by Julie Reece
I race toward him. His arms stretch to envelop me. My stepfather smells of soap and fabric softener, a very nice change. “I missed you so much,” he says.
As I step back, his hands fall away. “Sure you did,” I tease. “Pretty nurses, sun, and an Olympic sized pool … are you kidding me? When can I move in?”
“You don’t want to be stuck in here, trust the old man.” His serious tone stings my heart for his sake. So much for keeping things light.
I search his face for clues as to how he’s doing. Something’s wrong. His expression is too serious. He’s still rail thin and his skin’s sallow.
“Sit and talk with me, Rae. I want to hear all about you. How is school, your life … is Maddox treating you right?”
Ah, he’s worrying about me. This I can handle. We recline in facing wingbacks, and I start. “It’s not bad at all. I have a friend, well sort of a friend. She’s the cook, Jenny, and she’s doing her best to make me chubby.”
He smiles revealing tobacco stained teeth. “Impossible.”
“I have my own bedroom and sewing area with the fanciest machines I’ve ever seen, all the bells and whistles. He supplies me with gorgeous fabrics and a huge budget. And I have Edgar, though I fell out of an oak rescuing the dumb cat.”
“Is that where those bruises came from? I was worried …” Right, my bruises. I forgot. No wonder he’s freaking.
I laugh to show him how fine I am. “It’s my own doing. They took me to the doctors for x-rays. Nothing broken. Dane and Maggie come over, too. I’m pampered. The chauffeur drove me today, in fact. It’s really nice there. I actually like it.” I lift a finger and cross my heart. “I promise.” Dang, I’m good. I almost believe me.
He rubs his chin with his bony fingers. Spidery veins tangle and knot under his skin. “But he’s taking advantage, stealing from you.”
I tilt my head, deciding to inject some truth or he’ll see through my happy act. “Yes he is. I think of it more as a trade, though. You are getting help. I’m getting experience, maybe some exposure in the end, who knows.” Exposure to ghosts, exposure to hot, arrogant guys … no need to mention every tiny detail. “It’s not as bad there as I had pictured.” That is the truth.
“You look tired.”
I smile again. “I am. I’m working hard, sleepwalking a lot. Sleep sewing!” I force a giggle that threatens to turn into a sob. “You wouldn’t believe it, Ben. I cut out all my patterns during the day and the next morning, poof, complete outfits sit on my manikins and workbench. I have no memory of the night before. It’s crazy.”
He stares at his feet. A frown tugs the wrinkles around his mouth down. I panic he’s catching on, and that I’m not as carefree as I sound. “Rae, we should talk. I need to tell you about—”
“No, enough about me.” I lean forward. “How is it here? You look really good. How do you feel? Are you eating? Do you like your doctors?”
“Whoa.” It’s his turn to smile, but he mangles it. Pain flashes in his eyes. He rubs his hands together, twisting his fingers into a tight weave. We sit in silence a long while. I don’t want to force him, and it’s nice to just sit awhile together. Outside the plate glass windows, the wind moves tree branches up and down in a gentle sway, like they’re cheering us on, doing the wave.
We rest so long I think Ben might fall asleep. If he does, I’m happy just to sit here and watch over him. Finally, Ben straightens in his chair. “No point in lying, I guess. I want to come home. I know that can’t happen …” He pauses. A hopeful expression lifts his features, and then fades with my continued silence. Pity swamps my heart. He can’t come home. I can’t give in to him, no matter how much I want to.
“The first week was the worst. They gave me pills, and stuck me with needles to help with the sickness. I did go to the hospital the second day.” When I open my mouth, his palms rise. “Got me some help, and I feel much better now.” His head dips. “It’s been thirty days, but I’m a pretty bad case of it, Rae. Doctors say I have a bad liver. Without the drink and my gambling, I’m nothing but memories, darlin’.” His gaze drifts to the windows. “I can’t bear to think of another sixty days in here.”
“Any change is hard at first,” I say, trying to encourage him. “You’ll get there. Don’t pressure yourself. Everyone says it gets easier. Keep trying, okay?”
His fingers stretch to pat my hand. “I will, gal, don’t fret. This bunch has me taking walks and something called mesmerizing … no, meditation therapy or some such foolishness. Had me a wild dream or two since I come here. Might be them pills.”
“Did you?” I figure as long as we’re sharing, I’ll spill about my nightmares, too. “I’ve had a few dreams myself in the past couple of weeks.”
“Saw your mother, Rae,” he says, as if I didn’t speak. “Standing like an angel at the end of my bed at Mercy General. She’s so beautiful. Like you.” He winks. “She told me things, Raven, about me and about you, too.” His hazel eyes are wide and excited above his sunken cheeks. Though his silver hair is still thick and full, the rest of him seems closer to the spirits he talks about than flesh. I fear I’m losing him. “Do the dead speak to us?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you believe?”
“I’m working on that.” Whether or not spirits can talk, I’d rather trust to God. That’s what Mother taught me, and the rest totally wigs me out to consider anyway. “I believe there are things beyond our ability to understand. Maybe we’re dreaming, Pops. Seeing what we want to see or what we’re afraid of. I’ve seen some things, too, at the Maddox mansion, but ghosts?” I shrug. No way am I mentioning my tumor versus insanity theories today.
As Ben leans back, a breath hisses from his mouth as though his lungs are deflating inner tubes. “Maybe so, darlin’. There are other things we should talk about before … ”
The pause is so long I prompt him. “Before what, Ben?”
“Your mama wanted me to tell you when you was old enough. I’m not getting any younger, and I think it’s time you knew more about your father.”
What? “You’re my father.”
“Your birth father.”
Oh. Oh! “What about—”
The far door swings open, stealing our attention. A portly, bald man and young Asian woman walk through.
“Mr. Weathersby, how did you enjoy your visit today with Raven?”
My stepfather stands, but I take his hand, determined to maintain contact, finish our conversation. The bald man’s use of my first name catches me off guard, but of course they would know who I am here.
Bald Guy’s gaze travels from our clasped hands to my face. I rise and take my place beside Ben. “I’m Dr. Tom Wilson, this is Dr. Lee. We’re so pleased to formally meet you, Raven. We’ve heard a lot of wonderful things about you.” He extends his hand and I shake first his, then hers.
“Hi.” I glance around the room and find no wall clocks.
As if she can read my mind, Dr. Lee raises her arm revealing the wristwatch below her sleeve. Five minutes to three.”
“Already? How is that possible?” I ask, leaning into Ben.
“Everyone says the same thing. Especially on their first visit, but provided your stepfather continues to improve, we will increase the visit lengths and add calls home in between.”
Dr. Wilson peeks at the clipboard in his hand. A slight frown crosses his face. It’s gone in a moment, but I saw it. “Time for roundtable, Ben.” I lift an eyebrow. “Group therapy,” he explains. “We don’t want to be late.”
“Miss Weathersby?” Dr. Lee says. “I can escort you out.”
I’m sure you can, but I don’t want to go. One hour is too soon. We didn’t finish our talk and Ben had been about to tell me something about my birth father. His weighted tone makes me believe it’s important. I didn’t get a chance to tell him about the A I received for my paper in poetry, or the dance, or my new design for a pump with mechanical heels.
I weave my arms around his neck. “Yes, next time.” I breathe in his clean scent. “I have so much to tell you. I’m very proud of you, Pops, and how hard you’re trying. You’re doing great.”
“Time to go,” Dr. Wilson states behind us.
The doctor is only doing his job. It’s what’s best for Ben, and what I want too, but seeing him and leaving again so soon makes goodbye ten times harder. Ben pulls away. The weight of my empty arms is heavier than hundred pound dumbbells. He pats my cheek and gives me the saddest thumbs up I’ve ever seen.
Courage, Rae. I smile, and wave, and pretend this is anything other than what it is—
A desperate, hopeful shot in the dark.
Chapter Fourteen
The ride home is quiet for two reasons: Jamis doesn’t talk unless spoken to, and I can’t open my mouth for fear of crying. I stare out the window, but it’s not like I really see anything. My head rests against the glass. The subtle vibration is a soothing distraction against the pain clawing my gut.
My visit with Ben left me uneasy. He’s sober for the first time in years. Somehow, I thought that would fix everything, but I was a fool. He’s abused his body for years. No one bounces back from that in a month. His appearance is frail. He seems weak and tired. God, what was I thinking? What was it Ben said? I did go to the hospital the second day. I’m a pretty bad case of it, Rae.
By the time Jamis parks in front of Maddox mansion, it’s all I can do to keep it together. The fetal position is calling, that and some serious weeping. I’m not talking the poetic shedding of a few tears. No. I’m ready to rock the ugly, red-faced, snot-producing bawling that a good dose of self-pity includes.
I hurry through the door and dart across the foyer. Taking the steps two at a time, I’ve hardly begun when I hear my name. The soft, sultry tone can mean only one thing. “Not a good time, Gideon.”
“Wait, please?”
I don’t. If anything, I move faster, but his footsteps thud on the stair behind me and continue all the way up to the second floor. For the tenth time, I consider how agile he is for a guy with a cane. I feel him coming up behind me, his pace quickening. “Leave me alone.”
Fingers, gentle, but unyielding, encircle my arm. Without quite knowing how, I’m whirling around until I’m chest to chest with one Gideon Maddox. The contact sends a parade of tingles throughout my body. I stand there like I’m the victim of a freeze ray gun, staring into his gorgeous, mismatched eyes.
He drops his hand and takes a step back. His expression is open, unguarded for once. “Damn.” The word comes out froggy, and he clears his throat. “I wanted to … damn.” His fingers comb his bangs. I’m guessing he’s done that a few times today because his hair is disheveled in the most charming, tangled mess possible. “How is Ben, your stepfather … Mr. Weathersby?”
I scowl. “What do you care?” I’ve never seen Gideon with such a lack of, well, cool. His fingers alternately grip and release the top of his cane. His shoulders hunch, head ducks even lower. What the hell?
His gaze searches mine out and locks on. “I’d hoped … that is, I …” He curses under his breath. “I meant to ask about his health. Did you have a good visit?”
Good? Ten different emotions inside my head pick up AK-47s and point them at each other. They’re all wearing T-shirts that read: rage, confusion, exhaustion, fear, and yeah, one even reads gratitude. Ben’s unlikely benefactor stands in front of me in all his awkward glory asking if Ben is okay, and I don’t know how to handle that. My stepfather is in the nicest rehab I’ve ever heard of and Gideon arranged, and is paying for, the whole shebang. Yet, I’m also here against my will, and he’s taking supreme advantage of our pain. Do I hug or punch him?
I decide rage holds the biggest gun.
“It was good to see Ben. A relief.” I answer truthfully, keeping my voice steady and matter-of-fact. “He’s suffering, so I’m suffering. That should make you happy.” Gideon blanches, but I’m not stupid enough to think anything I say can wound him. “Imagine all the beautiful designs my misery will create for your company.” I turn the words he used on me my first night here around and throw them back in his face. “Art born from exquisite suffering, remember? You said there is great power in pain. Well, congratulations, Gideon. I’m incredibly powerful tonight.” His image smears behind the wall of tears gathering in my eyes.
“Raven … don’t.” My name—uttered so softly by the one I want to hear from the least. It sounds like a caress, and unnerves me as little else does. I don’t know why.
“Oh, don’t trouble yourself, Gideon.” Something between a laugh and sob erupts from the back of my throat. “We made a bargain, didn’t we? We’re both getting something we wanted. No one gets it all though, not even you. One day, you’ll learn that, too.” I wipe the back of my hands across my wet cheeks. My gaze rises to the ceiling as I run my soggy hands over my blouse. I can’t take his infernal staring another minute.
When I look down, Gideon takes a step toward me. He’s practically on top of me. He exhales, breath cool against the moisture on my skin. I breathe him in. The scent is tart, fresh. What is he doing? “What do you want, Gideon?” Lord, I hate him. My gaze flits to the hall leading to my room and back. “Let me go.” My demand is all but a whisper.
His eyebrows slam down; shoulders straighten. I don’t know what he might have said, but it doesn’t matter. With his emotional walls firmly in place, he takes a step back and places both hands on top of his cane. A hiss escapes through his teeth as his head jerks toward the hall leading to my room. “Go.”
Two steps away and I break into a run. There’s no stopping me until I hit my bed. Throwing myself down on the soft quilt, the tears come freely. I curl into a ball and weep until long after dark.
***
When I wake, three things are immediately clear. First, it’s tough to sleep with a really tubby feline on your chest. Second, I’m wearing flannel jammies and a tank top without a bra. Last, and maybe most important, a solid, long leg is propped up next to mine, and it’s connected to the body of Gideon, who takes up residence in the chair next to my bed. The same way he did the night I fell from the tree.
Perfect.
I shove Edgar off of me and roll to my feet. Moonlight floods the room, enough to see by, so I don’t bother with the light. With what little stealth I have, I tiptoe across the room to my dresser and slide the top drawer out. Pulling my favorite gray sweater on over my head, I sigh, wondering what the heck Gideon is doing in my room. Keeping me company, watching me sleep? Glad that’s not creepy or anything.
When I pivot toward the bed, Edgar meows in happy cat talk. “Shh,” I whisper.
“I’m not asleep,” answers a smoother more seductive voice.
I climb onto the bed and push the mass of black hair from my face. “What are you doing in here?”
“Of course you’re glad to see me. I would be, most everyone is. Why yes, my chair is very comfortable, thank you. And no, I don’t mind staying here with you and making sure you don’t kill yourself or someone else.”
Huh? “What?”
“Riddle me this, Batgirl. Who runs around snooping in the west wing, makes herself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich at three AM, and sews like a demon half the night with no idea that she’s doing said things?”
Gulp.
“I’m sorry, your time is up. The answer is: Raven Weathersby.”
“I did? I mean, I do, yes. Sleepwalk. Sometimes, but …” I didn’t know to what extent. I do, however, realize I’m rambling, and that I sound like a complete and blithering idiot. “I’m sorry.” A rustle precedes my bedside light switching on. I’m acutely aware of how hideous I must look having fallen asleep after a long, hard cry. I picture a puffy face and scag-witchy hair. That thought is immediately followed by the fact Gideon must have trailed me all night to know so much about my nocturnal activities. “How did I get in
to these clothes?”
His grin is his answer.
“No you didn’t!”
“Sadly, no, I cannot take credit for your stunning sleepwear ensemble. Though dressing you does sound like fun. You were wearing that at midnight when you climbed into bed with me.”
What? Shit. “I did no such thing!”
“You did, snuggled right up next to me like a lost little kitten.” The grin fades to that tantalizing half-smile he owns, wicked and super-hot. “Every guy’s dream actually, waking up to a beautiful girl in his bed. Imagine my shock—and disappointment—upon the realization you had no idea what you were doing. Of course, it also occurred to me you planned to slit my throat as I slept.” I gasp, and he chuckles. “I’ve heard it’s dangerous to wake a sleepwalker. I thought you’d break your neck on the stairs, jump out a window, cook and eat your cat. Tsk, tsk, tsk.” He shakes his head. “Can’t have that now, can we?”
Oh my gosh. I fall back in a dramatic slump on the bed. The muscles in my legs burn, my back aches. The way they did sometimes when I— “Did you say I was sewing?”
“I did, though I’d rather talk about the part of your subconscious that wanted in my bed—and why.”
“Shut up, Gideon.” Jerk. I force myself up and wander into my office. The sight takes my breath. There are brand new outfits on each of my three manikins and another three lying on the tables. The clothing is finished, perfect down to the last buttonhole, shoelace, and hemline. I’ve outdone myself, and I have no idea how. “Did you watch me do this, Gideon, the actual sewing part?” It hurts me to ask Gideon for anything, but I’ve always wondered about my sleepwalking. I’ve never dug too far into how I accomplish so much in a night, and I’ve never sewn this much at once before. My curiosity overcomes my pride. “Can you tell me what you saw?”
“Come here.” Gideon’s voice is low and husky. It frightens and excites me at once.
When I turn, he’s sitting on my bed. He’s wearing navy, drawstring pants, and a gray T-shirt that hugs his body in all the right places. His hair is a perfect mess of corkscrew curls falling around his face. He’s all confidence, and ease, and grace.
