Risk (It's Complicated Book 2)

by Ann Christopher

  This was just a building—a locale he avoided like a Congolese village during an Ebola outbreak.

  When was he last here? Was it Christmas two years ago? He couldn’t remember. He’d pretty much kept his promise to himself not to return once he went to college, and he could count on one hand the number of times he had. Why bother visiting, anyway? He’d disliked the ostentatious shrine to his father’s ego, so unlike all the other kids’ houses, even when Mama was alive.

  After she died when he was fifteen, he’d hated it.

  It was pretty, though. He supposed.

  Massive English Tudor with turret. Immaculate landscaping and rolling emerald grounds. A huge fall wreath on the front door.

  The overall effect of this million-dollar piece of real estate was to impress, which was, of course, his father’s whole reason for existing.

  That and being V.J.’s father.

  After a while, Justus got out of the car, walked up the long cobblestone path to the door, and rang the fancy bell, which sounded like the carillon at St. Paul’s in London. He still had a key, but he hadn’t used it in years and didn’t plan to start now.

  Footsteps sounded inside. A light came on behind the beveled glass.

  Justus braced himself.

  The door swung open and revealed his father, who stared at him with drop-jawed astonishment.

  Vincent had aged, Justus realized. Badly. His short hair was almost entirely white now, and deep grooves framed his disapproving mouth. And he’d lost weight. Probably a good twenty pounds or so. A paisley silk robe hung limply over his dark pajamas.

  “Justus,” he said. “What’re you doing here?”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Uh, yeah...sure,” Vincent said with all the enthusiasm of a rancher letting a wolf into his cattle pen. He stepped aside and let Justus pass through, shutting the door behind him.

  Justus surveyed the foyer, which was inside the tower portion of the house. Nothing had changed, not that he’d expected it would. The staircase still curved gracefully upstairs, and the same round table sat on the same fancy rug.

  Justus hesitated. He just couldn’t bring himself to break the old man’s heart one second sooner than he had to.

  Vincent stared at him, waiting.

  Justus cleared his throat. “I...have some bad news, Pop.”

  Vincent stiffened. One of his claw-like hands—had they always been so thin and wrinkled?—reached out to clutch the edge of the table for support.

  “What is it?” he asked hoarsely.

  Justus faltered, trying to get his mouth to produce words rather than sobs.

  “V.J. and Carolyn ran into a deer tonight with the car. Maya’s okay—she’s with Angela—but they...were killed.”

  Vincent, still clinging to the table, whimpered and doubled over at the waist.

  “I got you, man,” Justus said, springing forward to grab Vincent’s bony elbow before he could fall all the way to the floor. Justus steered his father into an ornate chair, where Vincent collapsed as though someone had ripped his entire skeleton out of his body.

  For the first time in a thousand years, Justus felt an emotion for his father other than anger, disgust, or contempt:

  Pity.

  “Breathe, man.” He stooped over Vincent and rubbed his back while Vincent’s lips opened and closed like a caught flounder gasping for air.

  “Lena,” Vincent finally managed. “Get Lena.”

  Lena! Yes! Vincent’s long-term girlfriend. Of course she’d be here, spending the night, even though she and Vincent maintained the pretense of living in separate homes.

  “Lena!” Galvanized, Justus sprinted up the stairs and nearly ran into Lena belting her silky pink robe around her. Her short white hair was mussed, but otherwise she looked as cool and elegant as ever, and Justus was thrilled to see her. He liked Lena a lot and had never quite understood what such a nice woman saw in his father.

  “What is it?” she demanded, clutching his forearms.

  “It’s V.J.,” he said gently. “And Vincent’s having trouble breathing.”

  “Oh, God.”

  She spun around, ran back down the dark hall to the open door of the lighted master suite, and came right back out with a bottle of prescription medication in her hand. Justus followed her down the stairs, terrified of what they’d find when they got to the bottom. Despite the low lighting from a floor lamp, Justus could tell that Vincent’s skin had paled and his breathing was, if possible, even harsher than before.

  Lena efficiently opened the bottle, shook out a tablet, and put it into Vincent’s mouth.

  “Just relax.” She crouched by the chair and pressed her palm to his cheek. “Relax.”

  But Vincent stared at her with stricken eyes while his tongue worked the tablet inside his cheek. After a minute his breathing evened out and he slumped back, his head lolling against the chair.

  “Vincent Jr. is dead,” he wailed, tears streaming from his closed eyes. “My son is dead. Carolyn is dead."

  Lena stood up, murmuring to Vincent as she took his arm. “Let’s go upstairs. You’ll feel better in bed.”

  Compliant as a small child, Vincent scooted to the edge of the chair.

  Justus hurried to catch Vincent’s other arm. He could help him get upstairs and make sure he settled in before—

  Vincent’s head whipped around and he stared at Justus with unwavering hostility.

  Justus flinched.

  For a horrible moment, they stared at each other while Justus absorbed the animosity radiating from his father like fumes from a skunk’s tail.

  Finally Vincent’s lip turned up in a sneer. “I don’t need your help.”

  Stung, Justus dropped his father’s arm and backed away, recoiling from the message that was as clear as any neon sign on Times Square:

  Vincent didn’t understand why, if he had to lose a son, it couldn’t have been Justus rather than V.J.

  When the resulting pain knifed through Justus’s own chest, it was, somehow, a surprise. He’d thought he’d made himself invulnerable to this kind of attack long ago, but he’d been dead wrong, and it hurt. Tears crowded his throat, and when his nostrils began to flare, he turned away, unwilling to let his father see how deeply he’d just wounded Justus.

  “Vincent!” Lena hissed, shooting an apologetic look at Justus.

  Vincent ignored her, snatched his arm away, and turned toward the stairs on his own steam.

  Lena looked worriedly back and forth between the two men. Finally she reached up and kissed Justus on the cheek.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  Justus nodded numbly.

  “We’ll talk first thing, Justus. Okay?”

  But Justus had already turned and opened the door to leave, determined never to reach out to his father again. Ever.

  5

  Angela woke slowly, her forehead shrieking with pain even before she cracked open her swollen eyes and saw the bright morning sun streaming through the blinds. For one second she couldn’t remember what was so wrong, and looked around her elegant yellow English country bedroom in bewilderment. The huge wrought-iron four-poster bed with her beloved luxury linens sure seemed the same, even though Ronnie wasn’t in it.

  So why did she feel so—oh, God.

  It all came flooding back. The accident. The hospital. Maya.

  She groaned and immediately regretted it because the ache in her forehead and temples throbbed anew. Struggling not to cry again—not again—she put her hands over her eyes and sat up gingerly, trying to give her forehead time to adjust to the altitude change.

  Luckily, the spell of lightheadedness disappeared as quickly as it had come.

  Thank God for small favors.

  Now was not the time to crumble anew. Not physically or emotionally. She’d sobbed and sobbed after Justus left last night, loud, racking sobs so violent they seemed to rip her skin from her flesh, her flesh from her bones. She’d cried until finally she’d vomited, the bile
irritating her already raw throat. Every few minutes she’d think she’d gotten a little control, but then a fresh image—Carolyn holding Maya in the hospital just after she was born; Carolyn and V.J. crushed in their car by some stupid deer; Maya getting married with no one to walk her down the aisle—would flash through her mind and the endless tears would start again. She didn’t think she’d ever—

  A rustling sound by her open door jarred her out of her thoughts and she dropped her hands.

  Maya.

  The little girl stood in the doorway, her braided hair mussed, her eyes still droopy with sleep. Tiny bare feet peeked out from under the oversized white T-shirt she’d slept in. Once again, she held her floppy-eared brown dog to her mouth and stared at Angela with solemn eyes.

  “Hi, sweetie,” Angela said, her voice hoarse from sleep and tears.

  “Hi,” Maya said, her voice muffled by the dog.

  Angela racked her brain for an available, age-appropriate topic to discuss with her—something that wouldn’t trigger immediate questions or memories about her parents.

  “What—” She cleared her throat. “I mean...how did you sleep?”

  “Good.”

  “Good.”

  The silence lengthened as they stared at each other. For the life of her, Angela couldn’t think of anything to say. What on earth did people talk to three-and-a-half-year-olds about?

  “How did your doggie sleep?”

  “Aunt Ang-la.” Maya rolled her eyes. “He’s a toy. He doesn’t sleep.”

  “Oh.” Angela nodded. “Right. I should have known that.”

  Maya’s eyes blinked at her from over the top of the dog’s head.

  Angela nervously chewed the inside of her cheek. Why was Maya staring at her like that? They’d never had very much to say to each other before, true, but she couldn’t recall the kid just standing there staring. Was this normal? Or was it a symptom of posttraumatic stress disorder she should be worried about? Did other kids stare like this?

  She decided to give conversation another try. “What’s your doggie’s name?”

  Maya shrugged.

  At a complete loss, Angela fell silent again, thinking hard.

  “Scooby?” she suggested hopefully. “Lassie? Toto? Rex? Max? Fido? Are you telling me this dog doesn’t have a name?”

  More silence.

  Angela gave up, sighed, and climbed out of bed. They might as well face the inevitable and begin what was sure to be another horrible day.

  “Well, we’ll have to work on a name for him, okay?”

  “Okay,” Maya said.

  Angela took Maya’s warm little hand—her skin was so soft—and led her down the hall to the kitchen.

  “Let’s see what we have to eat. Are you hungry?”

  Maya nodded.

  Angela swung open the refrigerator and stooped down to look inside. “Yogurt?”

  “Eeeeew!” Maya’s face wrinkled up like a Shar Pei.

  “Riiight,” Angela said. “Well, how about some cereal and milk?”

  “Okay.”

  Relieved, Angela turned to the pantry and opened the door.

  “Have a seat at the counter,” she said, pointing to one of the stools.

  Maya regarded the high-backed stools dubiously for a moment, then swung one plump leg onto the bottom rung and heaved herself into her seat. Angela pulled the box of granola cereal from the shelf and turned to find a bowl.

  “What’s that?” Maya asked warily.

  “Granola.”

  “Eeeeew!”

  Angela felt the first stirrings of impatience. She put the box back and surveyed her other choices. “Raisin Bran?” She looked over her shoulder in time to catch the look of horror cross Maya’s face.

  “All righty, then,” she muttered. “No yogurt, no granola, no Raisin Bran. I suppose oatmeal is out, too?”

  “I want Count Chocu-laaa.”

  Maya’s whine was only slightly less annoying than a guinea pig’s squeal.

  “Maya,” she said crisply, trying to channel The Look her mother used to give her and Carolyn when trouble was pending, “we do not whine in this house.”

  Maya glared impotently but kept quiet, which made Angela feel terrible. Surely she could tolerate a little whininess from a preschooler who’d just lost both parents.

  “Okay,” she said gently, deciding to give diplomacy one last chance, “the only other choice you have is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on wheat bread. That’s the best I can do.”

  Maya’s lower lip slowly poked out until finally she looked like someone had taken a baseball bat to her mouth. “I want Wonder Bread.”

  Angela repressed a shudder. Crossing her arms over her chest, she planted her feet wide. Enough was enough. By the time they finished breakfast negotiations, it would be time for dinner.

  “Peanut butter and jelly on wheat bread. With crust.”

  Maya’s withering gaze faltered, then fell, but she still wouldn’t let Angela have the last word. “Cut it in four pieces.”

  Angela cocked her head and cupped her hand to her ear. “Do I hear a nice word?”

  Maya’s lips thinned and disappeared. “Please,” she said nastily.

  Translation? Go to hell, Aunt Ang-la.

  Angela decided to ignore the tone. Relieved that they’d reached a truce, she quickly made the sandwich, poured a glass of skim milk, and plunked them down in front of Maya. But one look at the white milk had Maya’s lower lip ballooning again.

  “I want choc-late syrup.”

  The uneasy peace, such as it was, collapsed within the hour. Angela dressed Maya in yesterday’s clothes, grateful she’d had the foresight to throw them into the wash before she went to bed last night. Maya, who seemed as determined not to mention her parents as Angela was, settled onto the sofa with her dog.

  “Can I watch TV?” she asked.

  “Ah...” Angela said, frowning.

  As a general rule, she believed that children under the age of, oh, say, eight, should never watch TV. If and when she had children (thanks again, Ronnie, you SOB), she’d have them look at picture books and play with blocks and quiet toys in their rooms to develop their imaginations and creativity. Parents who relied on TV to baby-sit their children were lazy at best and neglectful at worst. But this one time it wouldn’t hurt anything if Maya watched half an hour’s worth of educational shows while Angela got dressed.

  “Sure,” she finally said.

  She quickly found the remote and flipped through the usual Sunday morning news shows looking for something kid-friendly.

  Maya watched with interest. “I want to watch Scooby Doo. Turn it to Cartoon Network,” she suggested helpfully.

  Angela paused to look at her. “Cartoon Network?”

  Maya gaped at her. “The kid’s channel. Push two-seven.”

  Angela hesitated. “Is that cable? I don’t have cable.”

  Before the explosion came—and judging by the way Maya went rigid, flung herself onto her back, and balled up her fists, it was going to be a biggie—the doorbell rang.

  Oh, thank God. Please let it be Justus.

  Nicely diverted, Maya leapt to her feet and ran into the foyer.

  Angela took a couple of quick steps after her, then faltered as she glanced hopelessly down at her tank top and boxer shorts.

  Normally she got up at six or six thirty, even on weekends, because discipline didn’t take the weekend off, ran on the treadmill for an hour or so, and was showered and fresh by eight. Today, she counted herself lucky she’d been able to steal thirty seconds to brush her teeth while Maya ate. A glance at the mirror over the hall table confirmed all her worst suspicions about her appearance.

  Ah, well. Nothing she could do about it now.

  Sighing and running her fingers through her wrecked ponytail, she opened the door.

  “Uncle Justus!” Maya streaked past in a flash of flying legs and braids. She launched herself at Justus, who stooped down in time to scoop her up and swing
her in the air. Then he held her to his chest, her legs dangling.

  “Hi, baby girl!”

  He squeezed her tight, letting his eyes drift closed after he’d showered her grinning face with kisses. Opening his eyes again, he looked around for Angela and gave her a quick once-over when he saw her. His jaw tightened.

  “Hi. Hope I’m not too early.”

  “Hi,” she said uncomfortably. Why hadn’t she at least put her robe on before she opened the door?

  But Justus’s attention immediately shifted back to Maya. If he thought Angela looked bad, he kept his opinion to himself—thank goodness.

  “How are you, little girl?” he asked Maya, whose arms were wrapped around his neck. “What’s wrong with your face?”

  “It scratches.” Maya raked her short nails over her cheek.

  Huh?

  Angela took a good look at Maya and discovered she had several red welts dotting her face. What the hell? Had they been there all morning? She didn’t think so, but who knew?

  Justus shot her a quizzical glance.

  “I don’t know,” she said helplessly. “I washed her clothes last night. Maybe she’s sensitive to the detergent I used. Or it could be the lotion I just put on her.”

  Justus studied Maya carefully. “Well, should we call the doctor?”

  “No-ooo!” Maya violently shook her head. “I don’t want any shots!”

  “I don’t think we need the doctor just yet.” Angela tried to sound like she’d had vast experience with children and rashes. “It’s just a rash. I have some calamine we can put on it. We’ll watch her and see how she does.”

  Justus nodded, looking relieved. He seemed perfectly willing to defer to Angela’s decision, as if, simply by virtue of her ovaries, she knew more about kids than he did. Turning back to Maya, he nuzzled her ear.

  “Did you sleep here last night?”

  “Yeah.” Maya’s head bobbed eagerly. “In the big bed.”