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Lucy stood in front of him, a nervous, not-quite-smile on her face. “We didn't think you'd come.”
“Why would you?”
He met her gaze, her beautiful blue-eyed gaze. She looked away. “I ... that was you that night, wasn't it? On Brunswick Street.”
Lincoln followed her gaze—Joseph talking with Rachel.
“Wasn't it?” Her hand was still on his forearm. It felt like a vice grip though she barely touched him. “I should have said something. I should have come back, but I didn't know where I'd find you, if I'd find you ... if you wanted to be found.” She paused. “I told him I didn't like it, didn't want to salsa anymore.” She let out that little uncertain laugh he used to love. “Was he angry about that.” She made her voice go deep, the same voice they used to use together to mock Joseph. Was it the voice she used with Joseph to mock him? “First you beg me to go to salsa. Beg me. And then you don't want to go back?”
He turned his gaze to her. Her hand fell, and he was there again, almost a year ago, just outside the Square-Victoria metro entrance, yelling after her, telling her to stop. Telling her he'd been a fool and they could keep the baby, they should keep the baby. Telling her they'd make it work, if that's what she wanted.
She'd turned to him, her eyes like nothing he'd ever seen before—fear, anger, joy, and something he couldn't decipher. She'd given him the finger, stepped toward the first step leading to the underground, her gaze still on his, and catapulted into the depths.
“I should have come.” She rubbed a hand along her collar bone, the place he'd kissed so many times, and the image melded with the sight of her body lying at the bottom of those steps, legs and arms askew, hair spread every which way, her child's life already starting to seep out of her. “I should have looked for you, to see if you were okay.” She stopped, her gaze swivelled across the yard to Joseph, laughing, and back to Lincoln. “I care, you know. That you're okay.” She swallowed, the delicate tendons in her neck convulsing above the scar. He'd put his hand over that spot, blood running through his fingers, and screamed for help—heart racing, body shaking, terrified the woman he loved, the woman he thought loved him, was dying on the cold hard tile with commuters rushing past or hesitating as they avoided her, unsure what to do.
Lucy smiled. “It wasn't all bad.”
Wasn't all bad? Lincoln's throat tightened. Of course it wasn't all bad. He'd loved her. He'd fucking adored her. And she'd been fucking his brother—for years. Lincoln stepped back, his fists clenched. “I'm here to see my mother.”
“Lincoln.” She stepped in his path, her voice the placating little whine she so loved to use.
“Move.”
“I'm sorry. I never meant to—”
“Sleep with my brother?”
Her mouth hung open, her eyes wide.
“Lucy, out of my way before I move you out of my way.”
She stepped aside. Lincoln strode down the porch steps, across the lawn, past the people who chatted, laughed, called hello.
“Hey, Mom.”
Marilyn Fraser turned. She stood, setting her granddaughter on the lawn. “Lincoln?”
Her arms were around him. Squeezing him, holding him. “Oh, baby, you're okay. You're all right.” She pulled back, her arms still around him, then raised a hand to his bearded cheek. “You look just like your daddy.” She pulled him to her again.
“I just wanted to say Happy Birthday. I can't stay long.”
“Lincoln.” She pulled back again. “Is everything okay?”
“Sure. Yeah.” He pushed out a smile. The tendons in his neck throbbed ... Lucy's open mouth, Lucy's shock—as if he'd been inappropriate, bringing such a thing up.
Rachel, Linda, and Joseph stood to the side. Lucy sidled up to Joseph. He didn't put his arm around her. He didn't look at Lincoln. He puffed his chest out, but kept his gaze averted.
Marilyn glanced at them. “All my babies.” She gestured to Rachel. “Thank you, darling, for getting him home.”
Rachel shifted awkwardly. Was she angry? Concerned? She'd sent emails. Fifteen emails. And he hadn't responded to one. Linda's face was pissed. Joseph's was unreadable—Lincoln wondered what it would feel like to put his fist in it. He lifted a hand to his sisters. They didn't wave back.
“Uncle Lincoln?” Linda's six-year-old—was he six now?—looked up at him. “That you? Mom said you'd gone to hell.”
Linda reached for him. “Could go to hell,” she snapped. “I said he could go to hell.”
“Linda.” Marilyn shook her head. “Sweetheart.”
Lincoln stepped away from his mother's grasp. He pulled the present out of his pocket. His hand shook. “Here. It's just a little something.”
“I'm sure it's lovely.”
“You can't just do that to people. Just disappear.” Linda's voice rose. “No matter what happens.”
“He was travelling,” said Marilyn. “It's good for a young man to travel.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Anyway,” Lincoln spoke low to his mother, “I can't stay. I just wanted to wish you a Happy Birthday. You have a good day?”
Her grip tightened on him. “It's been wonderful. And it's better now. But what do you mean you can't stay? Where would you go?”
“I have a place.”
“A hotel? You're staying here.”
“No. A place. My own place.”
“You bought—”
“I'm renting.”
“So you didn't just get back,” Linda wore a smug grimace, “from your travels.”
“I have a place in Halifax.”
Marilyn nodded. Her grasp loosened. “There are a lot of people here. And we need to catch up.” She looked to her other children then back at Lincoln. “You come back sometime this week.” She clasped her hand. “Okay? Sometime this week. And we'll catch up.”
Lincoln wanted to say no. Wanted to tell her there was nothing to say. She had her children. She'd made her choice. He wasn't a prodigal son. He was just the one who'd failed at the life she wanted for him, the life everyone had wanted for him. He nodded. Rachel opened her mouth and stepped forward. She closed it.
“Dad was here.”
Lincoln looked to Linda.
“You knew about the party, right? So you got Rachel's emails. You knew Dad would be here. You knew when he'd be here.”
He'd known, but not from the emails. Of the fifteen, he'd only even opened the first two.
“When's the last time you saw him, huh? Long before—” she gestured toward Joseph and Lucy. Joseph turned toward the house, leaving Lucy standing there stupidly.
Linda continued, “What's your excuse for that?”
Lincoln put a hand to his mother's shoulder, mouthed the words, Happy Birthday, and headed for the fence. He wasn't about to walk through that house again, wasn't about to get a step closer to Joseph. His fist would land on his face for sure, and his mother's party would be ruined. His fist clenched, imagining.
He turned to open the door of his truck, but a soft touch on his shoulder stopped him. Rachel. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
He lowered his head. “Sorry, I—”
“Stop it.”
“Okay.” Lincoln's shoulders hunched. “How'd I do? Good party crashing?”
“You were invited.”
“Yeah.”
“So it's not exactly crashing.”
He gave a half smile.
“I knew you were in town. Have probably been in town since you disappeared from Montreal all those months ago.”
“Andrew?”
“A guy I went to school with mentioned he'd seen you, that you were all scraggly and homeless looking. I got the rest out of Andrew.”
“And Linda?”
“She got it out of me.”
“Mom?”
“She thinks you were gallivanting.”
“And you never came to visit?” Lincoln pulled at his ear, gave a close-lipped smile. “Drop off a casserole to your wayward brother?”
Rachel exhaled. “Andrew wouldn't tell me where you lived. If he had, I wouldn't have brought a casserole.”
“I kept in touch with Mom.”
She shook her head. “What they did—”
“I don't want to talk about it.”
“And then him firing you—”
“Rachel!”
“I'm just saying. It sucks. It's wretched. All of it.”
“But you still sit with them at Sunday dinner.”
“He's my brother. Yours too.”
“Yep. Well—” Lincoln pulled open the door. He reached forward and cupped her head in his hands, kissed her forehead. “Have a good night.”
“You visit Mom next week.”
“Will do.”
“I'll find you and I'll cut you if you don't.”
He grinned. How many times had she sworn that in their childhood? “I'll be trembling in my boots.”
“Come here, you idiot.” She wrapped her arms around him. “And answer your bloody emails.” She punched him in the arm.
He rubbed it in mock pain. “Don't send so many.”
She pulled out her phone. “What's your number?”
“I don't have one.”
She let out a long sigh and threw up her hands.
He shrugged. “I'm leaving now. Watch your toes.”
She stepped back.
Lincoln waved. He drove down the street, passing all the homes he knew almost as well as his own.
His pulse started to calm. It could have been worse. His mom had been happy. Annoyed, but happy. His ruse was blown, but he'd avoided deep questioning. He'd seen Lucy and hadn't spit in her face or broken into sobs. He'd seen Joseph and hadn't stabbed him with a makeshift shiv.
Kali would be proud ... if she cared.
He tried to recall if she worked tonight—must not, or he'd be at home watching Theo. He hadn't told her he was going to the party, but he'd tell her he went and was pretty sure it'd make her smile.