Charles Wykes - Brothers and sisters

I'm sorry.

That's what he had said. Those were his last words, at least as far as Melissa Mason was concerned. If her father had said anything else to anyone else, like to one of the doctors or nurses, Melissa didn't know about it.

I'm sorry.

He had then slipped off into a coma; and, less than three hours later, William James Davenport, pillar of his community, president of Davenport Electronic International, was dead at sixty-nine, his soul shoveling coal in the furnaces of hell.

Now, why did Melissa have to think that? It wasn't like her to think such vindictive things, was it? Her father probably was in heaven right that minute. If there was a heaven.

And, of course, there was a heaven. Melissa didn't like the way her mind was working. No, she didn't like it one damn bit. Of course her father's soul was now off somewhere in paradise playing a harp! Because if William Davenport had told his daughter he was sorry, there was little doubt but that he had told the church the same thing, given a couple hundred thousand dollars to the papal coffers, and been given forgiveness.

Well, Melissa wasn't all that sure she forgave her father as easily as God might have done. After all, a few mumbled words on his deathbed, when he knew he was shortly going off to meet his maker, certainly didn't make up for fifteen years of being an absolute bastard, did it?

Bastard? Was that how she had visualized her father? What's more, was that how she STILL visualized him, even though he was dead and buried?

Nonsense! She had to get hold of herself. She was simply in an emotional state, what with the death, and the funeral, and the people, and the countless amenities and with seeing Creagon again.

Creagon Davenport, Melissa's brother, older by three years; tall, blond, blue-eyed, exceptionally handsome. Every time Melissa saw Creagon, she marveled at how he never seemed to change, never seemed to grow older. And, considering Melissa had only seen Creagon twice in the last fifteen years (twice since that one long-ago night William Davenport had eventually come to mutter "I'm sorry" for), she was surprised at how Creagon could manage to appear so ageless. Especially since it had obviously been no lark making it on his own out in the big wide world with neither his father's money nor name to back him.

The last time Melissa had seen Creagon was at her brother's wedding to Marne.

Marne Davenport nee Marne Mason: the wife of Melissa's brother; the sister of Melissa's husband.

And before Creagon and Marne's wedding, the only other time had been when her brother had attended Melissa's wedding to John. And, some time during those festivities, Creagon Davenport had met Marne Mason; and, love had blossomed.

At Melissa and John's wedding there had also been a fight between Creagon and his father. The first time those men had seen each other in ten years, and they'd been at each other's throat. Thank God William hadn't been invited to Creagon's marriage. Melissa had sneaked away to attend it one of the few things she had ever done in her life to flaunt her father. And, William Davenport had been furious. He had raved on for days, dredging up old, best-forgotten skeletons and rattling them in front of Melissa's eyes until Melissa had collapsed and been under a doctor's care for four whole weeks.

And, so her father had died sorry. But, sorry for what? Maybe that was what was bothering Melissa. Because William Davenport had been so seemingly firm in his righteous indignation that he had, for the most part finally convinced Melissa that she wag the one who should have been sorry.

So, why hadn't Melissa been able to tell the dying man that she was sorry?

It had been Melissa's fault, hadn't it? What Melissa had done was wicked wicked wicked. If she could accept that now, then why hadn't she been able to tell her father she was sorry?

Yes, by God, she had been sinful depraved degenerate. She had done a forbidden thing; and, her father had had every reason to be angry because of it. He'd had every reason to send her away to those church schools where she could repent at leisure, contemplate her sins, promise herself she would never sin again.

Creagon now, he had been the lucky one! He had simply run away, not turning up again until he was past twenty-one and could thumb his nose in the old bastard's face.

Lucky? Melissa realized that was hardly the right adjective to use. She was obviously in such an emotional state that she was constantly putting wrong words in the wrong places. Because, how could Creagon be lucky? He'd had no good holy sisters, dressed in their starched black and white uniforms like penguins, telling him what was right and what was wrong, thereby insinuating that what Melissa and Creagon had done was certainly an abomination in the eyes of man and God.

And, had William Davenport told his son he was sorry; or, had he assumed he'd done enough in leaving his wayward son half of the estate?

"Melissa?"

It was her husband, calling from the bedroom. Melissa had hoped he was asleep. Why in the hell wasn't he?

"What is it, John?"

"What's taking you so fucking long?"

Melissa shuddered at her husband's vulgarity. God, but he had changed since he'd gotten back from the war or, was Vietnam called a conflict? Whatever, John Mason had changed. Oh, God, had he changed!

"I'm brushing my hair, John," Melissa said, reaching for the brush on the dresser so as to make her statement only half a lie. "Why don't you just try and get some sleep while you're waiting?"

"Try hurrying, will you?" John said in reply.

And, what exactly did that imply? Melissa suspected she knew; and, that knowledge did nothing more than send goose bumps up and down her spine.

Just where had her husband disappeared to? Just what kind of black magic had sent a docile, mild, well-mannered college graduate off to some distant pest hole to be metamorphosed into a rutting animal?

Or, had Vietnam had anything at all to do with it? Had the beast always been there, beneath the surface, waiting to jump out at the first opportunity? That was certainly possible when considering how that "other" John Mason had been so opposite his sister Marne. How could any one as meek and mild as John had seemed at the time of his marriage have popped from the same womb as Marne?

Not that Melissa didn't like Marne. Because she did. Actually, when Melissa was up to admitting it to herself, she even envied Marne, to a certain extent. On the other hand, there was too much of everything about Marne which made Melissa a little uneasy.

Marne was simply too beautiful. Her breasts were a trifle too large. Her figure was a bit too sensuous. Her walk was a mite too sexy. Her voice was too sultry. Her eyes were too seductive. Her lips were too inviting.

Marne, in short, reeked a kind of sexuality that Melissa found disturbing. Why she found it disturbing, she couldn't quite say.

"Melissa!" John called again, bringing his wife back once again to the reality.

Surely, surely, John wasn't thinking of doing any of his disgusting sexual gymnastics tonight! Sweet Jesus, but they hadn't gotten back from the graveyard but a few short hours before. But, then, that would hardly matter to John, would it? He had lived with death in Nam, hadn't he? He had seen death all around him every day of the week. So, what did it matter to John Mason that William Davenport was dead?

"Melissa, for Christ's sake, you brush your hair so much, it's a fucking wonder it doesn't all fall out by its roots!" John yelled loudly from the bedroom where he would be naked and probably lying on top of the bed, his huge penis hard and laid out along his belly like some Army missile ready for launching.