“Hiding out until the coast is clear.”
He gave Virginia another look, but no one else paid any attention to her mutterings. They were apparently used to her. Though clearly, she was watching way too much HBO.
“And I also make a delicious strawberry jam and chocolate banana cake,” Rachel was saying.
Oh, he didn’t even want to consider that. Especially with the smell of tuna and pineapple practically surrounding him.
“Where’s your wife?” Apparently being the oldest living human gave Abigail the sense that she was allowed to ask rude questions.
“I’m a widower.”
“Gang revenge,” Virginia muttered, nodding and scooting just a bit farther away from him.
Fine with Jackson.
“What do you do for a living?”
Back to Abigail. Man. Carla hadn’t been kidding about these women. “I’m a lawyer.”
“Concilierge, you mean,” her friend piped up. “To a Don.”
He gaped at her.
“And then,” Rachel was saying, reaching out to dig her long talons into his forearm, “for special occasions, I make my famous beef-and-garlic-parsnip hash.”
His stomach rolled at just the thought of that hideous concoction. He still wasn’t sure how long the inquisition had lasted, though God knows, anything over five minutes would have seemed like an eternity. But at last, it had ended.
“Well,” Abigail announced, “we don’t want to overstay our welcome.”
Too late, he thought. He jumped to his feet and all but raced them to the front door to see them out. As they left, they stayed in character.
Abigail nodded regally.
Virginia walked a wide path around him.
And Rachel actually giggled.
Almost before the door had closed behind them, he was headed to the kitchen, where he gave Rachel’s specialty the burial it so richly deserved.
Yet here he sat, hours later, still paying the price for being polite. Clapping one hand to his rumbling stomach, Jackson stretched out on the sofa and wished to hell there was Alka-Seltzer in the house. But a moment later, his churning guts were the furthest thing from his mind, when he heard the first soft cry come from Reese’s room.
* * *
“No way is Tony having an affair.”
“That’s what I said,” Carla muttered. “But Beth’s convinced.”
“Bullshit.” Nick’s voice came across the phone line loud and clear, despite a roaring, swishing sound in the background. “He wouldn’t do it. Tony’s so straight-arrow, it wouldn’t even occur to him.”
Carla plopped onto her couch, leaned back into the pillowed corner, and propped her feet up on the back. She studied the chipping pink nail polish on her toes as she asked, “Then where’s he going three times a week?”
“I don’t know. Sheriff’s school?”
“Hello?” She held the phone out, glared at it, as if Nick could see the action, then slapped it back against her ear again. “Sheriff’s school? He’s already a sheriff.”
“Fine. So I don’t know where he’s going. I do know he’s not going to some babe’s bed, though. Tony wouldn’t do that.”
Carla didn’t think so, either. Which only left a puzzle. If he wasn’t cheating, what was he doing and why couldn’t he tell Beth? For God’s sake, didn’t he know what she’d be thinking? Feeling? Worrying about?
“Crap. Are all men this stupid?”
“I refuse to answer that on the grounds that it might incriminate me, and by the way, on behalf of my gender, knock it off.”
“Well, come on. If he’s not screwing around, why doesn’t he just be honest with Beth about what’s going on?”
“Gee, I don’t know,” Nick said. “Why don’t you ask him?”
“Maybe I will.”
“No, you won’t,” Nick said. “Stay out of it.”
“How can I do that? Beth already dragged me into it.”
“Well, back out quick.” He paused and Carla could almost see him scrubbing the flat of his hand across his head in frustration. “You don’t want to get into the middle of a marriage, Carla.”
“This is family.”
“All the more reason to keep out.”
“Coward.”
“Damn straight.”
She scowled at the ceiling and blindly studied the lamplight shadowed in a golden arc across the pale cream paint. A moth circled slowly, as if doing a dance in a spotlight, and she followed the bug’s progress as though she were watching a Broadway play.
“Carla…”
“Hmm?”
“You’re planning something.”
“Nah.” She smiled. “Would I do that?”
“Hell, yes.”
The roaring sound quieted suddenly and the cessation of noise was startling.
“What was that?” she asked, pleased to be able to change the subject.
“Oh. The whirlpool shut off.”
“Your knee again?” Carla straightened up on the sofa, curled her legs up under her, and winced as she remembered how, just last season, Nick’s kneecap had been popped clean off in a play gone bad. It was his first major injury since signing with the San Jose Saints, but it had been a beaut. Through surgery and rehab, he’d been fighting his way back to the football field. But at thirty-two he was already getting old to be a professional running back.
And suddenly she wished he wasn’t living in San Jose. She wanted him closer. So she could help more. Not that he’d take her help, but at least she could offer.
“It’s fine.” His tone told her he didn’t want to talk about it. Naturally, she ignored that.
“No, it’s not.”
“Carla, I take back everything I just said. Go. Interfere in Tony’s life. Stick your nose in. Just stay the hell out of mine.”
“What are you gonna do, Nick? Keep playing until you can’t walk anymore?”
“Oh, hey!” he said loudly. “Look at the time! Gotta go.”
“You’re not going to get out of this that easy, you know.”
“Bye, Carla.”
“I’ll see you Sunday at Mama’s,” she said quickly, and was pretty sure she heard a muttered, “Damn it,” just before she hung up.
Tossing the phone onto the sofa cushion beside her, she looked down at Abbey and asked, “Is it just me? Or are men totally aggravating?”
The dog gave her a long thoughtful look and Carla took that as a sign of agreement. Of course, the fact that Abbey was female might have prejudiced her vote, but still.
“I mean, it’s not just the men in my family. There’s Mike.” She shook her head. “He keeps coming after me, trying to get me to go back to work. There’s Mr. Charm over there—” She hopped up from the couch, walked across the living room, and stared out at the house on the point. “He gives me looks that could kill, then laughs at my jokes and—” She glanced over her shoulder at the dog who sat there, head cocked, ears pricked, as if listening to every word she said. “I saw him checking out my butt at the ice-cream shop today. So what does that mean? Stay away? Or hello, honey?” Sighing, she admitted, “No offense, Ab, but I really miss having Stevie to talk to. Wish she’d get home already.” Carla’s best friend was still lounging on a Caribbean cruise while meanwhile, back at the ranch, things were really starting to suck.
Carla stared out at the Garvey house and wondered why she cared what Jackson Wyatt was thinking about her. Why she even wondered if he was thinking about her. For God’s sake. He’s a summer renter. He’d be gone in a couple of months and everything would be back to normal.
Except now, normal looked like Nick was in trouble and Tony was in even bigger trouble. And God help both of them if Mama got wind of what was going on.
Man. What had happened to her world? First she had crashed and burned two years ago. Now it looked as though the rest of her family were lining up to take the same hit. Strange, though, she thought, turning around and heading back to the couch. Carla realized that she’d been so busy today, what wit
h Beth and Tony and Nick and Reese and Jackson, she hadn’t had time to feel sorry for herself.
Had she really been so self-involved the last two years? She shifted uncomfortably on the sofa as an inward cringe took hold. Good God. She had. Guilt reared up and took a bite out of her heart. One thing Mama and Papa had drummed into them from childhood: Family comes first. But she’d been so busy hugging her own hurts and failures to her chest, she’d actually forgotten that.
“Oh, crap.”
Abbey put her head on Carla’s lap and looked up with soulful brown eyes. That solid, heavy weight felt good. Comforting. And as she stroked her hand along the dog’s head, Carla promised, “It’ll be different, Ab. You’ll see. We’ll help Tony and Beth. Take care of Nick. Check on Paul. God knows what’s going on with him.” She smiled, sighed, and said, “And who knows? Maybe if we’re on a roll, we’ll be able to get through to Mr. Charm and Reese.”
A big, slobbery doggy kiss was her reward, and Carla laughed, hugging the golden tightly before letting go. Then she grabbed the bowl of popcorn off the coffee table. Settling back, she pushed PLAY on the remote, then laid one hand on Abbey’s head. The dog turned to look up at her, and Carla said, “Don’t worry. We’ll find out what’s going on with Tony. And Nick, too. But for now, we’re gonna watch a movie.” Abbey yawned. “Hey, you’ll like it. Well, maybe not the end. But up until then, Old Yeller’s a classic.”
* * *
Jackson stood in the doorway of Reese’s room and watched her sleep. A Cinderella lamp at her bedside shone golden, its twenty-five-watt bulb dim enough to allow sleep and bright enough to hold the shadows at bay. For the last year Reese hadn’t been able to sleep without that light on. She feared the darkness as much as she feared the nightmares that accompanied it.
Her small body twisted and shifted on the sheets, searching for a peace she never found. Her legs kicked and churned as if she were trying, futilely, to run from the memories chasing her.
She whimpered softly and everything inside him tightened, squeezing down around his heart, closing off his throat, until breathing became something like an Olympic event. His hands fisted at his sides, Jackson desperately wanted to help her, and knowing he couldn’t was enough to torture him. All he could do for her was be close. Be nearby. Be there to hold her when the dreams had her jerking from sleep, tears raining down her face, her eyes filled with the misery she hadn’t been able to speak of. It wasn’t much, he knew, this standing guard. It wasn’t enough. But she wouldn’t let him inside far enough to do more.
Sighing, Jackson leaned one shoulder against the door jamb, closed his eyes, and remembered the scene he knew his little girl relived every night in her dreams.
Rain splashed down around him, falling in sheets from a steel gray sky. Cold rippled along his spine, but dread chased it, making him feel a chill that had nothing to do with the driving Chicago wind pushing at him.
Red and blue lights spun on the tops of the gathered patrol cars, flashing beacons into the rain-soaked morning. Weird stained-glass shadows danced on the grim faces of the officers who studiously avoided looking at Jackson.
Each step he took splashed more water into his shoes. His hair felt plastered to his head. His sodden clothes clung to him, weighing him down. But the real heaviness went deeper. His heart. His soul. Blackness crouched in his belly, preparing to strike. Getting ready to rip what was left of his world to shreds.
Around him, muttered conversations came to a stop as he walked closer to the jagged, torn crush of metal that had once been a Lexus sedan. Through the gloom and the haze blurring his vision, he saw a yellow tarp draped over a shape stretched across the steering wheel and dashboard. Rain pummeled down, needling through the smashed windshield to spatter on the tan leather seats. It bounced off that tarp and made a distinct tapping sound that reached him clearly, despite the roaring in his ears.
Then he heard the scream. It tore into his body with a knifelike slash. He spun around, searching, and it went on and on, rising higher and higher and—
He came out of the memory with a jerk and realized it wasn’t the screaming rattling around him now but the telephone. Heart pounding, pulse racing, he turned and headed down the short hall to the living room. Pushing one shaking hand through his hair, he struggled to control his uneven breathing as he snatched up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Jackson,” a cool, deliberate female voice said, enunciating every syllable. “This is Phyllis.”
His hand tightened on the phone, fingers gripping the molded plastic until he wouldn’t have been surprised to feel it turn into dust. Of course. Why not? Why wouldn’t she call now? Did she have a sixth sense? Did she know, even at a distance, when he was at his most vulnerable? “Hello, Phyllis.” Good, he told himself. Voice even. Calm. Unthreatened.
She got right to business. “How is my granddaughter?”
So much for calm. A thread of anger whipped around his insides. This woman and her husband had been using Reese in a game of tug-of-war for months. Ever since the night of the accident. “My daughter is fine.”
“And mine is dead, thanks to you.” Her voice was a slap, delivered coolly and efficiently from two thousand miles away.
Jackson reeled and clenched his teeth to keep from defending himself, again. He’d said it all before. For all the good it had done him. His in-laws had never been big fans of his. They’d done all they could to keep their daughter from marrying a man with no past and a future they’d thought wouldn’t be nearly good enough for their only child.
They’d expected Diane to marry a man with blood as blue as their own. The idea of a Barrington marrying an orphan, for God’s sake, was just too much to bear. When she’d first shown up with Jackson in tow, her father had taken Jackson aside and offered him fifty thousand dollars to just … go away.
Hell, he thought now, listening to Phyllis’s voice take on that sharp, knifelike edge. Maybe he should have taken it. Diane would be alive. But then, he wouldn’t have Reese, either. No. He didn’t even like the sound of that. His daughter was the one good thing he’d done in his life. The one decent thing to come out of a marriage that had been empty from day one.
Besides, he wasn’t a man to be bought. And he never had taken orders well. So instead, he’d stayed. He’d put up with the thinly veiled insults, figuring that sooner or later they’d get used to him. Until the night he’d overheard his father-in-law, talking to a business associate, refer to Jackson as “the mongrel.”
After that, all bets were off and open enmity was declared between him and his in-laws. Diane, he was pretty sure, had enjoyed ruffling her parents’ feathers. She hadn’t given a damn about his pedigree as long as he kept her in Manolo Blahnik shoes. Until the novelty of marrying a peasant had worn off. Then she’d wanted out as much as her parents had wanted it for her.
And after Diane’s death, the battle had kicked into high gear. The Barringtons had already made a try for custody of Reese, and even losing the first round hadn’t convinced them to retreat. No. His in-laws were just regrouping. Planning a bigger, more thorough attack. They’d pulled out the big guns, too, getting Reese’s doctor to side with them against him.
Which was what had brought him here. To Chandler. In a last-ditch attempt to reach his daughter.
“Phyllis,” he said tightly, wanting to get the woman off the phone as fast as possible, “what do you want?”
“You know perfectly well what I want,” she told him. “I want Reese to be given the care she so obviously needs.”
“I’m taking care of her.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” She didn’t even bother to disguise the sarcasm.
“She’s fine,” he said, willing Phyllis to believe him. Hell, willing himself to believe it.
“We both know that’s not the case.”
“She just needs time,” he argued, clutching the receiver tightly in his fist.
“It’s been nearly a year. Too long already.”
; “How much time will it take then, Phyllis?” he demanded, moving now, needing to let some of the pent-up rage and energy course through him and out. He stalked around the living room, crossing to the wide front window, and stared out into the night. “You seem to be so sure of yourself, how much time exactly do we give a six-year-old girl to ‘get over’ losing her mother?”
“Don’t take that tone with me.” Steel rang in her voice and a part of Jackson celebrated the fact that he’d managed to crack her icy facade. But another part, the more rational part of him, warned not to push her too far.
He couldn’t afford to piss her off any more than she already was. Not yet. Not until Reese was well and he could tell the Barringtons to go to hell.
“You’re right,” he said, swallowing back the anger nearly choking him. “I was out of line.” Nearly killed him to say those words, but a man did what he had to do. Right?
Mollified, she said, “Thank you. Now. I’ve spoken to Dr. Monohan and he’s reserved a bed for Reese at Fair Haven.”
His spine stiffened. Son of a bitch. Give her an inch and she’d take his child. “She won’t need it.”
“That’s to be seen,” Phyllis said. “As it is, her place there is waiting for her. I’ve told the doctor to expect Reese by September fifteenth.”
September. It was already the middle of June. And the three months that had looked like such a long stretch of time to him before were suddenly reduced to no more than the blink of an eye. How had it all come to this? he wondered. His life … Reese’s life … would be decided this summer. And he didn’t have the first clue how to go about making this work.
When Phyllis hung up, he threw the phone down onto a chair and concentrated on the soft distant glow shining from Carla’s windows. To a man standing in the dark, those lights looked like the only safe haven around.
* * *
Squinting, Carla stumbled down the hall toward the kitchen, following the scent of freshly brewed coffee. She didn’t even stop to wonder who’d made it. It was more than enough to know it had been done. Who knew? Maybe the coffee fairy had stopped by. Besides, it was tacky to question a gift. And this was most definitely a gift. From the coffee gods.
Finding You Page 6
