Chapter Seventeen: Camden

CHAPTER SEVENTEENCamden

I used to make this drive a lot when I first got a car.

Two hours to Knoxville, almost on the nose.

Ruby never asked where I went, maybe didn’t care, but if she had, I think I would have told her the truth.

It wasn’t that hard, finding my birth mother’s name. Ruby could be careless with paperwork, leaving sensitive things in places where anyone could find them.

I was fourteen when I saw the name for the first time.

Penny Halliday.

It didn’t even bother me that in the space for Father’s Name on my birth certificate, there was just one stark word: Unknown.

And I never planned on seeing her, on making these borderline-creepy drives to Knoxville, but as soon as I had my license, that’s where I’d found myself heading.

I’ve never spoken to her, never tried to make any contact with her. It wasn’t about that.

It was about reminding myself that whatever it is that runs through the McTavishes––whatever made them cruel like Howell, or dangerous like Ben, or even benignly neglectful like Ruby––was nothing that lived inside of me.

And hell, it was possible that Penny Halliday was all those things, too. But for some reason, I didn’t think so.

For one, she taught art at a community center for underprivileged kids, a place I couldn’t imagine any McTavish ever stepping foot inside. And when I parked my car outside that building, watched her walk out the front doors that first time, she’d been smiling. Laughing with another woman, in a carefree way I’d never seen from anyone at Ashby House––even though no one had more reasons to be carefree than they did.

I stopped making the drives when I was eighteen. I started feeling weird about it, like I was intruding on her life, even if I never talked to her. And anyway, what did it matter?

She’d given birth to me, but she was only my mother in the biological sense.

Ruby McTavish was my true mother.

For better and for worse.

So I don’t know exactly why I’m making this drive now, or why I looked Penny up on Facebook to see whether she still teaches these classes.

But I am, and she does, so I park where I used to park, and I wait for her to walk out of the building. For the sight of her to remind me that there’s another side to me, a part of myself that Ruby had nothing to do with.

Penny Halliday was only sixteen when I was born. I learned that the same day I learned her name, and I remember thinking, on that first drive over here, that I was the same age as she had been. How foreign it felt to me, the idea of being a parent.

I never resented her for giving me up. I understood it, honestly. She simply did what she thought was best. But I wondered if she ever learned what happened to me, if she saw those pictures in that magazine and her heart swelled and broke all at once seeing me called “The Luckiest Boy in North Carolina.”

The doors open across the street, and kids pour out into a courtyard, excitedly chattering. I wait for the adults that follow.

Penny is one of the last ones to leave, but there she is, wearing a red shirt and jeans. She’s only forty-eight, and she hasn’t changed much in the last decade, her brown hair, the same shade as mine, tucked behind her ears.

She has other kids now, I learned on Facebook. I have a half brother and a half sister. They’re twenty and eighteen, and the boy, Brandon, has my eyes.

One blue, one brown.

I’d looked at his picture forever, waiting to feel something, a connection, a link.

But he was just a stranger. A boy with my eyes, but a different nose, a different smile, and as I look at Penny now, I realize she’s a stranger, too.

“Family” is a complicated word––more complicated for me than a lot of people, I’d guess. I’ve spent so much of my life trying to figure out what that word even means to me.

Sitting there in that parking lot in Knoxville, though, it all becomes clear. Simple, even.

Jules is my family.

Jules, who sees the darkest parts of me, the worst thing I ever did, and loves me anyway.

Just like I see the darkest parts of her, the worst thing she’s ever done, and love her, too.

She doesn’t know it, though.

Oh, she knows I love her. It’s the rest of it.

The darkest parts, the worst thing.

It took me awhile to put it together, I can admit that.

When she first slid into my life, I mostly thought how stupidly lucky I’d gotten, this gorgeous girl who wanted me, even though I was still the human equivalent of a locked door when we met.

And then, once the sex haze wore off and I started paying a little more attention, I thought maybe I was just being paranoid. Ruby was dead, after all––she couldn’t have had anything to do with this pretty-eyed girl in my bed, in my heart.

But Jules knew things about me she shouldn’t have, things I hadn’t told her. Things that would slip out, like the name of the soccer team I’d played on in middle school, or that I was allergic to cats. I’d thought about how desperate Ruby had been to keep me tethered to her, how no one hedged their bets quite like she did, and how, when I looked into Jules’s eyes, I saw that same deep green, dark enough to seem black, fathomless.

I tried to use the money Ruby had left as little as possible, but you need cash to pay for the best and most discreet private detectives, something Ruby had known when she found Claire Darnell.

My guys found Claire Darnell, too. She was dead by then, but she had a daughter, Linda.

Tragedy stalked the Darnells, though, because Linda had also died––in a car accident in 2011, which had left her nineteen-year-old daughter an orphan.

Caitlin Julianne Darnell.

A real mouthful. Didn’t blame her for switching to Jules, although I still can’t tell you where Brewster came from. Never did figure that part out.

Did Ruby reach out first? Did Jules?

I don’t know.

What I do know is that the great-granddaughter of the man accused of kidnapping my adoptive mother showing up at the shitty wing place where I worked seemed like too big of a coincidence to explain away.

I could tell you that’s why I stayed with her. That I was waiting to see what she’d do. If Ruby had put her up to this, that plan had to be fucking toast now, given that Ruby was dead.

I admit, I was curious.

How long could she keep it up?

Trouble was, I did the dumbest thing I could have, given what I knew.

I fell in love with her.

And then she did the dumbest thing she could’ve done.

She fell in love with me, too.

Sometimes I want to ask Jules if those feelings surprised her, like they did me, but that would mean telling her I knew the truth, and I’ve never been able to make myself do that.

Because if there’s one thing I learned from the deep, dark secret that Mason McTavish killed to hide—in the end, it doesn’t matter. The truth isn’t some finite thing, it’s what we all choose to believe. Ruby was Dora Darnell, yes, but in the end, wasn’t she Ruby McTavish, too? And Jules might have been born Caitlin Darnell, but she was Jules. My wife. She loves bad puns and can quote just about every line of the movie Labyrinth, and when she has more than two beers, she’ll dance to any music playing.

And she’s the woman I fell in love with, the woman who fell in love with me.

That’sthe truth.

Ten years. A decade together, born out of fucked-up circumstances, yes––but despite all that, what we have is real.

How could it not be when she heard the story of Ruby’s final night, and not only did she not run from me, she walked straight into my arms?

I don’t care what—or who—brought her to me. I only care that she’s here, with me, now.

It’s the only thing that matters.

I watch Penny Halliday get into her car, and in my mind, I know this is it. I won’t see her again; I’m saying goodbye for good. I hope her life makes her happy, and if I hadn’t decided to give the whole fucking inheritance to Ben, I’d write a big check for this community center right now, fund it into the next century.

Instead, I start the car and head back home to Jules.

I told her I’d be home before dark, but the sky is a deep navy by the time I take the exit to Tavistock, and I push the gas a little harder, the needle ticking toward ninety.

The sooner I’m back, the sooner we’re gone, away from this place, just the two of us.

Just as it should be.

The sky is lighter when I make the turn up the mountain, and for a moment, I’m confused, looking at the clock, glancing back over my shoulder, trying to figure out if the sun is still setting in the western sky.

But no, the compass on the SUV’s dash tells me I’m headed northeast, and the glow in the sky is an odd color, not the soft pinks and purples of Blue Ridge sunsets at all, but a brighter orange.

Fire.

My heart is in my mouth, my hands choking the steering wheel, and the back tires slide as I slam on the gas, climbing higher and higher as the sky gets brighter and the thick smell of smoke starts seeping into the car.

The gates are open, and I tear through them so fast that I hear roots scraping the undercarriage, a distant metallic thunk that can’t be good, but I don’t care because now I’m rounding the last bend, then I slam on the brakes as I raise my hand against the glare.

Ashby House is burning.

Every inch of it is lit up with white-hot flames. The fire engine I now see at the side of the house is blasting water, creating clouds of steam in the night sky. But the steady stream is no match for the blaze.

When I stumble out of the driver’s seat, the heat almost has me reeling back, but I can’t, I have to keep moving toward the house, toward Jules.

“Jules!”

Her name is a harsh scream in my throat, and I call it again and again, eyes frantically searching, but the house is so damn bright, and the few dark figures I see are all in heavy gear.

Firefighters, spraying their hoses, wielding their axes, and I stand there, watching Ashby House burn, imagining Ruby’s portrait inside, those painted eyes somehow intact, watching as flames lick at Jules’s skin, her hair, burning her to ash.

If only you’d been the man I thought you were, Camden. If only you’d picked up that phone.

My knees are weak, and I’m fighting the urge to sink to them when I see white lights off to the other side of the house.

An ambulance, doors flung open, and a figure on a stretcher.

Sitting up. Gesturing toward the house.

Blond hair glowing.

I’m running toward her before I know it, and when she sees me, Jules pulls the oxygen mask off her face. She’s streaked with soot and tears, parts of her hair crisped away, but she’s alive, and already reaching for me.

“Cam!”

I wrap my arms around her, hardly believing it.

“You’re okay,” I say, and one of the EMTs, a redheaded woman I think I went to high school with, gently pushes me back.

“She’s not okay. She’s got a nasty lump on the back of her head, and she’s inhaled a lot of smoke.”

“I’m okay,” Jules argues, then turns to me, insisting again, “I’m okay.”

Her face clouds then, cold fingers tangling with mine. “But Cam … Ben was in there. I don’t know about Libby, but…” Her voice breaks, a sob mixing with a hacking cough.

She tries, she really does.

And it’s good, I have to give it to her. Good enough to fool anyone else. My girl wasn’t a theater major for nothing.

But she can’t hide from me.

Maybe one day she’ll tell me the truth.

Maybe not.

Maybe she’ll wait until she’s in her seventies, and then she’ll write me a long stack of letters, letters that are actually for me this time.

That’s fine.

For now, I just hold her hand in mine and together we watch the McTavishes burn.

From the Desk of Ruby A. McTavish

March 31, 2013

Surprise! Another letter.

I’m sure you thought I was done after the last one. Honestly, so did I. I’d given you everything, darling, so what else was there to say?

But then I got your reply—now thrown in the fire, just as you asked, how very clandestine we’re being!—and, since I have some time tonight, I thought I’d jot one final missive.

Besides, I have some questions for you now, questions I somehow neglected when we met.

Have you always been this clever? It’s just that cleverness does not seem to run in the family, no offense. (And how could I offend, given that it’s my family, too? Insulting your bloodline is insulting mine, let’s not forget, darling.)

Although, I suppose my father/your great-grandfather had a certain kind of low cunning. You have to be pretty ruthless to sell your toddler, after all. But then my mother, your great-grandmother, had the integrity to burn thousands of dollars when she could barely keep a roof over her head.

Do those two impulses balance out in you?

In any case, you were right to contact me. I had assumed your grandmother threw my card away back in 1985, and that I’d never hear from any of you again.

Imagine my delight when I got your message!

Well, I wasn’t completely delighted. I do wish you’d been a little nicer, and a little less … threatening, let’s say, but still, a bit of intrigue always livens up one’s day.

I don’t think I told you the night we met, but you were very good in that play. I’ve seen Arsenic and Old Lace many times—it was one of Andrew’s favorites—and I did not have especially high hopes for a community college production in Gainesville, Florida, and yet there you were, impeccable as Elaine. Far better than the boy playing Mortimer Brewster, I’m afraid.

But then, I’m sure you already knew that. You strike me as a girl who knows her worth.

To be honest, I’m not sure I fully believed I was a Darnell until I met you. Your grandmother certainly resembled me physically, but we were miles apart spiritually. You, though, Miss Caity.

You’re a girl after my own heart.

As I told you in that horrible diner you insisted we go to, it’s always been my dearest wish to somehow repay the Darnell family for their loss. Not that anyone ever could replace such a precious thing as a child, but I’ve longed to make amends for some time.

Camden helped with that, a bit. He’s such a sweet boy, the best I’ve ever known, and I’m sure you’ll agree.

But it wasn’t quite the same, was it? I could take from the McTavishes, but how to give to the Darnells?

And then you!

You fell into my lap with your strange phone call and your rather unsubtle hints at blackmail, and I suddenly understood why it couldn’t be your grandmother or even your mother who showed me the path to making things right.

It had to be you. You, and my Camden. Born in the same year, you know. In 1992. Just two months apart.

Fate, one might say!

Now, like I told you, Camden is being a bit difficult. I’d hoped he’d stay here in North Carolina, but he continues to insist on going to some college in California. Not even one of the nicer ones near the beach, either, but in San Bernardino. He’s just doing this to upset me, some kind of delayed rebellion, I assume, but fair warning, our plans may need to shift a bit. He’s coming to see me tomorrow evening, though, and I think I have just the thing to make sure he’s right where we need him when you’re ready to make the drive up here.

You’ll need to be subtle, I should warn you. Camden is naturally suspicious, and I’m afraid I may have only made that worse over the last few months. But I have faith in you, my darling!

My great-niece.

What a thing.

I think your idea of using another name is very smart, dear girl, and of course I can help with the paperwork. Julianne is a lovely middle name, so I agree, use that. And besides, you can go by Jules.

Ruby, jewel, do you see? Clever of us, isn’t it?

And thank you for your response to that packet of letters. It was a difficult thing, unpacking all of that after all this time, but you were right that night at the diner. (About the need for absolute truth between us, not the hash browns. Smothered, covered, fluffed, buttered, I have no idea, I just know I couldn’t sleep that night from the heartburn.)

You’re a tough cookie, but you understood what I was telling you. You had compassion for me in spite of all of it.

And yes, I have heard that tale about the scorpion and the frog. The poor little frog agrees to carry the scorpion across the river, even though he worries that the scorpion will sting him. The scorpion promises he won’t, but sure enough, he can’t resist, sinking them both beneath the water.

“Why did you do it?” the frog asks before he drowns. “Now we’ll both die.”

“Because it is my nature,” says the scorpion.

Yes, darling. If that’s the story that my confessions made you think of, I think you might understand all of us better than you know.

You’ll be good for Camden. He’ll be good for you.

And I will sleep well at night, knowing I’ve left Ashby House in the very best hands—the only hands—I could.

-R

September 3, 2013

Ruby,

Well, this is a first for me: writing a letter to a dead lady.

But honestly, I wasn’t sure what else to do. I guess this is the kind of thing normal girls would journal about, but when have I ever been a normal girl? When wereyou?

You can’t answer that, I know.

Still, I liked writing with you, and I miss it. I missyou,which is strange since we only met that one time. But I guess once someone has shared their murder confessions with you, you feel a certainbond.

Or maybe it’s a family thing. I mean, you’re my great-aunt after all.

Weremy great-aunt.

It was a gut punch, reading about your death online. Heart failure, huh? Don’t you have to have a heart for it to fail? (You should imagine a little cymbal crash here, by the way. Or was that joke too mean? I guess it doesn’t matter, what with you being dead. Anyway, I still think you’d laugh.)

For a month or so, I waited for … I don’t know. Something. Like, maybe someone would find my letters to you and would know to get in contact with me. Or that there’d be one last secret bequest in your will, and I’d get to show up all dramatic and in a black veil to whispers of, Who is she? (It’s possible I watched a lot of soap operas with my mom as a kid.)

Instead, there was nothing but silence.

It’s so weird that for the last year, you’ve been such a bigpart of my life, and I’d like to think that I was a big part of yours, and yet nobody knew. Now nobody will ever know.

Except me.

When it became clear that no one was getting in touch with me, that you didn’t have any other tricks up your sleeve, I figured I should probably abandon our whole plan. What was the point if you were gone? I mean, sure: I knew that Cam was cute and rich, but I figured there were other cute and rich guys out there, maybe even ones with less fucked-up families (although I’ll admit, probably not any with a house as amazing as Ashby).

Still, I’d already been thinking about moving to California, and I had that money you gave me when we met, so I thought, “Why the fuck not?”

(I’ll try to stick to only one “fuck” in this letter, too. It was a good rule, and I’m sorry my first letter to you probably sounded like a Quentin Tarantino script. You probably don’t know who that is. And itdoesn’t matterbecause I am writingto a dead person who will not read this. But that’s hard to remember sometimes. I guess it’s because I’ve got your letters here in front of me. When I read them, I can see you and hear you so clearly, it’s like you’re in the room with me.)

(But also, please don’t be in the room with me—this situation is weird enough without adding ghosts to the mix.)

Anyway. California.

I wasn’t going for Cam, I was going for me. Might as well try out the acting thing for real, right? And I had a friend from high school in San Bernardino, so off I went.

I’m not gonna lie, so far, it kind of sucks. California is expensive, for one thing, and also San Bernardino isnotL.A. I’m not exactly getting discovered babysitting for my neighbor’s kids, you know? So it has not been the best time, and I was honestly thinking about heading home.

And then tonight happened.

God, Ruby, I wish you were really here. I wish you’d really read this. You probably wouldn’t believe me, but that’s okay. You’d laugh, at the very least. You’d spread your hands wide and say something like,Fait accompli, darling,and I’d wonder yet again if in addition to being a murderess, you were a witch.

Because it had to be magic, Ruby. It had to besomething.

I met Camden.

Not on purpose! I didn’t seek him out. I wouldn’t have even knownhowto, since he seems very committed to never appearing on any social media, ever. But tonight, I walked into this place called Senor Pollo’s, and there he was, behind the bar.

I recognized him from the pictures you sent, and for a second, I’m pretty sure I just stood there with my mouth hanging open becausehow, right? Of all the wing places and all that.

He smiled at me. He poured me a beer. We talked, and we …

You know what? I’m gonna preserve a little mystery there.

I feel like you’d understand.

Was it fate? Destiny?

Ruby, was ityou?