Blue Moon (Blue Mountain Book 2)

by Tess Thompson

  “I didn’t recognize her.”

  “That’s the idea,” I said.

  Hope was standing in front of us now, taking off her sunglasses. “How is he?”

  No greeting, just out with it. I filled her in on what we knew, which she listened to without interruption before settling into the chair opposite us, glancing around as if worried she might be recognized. But no one was paying any attention. The people in this lobby had more on their minds than the exploits of a spoiled movie star, I thought, with some bitterness.

  “How long until we know more?” asked Hope.

  “The surgeon wasn’t sure what he was going to find, so he couldn’t give us anything definite,” I said.

  “Well, I hope he knows what the hell he’s doing.” She shivered. “My God, how do people live in this constant rain?”

  I introduced Hope to my sister, adding that she and Kevan lived in a suburb of Seattle and were able to get here around the same time they’d admitted Ciaran.

  “You’re the one marrying Kevan, then?” Hope asked.

  Blythe nodded.

  Hope took off her hat, letting her long hair fall about her shoulders. “Keeping it all in the family, then? Tell me, do you have another sister for Ardan? Maybe a brother for Teagan?”

  It had seemed funny when I’d thought the same thing, but somehow, coming from her it did not amuse me. I glanced at my sister. Blythe’s face was crinkled like someone had just opened a package of stinky cheese.

  Kevan reappeared just then and took over the management of Hope, while Blythe and I went outside to get some fresh air. Standing next to the hospital doors, we took the cool, damp air into our lungs but it did little to lesson the tightness in my chest.

  “What an unpleasant person,” said Blythe. “What does Ciaran see in her?”

  “They go way back.” I told her the story of her father, and Ciaran’s part in his undoing. “He feels responsible for her.”

  “Still waters run deep, don’t they?” said Blythe.

  It was true. The persona Ciaran presented to the world did not portray half the man he was.

  “I wonder why Kevan’s never mentioned this thing with Hope’s family?” Blythe asked.

  “Kevan doesn’t know. For some reason, their father wanted it kept between them that Ciaran was the one who found the discrepancy.”

  My sister was quiet for a moment. Biting her bottom lip like she does when she’d trying to figure something out.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I just had an awful thought.” She gestured toward the hospital. Hope was sitting next to Kevan, their heads together, talking.

  I knew what she was thinking before she said it. She suspected Hope Manning was responsible. I stared at her. It had never occurred to me. She certainly had the financial means to hire people to terrify and murder. But no, Hope’s feelings for Ciaran ran the other way. “No, it can’t be. She’s in love with him.”

  “Well, the opposite of love is indifference, not hate. Often they go hand in hand,” said Blythe.

  “Ciaran said that very thing to me this morning,” I said. How odd that they would both have said the same thing on the same day. I thought about that concept in terms of Hope and Ciaran. She was the only constant in his adult life. Could she have planned a way to torment him slowly, cause his life to seem always in jeopardy as a way to punish him for the decline of her family? Had today been just one of many attempts on his life in a string of episodes meant to make him paranoid? Or, was today the day she wanted to end it once and for all? Had the other attempts simply failed, or was this a calculated plan to make him suffer for years? I reached into my pocket for the card the cop had given me. Should I call him? What would I say? There was no evidence, obviously.

  “Do you think the cops would think I was crazy if I told them our hunch?” I asked.

  “It might give them a place to start.”

  “If Hope’s responsible, she would have hired professionals, probably the best in the business. They’ll be impossible to trace.” I glanced back inside. Kevan and Hope had risen to their feet as a doctor, dressed in surgical clothes, approached. I grabbed Blythe’s arm. “It’s the doctor.”

  Holding my breath, we walked back into the waiting room. My legs felt numb, my feet moving of their own accord. The doctor, a compact, lean man in his forties, introduced himself, explaining that he’d been one of the primary surgeons for Ciaran’s operation.

  His voice was steady and clinical, with no hint of emotion, speaking directly to Kevan. “We identified bleeding around his heart and performed a thoracotomy. This basically means we opened up his chest and were able to stop the life-threatening bleeding. Fortunately, the paramedics on the scene made the decision to send him here. In cases of severe trauma like the one he experienced in the fall, time is of the essence.” He paused, taking in an even breath. “There’s no head injury, which, given the height of his fall, is extraordinary. The paramedics said he had his goggles on backwards and that they appear to have protected his head from hitting the ice with full force.” I sank into a chair, my legs shaking, as the doctor continued, speaking above ambulance sirens that pierced the air. “Both of his legs were broken in multiple places and require surgery, as does his left arm, which appears to have taken the brunt of the fall. The surgical teams are performing these operations now. He’s going to have a long recovery, requiring physical therapy after healing, but I believe he’s out of danger. Given everything, your brother is a very lucky man.”

  Kevan’s color had returned. He pulled Blythe to him and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “Thank you, doctor.”

  My chest expanded as I took a deep breath. He would live. Thank God. A long recovery, but he would live. I looked over at Hope. Her face was unreadable as she typed into her phone. Was she texting the people she’d hired to kill him? Suspicion, like streams of invisible smoke, replaced the relief I’d felt seconds before. If he lived today, would she continue to try and kill him? Was it her? Would she succeed next time?

  Hope looked up from her phone, catching my eye for a moment. Her face twitched. Was she flinching under my scrutiny? Did she suspect I suspected her? She turned to the doctor. “When can we see him?”

  “We’ll keep him sedated for several hours after surgery, to give him time to heal and rest. I wouldn’t expect to see him until tomorrow.”

  “How long will these next surgeries take?” asked Kevan.

  “The bones in his left arm were shattered. It’ll take the surgeons upwards of six hours to complete. You won’t be able to see him until tomorrow morning at the earliest. Even then, he may not be awake, depending on what kind of pain meds are necessary.” The doctor, for the first time, had the slightest hint of sympathy in his voice. “You’ve all been here a long time. Maybe go home. Get some rest, have a meal, change clothes. Someone can call you when he’s through surgery, but I don’t think you’ll be allowed to see him until morning.”

  After the doctor and Kevan exchanged a few more words about logistics, he left. We were all quiet, except for the sound of Hope texting into her phone. The thought of leaving the hospital seemed incomprehensible to me. I could not leave him here alone. What if something happened and I wasn’t here?

  “I’m staying,” I said.

  “Me, too,” said Kevan.

  Blythe shook her head. “No, that’s not how it’s going to work. Both of you are coming home with me. We can have something to eat, get some rest tonight, and come back in the morning when he wakes.” She touched Kevan’s cheek with her fingertips. “Sweetheart, the girls need us to go home so we can assure them that their Uncle Ciaran will be okay. If we stay here, they won’t sleep a wink all night. And we’re of no use here. He’s going to need us tomorrow and for a lot of days to come. We need to be rested and fed.”

  We both started to protest but my sister put up her hand. �
��We’re going home.” She turned toward me, crossing her arms over her chest. “Get up. We’re going.”

  I obeyed, as Blythe addressed Hope. “Miss Manning, would you like to come too? We have an extra room.”

  Extra room? That was my room. Why would she invite the enemy home with us? Then, it occurred to me. She wanted to talk to her—get her to give us information on whether she was involved or not.

  “My sister’s a great cook,” I said. “And you won’t have to stay in some cold hotel.”

  “Thank you for the offer, but the suite at the Westin is hardly cold,” said Hope. “I’m exhausted—I was up all last night playing in Napa. I’d barely closed my eyes when my assistant called to tell me about Ciaran. I took the first flight out of there. All very last-minute.”

  Kevan hadn’t said anything during this entire exchange. I glanced over at him to find him studying Hope’s face.

  “How did you know, Hope, about Ciaran’s accident?” The emphasis on the word did. Had the same thing occurred to him? Did he imagine Hope could be involved in all this?

  “My assistant saw it on the news. Online, I think.”

  Was Ciaran famous enough that his skiing accident would be reported on the news?

  “On the news?” Kevan’s expression made me think of a dark cloud about to unleash hail. A shiver ran through me.

  Hope continued, seemingly undeterred by Kevan’s expression. “The press think Ciaran and I have been together in Sun Valley all week. I do that sometimes, give false leads to the tabloids so that I can have a few days’ peace from the paparazzi. They must have picked up the story from there.”

  I couldn’t recall any press lingering around the lodge that morning. Was she lying? It was easy enough to search from my phone.

  “Can we offer you a lift to your hotel?” asked my sister.

  “No, I’ve hired a driver for the day. He’s waiting for my call.”

  Kevan continued to stare at Hope. His left hand clasped and unclasped. Perspiration dotted his forehead.

  “Ciaran told me what happened with your family,” I said to Hope before turning to Kevan. “Did you know it was Ciaran that figured out what was really happening with the parts?” I asked him.

  “No,” he said. “My father never told me that.”

  The vein that ran through the middle of Hope’s forehead pulsed. “Isn’t that the Lanigan and Manning way?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Kevan.

  “Secrets and lies. A specialty from both our fathers,” said Hope.

  “Did you blame Ciaran?” asked Kevan. “For your father’s troubles?”

  “Of course not. Ciaran’s the only man I’ve ever known, including my own father, who always does the right thing.”

  “It didn’t make you mad, Hope? Mad enough to kill him?” asked Kevan. “Slowly. Over time. Making him paranoid or crazy or both? Maybe you’ve spent the better part of fifteen years trying to scare him, make him suffer for what he did to your family?”

  Hope stared back at him, the vein on her forehead popping. “What’re you talking about?”

  “Ciaran has felt like someone was trying to kill him,” I said. “He wasn’t sure if it was imagined or real. Neither did I, until today.”

  Hope’s eyes filled with tears. Two bright spots on either cheek flamed red. “You think I would hurt Ciaran? He’s the only real friend I have.” She turned her gaze to me. “What would you know about it, anyway? You’ve been fucking him for a month; I’ve loved him all my life.”

  “I’m the one he told of his fears, not you.” Even as I said it, I knew how childish it sounded.

  “You’re the fruit of the month, honey, I can guarantee you that,” said Hope. “I’ll be with him all his life.”

  “Truth is, you’ve got motive,” said Kevan. “Doesn’t take a cop to see that.”

  Hope swiped under her eyes where tears had smeared her mascara. “That’s completely ridiculous.”

  “I wonder how many times one of his near-death experiences happened when you were in the same place,” said Kevan. “I’m sure the police can track that quite easily.”

  “It all happened a million years ago,” said Hope. “And Ciaran’s more than paid me back for whatever supposed harm he did to my family. Who do you think got me to come to Hollywood in the first place? I owe my career to Ciaran. If he hadn’t believed in me, I’d still be stuck in Boise, Idaho.”

  “Who else would do this to him?” asked Kevan. “It’s got to be you. I’m sure the police will think this is all highly interesting. We’ll get the proof eventually, and you’ll pay for what you’ve done.” He stepped close to her, pointing a finger near her face. “If he dies, so help me God, I will make you suffer.” His voice choked. Blythe grabbed his arm.

  “Kevan, come on. Let’s go home,” said Blythe.

  “You can go to hell,” whispered Hope. “All of you. Go to hell.” Holding her oversized bag to her chest like a shield, she ran out the hospital doors.

  None of us said anything for several long seconds. Glancing around, I noticed that the room had hushed, everyone watching our drama unfold.

  Chapter 30

  LOLA AND CLEMENTINE were at home when we arrived, having been picked up from school by a sitter. I paced the front room, checking my cell phone every two minutes, while Blythe took the girls aside to tell them that Ciaran was hurt. Blythe made sandwiches and we all tried to eat something, but no one was hungry. I was about to lose my mind with worry, when the hospital called Kevan. Ciaran was out of surgery but asleep. We could come see him in the morning, unless he took a turn for the worse during the night. I felt like this should make me less worried, but I wouldn’t feel better until I could see him, touch him, hear him speak.

  I don’t know if I slept more than a couple hours that night, waking at dawn to stare at the ceiling in the guest room. Not wanting to disturb anyone, I wandered into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Kevan was also awake, staring out the window with a coffee filter in his hand, like he had been about to make coffee but had frozen before he could complete his task.

  “Good morning,” I said, softly, not wanting to startle him.

  He turned to greet me. Dressed in an old pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, his eyes were bloodshot, and he looked as haggard as I felt. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.

  “No. Horrible night.”

  “Me too,” he said.

  I motioned for him to give me the coffee filter. “Sit, I’ll do it.”

  He did as I asked, sinking heavily into one of the kitchen table chairs. “I feel like an idiot.”

  “About what?” I asked.

  “That I let this feud between us continue. I’ve already lost Finn. Shouldn’t that have taught me how easily I could lose another person I love?”

  “It’s not that simple when it comes to family,” I said.

  Given my own feelings about my mother, I understood that family wounds are the deepest kind of pain, making reconciliation almost impossible. These family disputes become so deeply ingrained in our psyches that we cannot let go, cannot allow forgiveness to conquer resentment. We’re unwilling to let go of the stories that run like a never-ending tape, those words hurled in anger that cannot be taken back. Once something is said, they remain like photographs posted on the Internet, only worse, because we retain them behind our eyes, pulling them up without search engines or clever algorithms.

  The offenses against my mother pile on top of one another, stacks and stacks of them. The school events she did not come to, all the mornings she was too tired (from a night of sex or drugs) to get out of bed and make us something to eat before school, the very fact that she wanted us to call her Sally instead of mom, (I’m your friend, Bliss, not some matriarchal archetype), the boyfriend she caught looking at Blythe in the outdoor shower but did not kick out of the house. How about the outdoor
shower itself that ran only cold water? Perhaps a job, dear Sally, so that we might have hot water? Oh, yes, it comes back in a flash, like it happened yesterday instead of thirty years ago.

  I wonder if perhaps the affronts become a comfort to us, like the clothes in our closets we haven’t worn for years? We know it might not particularly serve us to hold onto them, as the dress is outdated, the lacy collar too young for us, the color wrong for our complexions, jeans a size too big or small, but we keep them anyway.

  Why can’t we let go of these family wounds? I suspect the nature of betrayal, cruelty, or abandonment from those with whom we share the same blood, no matter how we try to forget, feels too big to forgive, because we love them the most. But what if we did let go of injustices, accusations, the ways in which we failed one another? What if we said, I forgive, I let go, I will move on without ever thinking of it again?

  “He has to be all right, Bliss, or I will never forgive myself for not trying harder,” said Kevan.

  The coffee maker made spitting noises as the kitchen filled with the pleasant aroma. “He’s going to be, Kevan. We’re both going to say the things we need to say.” I poured coffee in a mug and set it in front of him.

  He looked up at me. “What do you want to say to him, Bliss?”

  I let out a long sigh. “I have to tell him I love him, and then I have to let him go.”

  Just then Kevan’s phone started buzzing, turning in a circle on the table. He picked it up. “It’s a Los Angeles number.”

  “Hope Manning?”

  “Right. Of course.” He answered and then was quiet for a moment, obviously listening. “Are you sure?” After he hung up, he put the phone down on the table and looked over at me. “She remembered something and said you would know what she was referring to. Ida Smart, the hairdresser?”

  “Moonstone’s hairdresser, yes.”