"Raise Claudia like she's your daughter."

"She is my daughter. I love her every bit as much as I love you and Danny. You're my children. All of you."

"Right. She's my sister. I can't believe you let her live her whole life in ignorance about this."

Bobby sighed.

"And me and Danny. We're her brothers. I mean-my G.o.d, what she must be going through right now..."

"It's not easy, Mike." As hard as it was for Claudia, it was every bit as hard for Bobby. He didn't want to come across as self-pitying, though, so he silenced himself with a sip of beer.

"So...what's the deal? Mom had an affair?"

"She was pregnant when I married her," Bobby said. He could have argued that what had happened all those years ago wasn't any of Mike's business. But telling Claudia about her parentage had been like poking a hole in a dam. Once the truth started leaking through, it flooded everything and everyone in its path.

Besides, if Gary had called Mike, it had to be because Claudia wanted to share the news with her brothers. "Your mother didn't have an affair."

"You knew she was pregnant with some other dude's baby?" Mike looked appalled.

"That's why I married her, Mike. I loved her, and she was in trouble."

"Jesus." Mike shook his head again and drank his beer. So did Bobby. "I guess back in the days of hippies and free love, the details didn't matter."

Mike's sarcasm rankled. "It wasn't like that," Bobby retorted. "We were young. She got in trouble. Stuff happens."

"But you married her. Even though her baby wasn't yours. What were you-a candidate for sainthood or just a chump?"

Anger bubbled up inside Bobby, spraying in so many directions he wasn't sure where it came from or what it was aimed at. "Mike. This is your mother you're talking about."

"And my sister, who I love. And who, it turns out, is actually the sister of some other guy we never even heard of." He plucked a pretzel from the bowl, flipped it over in his hand a few times, then tossed it onto his napkin. "Do you know Claudia's father?"

More anger, spinning faster. "I'm Claudia's father."

"I mean, her real father."

Too enraged to speak, Bobby chugged some more beer. It slid down his throat, cold and bitter. "I think we're done, Mike."

"No, we're not done. This is my family, too. You and Mom kept this secret from us for all these years. It's our family-Claudia's and Danny's and mine. How could you not tell us? How could you let us all live a lie for so long?"

Bobby drained his bottle in two long swallows. He'd known the aftershocks from telling Claudia the truth were going to be bad. He just hadn't realized how much hurt there was to go around, or how wide it would spread. He hadn't realized how much trust would be lost between him and his children, between him and Joelle. Between him and the whole freaking world.

"Here's all you have to know," he said, his voice muted. "You and Danny are my sons. Claudia is my daughter. The past is the past."

"Great," Mike muttered. "If that's the past, I'm afraid to think what the future is."

JOELLE HAD COOKED LASAGNA for Bobby. As if she could make things right by fixing one of his favorite dishes for him.

Sunday had been wretched for them both. She'd arisen early after a restless night and told him she was going to church, something neither of them had done in aeons. She'd asked him to join her. He'd said no. She'd really hoped he would go with her, but she wouldn't beg him. Partly pride, partly fear of making him feel even worse than he already did-she left the house without him.

Morning ma.s.s at Our Lady of Lourdes hadn't helped. The local priest was a bland suburban type, so careful to avoid offense or controversy he wound up coming across as plastic and remote. She couldn't imagine asking him for his counsel. Still, she'd prayed-not for herself but for Bobby, for her children and for a young man named Adam Foster, whom she'd never met but who was critically ill. Her prayers seemed to bounce off the vaulted ceiling rather than pa.s.sing through the rafters and up to G.o.d.

When she'd returned home, the house was empty. Bobby had stuck a Post-it note to the mudroom door, saying he'd gone fishing. He didn't even own a rod and tackle, but she accepted his statement as an indication that he needed some time alone.

She'd spent the day doing the housecleaning that had never gotten done yesterday. She'd scrubbed the bathroom floors until her knuckles were chapped. She'd pulled out the refrigerator and vacuumed behind it. By the time Bobby came home-carrying a pizza rather than a fresh-caught trout-the house was cleaner than it had ever been.

When she'd asked him what she could do to make him feel better, he'd said nothing.

She'd decided to make lasagna today after the flowers had arrived. A spiffy young man in a green uniform had delivered them shortly after Bobby had left for work, and they'd sat on the kitchen table all day, a magnificent array of roses, orchids and lilies, ferns and baby's breath in a curving gla.s.s vase. Bewildered, Joelle had opened the card that accompanied them: Joelle and Bobby, I can't tell you how grateful I am that you let me into your home on Sat.u.r.day. I'm aware my visit might have been difficult for you. I hope and pray you can forgive the mistakes of the past and find the compa.s.sion in your hearts to help my son. Sincerely, Drew She must have reread the card a dozen times throughout the day. The flowers were an apology, a peace offering-maybe a bribe. But the callous, selfish Drew Foster she'd remembered, the boy who had mailed her a check and the name of a doctor in Cincinnati, had been replaced in her mind by the sad, desperate man who'd appeared at her front door Sat.u.r.day morning. He was a father and his son was dying. He'd sent these flowers with the best of intentions.

She hoped Bobby would view them that way, too. But just in case he wouldn't, she'd decided to prepare one of his favorite meals.

She'd bought fresh vegetables for a salad at a local farm stand and a loaf of Italian bread at a bakery in town. All afternoon, as she'd browned the meat and mushrooms and whipped eggs into the ricotta and crushed cloves of garlic for the bread, she'd thought of Bobby, of pampering him, a.s.suring him that she loved him and so did Claudia. He was hurting and she yearned to ease his heartache.

She also hoped a day of productive work at DiFranco Landscaping would cheer him up, or at least remind him that their life today was a universe away from their lives back in 1970, when she'd found herself pregnant and Bobby was heading off to war. They'd believed in each other back then, she recalled. They'd believed no mistake was so bad that doing the right thing wouldn't help. Was fixing this feast the right thing to do? Had cleaning the house yesterday been the right thing? Had telling Claudia the truth been the right thing?

Telling Claudia had definitely been right. So why did the truth leave so d.a.m.n much pain in its wake?

She heard the rumble of the automatic garage door opening and raced to the first-floor bathroom to check her reflection in the mirror. A flushed, sweaty face gazed back at her. It wasn't as if she hoped to entice Bobby with her beauty, which had lost its youthful gloss long ago, but she fussed with her hair anyway and splashed some cold water on her cheeks.

She was surprised to hear Mike's voice rather than Bobby's echoing in the mudroom. Why had Bobby brought Mike home with him? She had more than enough food to feed an extra mouth, but after her visit with Claudia on Sat.u.r.day night, she wasn't sure she was ready to deal with her sons.

She was even less ready to deal with what Mike brought her. "He's drunk," he said, steering Bobby ahead of him into the kitchen and handing her Bobby's keys.

"I'm not drunk," Bobby growled. His eyes looked bleary, his posture unnaturally rigid.

Joelle had never seen him drunk. He didn't do drunk. She fell back a step. "How much did he drink?"

"Not enough," Bobby snapped, then shoved past her and headed for the stairs.

She leveled an accusing gaze at Mike. "A beer," he said.

"One beer?"

"And three whiskies. I drove him home because I didn't think he should drive himself. He's really p.i.s.sed."

Joelle didn't need Mike to point out the obvious. Her husband was p.i.s.sed, he was drunk-and as the son of an alcoholic, Bobby would rather smash his head through a pane of gla.s.s than drink to excess. If he'd gotten himself blitzed, things were worse than she'd imagined.

"Where's your car?" she asked.

"I left it at the Hay Street Pub. I can take Dad's truck home and pick him up for work tomorrow. Somewhere along the way I'll get my car."

Mike's voice was cold and clipped, his gaze filled with contempt. She realized he must have heard about Drew Foster. Perhaps Bobby had told him between his second and third whiskey. Or perhaps Claudia had brought Mike up to speed.

It didn't matter. He knew the truth and it filled him with hatred. He was her son; she could read him easily.

"I'll drive you over to the pub so you can get your car," she said, not yet ready to confront Bobby.

"That's not necessary."

"Your dad will be using his truck tomorrow. I'll drive you." She turned off the oven so the lasagna wouldn't burn, then grabbed her purse and keys from the storage table near the mudroom and preceded him out to the garage.

The pub was less than ten minutes away in the center of Gray Hill. Ten minutes of silence would be unbearable. Mike clearly didn't wish to speak to her, but that didn't mean she couldn't speak to him.

"How could you let him drink like that?" she asked. "He never drinks. Why didn't you stop him?"

"He's a big boy. He wanted those drinks, so he had them."

A potent blend of sorrow and fury churned inside her. "Your father never wants drinks."

"Yeah, I used to think that, too." Mike's voice reeked of hostility. "Funny how the truth is sometimes completely different from what we used to think."

"I gather you and your father discussed Claudia," she said in as level a tone as she could manage.

"Yes, we discussed that particular subject."

"Life is not always black and white, Mike. There are things you don't know about your father and me."

"Here's what I do know. Our family is a lie. Everything I a.s.sumed, everything I thought we were...All a lie."

She wondered whether he really believed that or was just trying to bait her. Either way, his words sliced deep. "I wish you didn't feel like that, Mike. Your father and I love you and we love Claudia. We did the best we could under some difficult circ.u.mstances."

"Keep telling yourself that, Mom," he grunted. "Maybe it'll make you feel better. It doesn't do much for me."

She'd barely braked to a halt in the parking lot before he had the door open. Not bothering to say goodbye, he swung out of her car and slammed the door behind him.

She remained in the parking lot, watching him cross the asphalt to his own car, climb in and peel away. A shudder wrenched her as she considered her beloved elder son. She'd been so worried about how Claudia would respond to the truth, she hadn't even considered how the boys would react. Claudia was their sister. This was their family. Their parents had lied for thirty-seven years, and their father had for the first time in his life gotten drunk and everything she valued in the world was dissolving into dust.

With a shaky sigh, she ignited her engine and drove out of the lot. Who was the moron who'd said "The truth will set you free"? The truth had set her daughter and at least one son free to hate her. It had set her husband free to stonewall her, hiding behind his sullen silence and three gla.s.ses of whiskey. Sat.u.r.day night in their bed, the truth had brutalized them both, even as they'd made love.

Right now, she considered the truth a pretty nasty business.

She drove home, her head aching and her ribs weighing heavily on her lungs, making each breath an exertion. Entering the kitchen, she found the flowers scattered across the floor and broken pieces of the vase lying in puddles of water. Drew's note lay crumpled in a ball beside the trash can.

Her instinct was to curl up on the floor, close her eyes and howl. But she'd been through too much in her life to give in to such impulses. When there was a mess, you cleaned it up. Closing your eyes didn't solve anything.

With a ragged sigh, she gathered the crushed blossoms and tossed them into the trash. She picked up the shards of gla.s.s carefully to avoid cutting herself and then mopped up the water. By the time she was done, she became aware of the sound drifting down from upstairs, a m.u.f.fled moan.

She raced up the stairs, hurried through the master bedroom and found Bobby in the bathroom, hunched over the toilet. His shirt lay in a heap in one corner, and the broad, muscular expanse of his back glistened beneath a sheen of perspiration. He held a damp washcloth in one hand, and he took deep, rasping breaths.

All right. He'd drunk himself sick. He'd shattered the vase and destroyed the flowers. He was crocked and he was violent and he was puking. If he were sober right now, he'd be horrified. He'd see how close he'd come to acting like his father.

She was horrified, too-frightened more for him than for herself. She eased the washcloth from his fist, rinsed it out in the sink and ran it gently over his face, which had a grayish cast. "You shouldn't drink like that," she said quietly. "Your body isn't used to it."

"I shouldn't drink at all." He shut his eyes and leaned away from the toilet so she could reach the rest of his face. Then he flushed the toilet, rose shakily to his feet and moved to the sink. Joelle sat on the ledge of the bathtub, watching while he brushed his teeth and scrubbed his face. He avoided her gaze as he grabbed for a towel. Only when he was dry did he look at her. "That son of a b.i.t.c.h sent you flowers."

"He sent them to both of us."

"Yeah. Flowers are the quickest way to my heart."

"Bobby. He meant them as a peace offering."

"A peace offering." Bobby hung the towel back on the rod and bent over to pick up his shirt. The movement must have hurt his head, because he paused before straightening up. A few long seconds pa.s.sed before he turned to her. "They were very nice flowers. Expensive. Top of the line."

"Bobby-"

"Remember the first time I gave you flowers? A two-dollar bouquet on our wedding day."

"That bouquet was beautiful," she said.

"It was cheap. It was all I could afford." He limped toward the door, then halted, gripping the doorjamb as if afraid he might stumble. "You could have done better for yourself, Joelle. You could have held out for a guy who could buy you fancy flowers."

"I didn't want fancy flowers, Bobby. I wanted you."

"Right." Disbelief underlined that terse syllable. "Flowers were a better bet." Bobby swayed in the doorway, then pushed himself out of the bathroom. She listened to his footsteps, heard the creak of the bedsprings and knew he had lain down. She considered joining him in bed, just holding him, stroking his head and rea.s.suring him-but what rea.s.surance could she offer? Could he even bear to have her in bed with him?

He was drunk, d.a.m.n it.

After all these years, after all she and Bobby had endured, all they'd shared, he had done something he'd vowed never to do: he'd acted like his father. He'd gotten drunk and broken things.

Her soul felt as splintered as the gla.s.s vase she'd found in pieces on her kitchen floor, as dead as the flowers Bobby had crushed.

SIX.

May 1971 THE AIR WAS LIKE A STEW, HOT and wet and heavy with the smell of seething plant life. For once Bobby didn't notice the oppressive atmosphere. He was too busy staring at the photo in his hand.

Joelle. Joelle holding a football-size parcel of pink in her arms. I named her Claudia, she'd written. I hope you don't mind.

He settled back on his cot and gazed at the photo. His sheets were wrinkled, his blanket lumpy. He recalled how obsessed with tight sheets the commanding officers had been during basic training, but no one gave a d.a.m.n about tight sheets in-country.

He'd written to Joelle that life in Vietnam was boring. That was half-true. When life in 'Nam wasn't boring, it was terrifying, but he saw no reason to alarm her. He wasn't much for letter writing, and when he wrote, he kept it simple. "I made twenty bucks playing poker last night," he'd tell her, or, "The food sucks," or, "This country doesn't need soldiers. It needs air conditioners."

Yesterday had been one of the terrifying days. His platoon's a.s.signment was to keep a road pa.s.sable, a task that reminded him of cutting gra.s.s. You cut gra.s.s, and it grew back again. Then you cut it, and then it grew back. His platoon's job was almost the same, except instead of cutting gra.s.s, they had to scout for snipers. They'd kill or capture a few, then go back to base. Then a few days later, someone would get shot at and they'd have to go out and beat the bushes for snipers again. No matter how many snipers you got rid of, more always arrived to replace them. Like well-watered gra.s.s, they kept growing back.

Unfortunately, while Bobby and his buddies were visible on their patrols, the snipers stayed hidden, so they got off better shots than the Americans did.

But the platoon had done their sweep yesterday, and today was one of the boring days, a day to relax under the sagging canvas roof of the tent that Bobby had called home for the past six months. A fine, hot drizzle fell from the stone-gray sky. The tent's walls were rolled up to allow in any breeze that stirred the air, and those too-rare breezes brought the dampness in with them.

This place was worse than h.e.l.l.

But Bobby had a daughter and he didn't care.