作者：马林·托马斯
出版社：外语教学与研究出版社
格式: AZW3, DOCX, EPUB, MOBI, PDF, TXT
让人悲伤的秘密试读：
Chapter One
"I gotta use the bathroom, Dad."
Well, shoot. Lost in thought, Travis Cartwright had all but forgotten that his eight-year-old daughter, Charlie, rode in the front seat with him. They'd departed Houston, Texas, hours ago and she'd yet to release the glower from her face.
He sucked at fatherhood and had no one to blame but himself. His job as a roughneck kept him separated from his daughter for weeks on end, then whenever he returned to the mainland, he spent most of his time catching up on sleep and yard work.
"Keep an eye out for a place to stop." Another ten miles and they'd clear the outskirts of Tulsa, Oklahoma. From there they'd drive northwest until they reached their final destination—the Lazy River Ranch. "I'm hungry. How about you, kiddo?"
One shoulder, no bigger than the bottom of a coffee mug, lifted, remained elevated a second, then dropped back into place. Her elfin face stared straight ahead, pale eyelashes blinking rhythmically in time with the windshield wipers.
Keep trying. "Snow's coming down faster." As dusk descended, flakes danced in the truck's headlights and ribbons of white swirled across the road. Was he nuts for making this trip two days before Thanksgiving? "Maybe there'll be enough snow to play in tomorrow morning."
"I hate snow."
Not the greatest attitude, but he'd take words over a shrug any day. Charlie was nothing more than an imp—a blond-headed sprite with blue eyes. He'd called her Twinkie as a toddler. Dripping wet, his daughter didn't weigh more than forty-five pounds. What Charlie lacked in size she made up for in pure stubbornness.
Charlie inherited her slight build and fair coloring from her mother. Julie had split right after Charlie's birth and hadn't bothered to leave a forwarding address. Lucky for him Travis's mother, Charlotte, had been there to help him raise Charlie.
I'm sorry, Travis. So sorry. His mother's dying words clanged around inside his brain. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them wide. Silence—thank God. Since her death, his mother's voice had been a constant presence in his head.
"Maybe your grandfather has horses."
The question thunked between him and Charlie like a boulder hitting the pavement. Travis strangled the steering wheel, recalling how often his mother had cautioned him that, if he didn't pay more attention to his daughter, they'd grow apart. He'd heard the warnings but had ignored them. He'd counted on his mother always being there for him and Charlie and for there always being another time or another day to spend with his daughter.
Well, another time and another day had arrived and were right now chasing his anxious ass down an Oklahoma highway. "I bet there's a dog on the ranch." They'd never owned a pet, because his mother had been allergic to animal fur. Fortunately, a neighbor allowed Charlie to play with his golden retriever, and that was almost as good as having her own dog. "There's probably a cat or two in the barn."
More shrugs.
He yearned to reassure his daughter that everything would be okay, but feared neither one of them would emerge from the wreckage of Charlotte Cartwright's death without scars—how many and how deep time would tell. Two weeks ago, he'd taken a leave of absence from his job as a roughneck on the Exxon Mobil Hoover Diana and had sat by his dying mother's bedside, listening to her perplexing apology before she'd slipped away.
More than his mother's death had shaken the foundation of his and Charlie's world. When Travis had gone through his mother's personal property, he'd discovered a diary—Pandora's box. Suddenly Charlotte's apology had made perfect sense.
His mother's secret had turned Travis's world upside down and spurred the journey he and his daughter had embarked upon. On the yellowed pages of flower-patterned stationery, Travis had learned the identity of his father—famous Oklahoma oil baron Dominick Cartwright.
Travis's gut burned with anger and resentment toward both parents. He assumed his mother had kept his father a secret all these years to protect him from rejection. Still, the choice to know his father or not should have been Travis's. and he was determined to learn why his father wanted nothing to do with him.
When Travis had done an internet search for Dominick Cartwright, the more information he'd uncovered, the angrier he'd become. He'd welcomed the anger. Better resentment than hurt—he was a roughneck, for God's sake. Slaving away on an oil platform in the middle of the ocean in dangerous, harsh conditions should have toughened his hide and made it impossible to care one way or the other about his father's disregard. No such luck. Add in the strange sense of relief he'd felt at learning he and his daughter weren't alone in the world, and he was one confused, messed-up roughneck.
Charlotte's death had also left Charlie in a vulnerable position. Travis had considered quitting his job in order to be home with his daughter, but he was in line for a promotion and without a college education he'd never make as much money on the mainland. Regardless, his position on the rig was risky—the Deepwater Horizon catastrophe in the Gulf of Mexico the previous year was proof of that.
With Charlie's grandmother out of the picture, Travis worried that if he were to die while his daughter was young, she'd become a ward of the state. He'd decided to make the trip to Oklahoma for Charlie's sake, not his. He didn't need a relationship with his estranged father nor the brother and sister his mother had written about in her diary.
Yeah, right. Keep telling yourself that and maybe you'll believe it.
Dominick had better not turn his back on his granddaughter—the man owed Travis for not claiming him all these years.
Rather than admit an attack of nerves had invaded his intestines, he blamed his queasy stomach on the fact that he hadn't eaten in hours. Like a pendulum, his gaze swung back and forth across the road, searching for a place to eat and pee—as Charlie put it.
A Victorian house sprang up in the middle of nowhere and he pulled onto the shoulder of the road. He studied the pink-and-black monstrosity surrounded by an iron gate. Travis wondered if he'd stumbled upon a backwoods bordello.
"Beulah's." he said.
Charlie wrinkled her nose. "Huh?"
"The sign in the front yard says Beulah's."
"What's a Beulah?"
"A restaurant, I think." Travis turned into the driveway alongside the home and drove to the back of the lot where three pickups and one patrol car were parked. Patio tables covered in a dusting of snow sat in the backyard and a Welcome sign hung on the door.
Travis turned off the ignition and unbuckled his seat belt. "Let's see if Beulah has a bathroom you can use."
Charlie didn't budge.
Most parents wouldn't tolerate obstinacy, but he allowed his daughter's behavior to slide. To his way of thinking, he deserved her sullenness. He'd been absent more than present during Charlie's young life—even missed a few of her birthdays because he hadn't been able to switch his shift on the platform. It would take time for him and Charlie to find their way without Grandma Charlotte to guide them.
When he opened the door, the smell of fried burgers and crisp evening air filled his lungs. His stomach growled loudly. Charlie took her dang tootin' time getting out of the truck, but he kept a lid on his temper and pretended to enjoy the balmy thirty-two-degree temperature.
A clunky cowbell attached to the door handle announced their arrival when they entered the Victorian.
"Welcome to Beulah's." An older woman with a 1960s beehive hairdo dyed pitch-black and wearing a pink muumuu and house slippers greeted them. "I'm Beulah. We got a few tables left in the front room." She motioned for them to follow her through the house.
With a hand on his daughter's shoulder, Travis guided Charlie down the hall and into the dining area. All three tables in the room were occupied. They followed Beulah across the foyer and into the parlor, which boasted a fireplace. He and Charlie sat at the table near the windows.
Beulah handed them a laminated handwritten menu. "Special's leftovers."
Leftovers?
"With Thanksgiving right around the corner, I'm cleaning out the fridge." Beulah batted her false eyelashes and smiled at Charlie. "You sure are a pipsqueak."
Travis winced. Charlie hated people commenting on her small stature.
"Just 'cause I'm little don't mean—"
"Doesn't." Travis interrupted.
Charlie glared at him. "—doesn't mean I'm stupid."
Beulah's charcoal eyebrows arched into her hairline. "I never said nothing about you having trouble with your brain. For all I know, you might grow up to be the next president of these here United States."
Before his daughter caused a ruckus with the restaurant owner, Travis asked, "Do you have a restroom Charlie can use?"
"Next to the kitchen. I'll show you." Beulah escorted his scowling daughter away.
A short time later, Charlie returned. While she played with the salt-and-pepper shakers, he perused the handwritten menu. Chicken fingers wasn't one of the leftover specials. "Think you might want to try the rice casserole?"
"Yuck."
Thought so. "What about a hamburger?"
"Double yuck."
"What about—"
"A bowl of cereal?" Beulah stopped at the table.
"What kind?" Charlie asked.
"Froot Loops."
"You have really tall hair." Charlie gaped at Beulah's beehive.
"Twelve inches worth of it, sweetheart. You eating cereal or not?"
"I like Froot Loops."
Beulah nodded at Travis. "You?"
"I'll have a burger. Medium well."
"Drinks?"
"A glass of milk for Charlie. Coffee for me."
"Comin' right up." Beulah shoved the pencil into her hair chimney, took two steps, then stopped. "Where are you folks from?"
"Houston."
"Passing through or visiting?"
"We're going to see my grandpa." Charlie's eyes welled with tears. "'Cause I don't have a mom and my grandma just died."
Travis felt like he'd been punched in the windpipe. During the past week, his daughter had been so brave. She hadn't cried in front of him, but he'd stood outside her bedroom door at night feeling helpless as he listened to her muffled sniffles.
"Ah, honey." Beulah brushed a strand of blond hair off Charlie's forehead. "I'm sorry about your mama and your grandma." She sent an apologetic smile Travis's way.
The bell on the back door clanged and Beulah rushed off. A minute later, a tall, plain-looking woman entered the parlor. Bundled in a long, brown coat, she clutched a bulging tote bag to her chest. Snowflakes dotted her shoulder-length dark hair, the white specks melting into water beads that sparkled in the firelight. She set the tote on the floor, draped her coat over the back of her chair, then sat down. Her eyes skipped over him, but when she spotted Charlie, she smiled. Travis waited for her to make eye contact with him, but instead she rummaged through the tote on the floor.
Travis wasn't a vain man, but working on an oil rig in the middle of the ocean gave him a year-round tan and a muscular physique. Add in his dark black hair and killer smile and, more often than not, women noticed him. He wasn't sure if he should protest or laugh that he'd been passed over by plain Jane.
"Food will be right up," Beulah said, poking her head into the room. She switched her attention to the newcomer. "Sara, don't you ever take a break from grading papers?"
So plain Jane was a schoolteacher.
The lady chuckled at Beulah's comment, the husky sound conjuring up an image of a late-night necking session in the backseat of Travis's truck. That he'd find anything interesting about a woman who wasn't his usual type reminded Travis his love life of late had been dryer than Death Valley.
He'd had one long-term relationship in his thirty years—Charlie's mother. They'd dated for three years before Julie had become pregnant. He'd suggested they marry but Julie found one excuse after another to avoid a trip to the courthouse. A week after they'd brought Charlie home from the hospital, Julie had ditched them.
No note. No call. Just gone.
After Julie's betrayal, Travis had stuck to flings. His two-week work rotation on oil rigs made trusting a girlfriend out of the question. Affairs were clean, quick and emotionless. And right now, Travis had bigger problems than his love life. Once he took care of business with Dominick Cartwright, his first priority was finding a nanny to care for Charlie.
Once in a while Travis pondered what his life might be like if he didn't have Charlie to raise. Most days she was a good kid and he never regretted being a single father—mainly because his mother had done most of the parenting. Now the full responsibility of raising Charlie sat squarely on his shoulders and he'd never felt more unprepared for anything in his life.
"Here you go," Beulah said, delivering their food. She tweaked Charlie's nose, coaxing a half-smile from her. "Holler if you need anything else."
He took a bite of the burger and watched Charlie as she spooned cereal into her mouth. "How are the Froot Loops?"
Another shrug. The rest of the meal passed in silence. When Travis finished his burger, he said, "I'm going to use the restroom." He made it to the doorway when the schoolteacher's sultry laughter rang out. He checked over his shoulder, but the woman was engrossed in the schoolwork she'd brought with her. Maybe he'd imagined the sound.
When he entered the restroom, he did a three-sixty in front of the mirror. No embarrassing stains or rips in his jeans. No kick me note stuck to his sweatshirt. What had the schoolteacher found so damned funny?
When the hunky man returned to the parlor, Sara pretended interest in her second-graders' spelling tests. Through veiled eyes, she studied the man, noting his bare ring finger. She wondered if he was the little girl's father. Uncle? Family friend? The absence of a bowlegged walk confirmed he was no cowboy, but his muscular build and deeply tanned face suggested he made his living outdoors.
The imp fidgeted in her seat, peeking at Sara every few seconds. Oh, dear. The child realized she had an audience. When Beulah delivered her meal, Sara nodded toward the other diners and whispered, "Who are they?"
"Came up from Houston to visit the little girl's granddaddy." Beulah motioned to Sara's coffee mug. "More?"
"Thanks."
Sara had just taken a bite of corn bread when Mr. Coppertone bent to pick up his napkin from the floor.
The girl stuck out her tongue, wiggling the appendage like a worm on a fishhook. Sara giggled, but looked away before the child caught her staring. Her resolve to ignore the comedian lasted less than a minute. When she glanced up, two white straws protruded from the girl's nose. Sara awarded her an A for creativity—the walrus face was priceless.
The man stopped playing with his cell phone and scowled. "That's not funny, Charlie."
Charlie. Unusual name for a girl.
"Take the straws out of your nose." His deep voice boomed. "Now."
The troublemaker pointed at Sara. "She thinks I'm funny."
Oh, you little stinker. Sara resisted the urge to duck her head. She offered a friendly smile, but the man's scowl remained in place.
"I don't care if the world thinks you're hilarious. Finish your cereal."
"I want to go home." The pint-size rascal crossed her arms over her chest and pouted.
"Too late to turn back now. We're in this for keeps."
His words coaxed a quiet sigh from Sara. What she wouldn't give to find a handsome man who wanted to be in it for keeps with her.
The gravel road leading to the Lazy River Ranch felt like a dark, endless tunnel. Travis battled another round of second thoughts as they bumped along the path. Should he have phoned and given the old man a heads-up about his and Charlie's visit? Or should he have waited until after the holidays to drop in? He shoved his worries aside. Dominick Cartwright didn't deserve any courtesies from him.
What if your father didn't know you existed all these years?
Travis had considered the possibility, but it was easier to assume Dominick had wanted nothing to do with him than to believe his mother—the woman who'd raised him single-handedly all these years—had denied him a relationship with his father.
"When are we gonna be there?"
No sooner had Charlie spoken than the ranch house came into view. Halogen lights lit the circular drive crowded with cars. Damn, he'd crashed a party. He parked by the empty coral.
From a distance, the barn appeared old but in pristine condition. He'd have expected an oil baron to possess a state-of-the-art aluminum-sided structure with central air and all the high-tech stuff. Maybe the small cattle herd they'd driven past was just for show. He switched his attention to the house. Light poured through the windows of the white two-story home with a wraparound porch.
"Well, I'll be," he mumbled when a hound dog limped from around the corner of the house.
Charlie unsnapped her seat belt and pressed her nose to the windshield. "What's wrong with him?"
"Probably just old."
"He looks sad."
The dog barked once, swished its tail, then disappeared inside the barn. "I guess that means we're welcome."
"Aren't we going in?" Charlie asked.
How did a father explain to his little girl that he was scared spitless?
You're doing this for Charlie.
If he could fool himself into believing that, then he wouldn't have to acknowledge his own need to know if he'd ever mattered to the man who'd sired him. The decision to stay or leave was taken out of his hands when the front door opened and two men stepped outside. They stood beneath the porch light and stared in Travis's direction. A moment later, they shuffled down the steps and headed across the driveway.
"Stay put, Charlie." Travis cut the engine and got out of the truck. One man walked with a cowboy swagger, the other possessed the steady gait of a confident businessman.
As they drew near, the swaggering cowboy spoke. "Need directions?"
Hardly. "I'm here to see Dominick Cartwright."
Both men stopped a few yards away. Travis didn't blame them for being cautious. He suspected all kinds of kooks claimed they had business with Dominick Cartwright in hopes of getting their hands on his millions. "Got a name?" the businessman asked.
"Travis Cartwright from Houston, Texas."
Right then the front door opened again and an elderly gentleman stepped outside. There was no doubt in Travis's mind that the man was Dominick Cartwright. He stood tall and straight with dark hair and a white mustache. "Matt? What's going on out there?" He headed toward the group.
"Duke and I will take care of it, Dad!" the cowboy shouted.
Travis's mother hadn't mentioned a third child in her diary entries, so he had no idea who Duke was, but the cowboy must be Matt—his mother had mentioned an older brother by that name. As his father drew closer, Travis suddenly wanted to run. To pretend he'd never learned of his mother's secret. To reject the idea that he was part of a family he hadn't known existed most of his life.
Charlie hopped out of the truck and joined Travis, sliding her hand into his. He squeezed his daughter's fingers embarrassed by the need for her support.
Despite the fact that there must be more than thirty years difference in their ages, the old man's chiseled face was a dead ringer for the one that met Travis in the mirror each morning. They shared the same nose, high cheekbones and thick, black eyebrows. If there was any doubt, the pronounced Adam's apple sealed the deal.
"Dominick Cartwright?" Travis said, cursing the break in his voice.
The old man stiffened. "Who are you?"
Disappointment stabbed Travis, but he squelched the feeling. Now was not the time to feel. "Travis Cartwright. According to my mother, Charlotte Keegan-Cartwright, I'm your son."
Dominick stumbled back and the other men steadied him. Masculine hands covered in a network of thick veins clenched into fists. He opened his mouth, then shut it so tightly his lips vanished beneath the mustache as he stared at Travis.
Unfazed by the tension between the adults, Charlie asked, "Are you my grandpa?"
Before Dominick had a chance to answer, Duke said, "Help Dad inside, Matt."
Travis's brother took Dominick's arm and led him away. Once the two were out of earshot, Duke said, "You better be for real or you'll have a lot to answer for."
试读结束[说明：试读内容隐藏了图片]