“Sit down, Elise,” Johnny said. “I need to tell you something.”
I sat across from him and waited, expecting a lecture of some sort. CJ’s illness had aged Johnny; his hair was grayer, and deep lines edged his eyes and mouth. But his eyes retained that deep sapphire blue his children inherited, including me. And he was still an authoritative, intimidating man. Oddly, though, I felt no fear while I waited for him to speak. But his first words surprised me.
“I’m sorry,” he said. That was all.
What was I supposed to say? What was he sorry for? I had no idea, because I’d never heard him say those words before. Not to anyone. Johnny was always right—at least in his own mind—so how could he be sorry for anything?
“That’s it?” I asked. “That’s all you wanted to say to me? Because those words don’t mean much without something to pin them on. What exactly are you sorry for?”
He ran a hand through his hair in a rare sign of uncertainty. I just waited, not knowing what to expect. Finally . . .
“I’m sorry for the way I’ve treated you, my own daughter. Damn, but those words are hard to say, because I’ve always thought of you as Jim’s daughter. Not mine. I deliberately kept you at a distance for Jim’s sake, and Lisa’s. I intended to keep their secret forever, but it all fell apart when you and Trey got involved. Then I was angry—at you, at him, at fate? Hell, I don’t know. I guess I was just scared of what could happen if the secret ever got out.”
I stared at him. Scared? The fearless Johnny Larson? It was my turn to be speechless.
He seemed to read my mind. “You think I’ve never been scared? Elise’s illness terrified me. So did the prospect of raising our boys without her. I’ve been scared many times. And now this thing with CJ . . .”
He shook his head. “I always hide my fear behind my arrogance and pride, which is what I’ve done with you and Trey. Instead of trying to help, I shut both of you out. I’m sorry.”
Say something, I thought. But what? While my mind searched for words, he went on.
“I also want to thank you, Elise. For being CJ’s donor. That took a lot of courage, knowing what could happen if your true relationship to your cousins ever gets out. But you did it anyway, out of love for CJ. I am thankful and proud. Proud to call you my daughter.”
Johnny stood up and so did I. We came together in the middle of that room, where he took me in his arms and held me for the first time in my life. I was still speechless, but no words were needed. His words—and his love—were enough.
I completed my final exams on May 7th, reasonably certain I’d passed all of them. I was looking forward to a three-month break before fall classes started in August.
CJ started showing some signs of improvement that week. Even though the new stem cells had not engrafted yet, the strong antibiotics were successfully conquering the worst of the infections. His fever was down, the mouth sores were beginning to heal, and he was showing no signs of graft-versus-host disease or graft failure, either of which could occur at any time and potentially lead to death. But we decided not to dwell on that as we celebrated the progress he was making. Assuming he continued to improve, his doctors planned to discharge him in another week or so.
With that positive news, our family gradually moved out of Daddy’s house to return to their own homes and lives. Grandma wanted to move in with Stacey to help care for CJ when he came home, but we finally convinced her to go home to Ontario with Johnny. At ninety, Grandma was too old to take on the role of caregiver (but no one dared tell her so). Stacey and CJ could afford to hire a nurse if needed.
I was the last to leave Daddy’s house, packing up my things on May 16th, exactly one month since CJ’s transplant. I was anxious to go home to our apartment, where I could resume a normal life with Trey and enjoy a relaxing summer.
Coming downstairs with my laptop and suitcase, I found Daddy at the kitchen table, his hands wrapped around a coffee mug. He looked up when I entered.
“Care to join me?” he asked. “It’s fresh.”
“Sure.” I set down my things, poured myself a cup, and sat across from him. The windows of the kitchen nook provided a perfect view of my mother’s flower garden, once more ablaze with a colorful profusion of peonies, coral bells, columbine, and her fabulous roses. Daddy followed my gaze.
“I miss her every day,” he said, “but especially at this time of year. I can still see her out there on her hands and knees, happily planting, pruning and weeding. She had such a talent for making things grow and flourish.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “She did. She made everything happy.”
His gaze returned to me. “What about you, Elise? Are you happy?”
“If that’s a general question, yes. I’m happy CJ is alive and improving. I’m happy I passed my final exams. I’m happy I get three months off to kick back and relax for a change. But I have a feeling your question is a bit more specific.”
He nodded. “Are you happy with Trey?”
I sipped my coffee and pondered how to answer. My relationship with Trey had created a breach between Daddy and me, and I wasn’t sure how to heal it with words he could understand and accept. I decided to keep it simple.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m very happy. Trey completes me. He makes me whole. When we were separated, I was just half a person. And half a person can never be happy. I know you don’t understand or accept it, and I’m sorry about that. But I can’t live my life to ease your guilt and your fear.”
He reached across the table and took my right hand, lightly running his thumb across the ring on my third finger, the symbol of my union with Trey. “Have you no guilt or fear?” he asked.
“Guilt? No. Our love has no room for guilt. We are not damned in the eyes of God. Fear? Sometimes. Because the laws of men condemn us. But we refuse to live in fear. We live only in love.”
He released my hand and looked straight at me. “All right, then,” he said. “All right.”
That was all. But it was enough.
Chapter 30
T rey and I happily slipped into a laid back routine as May yielded to June. He taught summer session classes in the morning, leaving the rest of our days free to enjoy whatever we felt like doing. We explored museums and the public market, strolled through the botanical gardens, hiked along the trails in Hills Gulch Reserve, picnicked in Julia Davis Park, and added several new restaurants to our list of favorites.
Trey ran on the Boise Greenbelt every day, with me sometimes accompanying him on my bicycle—the only way I could keep up with him. One day we almost collided with Peter when he rode past us at full speed, not even glancing at me (though I’m sure he recognized us).
We usually spent evenings on our balcony, quietly talking or just sitting in silence, watching the sun go down over Quinn’s Pond. When darkness settled in, we retreated to our bedroom for hours of joyous sex. We were young and in love. We were a normal, happy couple.
But we could only be normal in private. Heeding CJ’s warning about “flaunting” our relationship, we assumed a public persona as soon as we stepped outside, always careful not to touch or look at each other the way lovers do. But we couldn’t disguise our close physical resemblance—that “twin” thing—which often attracted notice. Essentially, we were hiding in plain sight.
Because of our need for secrecy, our social life was almost nonexistent. Trey occasionally went out to lunch with fellow professors, but he never invited them to our home and declined invitations to theirs for casual get-togethers. We could never be regarded as a couple. Not by anyone. Daddy was our only company, joining us for dinner once a week as his attitude thawed. I welcomed his presence and growing acceptance.
I visited CJ several times a week, sometimes with Trey and sometimes alone. Thankfully, the new stem cells had engrafted and were starting to make white blood cells, reducing the risk of infections.
CJ finally left the hospital to continue his recovery at home, cared for by Stacey and a part-time nurse named
Frances Parker—a middle aged woman who seemed pleasant enough. CJ faced a long road to full recovery, but at least he was headed in the right direction.
Knowing I could never have children but needing to soothe my maternal instinct, I decided to adopt a kitten—a darling gray tabby with a distinctive “M” on her forehead. I named her Emma, after a similar cat CJ had when he was small.
It was love at first sight. Our six-week-old baby soon had us catering to her every whim. Though she had her own comfy bed, she much preferred ours, thank you very much. Cold milk? Heavens—what were we thinking? Warm milk tastes so much better! Dry cat food? Seriously? Only “wet” food in the spendy little cans was good enough for her. We were total pushovers from day one, but we thoroughly enjoyed our role as “cat parents” (except for the litter box part).
Blissful complacency buried my remaining fears as June melted into the hot days of July. Life is perfect, I thought, relaxing on our balcony’s chaise lounge one morning, an unopened book by my side and a warm ball of fur on my belly. Life can’t get much better than this.
My naked toes curled at the memory of our lovemaking the night before, when we’d tried something totally new. Trey never ran out of ideas, thanks to his brilliant mind. I loved his mind. And his body. I loved the whole beautiful package.
It was almost noon. I expected him home from the university soon. Our picnic lunch was all prepared, waiting on the kitchen counter for our planned outing to Ann Morrison Park, where lunch would be followed by a bike ride along the river.
My cell phone buzzed in the pocket of my shorts, waking Emma from her snooze. I reached for it, thinking Trey was calling to say he’d be a bit late. I was wrong. It was Quinn.
“Don’t believe a word of it,” he said without preamble. “It’s all a pack of lies.”
I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about. “What lies? Where are you?”
“In L.A. Holy crap, Elise! Don’t you watch TV? It’s all over the news.”
“What is? Quinn, are you drunk?”
“Hell, no, I’m not drunk. Just turn on the damn TV!”
Scooping up Emma, I padded into the living room, plopped her onto the sofa and flicked on the remote, scrolling to CNN.
“Just something about the president’s trip to China,” I said. “What . . .”
“Wait. Just wait.”
I waited. Less than a minute later, there it was. There he was—an image on the screen in front of me as the news anchor described the scene.
“Quinn Larson, NFL superstar, is shown leaving Los Angeles Police Department Headquarters earlier this morning, where he was reportedly questioned by Idaho investigators regarding the alleged rape of a woman in a Boise hotel in March. Our sources tell us . . . we’re still waiting for confirmation of . . . Mr. Larson is refusing to speak with reporters . . .”
As I watched in shock, Quinn shoved his way through a curious crowd and ducked into a limousine that sped away from the scene. My mind was spinning, refusing to grasp what I’d heard. Rape? Quinn?
“Elise? You still there?” His voice got through to me.
“I’m here. Is this true?”
“It’s true they tried to question me. I didn’t say a damn thing. Not without my lawyer. The rest is all lies. Just a load of bullshit. Rape? Me? With women practically lining up for a good time with Quinn Larson? All that Boise bitch wants is a payoff. Some of my hard-earned money. But she won’t get a dime. Not one cent. When my lawyer is through with her . . .”
“Where are you now?”
“In my suite at the Ritz-Carlton. My lawyer just flew in from Minneapolis. Should be here any minute. He’ll straighten this shit out in no time. Christ, what a hassle!”
A hassle? I thought. That’s all this is to you? “Have you called Johnny?” I asked.
“No. Why would I call Johnny? Think I want one of his lectures at this point? Hell, he’ll probably believe I raped that woman.”
“Why did you call me? What can I do?”
“I need you and Trey to back me up about that night. I spent most of it with you, remember? If they question you . . . hold on. Sorry, Elise. Got to go. My lawyer’s here. I’ll talk to you later, kid.”
Trey found me ten minutes later, curled up on the sofa next to Emma with the cell phone still in my hand. He took one look and knelt in front of me, brushing a sweep of hair from my face.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Are you ill?”
“No. Yes. Quinn called. He’s in trouble.”
Trey released an exasperated breath. “What’s he done now? A DUI? Drunk and Disorderly?”
“Worse.” I told him about the alleged rape on the night Quinn was kicked out of The Grove—the night he came to our apartment, drunk out of his mind.
Trey stood up and walked to the sliding windows, looking at a summer day that had suddenly lost its beauty. “We can’t get involved in this,” he said. “An investigation of a major crime involving the famous Quinn Larson? How could we stay under the radar through something like that? Our relationship . . .”
“Surely it won’t come to that. Quinn said the woman is lying, hoping to get money from him. He’s certain his lawyer can fix this.” I got up and walked over to him, wrapping my arms around his waist. “Quinn’s been in trouble before, and it’s always blown over.”
“This is rape, Elise. Rape doesn’t usually blow over.”
“You’re wrong. It usually does. Most rape cases are never prosecuted. Remember Ben . . .”
“Yeah. But Ben was not an NFL star. This will be a media circus, and we’ll be caught in the middle of it. Damn him!”
“Don’t say that,” I admonished. “After all, Quinn is our brother. And he’s no rapist. I’m sure this will all work out.”
But I sounded more sure than I felt. I’d never thought Ben was capable of rape until that terrible night when he’d raped me, and Quinn was a lot like Ben: big, handsome, aggressive, with a vast sense of self-esteem and entitlement. If he was drunk and a woman pushed the wrong buttons, made him angry enough . . .
No. Not Quinn. I knew him too well. He was part of me, like Trey and CJ. Blood of my blood. If Quinn said the woman was lying, she was lying. Wasn’t she?
Then I remembered how I’d felt when I’d accused Ben and no one believed me. Perhaps I was doing the same thing to this woman, automatically assuming she was making things up. I didn’t know what to think.
No longer interested in a picnic by the river, we ate our sandwiches at the kitchen counter, not saying much. “We should call Johnny,” I finally suggested. “He’ll be at work, but we should tell him before someone else does.”
“Go ahead. You know more about it than I do.”
Which isn’t much, I thought as the call connected. Johnny answered on the first ring and didn’t say a word while I told him about Quinn. When I was through, he said just three words: “God help us.” That was all.
Whatever God was doing that day, he wasn’t helping us. Just when we thought the news couldn’t get worse, it did. In addition to accusing Quinn of rape, the woman had another claim: she was pregnant with Quinn Larson’s baby.
Accompanied by his attorney and his “PR guy,” Quinn flew by private jet from L.A. to Boise that evening, determined to “clear up this mess,” as he grumpily put it when he called me from the airport.
Pushing their way through a throng of reporters and fans to a waiting car, Quinn and his companions were whisked to luxurious penthouse suites in the Inn at 500 Capitol (The Grove was no longer an option). With a full kitchen, dining area, living room and two separate bedrooms, Quinn would be very comfortable while the “mess” was cleared up. (The lawyer and PR guy were relegated to an adjacent suite.)
The hotel was just a five-minute drive to our apartment, but we hoped he would not decide to visit us. We needed to stay well below Quinn’s radar.
Reporters and fans followed Quinn to the hotel, gathering at the front entrance for any scrap of news or a possible sighting. To appease t
hem—as well as disgruntled hotel staff and guests—Quinn’s lawyer agreed to make a statement for the ten o’clock news. Trey and I watched on TV as Charles Belknap—a portly, silver-haired man—stepped from the lobby, accompanied by a younger man I assumed was Quinn’s PR guy. Belknap grabbed a microphone and got right to the point.
“Allow me to emphatically state that my client, Mr. Quinn Larson, is innocent of any alleged crime or wrongdoing. In particular, he totally disavows the claims made by a Miss Amelia Parker regarding his actions on the night of March 18th in this city. At the request of investigators, he has voluntarily returned to Boise to answer questions pertaining to this matter in a truthful and upright manner, certain the facts will support his innocence. Until then, I ask that you respect his privacy.”
Reporters shouted a flurry of questions: How long will the investigation take? Will he be arrested? Where is Miss Parker now? Is she really pregnant? Ignoring the questions, Belknap handed the mike to the PR man and reentered the hotel. I turned the TV off, uninterested in the wild speculations of the news media.
Trey looked at me. “You’re the lawyer,” he said. “What do you think? What happens next?”
I wasn’t a lawyer yet, but I’d studied enough criminal law to know something of the process. “I assume Amelia Parker filed a report, which triggered this investigation. The police must be taking it seriously enough to fly down to L.A. to question Quinn. They got nothing from him there, but they’ll dig in hard now that he’s in Boise.”
“How hard?”
“Hard enough to justify an arrest warrant. This is Quinn Larson we’re talking about—a nationally famous sports figure. Investigators will make sure they have sufficient evidence to justify an arrest before they take this to the DA’s office. Besides any forensic evidence, they’ll question anyone who had contact with Quinn that night: his party guests, hotel staff, and us.”
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