“I’d like to marry her, I think.”
Michael looked at the girl, saw cold blue eyes and the careful mask that hid her fear. He thought of her childhood, and what he knew of Abigail’s. “You should do that,” he said.
“Yeah?”
He nodded, certain. “You should do that soon.”
Those times in the park were the best parts of Michael’s day. Afterward, he would return to the hotel and stare for long hours at his silent phone. Abigail had asked him twice to stay at the house, but he’d declined, pleading the need for discretion. But that was only part of it. He needed time to be alone, time to miss his woman and mourn.
Jessup called once, and asked to meet. “Abigail doesn’t know,” he said. “This is just me talking.”
“Where?” Michael asked.
They met in a parking lot halfway between the estate and Chapel Hill. Jessup was in the Land Rover; Michael slid into the front seat beside him. “How’s Julian?” he asked.
“Better, I think. You’ve seen him.”
“He puts on a strong face.”
“You should see him with Victorine, though. She’s hard and opinionated and ignorant about a million things-but she’s smart and fierce and unbelievably talented. She’s good for him. They fit in a way that’s satisfying to watch.”
Michael nodded because that was his read, too. One was strong, the other less so. Both damaged, both artists. “How about you and Abigail?”
“There’s a wall between us,” Jessup said.
“You should tear it down.”
“I don’t know…”
“Tear it down,” Michael said. “Don’t wait. Just do it. Talk to her. Tell her.”
“Look, this is not really why I called you.”
“I’m sure it’s not.”
“Abigail asked me to go through some of the senator’s effects. Papers, files she lacked the heart for. I found some things you might be interested in.”
“For instance?”
“The senator had the autopsy report on the girl that drowned all those years ago.”
“Christina?”
“Christina Carpenter, yes. He had the report in his private safe. It turns out she’d had an abortion the day before she died. The cops kept it quiet, but the senator knew.”
“And didn’t tell Abigail.”
“For whatever reason.”
Michael thought about that: a teenage girl dies the day after an abortion. There was a lot of emotion wrapped up in that simple scenario, a lot of tension, too. “Was Julian the father?”
“Blood type was inconsistent. I don’t know. Maybe she drowned herself on purpose. She was a kid with religious parents and an unplanned pregnancy. Maybe Julian tried to save her but couldn’t.”
“It would explain the skin under his nails, why he was wet…”
“And why he couldn’t remember anything. It would have been traumatic.”
“Maybe the senator was the father.”
“That could explain why he kept the autopsy records. Hell, maybe the senator killed her.”
Michael lingered over another possibility. “Maybe Salina did.”
“Don’t even joke about that.”
But both men were thinking.
“You said you had a few things to talk about. What else?”
“This is just for you, okay?”
“Okay.”
Jessup glanced away, lips thin and tight.
“What?” Michael asked.
“Fuck it.” Jessup pulled a thin file from beside his seat. “This was in the senator’s safe, too.”
He handed the file over, and Michael opened it. “These are medical records.”
“Abigail’s.”
Michael flipped pages, and Jessup said, “I thought you should know how badly she wanted to bring you boys home.”
The comment made little sense, but then it did. “She had a tubal ligation.”
“Shortly after she married. She never told the senator.”
“But he found out,” Michael said.
“He had the file, yes. I suspect he figured it out right before they moved into separate bedrooms. Whether he confronted her, I don’t know.”
“She told me they were unable to conceive.”
“That’s what she told the world. It’s how she convinced him to adopt.”
Michael closed the file, and Jessup took it from numb fingers.
“She wanted to bring you boys home, Michael. She wanted to make you safe and whole and loved.”
The next time they met, it was just the three of them-Michael and Julian and Abigail-and it was strange how much that corner of shade and grass felt like their special place in the world. They sat at the same table under the same tree, and saw children that looked familiar. Words came easier; responses were less guarded. Yet, a subtle unease persisted, and Michael wondered if the problem was his alone. He glanced at Abigail, who looked rested but not quite at peace. He wanted to tell her that he knew the truth, to offer forgiveness for the way she’d left them and thank her for the things she’d done. Maybe that would afford her a measure of respite, a path to clearer skies. But Abigail made a good mother to Julian, and Julian made a good son. Michael saw respect and love and comfort. Dragging out the truth would help nobody, so he let the truth lie. He enjoyed this moment in the sun, and left Arabella Jax where she belonged, unspoken of and unloved, quietly rotting in the small shack the three of them had once known as children.
They took a brief walk along the shore, and Michael felt healing in his leg. As the day wore on, they returned to the table and had white wine in plastic cups, though a sign at the entrance declared it against the rules. Julian fretted and fussed and worried about cops, all of which made Abigail laugh and Michael smile. When the bottle was nearly empty, Michael caught Abigail’s eye, and said, “I heard about the senator’s will.” She tried to interrupt, but Michael held up a hand. “I have plenty of money. It’s yours.”
She took his hand and smiled. “That’s kind of you, but unnecessary.”
“But the paper said you could only take jewelry and personal effects…”
Abigail laughed, and the sound was pure joy. “Oh, Michael. My jewelry alone appraises at twelve million dollars, and the art Randall gave me is worth twice that. The house in Charlotte is in my name, the house in Aspen.” She shook her head. “Randall was not as bad as the papers made him sound. We were in love once, and that mattered to both of us. He indulged me, made investments in my name. That reminds me. I have something for you boys.”
She fished in the wine basket and came out with two small boxes that were elegantly wrapped. She handed one to Michael, the other to Julian. “Open.”
Michael thumbed off the ribbon and tore the paper. Inside the box was a cigarette lighter made
