Page 36 of Shelter
“He’d told me that no son of his was going to some crappy Louisiana public school. If I wanted to go to college, I would take Tulane’s offer or go out of state. So, I bought the gun, and I told him if he hurt Ava or Mom while I was gone, I’d kill him.” Cole brought his eyes back to mine and blinked, as though realizing I was still there. “I told him that everyone would believe it was self-defense. There’s enough people who know what it’s been like here who would back me up.”
I gulped. He was talking about me and Mama. At least us. If he came home and killed his daddy, would I cover for him?
I couldn’t say for sure, and I hoped it would never come to that, but I thought maybe I could. Yes. Maybe I could do that.
I felt a little bad all the sudden because I realized I hadn’t heard the telltale signs of trouble in the Whitehursts’ home lately. I hadn’t seen any fresh bruises on Mrs. Abigail or Ava in… well, inmonths.And I hadn’t thought twice about it.
Was that all it took for a man to stop beating his wife and children? A gun?
Or was it the son of that man who made all the difference. I looked at Cole and guessed that it wasn’t just any son who could walk into his father’s office and threaten to kill him. Judging from what I knew about Cole, I bet he’d done it without even a tremor in his voice. I bet he’d been as cool as those blue eyes.
And I could just about imagine that anyone looking into those eyes with a gun pointed in their face would probably think twice about calling his bluff.
So, unless Ava and Mrs. Abigail also knew about the threat (or promise, depending on how you looked at it), and they’d decided to keep any abuse hidden even from us, Cole’s plan appeared to be working.
And I told him so.
“I think you’re on to something,” I said. “It’s been pretty quiet here.”
He nodded. “I know.” His eyes narrowed. “I make sure I know.”
I frowned. “What? Is Mama giving you like daily reports?”
Cole’s mouth might have twitched. He shook his head. “I don’t bother Flora with that. She’d be too rattled to be in contact with me as often as I need.” Then his chin dipped, and his voice lowered. “But she knows to call me with anything urgent.”
This directive made my sweet, simple Mama sound like a secret agent. The thought sharpened my frown. I’d helped him out of a few scrapes. Why hadn’t Cole thought to deputize me? He must have read my mind.
“And don’t go getting offended, Cormier. You’re still a kid. You don’t need to be worrying about that stuff.”
Offended and stung by his dismissal, I crossed my arms over my chest. “Well, who else is on your little task force?”
Cole pressed his lips together, clearly amused by my outburst. “No one you know,” he said cryptically. “But they are people I trust. And no kids.”
Then a shadow passed over his face. “No kid should have to do that.”
As I watched him, Cole Whitehurst suddenly seemed a lot older than eighteen. And, maybe in a way, he’d always seemed older. Maybe that had been one of the reasons he was so hard to like.
That and because he could be a total jerk.
“So,” he said, collapsing in his lounger and effectively abandoning all talk of handguns and homicide. “You want to find out if plain Jane marries that crusty, one-armed blind dude?”
Chapter 9
ELISE
Christmas at the Whitehursts’ was like a Hollywood production. Mrs. Abigail hired a decorator; special lights were set up on the front lawn to feature the larger-than-life Christmas bows and garlands that outfitted the front door and the house’s Roman columns, and a professional photographer came the Saturday after Thanksgiving to take pictures for the family’s holiday card.
And just like a Hollywood production, almost all of it was fake.
Every year, the weekend before Christmas, the Whitehursts hosted the holiday party for Mr. Whitehurst’s law firm, and a framed copy of the family’s Christmas card would stand on a table in the entrance hall. The table was usually covered with expensive fabric and oversized ornaments that matched Mrs. Abigail’s theme that year, whether it was traditional red and green, red and gold, or, for more of a “Winter Wonderland” look, silver and ice-blue.
Cole, I’d noticed over the years, never smiled in the family picture. Ava always did. She smiled with reckless abandon, always standing between her mother and brother. Mrs. Abigail smiled too, but something in her eyes always looked a bit strained. As if she had to hold a grape between her front teeth while balancing on her tiptoes. Mr. Whitehurst’s expression couldn’t really be called a smile, but he looked immensely satisfied with himself. As if he was a man who had it all.
I wondered how the rest of the Whitehursts’ set saw the picture. I mean, I wasn’t in their circle, but I knew the family better than most people. Did their fake friends think that unsmiling Cole was just a surly young man? Or did they look at his expression as a kind of tell? Could they see the brittleness in Mrs. Abigail’s smile? The way Ava was so desperate for happiness she had to imitate it?
This was Christmas in thefrontof the Whitehursts’ house. But in the back of the house, Christmas felt real. From the week of Thanksgiving until the Feast of the Epiphany, stepping into Mama’s kitchen was like being wrapped up in a cinnamon-scented hug.
Mama always cooked good food, but during the holiday season, she was like a force of nature. She baked non-stop. And every day, she kept a saucepan on the stove with either wassail or hot chocolate. Her wassail recipe consisted of orange juice, apple cider, allspice and cinnamon sticks, but the secret ingredient was Red Hots candy. The Red Hots turned the wassail a light, rosy color and gave it just enough heat to balance the sweet. The tart, spicy smell tickled my cold nose when I’d come in from school. As soon as I entered, she’d ladle a mug for me, and I’d start my homework, warmed inside and out. On the days she made hot chocolate, between Ava and me, we’d guzzle a half gallon. And when Cole came home after his finals, that would jump to a gallon, easy.
