She longed to put the life back in Cory’s eyes, longed to stroke his hair, longed to hold him close and keep him safe, but she realized she was about twenty years too late. So she began to talk, simple things at first, the story about how she ruined her mother’s garden by using hair spray on the roses, the time she thought she could sing and how she decided to run away to Juilliard, until her father said she had a voice like a wounded hyena. Cory laughed at that, she saw it. He started to talk, too, not like her confessions, but stories about the renovations that he’d done for people, stories about his trips to Canada, never sharing anything about his childhood at all.
After a while, she stopped talking and merely watched him, silently, jealously, wishing for Christmas miracles that never would occur.
* * *
Saturday, December 21
At first light, Cory rose and dressed, keeping the promise to himself. It was easier to escape in the dawn, when most everyone slept like the dead. Rebecca was a restless sleeper, a cover-stealer and a clinger. He hadn’t slept that well in years.
He paused by the bed, watching her, her eyes closed, her face so peaceful and full of dreams. She was glorious and sexy and everything he’d wanted her to be. She pushed aside the blankets, exposing a long length of bare thigh, and he almost stayed. Almost climbed back into bed, burying himself in her body, burying himself in her heart.
But people like him, the ones who lived in the sordid shadows, didn’t get the cheerleaders of the world. They never would. One day he’d wake up from a nightmare, and she’d ask about it, and he would lie. And the lies would go on from there. The knot tightened inside him, telling him to run. There were some secrets he’d never share.
He swore quietly, pulled on his coat and left.
* * *
Rebecca knew the second Cory left her side. She kept her eyes shut, listening to the rustle of clothes, fighting the sting of one wayward tear that seemed to want to escape. No regretful tears over a one-night stand. She’d bet that that was one of the rules. The door closed and Rebecca buried her head in the pillow.
* * *
When Cory got downstairs, the lodge was awake, people ready and waiting for Christmas. The seconds ticking past, bringing the holiday closer and closer. It wasn’t Christmas specifically that made him antsy, any holiday would pretty much do it for him. Any time when families got together and outsiders were treated, well, like outsiders.
When he was a kid, he’d tried to do the right thing, knowing one wrong word, or look, and he’d be cast from the house faster than you could say “emotional difficulty.”
That’d worked for a while until 1984. His fourth foster family, the McGraws, had had him for nearly two months. Then Mrs. McGraw had left the house for a long weekend in Atlantic City, leaving Cory alone with Mr. McGraw, who was the first pervert Cory had come across. Less than twenty-four fun-filled hours later, Cory hit the streets. Fuck me once, shame on you. Fuck me twice, shame on me.
After that, he’d gotten tougher, smarter, faster. When situations got dicey, Cory was gone, out the door, no looking back. This time, he had to get past a maid rushing up the stairs with a breakfast tray. And Mrs. Krause who was carrying a pile of towels. She spotted him and stopped.
He tried to avoid looking guilty, but Cory had looked guilty his entire life. “Morning.”
“Leaving so soon?” she asked, cutting right to the chase.
“Yeah. Figured I’d move out as soon as the roads were plowed.”
“They are clear. Mr. Trevayne said his goodbyes an hour ago. Too bad you’re leaving, though.”
“Yeah. You have a nice place,” he offered.
“If you’re heading toward town, maybe you can take a couple of guests to the train station. They were looking for a ride.”
Cory glanced away. “Sorry. Going the opposite direction.”
Mrs. Krause clicked her tongue.
“I should get out of here,” he stated, because he could feel her niceness drawing on him, pulling him back toward the warm confines of the lodge, of Rebecca.
“Be careful of the ice. Mighty slick. Could drive right into a ditch and disappear altogether.”
And that was the idea. “Thanks for the warning.” Cory gave a halfhearted wave and headed out the door.
As soon as he was gone, Helen Krause hollered for her husband. “Roland!”
Roland Krause came from the kitchen, scratching his head. “You don’t have to yell. Not deaf yet.”
“Cory Bell just left. Tell me how far he’s going.”
The old man gave her a knowing wink. “Not far without the battery cables.”
“You think he’ll check it?”
“Probably. But with all the young hooligans running around in this area—whoo-ee, makes me wish I was forty years younger—”