They both laughed.
"Don't worry," Mary said. "It'll just be the three of us, plus Anthony-and of course anybody you might feel like inviting."
Gillian's head tilted. "As in, am I dating anyone? The answer to that is no."
"What about Ben?"
"Please. He's a kid."
"About your age, I'd say." Gillian wasn't biting, and Mary dropped the idea. "Do you mind if I get a drink of water?"
"Let me find a clean glass."
Gillian was still dressed in her hip-hugging pants and short top. When she reached for a glass, Mary saw that she had a tattoo on her lower spine. It was a delicate, circular design in black.
"Is that real?" she asked. "Or part of the costume?"
Gillian glanced over her shoulder. "Another remnant of my rebellious youth. Ice?"
Mary shook her head, accepted the glass, and walked to the sink. She filled it and took a long drink. "What I could never figure out," she said, holding up the glass for inspection, "is why Minneapolis water is so good, and St. Paul water so bad. I mean, the two cities are right next to each other."
Gillian smiled and settled herself on the arm of the old green couch. "It's one of life's mysteries." Her feet were bare, her face free of makeup. She looked about seventeen. "You know, I have another tattoo here-" She pulled down the neckline of her top to reveal a small red rose on the curve of her breast. "Isn't that funny?" She laughed again, but this time the sound was broken, frightened, and confused. "A rose. Can you believe it? It feels like a brand, like I've been branded by Gavin. Branded by a rapist and murderer. He was with me when I got it."
She ran her fingers through her hair, pulling the blond locks from her forehead and then dropping them where they fell back into their perfect cut. "It's so weird to think of the threads that tie everything together, threads that connect through layers and layers of time. When I got this tattoo, I was ignorant of the future and how a rose would figure into it. But the connection was already there, even though I couldn't see it. Nothing is freestanding."
"This might be hard for you to believe, but I'm sorry the killer turned out to be Gavin," Mary said. "And I'm sorry for everything that bastard has put you through."
"He always wanted me, and now I wonder if that's what this was all about. Was he pretending those girls were me? Is that where the rose came into play? You were right about him all along. I just refused to see it. I was clinging to my youth, and the memories of that youth-the youth before he killed Fiona. I just don't think I wanted to face it, or didn't want to believe that Gavin murdered her, because if he did… then I was also responsible."
"Why do you think that?" Mary asked cautiously, not sure she wanted to hear Gillian's answer.
"I was jealous of Fiona. You know that. I complained about her to Gavin." She bit her lip, looked up at the ceiling, then down at the floor. "I even said I wanted to kill her. That Gavin and I should kill her."
It was what Mary had always suspected. But now that Gillian had finally come clean, her confession didn't hurt the way Mary had expected it to hurt. It no longer carried with it the weight of a horrendous betrayal. Instead, it signified the loss of childhood innocence.
"The only person responsible for Gavin is Gavin," Mary told her.
"No. He was so impressionable. And he was infatuated with me. I should have known he would do whatever it took to make me happy. Even kill somebody."
"Gillian, you were a child. A child."
She shook her head. "We talked about it just once, but I should have known."
Everybody had spiteful feelings at one time or another. How could Gillian know that those feelings, planted in the wrong mind, could be transformed so horribly? For her sister's sake, Mary moved on to another subject, one that had been bothering her ever since Gillian had brought it up. "Are you going to tell me what Gavin did to you the other day?"
"What? Oh, that." Gillian had apparently already dismissed it. "He kissed me. Not a nice kiss. A mauling kind of kiss."
"That bastard," Mary said, even though she was relieved to find it had been just a kiss. It could have been much worse.
"It doesn't matter. It seems irrelevant now. The mauling is nothing compared to everything else he's done. I feel like such a fool. You were on target when you said I wanted to be a cop because I thought I could somehow make things right."
"You have to accept the past and move on."
Gillian looked at her in disbelief. "I can't believe you're saying that. I can't believe you, of all people, are telling me that."
"I'm being a hypocrite, I know, but it's the best advice to give. I'm not saying I took it myself. I tried, but for some reason I've never been able to let it go. I'm just like Mrs. Portman, who sits in that dark tomb of a house, that shrine to a daughter who's never coming back."
She must have sounded pretty forlorn, because Gillian-always the demonstrative one-got to her feet and put an arm around her, her head on her shoulder. Mary stiffened, then relaxed. The contact was comforting. "We're a bit of a mess, aren't we?" Gillian said.
"I didn't realize how much of one until I came back here." After a moment's hesitation, Mary put her hand over Gillian's. "The past has hooks that reach into infinity, into yesterday and today and the future."
"Like a fucking rose tattoo," Gillian said.
"Yeah. Like a fucking rose tattoo."
In the cage in the corner of the room, Birdie woke up. "Hel-lo, hel-lo," he said, bobbing his head.
Chapter 23
Blythe loved parties. When the girls were little, she baked cakes and lit candles, and was sure to commemorate every occasion that presented itself. Because life was to be celebrated, and you never knew how long the good times would last so you had to embrace them.
After Fiona was killed, Blythe tried not to think about the young girl's death too deeply. Though she ached for Mary and saw her daughter change, she tried not to allow it to darken her own aura. After all, someone had to remain optimistic. They couldn't all drag themselves through the days, bemoaning the unfairness and ugliness of life. With hindsight, she realized now that ignoring what had been going on around her hadn't helped-it had only made things worse.
But Mary was home, and her daughters were speaking to each other again, and maybe they would be able to spend Christmas together for the first time in years. True, Gillian was suffering, but Blythe would be there for her. She would help her get past the pain.
It was time to celebrate.
She made a sinfully chocolate cake from a prize-winning recipe she'd gotten from a little cafe in St. Paul. It was moist and full of gooey layers, just the kind of decadence required for the ultimate party.
She'd baked bread and prepared a tossed salad. Her special lasagna was in the oven. Wine waited to be opened. Lights were turned down, and candlelight reflected off glass.
The doorbell rang.
"Mary!" she shouted. "Will you get it?"
She heard Mary's footsteps on the stairs. It made her think of the old days, when they were a family.
They could be a family again. Couldn't they?
She heard a male voice. Anthony? Such a nice man. And so good-looking. One voice was joined by another, announcing the arrival of Gillian.
In a flurry of cold air, they burst into the kitchen. Anthony handed her a bottle of wine. Gillian inhaled, praising the odors coming from the oven.
Nothing about Blythe's place was formal. They ate in the dining area connected to the kitchen. Wine and conversation flowed, along with laughter. As if by unspoken agreement, they didn't mention the recent case or Gavin Hitchcock.