and whispering that followed these things  would surely make matters worse, even if she had made an effort to move about the land of the living.  Since her "discussion" with both and he and Beckett about the truth of the matter, his sister had stopped communicating with just about everyone.  The only person she would converse with in monotone single answers was Patrick, and if he was making progress getting through to her, he wasn't sharing any info with the rest of the family.  Mo had granted him a few words regarding her wishes for a memorial service for the baby, but anything beyond that topic was met with stony silence.

         In the seven years since his ordination, Kevin had become the family "go to guy" for all spiritual needs.  He had said countless Masses for them, heard their confessions, married a few, gave First Communion to a gaggle of nieces and nephews, and had buried several of his aging aunts and uncles.  Up until now, he had been grateful for the opportunity to share his vocation with those he held dearest, fulfilled at the notion that he was sharing in their relationship with God.  However, the funeral service for his sister's dead child was something else entirely, and the singularly hardest thing he had ever done as a priest.

        Despite suggestions that she wait a few weeks, Maureen insisted the funeral service be held immediately in the hospital's small chapel.  The O'Kenney's who could, made the two hour trip in from Boston, and the tiny space was filled to overflowing.  She had been adamant that her estranged husband not be notified, but Patrick, in the manner he did best, convinced her otherwise.  Beckett had been relieved of duty pending an investigation into the whole warehouse debacle, and it was odd to see him arrive out of uniform, and in a somber charcoal suit, minus the habitual shoulder holster.  He sat on the left side of the chapel, accepting quiet professions of sympathy and handshakes, and avoiding any questions or inquiries regarding the events at the warehouse.

         Maureen arrived by wheelchair, wearing a simple black dress that made her pale skin gleam ghost white.  Her appearance there set his sister-in-laws to a symphony of weeping, while Mo sat stone face, her hands wound tightly together in her lap, eyes straight ahead.  Noticing her husband on the left side, she asked to be moved to the far right, the aisle between them acting as an invisible canyon too wide and dangerous to cross.  From his position at the altar, he had a bird's eye view of his family gathered before him, an insider's perspective on their expressions and body language.   With a heart heavy, he began the opening prayers, pouring every ounce of faith he had into begging for the Father's healing grace.

        He tried to stay focused, but it was difficult to do while reading the looks of grief and loss in their faces.  The baby's casket, a tiny white parcel not much bigger than a bread box, acted like a beacon, drawing all the sadness in the room.  More than a few times during the service, he would catch Beckett staring at Maureen, the pain in his expression almost a physical presence.  In the same vein, he would see his sister sneak a look across the pews at her husband, her anger an invisible thread that joined the space between them.  He moved through the funeral rites as if on auto-pilot, saying the words, but disconnecting himself from them.  Priest, brother and friend, he tried to shake the feeling of confusion he felt over the whole business, but the irony of the situation was hard to bear.  While he and his family dealt with their loss, the cause of it all rested three floors above their heads, recuperating from her injuries.

_______________________________

         They should have stopped when the first bottle was empty, but they were still able to stand, so another was begun.  Beckett poured the bourbon into the glasses, missing the edge of Nolan's rim, and sloshing more than a shot over the cuff of Nolan's shirt.

          "No use wasting good whiskey, my friend."   He raised his arm to his lips, and sucked the liquid from the cloth.

          Beckett raised his glass, leaning against the sink to keep steady.  "Here's to major fuck-ups.  May we live to see another."

         Nolan lifted the juice glass to his lips, slurring the word, "Slainte", before tossing the bourbon down his throat.

         They both were silent for a few moments, each lost in a moment of drunkenness and retrospect.  They had danced around the conversation for more than a better part of an hour.  But now, deeming them both smashed enough to cover the topic, Nolan opened the door.  "So compadre...what made you stop?"

         Beckett stared at him, not answering, and for a moment, Nolan thought he might have crossed the line.  He and Beck went far back.  They'd been recruited into the Rangers at the same time, placed in the same unit.  They had seen the very best and worst during those years, and when Beckett had decided to continue his career with the Powers That Be, Mike felt drawn to join him.  He trusted the man with his life, but when it came to answering questions about what was going on inside his head, Ted always slammed the door tight.  Maybe it was the moment.  Maybe it was the excess booze.  Either way, Nolan was surprised that Beck didn't knock him flat on his ass, and change the subject.

         "Stop?  Funny you should ask that question.  Been trying to figure that same thing out myself."
He refilled his glass, working at keeping his hand steady while pouring, and then slid into the kitchen chair next to Nolan.  "Would have saved me a whole lot of trouble.  She'd be dead.  No one the wiser."
He played with the glass, watching the amber colored liquid swirl along the edges.  "I wanted to.  Wanted to snuff out that evil bitch.  Wipe her from my life... once and for all."  He forced his eyes up, and looked directly at Nolan.  "I went there with every intention of taking her out.  That's why I went alone.  But when the time came, I couldn't do it.  Couldn't kill an unarmed civilian.  A woman.  No matter how much I wanted to."

         Nolan raised his eye brows, and then reached for the bottle, keeping the words shoved to the back of his throat.

       "Don't look at me like that, Mike.  What I do...what we do... on assignment... is entirely a different thing.  That's national security.  This...this would've been murder.  I may be a lot of things...terrible things...but I'm not a murderer."

        "Hey...you don't have to explain yourself to me, Captain.  But know this ain't gonna look good for you anyhow."

         "I'm aware of that.  And prepared to deal with the consequences."

         "Have you heard from the Company?"

         He shook his head, and grimaced.  "Yeah.  Needless to say, they're a mite perturbed over the whole matter."

         "I'm not surprised.  It had to be hard to explain why you took out both knee caps, when the first shot should have surely taken her down."

         Beckett shrugged, and finished the glass.  "I did what I did.  And it's sure gonna act as a constant reminder to leave me the hell alone, though I can't imagine she'll be out of prison very soon.  And that's only if Marzano's people don't get ahold of her first.  Maybe I'll get lucky, and someone will finish the job for me."

        The two men sat in silence for a handful of minutes, until Nolan broached the other subject.  "So what about your wife?"

        "What about her?"

        "What's gonna happen now?  Between you and the lovely Maureen?"

         The question seemed more difficult to answer, and required yet another refill of the glass.
"'Supposing she'll go her way, and I'll go mine.  I expect she'll want to leave town.  Go back to her family in Boston.  No reason to stay here in Dollyville.  I made sure she was well taken care of in the pre-nup, and her brother, Pat, will make sure she invests it wisely.  Guy seems pretty smart.  He'll make sure she does what needs to be done."

         "That really what you want, Beck?  For her to leave?  You don't wanna take a shot at making this work?  It looked to me as if you actually cared for this woman."

         "She's better without me.  We're from two different planes of the universe...she and I.  It was fun while it lasted...pretending it could work.  But the reality is that life was simpler...better even...before the two us got tangled up.  She and I marrying...that was an accident that's now been rectified.  Fate steppn' in and all that.  I need my life back.  The way it was.  Before the crazy bitch.  And before Maureen."

            "I hope you don't take this personally, Captain, but you are one stupid fuck.  That little red head's been the best thing that's ever happened to you.  I can't remember a time when you've been happier.  You got a shot at grabbing some normalcy.  A real life.  And you're just giving up.  Walking away.  I know it's none of my business, but as your partner...your friend...you better think about this real hard.  Before you make the biggest mistake of your life."

            "You're right.  It isn't any of your business.  My life.  My decision."  He rose from chair, and stumbled across the flat, flopping across the unmade bed.  "You can stay.  Go.  Whatever you want.  But any conversation about my personal life is finished."

           He said nothing more, and a few minutes later, Nolan could hear him snoring across the room.  He considered waking him up, pounding some reason into him, but decided against it.  Nothing more would be gained from discussion with a drunk man, by a drunk man.  Unsteady on his feet, he rose from the chair, and headed down the stairs.

__________________________
                 
            The days that followed the funeral were a blur.  Fr. Kevin would be hard pressed to remember exactly how it all went down, only that, in the end, he was stuck holding the bag.  The doctors deemed Maureen well enough to be released, and though she had plenty of offers from her sister-in-laws to come stay with them in Boston, she was firmly set on remaining in Dollyville, at least for the time being.  Beckett had offered to move out of the flat over the deli, and into a hotel, so that she could have sole occupancy, but the thought of returning to the apartment they shared together was more than she could bear.  So when she decided that she would move instead to the rectory, there was no way Kevin could say no.

           Patrick had left him with explicit instructions to work at counseling her to return to her husband, but in his mind, he wasn't sure it was the best solution.  He and Maureen were just finding a way to make things right between the two of them, and any talk about her husband would surely make him a traitor in her eyes.  What she needed was time.  Time to get beyond her grief.  Time to put things right in her head.  And that was what he fully intended to give her, even if it meant returning to the awful attic bedroom, and the too short bed.

           He gave her the space she wanted and needed, though he was concerned over her lack of interest in anything.  He heard her pacing the floor at night, heard her sobbing into her pillow, but was at a loss as to how to make it right.  He offered his shoulder, and each time, she refused it, bent on handling her personal issues on her own.

          So things went for days, and then weeks, until one Saturday afternoon there was heavy knocking at the rectory's front door.  He peered through the glass, finding his brother-in-law standing on the other side.  They had not spoken since that day in the hospital, when he had insisted Beckett tell Maureen the truth.  The man looked, for lack of a better word, like shit.  He had lost weight, and his face seemed thin and gaunt, harder and sharper than it had been month ago.  There appeared several days worth of beard on his face, and his clothes seemed rumpled and slept in.  For a second, Fr. Kevin wondered if he might not answer the door.  Pretend that no one was at home.  But Beckett missed nothing, and he could tell the man had seen him the minute he looked through the window.  Not wanting a scene, he opened the door, plastering a calm smile on his face.   But before he could offer any type of greeting, invite him in, the man rudely cut him off.

             "O'Kenney...I've come for my wife."

Beckett shows up at the rectory door

Copyright 2014 Victoria T. Rocus
All Rights Reserved

       

       



     





       

Reunion

   

An Important Notice to Readers...

     Although this fiction blog is illustrated with photos of dolls, and dollhouse miniatures, the language and content of the storyline is intended for an adult audience.  Please be advised.

Thank You,

The Author

   

Cassie and Beckett meet

       The deserted warehouse on Route 23 was just another reminder of the sorry state of the current economy, a hulking eyesore long abandoned when a risky business plan had gone bad.   There had been a flurry of talk around Dollyville that a Boston developer had invested a chunk of money into the property, but the fact was, it was simply a tax write off, a purchase suggested by his attorney, and nothing more.  It was too far from town to have any real commercial benefit, nearly thirty minutes away, and stuck squarely in the middle of no where.   Beckett had little use for either the property or the cavernous building that sat on it, but hoped that the memory of the place would be enough to draw her back.

         He pulled the patrol car to the back of the structure, the late evening sun casting long shadows across the rows of rusty loading docks, empty wooden pallets propped up along their sides like a rib cage stripped of flesh.  The side door was opened a crack, and his hand automatically went to the gun in his waistband.  He pushed at the metal, and it swung wide, letting an arc of light sweep across the
open space.  In the corner nearest the shipping desk, there was a pile of tattered blankets and and a collection of Styrofoam cups and containers, proof that the building had at some point become transient shelter.

          But it was the desk that brought the memories back, a trigger to which he thought himself immune.  He had brought her here on a whim, a last minute thought meant to catch her off guard, and give him the upper hand.   Her reaction had surprised them both, a heady mix of fear, anticipation and desire.  Cassie's agoraphobia amidst the wide open space of the warehouse added a level of controlled panic to the whole scene, making her enticingly vulnerable spread across the wooden expanse, hands and feet tied to the fours legs.  It had been memorable for them both, a fact he was counting on to lure her to him.

        A quick check of the place proved that it was empty.  He positioned himself a few feet from the door, and went through the operation in his head.  The last phase had several options depending on her initial reaction, and he tried to mentally prepare himself for a variety of conclusions, pushing all other thoughts from his head.  It was like any other mission, the countless times he'd been in similar situations with similar objectives.  He worked at shoving all images of Maureen from his head, the tear stained face and look of absolute betrayal, her red hair like a bleeding wound against the sterile hospital whites, and focused instead on dust particles that floated in the light from the tiny windows.

        In the distance, he could hear the static buzz of a helicopter, likely Nolan and his team, on a futile attempt to locate either he or the woman.   Cassie was his problem, his shame, and there was no way he wished to involve them further.  Whatever went down in the next hour was his burden to shoulder alone, and in time, his men would come to respect him for it.  The whirring noise became more distant, moving toward the west, and closer to the town limits.  The old warehouse was on no one's radar, non descript and ordinary, making it the perfect spot for this to end.

         He didn't wait long.  There was the sound of an engine, and the crunch of tires on gravel.  Beckett shifted the Shibari rope to his left shoulder, and looked straight ahead, his face calm and still.   There were light footsteps outside the door, and then nothing.  He held his breath.  Wondered if she had changed her mind and fled.  Then, the metal door slid open, and she stepped in, the light temporarily blinding his line of vision.  He had forgotten how tiny she was, barely five feet, small boned and wiry.  The door closed behind her, blocking the setting sun and providing a clearer view.  She had gone back to the dark brunette she'd been when they were together, falling into the memory without hesitation.

          Cassie immediately honed in on his presence, and he stepped into the dim crack of light from the windows, giving her a better view.  Her eyes rested on the red silk rope across his shoulders.  There was a slight intake of breath, and she smiled, the reaction he'd been counting on.  He could do this.  Simply.  Easily.

           "It's been too long, Sir."

            "So it has, Mon Petite.   You been a very busy girl."

             She shrugged.  "One needs a hobby, Sir."

             He took a few steps forward, and she pulled the small caliber pistol from the back of her jeans. "Not another step, my love.  Drop the automatic, and kick it over here."

             He smirked, and dug the weapon from the waistband of his pants.  "Your lack of trust disappoints me, Mon Petite.  And we both know how much I dislike being disappointed."

              She waved the pistol at him again, and he dropped the gun onto the cement floor, and kicked it toward her.  Without taking her eyes off him, she bent over and retrieved it, then flung it over their heads towards a spot in the back.  It clattered off in the distance, and Beckett forced himself not to turn and watch its location.

             He shrugged his shoulders, and then put his hands on his hips.   "I chose this place especially  for our reunion, Mon Petite, and you are being most ungrateful.  I fear some discipline is in order."

              She hesitated, and Beckett could see the battle going on in her head.  She looked to his face, and then to the rope, her teeth biting down on her lower lip.  "I want to believe you, Sir.  Honest, I do."
She suddenly scowled, and stepped closer, pointing the gun at his head.  "What about her?  The red head?  Your wife?"

               "Done.  Over.  Never meant a thing...though I fail to see why I need to explain myself to you, Little One.   Or have you forgotten all the rules while you were away?"

                Her need to believe was stronger than her common sense.  Tossing the gun to the side, she stepped forward, and presented her wrists.  "I am yours, Sir"

                 Beckett kept his face a mask, showing not a hint of emotion. "Where is your protocol, girl?  Is this the way you present yourself?  Disappointing, indeed."

                  She blinked at him, lost in the memory, and began to undress, folding each article of clothing into a neat square and stacking them in a pile on the floor, while he watched.  When she finished, she stood naked before him, and looked up into his face, hopeful.  But what she saw there instead he never knew.  Maybe she caught a glimpse of revulsion in the set of his mouth?  Maybe it was the lie reflected in his eyes?  Something in his face must have given him away.  Before he could bind her, she was off and running, heading in the direction of where he had seen her throw his automatic.

                 He went after her, but in the darkness, could only see glimpses of pale flesh slicing in between the stacks of empty pallets and metal drums.  The bullet whizzing by his head gave proof that she had found his weapon, and he was glad for the Sig in his ankle holster.  He hadn't intended for it to end this way, but she had changed the script.  He herded her toward the corner of the building, trapping her between a brick wall and a pile of empty crates, all the while counting the missed shots one by one.  He could hear her heavy breathing, and watched her scramble up the crates, her bare ass like a round, full moon rising in the night sky.  When she got to the top, she turned and saw him standing at the bottom.

          "Don't you come any closer, you filthy, lying bastard!  You're dead, you hear me!  Dead!  I'll put a bullet in your fucked up head, Teddy, so help me God, I will!"

            He raised his arms, and smirked, the Sig loaded and ready in his right hand.  "Go ahead, Baby.  Take your best shot."  When she didn't fire, he took a step forward.  Frightened, she aimed the gun, and pulled the trigger, the empty chamber echoing in the space.  Realizing she was out of ammunition, she shrieked, and threw the weapon at his head.  It missed, and tumbled down the mountain of crates like a loose pebble.  For a few seconds, they stared at one another, sizing up the moment, plotting their next move.

           Beckett began the climb to the top, and with no where to go, and no gun to fire, Cassie disappeared into the darkness.   He assumed she would scramble for something to use as a weapon, and thus was surprised to see her calmly standing in the corner waiting for him, hands at her side, and smiling.

             "Good for you, Sir.  You've trapped me.  You win.  Come claim your prize."

             He pointed the Sig at her.  "You are one crazy, messed up bitch, Mon Petite.  I pity you.  Truly I do."

             She stepped forward, narrowed her eyes and snarled.  "Don't give me that self-righteous bullshit, Teddy.  We're soul mates, you and I.  Cut from the same dirty cloth.  We don't think like normal people, and we don't play by the same rules.  You know it's true, so let's not pretend you could ever have a regular life.  You'd die of boredom."  She took a step closer.  "You want what I can offer.  It's really very simple."  She reached out to touch him, and he stepped backwards.

               "Step back, Little One.  I mean it."

                "Or what, Teddy?  You're going to shoot me?"  She giggled, a high pitch girlish sound that made the moment even stranger.  "We both know you won't do it, Sir.  Even you have boundaries."  She smiled, a wide, toothy grin.  "I know you better than you know yourself, Theodore Beckett."

                 "Baby...you don't know me at at"  And then he smiled back at her, and pulled the trigger.
                             

Copyright Victoria T. Rocus  2014
All Rights Reserved


         



             


         





       

Broken Ends

An Important Notice to Readers...

     Although this fiction blog is illustrated with photos of dolls, and dollhouse miniatures, the language and content of the storyline is intended for an adult audience.  Please be advised.

Thank You,

The Author

           

Beckett waits

      The top of his head felt ready to explode, and the wet shirt clung to him as a reminder of what a total shit of a human being he really was.  She deserved better.  Some picket fence life with a mini van in her drive way, and squalling babies tugging at her legs.  Despite what he told her brother, he was the primary cause of her unhappiness, and no amount of double speak logic was going to change that.  He needed to take care business, and then sever any ties they shared.  Money would see to her future in a way that would hopefully abase some of the guilt he bore, but until the psycho bitch was dealt with, none of that could happen.

            It was difficult to keep from scanning the parking lot for her car,  to keep from zeroing in on the silver Taurus he knew was stalling somewhere in the sea of vehicles.  He forced himself to stare at the things in front of him, not wanting to provide any clue that he knew she was there, had known of her presence for the last ten hours.  But for this to work, to put an end to this once and for all, she had to be convinced that he was oblivious to her involvement.

            Beckett slid into the seat of the patrol car, and tapped at the small receiver button on the dash board.  "You there, Nolan?"

           "Aye, Sir.  We're on the west side of the building. The white laundry truck parked next to the
loading dock."

           "You're sure she can't pick up this signal?"

           "No, Sir.  We have this particular frequency jammed.  It will appear normal on her end, but she won't hear a word of our conversation.  We have learned a thing or two about her methods in the past month.  Gotta say, the bitch is good.  Very good.  It's a shame we don't have her working for our side."

           "You can start a fuckn' fan club for her when this is over, Nolan.  Until then, I just need you to do what you're told."

           "Damn, Beck.  I didn't mean to make light of any of this.  But I've never seen a civie this...this precise before.  It's like she's had pro training."

           "Yeah...well...she's been able to get by so far on ingenuity and talent.  That end's today"

           "Yes, Sir.  We got eyes on the ground, and in the air.  She won't drop shit us this time."

            "I hope the hell not.  I'll let you know when I've made contact."

             "Aye, Captain.   Remember...by the book, okay.  No last minute changes.  Anything but the plan leaves us open to attention."

              He didn't reply, instead hitting the button and ending the transmission.  Glancing up toward the mirror, he tried to see the trail of cars behind him.  Daylight made her easier to see, but rush hour traffic offered plenty of vehicles to hide behind.  As he turned the corner, he caught sight of the Taurus six cars behind him, keeping a cautious pace.  She would probably expect him to head home, back to the flat on Kessler Street.  It would seem the most normal thing to do, to shower and change before heading back to the station or the hospital.  Normal is what he wanted.  No reason for her to expect anything was amiss.

_______________________________

          It was cowardly.  There was no denying that.  But with Patrick in Maureen's room, and she insisting that he leave her alone, it was the perfect opportunity to slip away from the hospital.  He had been there since yesterday afternoon, and the drama and stress of the last few hours had stripped him of any reasonable chance for efficiency.  What he needed was a hot shower and some breakfast, and then maybe he could spend some time seeking divine assistance over what to do next.   Not desiring a long, dreary bus ride, he opted for a taxi, and was shortly on route back to Holy Family.

          Thursday was glorious, all blue skies and warm sunshine.  Around him, the town got to the business of another day, unaware that for he and those he held dearest, the world had changed in a deeply sad way.  It appeared that his sister would physically recover from her injuries without any lasting effects, but the same could not be said for her heart.  With grief over the loss of her baby, and the betrayal she felt by both her husband and brother,  it was doubtful she could ever go back to being the care free, light hearted soul she had been 24 hours before.

          The cab dropped him off in front of the rectory, and it seemed like he had been away for days instead of hours.  The weariness hit him all at once, and even the fifty feet to the front door seemed much too far to go.  He stopped to pick up the newspaper on the walkway, and in doing so, glanced down the street.  There was Beckett's patrol car, parked outside the deli, indicating that the man had probably returned home to the flat he shared with Maureen.  Good intentions poked at him, urging a visit and perhaps a heart to heart with the man that had married his sister.  It was the shepherd-like thing to do, a plan of action expected of man with a calling.  But Beckett wasn't a member of his flock, not even a believer as he had argued a million times before.   And in the shape Kevin found himself in, he doubted he had little to offer in the way of any spiritual advice.  So plans for a visit were put off for another time, when surely he would be better apt to handle the fallout.

          Months, even years later, he would often wonder how things might have turned out differently if he had only made the alternative choice on that perfect Thursday morning.

Fr. Kevin notices Beckett's patrol car

_________________________

         For Beckett, waiting was always the hardest part of any op, finding the time wasted until the target made their next move more akin to purgatory than hell.  He took a shower and changed clothes, made a sandwich, fixed the constant drip in the kitchen faucet, and did 400 push ups, yet still she had not called.  He wondered if he had misjudged the woman.  Had she changed in the time since she disappeared?  Now, that was a stupid question.  Of course she had changed.  If anything, she had become more of a sociopath than she had been before.  That was apparent in everything she had done since the day she fled his cabin.

           He had known she was broken the moment he had met her.  It was, perhaps, what drew him to her in the first place  He had recognized a kindred soul, someone whose needs crazily matched his own.  She was beautiful, willing, and not afraid to play on the dark side of the street.  Why he ever considered marrying the woman was beyond him.  In his entire adult life, he never imagined committing to any woman, and suddenly found himself contemplating a union with not one, but two of them, in the course of a year.  It pointed to a problem with his mindset, and when this was over, his focus needed to be on things he could control.

          He kicked out a kitchen chair and flopped into it.  The table was still covered with the remnants of Maureen's dinner menu from the night before, and with a broad arm he swept it all off, the bowls, the vegetables, and the cookbook flying in several directions.  A head of lettuce bounced off the back of the chair, hitting the long side table behind him, and knocking over the picture frame standing on it.  The wedding photograph of he and Maureen crashed to the floor, the glass splintering into tiny, jagged pieces.

             Before he could dwell on the irony of that, the cell phone chirped in his pocket.  He pulled it out and smiled,  the first time in fifteen hours.  She had taken the bait, as he knew she would.  He slipped the tracking device off his wrist, and ground it under his heel.  Nolan would be pissed, but that couldn't be helped.

               "This is between you and me, Cassie baby."

                He tucked the Semi automatic into his waistband, and the Sig into the holster at his ankle.  Then he headed down the stairs, the glass crunching under his heel.

Copyright Victoria T. Rocus 2014
All Rights Reserved

         

         

           

Family Ties That Cut and Bind

           

An Important Notice to Readers...

     Although this fiction blog is illustrated with photos of dolls, and dollhouse miniatures, the language and content of the storyline is intended for an adult audience.  Please be advised.

Thank You,

The Author

         
               

Beckett's bloody knuckles

       No one spoke for a few seconds after Beckett's departure.  The nursing staff averted their eyes, and turned their attention to the screens and paperwork in front of them, trained to politely ignore the idiosyncrasies of their more privileged patients.  You could see the wheels clicking in Patrick's head as he looked toward the door Beckett had departed from, the door to Maureen's suite, and then back at Kevin.  The vein in his left temple sat near his forehead like an angry garden snake, and there was a Category 4 hurricane brewing in his gray eyes.  In that moment, Pat looked so much like their father it was as if a ghost had descended from heaven, and inhabited his brother's body.

              John Patrick O'Kenney, known as Jack to everyone but his children, had ruled his family like a Medieval feudal lord.  Within the walls of the family home, his word was law, and few of his brood ever dared to forget that.  His wife and children were, without doubt, the center of his universe, and he worked himself to an early grave providing all eight of them the things he felt were the backbone of a suitable upbringing.  Private Catholic education from grammar school through college, music lessons and little league, a myriad of orthodontic needs, summer vacations on the Cape, and huge celebrations marking each and every sacramental milestone.  The man gave them everything he had, and in return, expected their absolute loyalty and obedience.  And when you gave him reason to doubt your commitment to either, it was with the knowledge that there would be hell to pay for your lack of judgement.

              Kevin had been on the receiving end of his father's wraith on more than one occasion, and the memories still hung in his head like old suits in the attic, faded and covered in dust, but ready to slip on if guilt should call.  When a sudden heart attack had forced them to bid a final farewell to their ruling patriarch, Patrick slipped into his role like the named heir to the kingdom.  Despite the fact that he himself was only a young man with both a new career and family of his own, Patrick saw to the needs of his mother and siblings with the same air of autonomy he had inherited from their father, along with his physical appearance.  Through the years, he had held the family together, seeing to every one's needs, doling out orders in the name of advice, and practically raising Maureen from adolescence onward, until he had officially placed her in Beckett's care less than a month before.  There was little doubt that he would expect  complete disclosure on the issues at hand, a prospect that made Kevin's head pound and his stomach roll in waves of anxiety.

       "What in God's name is going on here, Kevin?  There's something you're not telling me about Red's accident.  I could tell from your face the moment I got here."  He raised his hands in frustration, and in a breath of a second, Kevin wondered if his brother would smack him across the head like he had done when they were kids.    Instead, he dragged them away from the growing audience at the nurses station.  " Ted Beckett does not strike me as the kind of man who'd leave his injured wife lying in her hospital, and storm off.  Now you tell me the truth right now.  What the hell has Red done now?"

         He knew he was being baited.  Knew it was the wiser course of action to keep his mouth shut.  But the need to defend his sister was stronger than his common sense.  "Why do you automatically think this is Maureen's fault?  She's the one who's in that bed seriously injured, grieving for her dead child, and right away, you blame her for all of it!  Did you ever think, for one damn moment, that maybe she's the victim here?"

         "Why?  Because we both know that our sister is a walking disaster, Kevin! Get your head out of your ass!  Remember...she's  'Wreck 'Em Red'...or have you forgotten?  That girl is cursed with the ability to screw up the simplest of things.  I just know she's somehow...involved.  Has to be.  It's the way of things for the O'Kenneys."

         "Don't give me that crap, Pat!  You don't believe that old wives's tale from Granny any more than I do.  There's no such thing as the 'fey'...no such thing as curses."  As the words tumbled out of his mouth, the memory of his time travel was like a punch to his psyche, but this was not the time to even begin dealing with any of that.  "Did it ever cross your mind that maybe her husband...maybe the almighty Beckett...is the cause of this?"

           "I don't believe that.  Can't be."

           "Why?  Because he's rich?  That makes him infallible?  I know we think differently, Pat, but even you can't be that big of an asshole."

            "The man promised he'd take care of her.  Said he'd make sure she was happy, safe and wanting for nothing.  He gave me his word."

            "And you believed him?  Just like that?"  It was Kevin's turn to wave in frustration.  "You barely know the man!  How could you just take his word like that...over the word of your only sister?  Your flesh and blood!  Especially you, Patrick...with all your lecturing on the bonds of family.  It's all bullshit with you, isn't it.  Beckett holds the almighty dollar, and you're just a dog on his leash."

             He expected his brother to get angry.  To get red in the face, all indignation and self-righteous fury.  But he didn't.  Instead, he looked quickly to the left, then at the floor, and then back at Kevin, a "tell" the priest hadn't seen in years.  It was a well known family secret that when Patrick was going to be less than honest, whether it be at cards, the workings of a practical joke, a heated discussion, or his law practice, he had a habit of not looking right at you before he did it.  He'd glance to the side, then to the floor and then back at you, as if he needed time to center himself before he did you wrong.  Over the years, he had worked hard to break himself of the habit, and it had seemingly disappeared along with some of his hairline.  But there it was.  Quick and hardly noticeable, but there none the less, and strangely causing Kevin a tad bit of alarm.  What was it Patrick wasn't saying himself?

           "Look, Kevin.  I don't want to be standing outside our sister's hospital room arguing like some East Side punks.  We both know something else is going on between Maureen and her husband.  I want you to march down to her room and fix it.  Whatever it takes.  Just smooth things over.  It's what you're supposed to be good at, right?  All those years of seminary school?  Go ahead and do what it takes.  Then, come and talk to me like a grown man.  In the meantime, I'm dead on feet.  I need to sit my ass down somewhere with a cup of coffee.  Seems to me a man could get a damn cup of coffee in this place, with what this all has to be costing."

            He turned and walked away, leaving Kevin standing in the hall concerned and confused.  He knew he had been dismissed.  Insulted, in fact, and any other time he'd feel that seed of resentment he worked so hard on keeping hidden.  But that wasn't what had him worried now.  Patrick had an inside track on something, and whatever it was, he didn't intend to share it.

____________________________
           

Beckett's Mustang post accident

             This was stupid.  Totally stupid.  She knew better.  If she had any sense at all, she should have immediately high tailed it back to the beach house.  With the red head in hospital, and the lousy rainy weather, it was doubtful that anybody would be thinking about going to the house on the Cape.  She'd be safely hidden in plain view, keeping track of the goings on from the luxury of Teddy's money.

             But there was something about the man that made her act irrationally, and with little concern for her own welfare, she had spent the last ten hours following him from one place to another, watching as he dealt with all of this in his own manner.  The surveillance she had planted in the flat while they were on their wretched honeymoon was doing her no good.  He never went back there.  So, she was left trailing him by car and foot, a major chore in it's own right.  It was too bad he couldn't begin to know the extent to which she cared for him.  The effort she was putting forth to make them a couple again.  But in the end, it would all be worth it.   Someday, he would know the whole story, and be moved by her loyalty and devotion.

           Cassie had expected that once he returned to the hospital, he'd stay for a bit, giving her time to rest and refresh before tackling the details of Plan B.  His actions in the past few hours had given her a peek inside his head, though truthfully, the whole car thing had thrown her for a loop.  It had seemed a tad over the top emotional for the Teddy she knew.  With her, he had always held himself in check.  Passionate, but without the trappings of drama.  Always in charge.  Always on top.  It was one of the things she found so alluring, his ability to distance himself from the emotion, and concentrate fully on the physical.  So his attack on the car had been curious indeed.

            When he left the hospital earlier, she had followed him at a safe distance, expecting that he'd return home to the apartment he'd shared with the red head.  She figured he'd probably want to shower, maybe look for a change of clothes.  But he surprised her, avoiding that block entirely, even the spot where the accident took place, now cleared away as if nothing had ever happened.  He headed instead to the other side of town, stopping in front of the empty double lot where the Victorian once stood.  He parked the patrol car at the curb, and just sat, staring out at the empty space where his home had been before the explosion.  The ground had been cleared and leveled, and stakes marked the points where a new foundation would be poured in the future.

              She didn't dare move closer, watching instead from two blocks away.  He didn't appear to sense he was being followed, and there had been no attempt to try to flush her out, or shake her tail.  He was instead on some kind of mental tour, and she allowed herself the luxury of thinking that maybe his stop here was based on personal regret.  After all, she had been the one who had lived there with him.  Been the lady of this house.  Shared the pleasures of the Red Room.  Knew what made him tick.  There was no way she'd ever allow someone else to share that space with him.  The red head?  She'd never lived there, preferring the dingy, hole in the wall flat over the grandeur of the stately home and its hidden kinky pleasures.  It had been the right thing to do, blowing the house to pieces.  It belonged to them alone, she and Teddy, and no other woman had a right to it.

              Lost in her reverie, she had almost missed him abruptly pulling away.  Again, he headed off in the opposite direction, picking up speed until he came to the impound lot near the outskirts of town.  She watched from a  hidden spot behind a large road sign toting the coming of new a Red Robin Restaurant, as he left his car, and wandered over to the lot.   Unlocking the front gate, he headed toward the black Mustang, it's front end and driver's side a mess of mangled wreckage.  For a while, he just stood and stared.  Then without warning, he began to beat on the hood of the car with his bare fists, the noise echoing throwout the openness of the space.  He pounded at the windows until his fists were  bloody, and when the windshield refused to shatter, he stood on the hood and kicked at it with his boots until the pane erupted into a million tiny pieces.  When he was through venting his frustration on the car, he leaned against it, breathing heavily.  If words or sounds came from his mouth, she wasn't close enough to hear them.  But the depth of his rage was palpable, and it sent a jolt down her spine.  She wondered how it would feel to have him unleash that anger on her, to feel that total loss of control, but then pushed the thought from her mind, wanting to savor that fantasy when she had the leisure to fully enjoy it.

        For the next hour or so, he wandered the streets aimlessly, heading no where in particular, and eventually ending up back at the hospital, and his wifey's bedside.  Logic dictated that he'd stay put for awhile, giving her some much needed rest.  She had just put the seat back, and thought to close her eyes a bit, when he came storming out the lobby doors only 45 minutes later, his shirt wet, and his face set in grim determination.  She sighed, annoyed that he hadn't the courtesy to allow her a few minutes rest.  She opened the purse on the seat, and dug out the vial that had fallen to the bottom, shaking out two tablets, then adding a third.  Swallowing them dry, she put the car and drive, and began to tail him once more.
_________________________

         It was a no win situation.  Face Patrick, or face Maureen.  Neither was going to be an easy conversation, but he went to his sister first, not because Patrick had ordered it, but because the two of them had always been the closest.  Maintenance was just about finished cleaning up the broken glass, water, and flowers that he presumed she had aimed at her husband's head, the trail of water on the door marking where she had fortunately missed.  She was no longer curled up in a fetal position, instead sitting upright, her arms folded across her chest despite the tubes, chin out, eyes red rimmed and blazing.

       She saw it was him, and her lip trembled.   But she bit back the tears, and took a deep breath.  "Is he gone?"

        "You mean Ted?"

        "Of course I mean him."

        "Yeah...he didn't even wait for the elevator.  Took the stairs instead.  All fifty flights."

         She nodded, sticking her lower lip out further.  "Good.  I'm glad he's gone.  I don't want him here, Kevin.  You have to make sure he isn't allowed back in my room."

         He waited for the man with the mop to leave, embarrassed to have the whole staff privy to his family's business.  "Maureen...he's your husband.  He's hurting too.  The two of you need to talk.  Work things out."

          "I'm done talking, Kev.  There's nothing to work out.  The man is a complete bastard.  I want nothing to do with him.  The baby's gone, and we have no reason to stay together.  No reason at all."

          "Momo, I know you're angry.  Grieving this huge loss.  But the two of you took vows, you need to try and..."

           She cut him off, not letting him complete the sentence, and pointed a long pale finger at him, the hot pink nails strangely festive considering the setting.  "Don't you dare try to feed me the church line, Kevin.  We mean more to each other than that.  Do you know what that bastard just told me?  What he kept from me?"

           He had always prided himself on his honesty.  Not just because it was the morally right thing to do and pleasing to God.  He was, in all sense of the words, the world's worst liar.  His face and body language gave him away every time, and his baby sister, who knew him better than any living person on the planet, instantly read his complicity, written like words on a page.

            Her eyes opened wide, and she stared at him, catching the crimson flush creep up around his ears, watching the way he jammed his hands in his pocket.   She let out the breath she was holding, and spoke, the pain in the words cutting him into little pieces.  "You already know, don't you?  You always knew. Never told me.  You went ahead and let me marry this conniving, lying bastard... knowing full well that psycho woman was still part of his life."  A tear slid down her cheek, and she quickly wiped it away with the back of her hand.  "I can't believe it, Kevin.  You kept this from me.  Me!"

            He tried to take her hand, but she pulled it away.  He worked at formulating the right words, at trying to make her understand.  "Believe me, Mo.  I wanted to.  But I...I thought it best if I let the two of you work it out yourselves.  As husband and wife.  I thought I was doing the right thing."

           She turned and spat out the words.  "And does this look like it was the right thing, Kevin?  Are you satisfied with the way your silence worked out?  Because from where I'm sitting, it seems like the biggest mistake of my life."  She began to sob in earnest, the sound echoing around the room, and filling him with shame.

           He forced himself to listen to her weeping, penance for his sin of omission.  When she finally stopped, he tried speaking to her again.  "I'm sorry, Momo.  I really, really am.  I wished I had handled it different, honest I do.  Say you'll forgive me, please?"

            She looked away, out toward the window.  "I want you to leave now, Kevin.  You're my brother, and I love you.  But I don't want to talk to you right now."

             "But Mo, I don't want to leave it like this between us."

            "If you care about me, Kev, you'll just go away.  Give me some space to deal with all this."

             He owed her that much, and so with heavy heart, he turned and headed toward the door.

              She called out to him before he left, and for a second, his heart lifted, pleading for a second chance at conversation.  But she was all business, her mouth held in a thin tight line

             "Can you send Patrick in, please.  Tell I need him in here.  Not as my brother, but as my attorney."


Copyright Victoria T. Rocus 2014
All Rights Reserved