It felt like yesterday.
“Darcy.”
The familiar voice prickled the skin on the back of her neck. She lowered the mug. It took all her courage to turn and face her mother.
The Honorable Rosalind Goodridge did not possess great beauty. Her cheekbones rose in chiseled peaks. Her face was slightly too long, and decidedly narrow. Yet the authority in her expression, combined with her regal posture, captivated anyone caught in her sphere. Deeper lines than Darcy remembered etched her forehead. Rosalind’s hair, swept up in a loose chignon, still resembled spun silver.
Darcy searched for an opener. Her throat closed.
Rosalind stepped into the kitchen. The barest hint of pleasure skimmed her eyes.
Snuffing it out, she tightened the sash of her robe. If waves of confusion buffeted her, she hid the emotion well.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
The dark emotion rising in her mother’s eyes threatened Darcy’s confidence.
“I heard about Emerson,” she said, grateful to have located her voice.
“How, might I ask?”
When she remained silent, impatience crossed Rosalind’s features. Taking care to keep her distance, she poured a cup of coffee, then reached for the milk. The teaspoon clattered against the rim of the cup. Stepping back, she slowly sipped.
Rancor brimmed in her voice when she spoke again. “So you’ve heard about my grandson. You still haven’t explained how the current situation is any of your concern. Why has his latest escapade brought you here?”
“I thought I should come, to . . .” Darcy faltered. To help? Offer solace? The complex reasons precluded a quick summation.
“I’ve asked you a question. Answer me.”
The chill descending between them made responding difficult. “When I heard Emerson was missing, I thought I should come back. I care about him too, and he’s been gone too long. I’m worried something may have happened to him.” She hesitated as her mother’s eyes narrowed. Angry now, she put a hard edge in her voice. “Stop looking at me like every word out of my mouth is suspect.”
“Isn’t it?”
Wounded, she held her ground. “I didn’t come to fight with you.”
“How refreshing.”
Trying again, she said, “How are you holding up?”
“What a ridiculous question.”
“I’m merely asking.”
“How do you think I’m managing? My grandson is out gallivanting in the woods. The police can’t find him. An eight-year-old, evading a squad of officers in one of the wealthiest jurisdictions in Ohio. My tax dollars at work.” Rosalind’s eyes lowered to the coffee mug gripped tight in her fist. She took a long sip, her features dulling with irritation. “A study in incompetence, the entire police force.”
“I can’t speak to the competency of the PD, but I wouldn’t characterize Emerson’s behavior as ‘gallivanting.’ A child doesn’t run off without good reason.”
The observation brewed storm clouds around her mother. “Thank you for that piercing insight,” she snapped. “You don’t know the first thing about Emerson.”
A direct blow, but Darcy tilted her chin. “You’re still angry with me,” she said with forced calm. An irony, since the muscles in her thighs were twitching and her knees felt loose. The desire to flee nearly started her feet moving. Squashing the impulse, she added, “I’m not here to rehash the past. I came because I’m worried about my nephew.”
“How do you have the gall to refer to him as your nephew?”
“Because he is.”
“Please spare me the fake concern. My grandson isn’t missing. He’s rebelling. An irrational pursuit you are more than familiar with. Yet another reason why I can’t abide having you underfoot, pretending you’re here to help me through a difficult ordeal. There is no difficult ordeal, only a stubborn little boy determined to get his way. This is merely Emerson’s latest attempt to—”
The tirade halted. Rosalind pressed a palm to her forehead. On her pale skin, splotches of red began forming.
Was she concerned she’d revealed too much? Regarding what, Darcy couldn’t guess. Her mother seemed to imply that Emerson’s latest disappearance was a planned event. A calculated ploy, for reasons still hidden. She was still trying to work it out when her mother’s voice lowered to a dangerous pitch.
“Don’t insult me by pretending you care about Emerson. Your nephew indeed. How can you refer to him as anything except what he is—a child who is nothing but a stranger to you? If you thought he mattered, you would have shown up before this.” With the skill of a seasoned jurist, Rosalind altered her line of attack. “Where have you been?”
“All over.”
“Clarification, please.”
“I’ve been moving around the East Coast.”
“You’re a drifter? Surely a woman with your level of education can find suitable work.”
Another jab, but Darcy squared her shoulders. They were on familiar ground with the thrust and parry of Rosalind’s line of questioning, the incisive drilling away for information as she wore down her opponent’s defenses until there was nothing left but her empty victory.
Darcy found the resolve to stiffen her spine. She was no longer a newly minted college graduate, beaten down by her mother’s accusations that she was careless and wild, a blemish on the Goodridge name. That she was indirectly responsible for the pregnancy that derailed her sister’s dreams of completing a bachelor’s degree and entering law school.
That she had all but committed murder on the night of the accident.
The stranglehold of regret never abated. Never faded or became manageable. She didn’t need her mother’s contempt as a reminder.
She was older now, with the emotional reserves to withstand the low punch. Darcy knew how to keep her temper in check. She never let people in, not with the wide-eyed trust of her stolen youth. Nor did she viciously push people away—not in the way her mother was driving her off now.
“I’m not a drifter.” Setting down her coffee, she crossed her arms. “I work management jobs in various industries—whatever suits my mood. I work hard, and I’ve always cared about Elizabeth’s son.”
“Why wait until now to come back?”
“Is that a rhetorical question? You know the reason.”
“No, Darcy. I don’t. I haven’t the faintest clue.”
The rejoinder struck like a bee sting. “How can you say that?” Dumbfounded, she wondered if her mother had purposely forgotten the argument on the night of the funerals. Sealed away the awful, scalding words in a corner of her mind.
Is it possible? No.
She sputtered, “You know why I left. And you certainly remember what you said when I came into the library and found you drinking. Found you drunk, actually. Why stand there pretending you don’t?”
With a bang, Rosalind set her mug on the counter. “Our memories of that night aren’t remotely similar.”
“You’re lying.”
“How dare you foist this on me? I haven’t the least insight into your motives—then or now. I can’t begin to guess why a young woman abandons her family. It’s beyond my understanding why you left the same night Elizabeth and Jack were laid to rest. Has it occurred to you that you’ve never visited their graves? Not once, Darcy. Not once in eight years. Aren’t you the least bit ashamed?”
“Of course I am.”
“It’s a little late for absolution. If you cared at all, you wouldn’t have moved away.”
“You didn’t leave me a choice.”
A brittle laugh escaped Rosalind, the sound hollow and irrepressibly sad. A light misting of tears glistened in her eyes, but she shook them off. Her pride had always been stronger than her heart.
“Are we back to blaming Mother?” she murmured. “I see. You’re too irresponsible to assume blame for your own failings.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Now who’s the liar?”
“
I’m not lying!” They were perilously close to an outright shouting match. Needing to bring down the temperature, Darcy added, “There’s no gain in rehashing this now.”
“Or ever, since we’ll never see eye to eye.”
“We’re both exhausted.” She glanced at the clock above the sink. “I’ve been driving most of the night. From what I understand, you haven’t slept at all.”
“Obviously not.”
“I’m sure Emerson will turn up soon.”
A hint of mockery slid across her mother’s features. “I’m well aware my grandson will return soon. I don’t need your reassurance.”
Refusing the bait, Darcy grappled with her composure. She was unbearably close to tears. A display of weakness would invite another verbal attack.
“Are you in your chambers this morning?” she asked. Rosalind’s docket was always full. Since she clearly viewed Emerson’s disappearance as little more than a prank, she’d leave soon for the courthouse. An obsession with punctuality demanded nothing less. “I’ll check in at the hotel in Chagrin Falls. Why don’t we talk again when you get home tonight? Hopefully Emerson will have returned by then.”
Rosalind’s lips curved, but no joy marked her face. “Ah. I see,” she murmured. “You aren’t as well informed as I presumed.”
“What do you mean?”
Her mother hesitated long enough for a sense of foreboding to steal through Darcy.
“I’m not in my chambers today,” Rosalind said. “Or any day, for that matter. I’ve agreed to an unwelcome retirement.”
Chapter 7
News of her mother’s retirement struck Darcy like a tidal wave.
The devotion Rosalind held to the law was absolute. From Darcy’s earliest memories, her mother had spent hours sequestered in the mansion’s library surrounded by leather-bound tomes, her reading glasses perched on her nose. At odd hours she arrived home or swept out of the mansion, her heels clacking across the marble foyer with unmistakable purpose. Rarely would she spend more than a few minutes with her two daughters, choosing instead to hurry to her chambers at the Geauga County Courthouse to prepare for upcoming cases or to meet with the prosecution and defense lawyers scheduled to appear in her court.
The predictable absences had seemed natural. Darcy’s equally successful father also worked long hours as a vascular specialist in Chagrin Falls. Elizabeth, younger than Darcy by a year, never complained if Dr. Jack Goodridge missed a school play or a recital. She barely noticed if he arrived home too late for dinner, which the girls shared in the kitchen with the doting Latrice. But the obedient and pliable Elizabeth—her mother’s favorite—often whined if the busy judge worked past the bedtime hour.
Now Rosalind had abandoned the law at the pinnacle of her career.
“When did you retire?” Darcy asked.
“Recently. I took a leave of absence, which I am now making permanent. The news will be announced next week.”
“That doesn’t make sense. You love your job.”
“It makes perfect sense. There are no cases on my docket, no meetings to attend. I’ve hung up my robes.”
“You said this is an unwelcome retirement.” As a judge in the court of common pleas, Rosalind served consecutive six-year terms. She always won reelection handily—or so Darcy thought. “Were you forced out because of politics?”
On the counter, tendrils of steam lifted from Rosalind’s coffee. Her fingers tightening around the mug, she took a leisurely sip. “Bravo, my dear.” From over the rim, she regarded Darcy with cold amusement. “You’ve held a line of questioning for ten seconds.”
“Stop baiting me. Explain why you gave up a career you love.”
“You’re asking me to trust you, and I don’t. You’re not honorable. You never were.”
The pronouncement scalded Darcy. Tears burned at the back of her eyes.
The front door slammed. Heavy footfalls padded down the corridor. Latrice entered the kitchen with her salt-and-pepper curls bouncing and her sexy robe billowing. She halted in the thick atmosphere brewing between mother and daughter.
Rosalind arched a brow. “Latrice, were you outside half-naked? You look like a lounge singer.”
“I’m not half-naked.” Latrice sized up her employer’s sedate robe and matching slippers with something less than approval. “Some of us don’t live our lives in monochrome. I like the color red.”
“Why don’t you get dressed?”
“Why don’t you?”
A squeak of protest rose from Rosalind’s lips. Eyes narrowing, she held her tongue.
Satisfied, Latrice swung her attention to Darcy. “Where’s Samson?” Her satisfaction vanished. Sniffing the air, she appeared to detect a foul odor.
“He’s still asleep in the car,” Darcy said.
Rosalind frowned. “Who is Samson?”
The query sank into the muddy silence. With ill-concealed worry, Latrice took stock of her employer’s pinched expression and the tight set of her jaw.
She pressed a palm to her heart. “What did I miss?”
“Nothing,” Rosalind snapped. “In fact, the conversation is over. My daughter is leaving.”
“Leaving? She just got here!”
“She’s leaving. Now.”
The harsh command pinged off Darcy’s brain.
Am I being ordered out? Dismissed, like a convicted felon?
Yes.
Every nerve ending in her body fired with the same message: Leave now.
It was impossible to follow through. The disbelief careening through her was stronger, an immobilizing force.
With a growl, Latrice leaped to her defense.
“I suppose we’re getting somewhere.” She squared off before Rosalind. “At least you’re admitting Darcy is your daughter. You’ve spent the last eight years acting like her name was banned from the English language. In case you haven’t noticed, she’s here to help. Can’t you be anything but mean to her?”
“Latrice, I suggest you refrain from questioning my personal decisions. As for how I behave, I don’t welcome or need your advice,” Rosalind said, waving off the attack as if her trusted housekeeper were nothing more than a bothersome fly. “My choices are none of your affair.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. This is my affair. I love Darcy—I love her nearly as much as you do, even if you’re too proud to understand your own heart. How much longer will you let your grief over losing Elizabeth twist inside you like a snake? I’m not sure you ever cared much about losing your husband, and Dr. Jack was a fine man. Not that you remember—not with all your grief stored up for our sweet, gentle Elizabeth.” When her furious employer sputtered in response, Latrice held up a warning finger. “Rosalind, don’t give me that look. I’ll know when I’ve crossed the line. I’m not even close. Are you going to stand there and pretend you don’t love your only surviving child? Shame on you!”
The outburst left the housekeeper trembling with emotion, her forehead glossing with perspiration. Rosalind fared no better. The splotches of color in her cheeks bled away.
Darcy rested a palm on Latrice’s back. “Thanks for sticking up for me.” A terrible thread of hope pulled her eyes to her mother’s. Her voice reduced to a childlike whisper, she asked, “Do you really want me to leave?”
Silence overtook the room. The question, unanswered, left a bitter taste in Darcy’s mouth, like smoke from an untended fire. Like ash sifting down on the carcass of a broken family.
Rosalind looked away.
The rejection hit with the force of a well-aimed fist. Numb with understanding, Darcy felt her world shift irrevocably. No love remained in her mother’s heart. There was nothing left but contempt.
Fending off tears, she walked out.
She felt like a fool for having come. Her mother didn’t possess the capacity to forgive. Rosalind Goodridge knew only how to hand down judgments. Unbending, willful—she didn’t possess the flexibility to grant their relationship a reprieve.
Blindl
y Darcy raced through the foyer. She flung open the door.
And nearly fell headlong into Michael Varano’s grandmother.
From the looks of it, time was marching right over Tippi. Wrinkles crisscrossed her leathery face. A black dress three sizes too large covered her shrinking bones. Beige support hose and low-heeled black pumps finished off the dowdy ensemble.
When Michael and Darcy were children, Michael had called his grandmother’s outfits her “Viva l’Italia” costumes.
At the sight of her grandson’s friend, Tippi’s jaw hung loose. Darcy scrambled for something to say. A greeting, an explanation—anything.
Instantly, the desire melted away. Her eyes swung to the boy Tippi hugged to a bony hip. Only an inch or two shorter than his diminutive protector, he was a beautiful child.
Wheat-colored locks fell across his brow. His nose was slightly too long, his mouth full and well carved. Intelligence gleamed in his mossy-green eyes, lifting now to study Darcy with interest and a bold air of disbelief.
“Aunt Darcy?” When she stared at him, speechless, he beamed. “You are my aunt . . . aren’t you? Latrice said you look like me. I thought she was kidding.” He flung himself at her waist. “We’re practically twins!”
The affection, coming on the heels of her mother’s dismissal, sent gratitude surging through Darcy. She wrapped the excited boy in a fierce embrace. A warm, woodsy scent rose from his scalp. The lightest emotion cartwheeled through her. Emerson bore an uncanny resemblance to her, but he smelled remarkably like his late mother. It was as if Elizabeth had left a lasting imprint on his very skin. A delightful discovery—a gift. Tightening her hold, Darcy rested her chin on the top of his head.
Her mother’s rejection didn’t matter. This—this immediate connection with her nephew—mattered greatly.
Her vision blurring, she resolved to keep Emerson in her life. Permanently. Nothing Rosalind might say would lessen her resolve.
The strength of her reaction wasn’t lost on her nephew. Giggling, he allowed her to lead him into a long embrace. Emerson clung to her with all his might. He was a shrimp, but he sure had some strength.
The Road She Left Behind Page 8
