Beneath the Patchwork Moon (A Hope Springs Novel Book 2)

by Alison Kent

  “No, she’s not. But if you’d tell her Luna Meadows is here—”

  “I’m surprised you’d think giving me your name would get you an audience, Ms. Meadows,” Merrilee Gatlin said, stepping from her sitting room into the foyer, her heels striking the marble sharply. With a wave of her hand, she dismissed the man who had responded to Luna’s knock. “We’ll finish going over my calendar this afternoon, Tod.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and he very nearly bowed. “I’ll be in my office.”

  Luna watched Tod retreat down the hallway, wondering whether it was part of his job to keep the riffraff away. “I’m surprised you’d think I’d try to see you under false pretenses.”

  “The way you got in to see my son?” The older woman’s arched brow lifted almost into her hairline. “Without so much as a courtesy call to let me know of your intention to visit?”

  This was where Luna wanted to point out the lack of courtesy she was being given here on the front porch, but on that she kept her silence. “What I had to say to Oscar was for his ears alone. And I understand that he most likely didn’t hear me. That doesn’t mean I didn’t need to say it to him.”

  Oscar’s mother considered her for a long moment, her gaze dropping to the box Luna held. No doubt it was curiosity over the worn leather case embossed with the St. Thomas Preparatory School logo that finally gained her entrance into the Gatlin home. She stepped inside. Mrs. Gatlin closed the door, gesturing for her to move into the sitting room. It was the closest room to the front of the house. And that was fine. Luna wasn’t here for a tour.

  Oliver was sitting in one of the two wingback chairs, legs crossed, a tablet PC on his lap. As if he’d been reading the news or a book, or checking his stocks, and just happened to be doing so in what was surely the most uncomfortable room in the house. Chilly while at the same time cloying, all white floral chintz, the furniture, the walls, the paintings, with navy and green the only accents.

  Luna promised herself never to weave anything in just those three colors.

  Oliver swiped a finger over the gadget’s screen, minimizing whatever he’d been viewing before setting it on the table at his side. He got to his feet when his mother entered. “Miss Meadows. Are you here about our last conversation?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes,” she said, and couldn’t deny the sense of satisfaction she felt when Oliver frowned and fell speechless, dropping back to his chair once his mother had arranged her skirt to sit.

  Merrilee looked from her son to Luna, indicating she should use the settee. It was stiff and uncomfortable, and very likely stuffed with horsehair. Luna didn’t care. She didn’t plan to stay long, and she would never be comfortable here. “I’ve been going through the things the Caffeys left when they moved, and earlier today I found this box. The things inside will answer a lot of your questions.”

  “And what questions would those be?” Merrilee asked.

  “About the weekend of the accident. Why Oscar was where he was when it happened. Why he and Sierra were together when they shouldn’t have been.” Luna dropped her gaze from Merrilee’s to the box with Sierra’s initials, squeezing her hands into fists before flipping the latch to open it. She set the music CD on the table, along with the letter Oscar had addressed to his parents.

  Then, just as she heard Merrilee’s sharp intake of breath, she added the sonogram photo and the orange booties. “Sierra was almost nine months pregnant at the beginning of our senior year. The weekend of the accident, she delivered the baby.”

  Beneath two bright circles of rouge, Merrilee’s face blanched to the color of bone. “What do you mean, she delivered the baby?”

  “Oscar and Sierra had a child. Together. They gave it up for adoption.”

  “Just a moment.” Merrilee pressed her fingertips to her throat as she swallowed. “Are you telling me I have a grandchild? A Gatlin child, who is living with someone else?”

  Oh, the arrogance. “She’s not a Gatlin child any longer. She has a family of her own. A life of her own. She’s ten years old.” Luna faltered, then stumbled beneath the building waves of emotion as they swept over her. “And if you hadn’t been more insistent on Oscar doing things the Gatlin way instead of allowing him to live the life he wanted, your granddaughter might be here with you now.”

  “If I have a granddaughter,” Merrilee said, anger like ice shards in her voice, “she will be with me. I’ll have my attorney—”

  “Mother, no,” Oliver said, rubbing at his forehead, as if the puzzle pieces he’d found in the ravine were clicking into place. “This isn’t a matter for attorneys.”

  “What are you saying, Oliver? Of course it is.” She turned in her chair, her hands gripping the arms. “This child needs us. She’s your niece. Your father’s granddaughter. My granddaughter. Your only brother’s little girl.”

  “No.” He shook his head, his expression pained and sorrowful, and nearly breaking Luna’s heart. “She belongs to, belongs with the family who adopted her.”

  “She’s a Gatlin,” Merrilee said, nearly spitting out the name.

  “She’s a Smith. Or a Jones. Or maybe even a Caffey. And we’ll never know,” Oliver said, clearing his throat, blinking the moisture from his eyes.

  Merrilee turned on Luna then. “Why? Why would you do this to me?”

  Why, indeed. Did giving this woman such devastating news make her happy? Did it make up for all the pain she and her husband had caused the Caffey family? “Because it’s the truth. You’ve painted Sierra as a slut and ruined both Mike’s and Carlita’s reputations. You ran the Caffey family out of town, and why? Because you didn’t know the truth. You couldn’t bring yourself to believe that your son was in this relationship because it was where he wanted to be. He loved Sierra. She was his life. Not you. Not whatever you think it means to be a Gatlin.”

  “How dare you—”

  “Mother, enough,” Oliver said, rising. “I think Ms. Meadows deserves the floor.”

  But his mother was shaking her head. “I refuse to believe any of what she says.”

  “You don’t have to believe it,” Luna reminded her. “You have Oscar’s letter, which I’m certain will tell you the same thing.”

  “I’m sure these were a joke,” Merrilee said, waving a dismissive hand over the items Oscar and Sierra had so carefully, so lovingly put away. “A prank. I know Oscar wasn’t always happy with the restrictions we placed on him, and on you, Oliver. I’m sure he did this to strike back.”

  Luna could not believe the woman’s gall. “He did this to show you what he couldn’t tell you with words. He was a musician. An artist. This is as much a part of him as his child. As much a part of him as he is a part of you.”

  She got to her feet. “I want you to leave.”

  “Mother—”

  “No, Oliver. I want her to go.”

  “That’s fine,” Luna said, carefully repacking the box.

  “You leave all of that,” Merrilee ordered.

  There wasn’t enough money in the world. “The letter is yours. The rest of these things belong to me. I bought the property as well as the buildings and their contents.”

  “I’m sure Luna wouldn’t mind making copies,” Oliver said, and Luna nodded, silently thanking Oliver for being so unexpectedly kind.

  “I want the originals,” Merrilee said, demanded. “They are mine,” she added, then collapsed into her chair, and while Oliver tended to her, ringing for tea, lifting her legs onto an ottoman and sitting beside her, holding her hand, Luna quietly made her escape.

  Angelo wanted to kick himself. He should’ve gone with Luna to begin with. He should’ve ignored her when she told him she needed to see the Gatlins alone. He shouldn’t have let that happen. He didn’t know who was inside, if it was just Oliver and his mother, or if Luna was having to tell their son’s story to Orville Gatlin, too. Or if Merrilee had an entourage, a half circle of pinched faces disapproving behind her, shoring her up, damning Luna for being alive.

/>   Sierra had been right about one thing: Angelo had never known a braver woman in his life than Luna Meadows. He couldn’t say with any certainty that in her shoes, he would’ve made this decision—to pull into the open this festering wound that desperately needed to heal. He’d had ten years to come clean, but he’d been eaten up with guilt, and feared his parents learning about Sierra’s pregnancy would hurt them more than living with her death. What good could come of their knowing?

  Luna had made him see things differently. His family not knowing the whole story wasn’t fair to her. She’d taken the brunt of so much anger… from his parents, from the Gatlins. And he hadn’t been innocent, the way he’d treated her, the things he’d thought—and all because he hadn’t known the truth. Telling his family was no guarantee of forgiveness, and not for a minute did he think he could ever get back what he’d lost, but Luna was right: the air had to be cleared for the healing to begin.

  He’d kept the secret of the pregnancy, but this had blossomed into so much more. Sierra and Oscar were leaving Hope Springs. Sierra and Oscar had gotten married. Sierra and Oscar had given their baby away. Without being able to see the entire picture, how could anyone know what to feel, or begin to understand?

  Movement in front of him had him pushing off the car where he’d been leaning. The box of Sierra’s things clutched to her chest, Luna walked down the sidewalk from the Gatlins’ front porch to the driveway where he waited, parked on the far side of her car, out of sight. He couldn’t even imagine how close to the edge Luna’s anxiety had driven her. Her head was down, her steps hurried. Then behind her, the Gatlins’ front door opened. Oliver hurried out and down the walk toward her, calling, “Luna, wait, please.”

  She stopped. Angelo pushed off his car, took two steps toward the sidewalk before Luna looked up and saw him. He stayed where he was when she held up one hand before turning to Oliver. Stayed and sweated and spewed a hateful tirade in his mind. If these people had hurt Luna, so help him…

  But Oliver was hanging his head, his hands at his hips, repentant. His voice was low, leaving Angelo to imagine what he was saying, what he wanted, what wool he was trying to pull over her eyes. But then the other man lifted his head, and Luna reached out with one hand, placing it on his arm and rubbing as if comforting him. They both nodded, an awkward departure, before Oliver returned to the house and Luna continued to her car.

  He met her there, asking, “What did he want?”

  “Nothing. I’ll tell you later. I need to… go somewhere. Can you come with me? Follow me?”

  “Sure. Where are we going?”

  “Don’t ask me anything right now, please. I just…” She waved him off, her eyes hidden behind large sunglasses. “I’ll tell you everything, but I need to get out of here. And I need you with me.”

  “Sure,” he said, something full and possessive lodged in his chest. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Losing Oscar killed me, but knowing what he felt for Sierra… It doesn’t make the loss any easier, but I had no idea of any of what they’d planned. How she felt about him. That she wasn’t using him. I can’t believe they had a child. I just can’t.… I’m sorry. I’ve been an ass.

  Oliver Gatlin’s words played over and over in Luna’s mind on the drive from his home to the far side of Hope Springs. There the old textile warehouses had stood solid for over a century not far from the Guadalupe River. Oscar had been her friend, but not once had she sensed any of his endearing humanity in his brother. Until today. Today it was as if the pin of her truth had poked through the skin of his loathing and popped it.

  I want to help with the academy. Anything I can do. Money. Connections. Cash the check I gave you. If you got rid of it, I’ll write you another. I’ll double the amount. Just tell me what you need. It’s yours, and without my mother getting in the way.

  What she needed was to have all of this put behind her: the lies, the waiting for the other shoe to drop. To reach the end of a decade of deception without everyone writing her off, hating her. What she needed Oliver Gatlin couldn’t give her. But Angelo Caffey could. Even if it was just in this moment, just for today, just this one time. Even if she was the only one in love.

  Glancing in her rearview mirror, she saw his rental car close behind, saw one of his hands gripping his wheel, saw the aviator sunglasses he wore hiding his eyes. Saw, too, the hard set of his jaw as he bore down on her. Her stomach began to tingle. The tingles rose, breathing grew difficult, and her chest ached. And then the tiny tickling sensation became bolder, traveling lower in her body to make itself known.

  This wasn’t part of her plan for today, but everything inside of her was stirred into a froth and she had to let it out, and she needed Angelo. Oh, she needed him, her Angel, her love. Whether or not he shared the things she felt… she didn’t care. It didn’t matter. Losing herself in him, with him, was the only cure for this anxiety, this alarming sense of consuming disquiet. This debilitating fear that he’d leave her again. She couldn’t bear the thought of that happening.

  Once at her loft, she unlocked the freight elevator and lifted the grate, waiting for him to join her before closing it and punching the panel for the fourth floor. He stood silently leaning against one wall. She stood silently leaning against the opposite. The only sound was that of the ancient car grinding through the torturous climb.

  All too soon they’d reached their destination, and she knew there was no going back. She stepped into her new home and crossed the big room, leaving Angelo to follow while she caught her breath. While she thought about having him here with her, not just now but permanently. Did he have any idea how she felt about him? How could he, when she’d only recently admitted it to herself? Unless somehow he’d been aware of what she’d tucked soundly away…

  “Is this your new place?” he asked from behind her.

  His voice echoed, but she placed him near the long wall between two of the big front windows. “It is. I just got the key on Wednesday.”

  “When do you move in?”

  “As soon as I find the time.” They were exchanging banalities, nothing more. She owned the loft outright. Her possessions were where they’d always been, in the only home she’d ever known. She could move anytime she wanted to. But she would never have this time with Angelo again. This time filled with deep reds and deeper purples and the deepest of blues. Swirls of passion, ribbons floating and wrapping her up, a dancer’s skirts swishing.

  She couldn’t stop herself, turning, walking, then running into his arms, hers going around his neck, bringing his head down, his mouth to hers. She was desperate and she didn’t care, because she needed this, needed him, needed to lose herself for a little while.

  He kissed her back, a frantic press of lips and teeth, of tongues seeking and finding and sliding to mate. He was greedy, his hands, his hips, but just as quickly as he started he set her away, his eyes dark and fiery. “Luna, what are you doing?”

  Please, please don’t let this go wrong… “If you have to ask, then I’m obviously doing it wrong.”

  “No, baby. You’re not.” He reached up, tugged on the point of hair brushing her chin. “I just need to know why. And that you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure,” she said, and then she was finished talking. She held his face, kissing his jaw, his chin, his neck, nipping at the skin of his throat, bruising him. Marking him as hers. She didn’t want to let him go, couldn’t let him go, and reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up his chest, over his head, and off.

  Then she buried her face against him and breathed, feeling his heartbeat, feeling her own, her cheeks damp, his skin damp, too, her tears salty on her tongue. Raising her head, she brought her hands to his chest, spreading out her fingers and flexing them. His skin was resilient, the muscles beneath firm. The hair dusting his chest a wedge of soft black.

  He reached for her wrists and shackled them. “I need you to be sure.”

  “I’ve never been more su
re.” It was a promise to him, to herself. “Not of anything. I want this. I want you.”

  Desperate mouths found heated skin, and hands reached and touched and grabbed tight. Clothing tore and fell, but only the bits and pieces necessary for flesh to find flesh. Belts and zippers, boots, denim jeans and a pair of rayon-and-wool-blend pants that had cost too much for how they were being discarded on the floor.

  Silk panties and cotton briefs, and then skin and a slick condom. Her smooth legs and his roughly haired, and firm muscles—hers—sculpted muscles—his—until her softest parts opened for his hardest and he pushed deep, taking her, claiming her, and stilled. They both stilled, Luna pinned to the wall at her back, her legs around his waist, his feet spread.

  He braced his weight against the bricks with one hand, used the other arm beneath her bottom to hold her. She couldn’t move, impaled, filled with him, anchored by him. Breached. Against her neck, his breath was damp, and hot, and ragged. His hair lay against her cheek, glossy strands the same color as hers, and now almost longer than hers, and so very thick and soft.

  He was thick elsewhere, and not soft at all, and he began to move, his thighs and his hips in motion as he rocked into her, pushed against her, held her still as he rubbed and ground and married his body to hers. Her thighs burned, and her back stung from the bite of the bricks through her blouse, and she didn’t care about any of the pain. All she knew was the pleasure. Angelo deep inside her, wrapped around her, holding her, loving her. Loving her. Loving her.

  All too quickly they finished, caught up in the moment’s fierceness and their need. Angelo pushed hard, shoving her tight to the wall. She swallowed the gasp of pain as her shoulders met brick, and gave in to the sensation sweeping her away, crying out his name, gripping his neck for fear of falling. He slipped from her soon after, and lowered her slowly to the floor, standing with his forehead on hers until his legs started to shake, too.

  They sat side by side after that, leaning against the wall, Luna in the crook of Angelo’s arm as she curled into his body, her knees bent and braced on his thigh. She spread her fingers over his belly, feeling the cord of muscles there, feeling the crisp hair, the smooth skin. She wanted him naked, not to make love with, but to touch, to feel, to learn. She wasn’t looking for his reaction; she knew how to elicit that.