19 #2
“My mother used to call me Bunny,” she continued.
And then, because she couldn’t help it: “But don’t.
Not even as a term of endearment. I hated it.
Bunny is what you name a baby doll or family pet.
Not a person. When I turned eighteen, first thing I did was correct her mistake.
Raquel sounded like a woman who could take care of herself. So Raquel is who I became.”
“What about your father?”
“Never knew him.”
“So just your mother?”
“Who’s dead. See, no family.”
Her hands were shaking slightly. She set down the bowl.
“Bunny, I’m scared.”
“Shhh…It’ll all be over soon. We just have to kill her first.”
Something must’ve rippled across her face, because suddenly Theo’s hand was warm and firm on her arm.
“You lie to me,” he stated gently. “You think I don’t know it, but I do. I simply accept it. It’s part of who you are. Like your need for space and to never mention something like owning a property in Pennsylvania.”
The dog whined uneasily.
“Sometimes, you talk in your sleep,” Theo continued. “Or maybe, more like cry out. Do you know how many nights you’ve told me you just have to kill her first?”
Raquel froze, her chest locking up tight. “Nightmares,” she whispered. “Everyone has them.”
“I love you, Raquel. I’ve loved you since the moment I first saw you.
And I’ll tell you exactly what I told my mother: I don’t care.
About background reports or investigative findings.
I don’t care about anything except who you are right now.
My wife. The love of my life. The woman I will protect till my dying day. ”
Her eyes prickled. She blinked them several times rapidly, a betrayal of emotion that embittered her. Why couldn’t she make all these weak, pitiful emotions go away?
“My mother might’ve focused on what was in the PI’s report,” Theo continued.
“What I found more interesting was what was lacking. You don’t exist before the age of eighteen.
Not a driver’s license, first job, tax filing.
Nothing. From what I can tell, you didn’t just take on a new name when you came of age, you finally came alive.
And because I do know you, who you are now, the woman you’ve become, I figure there’s a good reason for that.
” He shrugged. “If you choose to never speak of your childhood or your family, so be it. What I want most is for you to be you. And, if that just happens to result in me being the only man on the planet who knows the real Raquel Hathaway…What can I say. Lucky me.”
A slow curve of his lips, followed by a mischievous wink.
Leave it to Theo to strip her bare one moment, then offer her solace the next.
What must it be like, she often wondered, to stride through the world with his level of confidence?
To love so hard and so easily, without ever fearing the consequences?
She would never ever be the kind of person who went all in. But she was the one who’d do whatever it took to keep her loved one safe, including burying a shiv into the nearest threat; there was something to be said for that.
“Your parents…” she began. As long as they were going there, talking of all the things they both studiously avoided.
“How much do they know? Of…of recent events.” She couldn’t say the words.
A tremor rippled through her. The dog got up, placed his boxy head upon her knee. She stroked one long, silky ear.
Theo winced, but didn’t turn away. The pain was right there in his eyes. Still there, would always be there. She ached so much from the weight of it, the sheer unrelenting guilt.
“I never told them the first time,” he answered huskily. “It was still early days. Wait till the three-month mark, right?”
She nodded slightly.
“The second time—”
“Three and half months.”
“I’d just made the announcement and then…the miscarriage. It was all still so new, it seemed easy enough for them to switch gears. That whole ‘you’re both young and healthy, plenty of time ahead, it’ll work out.’”
She nodded slightly. Was there any euphemism they hadn’t been told by well-meaning friends, acquaintances, and healthcare professionals?
“The…the most recent.” Now Theo was struggling to speak.
“Twenty-four weeks.” Approaching the third trimester. All going according to plan; surely they’d gotten it right this time.
“My mom cried,” Theo whispered. “Not in front of me, of course. She got up to fetch a glass of water for cover. My father just kept patting me on the back. I’m not sure he knew what else to do.
They mourned, Raquel. They’re not the warmest of people, but they love in their own way.
And the idea of having a grandchild, welcoming the next generation… They hurt, too.”
She didn’t know why it mattered to her, but it did. Though again, so foolish, so silly. What was done was done.
“Dorothea,” Theo murmured. And this time, the naked pain on his face seared her all the way to her soul.
“Dorothea,” she whispered back. A name they’d pondered and giggled and built up in the middle of the night.
She’ll have your eyes, but my stubbornness, she’d say.
No, no, your eyes, but my superior intelligence, he’d counter.
My hair— My toes! Her, rolling her eyes: Toes, who wants your toes?
Around and around, crafting their marvelous, perfect, couldn’t-wait-to-meet-her baby who would probably have none of those things but they would’ve loved her anyway.
The hospital had offered them a commemorative Certificate of Stillbirth.
Raquel hadn’t been able to function, much less process such an idea.
Later, however, going through Theo’s drawers, she’d found the document tucked away, along with a medallion on a chain.
St. Nicholas of Myra, the patron saint of children.
The name Dorothea Lilly Collins had been inscribed on the back.
“When…If you really want,” Theo was saying now, voice stronger. “We could look at other choices. Surrogacy. Adoption. We have options.”
He’d mentioned this once before. She’d possibly shrieked at him and thrown a pillow at his head.
She’d been deeply depressed, where the world was so dark, she didn’t even suffer from nightmares of her mother anymore.
That pain truly was nothing. This, this kind of relentless, soul-sucking, all-encompassing loss, trumped all.
Unbidden, her fingers came up to her throat, searching for the pendant. She caught the motion, tried to mask it by rubbing the top of the dog’s head. Theo wasn’t fooled. He picked up her hand, held it in his own.
For several heartbeats, they sat there in silence with a loss that still felt so staggering and tender, there weren’t adequate words to define it. They simply had to breathe through the pain.
Eventually, she untangled her fingers from his, returned to the more pressing matters at hand: the ensuing public attention.
Theo acknowledged the change, pushing back his now empty bowl.
“If the media starts digging, how much will you regret it?” he asked.
“Nobody likes the press.”
“Maybe you should return to Boston. I can handle things here.”
She gave him a look. They both knew that wasn’t going to happen.
He sighed heavily. “Next time I fall in love, I’m going with someone more biddable.”
“Next time I fall in love, I’m going with someone who’s an idiot.”
Familiar lines from a familiar play. The good old days. It enabled them to share a smile, take one more step out of the abyss.
“We’ll figure it out,” Theo said.
“How many more skeletons can one property have?” Raquel’s turn to quip. They grimaced simultaneously. That answer was at least six.
“Have you made any more progress on identifying a root cellar?” Theo asked.
Which from the beginning had been one of her working theories.
Back in the day, all these homesteads had cold cellars.
Except none had been listed in the search of this property after the Dixons’ disappearance.
Hence Raquel’s deep dive into the historic records and property maps, trying to locate what would’ve been a logical feature and excellent place to hide bodies.
It’d never occurred to her to look for a hand-dug well instead.
Now she shook her head in response. “Though, given that we just discovered something that doesn’t appear on any of our maps, I’m beginning to question the maps themselves.”
“Other ideas?” Theo asked her.
She paused, pondered. “I’ll have to do some more research.”
“That’s the spirit. Looking ahead, I’ll handle the media. Hopefully that’ll buy you more time.”
Raquel nodded. Mason and Betty were probably already at the historical society, studying the photos of the ledger. She’d spent enough time poring over colonial America documents to be of genuine assistance, and oh, the clues those pages might hold…
She’d come here looking for purpose. Drawn by a nineteenth-century woman’s grief, further compelled by a thirty-year-old mystery she was somehow convinced she could solve. And now another historic tragedy. And yet another impossibly small victim, with bones as thin and delicate as crepe paper.
Raquel knew things no one should have to know. And had for a very long time. Mostly, she fell back on her innate ability to identify what must be done regardless of the consequences.
Her little brother’s wan face as he grew steadily weaker.
I’ll keep you safe, I promise.
Things a reporter could conceivably figure out.
But also things she never wanted to think about again.
Now Theo leaned forward and gave her a light kiss. She held it a little longer than necessary. Lingering on the feel of him, the comfort of his lips upon her own.
Then they both rose from the table and, with the dog that wasn’t their dog, got to it.