by Maya Blake
“I can’t believe you! Fine, yes, you’re right. I should have been honest with Papa and let him tan your backside and lock you in your room!” She touched her brow, thinking of the lies she had told their parents.
It’s oregano, Mama. We were cooking.
It’s talcum powder.
The police are mistaken. She was at the movies with me.
“Yes. You should have,” Ana said, noting Vanessa bustle past the French doors to the terrace with a tray in her hands. She rose. “At least, my counselor in Miami thinks you have certainly played a major part in my addiction.”
The accusation hit like a bucket of ice water, bucket and all. Before she took on a lot of self-examination, however, Mariella folded her arms and asked, “You’re seeing a counselor?”
“Yes.” Ana had started toward the French doors and paused, hand on the latch.
“Again.”
“Why do you have to say it like that? Yes. Again.”
“Well, I have to question his qualifications if he’s encouraging you to pin responsibility anywhere but on yourself.” Mariella cocked her chin. Maybe she did bear some blame, but she wouldn’t shoulder it before Ana did. Until her sister faced her own failings, recovery and healing weren’t possible for anyone.
“She.” Ana smoothed the silk down her hips, reminding Mariella how annoyed she was that her sister had gone into her room and through her things. What else had she taken? Her pen was going into the safe for the next while, that was for sure.
She’d have to check her jewelry box, too. She only kept her lower-end and costume pieces on her dresser top, but their mother’s engagement ring was long pawned by Ana, along with an antique, jeweled hair comb that had belonged to their great-aunt. Why, oh, why, couldn’t she have a relationship with her sister that was warm and supportive? Trusting, even?
She had come to the conclusion today that men weren’t trustworthy, either. Was there no one she could depend on?
“She understands that I’ve had a lot to deal with.” Ana spoke haughtily, but something spasmed across her face, an old memory or some other painful recollection.
It plucked at the very center of Mariella’s heart, where her blood ties were rooted. In that moment, her sister looked surprisingly...naked. Vulnerable.
Was she hallucinating? Ana was many things, but her weakness was dependence on drugs and alcohol. Her resilience in spite of that made her a force to be reckoned with.
“Not just the drug use,” Ana continued in a murmur at the floor, brows pulled tight in suffering. “But being pregnant so young. Unmarried, then losing my son to my sister. That was a blow, Mariella.” Her head came up. “You always blame me, but never accept that you hurt me when you took him.”
Old guilt jerked hard on Mariella’s conscience, along with the protective instincts she’d always felt toward her flighty little sister. Ana had been given to mood swings from an early age. If Mariella had had one broken heart, her sister had had a dozen. Mariella had had the drive to see her ambitions realized. Ana had yearned for all the same things, but had looked for shortcuts, not willing—or able—to do the work needed.
There were times when Mariella had wondered if the drugs were more self-medication than recreation. With a string of mistakes behind her like Ana had, it was no wonder she’d sought escape from herself.
“I know,” Mariella acknowledged in a voice that scraped her throat. “I know my taking Gabe was hard on you. But he was lost in your world, Ana. You know that. That’s why you put him on a plane at ten years old and sent him to us.”
“But it wasn’t supposed to be forever!” Ana cried.
They had been down this road so many times. Ana’s lifestyle would have become Gabe’s. Mariella hadn’t been able to stand by and watch that happen.
And deep down, Mariella had hoped losing her son would be rock bottom for her sister. She had hoped Ana would turn her life around and fight to get him back then, not wait until her son was thirty-three years old before she waltzed back into his world. It was far too late now. That wasn’t Mariella’s opinion. Gabe didn’t want anything to do with her. He was smart enough to realize Ana hadn’t suddenly realized she loved him. She wanted his love, in spite of everything she’d done—or failed to do—for him.
He wasn’t going to take that risk.
Which had to hurt, too, Mariella supposed.
Still, a flicker of hope lit in her that her sister was making a real effort this time. “Does your seeing this counselor mean you’re finally drug-free?”
“Of course.” Ana’s shrug implied that was obvious.
Mariella found herself doing what she had done entirely too many times. She picked apart every detail of her sister’s visage, looking for the tells. The slide of her attention, big pupils in glassy eyes, the chew of her lip, a fidget or scratching of an arm.
She did seem straight. Right now. But would it last?
It never lasted, much to Mariella’s eternal anguish. To prove it, she recalled, “But you haven’t stopped drinking. You just ordered a mimosa. At noon.”
“Pfft. That doesn’t count.” Ana rolled her eyes.
The flame of hopefulness died as quickly as it had flared to life in Mariella.
“How do you expect to make reparation if you take that attitude?”
“Reparation?”
“That’s one of the twelve steps, isn’t it?”
* * *
Ana stared at her sister, in her palazzo pants beneath a fitted amethyst top. Her pearls and Italian pumps and Fendi clutch. She always looked like something straight out of Vogue while playing perfect hostess, perfect mother, perfect wife.
But despite what most people believed, Mariella had never been the magnanimous woman upon whom everyone could depend. She had a cruel streak. She always wanted Ana to crawl. To beg for forgiveness.
“I gave you my son, but there’s no making up for my great crime against you, is there?” Gabe’s father. Seriously, he was so far in the past, she wouldn’t know him to look at him, but Mariella clung to that grudge like it was a life raft.
As if he was the only one of Mariella’s partners Ana had danced with.
One thing was for sure, Mariella was blinded by the dollhouse life she had created. She believed her hardworking husband faithfully came home to her every night.
Not Harrison. Not even close.
“I gave up expecting an apology for that years ago,” Mariella assured her in a tight voice.
Ana smirked, dying to tell her exactly how she had come to agree to give up Gabe and why Harrison had always been so compliant about funding her wants and needs. Talk about sins that wouldn’t be forgiven, but she would need Mariella if Harrison didn’t pull through. She needed this—Casa de Catalina. The castle on the hill and the fortune buried inside it. All of this should have been hers, if she had only seen Harrison’s real potential, years ago, when he’d been chasing Mariella simply for the challenge of it. Ana had long suspected he had gone after Mariella simply because his best friend had wanted her and he couldn’t stand to lose anything to anyone. If she’d played her cards right, she would have paired up with Harrison and let Mariella settle for Joe.
Not that it mattered now. Harrison’s usefulness had reached an end. She was quite convinced. Mariella didn’t know it—or wouldn’t acknowledge it—but they would all be better off if Harrison never regained consciousness.
Not that she thought Mariella was up to running everything herself. No, she would rely heavily on Gabe. Funny how the rest of the children hadn’t taken much interest in their inheritance. Gabe, on the other hand, with his influence over Mariella, would become the real heir to the throne. The power behind the figurehead.
Once he realized what a gift she had given him, positioning him as successor like this, Gabe would warm up to her. They would
make an excellent team.
She could hardly wait.
In the meantime, she had to deal with this. Her bitter, superior sister.
“If our little rivalry is water under the bridge, why are you so hateful toward me?” Ana challenged. “Look at all you have, Mariella.” She waved her arm to encompass the antique furniture in the restored home overlooking the family-owned vineyard. “You accuse me of avarice while your house has a courtyard full of thirty-foot palm trees, for God’s sake. You have a solid-gold timepiece on the mantel. Go live among the people for a change. Quit being so holier-than-thou.”
“You go live among the people.” Mariella stalked forward with her check like she was serving a summons. “Take it. If you’re so insistent I share what I have, take this and leave.”
“Why? So you can continue to judge me? Oh, I’m such a bad person, leaving my son here, with you, in this.” She jerked her head to the sweeping view of the Pacific. “Look in the mirror, hermana. Your husband is half-dead and you’re abandoning him. Tugging Joe Reynolds to heel. Don’t think people haven’t noticed. For someone who is so attached to the men in her life that you never get over them, you haven’t wasted any time crawling into bed with Harrison’s best friend.”
Mariella’s hand flew up so fast, Ana didn’t realize she’d been slapped until her head snapped back and all she saw was stars. Shock kept her from retaliating with claws. Shock and a long history of being knocked around. A cool head was a far safer reaction than a hot one.
It didn’t mean her cheek wasn’t on fire, or her temper rocketing to a blistering level.
“Is that how we’re playing?” Ana closed her hand over the check Mariella still held, crumpling it with rejection. “I’m here for a lot more than that. And this time, I’m not leaving without everything I’m entitled to.”
* * *
Deeply shaken, Mariella watched Ana whirl out through the French doors. She hadn’t overreacted so badly in years!
But was it an overreaction? Ana’s last words had sounded like a terrible threat. Damn Ana for making her feel so insecure and out of control.
Desperate for reassurance, she went looking for Gabe in Harrison’s office across the hall. He wasn’t there.
“Gabe?” She went to the doors to the terrace, but they were locked from the inside. Strange. She hadn’t seen or heard him in the hall. In fact, it was odd that he hadn’t come across to break up what had been a very heated moment between her and Ana.
Frowning, she tried to shake off her frayed temper. She poured herself a drink and took it to her room, planning to inventory its contents.
* * *
Gabe had been stuck in the secret room like this before.
He had half expected Mariella to draw Ana into Harrison’s office and had been pleased for the opportunity to eavesdrop. They’d turned away at the last second, however, moving into the lounge across the hall.
The camera didn’t show more than the office, and the microphone hadn’t picked them up clearly. The muted voices had told him they stayed there, however, growing heated.
He’d felt bad at that point, wanting to go across and put a stop to whatever Ana was saying to upset Mariella, but leaving the Fixer office had been too risky.
Now Mariella was looking for him. In a pinch, he could call the house line to draw Mariella out of Harrison’s office so he could leave the hidden room, but she only stayed a moment, seeming agitated. What had Ana said this time? Anything about his father?
He waited to see if Ana would also come in, but Mariella only poured a drink and left, leaving him to slip from the office unnoticed, mind turning to his next Fixer job.
Chapter Three
The walk from the dark sedan to the entrance of the clinic was brief, but Elana felt every scorching step under the afternoon sun, despite her dark sunglasses and baseball hat.
She had struggled over wearing something so unflattering as a ball cap. If she was recognized, she risked winding up on one of those pages labeled #FashionFail. If she had donned her usual designer wear—a crocheted white minidress or a flowing silk print with a plunging neckline and slit—the whole world would receive the memo that she was ducking into the ob-gyn clinic. Rumors of every type would start.
So she had settled on frayed denim shorts, a cropped T-shirt and a Burberry wedge sandal—she had to maintain some standards.
Debating what to wear wasn’t what had kept her stomach rolling for a solid week, however. Nerves had. Which was probably the reason her period hadn’t arrived, the fickle bitch. It didn’t mean she was pregnant. There was every chance her doctor would say it was stress and that she’d had two false positives. The tests she’d taken had been some third-world brand. Completely unreliable.
Please, God.
“Miss Marshall,” the clerk behind the desk greeted her with a big smile. “I guess it’s Mrs. Marshall-Scott now? I’ll have to update your file. It will just take a minute.”
Elana kept her hat and glasses in place, remaining stiffly at the counter, braced with dread, annoyed by the clerk’s too-loud cheer.
Sure enough, behind her, a vaguely familiar voice said, “Elana?”
Damn. She turned to see Lucy Padmore, a society wife who’d come to the wedding on the arm of a colleague from Thom’s father’s real estate firm. She had fifteen years on Elana but understood curb appeal and the need for regular updates. She had renovated her bust and butt to bring them up to code, had a fall color scheme going on with her makeup, and her hair was teased high enough to keep any snow from sticking. She really ought to check for squirrels...
“How was Bali?” Lucy asked with arms spread for a hug.
Ugh.
“Lucy! How wonderful to run into you! Thank you so much for the espresso machine. We use it every morning.” It was a huge lie. Elana only remembered the Padmores had given them one because she and Thom had received five. The Padmores’ had been on the list to be returned.
“What are you doing here?” Lucy tapped Elana on the wrist. “Honeymoon baby? Should you be drinking coffee?” She winked.
It was Elana’s worst nightmare. She dug deep for a casual “Ha!” and pulled off her sunglasses to exaggerate her eye roll. “Are you kidding? Prescription renewal.”
She managed to sound very offhand, exactly as she had rehearsed in the bathroom after Thom left this morning. Her that’s-hilarious smile felt too big and very stiff, but she kept it pinned firmly in place.
“We’re in no hurry. Not with Dad still in hospital.”
She couldn’t count the number of times she’d reached for her phone since his accident, thinking to talk to her father about something. Sure, it was usually to ask for a favor, but he wasn’t there to take care of things for her, making her feel his absence very keenly.
With that lifeline gone, Gabe seemingly connected to her mother by some kind of invisible umbilical cord and Thom being dear, useless Thom, she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about Jarrod. She kept thinking about how sexy he could be, how all her issues and stresses melted away when she was in his bed.
It was all really overwhelming and almost made her tear up, but she wouldn’t let this woman see her cry.
“Of course,” Lucy murmured. “Your mother must be so distressed, too.”
Elana pasted her fake smile on her face again. “She knows how strong Dad is, and it’s only a matter of time before he’s home.” Elana might be a scatterbrain about deadlines and budgets, but she understood people and how to manipulate them.
“I hope so,” Lucy said, gaze sharp. It was the snaky look some women got when they couldn’t wait to slither away with some gossip.
Well, she got nothing here. Now fuck off.
Thankfully, Lucy’s daughter came out of the examination room just then. She was fifteen and clutching a box she’d seen more th
an one girlfriend take home from a women’s clinic—the abortion pill. Elana felt like giving them the I-see-you fingers, so Lucy would know that one slip of the lips deserved another.
She and Lucy exchanged air-kisses, and Elana blew out a sigh of relief as she was called into the exam room. She sat down next to the exam table and stared at the stirrups. Little knitted booties covered them. Seriously, who had ever imagined that putting slippers on stirrups made spreading your legs for a doctor, even a female one, any less disgusting?
Did they use those when they were catching something that came out of you? God.
Dr. Dunham had about as much personality as an unsalted soup cracker, but she was also very matter-of-fact and nonjudgmental. When Elana had had that little affair with chlamydia, Dr. Dunham had dealt her a prescription without so much as a flicker of side eye or smirk.
“What can I do for you today, Elana?”
She cringed at having to say the word aloud. “Pregnancy test?”
“Of course.” Dr. Dunham turned to a drawer, handed over a sample cup and directed her to the bathroom.
Elana was so pent up with tension, it took forever to make herself pee. When she came out, she had to wait what seemed like hours for Dr. Dunham to do whatever she had to do.
Finally there was a flush and what sounded like a wash of hands in the sink.
Dr. Dunham came out still using a paper towel. “Positive,” she stated.
Jesus Christ, woman. Google “bedside manner.”
Not that Elana had expected her to soften the blow.
Was this kind of news supposed to be such a blow? Elana looked at the hands she was knitting like a baby blanket across the lap that would grow—Oh, dear God, she was not ready to think of that!
“How—” Her voice had fallen off a cliff. “How far along am I?” She gave Dr. Dunham the date of her last period.
“I would say seven or eight weeks.”
Elana glanced at the wall calendar and tried to remember what she’d been doing. The dates slammed through her. She and Jarrod had been meeting feverishly that week, arguing about whether to continue their affair. She distinctly remembered staying home one night, having sex with Thom as a sort of rebellion, trying to show Jarrod she didn’t need him.
