“I can understand that,” Melissa says. “For me, it's also therapeutic. It lets me vent my emotions, and sometimes to imagine the world the way I'd like it to be. A place where things make sense more often.”
The man rumbles deep in his chest, and I can see something about him that makes me think he's seen too much of the insane side of the world for anyone's own good, but he continues smiling as he looks at Melissa. “Making sense... that would be nice. Sometime perhaps, is there a way I could see your work?”
Melissa nods, and for a moment hope flares inside me that she's going to invite the man inside to see some of her pieces that we've kept in the house. I'll make a hasty retreat if that happens, give her a chance to talk to the guy while still keeping her safe from the shadows. It's not to be, however. “My brother has a gallery in the French Quarter. MCS Galleries. I've got some pieces there now.”
The man, who's wearing what looks like a black linen suit minus the jacket, shakes his head bashfully. “No offense, Melissa, but I am not the sort to go to galleries. You know, all society types and things like that. I am just a textbook salesman.”
Melissa returns the shake with one of her own. “I know my brother, he's not that sort of man, and the manager there, Robert, is nice, too. And... well, if you'll be in the area in a few weeks, they're having a gallery show. My brother will be there for sure. If I give him your name, Nathan, he'd be sure to be nice.”
“Will you be there?” Nathan asks, and he certainly sounds interested. “It would be nice to get your point of view on things.”
“Ah... well...” Melissa says, blushing slightly, then she nods. “Maybe. Sometimes I go, Carson appreciates it when I do.”
“Then I will do my best to be there,” Nathan says. “In any case, Melissa, thank you for your help. I will see you around, I hope.”
Nathan offers his hand, and Melissa surprises me even more by actually shaking hands with him before Nathan goes back to his car, a pretty nondescript Honda, and drives off. I hurry back to the kitchen, but Melissa hears me anyway. Damn jungle boots.
“So who was that?” I ask when she comes in, still smiling slightly. “Sorry, I wasn't meaning to spy.”
“Yes you were,” she says without any harshness, smiling dreamily, like a teenager who just met a celebrity or something. “You were protecting me, I know you too well. As to your question, he's a software and textbook salesman. He was looking for the middle school, he turned right when he got off of 90 instead of left, so he ended up lost. He stopped and asked for some help, and I told him how to get back, and we got to talking.”
“I saw. I came in on the end. He seemed nice,” I say noncommittally. “I was surprised.”
Melissa laughs softly, nodding. “Maybe it was the weather today, maybe because I knew you were so close, but also... I saw him drive back and forth three or four times, and I could tell he was looking for something. When he stopped and got out, he looked so frustrated that I had to go downstairs and see what he wanted. He noticed the paint on my forearm, and we got to just... talking.”
“Talking's kind of nice, isn't it?” I ask with a grin. “Especially when you like the guy.”
Melissa blushes, and shakes her head. “He was definitely interesting. I’m sure there’s a story to that scar, though.”
“Well, you know there's a lot more to someone being cute than just a flawless face,” I remind her. “Especially for artists who see deeper than just the surface.”
“Maybe,” Melissa says, her blush deepening before changing the subject. “So how was shooting?”
“Good today, I feel relaxed now. Range is clean too, so I was thinking maybe Sunday I'd go out and try my old recurve bow. It's been a while, and I can't seem to get that cam issue worked out on my compound. How was painting?”
“Really good,” Melissa says, brightening. “I just felt it going today, I made some good progress on the piece I was working on. I just was excited this morning, maybe because I'm looking forward to Saturday. I mean, to actually meet Andrea... to meet a blood sister, I'm excited.”
“Good,” I say honestly, amused by the repetition in her speech. Melissa isn't someone for a lot of words, even with me, and for her to be so jazzed that she's repeating herself is cute and wonderful. “I want you to be excited. I'm excited, too. No matter what happens.”
Melissa smiles and gives me a hug, and I hug her back, the words I left unsaid running around in my head.
As long as she fucking shows up Saturday.
Chapter 5
Andrea
“So Jackson, where'd you get this van?” I ask my brother as we roll down the highway in the ten-year-old Ford van. It's not pretty, but it certainly runs well, and when Jackson showed it to me this morning, I was amused. Guess Jackson hasn't run out of surprises for me yet.
Before Jackson can answer though, I feel a wet nose in my ear and I laugh, turning around and petting Maverick. “You big love sponge! You realize most women don't like having cold, wet things shoved in their ear, right?”
Maverick pants and gives me a big doggy smile before turning around in a circle and sitting down, comfortable on his oversized dog bed. He yawns once before lowering his head and closing his eyes, content. As long as someone gives him attention, the gigantic Great Dane is happy with his lot in life. I think a lot of people could learn from Mav.
“You can thank Nathan for the van,” Jackson says from the shotgun seat once he stops laughing about Maverick's antics. The van is huge, and even with the removed seats in the back for Maverick's bed, there's more than enough space for five adults and one baby in her car seat. “Katrina and I only have a little Honda in Baton Rouge. You saw it, right?”
“That thing Nathan was driving Thursday?” I ask, and Jackson nods. I look at Katrina, who's patiently playing with Andi in her safety seat. “Do you even have a license?”
“I don't even have a Social Security number,” Katrina answers with a chuckle, and I'm reminded that my sister-in-law and Jackson now live an underground lifestyle. No real IDs, no paper trails, nothing that means they really exist. They're ghosts in the shell, phantoms that don't even have a marriage license, although that doesn't diminish their vows one bit in my eyes. While they've shown me a lot, I have tons of questions still, and I hope that maybe this trip and reunion will give me a chance to ask them. “I do drive, though. Trust me, when Jackson brought that Honda home the first time, I nearly went into labor laughing so hard. From limos, Audis and sports cars to a family-type Honda. Fatherhood changes a man, I guess.”
“It did indeed. Love more than fatherhood though,” Jackson adds, and Nathan, who's driving, makes a hurling sound that makes me break into giggles. “What?”
“I think the sweetness levels are getting into diabetic shock territory,” I say, leaning forward and patting Jackson on the shoulder. “But okay. Nathan, where'd you get this monster? And I don't mean Maverick, I know him.”
“He missed you, too,” Nathan says from up front, eyes still reading the highway. Ever the bodyguard, he hasn't stopped scanning for threats since the second we rolled out of my parking lot. “ I got this van from a connection who deals in used military hardware. The military loves these fifteen-passenger vans for transporting troops around base when you don't need tactical vehicles. Since I left my Tahoe behind at the DeLaCoeur estate, I found this the best way to keep Maverick with me.”
“How did you get Maverick back, anyway?” I ask. “You certainly didn't have him with you when we were hauling butt on those 4-wheelers through the wetlands.”
“I circled around late in the afternoon, snuck him out,” Nathan says. “I was not going to leave my dog without at least trying to get him back. I feel bad enough about my fish.”
Talk about a man of contrasts. I know Nathan would have no problem putting rounds in the head of any man he feels is a threat to him or our family, but he still grieves for the loss of a dozen exotic types of tropical fish over a year ago. We drive another fifteen minutes befo
re Nathan pulls off of Highway 90 and onto a parallel road. “We are about five minutes out. Andrea, are you sure about this?”
I nod, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror and seeing the concern there. “Absolutely. If what you found was true, Melissa Sands is either a nice woman who's very shy, or a psychopath. If she's nice, then she should get a chance to meet her family. Carson says she has some problems because of what happened to her mother. That at least I can understand.”
“And if she's a psycho?” Katrina asks, and I give her a raised eyebrow.
“I've got two of the most dangerous badasses in the country with me. Oh, and the Godzilla of dogs back here, and he likes me. I think I'm safer than if I had the Secret Service watching my butt.”
“Speaking of which, you're looking a bit curvier since last time,” Katrina notes. “Any secret?”
“Yeah, trying some of the exercises you gave me and not doing an hour a day of torture therapy on the StairMaster any more,” I answer, patting my slightly larger hip. She's right, I've gained a few pounds over the last year, and I'm glad that it's almost all in the right places. I feel like a woman and not a girl any longer. “When I went to the movies two weeks ago, would you believe I actually got into an R-rated movie without having to show ID proving that I'm over seventeen?”
Jackson laughs, shaking his head. “You're half-Asian, Andrea. You're always going to look youthful. Besides, speaking from a purely male perspective, you were always cute to me.”
“Kimoi, oniichan,” I tease, but still feel good about it. I know that Jackson isn't perving on me, and his knowledge of the female figure is pretty much top-notch. “Creepy. Katrina, can you kick his ass for me?”
“Nah, I'll convince him other ways,” Katrina throatily purrs, and Nathan coughs up front in surprise, causing her to laugh.
Nathan glances in the mirror again, a ghost of a smile on his face. “TMI, Katrina. All right, it's just up here on the right.”
Nathan turns onto a dirt driveway, a short one that winds around the back of a classic wooden farmhouse. It's not a plantation house like the DeLaCoeur home, but more of a working farmer's house. It's still big, but nowhere near as grand as my former home. The front lawn is nicely maintained though, and I can see a barn around back that Nathan suspects is used as a workshop or garage by the Sands. “Well, here we are.”
I can see movement inside, and the curtain in front of what I assume is the living room window twitches as someone lets it fall back. The front door opens, and a man comes out, hidden somewhat in the shade of the porch, but I assume it's Carson. As soon as I hear his voice, I know for certain. “Can I help you folks?”
I open my side door, holding my hands up, signaling that I want everyone else to wait inside the van. They don't need to get out yet and freak him out. “Carson Sands?”
He steps forward, but his face is still somewhat obscured in the shadows of the front porch. I have a decent view of his body though. He's taller than me, lean, but it's hard to tell much more with the turtleneck, jeans, and light sport coat he's got on. “That's me. You... oh. It's you.”
His voice is surprised, and I shrug, trying to smile. I know I look more dressed up than he probably expected. I wanted to make the event special, so I wore one of my favorite outfits. I'm wearing a blouse and slacks, my take on a modern power suit, plus a pair of high-heeled boots that add four inches. “It's me. I'm Andrea. I brought some friends and family with me, I hope you don't mind.”
Carson studies the van, and I'm sure he can't see much because of the glare from the sun, but he waves to his right. “Tell your driver to pull around to the back, there's a shady place he can park. It'll help keep the heat down inside. Also, Melissa's in the barn right now, she's a bit nervous today and she feels safer there.”
“Should I walk around?” I ask, and Carson shakes his head.
“No, you can come through the house. How many people did you bring with you?”
I motion to Nathan, who nods and puts the van back in gear after Katrina leans over and closes the door. I watch the van start to pull forward before walking up toward the porch, wincing as my eyes adjust to the shade.
What I see when my eyesight adjusts is just... I don't know how to describe it. Carson Sands is maybe six foot or so, with a slim, sort of fashion model-like build to his face as well as his body. His hair is maybe brown, or maybe black, but he's got the most arresting eyes, a silvery-gray that glimmer like hidden treasure. He looks artistic, kind of like you'd expect a gallery owner to look, but not soft or wispy. He offers his hand, and when our fingers touch, there's a spark that I can see he feels as well in those magnetic, amazing eyes...
“Sorry, I'm being rude,” I apologize, unable to tear my eyes from him. I don't normally apologize for anything, but there's a sense of power in his eyes, and it just feels right with him. “I brought my brother, his wife and daughter, and a family friend. Oh, and his dog, if you don't mind.”
“We've got plenty of room,” Carson says, his voice sending shivers down my spine. He had a good voice on the phone, but in person... get a fucking hold of yourself, Andrea. Yes, he's handsome. Yes, he's got a look in his eyes that's sending quivers down your spine, but I don't need to turn into a pile of goo just over that.
“That's great. So, let's go meet your sister, right?”
“Right,” Carson says, his own voice sort of breathless as well before he regains his own composure. He felt it too, and the way he looks at me, the quivers down my spine are starting to find a home in the long-neglected space between my legs. “If you'll come with me. Welcome to the Sands house.”
Carson holds the door for me, and when his fingers touch my elbow another little thrill goes through me where his skin touches mine for the briefest of instances. It's like there's electricity in his body, and my arm tingles where he made contact. I rub the spot, taking a few more steps inside to make space for Carson, and to try and gather my wits. Seriously, it may have been a while since I've been with someone, but I'm not so desperate that a handsome guy has me melting already, right?
“It's a nice place,” I comment to distract myself as Carson closes the front door. I'm immediately struck by the two paintings on the wall. They're absolutely beautiful landscapes, one of the Mississippi on a foggy morning, but the other is someplace I've never seen before. “Those are... those are by Melissa?”
“Yes,” Carson says, noticing my look. “She says those two are trash that would never be worthy of being sold, but I couldn't make myself throw them away or let 'Lissa recycle the canvases. So I hung them up in here, and told Melissa that they were my birthday gift to myself that year.”
“They're amazing. I recognize the one of the Mississippi, but what's the other?” I ask, so entranced that I feel like I could walk through the canvas to the painting itself. It's both hyperrealistic and surreal at the same time in some strange way. The reds are just slightly off, the mists are slightly too luminescent silver, but it adds to it. It's not a foggy morning on the Delta, but it's the way you want a foggy Delta morning to look.
“The cliffs above the Malian Gulf in Greece,” Carson says. “She painted it for me when I was really into history, back in high school. It was the site of the battle of Thermopylae. So the painting is her interpretation of how it looked in 480 BC, a month after the battle itself.”
I look more closely, and can see the churned-up ground in the lower right half of the painting, and recognize the mounds for what they are. “She makes it sad, like a graveyard. But noble too, like the people tried to do what they could to honor the dead.”
“That's what I said too, the first time she showed it to me,” Carson says. “Come, let's go to your friends. You said you brought Jackson with you?”
“Yes... actually, you've met our family friend as well perhaps,” I tell him, figuring I might as well get it out of the way. “Nathan. He came here Thursday.”
“Your friend. I see. Being cautious,” Carson says, but I don't hear any anger in h
is voice. Instead I hear a wary sort of respect, like he knows that we're living a dangerous life, and thinks our idea was a good one. “'Lissa might be surprised, but I don't fault you. Not with what your father has done.”
“Peter DeLaCoeur isn't my father,” I reply shortly, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. Carson didn't mean anything by it. Still, he gives me a questioning look, so I feel like I have to explain. “He may have fucked my mother, so I may carry half his DNA, but that son of a bitch is not my father.”
“I understand,” Carson says gently, and in his voice I can hear something that neither Nathan nor Katrina has said. Not even Jackson. They accept me for who I am, but in Carson's voice I hear more than just acceptance. I hear agreement as well. There's also a hint of attraction in it, which makes me wish he'd take me upstairs for an extended tour of the house instead of out the back.
We come out onto the back porch, and Carson stops, staring as Maverick climbs out the back of the van. “You said a dog. That's not a dog, that's a small horse.”
“Maverick is a dog. He's just a big puppy,” I reassure him as the three and a half foot tall dog walks around, sniffing happily. Then I notice the bulge at the back of Carson's pants, and see he's carrying a pistol. “And you should tell Katrina and Nathan that you've got a weapon. They're both very protective of their family.”
“I understand,” Carson says, reaching behind his back and unclipping the concealed carry holster and taking it out. He holds it at arm's length and then brings it back in, clipping it instead to his right hip where it rests in plain sight. “And no offense, but I am too.”
“Well, let's say our hellos then, and go meet Melissa.”
Introductions are pretty short in the dirt yard, Jackson giving Carson a quirky smile as they shake hands. “Sorry about that when you called. Your timing was too Twilight Zone to not trip a few alarms in our heads.”
Secrets & Lies Page 27
