Tonight You're Mine Page 3

  “In the faith that looks through death,

  In years that bring the philosophic mind.”

  Am I supposed to find strength in years that bring the philosophic mind? Nicole wondered as the funeral director’s surprisingly eloquent voice concluded the stanza of Clifton’s favorite poem. Will I ever feel philosophic about my father killing himself without leaving so much as a brief good-bye note to me, especially now when I need him so much?

  Immediately she felt ashamed. Obviously her father had been deeply troubled to do something so drastic, so seemingly irrational, and all she could think about was that he’d deserted her when her life was such a mess. Well, according to Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, wasn’t anger one of the stages of grief? Which one? The second or third? She was sure her husband, Roger, could tell her. Or rather, her soon-to-be ex-husband.

  She glanced across her father’s coffin at Roger Chandler, standing tall and distinguished and properly solemn. He didn’t look much older than he had when they’d met at a graduate student party twelve years ago. She’d just begun work on a Master’s degree in English while he was finishing his doctoral dissertation in psychology. They’d married a year later. He’d always been so strong, so sure of himself, so certain of what she needed, and if his dominance had sometimes gotten on her nerves, she’d still been grateful she could always depend on him and his unwavering love.

  Then, a few months ago, she’d noticed that he seemed to be away from home more than usual, spending time in his office at the university at night working on his book, or so he claimed. After three months of this diligent writing, one evening he’d lit a few candles around the living room, put on a Debussy CD, fixed her a snifter of very good brandy, and after some pointless small talk abruptly announced he’d fallen in love with another woman and wanted a divorce. Nicole had stared at him for approximately thirty seconds, then begun to giggle. The whole scene was so dramatically staged, Roger’s expression so lugubrious, his voice so tender and tragic, that the only thing penetrating her brain was how ludicrous they would appear to a sophisticated theater audience. She’d laughed until tears ran down her face, and Roger’s stiffening posture and his expression of bruised dignity mixed with fear that she was going into hysterics made her laugh even harder. It wasn’t until the next day that her tears no longer streamed from laughter.

  At least he’d had the decency not to bring the little twit to the funeral, she thought. The girl, one of his students, was twenty years old, exactly half Roger’s age. Naturally all her friends assured her this was just a midlife crisis, that he’d never go through with the divorce but simply expend his passion in a rather embarrassing show, then slink home, repentant.

  Nicole knew better. Roger’s need to be needed was overwhelming. He felt that she’d outgrown him, that the days were gone when she hung on his every word, that in a room full of people he was no longer the only person who existed for her. In a way, she felt rather sorry for him. For all Roger’s intelligence, he’d never realized that while for several years her dependence on him had been abnormally strong, and that she’d always cared deeply for him, he’d never been the center of her life as he thought.

  He looked up. She saw the flash of guilt in his eyes before he managed a tight, awkward smile she knew was meant to be bracing. Nicole merely stared at him, and a moment later his gray gaze dropped. She supposed she could have been more gracious, but she was too shaken and heartsick to worry about Roger’s feelings right now.

  Suddenly Nicole became aware of her mother moving forward to place a rose on Clifton’s coffin. Phyllis sniffled into a lace-edged handkerchief, but Nicole’s eyes were painfully dry as she laid a red rose atop the casket. She knew the grief would hit her swiftly and violently, but so far she’d been outwardly calm, her hurt throbbing inside her like a heartbeat, steady and invisible. She held Shelley’s hand while the girl reached forward with her own rose, murmuring, “Bye, Grandpa.”

  The three of them stepped back, and others began moving as if a silent bell called them forth. Nicole couldn’t look at the many hands dropping already wilting flowers onto the coffin. Her father had always said funerals were ghoulish affairs. “They’re lovely ceremonies where people can say good-bye,” Phyllis had argued heatedly. “Say good-bye to what?” Clifton had shot back. “A corpse full of formaldehyde?”

  Nicole knew the retort was calculated to get a reaction out of the high-strung, traditional Phyllis, and it always worked. Although she’d told her mother a hundred times that if she wouldn’t respond so fervently to Clifton’s teasing, he’d stop it, she nevertheless usually found herself smothering smiles as her mother let out a loud hiss of disgust and stomped out of the room, appalled by her husband’s apparent irreverence for all she considered sacred.

  A slight breeze blew up, catching a lock of Nicole’s long hair and sweeping it across her face. She pushed it aside, looking beyond her father’s coffin to the grounds of the cemetery rolling beyond. It was February, an, unusually warm seventy-five degrees, and the breeze that blew her hair skimmed over the short green and brown grass and blew the small, many-limbed junipers abounding in the cemetery along with the masses of bright artificial flowers decorating the graves. When she and Roger had lived in Ohio, she’d noticed that only on Memorial Day did the Northerners decorate as abundantly as they did in San Antonio year-round.

  Suddenly her gaze stopped at the figure of a man standing nearly a hundred feet beyond beside a sprawling Pinchot juniper. He was tall and slender, wearing jeans and a jacket, and beside him sat a dog—a Doberman, its black coat gleaming in contrast to its red collar, its ears clipped to alert points. Even from such a distance, the dog’s dark eyes seemed to meet and hold hers. The moment was almost hypnotic, as if the dog were trying desperately to convey a message. Abruptly the world narrowed for Nicole, becoming nothing but the sleek, shining canine. Then, slowly, the dog turned its narrow head, looking up at its master. Nicole’s own keen eyes followed. The tall man stood as still as the dog and gazed at her just as unflinchingly. For a few seconds she boldly stared at him in return. Then the outlines of his face sharpened in her vision. She could clearly see the line from his high cheekbones to his strong jaw, the hair as black as the dog’s, and the intense eyes that never left hers….

  Nicole’s heart slammed against her ribs. She swayed, her vision darkening, cold beads of perspiration breaking out all over her face.

  “Mommy? Mommy?” Shelley’s voice floated toward her from far away. “Mommy, are you okay?”

  “Wha…” Nicole had the desire to speak, could even hear herself trying to mouth a word, but her voice seemed to be coming from underwater.

  “Grandma, something’s wrong with Mommy!”

  “What? What now?” Phyllis hissed, grabbing Nicole’s hand. “What’s wrong with you? Everyone’s looking.”

  Slowly Nicole’s vision cleared as Phyllis’s voice hit her like a dash of icy water. The brightness of the day hurt her eyes. She blinked, frowning into the sun, her gaze seeking the tree. The man and the dog were gone.

  Phyllis’s gaze searched her face. “You’re pale as a ghost. Are you going to faint?”

  “No.” Nicole’s voice was thin and breathy.

  “Well, get hold of yourself,” Phyllis ordered sotto voce. “All we need is for you to pass out and fall head first into the grave.”

  Nicole looked at her mother in shock, then almost burst into one of her nervous laughing fits at her mother’s sadly preposterous response. At a time when Phyllis should be stricken that she’d lost her husband of thirty-six years, all she could think of were possibly embarrassing scenes. Suddenly, Nicole realized her mother was furious with Clifton, and she didn’t believe Phyllis was going through Kübler-Ross’s stage of grief labeled “Anger.” She was livid that Clifton had killed himself, had made people wonder about his sanity, had drawn unseemly speculation down on her family.

  Again. First it had been she, Nicole, fifteen years ago, who’d been the talk of the town, the v
ictim of a gang rape followed only weeks later by the suspicion that she’d instigated or at least inspired the double homicide of the rapists. Now the attention was focused on Clifton, the man who’d blown off his head in his own store. Sorry we keep embarrassing you, Mom, Nicole thought bitterly. Sorry Dad and I have compromised the pride of the daughter of General Ernest Hazelton.

  “Are you all right?”

  Beside Nicole stood Carmen Vega, her best friend since grade school. Carmen’s depthless dark eyes showed worry. “I’m fine.”

  “What did you see?” Carmen asked quietly.

  Nicole looked at her sharply. “I didn’t see anything. It’s just the occasion.”

  Carmen’s eyes turned from worried to knowing. “No it isn’t. I was watching you. You saw something.”

  When had she ever been able to hide anything from Carmen? She muttered, “Tell you later,” as Phyllis turned curious, reproving eyes on her.

  “What are you two whispering about?”

  “Nothing, Mom,” Nicole said tiredly. “I think we should be going back to the limousine.”

  Shelley clutched her mother’s hand as they walked toward the long black car, her small face pale, her eyes sad. Safely inside the cool confines of the limousine, Nicole gave her a firm, encouraging hug.

  “Well, that was a dreadful service,” Phyllis declared.

  “I thought it was nice,” Nicole said.

  “It wasn’t. And Shelley’s dress is inappropriate. Too short. Too gay. She looks like she’s going to a party, not like she’s in mourning.”

  “Mom, this isn’t the nineteenth century when children went to funerals swathed in black.”

  “She could have worn navy blue, not light blue.”

  “Who cares what color it is?”

  “I do.”

  “You’re being absurd, Mother.”

  Phyllis’s face assumed a devastated look. She sniffled into her handkerchief. “I know we don’t get along, Nicole, but do you have to attack me even on such a tragic day?”

  Oh, God, Nicole thought, sighing as she leaned against the back of the seat, her head beginning to pound. Please let this awful afternoon be over soon. I need time to rest. I need time to think about Dad.

  And I want to think about who I saw in the cemetery today, she added mentally with a shudder and a rush of chills down her arms as she pictured the lean, handsome face. Or who I thought I saw because it couldn’t have been…

  “We’re home,” Phyllis announced. Nicole had been so distracted, she hadn’t even noticed the limousine turning onto their street. “Now comes the really hard part,” Phyllis went on. “Nicole, I hope you won’t desert me. I simply cannot handle all these people by myself.”

  Nicole couldn’t keep the exasperation from her voice. “What on earth makes you think I’m going to desert you? I’ve done all I could to help—” She stopped short, seeing Shelley tense and Phyllis’s mouth begin to twitch again. Just be quiet and get through it, she told herself sternly.

  When they stopped at the Sloan residence, Nicole emerged from the limousine, trying vainly to smooth the wrinkled skirt of the ill-fitting black linen dress she’d bought yesterday. Phyllis, however, looked trim and stylish in an expensive black silk shantung suit, her prematurely white hair tucked into its usual perfect French twist. Nicole remembered that even when she, Nicole, was a child, her mother had worn that gleaming, flawless hairstyle.

  A few of Phyllis’s friends had skipped the funeral service so they could set out the food. The large house, decorated to perfection in cool, neutral tones with an occasional touch of aqua, looked pristine, not a knickknack out of place. Phyllis glanced around approvingly, then took her place at the door. “Nicole, you and Shelley stand beside me,” she ordered. “We must greet the mourners.”

  What did you think we were going to do, Mom? Nicole thought sourly. Stampede to the table and begin gobbling food as fast as we can? But Phyllis wasn’t happy unless she was giving all the commands, even if they were unnecessary.

  As they took their places inside the door, Nicole suddenly felt the desire to bolt and run down the street, never looking back. Her mind skittered, trying to recall how relatives of the deceased had acted at other funerals she’d attended. Sad, of course. Subdued. But what had they said? Her mind went blank.

  And as soon as people began filing in the door, she realized why she, who was usually good with words, was nearly speechless. This wasn’t like any funeral she’d attended because it was for a man who had killed himself. There was something strikingly different about the funeral of a victim of suicide. Everyone seemed embarrassed because they too were at a loss for words. No one could say, “At least he’s out of his misery now,” because if he’d been in misery, no one seemed to know it. Two weeks ago when Nicole had last seen him, Clifton had been the essence of cheerfulness although he seemed a bit tired. No one could say, “It was God’s will,” because Clifton Sloan’s death was entirely of his own will. Most couldn’t even say, “He’s in a better place,” because they believed no one who committed suicide went to a better place.

  And of course they were speculative. Had Phyllis or Nicole done something to drive him to this? Had Clifton suffered a financial disaster? What was the real story? What was the family hiding?

  As a result, almost everyone merely muttered a strained, “I’m so terribly sorry,” to which the family said over and over, “Thank you.” As the line of mourners filing through the door was nearing its end, all Nicole could hear was Phyllis, then herself, then Shelley, each saying “Thank you,” in increasingly mechanical, scratchy voices.

  Phyllis finally gave Nicole a gentle nudge in the ribs and said, “That’s everyone. Now circulate. And do not discuss the nature of your father’s death.” She then glided forward, handkerchief clutched in her right hand, face wan and a bit vacant. No one would dare ask her any details, Nicole thought. She looks as if she’d keel over if they did. But in reality, Phyllis Sloan was the strongest woman Nicole had ever known. Even at this moment, she could probably stand up to a prolonged police interrogation if she chose.

  Shelley clutched her mother’s hand again, and they wandered into the living room. This was the room Phyllis insisted be kept perfect for company, but Nicole suddenly remembered childhood Christmases when the tree had stood in front of the window, and on Christmas morning brilliant paper and ribbons had lain all over the pale carpeting.

  “Clifton, look what a mess she’s making,” Phyllis would fret. “Nicole, open the packages carefully. Don’t tear at the paper or squash the bows. We might be able to use some of the trimming next year.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Phyl,” Nicole’s father would laugh loudly, knowing how much Phyllis hated the shortening of her name. “We’re not headed for the poorhouse. I think we can afford new paper and bows next year. Nikki, rip and tear and throw the wrapping all you want.” So while Phyllis’s lips pressed tighter and tighter together, the child Nicole had done exactly as her father ordered while he recorded her every movement on film in the days before video cameras.

  Although her father dominated her memories of those happy times, her mother was always there in the background, a nagging but stable force. Mom may have been difficult, Nicole mused, but at least she hadn’t deserted her family like Roger did. Such a thought would never have crossed her mind. In her annoying, idiosyncratic way, she tried to be the best wife and mother she could.

  As if sensing her thoughts, Roger walked up. “How are you two doing?” he asked gently.

  “We’re okay,” Nicole said, noting that he was wearing his glasses with the thin silver rims. He couldn’t wear contacts and when he really cared about his appearance, he wouldn’t wear the glasses, fearing they made him look older.

  Roger glanced down at Shelley, a frown forming between his light brown eyebrows. “I didn’t think you’d be here, sweetheart.”

  “It’s Grandpa’s funeral.”

  Roger raised an eyebrow, then looked at Nicole. “I
don’t approve of children attending funerals.”

  Shelley, who’d grown hostile toward her father although Nicole had been careful never to criticize him, said hotly, “I wanted to come. I’m not a baby!” She looked up at Nicole. “Can I go get some cake now?”

  Nicole nodded and as Shelley scampered away, Roger fixed Nicole with cool gray eyes. “You’re turning her against me.”

  Nicole took a deep breath, trying to hold her temper. “I have bent over backward not to turn Shelley against you, but she’s not two years old. She’s aware it was your decision to move out of our home, and you’ve made no attempt to keep your relationship with that teenager a secret from her.”

  “She is not a teenager,” Roger said stiffly. “She’s twenty.”

  “Had a birthday, did she? Gee, pretty soon people will stop thinking she’s your daughter.”

  “Please don’t get nasty at a time like this.”

  Chastened, Nicole said quietly, “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  Roger glanced over at her mother. “Phyllis seems to be holding her own.”

  “She always does.”

  “I think she’s mad as hell,” Roger stated. Nicole remained silent although for once she agreed with him. “Do you have any idea—”

  “Why?” Nicole interrupted. “Why my father killed himself? No.”

  Roger turned his searching gaze back to her. “We aren’t exactly close these days. How do I know you’re being honest with me?”

  “Roger, I have never lied to you,” Nicole said tautly. “But even if I knew why Dad killed himself, why would I be obligated to tell you? It’s none of your business.”

  “Yes, it is my business. Clifton was my daughter’s grandfather.”

  “What are you hinting at?” Nicole flared. “Some kind of genetic weakness?”