by Isla Bennet
Valerie apparently didn’t trust his motives. But after she’d sent Lucy away tonight without telling him, he wasn’t certain he could trust her.
“Are we done here?” She was already heading for the door.
On the porch he said, “One more thing,” and clasped her hand. Her fingers were bare, her palm not soft but roughened from years of working a ranch. Her skin was warm, ridiculously welcoming when she’d put good effort into being anything but. And because he wanted to hang on to her warmth, was greedy for it, he curved his other arm around her. His fingers brushed her hip before settling at her taut waist. The action brought his face near hers, close enough for him to breathe in her scent. “I—I need to know if there’s some other man raising my daughter.”
“There’s not,” she said meaningfully.
“Then it’s just us, Valerie, who’ve got to work this out. Only you and me.”
Silence answered him until she said, barely loud enough for him to hear, “Let me go.”
He released her. Her eyes had darkened and she flinched when thunder rumbled in the distance.
In his mind’s eye he could see exactly what she was recalling right now: wet clothing yanked away, sweat-slicked bodies locked together, fog rising on the windows of her ancient Grand Prix. He squinted through the rain at the crossover and truck he’d noticed in the driveway when he’d arrived. “Bought a new car?”
If she was startled she didn’t show it. But her next words gave her away. “Don’t think about that night, Peyton.”
“I won’t,” he said, turning to leave. “You’re thinking about it enough for the both of us.”
CHAPTER FOUR
HE’D SAID HE wouldn’t think about that night. He hadn’t said he wouldn’t dream about it. It was primitive, basic, unstoppable … how shards of memory slipped into his subconscious, bringing his senses alive as he peeled away Valerie’s hoodie and bra as the edgy sound of Poison pounded throughout the car’s interior.
Peyton jolted awake, finding himself in a room so unlike the apartment he’d rented in Baltimore. He barely gave his eyes time to adjust to the predawn darkness before he kicked away the sheet twisted around his legs and shot out of bed. Being in this room was getting to him, he figured, dragging a shaky hand through his mussed hair and across the stubble on his jaw. He flipped on the lamp and took in what he hadn’t wanted to see the day before.
Nearly everything was how he’d left it thirteen years ago—despite the certainty that the room had been tossed during a search for clues as to his whereabouts when it’d first dawned that he’d left. The deep blue wall coverings and stucco ceiling remained unchanged; so did all the furniture. The old-fashioned phonograph and classical records he’d inherited from Estella occupied a table in one corner—it would’ve been impossible to travel with them. A life-size plastic skeleton stood guard near the door, wearing the Stetson Valerie had given Peyton one summer at a folk festival in the Square during Old Towne Days. The desk and hutch were cluttered with textbooks and notepads and junk from his college days.
He bent to pick up the duvet he must’ve knocked aside during the night. He flung it across the bed, ditching sleep altogether. On his way to the bathroom he let his eyes sweep over the photograph of his father that was arranged among other assorted pictures on his bureau. He wished he could miss his father, wished even more that he’d known the man who, in his thirties, had been fatally hit by a car after a fashion event in Milan.
Anthony Turner lived in Peyton’s imagination as a character—a man with brains, old-Hollywood good looks, talent and charm who had worked damn hard but played harder. He was the man people had expected his boy to be, but it hadn’t taken Peyton long to realize he’d be a piss-poor copy of the original and there was no point in cramming himself into a lifestyle he didn’t want or fit into.
“What would you say about me now, Pa?” Peyton muttered, pausing to straighten his father’s photograph. He took in the row of baseball trophies, the autographed picture of the baseball autographed by the Texas Rangers, academic merit medals that hung from the corners of frames showing candid shots of family and friends. He selected the photo taken of him and Valerie together in the Jordan barn when he’d been sixteen. He’d posed wearing a crooked cowboy hat and was hugging Valerie, who had a red-and-white-checked tablecloth tied around her neck like a cape.
It was almost impossible to believe they’d really been that silly … no, happy … once.
He carefully laid the photo facedown and went into the bathroom. Twenty minutes later he emerged from the hot shower still feeling groggy and tired to the bone, but knew as he snatched a white tee shirt and a pair of dark pajama pants from his suitcase that he didn’t stand a chance of getting any real sleep. Not in this room, with bits of what he’d walked away from surrounding him like a torch-brandishing mob.
Peyton wound up in his grandfather’s study, hunched over the chessboard with himself as his opponent. He studied the pieces, testing himself as he moved them across the board until he’d backed himself into a corner and gave up on the effort, leaving the match unfinished. By then the sun had begun to rise and he heard heavy footsteps down the hall.
Jasper, he knew without hesitation. The butler had always seemed to wake up at the crack of dawn.
“Mister Peyton,” the older man greeted, pausing in the open doorway, “you’re awake early. And you look like you haven’t slept at all.”
“Guess I’m not used to that room yet.” It still puzzled him how even at the first hint of daybreak the butler was fully dressed and polished. “Got a lot to think about—which I’m sure you already know. C’mon, Jasper, the butler sees all, hears all, knows all.”
Jasper started to continue down the hall, then changed direction and ventured into the study. “May I speak freely?”
“Always.”
“Things could be better for Valerie and Lucy, but they could be worse, too. If you put yourself into their lives, do you know which way that will tip the scales for them?”
Peyton picked up a rook, pretending to mull over where to place the piece on the chessboard. “Thought you were going to speak freely, Jasper.”
“I am.”
“No.” Peyton looked at him full-on. “You’re tiptoeing around what you want to say. Think I should step back?”
“Consider Lucy, that’s all.”
“Absolutely. She needs a father.”
Jasper went over to part the draperies as he said, “When you were being brought up people used to say you needed a mother.”
Peyton dropped the rook onto the board, shooting to his feet as it rolled to the edge. “Interesting you made that comment to me with your back turned.” There was more hurt than anger behind the words, and none of it really directed at Jasper. Onlookers who’d tsk-tsked over his rebellion had been quick to throw out commentary. Some had suggested his grandfather handle things the “old Texas way” with a belt to Peyton’s ass. Others had urged him to consider overseas boarding schools. And there had been several who’d sworn up and down that Nathaniel gallivanted too much and Estella was too soft-hearted to manage him. An out-of-control boy with no mother around would only grow up to be ruthless with no respect for women.
Thankfully, Nathaniel hadn’t unleashed his mother as a tactic to force Peyton to conform to the life his father had been suited for, but hadn’t finished. He’d been glad, because it meant that beyond the thick coat of disappointment, Nathaniel would try to protect him.
Though his idea of protection included controlling Peyton’s life, from his career path to the girls he dated, Nathaniel had worked hard to keep Marin Beck at arm’s length, but money and her bargaining chip of a son had been reason for her to return to Night Sky over and over again, hurting Peyton worse each time he dared to trust, forgive and love her just because she was his mother.
Jasper faced him, closed-mouthed and nowhere near an apology. Though he wasn’t going to say it, Peyton admired the man for it. He considered him an equal, n
ot a “servant” like he’d heard some of his grandfather’s people refer to him. But his words still stung.
“What’s the phrase? ‘Apples and oranges’? Jasper, my mother was a lying, drunken gold-digger. The first two I might be able to understand—if I tried really, really hard. The third? Hell, no.” He held out his hands, palms up. “Then there’s me. I was fucked up all those years ago, all right? I took a few wrong turns. I had to leave, because if I hadn’t, things would’ve been worse. But, c’mon, I’d never hurt my kid.”
“What kind of father would you be? You didn’t come here to stay. If you get close and then leave again, that will hurt her.”
Peyton exhaled hard. He’d heard this speech too many times in under twenty-four hours. First from his grandfather, then Valerie, then in his own mind.
“Mister Peyton, I know about your work, Doctors Without Borders.” There was a plea and a warning in Jasper’s eyes. “Consider Lucy, yes, but also consider your work and the consequences of forcing yourself to stay in this town when you want to go. You’ll resent her. You’ll deny blaming her for killing your independence until, inevitably, the truth crushes you and Lucy—and Valerie, too.”
“I haven’t signed up for another tour.” But he’d been planning to even as he drove here from Baltimore. He hadn’t known about Lucy and Anna then. He’d known only that his grandfather needed him here and that while in Night Sky he wanted to sharpen his skills and practice medicine at Memorial. The visiting surgeon position had no long-term commitments attached. Commitment, the no-way-out kind, came with the whole fatherhood territory, didn’t it?
Already he was starting to feel the intangible pull in different directions.
The sound of a cane hitting hardwood alerted them that Nathaniel was moving about somewhere down the hall. The fact that his grandfather, who’d for over half a century stood tall and commanding, now used a cane would take some getting used to. The thought brought a question to mind. “Jasper, what’s with the fortress gate around this place?”
“Mister Turner found it was the best way to keep unwanted visitors off the estate.”
Peyton stilled. “Meaning my mother.” At the butler’s bleak nod, he changed the subject to lighten the atmosphere. “What’s Grandpa got on the schedule for today?”
“A video conference call with the CFO, then a magazine interview in San Antonio on the new after-hours line.” Jasper paused as he headed out of the study. “Mister Turner would encourage you to join him and Rose.”
“Can’t do that. I have a meeting at Memorial.” Peyton studied the framed photograph of his father on his grandfather’s desk. Slender with dark hair, gray eyes and a thin mustache, Anthony Turner had been a high-roller—one who loved to have women in his bed but never in his heart. The kind of man to find himself at the right hotel bar at the right time to be easy pickings for a New York waitress who’d ended up the mother of his only child.
Peyton didn’t belong in his father’s and grandfather’s worlds any more than he belonged in the countries he’d toured on his mission assignments. And that left him with the question that had gone unanswered for thirty-four years: Where did he belong?
“DON’T DO IT.”
Lucy jumped so quickly she thought she’d turn around and see her skin left behind next to the row of lockers where she’d been hiding on all fours, waiting for the sixth-period bell to ring. She jerked her head up to find her best friend, Sarah Carew, hovering nearby.
“Get down here,” Lucy hissed, her heart still tap dancing in her chest from being spooked. Any second she could get caught and ratted out by some kiss-ass student, and she’d have to sit through pre-algebra or be rushed to the principal’s office to be lectured on the evils of disobedience by authority figures who foolishly thought they could break her like a horse.
Sarah squeezed into the tight space, also on her hands and knees with her backpack tucked close. Her black shatter nail polish contrasted with Lucy’s pale pink. “Are you insane? You’re gonna be so screwed if you get caught playing hooky. Kiss the Halloween party at the orchard goodbye, for one thing.”
“No one says ‘playing hooky’ anymore, Sarah.”
“Then I’m bringing it back.”
“And I don’t care about the party.”
“Do you care about more detention or suspension or your mom going berserk when she finds out what you’re doing?”
Yes, yes, and yes. But what I care about more is telling my so-called dad to get lost. “Chill.”
“I can’t chill,” Sarah protested with a headshake that sent her auburn hair whipping this way and that. “You’re skipping class and haven’t even asked what went down at the diner.”
“So dish.” Lucy peered around the corner to see a teacher pass a stack of fliers to a student and then enter a classroom. Maybe this was a crappier hiding spot than she’d thought. After all, Sarah had been able to find her with no problem.
“Owen asked me for your cell number. Maybe he wants to text you.”
Lucy nearly swallowed her gum. “Are you serious?” It took less than a second to picture Owen McNamara in all his blue-eyed, tawny-haired gorgeousness. She’d first really noticed him last year when he’d accidentally knocked over her lunch tray in the cafeteria. But this year he was in high school, so outside of tagging along with her mom to the McNamaras’ feed store, she hardly saw him.
“Uh …” Sarah shifted her big brown eyes away “… he ended up going to that New Age place with Minnie Hawthorne.”
“Oh.” Of course he did. Minnie was in eighth grade, had six piercings, filled a C-cup bra and did stuff. “No biggie.”
“Here’s some good news,” Sarah went on. “My parents didn’t say no about the llama.”
The Carews’ farm was more like a petting zoo, but their menagerie of cool animals was missing a goat. It only made perfect sense for Lucy to trade her family’s goat, which didn’t get along well with Battle Creek’s head foreman’s pig, for Sarah’s llama.
“But did they say yes?”
“Not yet. Did you ask your mom?”
“No, but I will.” Once she convinced Peyton Turner to leave town. Then stuff would be the way it’d been before, and she could focus on getting that adorable llama on the ranch and getting on with her life.
The bell rang and Lucy listened closely to the sounds of footsteps, laughter, books dropping, lockers slamming. When the halls quieted, she whispered, “Better get to class before you get a late demerit.”
“Where’re you going?”
“Can’t say.” She peeked around the lockers, scanning the emptying hall. If she could get to the ground floor and out the corridor at the side of the school building before the tardy bell rang, she’d be good. “Gotta go.”
Sarah unzipped her backpack and pulled out a Hershey bar. “Here, in case you get hungry.”
“No way.” Sarah was diabetic and needed snacks to regulate her blood sugar, so she couldn’t afford to share her stash. “But thanks.” Lucy started off toward the stairs, tugging her backpack strap over her shoulder.
“Call me later,” her friend said as she sprinted off in the opposite direction, and Lucy slipped through the doors and out into the sunshine as the bell rang inside the building.
Yesterday’s rain had cooled the air, and the autumn breeze ruffled her hair. She adjusted the hood on her sweatshirt as she moved across the campus, extra careful to avoid the single-story attached building that served as the town’s elementary school. At the gas station she skulked around outside, too worried that Sully Joe, who had an amazing memory for a little old guy in his nineties, would recognize her and mention her visit to Valerie. There was stuff she had to tell her dad—if she could even call him that. She’d heard her great-grandfather call somebody “Johnny-come-lately” once, and that’s just what Peyton Turner was. Their family had been broken from the start, with her mom poor and trying to raise twins. Then the ranch was almost taken away and then Anna was taken away.
And Gra
mps had been a fairy godfather, trying to make everything good. But nobody was the same, especially her mom who worked all the time and was always telling Lucy to make smart decisions—something Lucy just couldn’t do, as if she was hardwired to screw up.
It didn’t take a brainiac to know her mom wouldn’t see her sneaking out of school to visit her dad as a “smart decision,” especially when she’d sworn she never wanted to see him ever again. But Lucy figured Machiavelli had the right idea—decisions were only as good as their outcome.
If telling Peyton Turner to his face that it was best for her and her mom that he stayed gone for good was what it took to make it happen, then she’d do it.
She sidled out of earshot of a woman rubbing a quarter against a scratch-off lottery ticket, leaned against the gas station’s brick storefront and called the taxi service number she’d found in Cordelia and Jack’s phone book last night.
She wished she knew what her parents had talked about at the main house. Had he explained why he’d left and never come back until now? Had her mom told him all about Anna?
Lucy touched the hairclip that pinned her hair away from her face. One of the faux gems had come loose and it was scratched and sometimes pulled her hair, but that didn’t matter. What did matter was that every year it got harder to remember her sister wearing it.
A red car rolled to a stop at the pump near where Lucy stood waiting for the taxi. The passenger window lowered, and a man in sunglasses poked his head out. “Everything all right, beautiful?”
Lucy’s hearing aid was turned on and functioning but she pretended not to hear him and tightened her grip on her hobo and backpack.
The driver slapped the horn and she flinched, dropping the hobo in front of her feet. She bent to grab it, heard the click of the car’s door opening and prepared to deliver a soccer kick straight to the guy’s crotch.
“Hey—” the man in the passenger’s seat started, with one leg dangling out of the car. A group of teens who were no doubt ditching class, too, appeared around the corner with sodas and chips in hand, and he shut the car door, mumbling something to the man at the wheel. A few seconds later the car circled around a row of pumps and sped off.
