He shook his head. “Cheryl decided she was allergic. She gave the cat to some friends a week after I left. I heard about it a month or so after the fact. I haven’t beenable to talk to Birdie about it, so I don’t know how she feels.”
Remy frowned and pushed her plate away. “That sucks. I’m thinking I don’t like this woman very much.”
Neither did he, although logically he knew a lot of her bad behavior was driven by her illness, and how could he hate her for that? Also, she was his daughter’s mother and there wasn’t anything he could do about that. See, complex and nuanced.
“What else can I tell you about my daughter? She likes the number six and told me six was going to marry seven, even though Birdie felt eight was a better choice.” He pictured her curled up beside him on the couch, explaining her rationale.
“Why?”
“Because six and eight have more in common. They’re rounder. Seven is very upright.” He thought a moment. “Or uptight. I can’t remember.”
“She has a wonderful imagination.”
“True, but she’s very earthy. She likes to tell you when she farts. And hiccups. Oh, my God, she has the loudest hiccups I’ve ever heard. It’s like they’re amplified with a microphone.”
Her laugh made the tightness in his chest ease a tiny bit. It also made him remember things he had no business remembering. “Is she close to your mother?”
“She was. Birdie loved to come to Grandma’s house. But as the Alzheimer’s progressed, it became hard for Birdie to understand. It’s frustrating and sad.”
“I suppose it would be,” she said with a sympathetic look. “Did Birdie have a chance to visit her in Shadybrook?”
“No. There wasn’t time, but I knew I was going to be gone for a long time and I wanted Mom to remember Birdie, if possible, so I filmed a bunch of vide—” A thought hit him. “Good grief, why didn’t I think of this before? You’re a visual person. Dreams are movies in your head, right?”
“I guess that’s one way of describing it.”
“Well, I have Birdie’s whole life on my computer. Including the videos I made before I left for Iraq. They’re at the house.”
Her body language shifted subtly, broadcasting a less-than-enthused vibe. “Do you have somewhere you need to be?” Or someone she needed to see?
Jessie had claimed that Remy was single, but maybe Jess didn’t have all the facts.
Remy pulled her oversize purse onto her lap and extracted a small case containing a tube of lipstick. She used the built-in mirror to touch-up her shiny pink lips. She puckered just so, then looked at him and sighed, but said nothing.
Why the sudden reluctance? Had he said something that offended her? Was she worried about the time commitment? Maybe this was about money. He recalled that she wasn’t working and had intended to start looking for a new job. “I’ll hire you.” The offer was out of his mouth before he could consider it, but it made sense. She could be his personal P.I.
“What?”
“I need your help. I don’t expect you to do this for nothing. I’ll pay you double what you might earn at Shadybrook.” The idea was taking shape in his mind. “Say, two weeks, no matter what happens?”
“You think this is going to take that long?” She frowned. “From what you said, I thought the situation was more urgent than that.”
“I’m praying it won’t take that long to find Birdie. With your help and a little luck, we might find a new lead in the next day or two. But if you agree to help me, I want your complete focus. Not worrying about your next job. If, God forbid, this takes longer than two weeks, we’ll renegotiate then.”
“What exactly do you expect me to do to earn this money?”
“Help me figure out where my daughter is. Go over the information I’ve gathered so far. I’m too close to the case. I need fresh eyes. Someone who isn’t emotionally tied to Birdie or Cheryl to tell me what I’m missing.”
She nodded as though that made sense.
“And, dreams or no dreams, Rem, you’ve always been a free-form thinker. That’s exactly what I need, someone who doesn’t adhere so strictly to linear logic. Two weeks. Will you give me that?”
She swallowed. “I—”
“I promise to write you a glowing recommendation. No matter what happens.” He held out his hand to shake. “And I’ll throw in a bonus if we find her within a week.”
He was giving her a hard sell. Before he went into insurance investigation, he’d sold policies from cold calls. He knew all the tricks and not giving her time to deliberate might be high pressure but it also usually resulted in a sale.
“Okay,” she said. “But I’m not doing this for the money. You can pay me what I would have earned at Shadybrook, but no bonus. That’s simply too avaricious sounding, okay?”
She started to offer her hand but pulled back a moment. “And no more talk about dreams. If I see something that has bearing on Birdie, I’ll tell you, but I don’t want you to count on that, okay?”
“Okay,” he lied. She might not believe in her abilities—her gift—but he did.
He shook her hand. Short and sweet. Businesslike. And despite the memories that tugged on his heartstrings—and a few body parts at points lower—he was going to keep their relationship aboveboard. He had no choice. Because no matter what the damn DNA test said, he and Remy Bouchard could never be together.
CHAPTER SIX
REMY STARTED TO GET to her feet, but a loud “Now, hold on a minute” made her stop. Suzie rushed to their table from across the room, moisture dripping from the sweaty pitcher of tea she carried. She lightly pressed her free hand against Remy’s shoulder to keep her in her chair. “You can’t go without pie. You always have pie, Remy.”
Remy knew she wasn’t up to the digestive challenge at the moment—the memories that had swamped her from a simple handshake made it hard to think, much less enjoy dessert.
“Two pieces to go,” Jonas said before Remy could respond. “Whatever’s best today. You pick. We trust your judgment, Suzie.”
The waitress seemed pleased by the compliment. “Back in a few. And I’ll bring your bill.” She dashed away in the opposite direction.
“Dessert police,” he said with a bemused smile. “Who knew?”
Remy loved pie, but she suddenly felt hyper, eager to leave. Once Jonas backed away from demanding access to her dreams, she realized she could be of help. If not as a true investigator then as a sounding board. Her mother often said that was her main role in life. That the ladies who came to her beauty parlor wanted someone to listen, as much as they wanted a new hairdo.
“You don’t have to know all the answers, Remy,” Mama once said. “You only have to know how to listen. I truly believe people know what’s right for themselves but they’ve forgotten how to hear their own voices. That’s where bartenders and hairdressers come in.”
“Before we go, Jonas, can I ask you a personal question?” The more personal, the better, had been her mother’s motto. “Why did you marry Cheryl?”
He crossed his arms and dropped his chin toward his chest. His expression turned so dark she regretted asking.
“Someone once told me that people with certain types of mental illness radiate a light that can be almost blindingly beautiful. Especially to people who are predisposed to be caretakers.”
“You consider yourself a caretaker?” She had never thought of him in that way, but she supposed it fit.
“Yes. I was fifteen when Dad committed suicide. Even though he and Mom had been divorced for a couple of years, Mom was devastated. She blamed herself. She couldn’t even get out of bed for a month.”
Remy had heard bits and pieces of that difficult time when they were together, but he’d never spoken with quite this candor. Of course, a teenage boy probably didn’t have the same perspective as a thirty-three-year-old man.
“Despite Dad’s philandering, he was a good provider. He made sure Mom’s house was paid off and she had stocks and a retirement por
tfolio. I was lucky I didn’t have to drop out of school and get a job. But, Mom relied on me a lot.”
“So, you’re saying you were drawn to Cheryl by her neediness and vulnerability?”
“Direct and to the point—you’ve learned from your sister.” He sighed. “I would say yes. But in my defense, Cheryl’s emotional issues have changed over the years. Worsened. Every doctor she saw had a different diagnosis and treatment. One claimed it was a hormonal imbalance. Another prescribed light therapy. And don’t get me started on the pharmacological aspect. She’s tried all kinds.” He rattled off a dozen or so names of prescription medicines. Some she’d heard of, some that didn’t sound like something that would benefit an emotionally ill person.
“Did she ever do drugs? The recreational kind, I mean.”
“Probably. It’s hard to say. She’d go for months, holding down a job, behaving normally, convincing everyone that she had her act together. Then, suddenly, everything would change.
“One time she was working as a flower arranger—she did all their funeral sprays—and she simply walked out. She disappeared without a word for ten days. She came home with no purse, no phone, no ID. I can’t tell you how many times I had to cancel all our credit cards and put our banks accounts on hold. She’d apologize up and down and sideways, promise to see a doctor, take any meds he prescribed.”
Remy looked over her shoulder to see how their pie order was coming. Suddenly, this felt like much too personal information for such a public venue.
Jonas must have felt the same because he sat forward and added in a low voice, “The last psychiatrist I took her to see used regression therapy to uncover that Cheryl was raped by a family member when she was thirteen. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but she changed after that. I became part of the problem. Another man in a long string of men who only wanted to control her, use her. She was convinced I never loved her. That I wouldn’t have remained with her if not for our daughter.” He blew out a breath and added, “And the sad part is, she’s probably right.”
She heard regret and something else—guilt?—in his tone. “People who already feel disenfranchised are particularly drawn to cults, aren’t they? What do you know about this group she’s joined?”
Before he could answer, Suzie returned with a white paper bag and their bill. “Thanks for coming,” she said. “Hope you enjoy your pie. One piece is your favorite,” she told Remy with a broad grin.
“Thanks,” Remy said, picking up her purse and pushing her chair back. “It was good to see you.”
“You, too. Are going to the picnic next Sunday?”
The all-class reunion. She’d completely forgotten about it. “Doubtful. I’ve got to update my résumé and get it out there so I can start working again. But thanks for asking, Suzie. Give my best to Bobby and the kids.”
Jonas tossed two twenties on the table. A nice, healthy tip for Suzie, a hardworking gal with an unemployed husband and two adorable little boys.
“What sort of picnic?” Jonas asked as he escorted her to the car.
“The Baylorville all-class homecoming. Haven’t you gotten any of the flyers?”
“Maybe.” He unlocked the car. “I’ve barely looked at the regular mail. Mostly, I’ve been focusing on trying to find out everything I can about the GoodFriends. There’s a file in the backseat. You can look it over on our way back into town.”
He opened her door. Always the gentleman. From her vantage point and the bright midday light, she could see a fleck or two of gray in his sideburns. And a faint sag of his broad shoulders. He was a little thin, too, she decided. Back in high school when his mother had been cooking for him, he’d had to diet to make weight for the wrestling team. No more. He was all muscle, nerves and bone.
He handed her their carryout bag then walked around the car and slid behind the wheel.
She glanced in the backseat and decided to hold off looking at his file until later. It deserved her full attention.
“WOW,” REMY EXCLAIMED fifteen minutes later when Jonas ushered her through the front door of his mother’s home. “You still have white carpet.”
He looked down. God, he’d hated the thick, pristine crap that he’d naively blamed for his father’s leaving. “Yeah, well, not for long.”
“What do you mean? It’s in pretty good shape considering it’s, like, twenty years old.”
He lugged the cardboard file box he took with him everywhere to his mother’s big oak desk in the far corner of the room. He hadn’t had time to do any sort of modernization or updates to the place, but he’d thought about this house a lot while he was in Iraq. With a little TLC and seed money, he could make it a viable property. Either to sell or move into. Once he had Birdie back and his life on track again, he’d revisit those plans.
“Mom really let the place go the past couple of years. She was such a fanatic about keeping things neat and dirt-free when I was a kid, I was half-afraid to invite friends over. At least we had a big yard to play in.”
“Funny. I came here once when I was a kid to drop off something for my mom. I remember standing in this very spot, thinking how great it must be to live in such a clean and pretty place. Our house was like Grand Central Station at rush hour. And I don’t think Mama knew what a dust rag was.” She nudged the carpet with her toe. “I had dreams about this carpet for weeks afterward.”
Dreams. The word brought back the reason she was here. Not that the urgency of his quest was ever far from his thoughts, but he knew from his military experience that a soldier, while always on duty, had to distance himself from the intensity of his mission every so often simply to stay sane.
Lunch had been good. He needed sustenance. And talking about Cheryl had been good, too. Remy required some understanding of his ex-wife’s unpredictable and convoluted, entirely self-absorbed thought process so she wouldn’t try to think like a normal person where Cheryl was concerned.
“Look around if you like while I put this in the kitchen,” he said, grabbing the bag with the dessert from the top of the box. “The bathroom is down the hall on the right if you want to freshen up. I’ll show you Birdie’s room after you watch a couple of videos.” He paused before adding, “There’s a lot to see. Probably more than you can take in at a single sitting. Anytime it gets to be too much, say so.”
“Okay. I will. Thanks,” she said, walking toward a brass-and-glass étagère his mother used to display two or three dozen framed photographs. Mostly of him and the important highlights of his life: graduation, new job, commission in the Guard, wedding, Birdie’s birth. The newer shots were more about Birdie, and he was okay with that. He was gratified that his mother was proud to be a grandma.
He returned a few moments later to find Remy holding the shot of him when he received his commission.
“You look very stern and serious in your military uniform.”
He hated that photo. He’d been hours away from proposing to Cheryl. Whenever he looked at his expression in that picture, he decided his subconscious must have known something he chose not to hear.
“Oh, my word!” Remy exclaimed a second later. “What a beautiful baby! Look at that red hair. Where did that come from?”
Of course, if I’d listened to that inner voice, I wouldn’t have had Birdie. “My dad,” he said, the standard answer that he’d given a thousand times to the same question. Only this time, the person asking had a different connection to the answer. He noticed her hand trembled a tiny bit as she set down the frame.
“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Mom used to claim that Dad had flame-red hair when he was a young man. There are only a couple of photographs of him from his childhood—all black and whites. His parents were dirt-poor farmers in Mississippi. No money for fancy things like cameras and cars. Could explain why Dad was so absorbed by anything with wheels and a decent body.”
“Or, in some cases, a decent body was enough,” she said, her tone rich with irony. Marlene had been a shapely woman. All of his pals on the wrestl
ing team had voted Marlene Bouchard as the mom they’d most like to wrestle…naked.
He cleared his throat. “Right. Dad was definitely a ladies’ man.”
She turned slightly, this time an image of his mother in her hand. “Do you think your mother knew it? Before they got a divorce, I mean?”
“I don’t know. She might have turned a blind eye to his extracurricular activities because he kept a roof over her head and a thick white carpet underfoot.”
“You sound bitter.”
He was. But his family history wasn’t relevant beyond where it intersected with his daughter and this present moment. “I’ll get my laptop set up so you can meet Birdie.”
He appreciated the fact that she didn’t press. In fact, she followed orders quite well for a civilian. She walked into the big, open living room, running her hand across one of the plump, persimmon cushions of the sofa his mother had ordered off the internet.
The bright color and modern style matched absolutely nothing in the room. “It jumped off the internet and simply arrived at my door one day for only $9.99, shipping and handling,” she’d told him.
That had been his first confirmation of his growing suspicion that his mother wasn’t quite herself anymore. He’d canceled her credit cards, pulled the plug on her internet service and made sure the rest of her assets were protected.
“From the pictures I’ve seen so far,” Remy told him once she was seated on the couch, “I can tell I’m going to like her. She’s always smiling. You seem to have been able to make up for your wife’s, um, problems very well.”
He grabbed his leather computer bag and walked to the big-screen TV. He was pretty sure he had the right cables stuffed behind the credenza.
“Kids learn fast to adapt. And Cheryl wasn’t always out of it. When Birdie was a baby, there was a period when every night I’d come home to gourmet meals. I’d give Birdie her bath and get her ready for bed while Cheryl cleaned up the kitchen. It was TV-land perfect. And when Birdie got a little older, Cheryl used to act out Mother Goose tales for her. Birdie loved that.”
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