by Carol Caiton
Luke knew them well, but neither she nor Rachel had visited Jill here. It had only been a couple of weeks since Jill had moved in. Between work, school, and Christmas shopping on weekends, all of their schedules had been full. What a terrible time of year to lose a loved one.
Spying the remote control beside the TV, she walked across the living room, picked it up, and saw that Luke subscribed to the same satellite company as her brother. That made things easier.
Powering on the TV, she took a seat on the sofa beside the baseball cap and pressed the Guide button. She skimmed through the list of programs until she found a local station, then pressed Select.
Rachel came in, holding out a tall glass filled with ice, tea, and a lemon slice. Ali smiled up at her. "Thanks."
". . . and the funeral was held today for Luke Ingersol, the man whose car was literally run over by a tractor trailer."
Ali locked her eyes on the television. Coverage of the funeral was brief but she was glad Jill wasn't awake to relive it. Then suddenly she was staring at the parking lot outside the church, at herself locked in Mason's arms, at the passionate kiss she'd shared with him, and at the little boy standing beside her bumblebee-yellow Beetle, watching.
"The deceased's brother—in-house attorney for RUSH, Inc., Mason Ingersol—assuaged his grief with the affections of a fellow mourner —a sympathetic friend from inside the wrought-iron gates, perhaps."
"Does Mason Ingersol have a child?" a second anchorperson asked.
"Nothing we've uncovered so far indicates there's a child. It's possible the little boy belongs to our mystery woman."
The camera zoomed in on a poignant view of Joshua watching their torrid embrace.
"This might be a situation for the Department of Children and Families to investigate," the second anchorperson suggested."
"You might be right."
The glass of iced tea slid out of Ali's fingers. She felt it hit her shoe and looked down as the last two ice cubes tumbled over, then stopped. The carpet was a mess. She was standing up and didn't remember leaving the sofa. Dazed, she looked over at Luke's baseball cap.
"Ali?"
Rachel reached for her hand and led her over to an armchair across the room. Clearing all three pocketbooks off the seat cushion, she urged Ali to sit down. Then she walked over and turned off the TV.
"Stay there while I get something to clean up the carpet."
Ali jerked her eyes to the mess she'd made.
"Just stay there," Rachel repeated.
She left the room and Ali turned, gazing in disbelief at the blank screen. Why hadn't they shown the open affection between father and son when Mason crouched down to Joshua's level? Why hadn't they shown him and his little boy lifting that big pumpkin and rolling it onto the passenger side floor? Why hadn't they shown those little boy arms reaching out to her afterward, asking to be carried back to the church? And why hadn't they shown Mason's possessive hand at her waist as he guided them across the parking lot, back to the church? The truth was, they could have portrayed them as a close family unit, but they'd chosen instead to play up his role at RUSH and turn her into one of its clients.
Her cell phone rang.
Still a little dazed, she reached down for her purse and withdrew it from the small case attached to the strap.
Unknown Caller.
Would the news media have tried to figure out who she was? Could they have gotten her cell phone number that quickly and easily?
Hesitant, uncertain, she answered the call. "Hello?"
"It's Mason."
"Mason . . . ." Her shoulders sagged with relief.
"Have you seen the news?"
"Yes. We just turned it off. Mason, they— How could they—"
"Listen to me. When the media finds you, be vague whenever you can, but tell the truth about everything. And make sure they know you refused to see me until I told you I was selling my shares in RUSH."
"But—"
"Don't argue, honey. They'll tear you apart." His tone softened. "Think, Ali. You told me yourself you could lose your job if you became involved with me."
She squeezed her eyes shut. If anyone who knew her had been watching the same news clip, her job was already in jeopardy. But what would it do to Joshua if he saw her on television telling the world she refused to see his father?
"Maybe they won't want to talk to me."
"They will," Mason insisted. "They'll track you down and they'll camp out in front of your house until you speak with them. Prepare for it. Talk to them, but don't mention any names—not Jill's, not the Oslunds, or anyone else. They'll dig around and use every means to ferret out information, and they won't care about anyone's privacy. Not yours, not Jill's, and not Rachel's.
Ali looked up sharply. Rachel had soaked up the tea she'd spilled and was scrubbing the area with soapy water. If the media found out Rachel had been going to RUSH, they'd destroy her.
"They'll want to know how you met me," Mason went on. "Tell them you met me at a barbecue. That's all. They'll push, so be careful. Think before you answer anything. Be pleasant, but let them know you're not going to cooperate if they ask for personal information."
All of his concern was for her and Rachel and Jill. He was calling to make sure she knew how to protect herself. But what about the ordeal he was about to face? What sort of trouble had the media stirred up for him?
"Mason, do you think the Department of Children and Families is going to investigate?"
Silence followed her question. Then, "Yes."
Everything inside her protested. "How can they get away with doing what they did?" She knew a well loved, well cared-for child when she saw one. Mason was an involved parent. He spent time with his son because he wanted to, because he enjoyed him. It distressed her to know that DCF was going to put him under a microscope.
"Let me handle the press, Ali. I'm going to make it easy for them to find me tomorrow. I'll make it known that you only agreed to become involved with me because I'm in the process of selling my shares and leaving RUSH. Do you have a problem with that?"
He was moving too quickly for her. On the one hand, his statement would offer some protection, but it would also tell everyone, including the school board and the parents of her first-graders, that she was involved with him, regardless of his plans to leave RUSH.
On the other hand he was giving her an out, essentially asking if she wanted to back away. He was aware of the consequences she faced and was prepared to accept whatever she decided.
Her mind was swarming with indecision. What should she do? What was the right thing to do? If she aligned herself with society's dictates, she might be able to salvage her job, but she'd be turning her back on a good man who would soon find himself in a fight to keep his son.
"No, Mason," she whispered. "I don't have a problem with that."
For a moment he said nothing. But she felt him. She felt the strength of his presence and the interlocking threads of an emotional bond her answer had woven.
"Ali?" he said quietly.
"Yes?"
"Wait for me."
CHAPTER 17
The following afternoon Rachel drove her father back to Luke's house to pick up the last of Jill's things. The boxes in the kitchen were all that remained and she led him through the unoccupied rooms, through the lifeless emptiness that was once filled with love and hope for the future. The house felt vacant now. Jill was gone, and although Luke's belongings were everywhere, his presence was not. Something vital had faded and blinked out.
Jill hadn't wanted to leave. She'd wandered from room to room, skimming her fingers along the front of Luke's dresser, stopping to look at some photographs hanging on the wall in his office. She'd placed a call to Mrs. Ingersol, cried with her over the phone, then she'd picked out a few CDs from the towering stand next to the sound system. Choosing them had taken nearly a half hour, though she came away with no more than six or seven. Then, as though she couldn't bear to let them out of sight, she'
d held them on her lap while Rachel drove her back to the two-story house they'd lived in with their parents until Jill had moved out of just a couple of weeks before.
Her father carried the heavier boxes out to Jill's car, still parked in the driveway, and Rachel loaded the two smaller ones onto the passenger seat of her Bugatti. It took no longer than twenty minutes, then her father drove Jill's car home. Rachel took a final, solemn look around the living room, feeling the loss of a man she'd been ready to welcome as a brother, then closed and locked the door for the last time.
It was cold outside today. The sun was hidden behind overcast skies so she walked quickly to her car, sliding Luke's house key into the front pocket of her jeans. Mason had a duplicate, so he wasn't locked out, and that meant she could wait until after the holidays to return Jill's to him.
Christmas this year wouldn't be an easy time for any of them. There was little joy to be found when a loved one was lost and Mason had a lot on his plate these days. Reporters continued to mill around outside the gates at RUSH, and he was juggling several things at once while preparing to make a career change. Now, along with everything else, he faced the added distress of dispensing with his brother's belongings.
The Oslund-Brosig holidays weren't going to be any more cheerful, Rachel knew. For years both families had spent Christmas together. Dinner on Christmas Eve took place at the Oslund house, then a gift exchange, television sports, and another big dinner at Ali's on Christmas Day.
This year, however, difficulties weighed heavily on both households. Ali was on winter break, but she lived each day wondering when the media would find her out. And once they did, she fully expected to be brought before the Board of Education. She worried about leading them straight to the Oslunds and had suggested separating herself from everyone for the next few weeks, limiting their contact to phone conversations.
Both Rachel and Jill had protested. At times like these they should be together, supporting one another. But Ali had taken Mason's concern to heart. The press would dig deeply into her private life with no regard for the damage it could cause. So the three of them reached a compromise. They'd go on as usual, then fall back on Ali's plan at the first sign of trouble.
Nathan had been brooding about something as well. He'd been distracted, distant, even abrupt at times. When she'd phoned him a few days before, he'd told her he was on his way out the door and had ended the call with uncharacteristic rudeness. But then, she reminded herself, she'd been doing some brooding of her own, hadn't she?
On Christmas Day she allowed herself to think about Michael for a few minutes. Where did he spend the holidays? Did his family live nearby? Then she put thoughts of him aside and took comfort in being surrounded by people she loved and who loved her in return. The usual holiday spirit was noticeably subdued, but there was strength in their unity, in the many embraces exchanged, and evidence of their love for one another showed in the time and thought each of them had taken to choose the gifts they had for one another.
Getting ready for bed Christmas night, her presents stacked neatly on the chair beside her dresser, Rachel considered the week ahead. Jill would be going back to work. Their parents had tried to talk her into taking time off, but she'd refused. She needed something to occupy her thoughts, and working would fill the hours. Rachel silently decided she'd help occupy her evenings, try to anticipate when her sister wanted company and when she preferred to be alone.
Jill, however, surprised them all with a sudden burst of energy. Two days after Christmas, upon arriving home from work, she morphed into a woman on the go. Of the two of them, she'd always been the more adventurous, but now it was as though she couldn't bear to be still, to be alone with herself.
Every evening became a whirlwind of activity. She and Rachel and Ali shopped and browsed and walked for miles—indoor malls, outdoor malls, the touristy end of I-Drive, downtown Orlando . . . . They walked until their feet hurt or the stores closed. Then they went home, changed, and drove to Seven Over—a nightclub they all liked—and danced until two in the morning. Both Rachel and Ali were still on winter break. They didn't have to get up at six o'clock in the morning and get ready for school. But Jill worked all day, partied half the night, and maintained a pace that gradually wore the other two down.
On New Year's Eve Ali phoned to say she was sick. Rachel, always the designated driver because she didn't drink alcohol, was worn out and coming down with something herself—probably the same something, so she phoned Nathan.
"I know you didn't want to go with us, Nathan, but I've come down with whatever Ali has. Jill says she'll be fine on her own, that she might meet up with some people from work, but I'm worried. I don't want her to go out alone."
He didn't answer.
"Nathan?"
"I'm here."
His voice was gruff, lacking its usual warmth, and she hesitated. Thinking back over the past week, she tried to pinpoint something she may have said or done that had offended him, but she came up blank.
"It's New Year's Eve," she pressed. "People are going to be crazy tonight."
"So you're asking me to go out with your sister."
Again, she paused. It sounded as though he was angry at her for asking him to watch over Jill. But that didn't make sense because he'd been watching over both of them and Ali for almost as long as she could remember.
Perplexed, she looked down at her wrist, at the tennis bracelet he'd given her for Christmas. Three small diamonds winked up at her, spaced between four sapphires on a narrow gold bar. Maybe he was perturbed because he hadn't wanted to go out in the first place.
"Don't worry about it, Nathan. I'll go with her. I'm sorry I—"
"What time?"
His voice was tight, cold even, and she flinched. It wasn't her imagination. He was definitely upset with her. Maybe he'd had plans of his own. She hadn't thought of that. Or maybe she'd interrupted him with a woman.
"What time, Rachel?"
Dots of perspiration broke out on her forehead and her stomach did a little flip. She really wasn't well enough to go out. "Nathan, if I've interrupted something, I apologize. I didn't—"
"Rachel. What time?" he demanded.
"Eight o'clock," she said into the phone.
"Tell Jill I'll pick her up." He ended the call without saying good-bye.
A knot began to form in her stomach. Whatever she'd done, she needed to apologize. She didn't like being at odds with Nathan. In fact, she couldn't remember ever being at odds with him. Maybe she'd meet him at the door and step outside for a few private minutes.
But her stomach did another flip as she went to find Jill and she decided it might not be a good idea to venture far from the bathroom. In a couple of days, when she was back to normal, she'd drive over to his apartment and ask what it was she'd done.
She found Jill in the shower.
"Jilly?" She eased open the bathroom door and stuck her head in.
"Yes?"
"Nathan's going to pick you up tonight and go out with you."
"Nathan?" She poked her head around the edge of the shower curtain. "You phoned Nathan?"
"Of course I did. Who goes out on New Year's Eve by themselves?"
"But Nathan didn't want to go out. Now I feel like an obligation."
"Well don't. He meets us at Seven all the time and always ends up enjoying himself."
"Not until he grumbles for half an hour first." The curtain swished closed again.
"So let him grumble. Then after that, the night is yours."
Jill harrumphed. "Eight o'clock?"
"Yes."
"Okay."
Rachel padded back to her bedroom, relieved to be staying home. She closed the door, undressed, and slipped a nightgown over her head. Then she took it back off, opened the middle drawer of her dresser, and withdrew Michael's manatee T-shirt. She wondered where he was tonight. She wondered if he was with someone else. Probably.
Pushing her arms through the wide sleeves, she crawled into be
d, thinking . . . remembering . . . and cried herself to sleep.
* * *
The woman sitting beside him at the bar was named Mindy. Last night he'd been with someone named Cindy, so Michael had to remember to watch his tongue. Both were amber links, as was the woman he'd hooked up with earlier in the week. Amber was perfect. Nothing deep, no personal involvement, just a woman interested in having a good time. And he was ready for a good time. It was New Year's Eve. A great excuse to party.
He'd taken her—Mindy—to Gabriel's for dinner. Not something he normally did. He had no objection to spending extra time with his amber link and treating her to a meal, but he generally kept it simple. Gabriel's wasn't simple. It was RUSH's equivalent to Thilbeau's—nice china, sterling silverware, etcetera, etcetera. But he'd wanted to do something special. Something different. Because every one of his encounters since the afternoon he'd taken Rachel Oslund to bed had been off somehow. Flat. Oh, he had no problem getting it up, and everyone had gone away satisfied, but he'd found no pleasure in the giving or the taking and was left with a restless sort of discontent.
He'd actually sat down to think about it the other night and for a long time the answer eluded him. But when he finally pinned down what was wrong, what it was that was missing, the word he came up with was . . . substance. And that just pissed him off.
So tonight he was determined to get back on track. Mindy had enjoyed the meal and the elaborate setting and now they were seated at the bar inside the Carnelian Jade nightclub. The band was loud, the dance floor was crowded, and the booze was flowing. Money in pocket, he thought, looking around the place. Then he reprimanded himself—again—because his thoughts were more focused on business than on his amber link.
* * *
Jill leaned over the sink in the ladies' room and washed her face. She made sure to remove the glitter shadow from her eyelids—something Rachel would never wear. Then she patted her face dry with a paper towel and checked her appearance in the mirror.
Carefully, methodically, she began removing the tiny, ruby-red clips from her hair—something else Rachel would never wear . . . at least not so many at once. They sparkled and played off the glittery sequins on the top she wore. Unfortunately, however, there was nothing she could do about the top. She hadn't realized while choosing what to wear that plans would change. But the objective she now had in mind required something softer. Quieter. The clips, like the eye shadow, were too showy. Too Jill.
