by EC Sheedy
It was a good thing old Joe hadn't lived to see the decline and fall of his precious hotel—or his grandson. Wade didn't know which would bother him more. Damn, but he still missed the old man, more than ever since coming back to the Philip.
He worked on building himself a sandwich, glanced out the window to the street below in time to see Gordy and Melly turning the corner. They'd be going to Blackberry Park. Wade frowned. That place was a half-square-block nightmare, and anybody in there after dark was looking for fresh scar tissue. Why the hell Seattle's finest didn't clean it up, he couldn't figure. He also couldn't figure how Gordy managed it every day and met with no trouble at all. Maybe the locals knew better than to tangle with his mom, the woman who taught Gordy to ask "How much?" every time someone hired him—even if he couldn't assess the answer. It was her way of being sure he got something. No way was Cherry Ripley letting Gordy be taken advantage of. She was passionate about two things—her AA meetings and her son.
Wade went back to making his sandwich, the idea of passion, any kind of passion, a distant memory.
He stopped abruptly, braced both hands on the counter, and dropped his head between his shoulders, rigid with suppressed tension.
Shit. He felt like shit. What kind of man didn't go to his father's funeral? What kind of man carried a load of shame—and hate—around heavy enough to sink him? And what kind of man had a north wind blowing through the hole where his heart should be?
A guy who fucked up, that's who. A guy who'd driven the fast lane, foot hard on the pedal, with a five-inch stiletto heel holding it in place.
Deanna.
He let the name loose in his brain, tested its impact. Not hate. Not love. Not even regret. Just a sea of humiliation, born of his own pride and stupidity.
His head ached, so he went to the bathroom and downed a couple of pain relievers. He needed a drink. But like a lot of other goddamn things in his life, the slow burn of amber down his throat was off limits. Hard liquor and drinking alone didn't do anything for his head two years ago; it sure as hell wouldn't now.
If he didn't have that mop waiting for him, he'd have to start weaving baskets.
* * *
Joy Cole breezed into her rented condo, walked to her desk, and stowed her laptop and briefcase. It was July, and hot as hell in Victoria. Unusually hot over the whole Pacific Northwest. Anxious to pare down, get rid of her jacket, she headed for the bedroom and tossed on cotton shorts and a spaghetti-strap tee.
In the living room, she turned on the stereo, tried to find soothing, mellow music. But for all her twirling and button pushing, she found only loud guitars and heavy doses of rap.
She gave up and gave in to her agitation.
She should be happy. It wasn't every day she got a contract for twelve feature articles and a travel budget dreams were made of. Her move to All-World Travel Magazine had really paid off. After this stint in British Columbia, she'd fly to Bali, then from there to Singapore and on to Australia and New Zealand. A great trip that paid great money.
And she was apathetic as hell.
One hotel room too many? Maybe. Or one too many nights alone. She could barely remember her last relationship, but she was pretty sure it ended in an airport bar, sandwiched between Timbuktu and Zanzibar... or somewhere. As she recalled, it wasn't much of a relationship, and the sex was barely a five on the one-to-ten meter. Right now she'd settle for a three and a decent conversation.
Okay, she wasn't going there. The minute she started admitting to something as sappy as loneliness, she was doomed. Joy Cole didn't do sappy.
Maybe if she poured iced tea on her inertia, she'd roust it, get a grip. She was always okay as long as she kept moving—and avoided thinking too much. She made a line for the kitchen and along the way hit the message button on her phone.
The voice on it stopped her cold.
"Joy, it's La—your mother." There was a pause as if the mother concept had disrupted her thought process. "Something has come up, so would you call me, please. I'd like you to come to Seattle. It's about Stephen?... He died, you know. It's important, Joy, so please call me right away." The voice mail ended on a click.
He died, you know. The words echoed.
Joy didn't know. She plopped on the edge of the sofa. Not sure how she felt, she sorted through a few feelings. Regret? Some. As stepfathers went, Stephen Emerson hadn't been bad, just not particularly good. During the time she'd lived with him, aged twelve to seventeen, she'd rarely seen him—or her mother. The last time had been strictly by chance, in a San Francisco hotel lobby. She frowned, tried to remember. Maybe eight months ago?
They'd had a drink together. He'd looked a bit downcast, she'd thought then, and he'd been a lot mellower than she remembered him.
He'd asked a lot of questions and seemed genuinely pleased to hear her life was, as he put it, "on a good and sensible course."
Naturally she'd left out the bad bits. The bits that were anything but sensible.
Their hour together was pleasant enough, and they'd parted with his hugging her—a first, as far as she could remember. Then he'd made an odd comment about parent-child relationships, what he called the "sad mess of them." When he'd said he wished things could be different, she didn't know if he meant her and her mother's twisted bond, or his and his son Wade's, who'd bolted within days of when she and Lana had moved into the Emerson family home. Looking back, she should have followed his lead. But barely twelve, she'd been painfully confused about where she stood in the bright new world created by Lana and Stephen's marriage. She'd even made a half-hearted attempt to fit in.
Joy got up, shook her head.
What a pair they'd been! Hopping from one place to another, Switzerland for skiing, Hawaii for sun and surf, The Hague to see the tulips, Paris because it was spring, and they just had to get some "truly good food," then to Italy for the grape harvest.
She could still hear her mother's smooth voice, "Be a good girl for Nanny, Joy." There'd be a quick peck on the forehead while Stephen called impatiently from the limo waiting to take them away. That damn kiss, intolerable at twelve, and by sixteen, a serious maternal misstep. Then off they'd go.
Away, away, away...
The little girl that was Joy wanted to go, too; see all those exotic, tempting places; be grown up enough, free enough, to get lost in a mysterious world that offered unending promises. It was never about the Herculean task of trying to bond with Lana, be with Lana. Through time she'd learned that wasn't possible. No. It was about getting away from her.
She veered off Memory Lane. Nothing but wasted emotional gas. In a remote corner of her heart a remnant of love for Lana remained, a tiny silk knot that couldn't be untied, but it rested tenuously beside a vein that had bled too often in the cause of mother love. Maybe, someday, she'd have the courage to open it again. But not now. For now, she'd keep her shields up, her questions—particularly about her father—in the same locked box they'd been in for over twenty years. Repression had its rewards.
She got up. No point in slogging back through her childhood, that barren landscape she'd traversed without a guide. Worse than some, better than others, it was her cut of fate's cards, and she'd dealt with it years ago. Or thought she had.
She retraced her steps to the kitchen and replayed her mother's message. She was sorry to hear of Stephen's death, but she reminded herself it had nothing to do with her. Unless Lana needed something...
With Stephen gone and unable to provide, there was a chance Lana was looking for a stand-in.
Her mouth went dry and every self-protective instinct she'd honed so carefully through the years sparked to life. Rising to the top of her mother's toady list was not a good thing.
If Joy were smart, she wouldn't return the call. Miserable excuse for a daughter that she was, she didn't relish a reentry into her mother's life, couldn't suppress the flutter of panic at the thought of talking to her.
As mother and daughter they were an uneasy fit, always had been; Joy do
ubted the length of time they'd spent apart had changed that.
"Give your head a shake, woman. You're a big girl now. Able to leap tall buildings in high heels and spandex. You can manage a normal conversation with your mother"—she slapped her forehead—"and you're talking to yourself."
Disgusted, she made her iced tea, took a long, satisfying drink, and walked out to her balcony—if you could call two square feet a balcony. She'd phone her mother in the morning, but she didn't intend to go to Seattle. She had a trip to organize and less than a month to do it—a prospect that held as much appeal as talking to Lana. But Joy knew one truth. Her mother was the black hole of attention-getting, and she didn't plan on falling into the pitch again. She'd worked too hard for her own life.
Her life. Drum roll, please...
A sterile, windswept land of hotels, airport lounges, lost luggage, ever-creased clothes, cell phone calls, and laptops with dead batteries. Oh, and not to forget the mountains of fast food slowly turning her thighs into fat-cell incubators.
She laughed at herself. What a self-pitying, ungrateful idiot she was. She had it good, damn good.
She just didn't have it right.
She sighed, pressed the cool glass to her forehead, told herself she'd feel differently tomorrow. And as far as Lana was concerned, she'd learned how to hold her ground years ago. If she were lucky, she hadn't forgotten the drill.
* * *
"Shut up!" the boy hissed at the girl. "Keep it down, will ya!"
The fire escape, with its noisy metal stairs, was bad enough, but if Nelly didn't stop with the chatter, someone would hear them for sure. Luke should have known that last beer would put her over the top, but—he smiled—it would make the sex easy.
The girl slapped a hand over her mouth, but it didn't stop either the giggle or the hiccup. "Okay, but are we almost there?" She spoke through the hand covering her mouth, but at least she was quieter.
"Yeah," he whispered back. "Just one more floor."
The good thing was the stairs were on the alley side of the hotel, and most of the rooms on this side, except one, were empty. Hell, most of the hotel was empty. He'd been scoping it out for a month. Of the thirty-six rooms, less than half were occupied. Getting in, and getting out, without being seen would be a piece of cake.
Nelly giggled again, and again he shushed her. Christ, if it wasn't for those boobs of hers, he'd have brought Christa instead. "Here it is." Luke put his face to the window and looked in. Black as tar in there. Good. He worked the crowbar under the old, wood-sashed window, added a bit of muscle, and it lifted. He stepped over the sill and gave Nelly a hand in.
He opened his backpack and pulled out a blanket, a six-pack of beer, and a candle—no harm in a little romance. The finger of flame offered by the lit candle barely formed shadows in the blackness of the room. Luke spread the blanket over the bed's sagging mattress.
Nelly took her hand from her mouth and squinted into the darkness. "Cool," she said.
"Our own private hotel room," he said. "Just like I said." Luke didn't intend to waste a bunch of time. "Now, Nelly Moses, you come over here." He sat on the edge of the bed and spread his legs.
The obliging Nelly stepped into the vee of his legs and put her hands in his hair, while Luke slid his hands under her tee to lock onto her breasts. Breasts that made a little B&E worth it.
The kiss was damn good, too.
They started to strip, and when his zipper snagged, Nelly giggled again. "You know what you're doing, right?"
"Isn't my first time, if that's what you mean." He was glad it was dark, because his face was hotter than burned rubber. He got the zipper down, and Nelly pulled off that skimpy cotton thing she wore over those hooters of hers.
In seconds he was on top of her and buried deep.
A second after that, a hand grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked him out—and upright. Nelly covered her breasts and scrambled back against the headboard. A knife tip gouged under his chin and a trickle of sticky warmth ran along his neck. His sixteen-year-old cock withdrew like a threatened turtle.
"Hey—"
"Shut up." The knife moved, made another shallow cut. "You've got thirty seconds to get your bare asses out of here or this"—he jabbed again—"will do serious work."
The man's head jerked in the direction of Nelly. "Much as I hate the thought of you covering up them titties of yours, sweetheart, you go first."
Nelly moved as if someone had slammed a hot brand on her butt; she stuffed her legs into her jeans, and yanked on her tee. The next second she was out the window, then she stopped. "You let him go or I'll scream." She sounded scared, and her voice squeaked like a little girl in a schoolyard.
Luke was impressed, until the knife made a short, shallow slit under his ear, and his own hot blood seeped under the neck of his Tee.
"You scream, sweet thing," the man holding him said, "and your boyfriend is raw meat. Now get the hell out of here."
Luke heard her clang down the fire escape in quick time. The man shoved him from behind. "Now you, limp dick. Get out of here and don't come back. And keep your mouth shut. You tell anyone about this, and I'll fuckin' find you. You got that?"
"Yeah, I got it." Luke made for the window, caught a glimpse of the guy when he straddled the sill on his way out. Shit! The guy was a freakin' mountain!
As Luke scrambled down the fire escape, he heard the man laugh. "Thanks for the beer, dickless."
When the kids were gone, the man picked up the backpack, tucked the six-pack under his arm, and blew out the candle. When he closed the door of Room 33 behind him, he was grinning. Man, that piece had a nice set on her.
Maybe hanging around this dump was gonna have some perks after all.
Chapter 2
Joy sat on the edge of her bed and stretched. She was still stretching when the phone rang. She looked at her bedside clock—not seven yet. Almost ten in New York—had to be Connie about that piece she'd just sent in for Travel World. What was it again? The Scottish Moors... no, Irish castles, that was the one. She slid into work mode and picked up the phone.
"Joy Cole here." She managed to sound brisk before stifling a yawn. A phone call before coffee—what could be worse? She stood, headed for the kitchen.
"It's me."
"Mother?" Joy stopped in the middle of the room, unable to associate Lana's voice with the early morning hour.
A silky laugh traveled down the line. "I knew my call would surprise you."
"Surprise is for popped balloons and tax refunds—this verges on trauma. You haven't got out of bed before ten since... hell, you never got out of bed before ten."
"Maybe I've changed. It has been a while, after all."
Nearly six years, but who was counting? But change? Joy didn't think so. "I'm sorry about Stephen. And I was going to call today. What happened?"
"Heart."
"No warning?"
"For Stephen, yes. According to his lawyer, his doctor told him months ago how serious his condition was. He didn't share that with me." Her statements were matter-of-fact, and her tone conveyed neither resentment nor despair. No change there.
Joy had a surge of pity for Stephen. Sick, dying, he must have known sharing his pain with Lana was out of the question, sensed what Joy knew from experience: Lana didn't do death and dying—at least, not someone else's. Certainly not Joy's father's.
She went to the window, peeked out into a blinding morning sun, and rubbed her forehead, not knowing where to go next. "I assume you're okay?"
"I'll miss him, of course."
"Uh-huh." Joy doubted it, but maybe in the end it wasn't Lana's fault. She just didn't have any of those still waters that ran deep. More of a summer creek in a drought.
"I tried to call you several times. About the funeral. But you were away." She paused. "Your office said Paris, I think."
"Just got back."
"Lucky you. I love Paris."
"Everybody does." Joy girded her loins, figuratively
speaking. "Is there something I can do for you, Mother?" She held her breath. There was always something you could do for Lana. It was the how much you had to worry about.
"You can come to Seattle for a visit. That would be a start."
"Can't. I'm leaving for Australia any day, and I've got a lot of prep to do." Okay, so she did make it sound more imminent than it was, but as a buffer, it was all she had.
Silence.
"This isn't about me, Joy."
She sounded annoyed, which was odd. Lana seldom got angry. She was often hurt, saddened, prettily confused, painfully thwarted, terribly disappointed, and on occasion elegantly resigned—each emotion carefully choreographed—but never plain old mad. "What is it about?"
"Stephen. He left you a hundred thousand dollars and a hotel. You have to come and take care of things." Her tone was without inflection or emotion.
"He what?" Joy's lungs imploded. "Why would he do that?"
"I have no idea. He also left you a letter which I'm to give to you. Maybe it will explain things."
Joy unthinkingly tugged on the blind pull, freeing it to flap and crash its way to a tight roll at the top of the window. The sun exploded into the room to fry what was left of her brain cells.
"The hotel—it has to be the Philip."
"Yes. Ghastly place. It should have been taken down years ago."
Joy remembered it. She'd been there once when she was twelve or so. Old, run-down, dirty, and smelly, as if everyone in the place survived on boiled cabbage.
"Are you still there?" Her mother's voice jolted her out of the foggy memory.
"I'm here," she said and rubbed the lines, bow-tight now, between her eyes.
"Good. I checked, and there's a ferry leaving Victoria for Seattle in a couple of hours. Can you be on it?"
She exhaled, felt a part of her hard-won life slip out on the breath. "No."
The word shocked them both into a brief silence.
Lana's tone was measured when she responded. "I'm afraid you have to come, Joy. Stephen, for some inexplicable reason, tied our fortunes together. The will really can't be settled without you."
