Page 31 of Luck of the Devil (Harper Adams Mystery #3)

Malcolm gave me an honest-to-God grin, and I wondered who the hell this man was and where the James Malcolm I knew had gone.

“Thank you, Mr. Langford.”

“You can call me Gary, James,” my grandfather said as he moved across the living room to sit in his recliner on the opposite side of the room.

He sat down but didn’t recline back, watching me in amazement instead.

“We always hoped one day you’d change your mind, but I confess, I’d decided years ago that it wasn’t likely to happen. ”

I took a seat next to Malcolm on the sofa and gave my grandfather a confused look. “Change my mind?”

“About seeing us.” When I still looked puzzled, pain flashed in his eyes.

“Your mother made it clear you didn’t want to see us.

We’d hoped it was just a phase, but when she told us we weren’t welcome at your high school graduation because you didn’t want us there…

” He took a breath to compose himself. “It broke our hearts, and right or wrong, we just couldn’t bring ourselves to try again. ”

I slowly shook my head. “Grandpa, I never said that.” When he still looked hurt, I said, “I never said I didn’t want you there. Mom said she invited you, but you and grandma said you couldn’t come. That you had other plans. She told me you didn’t want to see me.”

His face reddened and his jaw clenched. “That’s not true.”

My mother had purposely kept us apart. Why?

Grandma sniffed and I turned to see that she’d started to cry.

“Grandma, I swear. I never, ever said I didn’t want to see you. I know you and Dad had some kind of falling out, and that you made Mom choose between you and him, and she chose him. I figured I was just collateral damage.”

“Falling out with your father?” Grandma said, shaking her head. “What falling out?”

I stared at her in disbelief, then swung my attention to my grandfather. He didn’t look confused. He looked angry.

Had everything been a lie?

“Mom and Dad said you blamed Dad for Andi’s death, and you all stopped speaking because Mom was furious at you.”

He clenched his jaw. “I think I’m gonna need something to drink to continue this conversation.” Then he got up and walked into the kitchen.

I looked over at Malcolm who was watching me with concern, which caught me off guard as much as the conversation I’d just had.

Malcolm had never shown concern for me. Irritation, condescension, understanding, but never concern.

Not even the night before, when he’d helped nurse me through my withdrawal.

I’d known he was worried given the way he’d nursed me, but he hadn’t shown it.

His lack of concern seemed like a cornerstone to our relationship. He never treated me like I was fragile.

The hard truth was that I was fragile, as hard at that was for me to accept. I’d always prided myself on being strong, no matter what, but if I were honest with myself, I’d been fragile for a hell of a lot longer than a couple of days.

My grandfather returned a half second later, carrying a tray with three juice glasses and a bottle of whiskey.

My stomach dropped with dread, while another part of me lit up in anticipation of the warmth sliding down my throat and spreading through my body.

Grandpa set the tray on the coffee table and then grabbed the whiskey bottle and twisted off the cap.

He poured a finger of liquid into the cup closest to Malcolm, but when he turned it toward the cup in front of me, somehow, I managed to reach up and cover the opening.

“None for me.” Everything in me screamed to grab the bottle from his hand and fill my glass half full, but the stubborn part of me held strong.

Grandpa didn’t question it, just skipped me and poured a finger into his own glass, then picked it up and took a healthy sip. Malcolm did the same, then set the glass on the table, out of my reach.

“We’ve all been lied to, child,” Grandpa said, his voice breaking.

“I realize that now,” I said, holding my hands in my lap, trying to keep them from grabbing the whiskey bottle.

He took another sip, then shook his head.

“We weren’t happy when Sarah Jane said she was cutting contact with us, but she’d been distant for years, so we weren’t surprised.

It was losing you that broke us.” He took another sip.

“Especially after what happened to your sister. We knew you had to be devastated, but your mother said she’d have us physically removed if we came to her funeral.

And when we tried to reach out to you later, Sarah Jane said you didn’t want to speak to us either. ”

I had a million questions, and unfortunately, the one person who might have the answers wasn’t here to give them. Guilt flooded me as I realized I still hadn’t done what I came here to do.

“Grandpa.” I glanced over at my grandmother. “Grandma. There’s something I need to tell you about Mom.”

My grandmother grabbed another tissue from the box and dabbed her eyes. “We know about Sarah Jane.”

My eyes widened. “You know?”

“We know you buried her yesterday,” Grandpa said. “And that your father didn’t tell us about the service.”

“We wouldn’t have gone anyway,” Grandma said. “Sarah Jane made it clear we weren’t welcome in her life, so it seemed wrong to show up after she was dead.”

Her hand rested on the arm of her chair, and I reached over and placed my hand on hers. “I’m so sorry.”

She shook her head, tears flooding her eyes again. “There’s no need to be sorry that we missed her funeral. We mourned her long ago.”

We were all silent for a moment. I was still trying to figure out what could possibly make my mother cut off her parents at the very moment she probably needed them most. I suspected my grandparents were reconciling that my mother had lied about my desire to see them and all the years we’d wasted.

Grandpa took another drink, then lowered the glass so it rested on the arm of his chair. “We’re sorry, Harper. We should have tried harder.”

“We did send you cards and letters,” Grandma said.

“But they always went unanswered, and after a while, they started coming back with ‘return to sender’ written on the envelope. A part of me always wondered if it was you or your mother keeping us apart, but deep down I knew it was her. She just seemed too daunting to cross.”

“I could have reached out too,” I said. “Especially after I left home for college. But by that time…”

By that time, I’d shut everyone out. The last thing I’d wanted to do was let someone in.

But my grandmother misinterpreted my meaning, and fresh tears filled her eyes. “By that time, you thought we’d turned our backs on you too.”

I had, but I still could have tried.

“I don’t understand why she cut you out of our lives,” I said. “Why then?” The whiskey bottle was in my peripheral vision and my mouth began to water.

Grandpa shook his head. “I don’t know, but we weren’t necessarily surprised it happened. More by the timing of it.”

I sat back a little on the sofa cushion, trying to put distance between myself and the bottle. “You said Mom grew distant several years before she cut off contact. Do you know why?”

Grandma dabbed her eyes again. “Sarah Jane never thought much of us, even growin’ up. She was friends with girls who had parents with means, and she resented that we couldn’t give her what their families could. When she set off for college, she did so with the ambition to marry a rich man.”

“She was after her MRS Degree,” Grandpa said, staring down at the dregs of his drink and shaking his head.

Grandma gave him a dirty look, then turned back to me. “I suppose she didn’t do too poorly with your father.”

We hadn’t been rich, but we’d been very comfortable.

Either they were wrong about her objective to marry rich, or her goal had changed.

From what I’d seen, she’d been more obsessed with power and being in control than with money, and living in a small town gave her plenty of opportunity to rule with her iron will.

“So she was already distant before she left home for college?” I asked.

My grandfather cleared his throat. “She wasn’t as close to us as her sister Hannah is, but Sarah Jane always came home for holidays and over summer break while she was at school. She seemed pleased to see us when we were together. Especially after she started dating Paul.”

“And things got better after we agreed to give her the weddin’ she wanted,” Grandma said. “Of course weddings weren’t the expensive affairs they are nowadays, but we still had to come up with more money than we had to pay for it.”

“Had to get a second mortgage,” Grandpa grumbled.

I grimaced. I suspected my mother had known that and hadn’t felt an ounce of guilt. I was sure she’d thought it was no less than what she deserved.

“So, we were in her good graces for a while after that,” Grandma said with a sigh.

“And then she had you, and she went through a terrible postpartum depression. She could hardly function, so the two of you came and stayed with us for a couple of months. Your grandpa and I took care of you while she recovered.”

My mother had suffered from depression before? If my mother had suffered from depression before, it might be totally possible that she had asked for an anti-depressant from Dr. Duncan. “Was she treated for it?”

Grandma scoffed. “She refused therapy and wouldn’t even consider medication.

Said she didn’t believe in it, but I suspect she didn’t want the stigma of going to therapy or takin’ medication.

” She gave me a sympathetic look. “There was a bit of shame attached to it back then. Some people, especially around here, thought it meant you were weak, and your mother hated to appear weak.”

That was the mother I’d known, at least until my father left.

Grandpa finished the last of his drink, then said, “She likely would have recovered faster if she had agreed to the medicine, but we didn’t push it.”

My grandmother cringed. “Your grandpa’s right. We didn’t, but we should have.”

“Did she breast feed?” Malcolm asked, catching me by surprise. “Maybe she was worried it would hurt Harper.”

“Heavens no,” Grandma said. “She refused to breast feed because she said formula was better for babies. Scientific research and nutrition and some nonsense.” She shrugged.

“We never bought it for a minute. I suspect the real reason was she wanted help gettin’ up in the middle of the night, and if she wasn’t breast feedin’, she could have someone else do it.

I know your father got up with you quite a bit when you were in Jackson Creek, and I did it when your mother brought you here. ”

If my mother had been depressed, she might not have had the energy to get up in the middle of the night. Or she could have just not wanted to. Either was possible.

Grandma gestured to my grandfather. “He helped with the middle-of-the-night feedin’s too.” Tears filled her eyes. “I think that’s why we felt so much closer to you than any of the other grandkids. Because we took care of you for nearly two months.”

“I didn’t know any of that,” I said. “No one ever told me. Did she suffer a postpartum depression after Andi was born?”

“No, thank goodness, but she knew she didn’t want to have any more kids after her. I think your father would have liked to have tried for a boy, but he seemed thrilled with his two daughters. Doted on you whenever we were around y’all.”

“You got along with Harper’s father?” Malcolm asked, looking at my grandmother and then my grandfather.

“Loved him,” Grandma said fondly. “He seemed like a genuinely good guy, and he mellowed her some. She wasn’t too pleased when he moved to Jackson Creek, but one of his partners was from there and his father gave them the money to start the firm.”

“But you were part of her life until she cut you off after Andi died?” I asked.

Grandma made a face. “Oh, no. When you were about ten or so she started to call less. That would have made Andi about eight.”

“What happened? Did you guys have a fight, or did Mom perceive some kind of slight that made her mad?” The latter was entirely possible.

“Not in that instance. I know she and her sister weren’t getting along at the time, but everything seemed fine at Christmas—well, normal for her—and then we came for Andi’s ninth birthday, and she seemed withdrawn.”

“Was she like that with just you and Gary or with everyone?” Malcolm asked.

Grandma looked lost in thought for a moment.

“Well, now that I think about it, I guess she was just quiet in general. She did lose her temper with Hannah, but that was nothing new. Those two were like piss and vinegar. One minute they were sweet to each other, the next they were fighting. They almost always made up, but they never did after that last time. As far as I know, they only saw each other at our house for holidays. Then when you were twelve, your mom said your family wasn’t coming to see us during Christmas break, that it wasn’t fair on you girls to have to travel.

We offered to come visit y’all in Jackson Creek and she agreed, but didn’t seem thrilled about it.

Then the day before we were supposed to drive to Jackson Creek—the day before Christmas Eve—she called and said Andi had strep throat and the doctor said they couldn’t have anyone in the house. ”

I distinctly remembered the Christmas I was twelve, because I’d gotten the bike I’d seen in the window at Milton’s Hardware after talking about it for months.

I also distinctly remembered that Andi hadn’t been sick.

She’d gotten a bike too, and we’d spent all afternoon on Christmas Day riding our new bikes all over the neighborhood.

My mother had lied.

Turned out she’d lied about quite a few things.