Children of the Fog

by Cheryl Kaye Tardif

  JT turned his back on the nurse and staggered toward Higginson, oblivious of the broken glass and water on the floor.

  "Sir!" the butler warned.

  With a resigned sigh, JT leaned against the wall for support. Then he caught sight of Rhianna. His mouth gaped and electric blue eyes lit up like twin lanterns.

  "Anna," he whispered. "You came back."

  He moved toward her and she suddenly found herself wrapped in his scrawny arms. Her first reaction was panic. It gripped her around the throat, strangling her. She wanted to fight him off, but then something strange happened. Calmness washed over her and she felt connected, a sense of belonging. For once in her life, she knew what it felt like to be welcomed home.

  But this isn't my home.

  She pulled back, embarrassed. "Mr. Lance, my name is Rhianna McLeod. I'm the nurse from Maine. Remember?"

  "Nurse?" He studied her face and something akin to recognition flickered in his eyes. "Ah, yes…"

  "What's going on, sir?" Higginson asked.

  "I'll explain later. First, I need a drink."

  Higginson gave Nurse Simpson an apologetic look. "Get Mr. Lance a fresh jug of water, please. I'm sure he won't let his temper get out of control now that he has company. Will you, sir?"

  All eyes watched as the portly nurse waddled down the hall. Her disappearing act seemed to make the old man extremely happy.

  JT nudged Rhianna. "That woman's a vampire."

  "As you can see," Higginson said, "Mr. Lance and the nurse don't exactly get along." He turned to JT. "Let's get you back into bed before you end up on the floor—again."

  "Come along, Anna." JT took her hand. "You can visit while Higgie tucks me in."

  Rhianna stifled a laugh. Higgie?

  When she caught his eye, Higginson shrugged.

  She followed the two men up a spiral staircase, her shoes clicking on the Italian marble steps and echoing around her. When she entered a handsomely decorated suite accented with polished mahogany and brass, she sucked in a stunned breath.

  The suite was larger than four bedrooms put together. A plush sitting room with two suede sofas and a wall of bookshelves greeted her first. Double French doors with glass inserts opened into the bedroom area. On one side of the bedroom, an open door led to a massive walk-in closet that held rows of suits, dress shirts and ties in every shade, and a shoe collection that would be the envy of any man on Wall Street. Another door opened into a bathroom ensuite featuring a Jacuzzi, a glass and tile shower and a sauna room. A sliding door on the other side of the spacious bedroom led out onto a small balcony overlooking a delicately scented rose garden. Between two tall windows stood a huge carved bed, a work of art in itself. A tan-colored suede armchair was positioned next to it—probably for the nurse—and a kaleidoscope of pill bottles lay scattered across the nightstand.

  "What do you think, Anna?" JT asked once he was settled in the bed.

  "I think it's definitely a man's domain."

  Nurse Simpson returned, carrying a plastic jug of ice water. Shoving the pill bottles aside, the woman set the jug on the nightstand and crossed her arms, every muscle in her face pinched in disapproval.

  JT dismissed her with an impatient flick of his hand.

  In the doorway, the nurse hesitated. "Mr. Lance needs his rest. Even if he doesn't think so." Sensing competition, her eyes narrowed in Rhianna's direction. "Or anyone else, for that matter."

  "Maybe we should talk later," Rhianna mumbled.

  "Nonsense," JT said. "Stay with me a while."

  The butler glanced toward the door. "Nurse Simpson, why don't you take a break for an hour or two?"

  JT nodded. "Anna will take good care of me."

  As the door slammed shut behind the nurse, Rhianna took a step closer. "Mr. Lance, my name is Rhianna McLeod."

  "Rhianna?" JT sighed. "Well, yes. I guess you are."

  Confused, she turned to Higginson. "I don't think he remembers writing me about the nursing position. He even contacted the hospital I used to work in and—"

  "I hate it when people talk as if I'm not in the room," JT fumed. "Of course I remember you, uh…Rhianna. And I do want you to be my nurse. Higginson! Make up the Rose-Mist Room for Ms. McLeod. She'll be staying with us indefinitely."

  "Are you sure?" Rhianna asked, surprised. "You may want someone more experienced. I've only worked in one hospital and one nursing home before coming here."

  Higginson cleared his throat. "Have you checked her references, sir?"

  "References are for untrusting fools. It's my blasted memory that's disintegrating, not my eyes." JT eyed the door. "And references sure didn't make a difference with Nurse Dracula. Which reminds me…see that the old bat gets a nice severance package."

  As the butler's footsteps faded, Rhianna was at a loss for words. "I…uh…thank you."

  "You can thank me by getting my pills over there." JT pointed to the nightstand. "The ones in the red bottle."

  She fetched his medication and quickly scanned the bottle. The prescription was for Vicodin, a narcotic pain reliever. She shook out two pills and poured a glass of water before approaching his bedside.

  "Thank you, Ann—Rhianna." His breathing was strained.

  "Are you feeling all right, Mr. Lance?"

  "JT, my dear. When you call me Mr. Lance, I feel so damned ancient, like some old geezer waiting to croak." He chuckled at his own joke.

  After he was resting comfortably, she sat down in the chair and studied him. His thinning gray hair and handsome face suggested the rather dashing young man he must once have been. A once-strong jaw line, now softened by age and illness, still held traces of stubbornness. But it was his eyes, bright and kind, that held her attention. They seemed sad. Tired and sad.

  "Now, Rhianna, tell me a bit about yourself."

  "Well, I grew up in Bangor, Maine, and graduated—"

  "Not the technical interview stuff, dear. I want to know about you. What are your goals, your dreams?"

  Nobody had ever asked her about her dreams. For nearly two years, she had hidden herself in the nursing home in Portland, afraid to let anyone too close. Afraid to dream.

  In that bedroom, sitting beside a dying man, she found more than an employer—she found a friend. Tentatively, she told him bits and pieces about her life. It started slowly, like a gurgle of water bubbling up from the center of the earth.

  Within an hour, Rhianna had told him all about her childhood, about the terror she had endured, and the fear and abuse that had drained her soul of all self-worth.

  Chapter 2

  Settling into her new job had been easy for Rhianna. JT had made it easy. Although occasionally prickly, her patient was also compassionate and kind. He gave Rhianna full run of the mansion while he napped, which was often.

  As she wandered through the various rooms, admiring antique furniture, expensive ornaments and a collection of massive oil paintings in ornate frames, she caught sight of a painting in the foyer. It had mesmerized her since her first day at Lance Manor over six weeks ago. A rectangular brass plate on the bottom of the frame displayed no date or artist name, only the name of the work.

  Lady in the Mist.

  On the canvas, a woman's naked body, wrapped only in a thin veil of mist and caressed by soft blue moonlight. She stood in the shimmering stillness of a murky lake, her long, slender legs half-submerged in the water. Rich auburn hair cascaded down her shoulders and swirled over the peaks of firm breasts, and brilliant jade-green eyes gleamed with such yearning and expectancy. The mist rose from the lake in spiraling tendrils, like fairy hands grasping at the woman's body. The wind whispered in hot, humid breaths. Water trickled from the falls above, showering the plants with glistening moisture, while the Lady in the Mist appeared to be waiting for something.

  Or someone, Rhianna thought.

  There was something primal about the painting.

  It was alive.

  "It's a lovely painting, isn't it, Miss McLeod?"

&n
bsp; She spun around at the sound of Higginson's voice.

  "The resemblance is uncanny," he observed. "She looks like you."

  "You say that every time—as if she predicted my arrival."

  "Well, look at you." Higginson smiled. "You're here. And part of the family."

  "You and JT have shown me the meaning of family—I'll always remember that."

  "Don't talk as if you're leaving us," he chided.

  "I will be. One day."

  Rhianna's heart ached at the thought. Her job could end in a heartbeat. Or the lack of one. They both knew that. Though they'd given him six months at most, not even the doctors knew how much time JT really had left.

  It had been difficult at first, watching a grown man waver between being fully cognizant one moment and barely lucid the next. Some days he had a hard time remembering the simple things, like how to tie his shoes or the cream went in his coffee not over his eggs. But she loved the old man. JT was like the father she'd never had.

  Orphaned at birth, she'd been sent to live with her mother's sister, until Aunt Madeline and Uncle Bernard died in a ferry accident. After the funeral, Rhianna went into foster care and remained there until she was sixteen. The last place she was sent to was the home of Gwen and Peter Waverley. She spent three long years there—three years of hell.

  She shook her head. The past is the past.

  Flicking a look at Higginson, she noticed a single tear had escaped down his cheek. The man was a loyal employee, more like a companion and dear friend than a well paid butler. He'd been with JT for over twenty years. They often argued over business matters, yet JT always respected him, and that had won the butler's eternal devotion.

  "There's something magnetic about her," Higginson said, before leaving her alone.

  Rhianna's gaze was drawn back to the mysterious canvas. She often felt the woman in the painting was watching her. The artist had captured the sensual yearning in the young woman's expression, a sense of desperation, torment and passion that haunted her beautiful eyes. However, there was one thing that stood out—a flaw of sorts. The artist's signature was illegible.

  "Good evening, dear."

  Turning, Rhianna smiled as JT approached. "You're wearing your new robe."

  He frowned. "New? Oh, yes. I can't seem to find my other one."

  She'd given him a new bathrobe when he turned sixty-seven a week ago, but every now and then he'd forget about it and go in search of the ratty, threadbare one that she and Higginson had secretly thrown out.

  "Why didn't you answer me when I called your name?" he asked.

  "Sorry, I was daydreaming." She glanced at the painting. "It's so beautiful I get lost in it."

  "I know, dear. It's your favorite."

  "Who's the artist?"

  JT's eyes went cloudy. "What artist?"

  She indicated the painting.

  "I don't have a clue." He frowned. "I think I knew once, but…" His voice trailed away.

  "It's okay, JT."

  "What is?" he asked, bright-eyed again.

  She let out a sigh. JT's memory lapses were becoming more frequent.

  Higginson approached them. "Everything is ready, sir."

  "Then let's get this show on the road."

  JT winked and Higginson disappeared down the hall.

  "What's going on?" she asked JT. "You should be upstairs resting."

  "I'll have plenty of time for that when I'm dead."

  Her eyes watered. "Don't say that."

  "I'm sorry, dear. You know I wouldn't hurt you for all the world, but if I'm going to die soon I might as well enjoy life now." He gave her a secretive smile. "Anyway, I can't very well miss tonight's celebration, can I?"

  "What celebration?"

  He frowned. "Your birthday party, dear girl."

  Oh no. This was the last thing Rhianna wanted.

  "It's no big deal," she mumbled.

  "No big deal?" JT's arm swept across her shoulders. "My dear Rhianna, you're twenty-five now. When you're as old as I am, you'll be thankful for every single birthday you ever had. It means you lived one more year, saw one more year of sights and loved one year longer."

  She smiled. "I suppose you're right."

  "Of course I'm right. Besides, I have to dance with the birthday girl at least one time." He kissed her forehead. "You know, my birthday is coming up soon. I'll be sixty-seven." He frowned and scratched his chin. "Or is it seventy-six?"

  She didn't have the heart to tell him he'd had it already.

  His sudden burst of energy the past few weeks worried her. So did his insistence upon having a glass of brandy every night before bed, even though it was against doctor's orders. He'd been given six months. That was three weeks ago.

  JT took her arm for support. "Take me to the dining room. And no arguing."

  The first thing she saw when they entered the room was the bouquet of pink and mauve roses in a crystal vase. Instead of being positioned as a centerpiece, it sat on her plate. Beside the rose bouquet was a large box wrapped in pastel paper and tied with a lop-sided pink bow.

  "I couldn't quite get that blasted bow right," JT muttered.

  "Oh, JT," she said, not sure if she wanted to laugh or cry. "You didn't have to buy me anything. I'm your employee."

  "No, Anna, you're like a daughter to me." JT's eyes widened. "Well, go on. Open it."

  Some days he's just like a child, Rhianna thought, bending her head so he wouldn't see how much his thoughtfulness meant to her.

  Blushing, she pulled out a mint green bikini with tiny lavender rosebuds on it. "I, uh…thank you."

  "There's more," JT prodded.

  Under a layer of tissue lay two sheer skirt-wraps and a pair of white leather sandals.

  "This is very generous of you, JT, but I'm not sure where or when I'd ever wear these. They're not very practical for a nurse."

  JT's eyes twinkled. "That's the point, Rhianna. Look how I had to argue with you just to get you to wear normal clothes instead of those ghastly nurse uniforms that only remind me that I'm dying." He smiled. "Besides, a pretty gal like you should be spoiled on her birthday. Someone needs to remind you that life is for living, not for holing up in an empty house with a cranky old geezer like me."

  "Well, you do know how to spoil a girl." She grinned. "And I suppose if I have to put up with a 'cranky old geezer' like you, I'll survive. If nothing else, you keep things interesting."

  "Now for the real gift," JT announced.

  Higginson handed him a white business envelope before vanishing from the room.

  Rhianna frowned. "Where's he going, JT?"

  "Oh, don't worry. He'll be back."

  She opened the envelope and gasped. "What's this?"

  "It's your vacation. A plane ticket to Angelina's Isle, a resort island just northeast of Nassau in the Bahamas. I want you to take the next three weeks off."

  "But I can't take a holiday."

  "Yes, you can. And you will. You need a bit of fun."

  "Fun? How can you say that when you…"

  "I'm not going anywhere," he assured her. "I'll still be here when you get back."

  Her voice trembled. "How do you know that?"

  "I just do."

  "But what if something happens while I'm gone?"

  "Higginson will make sure I have expert care."

  "But why are you sending me away? I don't understand." A tear trickled down her cheek.

  "Rhianna, don't cry. I'm doing what's best for you. Trust me." He looked her straight in the eye. "I want you to have an adventure you'll never forget. You can't get that here. Besides, you could use a break. You're too devoted to your job."

  I'm devoted to you, she wanted to say.

  "When you come back," he said, "you'll be rested and ready to face the inevitable."

  They both knew he was talking about his looming death.

  "You're paying me to look after you," Rhianna argued. "Not to go gallivanting off to some resort in the Bahamas."

&nbs
p; Even as she said this, a thrill of excitement raced through her. She'd never been anywhere except Maine and Florida. There was so much of the world she yearned to see, so many things she'd never experienced. Like freedom, adventure…love.

  "You've done a terrific job caring for me," JT said. "But there's more to life than looking after an old man. Higginson will drive you to the airport tomorrow morning. When you come back, I want to see you tanned, healthy and happy."

  She opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a hand. "If you won't do this for yourself, do it for me."

  She let out a heavy sigh. "Fine then. For you."

  Rhianna could tell JT was elated by her decision. The way he'd ordered her around one might think he was her father.

  As if reading her mind, the old man reached across the table for her hand. "You know I love you as if you were my own flesh and blood. You've certainly shown me more affection than my son."

  "You never mentioned you had a son."

  "He left home years ago. Shortly after he got married, we had a terrible argument and I haven't heard from him since."

  "You mean he just disappeared? Hasn't he at least written you?"

  "He wanted to make me pay for my sins," JT said, the light in his eyes dimming. A minute later he looked at her, confused. "What were we talking about?"

  Before she could reply, Higginson returned with a small item wrapped in a piece of soft cotton. It was rectangular in shape and the size of a large book.

  "And now I have two more gifts for you," JT said, giving her a conspiratorial wink.

  Still fuming about JT's errant son, she watched him unveil a miniature print of the Lady in the Mist. Matted in deep blue and framed with a silver-edged frame, it was almost as exquisite as the original.

  "I love it," she said, swiping at a rogue tear. "Thank you."

  "Take it on your holiday," he suggested. "So you have a piece of home with you."

  She couldn't hold back. "What's the second gift?"

  JT grinned so widely that if he were dressed in a Santa suit he'd have passed for good old Claus. Well, Santa on Weight Watchers, maybe.

  "The original Lady in the Mist is hanging in your room." At her stunned expression, he added, "It's all yours."