The Cost of Silence. Kathleen O'Brien

idyllic. Everyone did. The elegant town house on Russian Hill had seemed to hum with peace and tranquility. He’d envied Victor his loving family. How lucky was a guy to find true love not once, but twice?

      But under the serene veneer, apparently the same pain and confusion that complicated other lives had roiled at the Wigham house, too. Marianne had been dissatisfied, unhappy. Dylan had been escaping into recreational drugs. Victor had found himself in Windsor Beach, in the arms of a stranger.

      What part had Marianne’s unhappiness played in all that?

      But in all their discussions, Victor had never once blamed Marianne. To his credit, he’d never uttered the clichéd words she just didn’t understand me, never subtly hinted that his wife had been cold and critical, driving him into another woman’s arms. He had taken full responsibility for his adultery, had spoken of it as an unforgivable, selfish act. He had clearly been eaten up with shame.

      Red could still feel the bone-cracking grip with which Victor had clutched his hand that last hour of his life. “She must never know,” he’d whispered. “Never. Promise me, Red. It would break her heart. She doesn’t deserve that.”

      He glanced at Victor’s widow now. “I’m sure you weren’t as bad as—”

      “I was.” She drew her eyebrows together, as if girding herself to remember everything. “By the time I found out he was sick, we were hardly speaking. Can you imagine how I felt? Dylan knew. He hated me for it. He probably hates me still, for driving his father away.”

      “But you didn’t drive him away. Married couples fight. All of them. It doesn’t mean anything. If Dylan doesn’t see that now, he will see it eventually. You didn’t drive him away.”

      She was hardly listening, he realized. She kept talking. “The disease claimed him so fast. We had so little time. A few months, that was all, to make it up. To make him know I had always loved him, no matter how terrible I acted.”

      The tears were falling freely now, trailing silver down her cheeks and then disappearing over the roundness of her chin.

      “Over and over, I ask myself whether he believed me. Whether he still loved me, even though I’d been so…” She swallowed hard. “His love was the best thing that ever happened to me, Red. If I killed it, how can I ever look our son in the eyes again? If I killed it—”

      “You didn’t.” He put his hands on either side of her face. “You couldn’t. There aren’t many things I’m sure about in this crazy world, Marianne Wigham, but I’m completely sure about that.”

      He had a momentary mental flash of a dark haired young waitress, a baby in her arms and her golden eyes fiery with fury. He pushed the vision away. He didn’t understand what had happened between Victor and Allison York. He probably never would understand.

      But somehow he knew that, whatever it had been, it didn’t change what he was about to say now.

      “From the moment he laid eyes on you, until the moment he took his last breath, your husband loved you with all his heart.”

      CHAPTER FIVE

      ALLISON YAWNED AS SHE PICKED up a sweet potato and perched it atop all the other vegetables in her canvas bag. The yawn came from deep in her soul and went on forever, too wide and heartfelt to hide behind her hand.

      “Excuse me,” she said, laughing. She reached for another potato.

      “No!” Jimbo barked from behind her. He reached into her bag and pulled the yam out again. “No, no, no. Too stringy. We want only the fat ones. I told you this was a bad idea. I saw that yawn. Apparently you’re too tired to know a decent vegetable from a runt.”

      She was tired, definitely. But they’d had this battle, or one like it, every Saturday for months. She loved the farmer’s market, adored strolling through the sun-dappled dirt lot with Eddie nestled against her in his sling pouch.

      Jimbo, however, would have preferred that she stay home. He was the kind of chef who liked to hand-pick every ingredient, trusting no one’s judgment but his own. Before they checked out, he always pawed through her choices and put half of them back.

      The attitude made her laugh. The restaurant would be hers, at least on paper—which meant the payments would come out of her checkbook. But Jimbo’s heart was every bit as invested as hers. If Summer Moon failed, it wouldn’t be for lack of love.

      It might, however, be for lack of money. She had spent a couple of hours this morning with a rep from the food distributor, and his estimate had taken her breath away. A quarter higher, at least, than she’d planned for.

      Against her will, her thoughts darted to Red Malone’s check, the one he’d dangled in front of her the other day, the same way she might shake a ring of plastic keys in front of Eddie to distract and amuse him. The arrogant bastard. Red had so clearly sized up her apartment and concluded that she’d be easy to buy off. She needed the money too much to afford the luxury of pride.