DOWN IN THE VALLEY

A Casteel Series Fan-Fiction Written by one . long . melody

Based Upon the Novels HEAVEN and DARK ANGEL Written by V.C. Andrews

Author's Disclaimer: I do not own The Casteel Series, nor any of the series, books, characters, names, places, etcetera presented in this work, with the exception of those I created. All other series, books, characters, names, places, etcetera (including those associated with The Logan Series, The Dollanganger Series and My Sweet Audrina) belong to V.C. Andrews. Any recognizable quotes or passages—most notably those presented in italic format—were taken directly from the books.

The character of Janet Matthews, the television series Rectify, the town of Paulie, Georgia, Swints' Bakery, and all characters, names, places, etcetera pertaining thereto are the property of Ray McKinnon and Sundance TV.

The Chronicles of Narnia and The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, as well as the White Witch/Jadis, all characters, names, places, etcetera are the creations of C.S. Lewis.

The town of Port Charles, New York is featured in the soap opera series General Hospital, which is owned by ABC (production company) and American Broadcasting Company (distributor). (Thanks to Wikipedia for providing this information.)

Rating: T, but may change to M in the future (for graphic depictions of child abuse, coarse language, and some sexual content).

Genre: Family/Romance

Story-Type: Multiple-Chapter

Summary: Forced to abandon the comforts and familiarities of Candlewick, Georgia, Kitty and Cal Dennison set out for New England, to the lakefront estate of Cal's affluent family. There, the couple must confront the demons of their pasts—and discover that not every story's ending is without a miracle.

A Note From the Author: Although far from completion, Down in the Valley is a story that was a long time coming—more than seven years, in fact. I first began writing it in the winter of 2012, during which I was dealing with a serious health issue. My life and relationships were suffering, and so was my writing. The craft of story-telling is something I have loved ever since I was a child, and once I got better, I was able to gradually ease my way back into what I am most passionate about.

It was a few weeks after my birthday in 2016 that my interest in The Casteel Series and all things V.C. Andrews—and, to an even greater extent, my obsession with my beloved Dennisons—made an unexpected though no less welcome return to my life. While most of the material included in Down in the Valley is fresh, much of what you will read in Chapter 2, as well as a few other lines scattered here and there in some of the early chapters, were originally written back in 2012.

During late 2016, I experienced a relapse with my illness. I was working on this story at the time, and while it was never cancer I was facing, I was able to relate the feelings and emotions attached to what I was going through to what Kitty endures.

So, in honor of the upcoming release of Lifetime's Heaven film—as well as the official trailer that I watched for the first time three nights ago and at least ten more times since—I wanted to post my latest contribution to my favorite fandom. Down in the Valley is intended as a labor of my love for Kitty and Cal Dennison, whose actions in the book(s) are equally horrible in very different ways, I know. However, from the time I was a very young child, I have been inclined to favor the villains over the heroes in certain works of fiction. I am no less biased when it comes to Cal and Kitty. In the style of Olivia Logan, my preferences as an adult have not changed one iota.

That said, I hope those of you who have read this far choose to read on. And, if you do decide to take that road, then it is my wish that you will enjoy my take on what I not so much imagined would have happened to the Dennisons, but what I wanted to happen to them, had Kitty lived.

~mel

Dedicated with affection and admiration to Christina Vining:

Just as our friendship has grown with each passing year, so shall your own two little miracles.

Part One

CROSSROADS

Two

GIVE UNTO US SALVATION

SIGHING IN DEFEAT AND FRUSTRATION, I TOSSED THE LETTER onto the kitchen table. I leaned back in my chair, mindful of the front legs levitating off the floor as the back of my head made contact with the wall. Closing my eyes, I let my arms fall limply against the sides of the chair before letting go another dismal sigh.

All day I had managed to avoid telling Kitty—who'd spent most of the morning and majority of the afternoon asleep upstairs—about the most recent letter we'd received on behalf of the Winnerrow Memorial Hospital. It had arrived just this morning, tucked between a K Mart circular and advertisement for a new tire store opening up in the neighboring town of Paulie, Georgia.

Like locusts, my wife's bills arrived almost daily, intent to wreak havoc on our lives and bank account. This sort of thing had been occurring at least four times a week—even on Saturdays—for a solid eighteen months! Several times I had written and telephoned the hospital, insisting—sometimes yelling—that reimbursement was not an option at the moment.

"My wife is ill," I had said during my most recent conversation with the director of Winnerrow Memorial Hospital, "and is no longer employed. I've had to quit my own job to stay at home with her because we can't afford to hire a nurse." What other choice did we have? We were the only family in Candlewick who'd had to resort to selling their home when the bank threatened to seize it.

Kitty's emotional state, volatile as it was known to be, had taken on a whole new—though no less disturbing—turn, following the surgery to remove her right breast. Now, instead of violent mood swings, she was prone to fits of sobbing that could go on for hours.

Bearing both this as well the possibility that she may have woken and could be standing just feet away on the living room stairs in mind, I resorted to whispering into the mouthpiece. "Yes," I replied, when the droning, businesslike monotone of the director informed me without a trace of sympathy that this was my last chance. "Yes. I am aware that we've exhausted our extension by six months. But…"

But nothing. Failing to produce the impossibly large sum he was demanding would result in immediate legal action. Having done my damnedest to hold onto the charming pink and white house that Kitty loved so dearly, I was nowhere close to giving up. Yet. Her ordeal had been a long and painful one, and only within the last couple of weeks had she begun to show signs of improvement. I feared that to add to her stress now would be like kicking a wounded animal.

Today was the first Saturday in a year and a half that our mail had not included a bill from Winnerrow Memorial Hospital. In its place was an envelope whose contents was anything but ordinary. In fact, it was downright unsettling.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Calhoun R. Dennison [the letter read]:

In response to your failure to pay Winnerrow Memorial Hospital all of the necessary funds in return for the hospitalization AND surgical treatments of KITTY DENNISON, between the months of JUNE 1964 and NOVEMBER 1964, you are hereby being sued in the amount of FIVE-THOUSAND DOLLARS AND SEVENTY-THREE CENTS by the state of West Virginia on behalf of Winnerrow Memorial Hospital. Please contact me by MAY 31, 1965 to schedule a court date. Should you decline to do so, then further legal action will immediately be taken against you.

Sincerely,

Mr. Owen Pennington, Director of Winnerrow Memorial Hospital

Printed beneath was the contact information for Pennington's private office in Amherst, Virginia, and below it his home address and telephone number. Sitting forward in the chair, I planted my feet firmly on the floor and began to drum my fingers anxiously against the surface of the wooden table-top. The habit was one I'd picked up during childhood, my way of coping with my father's unpredictable and explosive temper. For once, though, the rhythm of my fingertips tapping against Brazilian rosewood did little to relieve my distress. The consequences of the worst crisis to befall Kitty and myself since her cancer diagnoses less than a year ago invaded my mind and overrode all logic. The terror I experienced now, in the immaculate kitchen of our perfect home, was that of someone drowning. Trying to keep their head above water in a sea where hopes were lost and dreams destroyed. I had done all that I could for Kitty—for us!—only to have everything we'd worked so hard for be snatched away, like candy from a child's hand.

Dear God! Could nothing save us now?

Feeling like the protagonist in a biblical tale of divine intervention, my focus drifted to the telephone attached to the wall. Unable to take my eyes from that blinding burst of hot pink set against snowy white, I let down my guard, and allowed a myriad of thoughts to tear through my brain like a nor'easter through a seaside town.

Suppose I did decide to call my parents. What would I say to them? What would they say to me? When asked why I'd deserted them and my sister, how would I respond? With the truth? Any honest answer was out of the question. There was nothing I could say that wouldn't provoke my father's wrath, or worse, add to the pain I'd already caused my dear mother and sister. Did I really have it in me to reach out to my family now, after living the last eight years in silence? If I did manage to muster up enough courage, there would be questions I'd be expected to answer, slews of them, not to mention accusations. In the end, it would all come together, and stir within the hearts of us all feelings of unease, remorse, even resentment. The thought made my stomach tense, and suddenly, the prospect of sitting still became intolerable. I rose, and hurried to the opposite side of the kitchen.

Though I did consider it, I stopped just short of picking up the telephone. There was another, more pressing matter at hand. A silent voice that called to my heart like an instrument calling to talented fingers.

I left the kitchen and strode slowly into the dining room, all the way through to the living room. I continued on, moving listlessly in between the wide space separating the television from the couch and coffee table. En route to the white carpeted stairway, I broke stride in favor of observing one of Kitty's two elephant end-tables placed beside the right arm of the couch. Seeing the table filled me with a mix of despair and guilt so strong that I looked away and charged the remaining paces to the stairs. I seized hold of the balustrade, intent to ascend, then stopped. With my right foot hovering inches above the first step and my left planted firmly on the floor beside it, I took that moment to gaze around the room, and absorb all of the things Kitty used to be. Her 'creations'—as she'd been fond of calling them—still inhabited every spare corner of our house (the elephant end-table being one of them). It wasn't all that long ago that I'd barely been able to tolerate the sight of all those goggle-eyed, too-bright creatures. Not even the one Kitty had transformed into a flower pot—a grinning blue frog named to honor an actor whose surname happened to be the same as my Christian one, and whose work had infatuated Kitty since long before he'd given her the pleasure of cutting his thick, wavy locks—was capable of eluding my scorn. Now, each and every time I stopped to gaze upon the things I'd once considered monstrosities, what I felt was an overwhelming sense of sadness. Sadness for the loss of an exuberant passion; a passion that had brought joy and a childlike sparkle to eyes the color of seawater. It was here, in the heart of Kitty's abandoned world, that I began to understand what it was she'd been striving for all these years. Her reason for creating and filling our home with these objects was her way of filling the childless hole in her poor, broken heart.

Gripping ever tighter the balustrade, I commenced my ascent, ignoring now the feeling of those hundreds of bulging eyes on my back. Their fluorescent owners leering, judging, all whispering together in the harsh voice of my mother-in-law. Those same unfavorable—yet perfectly justifiable—words that had been permanently imbedded upon my memory and my conscience:

"Knew it! Knew it soon as Katie brung ya home ya weren't no good! Knew ya weren't nothin but a low-down, gole-diggin scumbag! Ya kin thank Maisie fer callin ya out. Saw ya wid that Casteel trash, she did. Well, what ya waitin fer? Get out! OUT! An take yer little tramp wid ya!"

In the lit stillness of the upstairs hallway, Reva Setterton's words of aversion and ire made me bristle. Shaking off the feeling of needles dipped in ice water piercing my backside, I headed for the master bedroom. On my way, I noticed that the door to the spare room had been left slightly ajar. Peering through the small crack, I could just make out Kitty's curved outline sitting on the bed. The same bed where Heaven—our former stepdaughter and child of Kitty's ex-lover—had once slept in. Careful not to startle my wife, I pulled the door forward and knocked vigilantly.

"Kitty?" I spoke her name and the words which followed with softness and love. "What are you doing? Why are you sitting all alone in here, shut off from the rest of the world?"

I was not the least bit put off by her lack of response. It was in the way she went right on staring at the cabinets flanking the wall on the other side of the room that made me wonder what she might be thinking of. The sight of her sitting there, in her plush pink robe, her left hand pressing firmly to the area where her right bosom used to be, was every bit as heartbreaking as it was pitiful. More than a year had passed since her last sashay through the doors of her famed beauty salon in Atlanta. The artificial breast she now wore in place of its bona fide predecessor did little to lift her spirits, however; so terrified was she of someone discovering that what lay beneath wasn't genuine. Her auburn hair was now a wig fashioned out of real human hair. Not her own hair, but hair whose shade and texture were close enough to what hers was and would be again that no one but herself, her girls—the eight young female hairdressers who kept things at the salon running smoothly in her absence—and myself would ever be any the wiser. The idea had first been posed by Cheyanne Matthews (in addition to being Kitty's 'best' girl, Cheyanne was her best friend as well), but it was all eight women who'd banded together in order to give back to Kitty a little piece of what her illness had taken from her.

Contrary to the wig being custom-made, it looked even more natural than Kitty's real hair had. Simple yet elegant, the wig was fashioned into a lovely little bob that barely graced her shoulders. But it was the simplicity of her new hair that became her in ways that overshadowed her former signature updos and beehives. Ironic how the hairstyles she'd teased and perfected to such extremities were what had taken on the appearance of costumed wigs. If she did decide she wanted to style her own hair into a bob once it grew back, any protests that arose would not have come from me. Besides, why would anyone dare to complain about the way Kitty chose to wear her hair? The idea was every bit as ridiculous as the green straw hat Reva Setterton wore to church! The hat, which mimicked the color of cold pea soup gone thick and lumpy after sitting for too long in the pot, was part of what Kitty jokingly called her mother's 'church-goin outfit'.

Sucking in a sharp breath, I made one last attempt to reach her. "I've prepared your favorite for dinner," I said easily. "Spaghetti, and garlic bread made from scratch. You're still so thin, darling. It won't hurt to load up on the starches for a while."

Again she failed to so much as glance my way. I was on the verge of giving up, when there arose from the far side of the bed the soft, melancholy voice to which I'd grown so accustomed. "Y'all been so sweet t'me," she said. "Makes me feel guilty fer neva havin no appetite."

Not at all the response I'd been hoping for, but at least she was talking. "You said the same thing last night." Pushing the door open the rest of the way, I stepped into the room. "Honey, please. You haven't had a proper meal since you got out of the hospital nearly a year ago. And you spend all of your time sitting alone in our room"—I paused, glanced around—"or in here. Come to think of it, I can't remember the last time I saw you bake anything in your kiln."

"Don't kerr nothin bout kilns no more."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "But of course you do."

"No. Don't."

"Why not?"

"Jus don't. That's all."

"No. That isn't all," I answered firmly, the words and tone in which I delivered them making me feel like a teacher dealing with an insubordinate student.

Unfazed, Kitty fell silent. She returned to studying the cabinets, prompting me to decide who among us should take the next step. Crossing the room, I sunk down onto the bed beside her. Wordlessly, I reached out and drew her into my arms, my heart all but melting as she snuggled up close, making me think of a small child seeking comfort after waking from a nightmare. Oh, but she made it easy—so very easy!—to forget sometimes that she was nearly ten years older than I.

"Meant what I said before, Cal," she murmured, her words slightly muffled against the folds of my shirt. "All of it. Lookin back, I see what I thought were accomplishments fer what they really is: failures. Failures an junk. Ya said so yerself, remember?"

I flinched. She was right. I had said that, minus the failure part, and always in the heat of many a fevered moment. So frustrated had I been with her for refusing to clear out her ceramic supplies from the spare room. If she'd failed at anything, it was in her responsibility to provide Heaven with her own bedroom.

"Failed at otha thins, too," Kitty went on. "Kin't do nothin right. Neva could. Couldn't be no motha t'Heaven, or a wife t'ya."

Oh, but she might as well have stuck me with a knife, for that was how deeply her words cut! Sadder still was the manner in which she delivered them; in that staggering slur of nouns and verbs that would have otherwise been adorable. Tilting back her head, she met my eyes, and I saw that she was crying, the tears running in long, fine lines down her pale, sunken cheeks.

"That's why she left, ain't it? Cause I hurt her till she jus couldn't take no more."

"Don't be silly, sweetheart. Heaven left because she has family in Boston she wanted to see," I insisted.

"Ain't heard nothin from her since, though, have we?" Kitty pointed out, speaking with a composed candor and a regret that was unmistakable. "No lettas. No postcards. Not a word about how she's doin, iffen she's happy."

"I'm sure she's doing just fine. She's probably just very busy with school and friends and hasn't had but a few fleeting moments to spare."

Lies!

Were it not for Kitty's violent temper and unpredictable mood swings, if only I'd stopped to consider the consequences of how my infatuation with a teenaged girl would ultimately lead me down a path of illicit destruction, then our lives and all that lay ahead might not appear quite so bleak.

Guilty though we both were of crimes that, in the eyes of the law and decent people alike would be considered monstrous, it was Kitty whose remorse manifested itself in ways that transversed all mutual feelings of shame and disgust. For her, admitting that she was not only responsible but capable of harming a child—a child whose only mistake was in choosing the wrong people to be her parents—was too much. Being back home, in the place where Heaven's memory was strongest, had forced Kitty to examine herself and her actions from all angles. If her apology to Heaven at the hospital in Winnerrow had been an experiment, then what Kitty did upon her return to Candlewick was the true test. She had spent our first full day back home wandering aimlessly from room to room, never staying in one or the other for too long. Watching her, I imagined she must be reflecting on all of the things she and Heaven had experienced together in those rooms. The same violence Kitty had experienced as a little girl and young woman were repeated again, by her own hand this time, her victim a girl as blameless and wanting of a mother's love as Kitty had been.

That night, as we'd prepared for bed, Kitty began to weep. She wept longer and harder than I'd ever known her to. For many hours I cradled her trembling, emaciated body in my arms, rocking her as one would a baby. Nestled together, in the shrouds of cottons and silks, I had listened attentively to her confess things I had heard a thousand times before, while others she'd shared with me for the very first time. Every narrative was tragic and heartbreaking, nearly all of them accentuated by a howling, gut-wrenching sob. Sobs which caused Kitty to shudder so violently and uncontrollably that I'd hugged her so tightly she'd gasped for breath.

"Don't lie t'me, Cal," she said now, her face and voice pleading. "Y'all know I hate bein lied ta. Don't kerr iffen it's fer my own good. Luke used t'lie, too. An it don't hurt no less when yer t'one doin it."

Not since the notorious Luke Casteel had visited Kitty at the Winnerrow Memorial Hospital following her surgery had I heard her speak his name aloud. "Kitty," I said, "darling, you're breaking my heart. You did the best you could to be a mother to Heaven."

It was true. She had done her best, even if her 'best' was seen as child abuse in the eyes of the only two people who'd witnessed it—namely, Heaven and myself. "She's a grown woman now," I reminded the distraught woman in my arms. "She has a life to live, goals to achieve. Even if things had been different, it would have been unfair to force her to stay with us."

A disquieting hush settled over the room then, the only other sound that of the small, wind-up clock chiming the hour of eight from its place high atop one of the storage cabinets. Locked away like some filthy secret behind the doors of those cabinets were the molds Kitty had used to create her zoo of colorful critters. Along with boxes marked with return addresses were the molds, many which were unpacked and noticeably used. Always Kitty had denied having purchased them, insisting she'd made every flower pot, lamp, canister, and a multitude of other what-have-you's herself. I hadn't cared enough to confront her on her deception, believing as always that it was better to leave well enough alone than to provoke her wrathful temper.

After all, I'd had Heaven to think of then.

Heaven.

What had happened between us was far worse than a lapse in judgment. It was a sin for which I was solely to blame. I knew that now, and so did Heaven, though she'd realized it long before I. For her, I would have done most anything to guarantee her everlasting happiness. In an ironic twist of fate, it was her happiness that had forced me to abandon her in a room at the same motel where her father had abandoned my wife all those years ago. Since we'd parted ways, I had cursed myself each day for taking from Heaven that which could never be restored. The sorrow of truth coupled with her desperate need for a real father had shone unmistakably in those bottomless cornflower blues each time we'd lain together. It was true that Kitty's destructive acts and refusals to accept my advances had set the stage for my desire for a girl who was supposed to be our daughter. But it was I who had ultimately raised the curtain, and taken that which was not mine to take. Even when Heaven had protested, saying that what we were doing was wrong and how it would only end up hurting Kitty more—Kitty, who at the time was enduring test after miserable test at a hospital in Atlanta, her doctors all trying in vain to get to the root of her problem—I'd still insisted there was nothing to worry about, that neither Heaven nor I should feel guilty.

It was only later, as I'd sat by Kitty's bedside in a secluded room at the Winnerrow Memorial Hospital, that I realized she'd been right: I was a "damned fool''. The very damnedest of all damned fools, though not in the way she'd meant. I'd taken advantage of a girl who'd trusted me, a girl who'd come to me for help countless times! Kitty had nearly taken the skin from Heaven's face, but what I'd done was worse, far, far worse…

Swiftly, I steered my thoughts away from my most disgraceful mistake. Stashing it inside a Pandora's box of eternal damnation and regret, I threw down the latch, sealing it, wishing I could wipe away the past as easily as chalk from a blackboard. Erase Heaven's memory from my life, and mine from hers, even as I came to realize, with a sort of sickening desperation, the impossibility of such longing.

Spending day after day in the hospital with Kitty, it was with burning fervor that I'd begun to second guess my involvement with Heaven. ("That's all the more reason to move fast, Heaven. Loving you has made me realize I never really loved her.") The bed where I'd taken her innocence was the same bed in which I'd made love to my wife! What made it that much more despicable was that a part of me still regarded Heaven as a replacement for my estranged sister, as well as the daughter I would never have.

The day of Kitty's surgery, while I waited anxiously for the doctor to bring me news of how it had gone, I'd sought out the hospital's small prayer room. Kneeling before the front pew, I prayed for Kitty's recovery and asked God to make her the person she was when first we'd met. That her harsh hand and viper's tongue would serve as reminders of a past that would never again repeat itself.

As I prayed, I thought of how, much like a starving dog, I had devoured every scrap Kitty had tossed me from her table of earthly pleasures. While a stronger man would have rebelled, I opted to play the part of the weak-willed husband to perfection. Throwing me a bone now and again was Kitty's way of seeing that I stuck around. Luke's account of how the Settertons were as much to blame as he for the way Kitty had turned out shed a whole new light on her past, and cut right to the core of her suffering. No one could escape the circumstances she had—losing both the man she'd loved and their unborn child within just hours of one another—and emerge unscathed. For Kitty, the experience of losing what she loved most had been unbearable. So unbearable she'd gone to unimaginable lengths to keep what she believed was hers and hers alone. With each passing year, the greater her obsession and paranoia grew. Fearing that I would one day abandon her like Luke and her four previous husbands, Kitty had made it her mission to keep me a prisoner. Dressing up in skimpy lingerie while a child slept between us, threatening to cut me off financially if ever I threatened to divorce her were her two most powerful weapons. Yet there was always something vulnerable lurking deep beneath her jealous surface and curves so swollen that I'd often wondered how my own heart was still beating at all.

That vulnerability had revealed itself to me many times, always in the form of a young woman hovering halfway between the stages adolescence and adulthood. Her pale green eyes were fearful inside her sweet, heart-shaped face, its color and smoothness that of porcelain. Her long, red hair was always plaited, the roots pulled so tightly that the whiteness of her scalp was visible.

It was that same girl I found waiting for me in Kitty's room when I returned from the chapel. A girl whose fear and uncertainty were highlighted in the tired face of the woman whose spirit and body were wasting away before my very eyes. Why, my wife could no more help breaking under the weight of a life marked by violence and betrayal than I could help loving her despite it all!

Crying, I gingerly lifted her pathetically shrunken hand and pressed it to my cheek. Her hand was ice cold, as if she were already gone. A single tear slipped from my eye and rolled down my cheek, splashing onto her hand.

She looked up then, her eyes glassy, almost translucent. She whispered my name. "Cal."

The weakness in her voice was a clear indication of what was happening. The cancer was winning, and unless she decided now, right now, this very second, to fight against it, then she could very well die.

Swallowing hard against the painful lump that had arisen in my throat, I leaned in close, whispering softly so as to disguise my sobs. "Yes, my darling?"

I waited for her to tell me which method of eternal rest she preferred. Did she wish for her remains to be stored inside an urn and placed atop the mantle of our living room fireplace? Or would she like a less permanent setting, one where the winds would carry and scatter her ashes like autumn leaves? The ocean, perhaps, or a mountain whose view need not overlook that of Winnerrow, or any other part of West Virginia.

Bracing myself for the worst, I balled the hand resting on my knee into a tight, unrelenting fist. My shield against the ruthless slew of answers to questions I'd considered many hundreds of times before, but hadn't the courage to ask.

"Been doin some thinkin since Heaven come ta see me this mornin," Kitty said, her tone light, almost cheerful. "Tole me ya loved me, she did. Said if fer nothin else, I had t'pull through fer ya. Neva thought I'd do that, even that I'd want ta. Then Luke done tole me what really happened, t'night he left me. Made me feel dumb fer believin all I did about men. Know now yer t'one I want ta spend my life wid—t'one I want standin by me always. Hope y'all will give me one last chance…a chance t'fix what I done broke." She smiled, the tears in her eyes portals to a promise I somehow knew would be kept. "Yer t'only man eva loved me fer me, Calhoun Dennison. Ain't neva judge me, or want me ta be anythin more or less than what I is."

My God! How to hold against her the awful things she had done, after a confession as honest and heartfelt as this?

"Oh, Kitty! I love you, too! Never has there been a time that I haven't! Though I'm afraid I don't quite follow what direction you're headed in this discussion…"

"Thought ya might say that. So's I'll tells ya now, before that nice Dr. Gallaga gits back." Smiling once more, she said, "Done made up my mind. Gonna do t'chemotherapy. Have t'surgery."

Had I heard her right? Did she just agree to do what her doctors, Heaven and I had all gone well out of our way to convince her was the answer? "Oh, sweetheart! That's wonderful!" I cried, the last word breaking as tears of relief and joy flooded my eyes. "You've no idea how happy you've made me!" Lowering my voice, I asked, "Do you really mean it?"

Kitty laughed, a hushed, barely discernible sound. "Kin't stand seein a grown man cry. An I love ya too much t'leave ya here all by yer lonesome."

It was now my turn to laugh. How very like Kitty to knock my manhood like that. Seizing her hand, I kissed the back and then the front, before grabbing the other and doing the same. I was sitting with my head bowed into her hands when Dr. Gallagher walked into the room.

"Got somethin t'tell ya, doc," Kitty said.

In choosing life over death, my wife had unwittingly inspired me to do everything in my power to repair our marriage which, if we were honest with ourselves, had been crumbling since long before Heaven had come into our lives. In the days following our return to Candlewick, Kitty had shared with me something I was not aware of. Not long before she'd announced her decision to undergo the treatments necessary to save her life, she had told Heaven to marry me. The confession had left me feeling both touched and disturbed. That my wife would attest to the very thing that bordered so close to the sin I'd committed when she was dying drove me to tears. I told her that the accusations her mother had made against Heaven and myself were true, but that none of it was Heaven's fault. I expected Kitty to strike me—to scream at me to get out of her house. That she wanted a divorce, or so help her she'd go after Heaven next. But Kitty did neither of these things. She'd simply sat there on the couch in our spacious white living room, looking so small and so fragile, her smile that of someone who's just been told that the snow outside has melted and the sun is shining. The kind of smile that told me everything she'd said to Heaven and to me in the hospital was true. That she, Kitty, had forgiven me, just as I had forgiven her. She was sorry, she said, and finished grieving over Luke. It was me she loved now, the way she always had. She just hadn't wanted to believe it. Not when for her it would have meant renouncing her love for another before she was ready.

Now little more than frail sticks swathed inside the baggy sleeves of a light pink blouse that no longer fit her, Kitty's arms lifted. Her hands shaking, she worked to unravel the pretty silk scarf of pink and purple florals from around her head, letting it fall, unnoticed, into her lap. The tips of her fingers pressed against the surface of her hairless scalp, her face crumpling bit by bit, as if in slow motion. As her quiet sobs punctuated the still air, I attributed them to the cries a small bird makes when it is lost or in danger.

It was there, from my place on the floor at her feet, that I saw not the woman of every man's wildest fantasy, but a human being. The wall she had put up months ago to keep me out finally gave way, tumbling to reveal the woman I had always known was there, hiding behind a flawless crown of red hair and carefully applied makeup. Seeing her then, in the state her cancer had reduced her to, made me love her just a little bit more than I did when we'd left Winnerrow.

"Oh, Kitty," I whispered, already rising. "Oh, sweetheart…"

Sinking down onto the sleeper sofa beside her, I was careful not to hurt her as I embraced her gaunt frame. It was still so unfamiliar to me, I was afraid of shattering her if I lost control and squeezed too hard. "I'm so sorry. So very sorry for not being there for you…for not being more patient, more attentive…for failing to be the sort of husband I swore to you I would be…"

"Quit that," she chided woefully. "I'm t'one should be apologizin. Drove ya t'do what ya did. Wasn't tryin ta…didn't even know I was doin it…not til it were too late. But that's what happened, ain't it? Got t'live wid it now. Ain't nobody t'blame but myself. That's t'honest t'God truth."

"Let's not talk about it anymore," I said. "Let's just concentrate on moving forward. All I want you to worry about now is getting better. You need to start eating again, build your strength back up. It troubles me to see you so thin."

"That's only cause ya ain't neva seen me thin before."

"I love you no matter what size you are, Kitty. But I won't have you wasting away to nothing."

"Ya mean that?" Her lips quivered sweetly, as though daring me to kiss them. "Ya love me still, even though I look like this?"

"Honey, have you not heard a word I've said? Looks have nothing to do with what or how I feel for you. Yes, I'll admit I couldn't get over how beautiful I thought you were, the first time I saw you. When I looked across that smoke-filled room, and there you were, sitting all alone at a table. I wanted so much to talk to you, but was afraid you'd turn me down, on account of how shy and young I was. Then you smiled at me, and invited me to sit down. I had no idea what that night would bring. All I could think was what a privilege it was to be in your company, and that if all you wanted to share with me was a drink and a chat, then I was all for it. Looking back, I truly believe our encounter was fate's way of teaching two lost souls what it means to love and to be loved."

Any remaining doubts I'd had regarding Kitty's sincerity were quickly vanquished by the tears I could see gathering in the corners of her eyes. My God, she was breathtaking. Even though her hair was all gone, and the chemotherapy had caused her to shed an additional fifteen pounds to the ten she'd already lost when we'd set off for Winnerrow in August, she was still the same woman I'd fallen in love with just a little over seven years ago. I gently cupped her face in my hands, and with great tenderness thumbed away her tears.

"This is it," I said. "Our new beginning. No regrets. No apologies. Just you and me. The way it should have been. The way I promise you it will be. Not just now, but for always."

I kissed her then, softly and slowly, wanting nothing but to savor the taste of her sweet lips on mine. She'd been complaining lately of how dry and cracked her lips were—a side effect triggered by her bouts of frequent vomiting and plethora of medications the doctors had her on. Still, the condition of her lips was one I failed to notice, for I was far too absorbed in the forceful, determined way she was pressing them to mine, as if she were a bee and my mouth the flower whose nectar was the only thing that could ever satisfy her appetite. If I had loved her just a bit more before, then I was head over heals now. All because she had told me, with this one, seemingly eternal kiss, that she loved me back. The way I'd always needed her to.

Thank you, Heaven… Thank you, Luke…

So lost was I in those memories of the events that had delivered us from hell, and bestowed upon us a love that had always seemed just out of reach. After taking a moment to reacquaint myself with my present surroundings, I was surprised to find we were not in the living room downstairs, but in the spare bedroom on the second floor.

Kitty began to whimper. "Miss her, Cal. Really miss her." There was no need for me to ask who it was she was referring to. "Want so bad t'see her agin. Want her t'know how sorry I am fer all t'wrong I done her. Got me a feelin she didn't believe me none when I tole her back in Winnerrow."

I sighed, though I was careful not to let Kitty hear it. The mere mention of her hometown was enough to make my chest tighten and my stomach twist. "I know how much you want to see Heaven again," I offered sympathetically. "But there are obstacles. First, we would have to find out her address in Boston—and to do that, we'd have to contact her father. He's the only one likely to know her exact whereabouts."

"So we'll call him on t'phone an ask im."

She made it sound as easy as a walk to the mailbox . "I'm afraid it isn't quite that simple, Kitty. Even if we did reach out to Luke, I'm not so sure he'd appreciate us meddling in his life or the lives of his family."

Anxiously I waited for a sign, some clue that I'd pushed Kitty too far and now she was going to let me have it. As if by their own accord, my shoulders stiffened, and the fingers of both my hands on her back clenched slightly. And all the while she remained in my arms, not doing or saying anything. She simply went on as she had before, content to nestle in the snug embrace I was always so happy to provide her.

"We'll discuss what to do about the Casteels later," I replied at length, if only to humor her. Looking at my watch, I was surprised to see it was a quarter to nine. "Right now, I want you to come downstairs and have dinner with me."

"Ya haven't eaten?" Kitty sounded so sweetly surprised, as if my putting off dinner by an hour or so was cause for alarm.

"I was waiting for you."

She hugged me and kissed my cheek, then sat up and stared into my eyes. As I watched a shadow of moonlight flit across her face, I remarked in silence on how puffy it was (a combination of chemo treatments and endless crying spells, no doubt), not to mention the dark circles under her eyes. The poor thing hardly slept at all anymore. It was an all too frequent occurrence that I would awaken in the night to the sound of Kitty weeping in the spare bedroom. Or, if the need to be strident struck her, she would occasionally venture into one of the rooms downstairs. Always did I follow, no matter how late or tired I was. What ever the problem, I'd made it an unspoken rule that we never return to our bed until after we'd talked it out.

Even if it led to one or both of us watching the sunrise.

I was in the first grade when I started falling behind in my schoolwork. But it was not until I began to distribute aggressive behavior towards my peers that school officials took notice, and with my parents' permission arranged for me to see a psychologist. My father, a chief criminal prosecutor, had thought the idea preposterous, believing that all I needed to straighten me out was a firm hand. It was only when the principal threatened to expel me that he relented, albeit grudgingly.

One session was all it took for Dr. Burgess Elliot to conclude that I was not some depraved youth on the path to delinquency. I was merely emulating the behaviors of the man I was expected to obey. Most kids ran to greet their fathers with hugs and kisses when he arrived home from work in the evenings. But not the two Dennison children. It was by decree that my sister and I address our father exclusively as 'sir' or 'the Judge', and 'Father' in writing only. We were expected to stand at attention, and wait for the granting of permission, before doing or saying anything. Things like scuffed shoes and the forgetting of manners were considered heinous crimes, punishable by whatever means my father chose. Our old apartment back in Connecticut had had a courtyard, and in that courtyard had stood a hickory tree. Forcing the guilty party to run laps around the tree until they either succumbed to physical exhaustion or were told to stop was one way my father had of disciplining my sister and I. The other was far worse, however, as it combined both physical and mental natures. If one of us was suspected of breaking some rule, even a small one, then our father was not above going to extreme measures to find out who. Summoning us into his study, he would have us stand together before the wide desk while glinting at us a slew of questions we were expected to answer both clearly and honestly. I had never seen my father at work in a courtroom before, and as far as I knew neither had my sister. But from everything we'd heard and all we'd been told, he was ruthless to the point where he actually seemed to enjoy condemning anyone suspected of being a criminal—even those believed to be innocent, or whose crimes had been petty or committed in self defense. Even when those being accused were the Judge's very own flesh and blood, his attitude never once softened or even wavered. In truth, it was apt to being even more unyielding, even violent. Once he had extracted the truth from the two children who trembled before their brutish father like deer frozen in the glow of oncoming headlights, he would order whomever he had deemed innocent to go outside and cut from the hickory tree a switch. Switch in hand, the innocent then returned to the study. Handing the switch over to the Judge, the innocent was made to stand by and watch, as the one found guilty received their punishment. By the time I was nine and Paige was three, we saw that tree in a way similar to how we saw our father: tall and menacing, its roots buried too long and much too deep in the same ground so that any attempts to move it proved feckless. When no one else was around, I would deliver to that hated hickory tree the sort of blows I could only fantasize about giving my father.

To this day, I can still recall the wisened words of Dr. Elliot. He was the first person besides my mother to whom I'd confided my most trying and painful ordeals. His compassion and willingness to listen had opened to me doors I'd thought locked forever. For me, trust in others was as unlikely a thing to encounter as apple cider in the springtime. On the rare occasion I did happen to find myself trusting someone, I would put myself on guard, careful not to take anything they said or did for granted. My relationship with Dr. Elliot was no exception. Sharing with him only the things I was comfortable with, I glossed over or completely omitted everything else. Like how my father would bind my wrists and those of my little sister behind our backs each night, all for the sake of preventing us turning over in our sleep.

We had to be perfect, always perfect, even while we slept.

"'Patience is not an easy trait to obtain or to keep, Calhoun,'" Dr. Elliot had told me during our first session together. His answer was in response to something I'd said about my baby sister being a pest because she cried too much and received more attention from my mother than I did. "'It is not something we are given, like the color of our hair or shoe size. Like most things, patience is something to be learned and strived for. A virtue achieved through individual performance, hard work, and, most of all, understanding.'"

Words that had not only helped me survive a tumultuous childhood, but opened my eyes and my heart to the shame hidden deep beneath my wife's violent exterior.

Inadvertently, it was Kitty whose sweet southern accent interrupted my current reverie. "Love ya, Cal," she cooed. "Love ya more than any otha man. More than them three otha husbands come before ya."

She halted then, or rather appeared to, her eyes lifting to meet mine.

"More than Luke."

Oh! How delightful to see her blushing! Her smile, so dainty and shy, gave the impression she was embarrassed to have been caught doing something vulnerable, even as her green eyes sparkled like the faux emerald studs fastened to her earlobes. The earrings—which I'd purchased at the hospital gift shop to commemorate the success of her surgery—had quickly become her favorites, having taken precedence over even her flashiest, most expensive pairs. Hoops of silver and gold, even the sparkling, multi-colored jewels that had always adorned her small, perfect ears were a sight as rare as an eclipse these days. I smiled. How trinkets such as those tiny, simple studs that would likely dull with time and wear could ever compare to the sophistication and splendor of Katherine Velma Dennison I shall never know.

That night, I waited until after Kitty had fallen asleep before stealing silently out of our room and into the spare bedroom next door. Sitting down at the desk that had been Heaven's, I removed the cover from the typewriter I'd given her when she'd turned fifteen. Selecting a fresh sheet from the stack of paper stored neatly inside one of the side drawers, I inserted it into the roller. Once I had it centered to my satisfaction, I aligned my fingers with the appropriate keys, and began to type.

Dear Father and Mom,

As I compose this letter, I can only imagine the shock it must cause you to hear from me after all these years. As you know, I am married now, to a very wonderful, lovely woman named Kitty. We reside in the town of Candlewick, a small subdivision in Atlanta, Georgia, and are very happy.

Although our married life is ideal, I cannot say the same for our financial situation. Last summer, Kitty was diagnosed with an advanced form of breast cancer. She underwent immediate surgery, and has been in remission ever since. The cost of the bill, however, is five-thousand dollars, which is beyond our means to pay. We are on the brink of being sued by the hospital, and our house will soon be commandeered by the bank. Because Kitty is still unwell and cannot work, I have had to quit my own job in order to care for her. Regrettably, even our combined savings are not enough to see us through our present circumstances.

My initial thought was to write to Kitty's parents, who live in West Virginia. We stayed with them briefly prior to her surgery, but hesitate to seek their help a second time. Although I merit them for their accommodations, they are not the most compassionate people. They have always treated their daughter with indifference, and have never accepted me as their son-in-law. The morning Kitty was scheduled to go in for her surgery, her parents refused my request to come to the hospital and see her off, or even to visit her afterwards. That should tell you exactly the kind of people they are.

If I do not hear from you, then I shall know what you have decided. In which case, I will respect your choice, and promise not to burden you with my family's troubles again.

Your son,

Calhoun

Because a telephone call would be quicker and more practical than waiting for a hand-written response, I included our telephone number at the bottom of the letter. The desk had a drawer that locked, but I'd be damned if I knew where the key had got to, and I had neither the wish nor the energy to turn the room upside-down to search for it.

So that Kitty would not discover the letter and demand I tell her "what all I was up to", I walked over to the bed and slid my hand beneath the mattress. Using the tips of my fingers, I slowly elevated the mattress away from the box spring and carefully pushed the envelope securely between them. Concealed well enough that no one but me would ever know the the letter was there or that it existed; near enough to the opening for me to grab when I returned the next morning to retrieve it and drop it in the mailbox.

Drawing my now empty hand out from beneath the mattress, I watched it drop back into place. Turning towards the nightstand, I switched off the light and promptly swept back through the door, letting it close softly behind me.