His daughter’s words crystallized the uneasiness that had been dogging him, and he went stock-still, his fingers tightening on the phone.
Was it possible? Had he been so caught up in his guilt, in his own emotional whirlwind, that he hadn’t stopped to realize there might be another explanation for Bella’s absence besides how upset she’d been?
“I’m sure she’s fine,” he said in that parental instinct to soothe and protect. Bella was a strong, resourceful woman.
Who didn’t seem to need him anymore.
“She’s not answering her cell.”
True, but he’d thought she was simply ignoring him. He’d almost been relieved when she hadn’t answered, because he still had no idea what to say after the way they’d parted.
Urgency roared to life within him. “She hasn’t called Kara, either?” And why hadn’t he checked with Kara, except that he’d feared her assistant understood why Bella had left.
“Not once. I’m getting scared.” At twenty-three, Cele was small in stature, barely five foot two, her stature belying her strength of will. But now his exceptionally capable and driven daughter suddenly sounded eight years old.
He pictured the gamine features, so delicate beneath the cap of short blond hair, caramel eyes worried. “I’m sure everything’s all right, sweetheart, but I’ll keep trying your mother.” He didn’t want to allow even a hint of the sudden cramping in his gut to creep into his voice. The mere thought of Bella hurt or—
“Will you go to the police?”
He wanted to say no, to dismiss the notion as foolish. “If I don’t make contact this morning, yes. But only as a precaution. She’s probably reading a good book and forgot to turn on her phone. You know how she can be when she’s engrossed in a story.” And for a moment, he could picture her just that way, long legs curled beneath her.
Except that she hadn’t taken time for anything but work in months.
A huge fist of fear clenched his heart. What if she wasn’t simply angry but injured or—
Bella. Oh God, Bella. Where on earth are you?
“I’ll call you later, honey.”
“I’ll talk to Cam.” Cele’s voice quavered just a little, then she firmed it. “I bet you’re right. We’ll have a good laugh about it later. Add it to our share of Mama stories.”
“Yeah.” Bella’s unconventional behavior and unique view of the world had been a never-ending source of colorful anecdotes, providing hours of teasing when the four of them gathered.
But she hadn’t been spontaneous in a very long time.
A boulder-size lump jammed his throat, and it was all he could do to remind himself that there was every reason to hope Bella was simply off somewhere, sulking.
The Bella he’d loved didn’t sulk, though; she raged. Swore in two languages and threw dishes at the wall. Then cleaned them up cheerfully, with a toss of that wealth of ringlets, singing as she swept.
But the Bella of the past few years hadn’t lost her temper. Hadn’t sung.
And he hadn’t noticed. “I have to go. I’ll catch you later.” James clicked off the receiver, waited a few seconds, then dialed.
Her phone went straight to voice mail. Again.
“Bella…baby…” His voice caught, and he nearly disconnected but didn’t. “I’m sorry. So sorry. If you won’t talk to me, call the kids, please.” He paused and squeezed his eyes shut.
“I love—” The tone sounded, cutting off whatever else he would have said. Even if he’d known what that should be. Receiver gripped in one white-knuckled hand, James Parker bowed his head and murmured the only words he could think to utter.
Please. Let her be safe. Let her be mad as hell if she wants—that’s okay. Just please…keep her from harm.
Then, with a deep inhalation, he gathered himself and punched numbers into the phone.
“I have to talk to someone. I think my wife might be missing.”
CHAPTER THREE
FRESH FROM THE BATH, Jane began rolling her hair into a severe French twist before she realized she had no pins to secure it. Her arms fell to her sides, and she peered into the mirror, frowning at the mass of curls she saw there. How could anyone ever expect to tame it?
And why, she thought as she lifted her hair by the handful, then let it fall, would you want to? She shook her head experimentally and watched the ringlets bounce. What a mess.
I love that mess. It’s your glory.
Her eyes widened. She whirled to see the man who had spoken.
But she was still alone. So very alone. She shivered and clutched at her upper arms. Who was he, that voice? Was he a memory, or had her mind begun playing new tricks?
I need my life. Need to know if anyone’s there, missing me. Loving me. Does anyone know I’m gone?
Why aren’t you searching for me?
Please, someone look for me. I don’t want to be Jane Doe.
She halted her pacing. Shrank into her crossed arms while she felt around in her head, as if for a sore tooth. Shouldn’t a name be so essential that you would sense when it was right?
She closed her eyes, focused hard. Who am I? What’s my name?
Who is that man who loves my messy hair?
Don’t try so hard, Sam kept saying.
With effort, she let her mind slip into Neutral, to relax and glide, to dance and skim—
She began to twirl in soft, slow circles, to sway from side to side, to hum first faintly, then gathering in strength. Her arms unfolded, reached out. She bared her chest and opened her heart, letting music and motion swell within her. The melody grew faster. She sang louder and twirled and twirled, out into the sunlight, off the porch and into the tangle of green until the warm glow eased her grief, helped her remember that she was alive, if lost. Awake in a new day that smelled fresh and crisp and clean—
“Bella—”
She halted in midtwirl. “What did you say?”
A woman, tiny and ancient, peered at her from the porch of Sam’s house. “Bella. Italian for beauty. You make a picture in the morning light, signora.” She stepped off the porch, smiling. “I am Luisa Ruggino. You must be Jane.”
The housekeeper. Her heart thumped in her ears. Must be the unaccustomed exertion making her feel light-headed. “No.”
“But Dr. Sam—”
“I mean, yes, that’s what they call me, but that’s not who I am.”
“I agree. Jane Doe is too pale for a colorful creature such as yourself. You should be wearing bold hues.”
Colorful creature? She glanced down at her castoff dress, courtesy of the Methodist Church disaster supplies. A washed-out blue, nearly ankle length, too tight in the bust and far from stylish, but the clothes she’d been wearing when they’d found her had had to be cut off, she was told.
Where were they? Did they hold clues?
“I’d rather have a name. My own.”
“Until you remember it, pick one. Ignorance can be an advantage, you see—you may become whoever you wish.”
She was struck by the notion. She could mourn the loss of an identity, a life, a home…or she could seize an opportunity few were granted. Who would you be if you had no ties to a past, a family…
Her knees went weak. Maybe she’d had no children, but was there no one waiting for her?
I love that mess. It’s your glory.
“I want to know who I was. Who I am.”
The old woman clucked her tongue. “You will, bella, probably too soon. And then you will have wasted this precious interlude when you are free as few are.” She gestured toward the house. “Follow me. We will find out if you can cook, and meanwhile, you will be too busy to be sad. We shall discover the answer to one piece of the puzzle, and while we work, we will discuss suitable names.” She turned away as if assuming Jane would follow. Then she glanced over her shoulder and winked. “Unless, of course, you would prefer to dance in the sunshine a little longer.”
“No,” she said hastily. “I’d rather be busy.”
“A good
answer.” The old woman walked off without waiting for her.
THE SMOOTH RED GLOBE felt wonderful against her palm. She held it to her nose and sniffed, then turned. “This tomato is fresh picked.”
“You know food. Do you also like to garden?”
“I think so.” She frowned at her hesitation. It was time to begin building. “Yes. Did you grow this?”
“My house is not far away. See for yourself.”
“I’d like that.”
“Buon. I have produce yet to put up.”
“But…” She paused. Why can’t I? What else do I have to do with myself? She smiled. “I’d love to.”
A nod. “Good for you, bella. Better to keep the hands busy. It soothes the mind. Now—we will make marinara sauce. How do you remove the skins?” Like a little bird, Luisa cocked her head, dark eyes bright and curious.
Jane frowned.
“No matter. Here—” Luisa handed her a large pot. “Fill this with water and bring to a boil. You drop them in for a minute or two, then—”
“Then put them into cold water,” Jane interrupted. “The skin will slide right off.” She felt like celebrating.
Luisa was smiling right back at her. “Ah. You are indeed a cook.”
“Am I?” Abruptly, her joy receded. “But what does that matter? It gets me no closer to learning whether someone misses me.”
“The young are always in such a hurry.”
“Young?” Jane held out her hands, examined the backs of them. “I’m hardly that.” She let them fall at her sides. “Why did this happen, Luisa? Am I a bad person? Is this a punishment?”
“You are indeed young if you do not understand that there are no tidy answers in life.”
“But…” The protest died on her lips. This woman had shown her kindness, yet she was rewarding Luisa with impatience and frustration and impossible questions.
Begin as you mean to go on. She had no idea where that sentiment originated, but she appreciated the innate logic of it. Perhaps her memory would return—God, she hoped so—but if it didn’t, was this who she wanted to become—a malcontent, an ingrate?
The people of Lucky Draw had been good to her, had sheltered her when others might have shuffled her off to some social-service agency and washed their hands of her. She’d drawn at least one lucky card in Sam, another in Luisa. There was a world of things she didn’t know, but she was fairly certain many people had far less than two friends and several kind acquaintances, a roof over her head and clothes, however few, on her back.
Luisa had a point. She could become—for a time, at least—whoever she wished. She was free of much that others would give a lot to shed—maybe no ties but also no burdens; perhaps no past, but no bad memories, either.
She straightened her shoulders, lifted her head high and proud. “I apologize. You’ve been nothing but kind, and I’ve been petulant. Maybe we could start over.” She held out a hand. “Hi, there. I’m not Jane Doe.”
Luisa grinned. “No, you are not.” She shook hands. “So who would you like to be?”
“That’s a very big decision.” She tilted her head. “What name would you choose if you weren’t Luisa?”
For the first time, the old woman seemed uncertain. “Now, there you have me at a disadvantage. It is very difficult to imagine oneself as different.” She tapped one finger on her chin. “When I was a little girl, though, I wanted to be called Sophia.”
“Why?”
“Pah. Who can say what is in the mind of a child? I hadn’t thought of that in years.”
“It’s a lovely name.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You have a world of choices, bella, but Sophia would suit you.” She winked. “Think of Sophia Loren. You are voluptuous, too.”
“Oddly enough, I do know who she is.” Refusing to give in to self-pity about that fact, Jane instead glanced down. “I wouldn’t make a fashion model, that’s for sure.”
“Pah—” Luisa waved off the notion. “Stick figures. Real women have hips.” She slapped her own. “A true man wants a woman he can get a grip on, my Romeo always told me.” Mischief twinkled.
“Your husband?”
“Yes, my beloved Romeo Cesare Ruggino, God rest his soul.” She crossed herself.
“Sounds like a film star.”
“Oh, he was a handsome devil, that is certain. When you pay me a visit, I will show you a picture.”
“I’d like that.”
“So you will make a list of possible names, not—Jane?”
She shook her head. “Nope.” She was intrigued by the possibilities. “I think I’ll audition them. Beginning with Sophia.”
A wide smile spread over Luisa’s round face. “Auditioning names.” She giggled. “Why not?” She winked. “Very well, then, Sophia. But you will be no pampered film star. You will work for your supper.”
“Okay.” The notion of being useful and not merely lost felt very good. She began filling the big pot with water, and as she did, a vision of smooth green leaves appeared. “Basil.”
“What, bella—er, Sophia?”
“We need basil. Do you have it?”
Luisa smiled and nodded. “And what else?”
Jane who was now Sophia stared out the window. “Garlic and onions…oregano. Salt, but I prefer kosher.” Her heart thumped once. “Fresh-ground peppercorns. And…extra virgin olive oil. Cold-pressed.” She faced Luisa. “Am I right?” she whispered.
“Perfectly.”
She peered over the edge of a precipice from which she could either retreat or fly…or fall.
Sophia swallowed hard. And walked to the stove to begin whatever life this would become.
CHAPTER FOUR
JAMES SAT in Bella’s garden, once lush and glorious but now overgrown and neglected.
However much money he’d made—and there’d been plenty—she’d still insisted she didn’t require help to grow not only her own flowers but vegetables and herbs, here in this upscale neighborhood where most wives played tennis or shopped.
Not for her the diamond tennis bracelets or personal trainers. Bella’s muscles were won the hard way—with a shovel and trowel or on long walks where she was just as likely to spot a native plant to adopt.
How long had it been since Bella had set off on one of her rambles?
When was the last time he’d joined her?
Look, she’d say. See the finches? Hear the mockingbird? What must it be like to fly so free?
Is that what she’d done—flown away from him, from the life he’d labored so hard to create for them? The life she’d urged him to flee so many years ago?
Don’t go to the office today, James. You’re the boss. You can decide when to take off. Let’s play hooky. I’ll make a picnic. We’ll hike up to the falls.
He’d wanted to. God, how he had. Sometimes he missed being carefree kids so much, but you couldn’t turn back time. He’d tried leaving all this behind, had given up a guaranteed future to have her. Worked a series of menial jobs to the dismay of his family, who’d been horrified by his choice of mate. He’d busted his butt to show them how wrong they were when they’d predicted she’d be the ruin of him, that he was throwing away a future others would do anything to possess.
But Bella hadn’t wanted that future. Hadn’t cared about a big house or fancy cars. They were chains that killed the soul, she’d said, and she’d painted a picture of a good life, a simple one that the pursuit of wealth would poison. She’d asked for nothing but his love.
He’d discovered, however, that he was too ambitious for that. He longed to pamper her, to give her safety and ease and comfort to go with that love.
And so he’d convinced her to return to Parker’s Ridge to claim his heritage. Now he had responsibilities and obligations. When you were the boss, you couldn’t just leave. There were appointments and meetings and payroll and an example to set.
Always something to get between himself and the woman who had fascinated him from the very beginning. He remembered
that day vividly.
He’d had a fight with his very possessive girlfriend. Usually, he had patience with Beth’s moods and could laugh off the short leash she kept trying to put on him. They were the golden couple of Parker’s Ridge High School, and his life was pretty well laid out for him, anyway—college at Auburn, then joining the family furniture-manufacturing firm. He drifted along with the plan because none of it bothered him. Lots of his fellow students would sell their souls to have his advantages.
But every once in a while, if he really thought about what lay ahead, he could barely breathe.
He’d stalked from the high-school lunchroom, desperate to get outside. Once on the rolling green grounds, he kept walking until he reached a spreading oak that would provide some shelter and separation. He dropped his books on the grass and collapsed next to them, leaning back against the wide trunk. He closed his eyes for a minute or two, then slid to lie full-length in the peaceful shade.
An acorn dropped onto his belly and bounced off. Then another that he brushed away.
One more had him frowning and looking upward—
Where about a mile of long, shapely legs dangled from a limb just above him—
A hand held out another acorn, ready to release it—
And green eyes sparkled with mischief above lips curved in a daredevil smile. It was the new girl, the one Beth had snubbed just that morning. “Think you can catch this one, Prince Charming? Oh—but that wasn’t Cinderella with you earlier, was it? Cruella de Vil, perhaps, in her teenage years?”
He rose and couldn’t help but chuckle. The comparison was too apt. “Beth has her moments.”
“What are you doing outside the castle walls, Prince?”
“I’m no prince. My name’s James. James Parker,” he added belatedly, mesmerized by the swinging of those very fine legs beneath a rucked-up skirt that barely covered the essentials.
“Hotshot on campus, I hear. Quarterback, champion debater and king in training.” But she winked and didn’t seem overly impressed.
Her sense of fun was irresistible. He took a cue from her and sketched a bow. “At your service, mademoiselle. And you are…”
The Way Home Page 2
