A Question of Innocence

By DeNise Woodbury

Everyone has a family history, those little stories that include grandma's recipes for chocolate pie and the sad truth that Aunt Helen embezzled the church building fund. That is everyone but Annabelle Bruster. She has no family recipes or funny stories. Instead she has a momma, daddy, brother, and a secret. Her fiance, Marc Hutchens, has a family tree that stretches back generations. When he finally asks the fateful question of "where are you from," she decides it's time to finally uncover the answers. But you should always be careful what you ask for. Instead of rich relatives and sweet memories she finds mystery and murder. Sometimes the past is best left behind, especially when there is a question of guilt and innocence. Can Annabelle let go of what she learns to navigate a new path with Marc or will the past destroy her future?

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Dec 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781628306989

DeNise Woodbury

DeNise, started writing as a reader. During life, parts One and Two she kept notes. In 1993 she had an opportunity to go to Alaska for a year-she loves a road trip-so she drove the Alcan and spent some time learning to speak Alaskan. She joined a writers group. Then she met Mr. Wonderful in the village of McCarthy. Life-part Three is in progress-life is good. She lives in Knik, Alaska with Mr. Wonderful, the cat from hell, a big garden and to many jobs.

Book preview

support.

Oh, the tattered tales

we keep tethered

to the post of night.

Chapter One

The mandatory Sunday dinner for the official announcement of the engagement of Annabelle Bruster, me, to Marc Hutchens went well until Marc asked my father and mother where they were from.

Roman. Marc reached for a bowl of what was left of Momma’s rich, roast moose gravy. Where did you and Ruby pick up such a charming Southern accent?

I stopped breathing. Like Alice, standing on the edge of that famous rabbit hole, the question tipped me over the side, sliding out of control down a slope I’d avoided for twenty-plus years.

Oh crap, I shouldn’t have waited, I should have warned him. I suppose I expected the question eventually, just not now. My eyes flicked first to Momma and then Daddy and back to Marc—but would I get an answer this time?

Twenty-two years before, I’d asked a similar question: Momma was peeling potatoes, standing at the sink with the water trickling over her little hands, and I leaned on the sink next to her, chattering about school.

Momma? Everybody at school has grandmas and grandpas. Do we have them? Only, they live Outside, right?

New snow whipped like stinging needles in the wind through the back yard, but in Palmer, Alaska, the wind is always blowing a gale, and when you’re ten years old, you’ll try just about anything to avoid putting your boots back on to take the trash out.

Momma got stiff, and the tremor stopped. I never thought about her tremor, my mother’s perpetual shiver, until that day when she became still as death, staring out the window at the dusky backyard.

The paring-knife and the potato clattered into the sink at the same time. Momma got a distant, puzzled look on her face. The tremor started again, and she didn’t turn off the water. She turned and walked slowly down the short hall into her bedroom and went to bed.

For three days.

Marc looked from Daddy to Momma expecting a perfectly normal answer, and Daddy’s soft baritone voice, easy and comfortable, rumbled like a purr in the oven-warmed kitchen. Sometimes, when you’re born to the South, parts of it don’t let you loose.

As always, Daddy gracefully deflected the question. He never, ever really answered, no matter who asked. He reached his large calloused hand over the corner of the table and patted Momma’s wrist. Her hand turned and slid into his.

We like to think of our accent as Southern Alaska, he said.

An amused but curious wrinkle creased Marc’s face. Ruby, he said to Momma. I’ve never eaten cornbread this good.

Momma dipped her head, and the Dutch-boy bob she’d always worn swung against her face and camouflaged her shy smile. Thank you. She released Daddy’s hand and straightened the paper napkin in her lap.

I let my breath out slowly and inconspicuously. I don’t know what I expected, but this time Momma just glowed at Daddy from a place deep inside. A soul smile I like to call it. Their eyes connect, and the room narrows as if all the electrons focus and flow from his eyes into hers.

I want Marc to look into my eyes and become my universe. Right now our eyes are full of lust and love, and we can’t see beyond the next time we can be alone.

Will you pass those crowder peas? Marc asked. He winked at me, and I got all melty inside. I love when he winks at me.

Ignoring the permanent question of where we came from, I concentrated on a place on Marc’s forearm where the shirt sleeve folded up. It revealed a braid of veins and muscles wisped with outdoor-bleached hair. Tendons rippled over his hands. Oh, those hands, I love his hands. Mostly, I love what he can do with his hands.

Marc is as tall as Daddy but full of sharply defined strength stretching his clothes taut across his frame. His tan has faded only slightly during his first winter in Alaska. He wears his dark hair in a short utility haircut he has worn since boot camp.

He pulled the last tablespoon of peas out of the bowl onto his plate and swabbed them with gusto into his mouth with a fork full of corn bread. He fit at this table better than I. He didn’t notice Momma had used the everyday tablecloth, not the new one I’d brought for this special occasion, the one with matching napkins.

I devoted my attention to watching Marc eat. Since my thoughts about being alone with him were beginning to get out of hand, I startled when Daddy said, Annabelle, why don’t you clear the table and set your momma’s rhubarb pie over here to cut? This is a celebration.

I flushed, happy no one could read my mind. I may be thirty-two years old, but I was sitting at the table I grew up at with Momma to my right and Daddy to my left.

The flash of the ring on my finger caught my eye as I stood, and a swirl of amazed pleasure tightened my chest as I bent to the task of picking up the plates and putting dessert in their place. The diamonds were out of place in my mother’s modest little kitchen. They glittered in a flash of weak winter sunshine spattering through the crisp, hand-made curtains over the sink. Both the old linoleum flooring and the counters had dull spots scrubbed into oblivion by Momma’s expectation of clean.

Marc had driven to Palmer from Anchorage on Tuesday of this week without telling me. He sat at this kitchen table, with its yellow plastic tablecloth, and he showed Momma and Daddy this ostentatious diamond ring. I’m sure they thought it cost too much, but Marc asked if he could marry me.

Very old-fashioned. Daddy was impressed.

At a gaunt six foot two, Daddy can be almost frightening. He likes wearing a frown, the affectation of a grumpy man weeding out the weak willed. Throughout high school and college, I had to bring a few boys, and then men, home to meet my parents. Usually, Daddy asked first, How long have you known him? Where are you going? Who is his daddy?

Having my parents scrutinize my friends is a frustration I’ve had to bear all my life. They ask about pedigree as if I were bringing home a new puppy. On the other hand, we have no pedigree, no history, no past. I’m not from anywhere, and I feel adrift in a sea of other people’s histories. There are rafts and boats and ships all around me filled with families with generations of ancestors.

Marc’s ship is the size of the Titanic, filled with names which probably included William the Conqueror. To hear him tell it, his grandmother’s house, in Seattle, is filled attic to basement with a hundred years or more of family heirlooms. He calls it junk.

I have a tattered copy of Emily Post’s book on etiquette, my mother’s bible of how things must be done, all normal and proper. In my family-heirloom department, a book covering propriety and protocol is all there is.

But Marc makes the grade. Daddy likes him. A good thing too because Marc is the first man I’ve ever felt comfortable with. I can babble on about foolishness, I can scream at the television, I can swear about politicians and swoon over red high heels.

He gets me. He thinks I count. I think he loves me. I really think he loves me.

Chapter Two

Roman Bruster watched his daughter move efficiently around the small kitchen she’d grown up in. It amused him to watch Ruby squirm. He knew how much she wanted to stand up and help. Ruby’s eyes met his, and between them their amusement grew. Some scripts have to play out with no interference from the author. This was their script for Annabelle; a happy life is all any father could ask for his children.

I propose a toast. Roman lifted his dessert plate as if it were a glass of champagne. To love. He tipped his head toward Marc. To another son.

Thank you, Marc said in unison with Annabelle. They both blushed and laughter swelled around the table.

Roman convinced himself the tight pulse of pain in his torso was his unaccustomed sentimentality and nothing more than it had been last week. You realize what this means, don’t you? he asked.

Marc’s left brow lifted in wordless question.

From now on, you park in the alley and use the back door. Anyone using the front door is a stranger. Roman couldn’t keep from letting a smile flicker across his face. Annabelle rolled her eyes and cleared her throat. It tickled him. She still tried to impress Marc by bringing him through the front door. Good impressions were high on Annabelle’s priority list. The banter continued while the pie disappeared.

Have you decided when you’ll marry? Girlish excitement wreathed Ruby’s face. Belle’s brother is supposed to leave the army in July. Brad will bring Sage and the babies. They’ll have the new one by then. It would be perfect to have everybody home at one time. Germany is so far away.

Pleasure soothed the tightness in Roman’s chest. The army’s been good for Brad, he said to Marc. He’s done well, and he likes his job.

The military served me well, too. Marc nodded. It paved my way into the police force and in turn paid for law school. Marc looked at Ruby. We’ve considered July. My internship at the DA’s office is finished in late June. He fiddled with his fork. We have a lot to think about.

A lot more than you know, Roman said. You can’t just have things happen ’cause you want it a certain way. Some folks plan a wedding for a year or better. He noticed impatience rippling across his daughter’s shoulders. Annabelle, your mother needs some time for planning, if it’s to be an old-fashioned wedding.

We’ve got lots of time, Daddy. Annabelle’s brow furrowed. She stood and began to take the dessert plates off the table. We’d better leave soon, she said to Marc. The weather is supposed to be blowing snow again tonight and tomorrow. It’ll make the drive back to Anchorage a real pain. She sighed. I’m sure tired of winter this year. I don’t think March is ever going to end.

Roman watched Annabelle fidget, anxious to leave as always, then Marc flashed an unworried look at Roman and smiled. I’m driving, we’ll be fine.

I know you will, Roman said.

Ruby stood, too. I’ll do this. Y’all go get ready to leave.

Thanks, Momma, dinner was really exceptional. Annabelle kissed her mother’s cheek. Do you have anything you need me to do this week? I’m busy, but I can rearrange easily if I know ahead of time.

Marc went down the short hall into the bedroom on the right. He fits right in. Roman admired an unpretentious man.

No, Belle, we don’t need nothin’. Ruby raised her voice to call after Marc. Be careful you don’t fall into the quilting frame in there. I done took over half the room.

Annabelle persisted. Are you sure? Appointments or something?

No, thank you, baby. Ruby’s voice lilted, showing no concern at all.

The quilt is almost finished, isn’t it? Annabelle asked. I don’t know why anyone else enters quilts at the State Fair. You always win, and this one is absolutely the best.

Ruby’s whole body crinkled with pleasure. Thank you, baby, it’s turning out better than I planned. It might not make it to the fair though ’cause it’s for a wedding present.

Really? Who’s getting…? Annabelle’s eyes darted from her mother to Roman, and she blushed with perception. Oh, Momma, it’s beautiful, but you’ve been working on this one for months, how could you have known?

Ruby’s smiling eyes devoured Annabelle; her hand reached up to pet her daughter from shoulder to elbow. Mommas know things.

When Marc returned he had on his coat and held Annabelle’s coat for her. She slid her arms into the sleeves, and he kissed her on the neck unconcerned about having an audience. I can’t believe you shared such a little room with your brother, he said.

Annabelle laughed. From the beginning and all the way through high school. There used to be eye-hooks down the middle of the ceiling for the curtain. She put an angelic spin into her sing-song voice and looked at Roman. "We always got along. We didn’t need the separation."

Roman’s mouth quirked at the edges. We make do with what we have—

Annabelle mouthed the words along with her father and finished with a fist-strike into her palm. —and like it.

Roman chuckled. That’s the foundation we used to put you where you are, missy. He gazed at Ruby and ignored Annabelle’s rigid annoyance. Your momma is a good manager, and we ate a lot of potatoes to buy this little house. Sticking to a plan is important. They were seldom sidetracked from their plan. An inconspicuous life veiled with correctness.

A warm contentment filled Roman as he sat at the table with Ruby standing next to his chair, her arm lightly resting across his shoulders. The hubbub of scraping chair legs and laughing goodbyes receded into a misty place in his mind. Even as he stood to walk his lovely daughter and her fiancé to the door he wasn’t fully in the moment. Annabelle reached on tiptoe to kiss him, and a squishy feeling of love and humility radiated along the inside of his jaw. He clenched his teeth together for a moment and swallowed.

Annabelle was a taller and more robust image of Ruby; today she dressed in jeans and fleece, coordinated of course but casual. Being with Marc took the edge off her being at home. Her hair hung in lazy, glossy-black waves across her shoulders, her lively eyes as black and deep as her mother’s.

At the last possible minute, Ruby opened the door, and a blast of arctic air collided with the warmth of the house.

Marc reached out and took Annabelle’s glove-covered hand as they hustled down the walkway hedged with two feet of snow. Roman liked seeing a man be thoughtful of the women in his life.

Roman and Ruby stood behind the fogging storm door each with an arm wrapped around the other, and waited while Marc started his car.

Ruby lifted a hand for a final wave. Whhffft, it’s chilly. She made the exaggerated shiver Roman thought had to be the cutest thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

He stepped back, closed the door, and looked down at his wife, after thirty-three years, still the size of a twelve-year-old.

He’s a good man. She’ll be happy. Don’t you think?

He wanted to believe her words more than anything right now. I do.

She patted his back. I think Belle likes the new quilt. She knows it’s for her now.

Roman kissed the top of Ruby’s head. You mean Miss Priss is getting mellow in her old age? She might be proud of her old country folks?

Humm, probably not, Ruby said. But Marc keeps her feet on the ground. It’s a good thing, too. She dropped her hand and turned. I’m gonna go clear up the kitchen.

Roman sat in his spot on the sofa, and drifted. His shoulders were achy again. He should get an aspirin. He