Unravel Me

by Christie Ridgway

  When the passage ended, she closed the book and looked up. “Wayne always said that if he hadn’t become a professional soldier, his second career choice would have been professional football quarterback. But those of us that knew him also know that ‘quarterback’ wouldn’t have been enough for this man. He would have wanted to plan the plays, call the plays, and execute the plays. He was player, team leader, exacting coach, all rolled into one. Thank you for coming to help me honor ‘America’s Hero’ and my beloved husband.”

  A smattering of applause broke out as she made to retreat, but then a reporter jumped up. “You’ll take questions?”

  Her heart jolted at his abrupt tone. Behind him, she registered that Noah moved forward, but then she did, too. “Of course,” she said. This was the real test—and the real opportunity.

  Gazing at the man, Juliet realized some of Cassandra’s knitters were in the audience as well. From her seat beside the aggressive reporter, a woman wiggled her needles at Juliet in a subtle greeting. It made her smile. “I’d be happy to address anything.”

  “What was his appeal to a young woman like yourself?” The implication she’d been a crass gold digger was clear in his tone. “Tell us what you thought the first time you met him.”

  Before big tests, she’d always over-prepared. Tonight was no different. In considering everything that might happen and anything that might come up, she’d brought along her diary. That very first diary. From the shelf beneath the podium’s top surface, she drew the familiar little book, and placed it beside General Matters. The binding had broken long ago, and the front cover fell open easily.

  “The time I first met my husband, he didn’t give me a second thought. This is what I wrote about him, however.” Juliet took a breath. “Dear Diary: Tonight I met the man I’m going to marry . . . ’ ”

  As she read aloud, she remembered the next time she’d seen him. At twenty-three, she’d been at her parents’ funeral, bewildered by the sudden loss. Then a uniformed man had appeared at her side, silver-haired and charismatic. His hands had been warm on hers as he drew her near to kiss her cheek.

  Her knight in shining armor. That young woman she’d been had fallen for his handsome looks, his commanding presence, his bone-deep kindness.

  Now, changed by her life with Wayne, his illness, his death, she was a different woman. Maybe that was why her oyster-colored outfit didn’t seem to suit her any longer. The last year had changed her so much, too. Like an oyster, she’d worn a protective shell that she’d had to shed in order to find a new life for herself.

  Now she had family. The start, at least, of some kind of career. And a lover. Thanks to him, Juliet had uncovered her true and passionate nature—the pearl within the shell.

  Another of her diary entries came to mind, the one from the day of Wayne’s funeral. She’d written, I think no one, no man for certain, could ever make me . . . well, feel again.

  Her gaze drifted over the heads in the crowd and found Noah once more, still standing at the back of the room. She let her eyes run over him, and just that warmed her, buoyed her, made her heart beat fast, made her every cell feel alive.

  Noah had made her feel.

  Feel . . . Feel love. She was in love with Noah.

  Oh, God, she thought. And God help her.

  Because she suspected that there was no moving on from that.

  Eighteen

  Wars are not paid for in wartime, the bill comes later.

  —BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

  Marlys followed a tall, very slender, and slightly familiar-looking woman toward the Malibu shop. As the other woman was about to pull open the door, she glanced back and then drew up short, causing Marlys to nearly collide with her skinny ass. She edged away as the tall female hooked a finger over the bridge of her pink-lensed glasses and gazed down at her in the light of the security fixtures.

  “Hey, Marlys.” She lowered her glasses farther down her perfectly sloped nose. “It’s me.”

  Oomfaa. Familiarity explained. The actress frequented her boutique, though usually not garbed in sunglasses that made her eyes look like a rabbit’s and with her hair stuffed into a black, floppy-brimmed, knitted hat.

  Oomfaa tugged it toward her eyebrows. “I made it for when I want to go out incognito.”

  Oh-kay. Though combined with the pink sunglasses, Marlys would have thought it would attract more attention rather than less. “What are you doing here?”

  Oomfaa smiled. “This is my LYS—little yarn shop. I’m friends with the owner and I come here to knit.”

  Marlys turned to look at the full parking lot and then turned back to Oomfaa, keeping her voice casual. “But it’s not knitting tonight, right?” The other woman might be one of the most famous actresses in America, but she was also one of the biggest gossips in Southern California. The information she would spill during a short shopping spree could keep Marlys and her assistant, Leeza, entertained for days afterward.

  And that’s what Marlys was after tonight. Information.

  She’d told herself she was going to stay away, but here she was anyway, albeit an hour past the publicized start time. Questions had plagued her until she’d given in to impulse and headed for Malibu.

  What was Juliet up to with this party?

  Why had she chosen some “little yarn shop” in Malibu as the event’s location?

  Was Dean inside?

  A couple pushed through the door, and Oomfaa and Marlys had to step aside to let them pass. Each of them held her father’s book. As if they were the cork popped from a bottle, a stream of exiting people followed, some of them obviously from the media, and most of them clutching their own copies of General Matters in one hand and a cup of delicious-smelling coffee in the other.

  Oomfaa sniffed. “Nikki made coffee and I’m betting there’s her food inside. That’s reason enough to visit Malibu & Ewe.”

  “Nikki?”

  “One of the three sisters,” Oomfaa clarified, stepping back toward the door and then retreating again as another group wandered out. “Cassandra owns the yarn shop, Nikki’s a personal chef and engaged to Jay Buchanan, and—”

  The rest of what she was saying was swallowed by the noise of the crowd in the shop as the tall woman walked inside. Even with Marlys at her heels, the words didn’t reach her.

  She took in the interior of the shop instead. Not only was it full of milling, chattering people, but there was color and texture to overwhelm her, too. Yarns overflowed built-in bins that were stacked against the walls. Knitted garments, from toe socks to campy lingerie, from fuzzy sweaters to elegant dresses, were displayed on the walls or hung from wooden coatracks tucked into corners.

  As a woman who admired fashion and made her living from it, Marlys took a moment to appreciate the talent and skill that had gone into each piece. Not to mention the artistic eye that had placed them so strategically. She’d have to come back during regular shop hours, she decided, making her way toward the back table where platters of food and beverage urns were set.

  She wanted to meet this Cassandra. It looked as if they might have a lot in common. Then she took her first bite of a spinach-and-cheese-filled pastry and her taste buds cried in happiness. Okay, she hadn’t eaten much, not since that last encounter with Dean, but it wasn’t only hunger that had her drooling in delight.

  This was good, really good. Now she wanted to meet Nikki, too.

  Marlys didn’t have friends, not since her days as an Army brat, but maybe she could change that. She would change that, she decided, popping the rest of the small appetizer into her mouth, if only to prove Dean wrong. It’s other people that you use to take out your pain, he’d said. Well, she’d prove to him that she could get close to people without hurting them.

  Maybe then he would—

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  The demand in the male voice had her whirling around and her stomach leaping toward her throat. Noah stared at her, his eyes narrowed. Noah, not Dean. Her stomach s
ettled back to the bottom of her belly.

  From the look on his face, she guessed his friend had passed along that she’d been passing along tips to the tabloids. “It’s a free country, Private.”

  “You’re not welcome here, Marlys.”

  She’d never taken rejection well, true. But it rankled even more as she remembered how she’d come on to him when they’d first met and how gently he’d tried letting her down. That gentleness was what she found so mortifying. Noah had treated her like she was breakable, and everyone—Dean included now—knew that wasn’t true.

  Marlys drew herself taller, and wished she was wearing higher heels. “It’s a party for my father’s book.”

  “The party’s over for you.” He took her elbow.

  Her face went hot, and she yanked her arm from his hold. “I can see myself out.” She meant to spin away and leave with dignity, but some stupid compulsion kept her glued to the spot. Call it curiosity. None of her questions had been answered, after all.

  What was Juliet up to?

  Why’d she have the party here?

  “Where’s Dean?” The two words tumbled out of Marlys’s mouth. “Is Dean here?”

  Noah’s eyes narrowed. “You’re toxic, Marlys.”

  The sharp edge in his voice had her stepping back. Noah had always seemed like such a nice guy, which had been a huge part of his appeal. The rough hunkiness and “do a good turn daily” demeanor was an unbeatable combination. But the Boy Scout was gone and all that looked to be left was the narrow-eyed, trained-to-kill soldier.

  “I only—”

  “Save it,” he said, cutting her off. “Just get the hell out.”

  She took another step back, but found she couldn’t go without knowing. “Please,” she heard herself say, embarrassed further by the entreaty she could hear in her own voice. “Please, Noah. Dean—”

  “Is gone,” the other man said flatly. “He reported early. Happy now?”

  Happy now? She couldn’t breathe now. As the crowd moved around her, as Noah gave her a last look of condemnation and then moved on himself, Marlys stood where she was. Dean had reported early. Maybe he was in Afghanistan already.

  In a danger zone.

  She wouldn’t think of it, she decided, turning and heading back toward the shop’s door. Their short interlude wasn’t something she should dwell upon. And she was good at letting go, remember? She was a military brat, a dandelion. Like them, she was resilient. Like them, she knew when it was time to let the breeze take her to the next place.

  She was like a hardy dandelion that survived anywhere and that . . . Marlys’s feet stuttered.

  . . . that grew in unexpected places.

  . . . and that—

  She froze, then had to lean against the nearest wall to hold herself up. The other thing about dandelions, the thing she’d stupidly forgotten, is that their roots went so damn deep.

  Just like her feelings for Dean. Unexpected, deeply held, made to survive.

  And she’d done everything she could to turn him away from her.

  Cold closed around her throat and she felt as if a wound opened inside her chest. She braced her hand on the plaster beside her because a shoulder wasn’t enough. Who could stand when she’d so royally fucked up her life?

  “Are you all right?”

  She glanced up at Oomfaa. “Sure.” No. Never.

  The other woman gave a happy nod. “Party turned out great, it looks like. I know everyone’s pleased.”

  “Everyone?” Marlys only spoke because it seemed to help her keep breathing. Dean. Oh, God. Dean.

  “The sisters. Well, half sisters, I guess is more accurate. They’re donor siblings, all products of the same sperm-donor father but different mothers who used the same fertility clinic.”

  “Oh.” Closing her eyes, she thought of his face, those clean-edged features, the clear eyes that had seen into the soul she’d not been sure she had until him. Dean.

  “I was the one who kind of spilled the beans to Nikki that she was related to Cassandra. I didn’t realize she was at Knitters’ Night, and I didn’t know that while Cassandra had located one of her sisters, she hadn’t told her right away they were related. But all’s well that ends well, right?”

  “Right.” It wasn’t going to end well for her though, was it?

  “The story gets even better,” Oomfaa said, bending closer to Marlys. “I overheard Cassandra talking about their biological father. He was a medical student when he was a sperm donor. You’ll never guess who’s the father of Cassandra, Nikki, and Juliet.”

  “Who?” she repeated obligingly. “Who’s the father of Cassandra, Nikki, and—” Juliet?

  “Dr. Frank Tucker,” Oomfaa whispered. “You know. They call him Dr. Tuck on that show.”

  Marlys did know. Dr. Frank Tucker, who was called simply Dr. Tuck on the reality TV show he starred in, Fountain of Youth, was one of the most eminent plastic surgeons in the country. Dr. Tuck had been on Oprah. And he was Juliet’s father? Juliet had sisters?

  Something spilled into Marlys’s chest from her new wound. It felt bitter and raw, like bile, and if it had a color she knew it would be an acid, ugly green. Juliet, the Deal Breaker, the Happy Widow, the woman who had taken Marlys’s father from her and left her with nothing, now had her very own father, her very own family.

  Before Marlys, the crowd parted, and there stood Juliet, in front of a blowup of General Wayne Weston. Noah stood close to her side, and Marlys noticed that while their shoulders remained a discreet distance apart, the backs of their hands were touching.

  More poison leaked around her heart.

  As she watched, two women closed in on the couple. One had a river of rippling brown hair and wore a beautiful, lacy, obviously hand-knit sweater. Cassandra, Marlys guessed. The other woman, who had shoulder-length, gold-streaked brown hair, glanced around the room. Her eyes were that same bicolor as Juliet’s and she waved at a man standing nearby with a cup of coffee. Marlys recognized Jay Buchanan, well-known L.A. bachelor. Engaged to Nikki, Oomfaa had said.

  So now she could identify them. Cassandra and Nikki, the two women who were supposed to be her friends, but who were instead Juliet’s sisters. The chef said something, and Juliet laughed.

  More acid leaked, burning inside Marlys’s belly and fertilizing another ugly emotion growing inside of her. Two others approached the sisters, obviously a reporter and photographer. Without saying a word to Oomfaa, Marlys advanced on the group as the rest of the world fell away.

  It was only the press she saw, the press who seemed less interested in Marlys’s father, the general, a true hero, than the treacherous woman who’d married him. It was the press Marlys focused on, and also on the woman who now had a happy, supportive family and an adoring new lover. Her father’s aide.

  She heard the reporter say, “If I could ask another question, Mrs. Weston?”

  And Marlys remembered she’d come tonight with questions, too, and they’d all been answered except for one that she’d never dared utter before, not even in the ear of her source at the tabloids. It came out of her mouth, though it wasn’t much more than a whisper.

  “Juliet, did you have something to do with my father’s death?”

  Noah’s head turned at the sound of Marlys’s voice. What the hell had she just said? She stood just outside their small circle of people—reporter, photographer, the three sisters, and himself. The majority of the launch party attendees had gone, but there were still a dozen or so left, enjoying the food or in line to buy the general’s book. Juliet had handled the crowd like a pro, even taking on the most cutting press questions with unflappable cool.

  A few media members continued to hang around—those standing beside them, and another photographer that Noah just now spied, tucked beside a beverage urn. He recognized the rat—that damn paparazzo he’d caught sneaking around Juliet’s pool weeks ago.

  Torn between throwing that guy out and not wanting to leave Juliet’s side, he was still standin
g there when Marlys raised her voice and repeated her question for everyone’s ears.

  “Did you have something to do with my father’s death?”

  Jesus. “Of course she didn’t,” Noah ground out. Protecting Juliet was his number-one concern, and he should have known that meant getting rid of the general’s daughter the moment he’d spotted her in the yarn shop. “I told you to get lost before, Marlys,” he said, starting for her, “and it’s time you listened.”

  Marlys evaded him by squirming between the reporter and photographer. From the corner of the room, Noah could hear the distinctive click of a camera shutter. He shot the other photographer, the one closer to the action, a searing look. No pictures.

  Marlys’s gaze remained on Juliet. “You played the doting wife in public and when my father’s friends were in our family home, but when he was taking his last breaths, you were being pampered at a spa. How could you? How can you explain that?”

  “Damn it, Marlys.” Noah launched himself forward, but Juliet grabbed his arm and hauled him back.

  “Don’t,” she said to him, then turned her attention to the other woman, her voice calm. “I’ve said this before, Marlys. I couldn’t know it was that day, that hour—”

  “He hadn’t been eating.”

  “Your father—”

  “He hadn’t been drinking.”

  Juliet pushed back her hair. “His illness meant he didn’t have much appetite—”

  “Or was it that my father was refusing nourishment in order to hasten his death and you did nothing to stop him?”

  Noah saw Juliet freeze. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Her lips set and her eyes narrowed as her gaze slowly slid from Marlys to his face. Was she connecting some inconvenient dots?

  The general’s daughter’s tone was shrill. “Juliet—”