Lover's Lane

by Jill Marie Landis

  Chris skidded to a stop. “Ask him to wear his bullfighter cape, too, okay? Will ya remember, Mom? I’ll be the only one with a bullfighter, even if he is only a fake grandpa.”

  She never knew her own grandparents.

  Mom never came back after she walked out, but she’d never been there that much anyway, so life stayed pretty much the same for six years. Dad’s world narrowed to the living room couch, his bed, the liquor store where he cashed his disability checks.

  She had food and a roof over her head. He signed her up for school when she was five. Teachers reported that she was a bright and capable child, quiet and serious.

  They had no idea what home was like.

  By December of the sixth grade she was in the middle of her best school year yet. Miss DeCoudres, her teacher, had seen the loneliness in her, recognized her need to shine, and often let her stay after school to help straighten up the room and check papers.

  She liked to think that Miss DeCoudres could see deep into her heart and knew who she really was—not the little blonde who wore old, stained clothes, the girl with the tangled hair. Not the girl who went home to a mess clouded by a smoky haze, forced to get dinner together herself if she and Dad were going to eat anything at all.

  She loved the way Miss DeCoudres always smelled like baby powder, the way she wore her hair long and straight. She wished just once she could get up the nerve to ask if Miss DeCoudres would teach her how to fix her own hair so it would look nicer, like the girls who had someone at home to braid and comb theirs for them.

  Her teacher wore pretty clothes, mostly jumpers and pleated, plaid skirts. She had pins with rhinestones, too, one for each and every holiday.

  Miss DeCoudres was wearing her special Christmas pin, a glistening emerald tree with a bright yellow rhinestone star and little multicolored stones for ornaments on the last morning that Carly ever walked into her favorite classroom and took her seat up front.

  When it was time to go to the cafeteria for lunch, she was still sitting at her desk. Miss DeCoudres walked over and stood in front of her. As if her teacher’s voice was being funneled to her through an empty oatmeal box, she heard her say, “Are you all right, dear? You look pale. Maybe you need to go to the nurse?”

  While Miss DeCoudres reached down to feel her forehead, she stared at her teacher’s plaid wool skirt because lifting her eyes would take too much effort. She wasn’t exactly sick. Just numb.

  She’d gotten up that morning and dressed and walked into the kitchen to make herself a bowl of Count Chocula.

  It wasn’t a good idea to wake Dad before school, so she usually left without even talking to him. But that morning, after she grabbed her backpack and walked through the living room, she got a creepy feeling along her spine and turned around. Dad was sprawled on the couch.

  Seeing him there at that time of day wasn’t all that strange. Lots of nights he never made it to bed. But that morning his mouth was hanging open and his skin was the color of a bad bruise.

  She walked over, gazed down at the foam on his lips and stared into unseeing, olive-colored eyes.

  No one needed to tell her that he wouldn’t be walking down to the liquor store later for a case of beer and a carton of cigarettes. Cancer sticks he always called them, then he’d laugh as if he hadn’t said it a hundred thousand times already.

  Miss DeCoudres was waiting patiently for her to look up, so she mustered barely enough courage to finally put into words what she had tried to deny all morning.

  “I think my dad’s dead,” she whispered, shaking all over, tasting each word, cold and hard as stones.

  Her teacher dropped to her knees. Suddenly they were eye-to-eye, the intimate contact jarring and unfamiliar.

  “What are you saying, honey?”

  “My dad’s dead on the couch at home. I’m pretty sure he is. He was kinda blue. And his skin was real cold.” When she realized she was looking at Miss DeCoudres through a smeary blur, she blinked. A hot tear trailed down her cheek, and she got embarrassed and quickly wiped it off with the back of her hand.

  The nightmare thickened after that. She never saw Miss DeCoudres again. Never even went back home. Child services picked her up at school, and that night she slept at a foster home, a way station where she waited four weeks until they placed her with another foster family.

  She wasn’t an infant. People looking to adopt never chose eleven-year-olds. She quickly learned that moving from one foster home to another wasn’t any better than taking care of a drunk.

  20

  THE NEXT MORNING, JAKE PUT ON A PAIR OF WRINKLED Hawaiian-print swim trunks and a faded navy T-shirt, crossed the cold tiles in the compact kitchen of his two-bedroom condo in the Marina Pacifica complex. He referred to it more often as the office than as home.

  The counter held a microwave, blender, and toaster oven, all of which he rarely used. Crumpled sacks and garish plastic cups collected from nearly every fast food restaurant in town littered the rest of the counter space. A folded pizza box protruded from the wastebasket.

  He finger-combed his hair, opened the refrigerator, pulled out the crisper drawer and started tossing oranges onto the counter. Rummaging through the cupboard, he finally found an old green glass juicer he bought one Sunday morning at the Vintage Swap Meet. Nearly everything in the apartment had been left behind by the previous owner, or he’d bought it at the Veterans Stadium parking lot swap meet.

  He was alternately staring out the window at the waters of Marine Stadium and cutting oranges in half when the front door opened and Kat Vargas sailed in. She headed straight for the kitchen when she saw him.

  Short, athletically fit, with hair so black it glistened, Kat leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, shaking her head as she checked out his state of undress.

  “Late night?” he asked, taking in the pillow creases on her cheek.

  “Not really.”

  “I know what a wild woman you are.” He cleaved another orange in half. Kat had either been sleeping with a one-night stand or home alone.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Let me guess, you rented two movies instead of one.” He grabbed up the last orange and whacked it in half.

  “You’re right. And I had to see them both through to the end. You know I can’t sleep until Jackie Chan saves the world from destruction.” She was a sucker for martial arts movies, the cornier the better.

  “You really need to get a life, Vargas.” He was only half kidding. If he wanted to spend more time at Twilight this summer, she was going to have to take on more work.

  “I have a life,” she assured him. “And I like it just the way it is.” Her eyes told him differently.

  “Beer, cold pizza, and rental movies on nights you aren’t doing surveillance?” Jake started smashing orange halves on the juicer and twisting them until they were dry. Then he poured the juice with pulp, ground seeds and all, into a tall plastic Slurpee cup.

  A Boston whaler filled with weekend boaters motored by the window. Across the stadium, two jet ski riders looped each other in a dance of spray and ear pollution.

  He held up the juice, turned to Kat. “Want some?”

  “No, thanks. Did you get in late?”

  Jake nodded. The Tyrannosaurus rex on the side of a mini-mart cup flashed horrendously sharp teeth. He took a long swig of juice and headed toward the door. Kat followed him to the rickety rattan dinette set that had come with the condo. The chair creaked as he sat down and shoved aside a box of plastic utensils.

  Kat picked up a fork, stared at it a moment, set it down. “I have to give you credit, Montgomery. You might have been too lazy to buy silverware for eight years but you’re finally popping for the heavy plastic.”

  Kat leaned back in her chair. “When did you get back?”

  “Late last night. I stopped by to see my grandfather and then picked up dinner.”

  “How’d things go up north? You ready to tell me what’s up yet?”

  Kat lived for the job. He
’d found that out the first week he’d agreed to take her on. Dedicated to her tae kwon do, convinced men weren’t worth her time, she had very little social life. Like him, she became devoted to the job, which made her the perfect partner.

  Jake finished off the juice and set down the tall cup. “How much can you handle alone?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, can you run things for a while around here? I’ll do the paper chases, employee theft, high-dollar fraud that I can trace through accounts. Handwriting analysis. I’ll have a phone and computer hookup.”

  He named the things he was best at, things she found tedious. Kat’s taste ran more to surveillance, debugging rooms, find-and-serve jobs. Things that kept her out of the office and on the move.

  She blinked twice, her eyes intent on his face.

  “Why?”

  “I rented a house in Twilight Cove for the summer. I’d like to try and spend a few days every week up there.”

  “Wow. This is kinda sudden, especially for you.”

  He tried to shrug it off. “Hey, shit happens.”

  All of a sudden, Kat slapped the table. “You found your mystery girl! I can’t believe it.” Her eyes widened, her mouth dropped open. Her voice came out in a whisper. “You not only found her, you’ve fallen for her!”

  She was on her feet now, pacing the open living room. “I can’t believe it. I find an article in a magazine and recognize the detail in a painting—in a photograph of it yet—one like that weird little piece hanging over your desk. You drive up to find the gallery and check it out, and there’s Caroline Graham, sitting right there in Twilight Cove. What kind of luck is that?”

  “Dumb luck.” He didn’t dare add that he was starting to think some things were simply meant to be. She’d laugh him out of the condo.

  “It gets better,” he told her.

  She sat on the back of the sofa. “Go on.”

  “Anna Saunders called my grandfather and wants to talk to me. . . .”

  “To find someone you’ve already found! You’re kidding, right?”

  Jake shook his head. “I’m not sure, but she contacted my grandfather first, to see if I was still a P.I. and to tell him to have me call her.”

  “She has no idea you’ve already found Caroline?”

  “How could she?”

  “Then you can name your price.”

  “No way.”

  “Why not?”

  He hesitated a second too long. Kat jumped on his silence.

  “You’re not going to tell her you found Caroline, are you?”

  “Let’s just say for now, I plan to stall Mrs. Saunders.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “So The Obsession is real, and you’re in love with her.” Kat sniffed. “Or in lust anyway.”

  Jake walked back into the kitchen, rinsed out the juice cup, and set it in the dish drainer beside the sink. Kat Vargas was only twenty-nine, but she’d had her heart badly broken a couple of times, and what was left of it was hard as cement.

  He walked back into the other room and sat down across from her, found himself thinking about Carly and all the feelings he hadn’t wanted to come to grips with alone.

  “There’re some sparks between us. I won’t deny that. She is pretty irresistible,” he admitted. Sparks? Hell, with a little bit of kindling, I’d have a wildfire on my hands.

  “You just met her, Jake. You don’t even know her. Maybe you’re just attracted because you’ve been carrying that photo of her and the kid around for years. Same thing with that painting you bought off that old guy in the desert. You’ve spent hours staring at that weird landscape with the ghostly Indian and Spanish explorers. A painting she painted. It’s got to be subliminal.”

  She looked at his crotch. One of her slender brows slowly rose. “Well, maybe it’s not all subliminal. Maybe it’s due to the fact that you live like a monk.”

  “Oh, yeah. Next to you anyone looks celibate.” He shook his head. “She’s real, Kat, and she’s nothing like what I thought she’d be. She’s intelligent, caring, responsible. She’s a great mother to Rick’s son.”

  “Jake, think about it. You believed you owed it to Rick Saunders to keep looking for them. Maybe you feel now that you found them, you’re responsible for them.”

  “This started out about Rick, but it’s moved to a purely personal level.”

  “I watch the Sci Fi channel. Next thing you know, you’ll be convinced Rick led you to them from beyond the grave for a reason.”

  “You ever think about ending up all alone, Kat? I mean, when you’re all through playing Ms. Bond?”

  She sobered. “I like myself. I like my life. I’m alone because I want to be. If I ever fall in love again, it’ll be against my will, believe me. I’m not naïve enough to think love lasts forever anymore. I learned that the hard way. You take what you can get when you can get it. Ride the highs and wait out the lows.”

  She told him she had been engaged once, but she never mentioned it again.

  “So, you really never plan on getting married?”

  “Hey, Jake, you’re a perfect example of what happens when wedded bliss goes sour. Your one-and-only winds up screwing somebody else. Now you can’t even commit to unpacking your boxes after all these years. Why would I want to end up like you?”

  She didn’t give him time to answer before she asked, “What’ll you do about Mrs. Saunders?”

  “I’m going to talk to her later this morning. See what information she might already have. Something about this whole thing doesn’t click.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If Anna Saunders’ only concern is with her grandchild, and if Caroline knows that, then why did Caroline feel she had to run in the first place? Why didn’t she just accept the Saunders’ help after Rick died?”

  “Maybe it’s not really your friend’s kid, and she was afraid they’d find out. Maybe they wanted blood tests.”

  “I thought of that.” He shook his head. “But he’s the spitting image of Rick. He has some of Rick’s mannerisms, too. I think there’s something else going on. I’ll stall Anna Saunders for a while until I can get some answers.”

  “So you’re definitely not going to tell her that you found Caroline?”

  “No. Not yet. Not if I can help it.”

  “Caroline’s all right with you being a P.I.? What did she say when you told her you knew Rick?”

  He turned, stared out at the boaters in the marina. When he didn’t answer right away, she jumped on it.

  “You haven’t told her?”

  “Not yet. I was afraid she’d disappear again.”

  “Damn, Montgomery. When you dig a hole, you dig it deep.” Kat got up again, stretched, rolled her head around on her neck and took a deep breath. “Well, one of us ought to get to work around here. I’ll check the answering machine and do callbacks.”

  “Don’t take on any more clients than you can handle alone for a while,” he warned.

  She paused on her way to the office they shared in what would have been a master bedroom, the one where he had hung the painting Wilt Walton sold him years ago.

  He’d driven out to Borrego after Rick’s death to interview Walton and find out if Caroline’s former roommate knew of her whereabouts. Jake had still been an agent of Alexander and Perry then, but, as a former friend of Rick’s, he’d hoped to appeal to Walton.

  Walton claimed he had no idea where Caroline had gone. The guy had been a character, but instinct had Jake believing him.

  Kat was watching him from the doorway. “You’re serious enough about this woman to keep it from Anna Saunders, aren’t you? And at the same time, you haven’t told Caroline that you’re on to her.”

  He nodded.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “So do I.”

  21

  ANNA FORCED HERSELF TO STAY CALM WHEN HER HOUSEKEEPER announced that Jake Montgomery was on his way u
p. When she heard Estelle open the door, her heartbeat accelerated. Smoothing her hand over her hair, Anna walked into the foyer, greeted him, and dismissed the maid.

  An intense ache of sorrow uncoiled in her the moment she saw Jake again and intensified when she reached for the solid warmth of the strong hand he offered. Rick would have been the same age as this tall, handsome man. Looking at Jake was like running a knife through her heart as she was forced to recall the two boys together, sunburned teens, summer friends.

  She imagined her son would have matured in much the same way, maybe without such broad shoulders or hard sculpted jaw, but Rick surely would have been as tall and just as attractive, as fair as Jake Montgomery was dark.

  But there was a seriousness lurking in this young man’s eyes, a gravity Rick had never shown. Her son had grown up without a worry in the world, always carefree, always joking. There wasn’t much he took seriously—which totally frustrated focused, structured Charles.

  As she quickly assessed Jake Montgomery, Anna found herself wishing she could look into her son’s laughing eyes once more and take back every last thing she had ever said about how he ought to grow up and take on some responsibility, act like an adult.

  But it was too late to say all the things she longed to say, needed to say to her boy, too late to tell him she had always loved him just the way he was.

  “Come in, Jake. Please.” She led the private investigator through the wide, formal foyer to the living room. Indicating the sofa with a wave of her hand, she invited, “Have a seat.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Saunders.”

  “Please, call me Anna.”

  As she chose a chair opposite him, his gaze swept the wide bank of windows twice before he looked back at her again.

  If he wanted the place, she’d hand him the damn key. All he had to do was find Rick’s son.

  “Would you like something to drink?” she offered.

  “No, thank you.” He pulled the hem of his tweed sport coat out from under his hip.

  “I won’t beat around the bush and take up too much of your valuable time, Jake,” she began. “I want to hire you to search for my grandson and the woman who stole him.”