by Kara Lennox
“Why, Jock, I’d be honored to have you do that for me.” She knew he was up to the task. He often put together fantastic arrangements for the house. “Don’t pick out the blooms just yet,” she added hastily. “But whenever I do get married, I definitely want you to do my bouquet.”
He seemed pleased to hear her say that, and he offered her a warm smile. “Thank you, Miss Sonya. You and your mother have always been so good to me, even in bad times.”
“Your son tells me the bad times are over,” she said.
“I’m working real hard,” Jock confirmed. “I’m in AA. In fact, I thought I’d head out to a meeting right now.”
“Do they have meetings at this time of the night?”
“Just about any time you need one, you can find it. And I need one. This thing with your mother—well, if a man can’t drink when someone he cares for is at death’s door, when can he drink?”
Sonya wasn’t used to Jock speaking so freely about his drinking problem, but she supposed it was a good sign that maybe he really had made lasting changes in his life.
“Don’t let me keep you,” she said. “And I’m proud of you. I know it can’t be easy, changing the habits of a lifetime.”
“There are some habits you can change,” he said. “And some you can’t.” With that cryptic comment, he tipped an imaginary hat and departed.
Chapter Two
John-Michael quickly noted that Sonya wasn’t speaking to him as they rode in the limousine toward the hospital the following morning.
“I might have been out of line,” he ventured, “calling you spoiled.”
“Stuff it.”
Okay. She was under stress and he wasn’t helping her any. She’d been acting hinky since she’d returned from her mysterious road trip.
“Were you having an affair?” John-Michael asked. “Is that what New Orleans was about?”
“Yes. With Brenna,” she added, deadpan. “Thank goodness my secret is finally out in the open.”
Tim, who wasn’t supposed to be listening, snorted from the front seat.
“I just can’t imagine what would have drawn you to some of the places you visited over the past few weeks,” John-Michael continued. “Dallas makes sense. But Cottonwood, Texas? And then, some sleazy motel in Smoky Bayou, Louisiana?”
Cottonwood was where Cindy Rheems, another of Marvin’s victims, lived. Smoky Bayou was one of the many stops they’d made as they’d tracked Marvin across two states, always a step behind him. “Will you please just let it drop?”
“I’m responsible for your safety, which means I need to know what’s going on in your life.”
“I hereby absolve you of your responsibility.”
They’d been through this conversation, or ones very similar, countless times since he’d taken the job as her bodyguard.
When they reached the hospital, rather than following standard procedure for entering a public building, Sonya charged out of the limousine toward the front canopy of Harris County Medical Center without waiting for John-Michael to check things out and then escort her. Usually there was no need for extreme security. Unfortunately, today wasn’t usual.
A reporter with a tape recorder appeared out of nowhere heading Sonya off before she could get to the door.
“Miss Patterson, Leslie Frazier from Houston Living magazine. Is your mother all right?”
“Yes, my mother is fine,” Sonya said smoothly, a polite smile pasted on.
“A source close to the situation says your mother is in Intensive Care, that she’s had a heart attack.”
John-Michael was about to jump in and rescue his charge, but she handled the situation just fine.
“She’s undergoing tests,” Sonya said firmly. “I have no further comments.”
The reporter, seeing John-Michael, looked at him hopefully, but he wouldn’t make eye contact, and the firm set of his mouth apparently dissuaded the perky redhead from asking any further questions.
“You shouldn’t go charging ahead of me like that,” John-Michael said when they were out of the reporter’s earshot.
“You’ve been reading your own press,” Sonya said, sounding annoyed. “She was a five-foot-two bubble-head who probably doesn’t weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet. I wasn’t in any danger.”
“She could have been someone more dangerous.”
“McPhee, in all the years you’ve been guarding me, has anyone ever threatened me?”
“No,” he admitted.
“The danger is all in my mother’s head. And you’ve bought into it. Get over yourself.” She switched off her cell phone as they entered the building, reminding him to do the same.
They discovered that Muffy was no longer in the Intensive Care Unit. She’d been moved to a regular room. When they finally located her, she was sitting up in bed, her eyes open, the TV on, though John-Michael didn’t think she was actually watching the show. She wasn’t exactly a Jerry Springer fan. Though she was still hooked up to an IV and oxygen, she looked about 500 percent less scary than yesterday.
“Mother?”
Muffy looked over and managed a faint smile. “Sonya. And John-Michael, how nice.”
He walked up to the bed and squeezed her hand. “Mrs. Patterson. You must be feeling better. You look great.”
“Liar. I must…look like…day-old…paté de foie gras.” Her speech was labored, and it pained John-Michael to see her laid so low. But at least she was awake, and seemingly alert.
“Mother, don’t try to talk,” Sonya said.
“I want…to talk. I have to thank…John-Michael. I should have said something…long ago.”
“Thank him for what?”
“For making me go…to the hospital. I thought it was…indigestion. And for finding my girl…and bringing her home.”
Sonya flicked a curious glance toward John-Michael. “You did that? Brought her to the E.R.? How come no one told me?”
“It was a group effort,” John-Michael said modestly.
“Well, thank you,” Sonya said. “You probably saved her life.”
He shrugged. He didn’t consider himself a hero. He’d done what anyone would do. Anyway, having Sonya’s gratitude felt alien. He was much more comfortable when she was mad at him.
Sonya returned her attention to her mother, brushing her hand lightly against Muffy’s cheek. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you got sick.” She’d already apologized several times, but she felt compelled to repeat herself.
“I know, pumpkin. Is Marvin here?”
“He’s still in China. I can’t get hold of him.” She said this quickly, as if she’d rehearsed the answer over and over. And her eyes flickered up and to the right. John-Michael had studied neuro-linguistic programming as part of his criminology curriculum. Sonya was lying, or at least not telling the whole truth about Marvin’s whereabouts. John-Michael wished he could get to the bottom of this mystery, but he didn’t want to press Sonya when she was still so worried about her mother.
“How are the wedding plans coming?” Muffy said to Sonya.
“I’ve put the wedding on hold,” Sonya said firmly. “We’re not going to focus on anything for a while except getting you well.”
“You can’t postpone it,” Muffy said, her voice suddenly stronger. “We’ll lose our date at the country club!”
“Mother, don’t worry about it. I promise it will be fine. We’ll work it out. I want you to focus on getting better.”
“It’s not for two months,” Muffy persisted. “I’ll be fine by then.”
“We’ll see,” Sonya said.
It amused John-Michael to see Sonya playing the patient parent figure, Muffy the petulant child. He and his father had experienced that reversal many years ago, but he’d never expected to see it between these two. In his mind, Sonya was the eternal child, the spoiled princess, and Muffy the overindulgent but firm mama.
Sonya had seemed different, though, since her trip. More mature, more serious, more assertive. Unfortunatel
y for his mental well-being, more attractive, too. He would have to adjust his thinking.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” he said, moving toward the door.
“Oh, John-Mikey,” Muffy said, using his childhood nickname. Muffy was the only person who could get away with that. Not even Jock tried it. “Could you bring me something to eat? Maybe a nice blueberry muffin?” She batted her eyelashes. “The breakfast they served me was pitiful.”
“Don’t you dare,” Sonya said. “She’s not getting one bite of anything the doctor didn’t prescribe. But I understand if you’d like to get something for yourself,” she added. “I did get you up rather early this morning and didn’t even offer you breakfast.”
“I think I will get something,” he said gruffly. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.” John-Michael slipped out the door, needing some space and distance from Sonya. He wasn’t sure he liked her being polite to him, nice, even. Such behavior upset the world order. It was much better that he treat her like a contemptible snail.
She’d started to be a little bit nice last night, too, sharing her macaroni and cheese. And he’d felt that familiar pull. She’d looked so approachable, all rumpled in her night clothes, her silky robe and nightgown showing far too much of her body’s contours to be considered modest.
That was why he’d deliberately picked a fight with her, calling her spoiled. Nothing was as certain to get her dander up. And he needed her mad at him. When she was nice, she was too damn tempting. And this added dimension she’d recently acquired, this mysterious allure he’d never noticed before, only added to the overall package.
SONYA HAD THOUGHT that, once she and her mother were alone, she might broach the subject of calling off the wedding altogether. Though she wasn’t ready to admit she’d been seduced, conned, dumped and picked clean, she couldn’t allow the wedding plans to continue. Her mother had already spent a fortune on the preparations, much of it nonrefundable.
But Muffy’s first words, once they were alone, changed her plans. She grasped Sonya’s hand with more strength than a woman so recently at death’s door should have been able to muster. “Sonya, promise me something.”
“I’ll try. But I won’t smuggle you any of Thomas’s cheesecake.” Thomas was Muffy’s favorite dessert chef, from the Cheesecake Emporium.
“No, be serious. You can’t postpone the wedding.”
“Mother—”
“Listen to me. Planning that wedding was…the most fun I’ve ever had in my life, more fun than planning…my own, even.”
“I know,” Sonya said. “But the stress—”
“Oh, stress, schmess. I was enjoying myself, and having fun never caused a heart attack.”
Sonya knew differently. Even good stress could affect the body in negative ways.
“Years of ignoring my doctor’s advice—and yours—are what made me sick,” Muffy continued. “But as I was lying on that gurney in the emergency room, and I heard them yell ‘Code Blue!’, only one thing kept me alive. I kept telling myself, ‘you have to get through this for Sonya’s wedding. You can’t miss Sonya’s wedding.’”
“Oh, Mother…”
“We can’t delay it. What if I have another heart attack and I don’t make it?”
“That’s not going to happen. Your doctor told me—”
“Doctors don’t know everything. We can’t predict the future. Promise me…” She paused to catch her breath. “Promise me you’ll carry on with the preparations, that we’ll do it on January 8, just as planned.”
Her heart dropped like a rock thrown down a well. The last thing she needed was to continue the pretense that she was going to marry that skunk. “Of course, Mother.” What else could she say? She’d straighten everything out when her mother’s health was better, when she was in no danger of relapsing. Meanwhile, she would have to pretend she was still a blushing bride-to-be.
THREE DAYS LATER Muffy’s health had dramatically improved. She was walking, talking in a normal voice, eating normally—if hospital food could be called normal for Muffy, which it couldn’t—and begging to be let out of the hospital. She chose to sit in her chair rather than in bed, looking resplendent in the quilted silk bed jacket her friend Tootsie had given her. She’d brought her manicurist in for a fresh set of tips and her hairstylist to reshape the flattened poof of her red-gold hair. She was even wearing makeup.
Per Muffy’s request, Sonya had brought her Day-timer and her Rolodex, and was now making a long list of tasks that had to be attended to ASAP for the wedding. Her cardiologist happened to visit during this heated planning session, and Sonya was positive he was going to put the kybosh on it. She was, in fact, hoping Dr. Cason would tell Muffy that she was not to even think about something as stressful as her daughter’s wedding for at least six months.
Unfortunately, the exact opposite happened. Dr. Cason took one look at Muffy, noting the sparkle in her eye and the roses in her cheeks and the smiles and laughter, and he declared planning a wedding to be the secret, curative tonic everyone was looking for.
“But, Dr. Cason,” Sonya ventured, “don’t you think this wedding is too stressful for her right now? I’ve told her we could postpone it.”
“No,” Muffy said, “absolutely not. That would mean starting all over, rebooking the orchestra and the country club, and who knows if our first choices will be available? It would be horrible, much more stressful than merely putting the finishing touches on what we’ve already planned.”
Dr. Cason grinned. “I think your mother’s right, Sonya. Look at her. She’s smiling and laughing, and studies have shown a happy attitude to be one of the key factors in recovering from cardiac illness.”
“And I won’t overdo, I promise,” Muffy wheedled. “Sonya can do all the running around and dealing with people. I’ll just recline on my chaise lounge, eating my steamed broccoli and drinking skimmed milk—” she shuddered slightly “—and directing her efforts.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Cason said, no help at all.
Of course, McPhee was listening to the whole exchange. She looked to him for help, but he remained silent. It was only after they were once again in the back seat of the limo that he voiced his opinion.
“You seem awfully anxious to postpone the wedding.”
“Nonsense. I can’t wait to marry Marvin. But of course I want to do what’s best for Mother.”
“Have you talked to Marvin yet?”
“Yes. Yes, he called last night. He was horrified to hear about Mother and he’s going to come home as soon as he can.”
Then McPhee did something odd. He closed the glass partition between them and Tim. Normally everybody talked freely in front of Tim, who was the soul of discretion. He’d been driving for the Pattersons since before Sonya was born.
“I’m sure Marvin’s parents would be happy to know you’ve talked to him,” McPhee said once they were hermetically sealed into the back seat. “Because they haven’t seen or heard from him in three months.” He dropped this bombshell casually, as if it were just normal conversation.
“Wh-what?” Sonya’s heart hammered inside her chest so hard she thought it was trying to escape.
“I took a closer look at the report the security agency provided on Marvin Carter III. He really is the oldest son in a very wealthy Boston family. Has quite a pedigree.”
“Well, of course he is!” Sonya said somewhat desperately. She could tell by the sound of McPhee’s voice that he had something up his sleeve. And he was about to drop it on her.
“He’s also a habitual thief. The family has done a good job of hiding it from the public. Arrest records purged, charges dropped, people paid off. But about three months ago he disappeared. Family has no idea where he is, and frankly they’re hoping he won’t turn up. I did a bit more digging and discovered he’s wanted by the FBI in connection with some art and jewelry thefts.”
“Where did you hear such nonsense?” But her trembling voice gave her away. He knew. He knew everything.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I notice you don’t wear much jewelry anymore, other than your engagement ring.”
She nervously twisted the two-carat, pear-shaped solitaire that sat on her left ring finger. She’d had it checked. It was a very convincing cubic zirconia. She looked out the tinted window. Then she rummaged in her purse until she found a lipstick and reapplied the color and powdered her nose.
“This isn’t going to go away,” McPhee said. “The longer you stay in denial, the worse it will be when the truth comes out. And it will, believe me. Sooner or later the press will get wind of it.”
Sonya put her face in her hands. Why did McPhee, of all people, have to find out? Wouldn’t he have just a grand time, rubbing her nose in her stupidity, rubbing salt in her wounds? He’d told her from the beginning he thought something wasn’t right about Marvin.
“Your new friends, Brenna and Cindy. They were Marvin’s victims, too?”
Sonya nodded, her face still hidden. She couldn’t bear to look at McPhee, to see that knowing smirk that was surely on his face.
McPhee lowered the glass and said something to Tim, though she couldn’t hear what. The blood was pounding too loudly in her ears. A few minutes later the limo parked.
“Be right back,” McPhee said.
Sonya looked up then. They were in a strip shopping center. She had no idea what McPhee was up to and she didn’t care. She just wanted to take advantage of his absence and pull herself together. McPhee was right, she couldn’t play the denial game anymore. Now she had to draw on all her strength and make some decisions. If she crumbled, others would make decisions for her, as they’d done most of her life, and she wasn’t going to let that happen. Now now. Not when the stakes were so high.
With the decision made to own up to the true situation, Sonya felt better, stronger. She reminded herself that her friends Brenna and Cindy had benefited after taking a strong stand against Marvin. Cindy had recovered her restaurant and at least some of her money, and Brenna had tracked down the Picasso painting Marvin had stolen from her parents, as well as some of her jewelry. It was time for Sonya to pull her head out of the sand and resume the fight.
