Love Is More Than Skin Deep (A Hidden Hearts Novel Book 4)

by Mary Crawford

  Declan’s advice is as random as hell, but it’s not incorrect. Even though Shelby’s presence in our little home has been fraught with all sorts of complications, Ketki and I have never been happier.

  “Just once, I’d like all the stuff we have to deal with to be not quite so complicated,” I complain with a heavy sigh.

  “As Jessie’s grandfather once told me, it’s the complications that make life worth it — otherwise we’d be bored to tears.”

  “Cancer and breaking my daughter’s heart both suck big time. Given my choice, I’d settle for boring,” I reply, settling back in the booth.

  This is the first time I’ve actually been inside the offices of Identity Bank, but the operation looks incredibly impressive.

  “Hey, I’m sorry for having to call you into a meeting here, but I’ve got some new equipment being delivered today and I need to be on hand when it arrives,” Tristan says as he looks up from his big executive desk.

  It’s weird for me to see him in this environment — usually I see him in a collegiate sweatshirt and torn jeans. I forget that he is a corporate entity all on his own. Today, he looks every bit like a Fortune Rising 100 executive he is. “It’s not a problem. I’ve got some free time before I’m scheduled to give a deposition anyway and it’s just up the street. I find if I get too wound up over them, I start to ask stupid questions. Speaking of stupid questions, why am I here?” I ask.

  “You and I had an informal discussion a while back about Shelby’s family. How serious are you about following up on that?”

  “It depends. Is it going to hurt Shel?” I ask, my head spinning with the ramifications.

  “I don’t know, like I said before, it’s hard to predict how these things are going to go. This would be limited exposure, because the only person I have located so far, is her sister, Savannah.”

  “Really? Where does she live? What does she do?” I rattle off questions as fast as they hit the top of my brain.

  One eyebrow hitches up as Tristan answers, “Easy there, Counselor. Last I checked, I’m not a hostile witness.”

  I force myself to ease back in my chair as I wait for him to answer my questions. “You’re right. I guess I’m just anxious to bring Shelby some good news for a change.”

  “I understand,” Tristan allows. “I met my wife on one of these reunions. I know they can be emotional. We almost missed this one altogether because of an interesting little coincidence that threw our search engines off. It’s a good thing I’ve got practicum students who go through each search and confirm the results by hand.”

  I lean forward in my chair as I warn, “Macklin, I’m a patient man, but I’m not that patient.”

  “Okay, moving on…” Tristan continues, chuckling.

  He pulls a file from the pile in front of him and starts to leaf through some of the papers as he says to himself, “I just can’t get over the city name. One, Savannah Georgina Lyons, is currently residing in Savannah, Georgia. All appearances are that Savannah was born to Nancy and George Lyons on February 23, 1983.”

  An involuntary chill goes up the back of my spine as I realize we are ridiculously close to the point of no return, and Shelby doesn’t even realize that I’ve begun the journey. Tristan removes a piece of paper from the file and hands it to me. “I can see what you mean about the formatting. That’s a good catch. I wonder if she chose her location for subterfuge?” I ponder.

  “That idea occurred to us at Identity Bank as well. Yet, everything else that she does on a daily basis is far out in the open. She runs a little paint-yourself-a-work-of-art shop in a pretty trendy neighborhood. Unlike her parents, she doesn’t seem to exactly be living in hiding.”

  “I wish I could stick her in a jury box and ask her some voir dire questions —” I muse.

  Tristan laughs at my suggestion but offers one of his own, “Listen, I’ve learned the hard way that these transitions seem to go better if I’m around to answer questions in person. I’m going to drive up to Savannah to meet with her tomorrow. Do you want to ride along so you can get some eyeballs on her to make yourself feel better? Just to be clear, I’m not giving you permission to give her an interrogation or put her under oath. I just thought you might want to see how her demeanor strikes you.”

  I pull out my phone and check my appointments. “I have an eight thirty appointment tomorrow for twenty minutes. This guy is a bit of a talker, so it might be thirty. I’m free after that. Savannah’s what… four hours away?”

  “About that, give or take depending on traffic. Oh, Littleson — don’t be a dick. It tends to work better if you’re not.”

  The neighborhood where Paint Your Art Out is located is really similar to the vibe where Ink’d Deep and Frannie’s are in Gainesville. It’s a mix of cool, new and retro. I did a contract negotiation on a start-up where they specialized in creating memory books. I remember being astonished by the sheer number of customers who participated in that kind of activity. Shelby’s sister must be doing pretty well to be able to afford rent in this neighborhood I think to myself as Tristan and I head through the front door.

  A tall, graceful woman with a riotous head of reddish, blond curls, wearing a brightly colored apron greets us with a wide smile. “Hello, welcome to Paint Your Art Out. How can I help you this morning?”

  People often claim that I’m a little intimidating, so I make a conscious effort to be pleasant. “Good morning. Cool place you have here,” I comment, looking around.

  As soon as I speak, the smile slides off of Savannah’s face. She sighs as she turns on her heel. “I was hoping for actual customers today, but I’ll get you copies of the paperwork,” she remarks over her shoulder as she starts to leave the room.

  “Ma’am, why do you think we’re here?” Tristan inquires.

  Savannah’s eyes roll so hard I half expect them to make a noise like a one armed bandit at a casino.

  “I was suspicious before, but with a question like that, now I’m positive that you’re not here to be craftsy. If I were to venture a guess, I would say you,” she says pointing at Tristan, “are some sort of law enforcement.” She swings her finger toward me and remarks, “You’re a little harder to figure out. I can’t decide if you’re here to sell me legal insurance or if you’re actually one of the ambulance-chasers yourself.”

  Tristan lets out a low whistle of admiration. “I am impressed. I could use you on my team.”

  “Team of what?” Savannah asks suspiciously. “I’m sorry to say, but you guys don’t look like any of the building inspectors who have come around lately.”

  I flash her a tight grin as I respond, “That’s because we’re not.”

  Tristan steps forward and hands Savannah a business card. “Ma’am, I’m here on a bit of personal mission today. It’s even more personal for Mr. Littleson here. However, if you don’t want him present, I understand that as well and he can go, if you would prefer.”

  Savannah takes a moment to scrutinize the business card. She looks up at Tristan and says, “Wait a minute. Identity Bank. You guys were on the news about that huge cat-fishing story. I’m not involved in any cat fishing. Aren’t you like filthy rich and worth more money than Mark Cuban? I thought I read somewhere that you asked your girlfriend to marry you by kidnapping her on a plane?”

  “That is my company. I am Tristan Macklin. I did ask my wife, Rogue, to marry me on a trip to Paris although the details can get a little twisted depending on who’s telling it,” Tristan confirms.

  “Umm… I don’t know what you’re doing with my little company. All my paperwork is in order. That’s what I was trying to tell you when you first came in,” Savannah explains. Her anxiety level seems to be climbing with every word.

  Tristan’s voice drops as he attempts to clarify again, “Hunting down identity thieves is not the only thing my company does. We also do adoption reunificat —”

  Tristan doesn’t even get the whole word out of his mouth before Savannah gasps and holds a trembling hand
over her mouth. “You mean you’re here about Shel?”

  Tristan and I nodded carefully as Savannah peaks around us to find Shelby.

  “Well, where is she?” Savannah demands. “I want to see my baby sister. I don’t understand.”

  “Ma’am if you’ll let me —” Tristan tries to redirect.

  Savannah starts to pace before she comes to a dead stop and slumps against a wall. “Please don’t, oh please don’t tell me another one is dead,” she pleads with alarm. “I tried to tell them I was old enough to take Shelby, but they just wouldn’t listen to me,” Savannah half-mutters as she aimlessly walks in a circle around the store.

  I catch Tristan’s line of sight over Savannah’s head and we seem to develop a plan of action without speaking. Since I’m closest to Savannah, I guide her toward some couches in the back of the store while Tristan locks the front door and hangs up the closed sign. Once I find the refrigerator and retrieve some cold water, Savannah objects. “It’s been a really slow month. I can’t afford to close.”

  “This is entirely my fault. I should’ve timed things better. Sell me whatever equals double your daily sales. In fact, I might just buy enough to put some inventory in the Elliott Houses we are opening here and in Kansas,” Tristan pledges.

  Savannah narrows her gaze as she looks sideways at Tristan, “I know it doesn’t look like it right now, but I don’t need your charity. Usually my store does pretty well. The weather’s been really strange and people haven’t been coming out — but usually I do okay. I’ll be fine.”

  “Look, it’s my screw-up and I don’t want to cost you a day’s business—just think of me as a regular customer on a bigger scale,” Tristan argues.

  Finally, Savannah slumps against the back of the couch as she says, “Fine, your money is as green as the next person’s. I’m not in any position to turn away cash at this point. Besides, we have more important things to talk about.”

  I nod as I reply, “We do.”

  “Why do you all look as if you’re about to march in front of a firing squad when you talk about her? What the hell is going on? Did she turn into a serial killer or something?”

  I laugh at the absurdity of the thought before I respond, “No, nothing could be further from the truth. Your sister is phenomenal. My daughter absolutely loves her and I’m not far behind. Her kind spirit and generosity is one of the first things that grabbed my attention about her,” I gush.

  “That’s nice, but there’s something you’re not telling me —” Savannah intuitively guesses.

  I try to find the words to coherently answer her question, but inexplicably even though I make my living with words, I can’t seem to find them at the moment. Tristan seems to sense my dilemma as he solemnly looks at Savannah and proceeds to break her heart, one word at a time.

  “REMIND ME WHY I’M DOING this again for you? I graduated from college. I was supposed to be done with term papers, remember?” I grouse as I help Rogue format her bibliography.

  “Only because you’re the best friend in the whole wide universe and I owe you a lifetime supply of fancy coffee…” Rogue answers as she sorts her flashcards. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why this paper snuck by me on the syllabus. Usually I’m much more on top of things.”

  “Why isn’t your husband helping with all of this?” I ask. “Isn’t he some sort of computer guru with magical tools to suck thoughts right out of your brain?”

  Rogue sighs wistfully as she responds, “I wish. He’s actually on some priority project with your hunk at the moment. I didn’t have a very good connection with him, but it sounded like he said something about making families whole or something like that. Anyway, it sounded like something pretty positive. He rarely gets too hyped about anything specific, but he seemed pretty excited.”

  Rogue’s words just echo in my mind like some sick soundtrack. If I’m honest with myself, I knew that this was a possibility ever since that weird day at the hospital when we came face-to-face with Tanyanita and I discovered out who she was. Yet, somehow I assumed I would actually be involved in the ending of our relationship. It’s funny, I thought that after all we been through, Mark would fight harder for us.

  Maybe I’m being unfair. After all, Tanyanita had him first. She is Ketki’s mom and they are the original family. There is a lot to be said for Ketki feeling grounded and whole. Just as loudly, the less charitable side argues that Tanyanita had that once and gave it up. What about the fact that Ketki loves and trusts me? Why should Ketki have to give me up just because her ‘real mom’ is back in her life and wants a second shot?

  A wave of nausea overtakes me. It’s too strong for even the industrial-strength anti-nausea medicines the doctors have me on to combat my chemotherapy regimen. I have to leap up and run toward the restroom to throw up.

  When I return, Rogue exclaims, “¡Dios mío! You look like you’ve had a come-to-Jesus moment and seen a ghost all at once. What happened?”

  Well, maybe not a ghost but close enough. “You know, I haven’t done a whole lot of relationships, but I sort of thought there would be a dramatic fight at the end. After all that we’ve been through with the melanoma, I didn’t figure Mark would just walk away because his ex-wife showed up. I am trying to be the bigger person here for Ketki, but I’m not feeling very big. I’m feeling like the old family hound who got kicked out on the back porch for the new shiny puppy,”

  “Are you sure that you’re interpreting this correctly?” Rogue cautions. “I don’t know Mark all that well — but he strikes me as very much the same kind of man as my husband. The kind of man who sees life like a really large chessboard and who doesn’t make moves without a great deal of thought and consideration of those around him. In all the months that I’ve seen him interacting with you, he’s never done anything that wasn’t to benefit you — even if he was clumsy and awkward and pushy as all hell.”

  I stop to think about her point for a moment. “Okay, that’s true, but he’s never had to balance me against his ex-wife before. What if there are still latent feelings there? What if because I’m sick — it’s better for Ketki in the long run for them to be together? What if it’s better for Mark for them to stay a family?” I speculate. “You saw how broken up Ketki is about her mom. Maybe being reunited is the best thing for them. Perhaps I should just step out of the way.”

  “Hold up!” Rogue interrupts. “You don’t know any of this to be a fact. I thought you talked to Mark about this. Didn’t he say that they were just childhood friends who married in a rush? Why are you in a hurry to give them a happily ever after ending they never had in the first place?”

  Rogue’s words bring me up short. That’s a really good question. Why am I so quick to give away my own happily-ever-after? Even though I’m sick from my chemotherapy and my other medications and I struggle against a multitude of side effects from extreme itchiness, puffiness and nausea, I have never really been happier. An interesting thing is happening to me as I look at myself through Mark’s eyes. Even though I have deep ugly incisions and scabs where there used to be none, he makes me feel beautiful and cherished. At a time when the world defines me as ugly, Mark not only says I am stunning, he routinely shows me how he feels. Am I really willing to walk away from all of this just because it might be convenient for another family? I don’t have to dig very deep for that answer. Every cell in my body screams no. I have found my happy. I’m not so quick to give it up. I just have to figure out this cancer stuff and get it under control.

  I roll my shoulders and grab some Kleenex off of the desk as I dry my eyes and blow my nose. “Come on Rogue, French Impressionist Artists of the Twentieth Century won’t organize themselves. I’ll deal with all the rest of the stuff later. I can’t sort it out without Mark here anyway.”

  I surreptitiously check my phone after the nurse finishes checking my vitals. I don’t understand why Mark isn’t here yet. He told me he was going to be here twenty minutes ago. He’s been acting beyond bizarre recently. I can’t h
elp but wonder if this is just a form of slow-motion breakup. Finally, my phone vibrates and I see a text.

  No texting, but juror passed out in court. Judge held us. So sorry I won’t be there. Can you pick up Ketki?

  My shoulders slump in relief. At least there is some sort of explanation. There’s a knock on the door and Dr. Charleston comes in and sits behind the consulting desk and puts my most recent PET scans up on the display board. While he’s arranging things, I quickly type an affirmative answer to Mark and put my phone away.

  “All by yourself today?” Dr. Charleston asks as he leafs through my file.

  “Apparently, Mark is stuck in court today,” I reply with a shrug.

  “I’ve seen him in action. He is a very impressive fellow,” the doctor remarks with a grin.

  I smile as I respond, “I think so, but I might be biased.”

  Dr. Charleston turns on a huge overhead light and announces, “Ms. Lyons, come on over here let’s take a look.”

  I’m not particularly shy about my body. You can’t grow up in the conditions that I did and be overly modest. But there is something distinctly different about this strip-down. The stakes feel so high. I clutch my hospital type gown around me and it feels dozens of sizes too large as I stand under the lamp. That heat from the lamp feels reminiscent of the tanning beds I used to use as a teenager. It’s hard not to feel a moment of would’ve, should’ve and could’ves. If only I had made different choices or been more aware, maybe I wouldn’t be standing under this lamp having a doctor look at me with a magnifying glass in his hand with an intense expression on his face. The longer we stand there, the more nervous I become.

  It gets really awkward when I have to move my breast for him to see one particularly ugly scar. This one just doesn’t seem to want to heal correctly. He examines my closely. “Is this the one the first physician tried to scrape in the office?”