Mary shook her head back and forth, slowly, holding Imogene’s gaze. “I loved your father very much. I would never have done anything to intentionally harm him.”
“You say that now, but why would you have married my dad if not for his money? He was ugly and awkward.”
“He was pure goodness.” Even picturing him now, Mary could almost see the sweetness coming from his eyes, feel the kindness of his hands holding her. He’d offered protection and a refuge when she needed it, but it wasn’t just that. She’d never known a man as good as Ben, before or since.
“He was a schmuck, at least that’s what my mom said. She said there was nothing good about him except his money.”
Mary pressed her lips together to keep herself from shouting at Imogene. After all, Imogene was just repeating what she’d heard. Most likely, there was a part of Imogene that wanted to respect her father, that remembered him with love. However tainted by her mother’s harsh views, Imogene had at one time made a sandcastle with her father. They’d played catch, and he’d even let her paint his toenails pink. She knew all that from family pictures she’d looked through after marrying Ben.
The trick now was to counter what Imogene’s mother had said without totally offending Imogene. Mary knew that Imogene’s mother had been a beautiful woman who in fact had married Ben for his money and then had had multiple affairs. No wonder she’d accused Mary of the same. Pure projection.
So Mary started with a question. “Did your mom ever bend the truth or lie to you?”
“Are you calling her a liar?”
Mary sighed. “Not completely. I just had a very different perception of your father than she did. It’s possible she was wrong.”
“You’re calling her a liar,” Imogene said flatly.
This line of discussion was going nowhere. “I have some old pictures I thought maybe you’d want to go through. If there are some you want, you’re welcome to take them.” Imogene didn’t immediately say no, so Mary went to the dining room table and pulled two old-fashioned photo albums off it. She carried them over and handed them to Imogene.
Imogene grabbed the top one and flipped the pages, ripping one, and Mary had to clench her fist to keep from grabbing the books back. But that wasn’t the point. She was trying to build a bridge. She sat down beside her stepdaughter and watched as images of her younger self, her daughter, Ben and, yes, Imogene, played before her eyes.
Seeing Daisy at three, four and then five choked Mary up. Daisy had been such a sweet child; all her teachers, all the other mothers had commented on it. She’d been the first to run over and help another child who’d fallen on the playground. She had cried when Mary hit a fly with a flyswatter or stepped on a spider. And she’d adored her new big sister, even though Imogene hadn’t returned the warmth at all.
Seeing her younger self made her shake her head. She’d thought she knew difficulty and pain then, but she’d barely scratched the surface of those emotions.
Savor what you’ve got, she wanted to cry out to her younger self.
Imogene ran a finger over the picture of her father standing beside Mary. “You were so pretty,” she said.
It was the closest thing to a compliment that Mary had ever heard from Imogene. Maybe they were getting somewhere. “So were you,” Mary said, and it was true. Imogene had been a beautiful teenager.
Beautiful, but unpleasant and thoughtless, like most fifteen-year-old girls. Had Imogene been more that way than most? Mary couldn’t be sure. It might be that she’d been too damaged by her childhood with her mother and her issues, or it might be that the loss of her father and the aftermath of that was what had pushed her into a basically ruined life.
They came to a photo of Ben holding Daisy. “He liked your daughter better than me!” Imogene’s voice was tortured.
“No, honey, he didn’t. He loved you the best, of course. You were his pride and joy.”
“Then why’d he take her with him that day?” The words burst out as if straight from Imogene’s troubled heart.
Mary’s heart twisted. Here it was, the core of Imogene’s anger and grief. She reached a hand toward Imogene, but the younger woman recoiled before contact was made.
Understandable. They’d have to talk it out, then, not hug it out.
And Mary had thought about Imogene’s question time and time again. God forgive her, but she’d wished Ben had chosen Imogene over Daisy, as he usually did. Wished it had been Imogene in the accident, which was terribly, terribly wrong, another source of guilt. “He didn’t take Daisy with him because he liked her better, not at all,” Mary said truthfully. “I was supposed to bond with you that day. Your father thought it might help our relationship.” Which had certainly been rocky. A young stepmother with a small child of her own was the worst-case scenario for a teenage girl who had her doting father wrapped around her little finger.
She studied Imogene thoughtfully. Her earlier suspicion turned into certainty. Imogene hadn’t ever changed from that sullen fifteen-year-old. It was as if she’d been frozen at that stage, by all the trauma.
They flipped a couple of pages ahead, and there was a picture of Mary and Ben on their wedding day. It took Mary’s breath away because she remembered the love. Love she’d never experienced before or since.
“I miss him,” Imogene said, her voice choked.
“I do, too, and I’m so sorry about what happened. I never meant it to turn out the way it did, no one would, but I’m just so sorry.” She paused, then added, “To this day, I’ll never understand why he came back home so quickly. If he hadn’t, if he’d continued on to the park like they’d planned, I
