This historic neighborhood took pride in its holiday decorating, there was even a holiday light tour held on the twenty-second of December every year. Every house in this old established neighborhood was beautifully adorned. Every home—except for the Bell’s house.
In contrast, the Bell’s house was somber, and the only light was the standard issue fixture on the front porch. My inner florist balked at the undecorated home. “And you’re stalling,” I said to myself. “Mentally decorating everything instead of going in and finding out what he wanted to talk to you about.” I squared my shoulders and walked to his door.
I knocked briskly and the door opened to a more casually dressed Matthew than I’d seen since he’d come back to town. His navy sweater made the silver in his hair shine, and his jeans were old, worn and snug. Don’t even go there, I thought, yanking my eyes away from his butt. He wanted to talk. Let’s find out what the man has to say.
“Violet.” He smiled. “I’m glad you’re here.”
A short time later I was sitting on the brown couch while Matthew stood by the hearth. A six foot, undecorated spruce now sat in front of the curtained picture windows. The poinsettia he’d purchased sat alone in the middle of a dining room table. The living room was still a bland, neutral nightmare. The only saving grace was the crackling fire that he’d built in the brick fireplace.
“Is Charlie down for the night?” I asked conversationally.
“Yes, Charlotte is.” He emphasized her name. “Why do you keep calling her Charlie?”
“Because when I first met her she told me her name was Charlotte Leigh.” I shrugged. “It sounded like Charlie and it sort of stuck in my head. Besides, it suits her.”
“She’s insisting on being called that now,” he said with a sigh. “Even at school.”
“Charlotte is an awfully serious name for a little girl. Did you name her after Charlotte Bronte or something?”
He smiled. “Yes.”
“Figures. Bronte always was a favorite author of yours.” I smiled and tried to pretend that the polite conversation wasn’t making me tense.
Matthew ran a hand through his hair and blew out a long breath. “I’m trying to decide where to begin,” he admitted, and tucked his hands in his jeans pockets.
I’d never seen him fidget before. “Are you okay?”
He nodded, swallowing nervously.
“Did you speak to your mother’s family about your heritage?” I asked, trying to get the ball rolling.
“I did, yes.” He gestured to the large family group photo on the mantle. “My maternal grandfather, Xander Abbott, had quite a bit of information actually.”
I leaned forward. “What did he tell you?”
“Our family lineage can be traced all the way back to the late 1600’s. The Salem Village area.”
“Which is modern day Danvers.” I nodded. “You said the other day that your mom’s family hailed from Massachusetts.”
“I never knew that I had ancestors who were accused and imprisoned during the Witch trials.” He blew out a long breath. “Or that there were other relatives who had gifts.”
“So Charlie isn’t the only one?”
“No.” Matthew stared at the floor, clearly miserable. “She’s not the only one who’s been able to influence people. But she is the most recent.”
For some reason my heart began to beat faster. Something was very wrong. “What is it? What are you so afraid of?” I asked.
Matthew began to pace in front of the fireplace. “When Charlotte was two years old she was hospitalized for bacterial pneumonia. While she was there, they ran many tests...blood tests.”
My heart started to beat loudly in my ears.
“It was then I found out...” His voice was so low I strained to hear it. “Charlotte is not my biological child.”
The impact of his statement had me falling back on the couch cushions. “What?”
“Once Charlotte was out of intensive care, Veronica broke down and confessed to me that Charlotte’s actual father was Zack Abbott.”
“Your cousin, Zack?” My eyes felt like they were going to pop out of my head. “You’re saying that Veronica cheated on you with Zack seven years ago?”
“All those years ago, Veronica and I were friends,” Matthew explained. “Friends only. She had broken up with Zack, you and I had that huge fight. She and I bumped into each other at a bar and had way too many drinks together. In the morning when I woke up, she was beside me in the bed.”
“You slept with her,” I said, flatly.
“She told me we’d had sex, but I couldn’t remember. I’d blacked out.” Matthew walked over, sat beside me on the couch. “A couple of months later when she told me she was pregnant—and that I was the father, I believed her.”
“But you aren’t,” I managed, even as my mind whirled.
“No.” He took my hand. “Veronica also confessed to me that nothing happened between us that night. She made it all up to try and make Zack jealous.”
He hadn’t cheated on me after all! Was my one clear thought.
“In truth,” Matthew said quietly. “It wasn’t until after we were married that we’d actually had sex for the first time.” A dull flush rode up his neck at the confession.
“I see.” I struggled to maintain a polite tone. “So she knowingly manipulated you?”
“Yes she did.”
“Well that takes a special kind of bitch,” I muttered. “Why?” I asked him. “Why would she do that to you?”
“She said that she wanted a safe and good life for her and the baby, and that I could provide that. Zack was always in trouble, remember?” Matthew let go of my hand, stood and began to pace again. “A DUI, bar fights, possession, or gambling debts, he always skirted the edge...Somehow managing to sweet talk his way out of his troubles. Whether it was with his parents, a lawyer, or a judge.”
I went over to the mantle and pulled down the family photo. There they all were, Xander and Melissa Abbot—Mathew’s grandparents. His mother Stephanie, his father Ian, Matthew and his sister Peggy; all arranged on the right. On the other side
