But it was never good enough for him.
For too long she’d suppressed the memories of those days and now she could not conjure up an image of his face, but she could still remember his voice, raw and angry, yelling in the kitchen. Whenever he was in one of his moods, her mother would send Amy to her room and tell her to lock the door, leaving Julianne to deal with his rage the way she always dealt with it. Which usually meant quiet pleading and an occasional black eye.
“If I lose, you lose” was what he always screamed at her. Amy did not understand why it had such power over her mother, but those words inevitably defeated Julianne and made her go silent.
If I lose, you lose.
But it was her mother who bore the bruises, who got in the way of his fists. The one who trudged off to work at the local diner every morning at five a.m., where she’d heat up the griddle and brew the coffee before the farmers and the long-haul truckers showed up for breakfast. She was the one who dragged herself home every afternoon to cook dinner and help Amy with her homework before he got home. Then they’d both watch him get drunk. Family values, that’s what he called it, what he threw in Julianne’s face whenever she tried to leave him. Family values was a threat, the cudgel he used to keep them forever locked with him in battle.
Most of the time that battle played out in other rooms, where Amy couldn’t watch it. But she could hear it through the wall as she lay curled up in bed, staring at the wallpaper with the blue cornflowers.
Even now, and hundreds of miles from that house under the hill, she could still hear those voices in her head, his growing louder and louder, and Julianne’s fading to silence. Family values meant keeping your head down and your voice soft. It meant having dinner on the table by six and your paycheck in his hand every other Friday.
It meant keeping secrets that at any time might explode in your face.
Was that miserable shack still standing? Was some girl now sleeping in her old bedroom, or had it all been torn down, its ghosts bulldozed into the earth where they belonged? The ghosts of those cornflowers would never vanish; they were here in her head, still so vivid she could see their nicotine-stained petals, but why couldn’t she remember his face? Where had that memory gone?
All she remembered was the voice screaming in the kitchen, vowing that he would never let them go, would never give them up. No matter how far and fast they ran, he said, he would find them.
Is it possible? Is he coming for us now?
I’ve always liked shopping for dinner parties. As I wheel my cart through the supermarket, I imagine the guests seated around my table, feasting on the meal I’ve so lovingly prepared. Not that this is a particularly large dinner party, just Jane’s family and nice Barry Frost with his annoying wife Alice, plus Maura and—I hope—Maura’s friend Father Brophy. Once it would have bothered me, seeing the two of them together, because I was raised a good Catholic girl. But perspectives change. At my age, none of the old rules seem set in stone anymore, certainly not when it comes to love. Just in case he does come, I’ll plan on dinner for seven. Seven and a half, counting little Regina. That’s not much bigger than the dinners for five I used to cook every night when my kids were young, when cooking was a duty, more about just getting something edible on the table.
This meal will be more than edible. I want it to feel like a feast.
At the meat counter, I pick up the beautiful leg of lamb, which my butcher lovingly wraps in paper. I’m going to stud it with garlic cloves and roast it a juicy medium rare. What a shame Alice Frost is on some sort of diet and probably won’t even touch it. Her loss. I cruise through the produce section, plucking up tender lettuces and yellow onions, potatoes and green beans. And asparagus. That’s for me. It’s the season for fresh asparagus and it makes me happy to see it because it means summer’s on the way.
I push my cart up and down the aisles, searching for olive oil and pasta, coffee beans and wine. Six bottles, at least. Again, some of it just for me. With my cart almost full, I head to the frozen desserts section. It never hurts to have an extra carton or two of ice cream on hand. I round the corner into the freezer aisle and come to a halt when I see who is standing there, staring at the offerings.
Tricia Talley. So she’s not kidnapped and murdered after all, but alive and apparently shopping for ice cream.
“Tricia!”
She looks at me with a blank teenage stare. Either she’s too zoned out to recognize me or she just doesn’t care.
“It’s me. Angela Rizzoli.”