Still, Celeste felt Priscilla was hiding more than she let on. She concealed herself in layers of skirts, shirts, and oversized jumpers, which made her appear even larger than she was. Her attire was the opposite of Celeste’s casual, carefully chosen outfits that complimented her natural shape and coloring. Celeste still pressed her jeans, a longtime practice that had been too hard for her to give up. She shook her head. Some old habits died bit by bit, not all at once.
Still, as large as Priscilla was and dressed the way she was, Celeste saw only beauty and grace. She wished Priscilla could see herself that way too. Celeste didn’t believe Priscilla chose her wardrobe for comfort. Rather, she believed Priscilla was afraid to show any part of herself, whether physical or emotional.
Priscilla had become such an asset. From the shelter’s beginnings, Celeste had thought it would be difficult to find a paid psychologist or social worker to counsel the women in such a remote area. Then along came Priscilla and the problem was solved.
WHEN PRISCILLA’S CAR DISAPPEARED into the forested darkness, Celeste closed the door and walked through the kitchen. “You two seem to have everything under control in here,” she said to Adrian and Marcy. “It smells wonderful.” Adrian had proved to be a natural cook.
“Dinner will be ready in a few minutes,” Adrian said. “I hope you’re still hungry.”
Celeste wasn’t sure how much she could get down, although she knew she had to eat, if only to set an example for everyone else. She had to be the one to reassure the household everything would move forward as usual, no matter the interruption. She nodded to Adrian and checked Gemma, asleep in the cradle. The baby’s cheeks had taken on a satisfying blush, and she was breathing lightly, clearly at ease.
“I fed her a bottle,” Lorraine said, as though offering Celeste an apology.
“Good. She looks quite content.” Celeste turned to Tomika. “How’s mama?” Tomika didn’t answer. She did glance in Celeste’s direction, but still seemed dazed. Celeste couldn’t tell if her question had even registered. She retrieved a knitted throw from one of the couches and laid it over Tomika’s lap. “Are you warm enough, dear?”
Tomika raised her head slightly, but still didn’t respond.
“Well.” Celeste straightened. “Perhaps you’ll eat a little something.”
No sooner had Celeste said that than Adrian announced, “Dinner is ready and on the table.”
Within minutes everyone was seated, including Tomika. Somehow Lorraine had persuaded her to join them. Perhaps Lorraine no longer felt threatened. Perhaps she felt she saw someone in more need of help than herself at the moment. Celeste was encouraged seeing a caring attitude come from Lorraine.
Other than the children’s usual chatter, the only other sounds were forks scraping the plates and the occasional request for a platter of food to be passed. Celeste and the women ate in silence, no doubt each remembering her first night at the lighthouse and contemplating how Tomika and Gemma would affect their lives.
Chapter Three
MEASURES
MAX WHITEFEATHER CLICKED OFF the TV and slammed the remote on the table near his bed.
The nurse jumped. “Aren’t we a little cranky this evening?” She strutted to his bedside with authority. Her ultra-white, Mary-Jane-style running shoes squeaked with each step.
“I’m not sure how you’re feeling, Ms. Hooper,” Max snarled, “but I can tell you that I’m bored to death lying around in this place. Seems I’ve left one prison only to be confined in another.” He lifted the arm that was tethered to an IV as he focused on the machines that continuously monitored his heart, lungs, and every other body system. The constant bleep, bleep, bleep drove him crazy.
At least that sound meant he was still alive.
“You haven’t been here that long, Mr. Whitefeather,” Ms. Hooper scolded.
“Four days. I know because all those tubes inserted in my chest for draining were removed today.” Max smiled proudly as he pointed to his chest. “At least that blasted machine is finally quiet.”
“Plus,” Hooper continued, admonishing him as only she could, with her expressive, unusually large hazel eyes narrowed in disapproval. “You had several visitors to keep you busy today—your son and his wife, that deputy warden, and your secretary.” With each name she opened her fist one more finger.
If it weren’t for Hooper’s cute freckles, Max might have been intimidated by her no-nonsense, larger-than-life confidence. “My former secretary,” Max corrected. “How can we forget the other company—the doctor, who is younger than my son, a parade of nurses’ aides, the physiotherapist, and …” He grimaced and shook his head. “What difference does it make who was here?”
“Besides, Mister Whitefeather,” Hooper said, ignoring his comments, “the only sentence you face is to live a healthy lifestyle, which means no stress and no return visits to Marquette General—if we can get you out of here in the first place.” Hooper put her hands on her hips—a defiant gesture that contrasted with her bright pink floral scrub shirt and solid pink pants. “You weren’t home a month after your last visit when an ambulance dragged you back here. You must be collecting those stents. You have more than anyone I know. And now the valve replacement.”
It was Max’s turn to ignore Hooper’s scolding. Instead, he was mentally cringing at being addressed as “mister” rather than “warden.” Even though he’d been retired for six months it still sounded strange. Mister certainly didn’t hold the authority that the title warden did. Misters didn’t solve hostage situations or deal with prison riots, drug deals, or yard fights. Lately it seemed the biggest decision he had to make was what he would cook himself for dinner if Celeste wasn’t with him. Of course, it would be low fat. What else would he be allowed to eat? It didn’t make any difference in Max’s situation who he had become. Nurse Hooper wasn’t impressed with titles anyway. She’d give anyone an enema without blinking, even the president of the United States.
“You have to admit,” Max said, “I’ve done well despite my stent collection and this valve thing since my first visit to your charming inn. Although it may have taken four years, I’ve lost twenty pounds and stopped smoking. I exercise nearly every day, and I finally retired. I use the prescribed medication—those ACE inhibitors and a diuretic—not that I didn’t pee enough already.” Max stopped to catch his breath. “In fact, this valve was replaced once before. What else do you vampires want from me?”
“You knew that the valve would only last around ten years. No matter. You’ll still have to take your meds like a good boy. Even more important, though, you may have physically retired”—Hooper slapped a blood pressure cuff around Max’s free arm—“but the whole town knows you haven’t let go.” As Hooper pumped, the pressure belt inflated, making a schwoosh, schwoosh sound. She concentrated on the numbers flashing before her. “Besides, you didn’t stop smoking soon enough.” The belt deflated with a quiet whoosh. “Not bad,” she announced, and unwrapped Max’s arm. “One-thirty over eighty.”
“Can I go home now?” Max sounded like a petulant little boy.
“What you should do is get a haircut,” Hooper grumbled. “You’re beginning to look like a hippie.”
Hooper’s blond hair was always pulled back and knotted above her neck. Max figured it had to be long, maybe halfway down her back when it hung loose.
“Damn. I was hoping to come across more like the Chippewa I am.” Max gathered his hair in his untethered hand. “It’s almost long enough for a ponytail or a braid.” He smiled and waggled his eyebrows up and down a few times at Hooper. “Don’t you think?” He jutted his jaw out for emphasis and turned to show off his profile, which he had been told was close to an artist’s classic rendition of a Native American.
“Dear me, Mister Whitefeather.” Hooper straightened the bed cover. “You’re too old for a midlife crisis.”
Since Hooper wasn’t even forty, how would she know what age was appropriate for his crises? “That depends on what you call mi
dlife.” Max’s smile broadened and his weathered face brightened. He thought about Celeste, so much a part of his change-of-life journey. She once told him he reminded her of the image of Crazy Horse carved in stone in the Black Hills of South Dakota. She called him a gentle warrior.
“I may have had to retire, but I’m not quite sixty,” he added in his defense.
“You’re sixty-one, Your Slickness.” Hooper wagged her forefinger at him. “You forget I have your history.” She held up his chart.
“Oh, well, I tried. I was hoping you’d say I didn’t look a day over fifty-nine.” Max winked.
“Gotta go,” Hooper announced, putting away her equipment. “I’ve already worked a twelve-hour shift. See you in the morning. Hopefully, you won’t be cranky and delusional.”
“Ha!” he shouted. Hooper’s shoulders rose to her ears as though that would block out his voice. “Who’s calling the kettle black or something like that?”
“Good-bye,” Hooper said and waved her hand over her shoulder as she sashayed out the door.
The room fell sadly quiet, and Max conjured up a mental picture of Celeste to help him pass the long night ahead. He visualized her standing in the sunlight streaming through the living room windows of the lighthouse. The rays streaked across her auburn hair like gold ribbons. He loved her more relaxed appearance—shorter, bouncy hair, little makeup, which she never needed anyway, and far more casual yet still fashionable clothes. She had the grace of a swan and the slenderness of a gazelle. “Damn. What am I? Employed by the National Geographic?”
He gazed out the window coated in a frozen film. He imagined the trees that would be covered in ice by morning, their limbs bending precariously close to electrical wires. There was a good chance the power would go out. If that did happen, he would be stuck in this bed and wouldn’t be able to help Celeste.
Max tried hard to see through the ice-crusted window. He wasn’t sure what he thought he would look at, even if the glass were clear—a gray sky or perhaps the tops of trees stripped of their leaves. The only thing that filtered through was the darkness that came early this time of year. He’d rather be at the lighthouse sitting on the bench perched near the cliff’s edge. He imagined savoring a glass of wine with Celeste as they sat in the kaleidoscopic blaze of a summer sunset over Lake Superior. Much better than watching ice cover a hospital window.
Max would also love to hear Celeste’s voice chattering away about the day’s events or about something that irritated her in the news—like the lack of doctors taking new Medicare patients, or the horrid state of Medicaid, or the increase in domestic violence. He could hear her voice rise as she ticked off statistics. Her eyes—lovely eyes—always widened when she spoke adamantly on a topic dear to her. Max smiled at the image.
He and Celeste never talked about Chad Wilbanks anymore. There was no point. What was done was done. Nothing would change that. And nothing they said or did would shed more light on why Pilar had fallen in love with him, or whether he had anything to do with her murder.
Max lowered his head to the pillow, suddenly overwhelmed with sadness. He always felt he had let Celeste down, always blamed himself because they couldn’t find enough evidence to prove that Chad planned the whole scheme to get Pilar to help him escape, to take her money and … Well, Max knew the ending. Chad was still locked away for the rest of his life, no matter what his part had been in Pilar’s murder.
Still, how would Max ever tell Celeste what he really knew about Chad? He had kept the truth from her, thinking it would protect her and help her get through her grief. When would be the right time to tell her?
Max recalled the day Marcus came to the prison after Pilar died and had spoken with him. Max himself was stunned by Marcus’s revelation: Chad was his son. How would Celeste take the news? Would she understand that Max had kept the secret to protect her, or would it forever be a wedge in their relationship? It was time to find out.
Max studied a framed picture of Celeste sitting on his bed stand. He couldn’t think of going anywhere without it anymore. He felt fortunate to have found such special love twice in his life. He had loved his wife up to the moment of her last breath, and he hoped to persuade Celeste to become the next beloved Mrs. Whitefeather.
He picked up the picture. He loved that Celeste had her hair take its own course—no more hairdressers trying to tame its curl. She often wore it pulled back and clasped at the nape of her long, Audrey Hepburn neck. The style showed off her elegant, high cheekbones and Greek profile.
He touched his own long gray hair. Would she like his hair in a braid? Maybe Celeste would join him and wear her hair in a braid too. What would Nurse Hooper think of that? Two people going through a midlife crises and returning to the 1960s. Would they also start a collection of recordings by Jimmy Hendrix, Janis Joplin, and The Doors?
To Max, Celeste had become more beautiful since she moved to the Upper Peninsula. She looked younger. The fresh air and less stressful environment—or as stress-free as a safe house could be—brought out her natural glow. The photograph clearly showed her large eyes edged in lush, dark lashes, a stark contrast to her milky white skin. How he wanted to kiss those eyes, that skin.
He had to stop thinking like this or he’d have to rip the IV out, drive straight to the lighthouse, and carry her to bed. Just like in one of those romantic novels. He chuckled as he inspected his rather puny chest. He turned his eyes back to the photo and said, “Sorry, Celeste. I don’t look anything like the studs on those novel covers.”
He set the picture on the table, but continued to stare at Celeste’s radiant image. It wasn’t only the fresh air and serenity that had given Celeste a youthful and happy glow. Surely the fact that she’d finally stopped taking the blame and agonizing over Pilar’s death played a major part in her overall well-being. Plus, she no longer had to contend with Marcus. Certainly she still had to fight off some guilt, although not anything like right after Pilar died.
“I wish you could be here tonight, Celeste.” Max again regarded the window that was now completely covered in ice. He realized it wasn’t the storm that kept her away. Although Celeste relied more and more on Adrian, she wouldn’t leave the women on their own at night with a storm on its way. He wasn’t happy about the setup, even though he knew that Celeste needed to do this work to keep herself sane, at least for the time being. “I hope not for too many years, my dear. I want to have you all to myself.” He envisioned the two of them barefoot, wandering down a sandy beach on some romantic Caribbean island. “I need to get away from here for a while to completely sever my ties with the prison,” he told her picture. “I can’t let go of it, and the people who worked with me won’t let me anyway, even if I try harder.”
The phone rang. It was the deputy, Don Eagle, at Hawk Haven. Did he have ESP?
“I can’t help,” Max said after listening to a lengthy explanation of the latest woes at the prison. “I know you’re having a tough time adjusting to the way the new warden does things. You will simply have to adapt, or transfer to another prison.”
Max again listened as the deputy reported the situation: “The warden isn’t managing the prison. He’s letting everyone, including the prisoners, get away with—” He stopped.
“Murder?” Max said, completing the statement. Chad and Pilar’s history wouldn’t soon be forgotten.
“I’m sorry, sir. It was figurative.”
“It’s always rough when a new boss comes on board,” Max responded. “I don’t want to sound uncaring, but I have to stay clear of all prison issues. I can’t have you or anyone else involving me in Hawk Haven business behind Warden Stump’s back. It’s not healthy for me or you.” He waited for the deputy to say something. When he didn’t, Max added, “Give it time, son. I hope you understand.” He sighed. “Don, you’re a strong man and a good leader. It’s not like you to whine.”
“I know. It’s difficult to go against your boss without absolute evidence.”
“Buck up, boy, and sta
rt keeping a diary on Stump.”
“Yes, sir,” Eagle said. “Thank you.”
“Good.” Max hung up. “This isn’t what I expected from retirement. I’m not a consultant and I damn well am not being paid as one.” He surveyed the sterile white room. The floor shone so brightly the glare hurt his eyes. “And”—he rubbed his eyelids—“this is no beach. Or what I call a fresh launch to my new life.” He checked the door. If any hospital staff heard him talking to himself, they’d put him in the psychiatric unit.
Max thought about Billy Stump. Deputy Eagle was right. Stump wasn’t warden material. He was slow to make decisions and had a tough time disciplining employees. Max had briefly worked with him downstate. Even then Stump seemed to be a clueless prima donna. Max suspected a drinking problem, too. Stump also wallowed in the privileges of his authority but lacked leadership. Smooth-talking employees and prisoners easily manipulated him, and they knew it. That was exactly what troubled Max and Deputy Eagle. Especially in one glaring case—Chad Wilbanks had talked his way into working in food service, where there was an abundance of instruments to fashion into weapons, especially knives, Wilbanks’s choice for his assaults. And the civilian employees who worked in that area might be more easily swayed by Wilbanks’s silver tongue and fall prey to that predator’s charm of his.
Max recalled an earlier conversation he had had with Eagle. The deputy reported that Wilbanks was transferred into the kitchen even after Eagle told the warden he disapproved. “You know what Stump said?” Eagle hadn’t waited for Max to reply. “He said Wilbanks was no longer a threat. He hasn’t been in any trouble since that doctor thing. Doctor thing? Damn.”
Eagle had appeared as shaken as Max felt. Stump’s flippant answer sent shivers up Max’s spine. “You know, sir,” Eagle had added, “the warden can’t face any confrontation. He ignores problems, hoping they will resolve themselves or go away. He still hasn’t had anyone investigate the missing prison keys. He keeps saying that they’ll show up. Show up? They open doors in a maximum-security prison, for chrissakes.”
Inevitable Sentences Page 3
