I felt a chill glide over my skin at what I suspected was not a popular decision on Dodd’s part, not to mention what it said about him, and I turned away from the window and took in the enormous room. Even the furniture, decoration and fittings were obvious in their lavishness. One could buy ten of my purses and five of Max’s couches for one of Bitsy’s.
I walked to a long set of interconnecting bookshelves that ran the length of the outside wall of the room, wishing to take my mind off my thoughts by perusing the many photos displayed in frames there.
From what I saw in the photos, the house and all its contents were not Bitsy’s idea. Bitsy, it appeared as I studied the photos, decorated like me. There were tons of pictures of happy, smiling people who clearly cared about each other and who Bitsy clearly cared about. In some of them she was healthy, standing, smiling, laughing and surrounded by loved ones. Others, I was heartened to see, she was in her chair, doing the same.
I decided then that I admired her. Charlie never got to that point. Charlie would smile after he lost his legs but it was never the same. Bitsy seemed to have come to terms with her life in her chair and continued to enjoy living it. Furthermore, it was apparent she didn’t mind reminders of the life she had before she was put in it.
I stopped when I saw a photo of Bitsy with a man taken a long time ago for they both looked young and they were both standing.
It had to be her husband, the now very dead Curtis Dodd.
I was surprised at the sight of him. Somehow I expected him to be short, maybe balding, looking squirrely, his eyes mean. But he looked kind of like Max, except not nearly as handsome or tall. But he was a Mountain Man, slightly rough, his hair fair to almost gold, his face tanned. He was smiling at the camera in a weird way, though, almost self-conscious, as if he wasn’t comfortable being photographed and wanted to put his best foot forward. Bitsy, on the other hand, was smiling with abandon, clearly happy, both her arms around his neck and her cheek pressed to his. She didn’t care what anyone thought and the only thing anyone could think was she was in love with the man in her arms.
I glanced through the other pictures, trying to find him in the faces, but that was the only photo of the two of them together and the only photo of him at all.
I moved to the last shelf looking for signs of Curtis, my eyes grazing the limited books and knick knacks displayed between the photos when I stopped dead.
Three photos had their own shelf, a lower one, Bitsy’s height, and they were arranged like it was a place of honor. Unlike the others, these pictures weren’t shoved in, a jumble to exhibit as many as possible to surround Bitsy with constant reminders that she was loved and of the ones she loved. These were just those three, three different sizes in frames that clearly showed the photos were important.
I leaned down and it took everything I had not to reach out and grab one, bringing it in for closer inspection. But I couldn’t touch them, couldn’t let my fingers give the signal to my brain that they were real.
Max. Max and Anna.
In all that happened I’d forgotten what Arlene had said the other night at The Dog, it totally escaped me.
Max had a wife, her name was Anna and she was beautiful. Unbelievably beautiful. She matched him in her utter perfection.
Blonde to his dark, her hair long and wild, her complexion without flaw, her eyes gorgeous and dancing.
There was a photo, smaller, a snapshot of Max, Anna, Curtis and Bitsy, all in a row, all with their arms around each other’s waists, all smiling into the camera. Even Curtis looked relaxed and at ease. Good friends, out of doors doing something together, a picnic, a barbeque, enjoying good times.
There was another photo, much larger, more official, sitting in the center, Max and Anna’s wedding day. He wore a tux; she had on a simple white dress that she made stunning, daisies mingled in her long, wild hair that she made look sophisticated. They were depicted full-length, standing outside, the river behind them. They were front to front, arms around each other, Max’s head tipped down, Anna’s head tipped back, broad smiles on both of their faces that you could see even in profile. Happy. Exceptionally so. They both looked young, maybe early twenties, their life spread out before them filled with love and wonder.
But it was the last that caught my heart, that claw coming back to slash at my insides. It was a close-up, Max’s arm around Anna’s shoulders, her head against one of his, both of them looking in the camera, both of them clearly laughing, both of them deliriously happy and obviously in love.
Max’s bluff was behind them.
Something blocked my throat as my eyes seemed to swell against their sockets and, suddenly frantic, I walked the length of the bookshelves examining the other photos again.
No sign of Anna. No sign of Max.
Back to the shelf of honor, I looked at the smallest photo. Bitsy, younger, standing, smiling, one arm around Curtis who was to the outside, her other arm around Anna.
Then back through the shelves, Bitsy in her chair, no Anna, no Max.
“Oh my God,” I breathed as it hit me.
Mindy telling me Max wouldn’t forget what a visit from the police felt like. Max’s fierce vow about dying in an effort to take care of someone you loved. Curtis, Bitsy, Anna and Max, all standing linked and happy, friends once, good ones. Now, Max was one of the earliest suspects questioned in Curtis’s murder.
Something had happened, something that put Bitsy in her chair and took Anna away altogether. And that something, I was sure, had to do with Curtis Dodd.
My recent conversation with Max in the Jeep came back at me, striking me, scorching, like a bolt of lightning.
“You had better?” Max had asked.
“No,” I’d answered.
Then he’d murmured, “Yeah.”
His “yeah” didn’t mean he felt the same. He hadn’t agreed that he hadn’t had better. He just knew I hadn’t.
Because he had. He’d been married to her. Funny, beautiful, forever young Anna with her blonde hair and her knack for making daisies, of all things, look sophisticated.
And he hadn’t said a word. Not one word.
All his pushing for me to share, he hadn’t shared. He’d mentioned his father, his sister, his mother, his land, but not the fact that he’d quite obviously been married to the love of his life and she’d died.
Which was a bloody big piece of history to keep to yourself.
I heard the murmur of voices approaching and I quickly moved back across the room in order to appear as if I’d been studying view. I turned my back to the entrance of the room and looked out the window, my eyes not seeing, my heart tripping over itself, that thing still lodged in my throat.
It would, of course, be me who would find an amazingly handsome Mountain Man with great hair, an attractive voice, an ability to show affection in a way that made you feel cherished, a protective streak that made you feel safe and, lastly, a dead wife who was the love of his life.
Meaning that was something I would never be. The love of Holden Maxwell’s life would never be me.
However, if we explored this, as Max wished to do, it was becoming more and more evident by the second, that he could be that for me.
“Sorry, Nina,” Bitsy called and I swallowed against the lump, forced a smile on my face and turned to her as she finished, “that took longer than I expected.”
“That’s all right,” I said, trying to sound cheerful but my voice seemed higher pitched and false. I kept talking to hide it. “You have a beautiful view.”