My Sister, Myself

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  Tory squeezed her hands tighter together. “And Child Protective Services doesn’t see that as a sign to believe her about the abuse?”

  “They said it could just as easily be indicative of the change in her family structure. She needs time to adjust. They even hinted that perhaps the stories Alex is telling me are just that—stories—made up in a desperate attempt to get me back in her life.”

  “The bastards.”

  Tory could still remember the helplessness she’d felt when Massachusetts Child Welfare had found reasons to overlook her stepfather’s abuse. There’d been periods when he hadn’t been abusive and so there’d been no bruises, and he’d been so convincingly loving, so openly attentive at all the right times. Involved in school functions, a churchgoer, a hard worker—and Tory and Christine were just having trouble adjusting to the tragic death of their mother, they said.

  Yeah. Right.

  Ben looked up at her, his expression grim. “I know she’s telling me the truth. Al wouldn’t lie to me.”

  Tory nodded. “I believe you.”

  Tears glistened in his too-bright eyes. “She was crying like a cornered animal, dammit.”

  Tory felt the sensation so vividly she was sick to her stomach. “She’s lucky she has you,” she whispered.

  The man was truly a miracle—even to a woman who didn’t believe in miracles. He was the guardian angel she’d once imagined, for another child, yes, but still a guardian angel. Christine wasn’t going to believe this. Tory had to tell her—

  No.

  She wouldn’t be talking this over with Christine. Not this or anything else. When would she ever get it? When would these moments of reaching for her sister end?

  Ben glanced over his shoulder at the other customers in the ice-cream shop—none of whom were paying the slightest attention to the couple sequestered in the back booth—and then at Tory. “I’m thinking about going after her,” he said.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “WHAT?” TORY SAT straight up.

  “I can’t just leave her there. Who knows what that bastard will do to her?”

  Tory knew. But… “You can’t just take her.”

  “Like hell I can’t.” His eyes were hard as flint, his hands in tight fists on the table.

  “And then what?” she asked quietly. “What kind of life would you be able to give her?”

  “A loving one.”

  “Yes, but it’ll be a life on the run, which is no life at all.” Tory could vouch for that. “She’d be living a lie, never able to make friends…or to love anyone but you.”

  Ben didn’t budge, his chin jutting, his jaw tense. “I’m not saying it would be perfect, but it’s got to be better than what she has now.”

  “For a time, maybe,” Tory said. She’d sure done her share of dreaming as a kid, before she’d given up on dreams. Her favorite had been the one where her real father came back, full of love and explanations and apologies, and stole her and Christine away from the bastard who was raising them.

  “But chances are good you’d be caught eventually,” she said, knowing that firsthand, too. “And you’ll be an outlaw, tried, and probably sent to jail. Alex will then be returned to her parents, who’ll most likely blame her for the entire debacle and punish her accordingly. And this time you won’t be around to help her.”

  “It’s been almost two weeks since she called,” he said, his shoulders slumped. His hands were still clenched, as though ready to hit someone. “And what help have I been to her so far?”

  “The right kind,” Tory said, desperate to assure him. The fact that he loved Alex, that he was pulling for her, that he cared so deeply, was the best gift he could give the little girl. It was a gift Tory had prayed for all her life.

  “I promised her.”

  “And you’re keeping that promise,” she said strongly, almost tempted to reach out and cover one of those clenched fists with her hand. “You’re in constant contact with people who see her five days a week, who’re watching out for her. Those are the people who’ll know exactly what to do if anything happens again.” She crossed her fingers under the table.

  Please, Chrissie, if you’re up there, protect little Alex. Please don’t let her end up like us.

  Ben wrapped his hands around his cold cup of coffee and studied Tory for a long moment.

  “You sound like an authority on this stuff,” he said assessingly.

  Face hot, Tory made herself breathe. And think. “I, uh, I’m a teacher.” She found the answer from somewhere. “We’re trained to know these things.”

  He frowned. “But you teach college. Child abuse is hardly a problem in your classroom.”

  “True.” She licked her lips. “But my undergraduate degree was in education.” The truth saved her. Sort of. It was Christine’s truth, not hers, but then, it was Christine sitting there with Ben.

  However, it was Tory who was starting to care about him.

  OVER THE NEXT WEEK and a half, Christine became a lifeline for Ben. She kept him sane. If not for her, he’d for sure have gone off half-cocked to California, kidnapped his daughter and run.

  To what, he didn’t know. A lifetime of dead-end jobs, of no relationships other than with Alex. Still, it might’ve been worth it to get the constant worm of worry out of his gut. To know that his precious child was safe.

  But Christine was right. If they ever got caught, Al’s life would be over. She’d be given back to Mary and the bastard, and there’d be no way he could save her a second time. Not from prison. As much as he hated it, he had to bide his time, play by the rules and pray that right would win.

  So he lived for the moments each day when he could call the nurse at Alex’s school, lived for the report that Al was in class and wasn’t bruised. And the rest of the time, he studied. Final exams were coming up in a couple of weeks, and he had a perfect grade point going. He was hoping to get some scholarship money to offset the loans he’d arranged for the remainder of his education.

  And he lived for the hour or so each Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning when he was with Christine. Her eyes always asked about Alex the moment she saw him in class. And then filled with obvious relief when he nodded that everything was okay.

  On their walks back to her office after class, she continued to buoy up his strength, his decision to stay where he was. He knew almost nothing about the woman, and yet she was becoming his mainstay.

  He knew almost nothing, yet he sensed a great deal. Although she was more relaxed around him since that day at the ice-cream shop, she was frequently still uncomfortable—especially that time he’d accidentally bumped into her while they were walking after class. She’d jumped as though she’d been shot.

  He vowed to himself that someday, when he was no longer her student and she was no longer his teacher, when things with Alex were as they should be, he was going to find out why Christine Evans was so frightened of him.

  Someday. When he could attend to the answer.

  “Are you doing anything special for Thanksgiving tomorrow?” Christine asked hesitantly as Ben walked with her across the campus after class.

  Actually Zack had invited him over for dinner with his partner, Cassie, and her parents, but he’d declined. He hadn’t felt up to a family gathering. Not without Alex.

  “Buddy and I are planning to lie around and get fat,” he told her. In reality, he planned to study. Exercise. Take the dog for a long walk. Watch some football. Anything to keep his mind off Alex and what kind of holiday she might be having. He was afraid it meant the bastard would be home all day—and that Alex would be in more danger because of that.

  He prayed his little girl would remember to stay in her room as much as she could.

  And hated to think of her alone in there, playing all by herself.

  “Buddy?” Christine asked, frowning. And then, “Oh, yeah, you mentioned him once before. He’s your dog, right?”

  “If you can call him that. He’s not convinced of it yet.”

/>   She smiled one of her rare, unfettered smiles. She looked breathtakingly beautiful. “What does he think he is?”

  “My boss.”

  “Oh.” Her smile faded. “Well, Phyllis, um, suggested that if you aren’t doing anything, you might want to come by for Thanksgiving dinner with us.”

  She moved a little farther away from him on the wide sidewalk that cut across the middle of campus.

  “I guess it’s kind of a common practice at Montford,” she added, “for teachers with families to invite students who aren’t going home. The administration doesn’t want any students to spend the holiday alone, unless they choose to. Will and Becca usually have a houseful themselves, except I’m not sure they are this year, with Bethany and all….” Her voice trailed off.

  Ben wasn’t hot about the idea of being a needy student for the holiday.

  But dinner with Christine was more of a temptation than he could currently withstand. Just being with her would help him fight off the demons that would prey on his mind this first Thanksgiving without his daughter.

  “What time should I be there?”

  ARMED WITH A TUB of port-wine cheese and a bottle of white zinfandel, Ben showed up promptly at two the next afternoon at the address Christine had given him. He wasn’t sure how formal the occasion was supposed to be, so he’d worn a pair of black pants and a white button-down oxford shirt, figuring the clothes would cover any eventuality.

  He was glad he’d made the effort when Christine opened the door wearing a simple but casually elegant navy-and-white silk jumpsuit. Her hair was stylishly windblown about her shoulders, allowing, as she moved, brief glimpses of the double gold hoops in her ears.

  “You look beautiful,” he said before he remembered she was his teacher and he wasn’t supposed to say things like that.

  “Thank you.”

  She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  “Ben, hi!” Phyllis came up behind Christine. “We’re glad you could make it.”

  Ben smiled at the other woman, handing over his gifts. “I’m glad you asked me,” he told her.

  And he was. Other than with Alex, he couldn’t think of anyplace he’d rather be. Certainly not home alone with only a dog to share his meal, as he’d been planning.

  Phyllis Langford was a born nurturer. Within five minutes of his arrival, Ben was feeling completely at home, in the kitchen carving the turkey while Phyllis mashed potatoes and Christine stood at the stove making gravy.

  “Becca told me something interesting last night when I was over there for dinner,” Phyllis said, pouring milk into the big stainless pot she’d used to cook the potatoes.

  Ben glanced up from the bird he was carving, the electric knife suspended.

  “She thinks you’re entitled to half of Montford Mansion,” she said.

  “Your kidding!” Christine stopped stirring and stared at Phyllis.

  “What makes her think that?” Ben asked, back at his carving.

  “Apparently your great-grandfather’s will—and all subsequent ones—stipulate that the estate is to remain in the possession of any living Montford heirs. It doesn’t name names, just says the heirs. That’s you.”

  “And Sam,” Christine added.

  Turning on the portable mixer, Phyllis nodded.

  “Sam Montford IV,” she said. “Did Becca tell you how he left town about ten years ago and nobody’s heard from him since? Not even his parents.”

  “His parents own Montford Mansion now, right?” Christine asked.

  “They’re the ones in possession of it,” Phyllis said, her voice raised over the mixer. “But from what I understand, no one’s lived there for almost two years. No one knows for sure why they left, but Becca said the speculation is that it’s because of Sam. His continued absence was breaking their hearts.” She turned off the mixer. “Sam’s ex-wife, Cassie, came back to town shortly after they left.”

  “Is she Zack’s partner?” Ben asked. He thought so, but no one had ever said, and he hadn’t asked. Becca hadn’t gotten that far the night he’d been over there for dinner. Little Bethany had cut the evening short.

  Phyllis nodded, detached the beaters and put them in the sink. “She’s a veterinarian, too, a nice girl, pretty, super smart, but I guess she keeps to herself a lot. When Becca was trying to find Sam for her Fourth of July celebration, Cassie told her she hadn’t heard from him in years.”

  “I know Zack,” Ben said, his knife whirring on and off as he carved. “But I’ve never met Cassie. She seems to travel a lot.”

  “She’s a genius with pet therapy,” Phyllis told them. “She’s known all over the country, has had amazing results. She gets calls all the time from desperate people who are sure she can help them.”

  Sounded to Ben like his cousin was a total loser, leaving a woman like that. “Does she? Help them, I mean?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Phyllis said, wrapping the cord back around the mixer. “What I hear from Will and Becca is that more often than not, she does help, often with the mentally ill, sick kids and so on. I’m hoping to spend some time with her myself later on. I’m really fascinated by what she’s been able to accomplish.”

  “So does anyone know where the Montfords are?” Christine asked, stirring a little more flour into the gravy.

  Putting the mixer under the cupboard, Phyllis stood. “They’re in Europe someplace.”

  “So that house just sits there empty?” Christine stopped stirring again to look at Phyllis.

  “They have someone come in to clean once a month. Becca thinks they might be coming home for the holidays, though. Apparently the woman who cleans the place heard from them recently. They want her to have food in the refrigerator the third week in December.”

  Ben’s heart quickened while he listened silently. Becca had told him about his aunt and uncle when he’d gone to dinner that night. He’d been thinking about them, envisioning himself telling them that he existed—and was in town. He just wasn’t ready to do it yet.

  He wasn’t sure he had what it took to be a Montford in Shelter Valley. He was no wealthy patriarch. He was a manual laborer who wanted nothing more than to get an education—and to gain custody of the daughter who wasn’t even his.

  “I think you should meet them,” Christine said, looking briefly in his direction, smiling ever so slightly.

  The electric knife slid off the turkey’s breast, leaving him with a few shavings, rather than a decent slice of meat.

  He amended his previous thought. He did want something more. He wanted to get to know his teacher in a way that students didn’t normally get to do.

  All it took was one smile from her to give him a jolt.

  “Maybe someday,” he answered her. When he had a college degree under his belt. When Alex’s life was settled in a manner that satisfied him.

  “You deserve your share of the inheritance,” Phyllis offered, dipping her finger into the potatoes for a taste.

  He sliced a leg off the turkey, putting it on the platter whole. “I’m doing all right without it,” he said. “I have more of an interest in getting to know my family—in having family—than I am in collecting a share of something that was never mine to begin with.”

  Christine sent him a sideways glance, one he would have missed completely if he wasn’t so damned aware of every move she made.

  “Just because you didn’t know about it doesn’t mean it wasn’t yours,” Phyllis reasoned.

  “You’d really give up a chance to live on the hill?” Christine asked, referring to the mountain where Becca and Will Parsons lived.

  “In a second.”

  Whether that raised him or lowered him in her eyes didn’t change his answer. “I want nice things in life as much as the next guy,” he explained, “but I have no problem working for them. I’d actually prefer to gain them that way.” It was part of his Indian heritage, he guessed, but Ben didn’t want handouts.

  Even ancestral ones.

  “You wouldn’t have to worry about
school loans,” Christine said, watching him now.

  He grinned at her. “You’ve got a point. But I’ll manage. I’m hoping my grades will earn me some scholarship money.”

  Her gaze continued to hold his for another couple of seconds, long enough to be obvious, and Ben was pleasantly surprised to read admiration there.

  “You two going to finish fixing dinner or am I eating potatoes and salad all by myself?” Phyllis finally asked.

  “There’s enough turkey here for dinner,” Ben said as Christine turned away. “I can finish carving the leftovers after we eat.”

  “The gravy’s done,” Christine poured it into a gravy boat, then took the long way around to the table, to avoid getting too close to him. He might have been put off if that smile, that look he’d seen in her eyes, wasn’t still warming his insides.

  The woman was a mystery that continued to draw him in. In spite of the fact that her hands-off sign was bigger than she was.

  The sign didn’t bother him much. He had no intention of getting seriously involved again until he had Alex settled. And until he had an education and a job he enjoyed, a job that would support whatever responsibilities he might create. Right now, he just wanted to get to know Christine. To find the source of her shadows. To understand why he frightened her sometimes. To be her friend.

  Not to get involved.

  LATER THAT NIGHT, Tory and Phyllis were in the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher. Ben had left a short while before, having stayed to watch Miracle on Thirty-Fourth Street with them—Phyllis’s choice, a family tradition of hers—and then they’d all enjoyed slices of pumpkin pie Phyllis had made.

  “If you live to be a hundred, you’re never going to meet a guy as great as Ben Sanders,” Phyllis said when she was standing at the silverware drawer—a safe distance from Tory—with a full bin of silverware to sort through and put away. She didn’t need to spend a lot of time with the younger man to recognize his worth, his fundamental decency. The way he talked about his daughter. His lack of avarice toward the Montford fortune. Most of all, what he brought out in Tory.