I wondered what Willie Hopson had to do with my dilemma. But there was usually a point to Mr. Ferguson's stories if you were patient enough to wait for it. "During his junior year," Mr. Ferguson continued. "Willie went to Spain for a study-abroad program. To get an idea of how other people live. Learn something about how they think and their values. It did him a lot of good. I think you ought to consider doing the same."
"You want me to go to Spain?"
He laughed. "You know exactly what I'm saying, Liberty. You could think of the Travis family as your study-abroad program. I don't think it's going to hurt you or Carrington to spend a little time in a place you don't belong. It may benefit you in ways you don't expect."
"Or not." I said.
He smiled. "Only one way to find out. isn't there?"
CHAPTER 17
Every time Gage Travis looked at me, you could tell he wanted to tear me limb from limb. Not in a fury, but in a process of slow and methodical dismemberment.
Jack and Joe dropped by about once a week, but Gage was the one who came to the house on a daily basis. He helped Churchill with things like climbing in and out of the shower and getting dressed, and taking him to doctor's appointments. No matter how much I disliked Gage, I had to admit he was a good son. He could have insisted that Churchill hire a nurse, but instead he showed up to take care of his father himself. Eight o'clock every morning, never one minute early or late. He was good for Churchill, who was cantankerous from the combination of boredom, pain, and constant inconvenience. But no matter how Churchill growled or snapped, I never once saw one sign of impatience from Gage. He was always calm, tolerant, and capable.
Until he was around me, and then he was a first-class jerk. Gage made it clear that in his opinion I was a parasite, a gold digger, and worse. He took no notice of Carrington other than to demonstrate a curt awareness that there was a short person in the house.
The day we moved in, our possessions crammed into cardboard boxes, I thought Gage would throw me out bodily. I had begun to unpack in the bedroom I had chosen, a beautiful space with wide windows and pale moss-green walls, and cream-colored molding. What had decided me on the room was the grouping of black-and-white photographs on one wall. They were Texas images: a cactus, a barbed-wire fence, a horse, and to my delight, a front shot of an armadillo looking straight into the camera. I'd taken that as an auspicious sign. Carrington was going to sleep two doors down, in a small but pretty room with yellow and white striped paper on the walls.
As I opened my suitcase on the king-sized bed, Gage appeared in the doorway. My fingers curled around the edge of the suitcase, my knuckles jutting until you could have shredded carrots on them. Even knowing I was reasonably safe—surely Churchill would keep him from killing me—I was still alarmed. He filled up the doorway, looking big and mean and pitiless.
"What the hell are you doing here?" His soft voice unsettled me far more than shouting would have.
I answered through dry lips. "Churchill said I could choose any room I wanted."
"You can either leave voluntarily, or I'll throw you out. Believe me. you'd rather go on your own."
I didn't move. "You have a problem, you talk to your father. He wants me here."
"I don't give a shit. Get going."
A little trickle of sweat went down the middle of my back. I didn't move.
He reached me in three strides and took my upper arm in a painful grip.
A gasp of surprise was torn from my throat. "Take your hands off me!" I strained and shoved at him. but his chest was as unyielding as the trunk of a live oak.
"I told you before I wasn't going to—" He broke off. I was released with a suddenness that caused me to stagger back a step. Our sharp respirations pierced the silence. He was staring at the dresser, where I had set out a few pictures in stand-up frames. Trembling. I put my hand on the part of my arm he'd gripped. I rubbed the spot as if to erase his touch. But I could still feel an invisible handprint embedded in my skin.
He went to the dresser and picked up one of the photos. "Who is this?"
It was a picture of Mama, taken not long after she'd married my father. She had been impossibly young and blond and beautiful. "Don't touch that," I cried, rushing forward to snatch the photo from him.
"Who is it?" he repeated.
"My mother."
His head bent as he stood over me, looking into my face with a speculative gaze. I was so bewildered by the abrupt halt of our conflict that I couldn't summon the words to ask what in God's name was going through his mind. I was absurdly conscious of the sound of my breathing, and his, the counterpoint gradually evening until the rhythm of our lungs was identical. Light from the plantation shutters made bright stripes across both of us, casting shadow spokes from his lashes down the crests of his cheek. I could see the whisker grain of his close-shaven skin, foretelling a heavy five o'clock shadow.