Silent Fall

nights when he’d heard a male voice out on the porch, the clink of glasses, soft laughter and whispers? Had his mother had an affair with someone on the island? They’d spent time with several families. There had also been men who worked only in the summers, renting boats, lifeguarding, leading hikes up into the hills. Had one of those men drawn his mother’s interest, given her the love and comfort she hadn’t found at home?
    He wanted to know everything, and he wanted to know it now. Honking his horn impatiently at the car that had stalled in front of him released a little of his tension, but made Catherine roll her eyes.
    "It’s not that guy’s fault." She tipped her head to the teenager who was having trouble getting his car into gear.
    "I know, but I’m in a hurry. I want to get to the house."
    "Do you think it will look the same?" she asked.
    In his heart he thought it would be exactly the same, but his head told him different. Twenty-three years had gone by, and he had no idea what had happened to the house after his mother left. She certainly could have sold it. Or she could have come here to lick her wounds.
    "I’m surprised you never considered that your mother might have run here," Catherine said, echoing his thoughts.
    He was getting used to having her read his mind. He was beginning to find it somewhat comforting not to have to explain himself all the time. She knew what he knew. "I did consider it," he admitted. "But I never did anything about it. A few months ago, when Jake and Sarah got back together, I told him I was going to look for our mother, that I thought it was time, but then I returned to work and the Ravino case broke, and I put it aside again, like I’d put it aside a hundred times before. A part of me didn’t really want to know. I wasn’t ready. I don’t know if I’m ready now, but here we are."
    They found the house easily, right past the bridge, left on Falcon, flowers in the window box. The flowers were yellow daisies now, but Dylan knew he was at the right place. He parked at the curb, taking a minute to absorb the sight before him. The house hadn’t changed all that much. It was a simple three-bedroom, one-story pale yellow house that faced a private beach shared by the six other homes in the neighborhood. New paint had been applied sometime in the past five years. The lawn had been mowed recently. Someone was taking care of the property; that was clear.
    He didn’t feel any emotion until his gaze lit on the porch swing, until in his mind he could see his mother rocking back and forth, one leg tucked under her, one foot tapping the ground. She’d loved to sit on that swing during the daytime, reading a book, glancing up occasionally to watch them playing on the tire swing that hung from a nearby tree. The tire was gone now, and the kids who’d played on it were all grown up.
    "Are you getting out?" Catherine asked hesitantly.
    He realized he’d been sitting in the car for a while. Maybe he wasn’t quite as ready to face his past as he’d thought. "I don’t know what I’m worried about," he said.
    "You’re worried that your mother will answer that door."
    "Well, there is that."
    "Or worse, that she won’t be there, that you still won’t know what happened to her."
    "Do I even need to speak or can you just keep reading my mind?"
    "Some of that was just a guess. Frankly I don’t know how you’re still functioning after everything you’ve learned today. I’d probably be in bed, hiding under the covers and hoping it was another bad dream."
    "A part of me does hope that," he admitted. "It feels like a dream, being in a place where I was actually happy. There was peace in this house. I can’t remember my father ever coming here. I think my mother asked him, but he never had time." He paused, thinking about the clues that had led them here. "Why would my father give Erica a key to this place? And don’t tell me it’s because he wanted to have an affair with her in this house. That isn’t logical. It’s far away. It’s remote."
    "Which would make it ideal for an affair, and I don’t have to remind you that we’re not dealing with logical people. What’s happening to you is not about facts; it’s about emotion. It’s about love and hate. If your mother betrayed your father here, and you were the result of that betrayal, he might have