"The number belongs to Gary's father. He apparently lives in Las Vegas."
"What?" she asked in shock. "Gary said his father was dead. Why would he lie about it?"
"Who knows?" Rachel said wearily.
"Did you speak to his father?"
"No, but Dylan confirmed the fact he is alive."
She stood up and began to pace, feeling strangely betrayed by the information. She'd trusted Gary with her secrets, but he obviously hadn't trusted her. Of course, she didn't have nearly as much right as Rachel did to feel betrayed. She wasn't Gary's wife, only his sister-in- law, but still, the lie stung. "What the hell was he thinking?" she said out loud.
"I don't know. I didn't think Gary had secrets from me. I thought we had trust. I thought we had truth."
Carly looked away from the pain in Rachel's eyes, knowing that she hadn't been completely honest either. "Maybe he believed he was protecting you," she muttered. Because wasn't that her reason?
"Protecting me from what? I need to find answers. I don't know if they're here or in Gary's apartment or one of the boxes sent home from his office. Hell, maybe the answers are in my own bedroom and I've been walking right past them."
"You do have a tendency to put blinders on. I'm not saying that to hurt you, but sometimes you don't see what's right in front of you."
"Meaning what?" Rachel demanded, irritation on her face.
"I'm not sure Gary was as happy living here as you were."
"Did he tell you that?"
"He didn't have to. I saw the smile on his face every Monday morning. He was eager to get back to the city."
"To get away from me. Thanks. That's just what I needed to hear, Carly."
"I'm sorry. Maybe you're not as ready for the truth as you think you are."
"Maybe I'm not," Rachel said with a sigh. "So what happened with Antonio? Did you feed him an apple yet?"
"No. He went to New York. He'll be back on Tuesday."
"Ah, a reprieve, time for you to come to your senses."
"I have all my senses in fine working order," Carly retorted. "I want that man, and I'm going to get him."
"Such single-minded determination. If you could only turn it in a more productive direction."
"My plan will be very productive. You'll see. Just like you, I'll get the man I want."
Rachel frowned. "About that, Carly. I was younger than you, and possibly even more foolish, which I'll admit now. You should learn from my mistakes. Don't rush into this. Get to know Antonio. If it's meant to be, it will be."
"I don't have that kind of time. He's leaving for good in a couple of weeks."
"And you're going to leave with him? How can you do that? Won't you miss us?"
"Of course I'll miss you. I love you." She stumbled over words that she always meant to say but never quite got around to saying.
"I love you, too. I wouldn't want you to leave."
"But I can't stay just because you'll miss me," she said.
Rachel suddenly looked stricken. "God, you sound just like Mom. She said the exact same thing to me. I can't stay just because you'll miss me."
"I didn't know that."
"Yes, she said, 'I'll miss you, but I have to go, and you have to let me go.' As if I had a choice in the matter. She was going no matter what. And you are, too, aren't you?"
"Well, not yet," she said, unable to bear the pain on her sister's face.
Rachel's gaze bored into hers. "You really hate it here so much? Do you think that's how Gary felt? Am I some kind of a monster, holding people back from their dreams?"
"You're not a monster, Rach. You just love really deeply when you love. Sometimes your grasp gets too tight."
"If I don't hold on, people leave. But apparently my grip isn't tight enough, because I just can't keep the people I love in my life." She paused. "The blinders are finally off, Carly, and this time they're off for good."
"What does that mean?"
"No more lying – not even to myself. I'm going to find out the truth about my husband."
"Then what?"
"I don't know." She gave Carly a long look. "I don't want you to leave the farm, but I'm not going to try to stop you. You have to live your life, and I have to find a way to live mine."
Chapter Twelve
Rachel wanted to put the blinders back on late Monday afternoon, along with a good, strong pair of earplugs, because she couldn't believe what she was hearing. Mrs. Harrington, Wesley's teacher, had to be wrong.
"The test scores are very accurate, Mrs. Tanner." Mrs. Harrington tapped her number two pencil against the score sheet in front of her.
"But no one has ever said anything before. I don't understand." Rachel gazed at the test scores that had just turned her world upside down. She'd always known Wesley was bright, but not this bright.
"Your son is very gifted. Wesley is a third grader reading at a tenth-grade level. He answered every single one of his math problems correctly, ten percent of which involved calculations not taught in our school until the sixth grade. He didn't miss one, not one."
"Maybe he just got lucky. He's a smart kid, but --"
"He's more than smart. He's truly remarkable."
"I don't know what to say."
"You'll need to think and do some research, but I'd be happy to help you in any way I can."
"What would I be researching?" Rachel asked awkwardly. Mrs. Harrington frowned. She was probably wondering where Wesley had gotten his brains, definitely not from Rachel's side of the family, judging by how many times Mrs. Harrington had had to repeat herself
"Schools, of course. This is a wonderful elementary school, but we don't have the technology, the science labs, the art classes, the math projects that will stimulate and challenge Wesley. There are some very good small, private schools in San Francisco. I can give you a list if you like."
"Wesley isn't going to change schools," she replied, shocked by the suggestion. "We live here."
"I understand it's a lot to digest all at once. But I hope you'll think very seriously about making a move. Your child deserves a chance to challenge his incredible mind."
"Couldn't you move him up a grade?"
"I'd have to move him up to middle school at the very least, and that would be difficult socially and emotionally."
"Middle school? He's eight years old."
"Exactly. That's why he needs a special school where he can be with children his own age who are also very bright. If he stays at his grade level in our school, he'll simply be bored and probably lose all interest in learning, and who can blame him? I have twenty-seven other children to consider. I don't have the time to give Wesley extra projects, not without it coming at the expense of the other children."
"I don't know. I can't think right now, I bet that sounds funny. I'm the mother of a genius, and I can't even think."
"It's understandable. It's a lot to take in all at once." The teacher pushed a file folder across the desk. "I've collected some information that will get you started."
She took the folder but didn't bother to open it. She doubted she could read a word with her mind spinning the way it was. She'd come to the conference thinking it was about Wesley's reluctance to admit his father was dead, not about his IQ or some tests that he'd taken. He'd always done well in school. He'd read at an early age, but she hadn't noticed anything abnormal. Had she been wearing blinders with Wesley, too?
"Mrs. Tanner?"
"What?" she started, realizing that the teacher was regarding her with some concern.
"Are you all right? You look pale."
"I'm fine."
"There is something else. While Wesley's test scores are exceptional, in the past week I've noticed a deterioration in his actual schoolwork. In fact, today he deliberately misspelled several words on a spelling quiz. Words that he had spelled correctly three times before."
"Okay, now I'm totally confused."
"I believe Wesley's determination to stick to his fantasy of h
is father's eventual return is due in part to his extreme intelligence. For the first time in his young life, Wesley doesn't want to believe the facts in his head. So he's rejecting them. Perhaps he believes that if he's right about the spelling, his brain might be telling him the truth about his father, which is unacceptable. So he purposely makes errors."
"Wesley doesn't want to believe himself? Is that what you're saying?"
"Yes. Although I'd highly recommend that you speak to a counselor who has greater training in this area than I do. Wesley is a wonderful child, a bit more complicated than most, but perhaps that's the other side of genius."
"Genius," Rachel echoed, still not believing that word could possibly relate to her son. She got to her feet, desperate to leave before Mrs. Harrington told her something else she didn't want to hear.
"I'm available if you wish to speak further about this," Mrs. Harrington added as Rachel opened the door.
"Thank you." Rachel walked out into the hall. Wesley sat at a nearby table. He didn't even look up at her, so engrossed was he in coloring something on a piece of paper.
The sight reminded her of her mother. In her mind she could see her mother with a paintbrush in her hand, completely absorbed in her work. Now it was Wesley with a crayon in his hand, completely absorbed in his work. Oh, God! But this wasn't the same situation. It wasn't even close. She pulled out a small chair at Wesley's table and sat down.
"Hi, there," she said, forcing away any hint of anxiety or panic. "What are you doing?"
"Do you like my picture, Mommy?" Wesley moved his hand so she could see his drawing. It was a house, a house very much like the one they were building. His drawing was excellent, too, the lines straight, the curves in the right places. There was a purpose to the sketch, a sense of planning and organization. It could have been drawn by a much older child, or an adult, or his father.
"It's very good," she murmured.
"Does it look like the ones Daddy draws?"
"Yes, it does. Maybe you'll want to be an architect when you grow up."
"And work with Daddy." He sent her a defiant look. "I can't wait till our house is done and Daddy comes back to live with us. Then we'll be together all the time, not just on the weekends."
He dared her to deny his claim. She could see it in every taut little muscle in his body. "I can't wait until the house is done either," she said. Maybe she did need to take Wesley to a counselor. She didn't know whether to keep correcting him or just let him accept things in his own time.
"Am I in trouble?" Wesley asked, changing the subject when he failed to get the reaction he'd been expecting. "Is that why Mrs. Harrington asked you to come in?"
She shook her head. "You're not in trouble. But I would like to know why you spelled some words wrong on your test when you knew the right spelling."
"I forgot," he mumbled, avoiding her gaze.
"Really? Or did you stop trying?"
"It's just a stupid quiz. And the words are stupid, too. They're too easy."
"So you did know how to spell them?"
"I guess. Are you mad at me?"
How could she be mad at his sweet angel face, his expression so clearly worried as he was caught between defiance and confusion? So she did what she'd wanted to do all along: she pulled him into her arms and gave him a hug. She still couldn't believe her little boy was a genius. Where would he have gotten those genes? She'd never been more than an average student in school. And her father hadn't put much store in test grades. Which left only Gary or...
Not her mother! Definitely not her mother.
Her mother had been an artist, not a math whiz. Although Rachel remembered her father using the same word, "gifted." He'd once said her mother was a gifted artist. And her mother had left because of that gift.
Now they wanted her to take Wesley to some place where he could use his gift. But their home was here. This was where they lived, where they would always live. She couldn't uproot her child, especially not now. They were building their dream house, for heaven's sake. They were going to live there together. Wesley wouldn't want to go to a private school. Even if she wanted him to, he wouldn't. There had to be some other solution.
"Can we help Dylan work on the house now?" Wesley pulled away from her arms with another show of independence. "I promised to help him after school."
"What about your homework?"
"I already did it."
"You did?"
He nodded and reached into his backpack to remove several sheets of math problems. "See?"
Rachel ran her eye down the problems, noting the neatness and accuracy of his answers. "Did you do this in class?"
"No, I did it while you were talking to Mrs. Harrington. It was easy."
"So it didn't take you very long?"
Wesley shrugged. "Nope."
"Do you have anything else?"
"I already read the story and answered the questions, too. I'm done, so can I go see Dylan?"
Rachel glanced at the clock on the wall. It was three-fifty-five, and she'd begun her appointment with Mrs. Harrington at three-twenty. In thirty-five minutes Wesley had finished three pages of math problems, read a short story and answered questions about it, not to mention drawing an incredibly detailed picture of a house. Had he always been this fast, this creative, this confident about his homework?
She certainly hadn't thought about it before. But then, she hadn't thought about much in the past six months beyond getting on with her life and making sure Wesley was reasonably happy. Now she felt guilty for not noticing. Even Dylan had remarked on Wesley's intelligence and he'd barely spent any time at all with him. She had to start opening her eyes and ears. She had to start listening, and seeing what was happening right in front of her.
"Mommy?" Wesley asked uncertainly. "Are you okay?"
"I'm okay," she answered with a smile as she ruffled his hair with her fingers. "Let's go home."
"To our new house?" he asked with a persistence that couldn't be denied.
"I have a better idea -- ice cream." Wesley looked disappointed, so she added, "Chocolate in a waffle cone dripping with hot fudge sauce, and we'll sit at the counter and spin on the stools."
His eyes lit up. "Okay."
Ice cream wasn't exactly a stiff drink, which was more along the lines of what Rachel needed, but then again, chocolate had always been her drug of choice.
"Can we have two scoops?" Wesley asked.
"We can have three." It was the easiest decision she'd made all day.
* * *
"Can I buy you a drink?" Dylan asked the young woman sitting across from him.
Beth Delaney patted her stomach, where he noticed a small bulge. "I'm afraid non-alcoholic only."
"Congratulations."
Her face lit up with a bright, joyful smile. "Thank you. Mike and I are so happy. We've been trying for three years."
"When are you due?"
"In the spring."
He looked up as the waitress came to take their order. "A beer for me and a --"
"Seltzer," Beth answered. "Thanks." She folded her hands on the table. "Now, do you want to tell me why you're buying me a drink?"
"It s about Gary," he said. "As his assistant for the last few years, you might be able to help me with something."
"Does this have something to do with Gary's cell phone bills?" Beth asked, the previous pleasure in her face completely gone. "I spoke to Rachel this morning. She asked me to send her copies of the bills. She wouldn't say why, and I hesitated to ask."
Dylan waited as the waitress set down their drinks. The bar was getting crowded; the large iron clock in the corner struck five-thirty. Soon, happy-hour would be in full swing and J&B's Bar was one of the hottest happy hour spots in downtown San Francisco. He and Gary had shared many a cocktail here over the years; the bar was just down the street from Gary's office.
He didn't remember the place being this loud, this chaotic -- probably because he'd spent the past few days in the count
ry. Last week he would have told anyone who asked that this was the kind of noise he preferred, this energized bar filled with intense and ambitious people, passionate about their careers, living life in the fast lane. Now he wasn't so sure.
"Dylan," Beth continued after the waitress left, "can you tell me what's going on?"
"I can't," he said. "But I need to know if Gary told you who he was going to see in Lake Tahoe the weekend he died."
Beth didn't answer right away. He saw a battle going on behind her green eyes. She'd always been devoted to Gary.
"He didn't say exactly," she said. "But he was worried about something, Dylan. The two weeks before he died, he was taking off at strange hours, usually after he got a phone call from a woman named Laura."
Dylan's heart sank to the floor. Laura again? Who the hell was she? "Laura who?" he asked. "Do you have a last name?"
"No, and I was irritated that she wouldn't give me one. At first Gary seemed reluctant to take her calls, but then he made it clear she was to be put through to him wherever he was."
Dylan took a sip of his beer. "Do you think he went to Lake Tahoe with this woman?"
"I don't know. He mentioned something about a party. I didn't ask. It was the weekend."
"What was his mood, Beth? Was he happy, worried, depressed?" He still couldn't get the idea of suicide out of his mind. It certainly didn't seem plausible, but neither did this thing with another woman.
Beth ran her finger around the edge of her glass. She seemed to be choosing her words carefully. Why? Was she trying to protect Gary?
"He was nervous, and it was odd, because Gary was never nervous. He was the most confident, happy, dare-devilish kind of guy I'd ever met. He didn't take things to heart. He didn't get stressed when problems arose. I marveled once that his blood pressure was probably zero. He just laughed and said he'd live longer that way." She bit down on her lip. "God, I can't believe I just said that."
"It's okay. He'd probably laugh if he heard you."
"I miss him so much, Dylan. They reassigned me to Harry Trent, if you can believe it."
"Old Harry? Ouch."
"I'm thinking about quitting after I have the baby." She paused. "How is Wesley doing? I used to love hearing Wesley stories. Gary was really proud of his boy."
Love Will Find a Way Page 15
