Page 39 of Nineteen Seventy-Six

Colleen winced. News traveled fast. “She is, and yes, Charles intends to keep her there and raise the child with Nicolas. But if you’re thinking these two situations are at all the same—”

Catherine spun around. “I’m not an idiot, Colleen.”

“I never said—”

“I know you want this whole thing tied in a neat little bow so you can go back to Scotland completely pleased with yourself—”

It was Colleen’s turn to shut the other woman down. “That’s not the least bit fair, or right. You came to me, and if you think this ‘little thing’ was on my list of stuff to deal with, after losing my aunt, my sister-in-law, my whole world breaking down, then you should step outside your self-centered world, for even a second, and look around at what’s happening. But I rose to the occasion, because it was the right thing to do, not just for you, but for Charles. For Colin, who’s my lifelong friend, and whose family is an extension of mine. For your daughter, who deserves better than to be the catalyst that rips both our families apart. And never forget, it wasn’t my decision to have an affair that produced a child you didn’t know what to do with. Nor was it my decision for you to give her up, Catherine, and if you would start, for once in your life, owning your own actions, you might understand how fortunate you are that this situation had an outcome that left your daughter cared for and your marriage intact. It isn’t for me to judge you, and I won’t, but I’ll be damned if I keep watching you blow through Charles’ life like a hurricane without direction and then weep like you’re the only one damaged. You don’t get to burn the house down and then cry over the ashes. At least not with me.”

Colleen didn’t wait for Catherine’s response. She left her alone with the remnants of a dying fantasy of another world.

“A nanny,” Cordelia repeated. “For our… nanny.”

“Saying it like a condescending bitch doesn’t add clarity to the situation,” Charles said, through clenched teeth, cigarette bobbing. He’d been under the hood of his TransAm for over an hour, and his frustration mounted by the second at things not being more intuitive. The more he thought about how fucking ridiculous that notion was, that he’d open the hood and the answers would appear, as if by magic, the deeper his irrational anger took root and bloomed into a more colorful rage. How was he supposed to run a household if he couldn’t even find the oil pan?

Just not the same as my old TransAm that got destroyed on our wedding day when God rained down his disapproval. That’s all.

But it was, and he knew it was, and he wanted to knock the beast off its blocks and send it careening into the swamp for the audacity to present him with a challenge when he already had so much on his mind.

A girl, but you knew that, too, didn’t you? Elizabeth said, as she slid into the passenger seat yesterday, of a car driven by Connor. As if that strange little vision wasn’t enough—his baby sister, her boyfriend, in a goddamn car, without adults because they were the goddamn adults—she managed to elicit an emotional response he thought he’d buried forever when he destroyed the envelope that carried the location of his only daughter.

“This isn’t a circus, Charles. That whore carrying your children, while pretending to raise our son, is the worst kept secret in New Orleans. You wanted me to stay so people wouldn’t talk, but if you hire a nanny for the woman hired to raise our son, you—wait, are you smoking under the hood of a car?”

“I let you stay because you’re penniless and I’m not a complete piece of shit.” Charles inhaled a lungful of smoke and blew it out his nose. “When you’re done training to become a mechanic, come talk to me about fucking cars.”

“You’ve been out here for two hours. Trying to change your oil.”

“The issue is more complex than that,” he muttered. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Is it, though?”

“I can’t begin to explain it to you.”

“You told Lisette you came to change your oil.”

Charles grumbled and stubbed out his smoke.

Cordelia uncrossed her arms and pointed. “You haven’t even drained the oil. The drain plug is right”—Cordelia leaned in and tapped on the side of the engine—“here.” She looked around, brows furrowing tighter with every discovery. “Oh dear. You don’t even have a pan to catch the oil. And where’s the new oil filter?”

Charles considered, for at least the seven-hundredth time, how much smoother his life would be if he murdered his wife. But no one had a greater motive than he did, and he didn’t think he could ever look Nicolas in the eye again.

He wasn’t looking his son in the eye much anymore anyway, not since Lisette’s pregnancy news, but that was another matter, one he didn’t have the emotional fortitude to unpack and properly address. Not while the matter of his oil change remained unsolved.

Mama.

Charles had been at the center of Nicolas’ world his whole life, and Cordelia comes back for a week and all that is forgotten.

Mama.

“Charles? Did you want help with this?”

“What do you know about oil changes, anyway?” he said, sneering. “Of course I know where the plug is.”

“My father’s hobby was working on old cars,” Cordelia said. She scooted in and nudged him out of the way. “Grab me a couple of pans off the shelf and…” She frowned. “I know Richard has oil filters for you, because I’ve seen them. Can you check with him?”

Charles’ mouth flapped in astonishment, but he put one foot in front of the other and made his way back to the Big House to do as she asked.

Was he growing soft?

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