Ghost Moon

by Karen Robards

  When he had jumped to his feet, furious at being hit and ready to pound the hell out of the old man, it was Big John who had stood his ground with his fists raised, cursing a blue streak and daring him to bring it on.

  Thank God he had retained enough decency to turn around and walk away. Later, when he was sober, he was shamed by the thought of how near he had been to coming to blows with his then eighty-two-year-old grandfather.

  He’d taken a good, hard look at the bad-tempered drunk he’d become, and realized that Jennifer wasn’t worth it. From that moment on, he’d been as sober as a preacher.

  Sometimes, though, when the burdens of work and family felt as if they might suffocate him, he caught himself thinking longingly about just chucking it all, climbing into his leased vehicle, and taking off into the sunset. No more responsibility. No more pressure. He could start a new life somewhere else, build up his own business without other people’s needs and mistakes weighing him down.

  He could be free.

  But the price for that freedom was too high, and he knew it. It meant letting go of his heritage. It meant letting people he loved—people who loved him—down.

  He couldn’t do it. He didn’t even really want to do it. Not often. Only sometimes.

  Like today.

  His daughter was a brat. His mother had cancer. His grandfather was in intensive care. His business was struggling to survive. His personal litany of woe was so long it was almost comical.

  Only he didn’t feel the least bit like laughing.

  Deliberately he thought of Mallory. With her, he’d gotten lucky. She was beautiful, educated, with her own solvent business. She loved him. She was great in the sack. She was going to make him a fantastic wife.

  Except he wasn’t one hundred percent certain that he was in love with her. And Chloe hated her. And Mallory wasn’t any too fond of Chloe, either, although she tried to hide it. Hell, he couldn’t even blame Mallory. Chloe was his own daughter, and he felt like throttling her about half the time.

  But he and Chloe were a package deal, for better or worse, and if he didn’t love Mallory then he certainly should, because she was absolutely what he needed in a wife and Chloe needed in a mother. Unlike Jennifer, Mallory was a mature adult. Mallory was stable. Mallory loved the town of LaAngelle, and the plantation and his family (Chloe excepted, for the moment). Mallory understood about his work. Mallory was capable and successful and a heck of an organizer.

  Maybe that wasn’t entirely a good thing, though. Maybe that was why, over the last several weeks as preparations for the wedding had moved into full swing, he had sometimes felt like a small corporation caught in the grip of a larger one bent on a takeover. Maybe Mallory should knock off trying to organize him. Maybe he wasn’t quite ready to marry again after all.

  Who knew why he felt the way he did? All he knew was that right now, his relationship with Mallory was starting to feel like just one more problem.

  Olivia was home. Seth had been shying away from coming to terms with that. He hadn’t really thought much about her in a long time—years. But all he had to do was see her again, and everything came rushing back.

  She and her mother had come to live at LaAngelle Plantation when Livvy was a year old. Almost immediately she had started toddling about after him, and he, twelve years old and an only child just as she was, had been enchanted by the big-eyed, chubby little girl. All through her childhood, he had played the part of big brother, ordering her around and bopping her on the head when he felt she deserved it, but letting her tag after him and protecting her from everybody else. Then he left for college and grad school and his first and only job away from the family business. By the time he’d come home again at Big John’s request she had been fifteen and running wild. His mother, who was sweet and kind and the most loving woman on earth, was no kind of disciplinarian. And Big John, who certainly was, showed no inclination to exert his authority over a troublesome teenager who was, as he frequently pointed out, no blood kin.

  Since nobody else seemed willing or able to do the job, Seth had done his best to take Livvy in hand. But trying to control the teenage sexpot she had become was like trying to hold back the tide, he’d discovered: It couldn’t be done. God help him, that last year when she was seventeen and he was a grown man of twenty-eight, sometimes he’d found himself sexually attracted to her, too.

  And why not? She’d been mouthwatering in the tight jeans and skimpy tops she’d worn almost as a uniform. Chubby no longer, she had become voluptuous instead, with full, lush breasts and a round ass and a slim, taut, tanned waist she had pretty much kept bared. Her hair had been longer then, almost down to her waist, dark and silky-straight. With her big brown eyes and pouting lips, she’d looked like one of the girls in the Hawaiian Tropic commercials.

  He would have had to be a eunuch not to notice.

  To his credit, he hadn’t done anything about it. Not then. Not ever. In a way, it had been a relief when she’d run away.

  Now she was back, thinner, paler, more subdued, having obviously learned some hard lessons about life over the intervening years, with her own daughter in tow.

  A sexpot no longer.

  But to his dismay, he’d had only to take a good look at her in the kitchen last night, bathrobe, bare feet, and all, to discover that he still found her sexy as hell.

  Add another problem to the list.

  Pulling into the parking lot of St. Elizabeth’s Hospital, Seth sighed. He could deal with only one crisis at a time, and right now he had to focus on making sure Big John got the medical treatment he needed to get well.

  Charlie was waiting for him, leaning against his own leased vehicle, a ’99 Lexus. Which, presumably, his uncle-by-marriage really could afford. As Big John’s personal physician, Charlie would have the latest on the old man’s condition, but the only reason for Charlie to be in the parking lot waiting for him was to tell him, Seth, something that he wasn’t ready to tell the others who would be gathered inside.

  Great. Seth parked and got out, locking the door with the careless push of a button on his key ring, his muscles already tightening in anticipation of what he would hear.

  Charlie didn’t disappoint him. Rumpled and tired-looking from the all-night vigil they had shared, he straightened away from his car and walked over to clap a hand on Seth’s shoulder.

  The two men’s eyes met. ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ Charlie said, ‘‘but I’ve got some bad news.’’

  Was there any other kind? Seth thought.

  Not lately. Not for him.

  CHAPTER 15

  THIS TIME, SARA WAS AWAKE WHEN OLIVIA WENT up to check on her. She was standing on the edge of the mattress, fully dressed except for her white tennis shoes, which were on the floor. Facing the head of the bed, she was looking back over her shoulder at her rear view, which was reflected in the small, gilt-framed oval mirror over the chest on the opposite wall. Trying to decide if she was fat? Olivia guessed the reason for Sara’s tortured posture almost instantly. As a child, she’d done the same thing herself, more times than she cared to remember.

  When Olivia entered, Sara immediately altered her position, shooting a guilty glance toward her mother and jumping to the floor.

  ‘‘What were you doing?’’ Olivia asked casually, as Sara made a production of sitting down on the edge of the bed and putting on her shoes.

  Sara shrugged without looking up. The chin-length wings of her dark brown bob had swung forward, effectively hiding her expression.

  Olivia accepted that nonanswer without comment. She didn’t want to make Sara’s perfectly fine weight an issue, or push Sara into confiding uncertainties that she might not be ready to share. Instead, as Sara tied her shoes, Olivia crossed to the windows and drew back the curtains, letting bright sunlight pour into the room. Immediately the taupes and creams of the new decor lost their gloom and even took on a certain brightness. The old wooden floor glowed where the sun touched it, and dust motes danced cheerily above the tumbled
bed.

  ‘‘It’s a beautiful day,’’ Olivia observed, looking back at her daughter. Having finished with her shoes, Sara stood up, turned around, and automatically reached for the rumpled covers that were listing toward the floor on her side of the bed. It was a rule in their Houston apartment that beds were made before they left their bedrooms each morning.

  ‘‘Where have you been?’’ Sara asked as Olivia moved to the other side of the bed to help.

  ‘‘I went for a walk.’’ Olivia tugged her portion of the bedclothes into place and smoothed them as Sara did the same. ‘‘Did you have a good sleep?’’

  ‘‘Yeah.’’ Sara tossed her mother a pillow. Mother and daughter placed their pillows against the headboard at approximately the same time in approximately identical positions on their respective sides of the bed, exchanged congratulatory glances at the symmetry thus achieved, and the bed-making was complete. ‘‘What are we going to do today?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know.’’ Olivia smiled at her daughter. ‘‘I thought we’d start by washing your face and brushing your teeth and brushing your hair and—’’

  ‘‘Oh, Mom, I meant what are we going to do today that’s fun?’’ Sara asked impatiently. ‘‘This is our vacation.’’

  ‘‘We could explore,’’ Olivia suggested, coming around the foot of the bed to put an arm around her daughter’s shoulders and give her a hug. Sara had never had much in the way of vacations; at least, nothing fancy, although Olivia had tried her best to make the one week she could take off from work every summer special. Last year, as always, finances had dictated that they stay close to home, but they had taken day trips to the beach at Galveston and to a local amusement park and gone to movies and the mall. ‘‘I’ve already seen all kinds of interesting things this morning.’’

  ‘‘Like what?’’ Sara hugged her back, both arms around Olivia’s waist, and looked up at her mother. Olivia dropped a light kiss on her forehead. She loved this child so much that sometimes the emotion felt like a physical ache inside her.

  ‘‘A big Persian cat.’’ Sara loved cats, although she’d never been allowed to have one. Their apartment complex did not allow pets. ‘‘Some peacocks.’’

  ‘‘Peacocks!’’ Sara’s eyes widened. ‘‘Really?’’

  ‘‘Mmm-hmm.’’ Olivia nodded as she smoothed Sara’s hair away from her face. ‘‘But first things first. To the bathroom with you, miss.’’

  By the time Sara was clean and brushed and they were heading downstairs, it was almost ten o’clock. Sara went ahead of her, bouncing from one step to the next, looking cute as a bug in a sleeveless, pink-and-white striped blouse and pink denim shorts, with twin pink barrettes holding her hair behind her ears.

  ‘‘Breakfast,’’ Olivia decreed, as Sara reached the bottom, and pointed toward the kitchen. Sara obediently turned in the indicated direction, and Olivia followed a step or two behind. Muffled voices from the kitchen made Sara hesitate just outside the swinging door.

  ‘‘Can we go look for the peacocks now instead of having breakfast?’’ she whispered to Olivia, whose hand was already flat against the door. ‘‘I’m not very hungry.’’

  ‘‘Well, I am,’’ Olivia said firmly, and pushed the door open. When Sara still hung back, she put a hand between her daughter’s shoulder blades and ushered her into the kitchen. Callie and Martha were sitting at the table. Callie had a glass of orange juice, a cup of coffee, and a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of her. Except for the coffee, the meal appeared untouched. Martha was sipping at a cup of coffee. Her plate was empty. Both looked around as Olivia and Sara entered.

  ‘‘Good morning!’’ Callie greeted them with a smile. She wore khaki slacks and a white silky-looking camp shirt. Rosy blush and lipstick made her appear well-rested and deceptively healthy. ‘‘Did you two sleep well?’’

  ‘‘I did,’’ Olivia answered, while Sara, her fingers entwining tightly with Olivia’s, merely nodded.

  ‘‘What can I fix you ladies for breakfast?’’ Martha got to her feet. In plaid Bermuda shorts, a forest-green T-shirt, and wedge-heeled sandals, with her black hair teased high and an abundance of red lipstick on her mouth, she looked both out of place and out of date. But her smile was warm and her eyes were friendly. Olivia was reminded that, even when she was at her teenage worst, Martha, at least, had never appeared to judge her.

  ‘‘Sit back down, Martha. I’ll get it,’’ Olivia said, waving Martha back into her seat at the same time as she discreetly detached herself from Sara’s hand and pointed her toward the table. ‘‘Sara only ever eats toast, and I’ll have coffee.’’

  ‘‘It won’t take more’n two shakes to fix scrambled eggs, or I can make pancakes if you’d rather, or there are some muffins in the freezer. . . .’’ Stopped halfway out of her chair, Martha frowned at Olivia.

  ‘‘No, thanks.’’ Heading for the toaster, Olivia shook her head with a smile, and proceeded to locate what she needed to make toast.

  ‘‘My goodness, you look like your mother,’’ Callie said, smiling at Sara, who was hesitantly approaching the table. ‘‘Come on and sit down.’’ She pulled out the chair beside her own, patted the seat, then glanced at Olivia, who was putting slices of bread in the toaster. ‘‘Seeing the two of you together sure takes me back. It seems like only yesterday that you were that age, Olivia, and Selena was fixing toast for you.’’

  ‘‘My mother fixed me toast for breakfast?’’ Olivia questioned lightly, pleased to see that Sara took the seat beside Callie without further urging. Having ignored Olivia’s request that she sit down, Martha rummaged in the refrigerator for orange juice and milk, and poured out two glasses of each.

  Callie laughed. ‘‘That’s all you would eat: grape jelly on toast with the crusts trimmed off, cut into triangles. Only your mother could fix it to suit you. You never would eat anybody else’s.’’

  ‘‘I only like Mom’s toast,’’ Sara said shyly, interested as she always was in stories of her mother’s childhood. ‘‘And I like grape jelly on it, too.’’

  The toast popped up just then, so Olivia missed out on Callie’s reply. Spreading butter and jelly, she searched her mind for a memory of her mother doing the same for her, but drew a blank. There were so many holes in her memory where her mother was concerned. For the first time, it occurred to Olivia that perhaps something was not quite right about that.

  ‘‘What are you two going to do today?’’ Callie asked, as Olivia carried the toast—crustless, spread with grape jelly and cut into triangles—to the table. Striving to purge another disquieting stab of déjà vu from her mind, Olivia smiled and sat down beside her daughter.

  ‘‘Explore.’’

  ‘‘There’s a new pool in town. The Marguerite T. Archer Memorial Swimming Pool. Big John funded most of it, and it was finished two years ago. You and Sara might like to go swimming there, Olivia. Chloe and her friends spend a lot of time hanging out at the pool.’’

  Her smile turning a little tight-lipped, Olivia shook her head as she took a revivifying sip of coffee. ‘‘That’s a wonderful way for Big John to honor his wife, isn’t it?’’

  ‘‘My mom can’t swim,’’ Sara offered, biting a corner off her toast. Sara always ate two slices of toast cut into eight triangles, corners first, then the centers. ‘‘She made me take lessons, though. But I’m not very good.’’

  Callie sent Olivia a swift glance of concern. ‘‘Oh, honey, forgive me, I forgot. Sometimes I think this medicine they’ve got me on fogs up my brain.’’

  ‘‘It’s all right.’’ Olivia managed another, more genuine smile. Her fear of the lake had expanded and generalized over the years to include all water, something of which she never liked to be reminded. It was ridiculous, and limiting, especially when Sara wanted to go swimming, but it was something she had found impossible to overcome. At least she had not infected Sara with the same fear. And she had managed to pay for and grimly taken her daughter to lessons until Sara could swim t
he width of a swimming pool on her own.

  Callie and Martha exchanged glances as Martha sat back down after pouring herself another cup of coffee, and the subject was quickly dropped.

  ‘‘Do you like to play tennis?’’ Callie asked Sara. ‘‘Chloe and her friends have been playing tennis a lot this summer. She’s over at a friend’s house playing right now, as a matter of fact, but she should be back before lunch.’’

  ‘‘I’ve never played,’’ Sara said, consuming another bite of toast. ‘‘I think I’d like it, though.’’

  ‘‘Sara likes animals,’’ Olivia put in, sipping the orange juice Martha had set before her. ‘‘We’re going to go outside and check out the peacocks. And maybe see if we can find that big Persian cat I saw this morning.’’

  ‘‘That’s Ginger.’’ Callie smiled. ‘‘Named for Ginger Spice, actually. Chloe was a big fan of the Spice Girls when we got the kitten for her two years ago. But I think that craze has kind of died out now. Like the Beanie Baby thing. This time next year, it’ll be gone.’’

  ‘‘Oh, does Chloe collect Beanie Babies?’’ Sara asked excitedly. ‘‘I love Beanie Babies.’’

  ‘‘So does Chloe.’’ Callie smiled at Sara, while Olivia smiled at both of them. Sara loved Beanie Babies with a devotion she showed few playthings. For the last few birthdays and Christmases, a Beanie Baby was tops on her list, and she saved her money diligently between holidays to buy new ones. Olivia knew that if at any time she wanted to give her daughter a special treat, she could do no better than to bring home one of the little beanbag animals.

  ‘‘Miss Chloe has a whole bookcase-full up in her room,’’ Martha put in. ‘‘I’d say she has just about every one ever sold in a toy store.’’

  ‘‘Does she have Nip the cat?’’ Sara was so intrigued that she forgot to eat. A toast triangle hung ignored from her hand. ‘‘Or any of the bears? Like the Princess bear?’’

  Obviously Sara found this possibility dazzling.