For All Their Lives

by Fern Michaels

  When he came to the Ashwood plot, he wasn’t prepared for the rush of emotion that roared through him. His eyes filled and his shoulders shook. He squatted down, his eyes level with the chiseled words. ELSA ASHWOOD. BELOVED DAUGHTER. WIFE. LOVING DEVOTED MOTHER. Mac bit down so hard on his lower lip that he tasted his own blood.

  “He told me you didn’t want me. He said you left me behind because I would get in your way. For a long time I believed him, and when I stopped believing, I was too ashamed to come here. Benny’s mother said parents love unconditionally. She and Sadie are the ones who convinced me that you must have had a reason for what you did. It’s all mixed up in my mind, Mama. First I had to forgive you, and then . . . I needed to know you forgave me. I tried to call you those first years. I even wrote you a letter, but it came back, addressee unknown. I guess I had the wrong address on it. Father whipped me good for that. I just want you to know I wanted to come; I just didn’t have the guts to do it. It’s not important anymore for you to forgive me. I’m sorry if I hurt you. Listen, you have to know something,” Mac said in a strangled voice. “I hate that bastard. I mean I really hate him.

  “So far, Mama, there hasn’t been a whole hell of a lot in my life for you to be proud of. This is my turning point. I’ve coasted because it was easy. I didn’t want to make the effort. It was all this hatred I’m still carrying around, and I don’t know how to unload it. Uncle Harry said I was ten years too late. He was wrong, I’m eighteen years too late. I should have run after you that day and hung onto your skirt and made you take me with you. That’s what I should have done, what I wanted to do. I’ll be back, Mama, you can count on it.”

  Mac shook down the creases in his pants. He wished he had a handkerchief. He put his knuckles to his eyes the way he’d done when he was a kid. Carlins didn’t cry, his father always said. Bullshit! He turned and would have toppled his uncle Harry if Harry hadn’t stiff-armed him. What the hell was his uncle doing here? He shouldered his way past his uncle, his eyes on Hilary Carter, who must have been watching all the time.

  “Boy?”

  Mac stopped and turned. “I have a name, Uncle Harry. If you want to call me, then call me by my name,” he snapped. He didn’t need this crap, this intrusion into . . . his what? His grief, his misery, his shame.

  “Malcolm.” There was a soft chuckle in the old man’s voice. Mac reacted to the sound. His mother used to chuckle the same way. He thought it one of the happiest sounds of his childhood. It was a warm, cozy sound, which seemed to wrap itself around the small boy he was.

  “Did you follow me here to say good-bye or are you just curious by nature?” Mac asked, an edge to his voice. It was the voice he reserved for his father.

  “Both. I brought something for you. It’s in the car.”

  “The old family crest?” Mac asked bitterly.

  The chuckle was back in Harry’s voice. “Better than that. Follow me out to the main road and pull over. Hilary’s the local gossip, and I see no reason to give him something to talk about.” He slapped Mac on the back as they strode past the caretaker.

  “Y‘all have a good day now, y’hear?” Carter called after them.

  On the shoulder of the road, Mac got out of his car. His uncle was lifting a box from the trunk of his own car. It was cardboard and tied with string. It wasn’t heavy, Mac noticed. His eyes were full of questions.

  “This was your mother’s. When we packed up her things, this was kept separate in case . . . you ever decided to come for a visit. Elsa said we weren’t to seek you out. She said if you ever came here under your own steam, I was to make the decision to give or not to give.”

  “What is it?” Something of his mother’s. He felt light-headed.

  “Books,” Harry said succinctly.

  “Books,” Mac said stupidly. He’d expected something . . . meaningful. But he knew he shouldn’t be surprised. His mother loved reading. She’d read to him almost every night of his life until she left.

  “When the war gets bad . . .” Harry let the words hang in the air.

  Mac was already opening his flight bag. It took him five full minutes to arrange, shove, and squash his belongings to make room for the oversized shoe box. He snapped the bag closed. It made a loud sound. Now he had to turn and face his uncle and thank him. He wondered what had made him decide to come all the way out here. He voiced the question and prepared himself for a tongue-in-cheek answer.

  “Didn’t want you going off to that place you’re going to without something of your mama’s. She’d never forgive me. I’ll be joining her one of these days, and she did love to ask questions. It’s a wise man who has answers.” He allowed himself a small smile. Mac grinned. “The other reason is you came here to visit her. If you hadn’t come here, I wouldn’t have given you the box. Now that makes sense, doesn’t it?” he demanded fretfully.

  “Yes, sir, it does.”

  “You look like your grandpa Ashwood. Spitting image, I’d say.” The thought seemed to puzzle him. “See Elsa in you too. You come from good stock, bo—Malcolm.”

  “Half of me is Ashwood, Uncle Harry,” Mac said gently.

  “The best half,” the old man cackled, and slapped his thigh in delight.

  Mac stretched out his hand and the old man crushed it a second time. Mac winced, exerting as much pressure as he could. He thought he saw approval in the watery old eyes.

  “I’ll be back.”

  “I believe you will, Malcolm. You give those . . . what do they call those people where you’re going?”

  “Vietnamese.” Mac grinned. “You aren’t going to tell me to come back a hero and all that jazz, are you, Uncle Harry?”

  “Hell’s bells, no. You’re an Ashwood. You’ll distinguish yourself. Ashwoods always distinguish themselves.” The laughter bubbling in Mac’s throat died when he realized the old man was serious.

  “Yes, sir, I’ll do my best.”

  “I don’t like this place, did I tell you that?”

  “I kind of figured, Uncle Harry.”

  “Well, sometimes I like it and sometimes I don’t. Right now, I don’t like it. It’s always here, waiting for me.” He pursed his mouth into a round O of disapproval before he got into his car, jerked it into gear, and drove off without a backward glance.

  Mac wore a smile all the way to the airport. He turned in the rental car, checked his bags, and headed for the nearest restaurant. He had a three-hour wait for his flight to California, where he would board a military flight to Vietnam.

  It was time for Mac Carlin to soar, time for the dream to come alive.

  Chapter 2

  CASEY ADAMS SMILED as she hugged each of her guests. “Thank you for coming. I’ll miss you. Yes, yes, I’ll write even if it’s just a postcard. If I find a rich American who wants to marry me, of course you’ll be invited to the wedding. Adieu, my friends. Don’t forget me, for I’ll not forget you.”

  When the bright blue door of the apartment closed for the last time, Casey fell into her friend’s outstretched arms. “It was wonderful of you to give me this party, Nicole. I’ll treasure the memory of it. Everyone had such a good time though, it’s hard to believe we fit thirty people into this tiny apartment.” Her voice broke and then strengthened when she stared down into Nicole’s misty eyes. “We’ll be friends forever, Nicole. The United States seems far away, but I can come back sometimes, and you can come to visit me. Promise, Nicole.”

  “Of course I promise, but I don’t know about me coming to visit you in California. The airfare alone must be outrageous. I’ll marry a rich Frenchman and then I’ll come. With my seven children. Will you have room for all of us?” Nicole teased.

  “Of course. I’m going to miss you, Nicole. Danele too.”

  “For a little while you will. But you’re going to have a new life. I’m so happy for you, Casey. I cannot comprehend how, after all this time, all those years we spent in the orphanage . . . I just. . . you had a father. You really did have an American father. I hate him fo
r never claiming you,” the tiny French girl cried passionately. “You should hate him too. He claims you in death. How is that fair?” she demanded hotly. “Well?”

  Casey shrugged. She was a spitfire, this tiny creature she called best friend. Ninety pounds of pure energy with great luminous eyes that blazed with love or anger, depending on her mood. She was dressed now in an outrageously clingy dress that was hiked above her knees to reveal matchstick-thin legs that ended in spike-heeled shoes, which made her all of five feet tall. She was brushing now at what Casey referred to as her “nineteen hairs,” her pixie bob.

  “And a grandmother. You had a grandmother. Oh, Casey, you are going to be so happy. I’m jealous.” Nicole pouted. “Come, come, there is one bottle of wine left that I saved for you and me. We’re going to curl up on the floor with pillows and have our last talk. Oh, Casey, what am I going to do without you?”

  “You will go on making women beautiful. Without you, what would your customers do? And, it isn’t every beautician who has Madame Chanel for a customer. Besides, Jacques is going to ask you to marry him. I saw it in his eyes tonight when he looked at you. Will you say yes?”

  Nicole became coy. She shrugged. “Maybe yes, maybe no. He’s poor. I need to be rich to have seven children. How many will you have, Casey?”

  “At least nine. That makes sixteen between us.” Casey giggled. “Won’t our reunions be wonderful?”

  Nicole felt her throat constrict. She wondered if Casey knew how beautiful she was. When they were little in the orphanage and sharing side-by-side cots, they talked into the night, sharing dreams and fears. In those days, she had always thought of Casey’s eyes as the color of bluebells that grew in the garden. Now she called them electrifying. Both girls wore braids back then. Casey’s were the color of corn silk. Now that hair was gold, thick and beautiful, with a natural curl Nicole would kill for.

  She had only seen Casey truly angry once, and that time those electric-blue eyes had turned purple with passionate anger. They’d giggled over that a lot. Passionate purple eyes were something to giggle about when one lived in the drab St. Gabriel’s orphanage, where laughter was seriously frowned upon by Sister Ann Elizabeth.

  “I really hated Sister Ann Elizabeth as much as you hated her,” Nicole blurted.

  Casey laughed. “Now, where did that come from? We were talking about the children we’re going to have.”

  “I know. And my children are going to be happy. There won’t be any Sister Ann Elizabeth in their lives,” Nicole said vehemently. “No Catholic school for my children.”

  “Mine either,” Casey said just as vehemently.

  “Yet you went back to St. Gabriel’s two days ago, didn’t you? Danele said she saw you.”

  “I . . . I went for selfish reasons. I wanted to see that nun’s face when I told her about my . . . inheritance, about having a real father and a grandmother. I thought I hated her. I wanted to hate her. I lost count of the times she took a switch to me.”

  “Three times on my behalf,” Nicole said softly.

  “It was worth it.” Casey smiled. “Incorrigible misfits, she called us. She said we had delusions, and when one is an orphan one can’t afford delusions because they get in the way of life. Remember?”

  “Casey, there’s nothing about St. Gabriel’s I’ll ever forget. I’ll never forgive her for the way she treated us. Never! But you damn well forgave her, didn’t you?” Nicole accused. “After we swore in blood we never would.”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore, Nicole. We got through it. Look at us now. I’m a fine nurse. You have your own shop, this marvelous little apartment, and a man who loves you. You have guts, and you gambled on a dream. Don’t tell me you didn’t follow through just so you could rub Sister’s nose in your success.”

  “So what?” Nicole blustered.

  “She made us tough. She made survivors out of us. She told me that. She said we had no idea what the real world was like. She had tears in her eyes when she was telling me how every night she prayed for the two of us. She really believed that the switchings we got, the detentions, the rosaries she made us say, the raps on the knuckles, were for our own good.”

  “She’s a fanatic, Casey, and she lied to you. Nuns aren’t supposed to lie. She lied to you, said there was no note on your basket when they left you at the orphanage. If it wasn’t for Maryann copying down the note from your file in Mother Superior’s office, Sister Ann Elizabeth would have beaten you down to nothing. Little kids don’t have to have guts or be tough. They need dreams and something to hold on to. She took that away from you! You had a father and a grandmother.”

  “They didn’t want me. She knew that. Do you think that back then I could have come to terms with that? No, Nicole. It was better I dreamed and took the switchings and the rosaries.”

  “I still don’t understand how you can forget the hell she put us through.”

  “She was sweeping the leaves off the walk when I saw her. She looks old and tired. Very tired. She still smells like Noxema and she still has the little white flecks around her nails. She’s just older. I told her I was sorry.”

  “You’re crazy! Why would you tell that old tyrant such a thing?”

  “So it was a little lie. I think she needed to hear it. She’s never going to forget me, that’s for sure.” Casey laughed. “I always wanted to be unforgettable.”

  “I’ll never forget you,” Nicole cried.

  “That’s enough for me,” Casey said, hugging her friend.

  “Me too.”

  “If I don’t leave now, Nicole, both of us are going to be blubbering in our wine. I want to remember you with a smile and to know I skipped out to leave you to clean up this mess.”

  “Au revoir, chérie, ”Nicole said, wrapping Casey in her arms.

  “Au revoir, Nicole. ”A moment later Casey was out the door, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Casey walked slowly, her hands jammed into her pockets for warmth. She was spending this last night in the student quarters because she’d turned over her apartment to a young intern who’d taken possession of her quarters at noon. She smiled when she realized she was homeless, though not for long.

  Tomorrow, today actually, was all planned. She would say her own personal good-bye to Paris. Then, at four o’clock, she would take a taxi to the airport and fly to California with one stopover in New York City.

  She had a house now, a home, and a small bank account in U.S. currency. Six thousand American dollars. Her inheritance. She’d read the letter from the American law firm of Quigley, Quigley, and Archmore a dozen times before she fully comprehended it. It had taken her a full hour to digest the information the attorney had given her over the phone when she’d finally made the decision to call. She’d called again when she made the decision to travel to California. Nolan Quigley said he would see that the utilities were turned on and he would leave the key in the mailbox. He’d told her to stop by his office at her convenience to sign the necessary papers. He also told her he would tell her what little he could about her father, though Jack Adams had only been a client for a year.

  Casey shivered in the cold night air. She really did have a father, one who thought enough of her to leave her his house and his money. She knew her name was a real name, not one made up by the nuns, the way Nicole’s name was. The lawyer had told her in a kindly voice that her mother was a streetwalker and her name was Rene Beauchamp. She’d cringed a little at the news, but having a real mother with a real name was the only thing of importance.

  It was all behind her now. Tomorrow she would start a new life. No regrets.

  The dimly lit hospital lobby had seemed like home for many years. She’d worked double shifts more times than she could remember. She always worked the holidays so the married nurses could be with their families. She stayed on extra hours to be with critical patients, on her own time with no pay. She lived for her work. It was her life.

  She’d been stunned two nights ago when she went off duty
to find the nurses and doctors assembled in the day room shouting, “Surprise! Surprise!” It had been a wonderful going-away party. More wonderful because her colleagues had meant it when they said she was a good nurse and she would be sorely missed. They’d given her a beautiful gold watch and the biggest bouquet of flowers she’d ever seen. She’d wept then. At the end of the party the Chief of Surgery took her aside and said, “There will always be a job for you here if you want to come back. You are one of the finest, most dedicated nurses I’ve ever worked with.” Then he’d handed her such a glowing letter of recommendation that she’d cried all over again.

  The lobby was deliciously warm and very quiet. Casey walked through the corridor that led to the student nurses’ wing. Midway she changed course and turned left to the stairway that led to the third-floor surgical wing.

  She walked on tiptoe down the polished hospital corridor until she came to her daytime station. Seated behind the desk was the night charge nurse. She was reading a novel. When she looked up, she smiled at Casey.

  “So, you can’t leave us after all. You just happened to be on this floor and just thought you’d stop by and see how Mrs. Laroux is doing. How am I doing so far?” Casey smiled. “She’s restless, but that’s to be expected. She asked for you several times, though she’s going to be just fine and we both know it.”

  “She’s scared. She’s seventy years old. I’m only twenty-six, and I’d be scared and frightened out of my wits to have my hip socket replaced.”

  “Well, you can peek in, but if you wake her up, you’re on this floor for the rest of the night and I go home. Agreed?”

  Casey laughed softly as she made her way down the hall, her high heels in her hands. When she came to Room 306, she quietly inched the door open.

  Claire Laroux was a feisty, wizened woman who always said she was seventy years old and followed that with, “I always lie about my age.” She looked to Casey like a baby bird in her nest of pillows. Little tufts of hair stood on end, testament that she constantly raked her gnarled fingers through the thin strands. She was awake, as Casey knew she would be. In one hand she held a rosary, and in the other was one of her sexy, steamy paperback books. She was addicted to them. She was fond of saying that all she’d ever wanted in life was to be ravished and plundered. She’d wave her rosary and cackle, “See, I pray for it every day, but does He listen? No, so I have to pretend.”