as the center of the universe. She was spoiled—if it was possible to spoil a child who had spent her first two years with little more than dirt and deprivation—and no one cared.
Lacey carried Rani over to the sofa and sat down next to Gina’s bare feet. She looked at her father, who still sat on the floor, holding the fat baby doll on his lap. “What are you doing here, Dad?” she asked.
Alec set the doll down on the rug and leaned back on his hands. “I wanted to talk to you and Clay,” he said. His serious tone was worrisome. She looked from her father to Clay, who shrugged, apparently as much in the dark as she was. The two men looked so much alike. Long, lanky bodies, translucent blue eyes. The only difference between them were the lines on her father’s face and the gray in his hair. Clay could look at Alec O’Neill and know exactly how he, himself, would look in another twenty years.
Gina sat up and reached for Rani. “I’ll put her to bed,” she said, as if knowing this conversation was meant for Alec and his children and not necessarily for her.
“Good night, sweetie.” Lacey planted a kiss on Rani’s cheek before handing her over to Gina.
Her father stood up as Gina left the room. “Let’s go outside,” he said.
She and Clay followed him through the kitchen, down the porch steps and onto the sand, which felt cool now beneath her feet. In another few weeks the sand would be warm, even at night, never losing the heat from the day. As if on automatic pilot, the three of them started walking side by side toward the remains of the lighthouse. Illuminated by the half-moon, the white lighthouse glowed, its broken rim a ragged line across the night sky. A breeze had kicked up in the short time she’d been inside the house, and Lacey’s long, wild hair blew across her face. If she’d known about the change in weather, she would have tied her hair back before stepping outside. People thought her hair was impossibly beautiful. She thought it was merely impossible.
“What’s up, Dad?” Clay asked, and Lacey wondered if he, too, was remembering the last time their father had asked to speak to both of them, the day he told them that their mother had been unfaithful to him throughout their marriage.
“I received a letter today,” their father said. “I forgot to bring it with me for you two to read it, but essentially it stated that a parole hearing is scheduled in September for Zachary Pointer.”
Clay stopped walking and turned to face his father. “Parole?” He sounded as astonished as she felt. “He’s only been in prison … what? … twelve years?”
“Apparently that’s long enough to get him out on parole.”
Lacey caught her hair in her hands and began to braid it down her back, concentrating hard on the task. She didn’t want to think about Zachary Pointer or relive that night, although the memory was always so near the surface that just the mention of his name would bring it back. Nothing could prevent her from remembering his face, the crazed look in his wild eyes. She could still hear his angry and ugly words toward his wife and see her mother’s noble—and successful—attempt to protect the woman.
Lacey had refused to attend the trial back then; in those days she could focus on nothing other than trying to survive the pain of losing her mother. But once and only once, before she realized what she was looking at and could turn away, she saw Pointer on television. The big man was leaving the courthouse with his lawyer. She’d been riveted by the sight of him. He wept when he spoke to the reporters. She’d been struck by the humanness in his face, by the unmistakable remorse and sorrow and shame she saw there. Now she pictured him in prison all this time, alone with the pain of that remorse. He’d been sick. Mentally ill. There’d been no doubt in her mind, but the jury had adamantly ruled against an insanity plea. Maybe she and Clay and their father should listen to the arguments for allowing him out on parole. Twelve years was a long time.
Stop it, she thought to herself. She had her mother’s genes, whether she wanted them or not; she was doomed to feel compassion for everyone.
“He should have been fried,” she said, the words so alien coming from her mouth that her brother and father both turned to stare at her.
“Well, we’re in agreement then,” her father said after a moment. “We’ll fight his parole. I’ll hire an attorney to find out what our next step should be.”
In her bedroom later that night, Lacey opened the windows wide and let the strong breeze whip the sheer seafoam-colored curtains into the room. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she could hear laughter coming from Clay and Gina’s room. She loved them both and loved that they were together, but the sound of their laughter increased the feeling that often crept over her in the evenings: loneliness. The feeling would only intensify once she was under the covers. That was the most alone time in the world, being in bed at night, in the dark, when all you had for company was your thoughts. The emptiness she felt was not new. It had started when her mother died. She’d lost her father then, too, as he became absorbed in grief. Once he started seeing Olivia, the woman he’d eventually married, he’d shifted that absorption to her. Although Olivia had been very kind to Lacey, she’d been more parent than friend, wrapped up in her own pregnancy and her growing love for Lacey’s father.
Sometime that year Lacey learned that she could fill the void with boys, however temporary that filling might be. She grew to be a woman, the boys grew to be men, but the void remained, yawning and insatiable, and she’d continued to fill it the only way she knew how. She hadn’t had all that many lovers. Not as many as Clay seemed to think when he chastised her about her promiscuity. But all the men she selected seemed to fit the same mold: they were “bad boys,” edgy and exciting, who wanted nothing more from her than a good night in bed. That was the one thing she’d excelled at. Maybe the only thing.
It had not been a conscious choice for Lacey to begin emulating her mother after her death. She’d tried only to be the sort of woman her mother would have wanted her to be, taking on volunteer activities, tutoring kids, reading to the seniors at the retirement home, donating blood as often as allowed. But the pull she’d felt to the wrong sort of men had always distressed her; surely her mother would have disapproved. Little did she know that she was emulating her mother in that regard, as well, and the revelation had shocked her. Annie O’Neill had been, quite simply, a fraud.
Since learning the truth about her mother and her adulterous behavior, Lacey had not had a single lover. Not a single date. She had avoided men altogether, distrustful of her own judgment. She felt like Tom, trying to fight his yearning for alcohol. Tom could not have a single drink or he would be right back where he started. It was the same with her and men.
She’d discarded other qualities she thought of as her mother’s, as well, pulling back from the many volunteer activities she used to do, turning inward. At Clay and Gina’s insistence, she’d seen a counselor, a woman who had been too damn insightful for Lacey’s comfort level. Lacey had presented herself to the woman as a sex addict. The label comforted her somehow, a neat little package that could be addressed through a twelve-step program, the way Tom’s alcoholism was being treated. But the counselor had not agreed. “Depression, yes,” she’d said. “Some self-esteem issues, yes. Sex addiction, no. You don’t fit the criteria.” She’d forced Lacey to look at pieces of her behavior she could not bear to examine. “You’re always doing things for other people,” the counselor had said, “as though you don’t feel you deserve anything for yourself. Focusing on others keeps you from feeling your own pain. You need to let yourself feel it, Lacey, before you can fix it.”
Well, she thought as she slipped beneath the covers on her bed, she was feeling it now.
2
