Page 7 of Concrete Evidence
“Sure.” He leaned on one leg. “Why weren’t you in choir Sunday?”
There he was, flashing the born-again badge like a Puritan. “I preferred sitting with Granddad. He had a headache, and I wanted to be with him.”
“Are you okay? Struggling with your faith? Do you need to talk?”
“You’re sweet, Craig. If I want to talk, you’re at the top of my list.”
“Hey, I’m your brother-friend. Let me know.”
“Thanks.” He left and she locked the door. Craig had been attending cowboy church with Granddad and her for the past year. He meant well, and he had their respect and trust, but a few things hadn’t clicked yet. She and Granddad called him their personal Jesus project.
Avery slumped into her chair. Craig mentioned the motorcycle. It must belong to the dead man. What happened to it? Still at the cemetery? Should she check? She’d raced Darcy back to the ranch, but it was doubtful she’d have heard a motorcycle from that distance.
An hour later, she powered down her laptop. Nothing surfaced on the news or on Granddad’s calendar, and he wrote down every phone call and appointment. She found no answers to the questions pressing her, and that meant a sleepless night with a churning stomach.
6
MARC WRESTLED WITH THE REALITYof having a sister—one he never knew existed. He stretched out on the spare bed in Mom’s craft room and imagined what the teen looked like. In the darkness of night and the darker depths of his soul, anger surfaced from the heartache his father had inflicted on his mother... and him. The boy in Marc shouted “abandonment” and “not good enough” to the man who’d fathered him. Didn’t help that those who had attended the funeral stated one accolade after another.
His father had found a replacement family. Had they measured up to his sky-high expectations? His critical tongue? His feigned affection in public? If that were the case, why hadn’t he divorced Mom? Guilt must have caught up with him to seek her out.
Marc’s mind bolted with all the events of the day, and the same mental overload also denied him sleep. He’d buried his father and learned of a fifteen-year-old sister. Sounded like the basis for a realityTV program. Mom said her name was Tessa Elizabeth Wilkins, and she lived with her grandmother in Fort Worth. Logic told him his father had indulged in an affair and got hit with a paternity suit. Although his father hadn’t married the woman, why give the girl his last name? And why did she live with her grandmother instead of her mother? Did Marc even want to know why?
How sad if his sister had been discarded like he had. Tough on a boy. Most likely worse for a girl.
Was Marc angry or jealous? Or both?
Mom stood in the craft room doorway, the shadowed figure of inconsolable sorrow.
“Can’t sleep?” he said.
“No. The memories, good and bad, keep replaying in my mind. What could I have done differently to make our marriage work and Abbott a better father?”
“Mom, we went to church, and I heard you pray. I remember your tears when special occasions came and went without him contacting us.”
“God was my husband and comfort.”
Marc had become a Christian at a junior high church camp, and his faith stayed intact—except when it came to his father. He’d kept God off-limits there. A man was entitled to one stain on his heart.
He swung his legs over the bed and patted the empty spot beside him. “Talk to me. Tell me everything you’re thinking. I’ll listen, and we’ll figure it out together.”
She eased beside him and laid her head on his shoulder. So frail. Vulnerable. Wounded. “Thank you.”
He wrapped his arm around her waist. “First of all, from all my recollections, you did more than anyone to placate my father. You’d teach school, come home, clean, and cook an incredible dinner.”
“The man I married made me feel like I held his heart in my hand. The first eight years we shared laughter and so much love.We traveled with the Army and planned a future with a houseful of kids.” Mom sighed, a sweet sound as though her heart filled with tender memories. “You were born and became our whole world. His Army career and responsibilities expanded, and he changed slowly into a man I no longer recognized—the man you despised, not that I blamed you then or now. He gave no reason for the harshness, but I think it had a lot to do with the demands of his work. My hope is for you to move past the disappointment. If I took my share of the blame for the failed marriage, I’d say I tried too hard. And in doing so, I looked weak in his eyes, which made his discontent worse. Your interest in books at my encouragement drove him farther away.” She sniffed and Marc handed her a tissue from the nightstand.
The turmoil he’d experienced earlier rolled and slammed against his heart. “Honestly, Mom, when he left, I believed I’d let him down as a son. He wanted to make a soldier out of me, and I refused. I wanted him to love me for me. The more he criticized my reading, the more I made sure he saw me absorbed in a book. By the time he’d moved out and I discovered sports, I simply hated him more.” Marc bit back another remark. “Sorry. Guess we both need to work through the past.”
“You and I have always been close, more like friends than mother and son. At times I regretted my inability to seek counseling or talk to a trusted friend.”
“Our relationship then and now is solid. I’m curious, though. What happened for you two to start talking again?”
“Are you sure you want to know?”
He kissed her cheek. “Yes, ma’am.”
“About two years ago, he showed up at my front door and wanted to talk. Seeing him after all those years brought back tender feelings I didn’t want to deal with, but his persistence won me over. From then on, we spoke or saw each other weekly. Oddly enough, I found theman I fell in love with. We laughed again, shared picnics and long walks, and he accompanied me to church.”
