About Face

by Fern Michaels

  Flora answered on the third ring.

  “Hey, girl, I hope to hell you’re busy making that pecan pie I like so much,” Blake paused, waiting for the little woman’s comeback.

  “C’mon Flora, cat got your tongue?”

  “Mr. Blake, things ain’t lookin’ too good here right now.”

  “What happened, Flora? Is Casey there? Let me speak to her. Is she all right?” He spoke fast, not giving Flora a chance to answer.

  “Calm down, Blake. She’s fine, jus’ had a bit of a scare is all. Someone on the phone. She’s upstairs restin’. You want me to have her call you?” Flora asked.

  “No, don’t bother. I’m on my way.”

  “You don’t . . .”

  He didn’t give her the chance to finish. He slammed the phone down and hurried to his car, thoughts of anything else on hold. Something had happened to Casey, and that’s all that concerned him.

  He arrived at Swan House in less than ten minutes. Dave, the guard, must’ve seen his car because the electronic gates were opening as he sped uphill. He honked the horn as he passed through.

  Blake didn’t bother to park; he left his BMW parked haphazardly at an angle in front of the house.

  Flora greeted him at the door. “Up here.” He followed her upstairs.

  She knocked on Casey’s door and Blake heard a weak “Come in” from Casey.

  When he saw her, he knew he would’ve killed for her. Her green eyes were red-rimmed, and purple-blue shadows rested beneath them. She was wan and pale. Blake forgot his feelings as the doctor part of him took over. He stood next to the bed, taking her hand in his. Her pulse was normal.

  “Oh, Blake, did Flora tell you to come?” Casey reclined against a pile of pillows. She looked lost and confused as she stared up at him. They say there is a moment in a man’s life when he knows he’s met the right woman, the one who makes his heart stand still, the one who takes him to heights of passion he only imagines, the one who holds his heart in her hand. Right then Blake knew Casey was that woman. Even though he’d never made love to her, even though she might not want him the way he wanted her, it didn’t matter. What did matter was that he loved her and would stop at nothing to protect her.

  He watched her as she observed him. “Blake, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”

  Blake got a hold of himself and answered her. “I think I should be asking you that. Flora told me you had a scare.”

  “It was nothing, really. I can’t believe you’d come all the way out here because of a prank call. It’s the middle of the afternoon, you’ve probably got a roomful of sick people waiting.” Blake saw through her. He knew what she was trying to do because he did it so often himself. She was trying to make light of a serious situation. He’d done the same thing for her the other day in Dewitt’s office.

  “Stop, Casey, you know why I’m here. Flora said you’d had a scare. Want to tell me about it?” Tension-filled eyes stared back at him.

  “Not really,” She said.

  “You don’t have a choice in the matter.” Blake knew the tone he used sounded gruff, but he couldn’t help it. He needed to know what happened so he could do something about it.

  She looked at him with fear in her eyes, and Blake wanted to kill the bastard who’d put it there.

  “Someone playing a sick prank, nothing more. It just . . . reminded me of something,”

  “Go on,” he prompted.

  “That’s all there is to it, Blake. Isn’t that enough?” She explained, her voice rising.

  “No, it’s not. Casey, I only want to help you, and I can’t if you’re not being totally honest with me.”

  “The voice on the phone.” She paused. “It sounded like a young child.”

  Relief washed over him. She was right. A child’s prank, thank God.

  “Why did this upset you so? Kids do this sort of thing all the time.”

  She sat up straighter, her tension-filled eyes wide as saucers. “I know that. It’s what they said that frightened me. The voice sounded like it came through a tunnel or something. I’ve thought about it and now I believe someone pretended to sound like a child. It had to be because . . . well it just had to be.”

  Casey got up and walked over to the window. Several minutes passed while she seemed to be contemplating the rest of her story. “Blake, the person on the phone . . .” She paused again. “. . . they said . . . oh hell, they said, ‘Why did you kill me, Mommy?”’

  Blake felt the air being sucked out of his lungs by an unseen force and took a deep breath before answering. “Jesus. This has to stop. Come here.” She practically ran to him and he took her in his arms. Her head rested on his shoulder. She cried softly, all pretense of bravery gone. He smoothed her short curls and mentally plotted the slow, agonizing death of her tormentor.

  Casey lifted her tear-streaked face up to him. “I don’t understand this, Blake. None of it. I lie awake at night trying so hard to remember it actually hurts. Some things come easily and others, I don’t know if I’ll ever remember, but this”—she released herself from his hold and sat down on the bed—“this . . . what if what this caller says is true?”

  Blake sat next to her and placed an arm around her. “No, Casey, it isn’t true. You’re no more a killer than I am.” He caught his mistake before she had a chance to comment on it. “You know what I mean. You could never harm a child.”

  She gave a wry laugh. “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you’d like to think.”

  “This morning I went through the last of Dad’s files, clearing everything out. I came across something you should know. Hell, I think maybe you already do. The day of Ronnie’s death you visited Dad at his office.”

  “I know, Blake. I know all about it.” Casey sounded defeated.

  “Then you know you were six weeks pregnant?” he queried.

  “Yes, Blake. And I remember what I did to my unborn child. I really am a monster!” Casey clenched and unclenched her fists. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and again he reached for her.

  “No!” She shouted, and walked to the closet. Seconds later she returned, carrying a purse. “This is what I did to my child.” She shoved a faded business card in his hand. The words were barely legible, but he managed to read them.

  He tossed the card on the bed. “You actually believe you had an abortion at this clinic?”

  Hysterical laughter bubbled from her. “Well, damn Blake! It doesn’t take a frigging medical degree to figure it out. I remember finding the card in front of Haygood’s on my way home from your father’s office. I remember thinking it had to be some kind of omen. I came home, made a phone call and well . . . I can’t seem to recall much more than that. I’d be an idiot to think otherwise, Blake.” She slumped down on the bed.

  “You’re wrong. I told you I found your medical records, the most recent ones. And Casey, you did not have an abortion.”

  He realized he had said the wrong words when Casey bolted upright on the bed. “Then where is my baby? Is that another reason I was institutionalized? Did I kill my child, too?” She was hysterical, and Blake knew he had to let her cry it out. She wouldn’t hear anything he told her until she calmed down.

  Blake eased her back onto the bed. Leaning against the headboard he cradled her in his arms like a child. Her cries finally dwindled to soft whimpers. He waited for her to speak.

  “I’ve ruined your shirt with my mascara.” She leaned over and grabbed a tissue from the night table.

  She could ruin his entire wardrobe as far as he was concerned. “I don’t give a shit about my clothes.”

  “You should. I guess,” she said halfheartedly.

  “Casey, I need to finish what I was telling you before . . .”

  “. . . I started bawling like a baby? Go ahead.”

  “You never gave birth to a child. You never had an abortion.” He drew in a deep breath before continuing. “The night you were in jail you had suffered a miscarriage. My father took care of you.”

&
nbsp; She was cold. Except down there. A liquid warmth. The woman removed her damp warmth and replaced it with something dry and thick.

  “Casey, are you all right?” Blake questioned. He didn’t like the blank look he saw on her face.

  She moved her head from side to side and looked at him as if it were the first time she’d ever laid eyes on him.

  When she finally spoke her voice was hushed. “I remember.”

  “What do you remember, Casey? My father?”

  She pushed herself off the bed and went back to stare out the window. “I can’t seem to place him. Things were fuzzy that night. I remember two women taking care of me. I had hemorrhaged. Blake, who were the two women at the jail that night?”

  “Probably Cora and Vera.”

  “They were so cruel to me. I remember them changing my . . . I guess they cleaned me up after the miscarriage.”

  “Doc Hunter says she’ll sleep for a while. I hope whatever he gave her will knock her for a loop. My God, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Yeah, well jus’ wait till you see the boy, then say that. A person should never have to see what we saw out there tonight. And that poor mother. She’s lost both of her young ’uns. As much as I hate to say it, this one here ought to burn in hell.”

  “Earth to Casey? Hello?”

  “You’re right, Blake. Cora and Vera were at the jail. They were talking about me, saying I should burn in hell. How did they manage to . . . to see the body?”

  “Hell, the entire town was there, according to the sheriff. I don’t think anyone closed their eyes when they brought Ronnie’s . . . You get the picture.”

  “Only too clearly. Maybe this memory loss thing isn’t such a bad idea after all. I remember finding out I was pregnant, Blake. I wanted to die. Just absolutely die. I’ve racked my brain trying to think who the father could be, and I can’t seem to recall a boyfriend, a casual date, anything. Then, I have this other vision, and it scares me to death.”

  “Tell me, Casey,” he coaxed.

  “This sounds insane, even to me. Could it be possible that Robert Bentley fathered my child?”

  Chapter 24

  Jason Dewitt registered at the Days Inn in Brunswick because he didn’t have time to locate better accommodations. He wanted to get the nasty job over with as soon as possible so he could return to Atlanta, where he planned to relocate his practice. He hoped Jo Ella would come with him. He’d arrange for her family to move if that’s what it took. Discreetly, of course. His passion had almost ruined him once.

  Almost.

  Which reminded him of his reason for coming to the smelly town.

  Robert Bentley.

  He’d inquired about a trip to Sweetwater, telling the hotel clerk he only wanted to spend the evening. She’d given him a copy of the ferry’s schedule. He pulled it out of his pocket as he reclined on the worn, faded purple bedspread.

  Nine o’clock was the next-to-last trip to Sweetwater. The last return was scheduled for midnight. He still had a few hours to kill. He’d have lunch, visit the local mall, then rest. He wanted to be at his best that night.

  Midnight.

  Midnight seemed fitting for death. He liked the darkness, the anonymity it provided. It had been dark when Amy came to him. She’d told him Dr. Macklin thought she’d be able to come home in time. Said the doctor told her she could live a normal life.

  They’d spent the evening making love—celebrating, he’d told her. He’d roughed her up a bit even though he knew she didn’t like it. She never complained. Just kept coming back for more.

  As they’d dressed she’d had a look about her. At the time he couldn’t place what it was, only that she seemed different. Glowing. Radiant.

  When it was time for her to return to Mercy, she hadn’t wanted to leave. She’d clung to him in desperation. He’d pushed her away and she fell, hitting her head against the sharp edge of the coffee table. She reached behind her and rubbed her head; blood covered her palm as she waved it around.

  God, she was crazy, but so beautiful!

  She’d continued to look at her bloody hand. Then Jason knew the woman who’d been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic was just that.

  She started screaming hysterically, telling him he hurt her. Said her daddy would kill him. Nobody was allowed to hurt daddy’s baby.

  Then she’d stopped.

  The Amy he knew and lusted after returned. She sat on the bed with her arms wrapped around her and swayed side to side like a little girl rocking her doll.

  She smiled at him, and he’d never forget her next words. “I’ve got a secret.”

  Humoring her, he’d asked her what it was. When she told him, he lost all ability to think, to reason and rationalize.

  He’d placed his hands around that beautiful neck of hers and squeezed until he felt the last gasp of air pass between her lips.

  Then he’d cried like a baby and called the Judge. He neglected to tell him how aroused he’d become with his hands around Amy’s neck.

  The Judge said no way would a Dewitt father a black child. He told Jason he would have done the same thing himself. And then, as usual, the Judge took care of everything.

  Since then, everything had been perfect . . . until Bentley came along, threatening to expose his dirty little secret. He wouldn’t let that happen. Promises were promises.

  Blake made his way downstairs, giving Casey a few minutes of privacy to shower and change for the party.

  She slipped into a cool white linen shift and chose a pair of silver sandals from the many boxes in the closet. A slim silver chain embedded with emerald stones went around her neck, and tiny emerald studs glistened in her ears. Not wanting to overdo it for an afternoon tea, Casey observed herself in the mirror before going downstairs. Evie would approve. Understated, yet classy.

  Where in the hell did that come from? Probably something she’d heard her mother repeat.

  Still somewhat shaken from her bout of hysterics, she silently promised herself to enjoy the afternoon and forget about her unborn child and all it implied. Who knew, maybe she would join the Married Ladies Club one day. She laughed. Somehow she didn’t see herself socializing in that manner.

  “Well, well, don’t you look like a future applicant,” Blake said as he guided her through the dining room to the kitchen, where the hub of activity continued.

  “Future applicant?” Casey teased. She knew exactly what he referred to, but needed this lighthearted sparring, which had become a habit with both of them.

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t dreamed of belonging for years. I thought you and Brenda . . .” Blake let his words trail off.

  “Hush! You’ll let my secret out, then the entire island will know!”

  “Look at you two, I swear, can’t keep your hands off one another!” Flora winked at them as she passed through to the dining room.

  Casey stepped out of Blake’s embrace and followed her. “Flora, can I help? You’ve worked so hard, it looks absolutely perfect.” Casey observed the dining room. The large table had been removed. In its place were ten small tables, each set for five, each covered with pale pink tablecloths. Pink roses surrounded by fresh greenery, Hank’s handiwork, no doubt, served as centerpieces. Delicate china plates with swans encircling the rim, along with cream-colored linen napkins and sterling silver, completed each setting. A name card resided at the top of each plate.

  Flora scanned the room, her experienced eye possibly searching for anything out of place. “Thanks and no, Missy, I think it’s as good as it gets. Don’t you go messin’ around and gettin’ that pretty white dress dirty. Your momma will have a fit. She should be here any minute. She likes to inspect each place setting before the guests arrive.”

  “I’m sure she’ll see it’s perfect. Relax.” Casey led Flora back to the kitchen, where Blake and Julie were seated at the oak table sipping coffee.

  “Sit,” Casey commanded, and poured a cup of the hot brew for herself and one for Flora. “Drin
k this.”

  “You sure as sin got bossy all of a sudden, Missy. I need to change, won’t do for me to embarrass Mrs. Worthington. You all stay right where you are until it’s time, you hear?” Flora took one last sip of her coffee and disappeared down the hall to her room.

  “Jeez, you’d think this was the inaugural ball or something,” Casey said.

  “To Flora it is. It’s really all on her shoulders,” Blake said, serious now.

  “What do you mean?” Casey questioned.

  Julie spoke for him. “If the tea is a flop, instead of your mother taking the fall, the help gets blamed.”

  “I see.” She didn’t, but couldn’t imagine how the success of an afternoon tea party could be of any importance.

  Julie spoke again. “If the party flops, we all lose our jobs, Casey.”

  “You can’t be serious?” Casey looked to Blake.

  He didn’t laugh. “She’s right, that’s why it’s so important, in the Married Ladies Club, to have the best of everything. I told you these women take this seriously.”

  “I guess they do. How often does Mother host the tea?” Casey asked Blake.

  He turned to Julie, who was becoming quite the talker. “With as many members as they have now, each has to host the event at least once every two years.”

  “That’s it?” Casey said, refilling her cup.

  “Doesn’t seem like a lot, but you don’t know these women, Casey. Flora says they’re treacherous,” Julie said.

  “If they’re that bad, why does anyone even care to belong to such a club?”

  “Just the status, Casey. Nothing more. Like I said, lonely women with nothing better to do with their time or their husbands’ hard-earned money.”

  “I can’t believe Mother would even associate with women like that,” Casey said to no one in particular.

  Julie and Blake looked at her, then Blake spoke. “We never know as much as we think about people, Casey, even those we’re closest to.”

  Casey wanted to ask him what he meant, but Flora chose that moment to enter the kitchen wearing a light blue dress that matched her eyes and clung to a figure that Casey had no idea existed. No longer were her white curls confined in her usual tight bun. She’d expertly shaped her hair into a stunning French twist. A light dusting of cosmetics, earth-toned eye shadow, mascara, and a touch of lipstick and Flora no longer looked like Flora the housekeeper. She looked like Flora, a sophisticated lady of the manor and at least ten years younger. Regal, Casey thought.