It sounded so far-fetched. Almost laughable. But Misha was dead serious.
“By this time Marshall and Clarice were engaged, and she came to live here in Fire Lake while Marshall was deployed overseas.”
“Desert Storm.”
Misha nodded. “It was a terrible thing that played out on television screens across the world. To watch that unfold is something I won’t forget. And knowing that Marshall was over there fighting made it that much harder.” Her eyes softened. “I can see this is hard for you. To hear a history that no one deigned to tell.”
He didn’t know how to answer, so Gus said nothing.
“Marshall went missing. We were told he was killed in action. There was no news. Nothing.” She sighed and shook her head. “Within a year, Porter and Clarice married. I think they found comfort in each other because they both loved Marshall so much. I would like to think she had real feelings for Porter . . . I don’t know. But the household changed. It was as if a light had gone out, and your grandfather didn’t survive his grief. He died a month after the wedding.”
This was something Gus knew.
“They carried on the way married couples do and settled into a routine of sorts.” Misha’s hands were busy — her anxiety ramped. “But then, six months after the twins were born, Marshall showed up at the house. He wasn’t the man who’d left. Far from it. But he was home, and that’s all that mattered.” Her eyes misted, and her voice caught. “We were all so happy. So incredibly relieved but . . .”
“But?” he prompted.
“He created problems for Porter and Clarice.” Misha wiped a tear from her cheek. “She still loved him. Marshall felt betrayed. And your father was angry at them both. His situation. At theworld. Marshall moved off the estate. He bought a place in town and for several years things were okay. Not great, but not as terrible as those first few months. Porter and Clarice lived their lives and Marshall kept to himself. Then the rumors started.” Her sad eyes fell. “You know how small towns can be.”
“What rumors?”
“That Clarice and Marshall had started up again. That it had been going on since he’d come back from the war. That . . .”
That knot in his gut was harder than ever, and Gus got to his feet. “Just say it, Misha. I need to know.”
“There were those who believed that not all of the Boone children were Porter’s.”
For some reason, none of this surprised Gus. “Did he make her leave? Did he think none of us were his? Is that why she left Ford and Sunday behind?”
Misha got to her feet and grabbed hold of his hands. She held them tight. “I don’t know. The only person who can give you the rest of the story is your mother or Porter.”
He noted she was careful not to call him his father.
“What do you believe?”
Misha took a step back. “I believe the day Marshall left for war the Boone household was forever changed. I believe that love can sometimes be destructive. I believe that disappointment and fear bring out the worst in all of us.” She looked at him with wide, honest eyes. “I believe that we are all human and make mistakes and sometimes those mistakes appear unforgivable. I believe that not all of us deal with those mistakes gracefully and knowing you’ve hurt someone is hard. Knowing your actions destroyed a family is harder.” Her voice was just a whisper. “Ultimately, I believe to find true peace and happiness we need to forgive. We need to find a way past our own pain. Can you do that, August? Forgive your parents for being human? For being flawed?”
Mouth tight, he shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Will you do me a favor?”
He nodded, throat so damn tight he didn’t trust himself to speak.
“Try.”
Chapter Twenty
Faith had fallen asleep on the sofa, and it was dark by the time she woke up. Her neck was stiff, she had a kink in her back that needed to be worked out, and her arm was frozen. She hadn’t eaten; she was hungry, pissed off, hurt, and a bunch of other things she had no name for.
They had had plans, and he’d bailed, and she’d seen him downtown.At a flower shop.He’d walked out with a dozen yellow roses but never showed up at her place. So where was he? If she could throat-punch him, she would.
She glared at the door, visualized the one opposite of it, and got to her feet. She stood with the fridge door open with Taco at her side. He wagged his tail happily and poked his nose at the container of leftovers on the bottom shelf.
“Shit,” she muttered. “You need to eat too.”
She grabbed some fruit, plain yogurt, and granola, then made herself a bowl. Before she sat down to eat, she fed Taco. “Sorry for the late meal, buddy.”
Strawberries and blueberries were her favorite, but Faith could have been eating sawdust for all it mattered. She couldn’t taste anything, and, if not for the hunger pains, she would have done without. She was too upset to eat. Had been for hours.
