"Now," I quickly continued, "I am grateful that you chose to be a coward. I don't want anyone ever to know that you are my real father," I said. "I couldn't get over the shame."
He stared at me, his face bright red, while I gathered up the papers and put them back into the metal box.
"You're just like her, actually," I said. "No wonder fate brought you together."
"Melody . ."
I turned and walked away from him, hopefully forever.
Cary read the documents ravenously and then put the papers down and looked at me, his eyes wide, his mouth pulled so tightly in the corners, his lips looked like they would snap.
"I don't understand," he said. He shook his head, refusing to believe in such a betrayal and such deception. We were sitting in the truck in front of his home. Dark clouds had accompanied the twilight and now there was a steady, hard rain. I told him all that my father had told me.
"All this time we've been thinking Grandpa Samuel was babbling about what had been done to Grandma Belinda," I concluded.
r /> "How could this be? Why?"
Tears spilled over his lids and trickled down his cheeks as if they were tiny watery creatures escaping. He didn't seem to realize it, even as they dripped from his chin.
"Her own grandmother," he said. "My father's mother . . ."
"In her distorted way of thinking, she somehow believed she was protecting the family from disgrace and hardship. There is no way to justify what she did and I condemn her for it as much as you will," I said, "but after living with her and learning who she is and some other things she believes and has done, I understand how this could have happened."
"I don't. I never will."
He closed his eyes and held his head back as if to swallow down some pain.
"My father . . . my father suffered great guilt about Laura."
"I know."
"And Grandma Olivia knew it, too. She must have known it," he said quickly.
"Maybe. Maybe she saw only her own guilt, her own pain, her own fears, Cary."
"She doesn't have an ounce of love in her," he muttered through his teeth. "I hate her more than I have ever hated anyone. I'm glad she had a stroke. I hope she dies tonight," he said.
"Don't become like her, Cary. You only end up so full of hate you can't love."
He stared a moment.
"What do we do? Do I tell Ma now?"
"No. Let's go there first," I said. "Perhaps . . . we can bring her home."
He nodded, smiling.
"Maybe so." He reached for the key in the ignition. "We'll go in the morning, Cary. It's too late now," I said.
"No. I don't want to think of her being there five minutes more," he said. "We have to go now," he insisted. He looked at the papers. "I know where this is. It's a four, four-and-a-half hour drive."
"But it will be the middle of the night," I reminded him.
"Who cares about that?" he said and started the engine. "I can drop you off, if you want."
"Cary Logan, do you think I would let you do this yourself?"
He shook his head.