Then again, her own mother had made a business of pointing out the spiritual dust bunnies under every soul. So Destiny got it—all too well—and had moved far away from it. She had shed the trappings of religiosity like a snakeskin.
“It’s a cult,” she said. “Just admit it, Luke. You’ve been seduced.”
Luke laughed. “We sit in folding chairs and sing with guitars and a keyboard. We pray easy, just like you and I are talking here. No frills, no pressure. Come along this morning and see.”
“No way.” Destiny leaned over the railing so she could look square at him. “I did my stint in the house of corrections.”
“Dez, it’s not like that.”
“Two services on Sunday, Wednesday prayer meeting, my mother signing me up for every youth activity she could find. Church softball, church quilting, church theater, church basket weaving. It was all the same story—Jesus loves us and look how happy we are, so don’t you want to be just like us? Join us and all your problems will be solved because Jesus works in all things.” Her voice escalated to the edge of shrieking.
So what. She didn’t care who heard her. Maybe if she was loud enough, it would penetrate Luke’s sanctity-soaked brain.
She grabbed his precious flannel shirts and dumped them.
Cord slacks, obligatory navy blazer, his one tie. Up and over.
Black leather jacket, brown leather vest, even leather pants—he was not a vain man except for the leather. Gone, gone, gone.
His RIDE T-shirt.
Destiny clutched it to her chest. They had worn the red shirts when they biked in the convoy through Death Valley, a fundraiser for one of their mates who had suffered brain trauma in Afghanistan. She had her own Harley, but that day she had ridden with him, arms tight around his waist because they had seen what a bomb had done to Nicky, seen how he couldn’t recognize his wife.
Seen what it was like when you were torn from the one who loved you and left to wander in some desert.
“No one’s making me join anything,” Luke said. “It’s just a welcoming place, and it’s nice to have something like that in a town like this.”
He had admitted to restlessness, had sworn that he loved her completely and this new urge to search out a greater purpose had nothing to do with her.
“You think I don’t know how it is?” Destiny waved the T-shirt like a banner. “They draw you in with the handshakes and hugs, and everyone’s got those clear eyes and gentle smiles. And they ask How was your week? and What is Jesus doing in your life? and How can I walk alongside you? and then they feed you muffins and coffee and potluck suppers and never let you go.”
Luke held up his hands. “Slow down there, girl. How is it a bad thing when people want to share each other’s thorns and roses?”
Destiny threw his clarifying shampoo like a missile. The bottle splat on the driveway. White and creamy, the shampoo ran like spilled milk but no crying, she thought. No crying over spilled milk and no spilling tears into the water running under the bridge.
“Babe,” Luke said. “Please.” He picked at his beard, a nervous gesture she could soothe with a touch. He needed to trim it now that his pirate gig was done. “I’m not trying to be like anyone, not trying to do anything except . . . be better at things. I want to be better for you, Dez. So let me in. Please.”
No. If she unlocked that gate, he would take her in his arms and she would be as lost as he was. Destiny could not allow that. She had to hold on to the anger so she could seal her resolve.
“They told you,” she said, swallowing tears. “They told you it’s sinful to fornicate outside of marriage. And you—the most wonderful of fornicators—took the bait.”
“No one told me that.”
“Jesus told you that. That’s what you said. No sex.” Destiny grabbed his favorite pair of boots, flung them at him. Though he was big as a bear, Luke was nimble as a cat and ducked with ease.
“He—or I guess it’s the Holy Spirit talking—said if I loved you, I’d honor your spirit instead of using your body.”
“Love means withholding love?”
“Love means placing your needs above my own.” His voice echoed off the hillside. Getting loud now. Good. She was finally getting through.
“So cliché, Luke. What’s next? You had me at hello?”
“I want to do right by you.”
“What if I tell you I need you?” Destiny’s voice caught in her throat on the truth of it. She needed to feel the pulse in his neck and smell the tang on his skin from his lemon soap. To feel his chest rise as he breathed. She knew every breath he took. The deep sighs when he was tired, the measured panting of a heavy workout, the steady, deep breathing when he held her close.
His size and strength had never scared her. Controlled chaos, his stunt-buddies called him. Perfectly choreographed until it was time to do the impossible.
Destiny dug her fingernails into the railing. “Just go.”
“I love you with everything in me, Dez. Which is why I need to just back off for a little while. So I can hear clearly.”
“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me what you’re hearing.”
“I’m hearing . . .” He kicked at a pile of clothes. “I’m hearing that every time I love you with my body, I’m leading you into sin.”
“You want to hear clearly?”
“Destiny . . .”
“Hear this. Get out.”
“What?”
“I said get out.” She clutched at the denim jacket that she had bought him last Christmas and hand painted herself, a smirking raven in gold and purple that drew delighted stares whenever he wore it. There’s irony for you. Wear the jacket that you got for Jesus’s birthday out the door.
“I’ll take a ride, come back in a couple of hours.”
“Go, Luke. Please. Just go. That’s what Jesus says and for once, I agree with the dude. So just go.”
“Destiny.”
She turned her back to him, staring into the hard sand and brush of the canyon wall that framed the side of her bungalow. This was a fire trap. Anyone who lived perched up high knew a hard wind and bright spark could take their home at any time.
Nothing really lasted. You can paint a pretty picture over your life, veneer it with good intention and solid commitment. There was no way to hold joy. You hold too tightly and you strangle it lifeless. When something begins to rot, it’s best just to be rid of it. Even when it hurts.
Luke knew it too. Which was why he fired up his Harley, gave her one last look over his shoulder, and rode away.
Destiny stood for a long moment, listening until the sound of his bike faded into the morning.
It wasn’t until she wiped away the last of her tears that she saw the dark-haired woman standing in the driveway. She had a strange cast on her hand and an even stranger look on her face.
“What?” Destiny snapped. “What do you want?”
“Well, well.” The woman smiled. “I see you’ve inherited my temper.”
Sunday, 7:15 a.m.
Everyone lies.
Prepare for that reality and you won’t be caught with your wits in the wind. So it wasn’t the woman’s claim to be her birth mother that convinced Destiny.
It was her eyes.
Long lashes framed eyes so dark brown that they photographed as black if not properly lit. So round that Julia Whittaker—and Destiny—appeared to be perpetually surprised. They also shared the same arched cheekbones. Where the woman used a faint blush for youthfulness, Destiny preferred shadow.
The right makeup could tell any story you wanted.
Julia’s skin was firm; despite her obvious exhaustion, the age lines were imperceptible. Some good genetic news—birth mommy shows up and she’s a beauty. Yippee.
If Destiny had inherited Julia Whittaker’s height, she might have modeled. That had been her plan. Get paid for her exotic looks, make enough money to sculpt and paint. Her father had balked at any vocation that empty. After high school, her parents dropped
her off at Wheaton College in Illinois with three suitcases of clothes and a mini-fridge. For milk and juice, Mom said. Nothing stronger than 2 percent.
A day later Destiny hitchhiked her way to Los Angeles with a knapsack and a sketchpad. She left behind the three suitcases and the mini-fridge, filled with Budweiser.
By the time she had finished her apprenticeship as a makeup artist and conceptualist, she realized models were just blank canvases on which people like her hung their art.
Isn’t that what she was to Julia Whittaker?
The woman must have spent these twenty-four years imagining what her daughter looked like, what she had grown into. Judging by her fine wool slacks, silk shell, and cashmere wrap, she was likely very disappointed.
How many times had Mom—Melanie Connors—nagged Destiny about some test she had failed or some chore she’d left undone and she had sneered, “My real mother wouldn’t be such a hag.”
She was about fifteen when Mom finally snapped. “Your real mother isn’t here, is she? She never wanted to be here—never wanted to know you. She made that abundantly clear.” And then she had blanched and said over and over, “I’m so sorry” and “We love you so much” and “Your birth mother blessed us beyond measure.”
Destiny had wept for an hour, cried off and on for a week. Mom had been there the whole time, blotting her tears, fielding her curses, and making her ice-cream sundaes with homemade fudge sauce. Were she here right now, Mom would be gracious and welcoming but—because everyone lies—she’d want to rip off Julia Whittaker’s face.
“I know this is a shock.” The woman glanced around the driveway, pretending to ignore Luke’s scattered jockey shorts. Destiny had come down the stairs but wasn’t inclined to unlock the gate. Not yet. “I would have called before I came. But time is of the essence, and I didn’t know if you’d take my call. Because there had been no indication that you . . .”
Her deep breath seemed a plea for mercy, the space for Destiny to rush in with I’ve always wanted to meet you or I can’t believe you’re here at last.
In this moment, mercy was as far as east from west. “You are the one who said no contact. I had no say in any of it.” Destiny hated herself for memorizing Julia’s farewell note, for tracing the letters with her own hand as if she could somehow glean understanding from the swirls and swoops of the ornate handwriting.
Her hand always ached because she was left-handed and couldn’t follow the path her mother left behind.
“I couldn’t bear the thought of . . . of seeing pictures of you on your birthday and at Christmas. Or making a yearly visit and then . . . then having to leave you again.”
Destiny folded her arms over her chest. She resented the way the woman stared at her, as if repossessing something she had once owned. “So why are you here now?”
“That’s complicated.”
“Isn’t it always?”
“Could I take you to coffee or breakfast? So we can get to know each other a little?”
“Not unless you answer my question.”
“I—” Julia swayed.
“Hey!” Destiny reached over the gate and took hold of her shoulders to steady her. “Are you all right?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been up for three days straight now.”
“What happened?”
“I shattered my fingers. Made a real mess.”
“How did you do that?”
“I punched a door because it wouldn’t open.”
“What?”
“I punched a door because—”
“Why?”
“I was mad at God.”
“So you punched a door?”
“I’m afraid so.” Julia smiled easily now, without a drop of sheepishness.
Everyone lies, but sometimes the truth leaks out.
“In that case,” she said, “I’m starved. Let’s go eat.”
Destiny hopped on her Harley, motioned for Julia to follow in her rented Camry. Even though Sunday morning meant quiet streets, she kept her speed down. Driving in LA was hard enough for out-of-towners; it had to be a beast to steer with that mummified right hand.
They settled in at a bagel shop a couple blocks off Sunset where they could sit outside. It was warm for December, pushing seventy degrees. Julia ordered a coffee and whole-wheat toast. Destiny got baked ham and Gouda on a poppy-seed bagel. She was tempted to add a dark ale to her order to see how Julia would react, but decided against it. She might need her wits about her. Something was up for this woman to drop out of nowhere on a Sunday morning.
If Julia wanted a relationship, she would have called, friended her, made some sort of tentative contact. Was she working a scam? She didn’t dress like someone who needed money, and though Destiny was self-sufficient, she wasn’t rolling in the green. Maybe she had lost her job or was going through a divorce and this let’s-meet-the-daughter thing was a whim.
Destiny took two bites of her sandwich, washed it down with black coffee. “So. Why?”
Julia’s hand shook as she dumped sugar into her coffee. She tried to put the top back on the Styrofoam cup, almost spilled it.
“Here,” Destiny said. “Let me do that for you.”
“Thanks.” She sipped the coffee, didn’t even look at the toast.
“So—that why is still out there, Julia.”
“Maybe we could get to know each other a little first?”
Just get to it, Destiny wanted to snap. But the woman’s haunted eyes made her say, “Sure. Go for it.”
Julia gave her the basics. She was forty-four years old. Her maiden name was McCord. She lived in Dallas; she was from Oklahoma and had shed the accent when she attended college in Boston. She and her husband owned an event planning business named Myrrh.
Destiny had heard of Myrrh. They specialized in elite weddings, like the one they’d recently done for the daughter of the former president. One of the actors in her last shoot had attended, said it was a real work of art.
“I was twenty years old when you were born.”
“Do you have my birth certificate? I should be asking for some official something or other.”
“Sure.” Julia dug it out of her bag, handed it to Destiny.
Now her hands shook. Stop, she told herself. It’s only paper.
Destiny Jeanne Bryant. Female. Born to Julia Elizabeth McCord in Boston on December third at 3:30 a.m. No one could say she wasn’t consistent. She had been a night owl all her life, had driven Mom and Dad bonkers.
Father, Thomas Nathan Bryant. Age twenty-five. Occupation, attorney. Place of birth, Dorchester, Massachusetts. Destiny had always pictured her father as Harrison Ford or Liam Neeson. Wouldn’t that have been a hoot?
She ran her fingers over her father’s name, felt the wear in the paper. “Does he know you’re here?”
“We haven’t spoken in . . . a while.”
Destiny glanced up. “How long?”
“Twenty-four years.” Julia picked at the wrapping on her hand. It looked like a removable cast, wrapped in an Ace bandage. Gauze poked out from the fingertips, stained with blood.
“Tell me about him.”
“Tom was incredibly attractive and devastatingly smart. I can’t imagine that has really changed. You have his smile.”
“How would you know? I haven’t smiled yet.”
“I know. Trust me. He had the same wide mouth you do, same perfect teeth even though he’d never had braces.”
“I never did either.” Ever-cautionary, Mom wanted her to get them anyway, couldn’t believe that her wild daughter wouldn’t find some way to screw up her own teeth. Destiny said that was stupid and she’d bite off the orthodontist’s fingers if he came near her.
For once, Dad took her side. You don’t get what you don’t need, he’d said.
Destiny took a bite of sandwich, chewed slowly before she finally swallowed. “What else? About my father, I mean.”
“He was driven. So driven. I imagine he’s a big success now, at least in h
is public life. His private life—I don’t even go there.”
Ah, there’s the bitterness. Destiny felt better now. “He knew about me, right?”
She smiled. “Tom used to lay his hand on my stomach and call you jackrabbit because you kicked so hard.”
“That’s ironic given that he rabbited on you.” She watched Julia, waiting for a cringe that never came. “Am I correct?”
“When the time came for you to be born . . . he was working fourteen hours a day, trying to study for the bar exam. He felt it was a terrible time to be starting a family. He had worked so hard—”
“Not hard enough to wear a condom, apparently.”
“Mistakes happen.”
“So I’m a mistake?”
“No.” Julia reached across the table to take Destiny’s hand.
Destiny jerked hers away and hid them in her lap.
“We wanted you, wanted a big family. We had sunny plans about getting married and having a family after his career took off and I finished college. And then—we thought we were careful.”
“You sound like a dumb teenager.”
“I was a dumb teenager. Nineteen years old, first time away from home. I thought the pill was foolproof—until I missed my first period, and then my second. I was a sophomore in college, Tom working his first job. It was the wrong time for me to do what was right for you.”
First Luke, now her birth mother. Jesus said to give you up for your own good. Nice, real loving.
Destiny took a long gulp of her coffee, let it settle before saying, “So the sperm donor got cold feet, huh?”
“The whole notion of becoming a father was a mountain that he tried to climb and kept rolling back down. We had bought a bassinet—couldn’t fit a crib into the studio apartment we were supposed to move into. I tried to put it together but my back hurt so much and I’d drop a screw and then couldn’t pick it up. He promised he’d do it the next night. The days turned into weeks and he still hadn’t done it, and by then I was as big as a hot-air balloon. I was days away, maybe less, from you being born, and Tom hadn’t been to the warehouse store like he promised to get the diapers and wipes. He missed my baby shower. I was freaked out, thought he’d been hit by a drunk driver or something. I finally tracked him down at work.
To Know You (9781401688684) Page 3
