The final photo was a school picture of Lindsey. “First grade,” she said. “It was the last one Mama put in the book, because that’s when everything changed.” Lindsey took a long sip from her teacup and leaned back into the sofa cushions, her gaze fixed on the ceiling. “That was the year I turned six. The year Daddy left us.”
Sloan mentally reviewed the happy photos she’d seen of Jerry with his wife and child. Had the smiles been only for the sake of the camera, moments frozen in time but faked? And yet Lindsey had looked so happy and content nestled in her daddy’s arms. Lindsey went silent. Sloan waited for her to continue, grew squirmy, picked at a hangnail on her thumb. A dog’s bark came from far away, and an overhead fan squeaked on its looping journey.
“I knew my mother was a hypochondriac. Well, to be fair, she did suffer from migraine headaches, but now that I understand what real suffering is, I can honestly say Mama exaggerated every little twinge with a moan, a groan, an ‘oh, baby, your mama’s so sick.’ ” Lindsey quickly looked at Sloan. “I don’t mean to speak ill of her. She was a good mom in lots of ways. She loved me. Took care of me…but I can hardly recall times when she was healthy and happy.”
“My mother drank.” Sloan hadn’t meant for the words to slip out, but they had, short and to the point.
“Daddy drank.” Lindsey shifted on the cushion to again look Sloan in the eye. “But his real drug of choice was other women. It took me years to see the ways my parents hurt one another. But when I was six, the only thing I knew was that my daddy moved away and left me and Mama. I cried buckets, prayed every night for God to bring my daddy home. I thought I’d done something wrong to make him leave. Or that I’d said something that had made him not love me anymore. None of that was true, but when you’re a child…” She shrugged. “Then about a year later, Daddy came home.”
“Maybe I should have tried praying,” Sloan said, half under her breath, thinking of LaDonna and her own childhood.
“He returned because Mama tried to kill herself. OD’d on sleeping pills one day while I was in school. I found her on her bed, ran to a neighbor’s, and she called nine-one-one. The doctors saved Mama’s life, but she was committed to a psych ward. That neighbor lady took me in. I overheard her tell her husband, ‘Poor little Lindsey. No one to take care of her. She’ll have to go into foster care.’ ”
Sloan swallowed the bad taste in her mouth, recalling the times when she had thought she’d be taken away by social services. Maybe she’d have been better off than she’d been with LaDonna. “Did you have to go?”
Lindsey shook her head. Her turban slipped, and she righted it. “No…Daddy came back to take care of me, and when Mama got out of the hospital, along with an infinite Valium prescription, we moved into a new house on the far side of Memphis. I went to school, made friends, graduated high school, and refereed my parents’ war games with each other.”
Sloan stretched out a cramped leg, rubbed her calf. “I don’t see what this has to do with me, Lindsey.”
“Sometimes it takes years for a story to come together. This story did when I filed for divorce and moved in with Mom and Daddy. Toby was only three, and I was already fifteen months into cancer treatment. I remember it was in October, a pretty fall night. Toby was tucked in, Mama had gone to bed, and me and Daddy were sitting on the back deck under a harvest moon. Light so bright a person could read under it.”
Sloan remembered those kinds of autumn nights. In LA the city lights overtook the moonlight, canceling it out. “Go on.”
“Daddy had had a couple of beers, and we’d started talking about all that had gone wrong in both our lives, when suddenly he looked up at the moon and said, ‘You have a sister, Lindsey. I haven’t seen her since she was a few months old, but her first name is Sloan…named after me.’ ”
Sloan felt as if all the air had been sucked from the room when she heard the words. “Go on.”
“He told me that’s why he’d left me and Mom. A woman he’d met during his band days, hooked up with him again and was having his baby, and he’d planned to divorce Mama and take me to live with him and her and my baby sister as soon as his and Mother’s divorce was final. He said you were the prettiest little thing he’d seen since I was born.” She chuckled. “Daddy had a way with words. He told me Mama knew all about the other woman. No surprise. She’d watched him cheat on her for years. But he’d never gotten another woman pregnant. And he and Mama had been unhappy together for years. He told me he saw this new baby as a way to start over.”
Sloan again tasted LaDonna’s venom. “Every day of her life, my mother hated my father for leaving her. I hated him too.”
“Fine line between love and hate, Sloan. Anyway, when Mama heard that you’d been born, and that he wasn’t coming back, that’s when she took the pills and almost died. It was a risky thing to do, but she wasn’t going to let go of him, and he wouldn’t let go of me. At least that’s the way he explained it to me that October night.”
“But now he’s dead.” Sloan could never meet him, hear his voice, or ask why he’d never contacted her, sent her a birthday card, or come to see her.
“Daddy and Mama died together in a car wreck. Mama was driving the two of them on a back road and hit a tree. Wrapped the car clean around it. Police said it was the oddest thing, no ice on the road, no skid marks like she’d tried to hit the brakes. Only tree roadside for twenty miles, and she managed to hit it.”
Staring into Lindsey’s haunted eyes turned Sloan icy. Lindsey’s implication all but shouted: She meant to hit it.
Sloan blinked, gathered herself, saw that even through her makeup Lindsey was looking pale and drawn, and that she could hardly keep her eyes open. Sloan had a hundred questions, but she realized that Lindsey was spent. “You should lie down.”
“I should.” Lindsey squinted at a wall clock. “I can tell you the rest of the story later, because there’s more.”
Sloan helped Lindsey stand, steadied her when she swayed, and walked her to her bedroom, now neat and orderly and scented with lavender air freshener. No IV pole either, just bottles of pills lining the top of a dresser across from a bed with a floral-patterned coverlet. Sloan eased Lindsey into the bed. The pink head covering slid off, exposing Lindsey’s smooth scalp. The sight was unsettling. Sloan placed the turban on a bedside table. “Get some rest.”
Lindsey’s eyes closed. “Thank you…my sister. You can go on if you want. You don’t have to worry. I’ll be just fine after my nap.”
Sloan wanted to run as far and as fast as she could. A tiny smile played on Lindsey’s mouth, and she added, “Cole’s home today. Go see him….I know for a fact he’s taken a real shine to you, Sloan Gabriel.”
Cole stood on the upper back deck of his house, methodically cleaning the wood with a pressurized stream of water from the wand of a pressure washer. He glanced up to see Sloan walking toward his house from across the field that separated his and Lindsey’s homes. Alarmed, he shut off the machine, but her leisurely pace assured him that Lindsey wasn’t in trouble. Lindsey had told him that Sloan was meeting with her that morning, but seeing her walking in his direction was an unexpected pleasure. Sunlight struck her hair, making it shimmer like spun gold. Beautiful.
He called to her, “Hey…Come on up, but watch the puddles.”
Sloan stopped shy of a muddy mess at the bottom step, shielded her eyes from the sun’s glare to peer up at him. He was soaking wet, barefoot, stripped to the waist, wearing cutoff jeans riding his hips. Broad shoulders, well-muscled arms, and flat well-defined abs. On the back of his left shoulder she saw ink, the black outline of a great white shark with a glowing red eye. Long time since she’d seen a half-naked man so perfectly chiseled. She said, “Everything’s fine with Lindsey. She needed a rest, so I thought I’d pop over.”
He bounded to the bottom step and offered his hand. She grabbed hold and took a giant step to avoid the mud and join him on the small strip of clean wood. She teetered, caught the railing, as
his arm shot around her waist to steady her. Molded against him, his skin felt cool. Their blue eyes met, hers as clear and bright as a summer sky, his the deep blue of sapphires. He wore the scent of fresh water and clean skin, she, the allure of a flower that tantalized but that he couldn’t name. Sloan was the first to break the spell. “Are we going up, or just balancing on the edge the rest of the day?”
He caught the double meaning in her question, turned, and, still holding her hand, took her to the top of the partially washed deck. Over his shoulder, still rocked by the physical contact, he asked, “You hungry? I was about to break for lunch.”
He’d stirred a primal hunger in her she hadn’t wanted to experience, so at the moment, food seemed like a good substitute. “Sure. I ate a light breakfast.” Her racing heart slowed, and she followed him inside.
“Make yourself at home while I grab some dry clothes. Back in a jiff.”
She eyed his space. Sunlight poured through a bay window and onto a contemporary-style table that offered a commanding view of the deck and a backyard that stretched to a tree line. On the other side of the kitchen, a half wall divided the space from a great room. The kitchen, painted a rich creamy vanilla, with bisque-colored stone countertops, held a stainless steel industrial-looking stove with red knobs centered on a wall lined with simple cherry wood cabinetry. “Nice place,” she said when he returned wearing jeans, a body-hugging black tee, and flip-flops.
“Thanks. I’ve slowly been remodeling the place since my grandfather died. Sit, and let me see what I’ve got to feed us.” He gestured to the table. She settled into a padded chair and watched him rummage through the refrigerator. “I’ve got leftover chicken cordon bleu, pasta primavera fixin’s, old-fashioned meat loaf….I can make a salad to go with anything, if you’d like.”
The selection was mouthwatering. “Whatever happened to sandwiches?”
Still leaning over and moving cartons, he chuckled. “I eat enough of that kind of food on the job. When I’m home, I cook.”
“I’m impressed.”
“It’s just a hobby. EMTs are stationed at the firehouse—twenty-four hours on duty, forty-eight off. Three of us are paramedics, but everyone in the firehouse takes a turn cooking and feeding the crew. At home I cook because cooking is a stress release after a long day. So, what sounds good to you?”
“Surprise me.”
She watched him work, chopping and dicing with quick, even strokes with a large knife, and in minutes, water boiled, spaghetti was cooked and drained, and the aromas of olive oil, garlic, basil, and fresh tomatoes filled the air. “You teach yourself to cook?”
“Yes. It was a matter of self-preservation,” he said with a laugh. “I grew up with three older sisters, and Mom and Dad worked. The girls didn’t cook, so I decided to learn, and they got stuck with cleanup. How about you? You like to cook?”
“I was raised on fast food and pizza delivery. My mother wasn’t much in the kitchen.” Or anywhere else.
He set a plate of primavera in front of her and took the chair nearest hers, so that they were sitting almost elbow to elbow. She wondered why he hadn’t sat across from her instead of crowding in. His closeness made her skin tingle, every cell on alert.
She spun the spaghetti on her fork, savored each mouthful. “Very yummy.”
He dipped his head to acknowledge her appreciation. Having her here in his space only a finger touch away was heady. He’d thought about her for days, not only because she was beautiful and talented, but because of Lindsey and their possible familial connection. Sloan’s appearance had sparked an unmistakable glow in Lindsey.
After they finished eating, Cole said, “Come sit in the other room with me.”
“I can do cleanup.”
“You’re a guest today, but next time I’ll put you to work.” The idea of a “next time” made her pulse tick up, but she shied from the thought. Her life was in LA.
She followed him around the half wall into a space with a cushy sofa and comfy chairs. An enormous television over a fireplace mantel took up the wall facing the seating arrangement. “You think the TV’s big enough?”
“I confess to being a sports nut. Nothing like NFL in king-size.” She chose one of the chairs and he took the sofa. A square coffee table offered further separation. “How was your talk with Lindsey?”
Her mellow feeling from the meal fled. “She showed me a ton of pictures, told me stories, some pretty sad.”
“Jerry’s scrapbook….I’ve seen it. I know some of the stories, but none about you being her sister.”
“That’s a problem for me.”
“You don’t believe her?”
“I think she believes I am.” Sloan understood how protective Cole was of Lindsey, so she chose her words carefully as she repeated Jerry’s tale to his daughter from one October night. “It’s troubling….He vanishes for a year, and when he comes back, he resumes his family life but never mentions another child, a sister, maybe me, until years later. Why?”
“She was just a kid. Her mother was in a psych ward. I wouldn’t have told her the truth either.”
“I have Jerry’s name as my first name, and I’m a singer, but where’s the proof? She told me in a letter that she could prove her claim.”
“Did she prove it?”
“She was wiped out by then, so I tucked her in for a rest and left. But I plan to ask her.”
“How about your mother? Can she confirm the story?”
Sloan startled, then realized he hadn’t grown up in Windemere, so he might not have heard local gossip about LaDonna and her. “My mother only spoke about my father in expletives. One Christmas, when I was five, I asked if Daddy would come for a visit, and she slapped me so hard across the mouth, I bit my lip and bled. I didn’t ask again. If my father was Jerry, he left me with her. And unlike with Lindsey, he never came back for me. Never once contacted me. I don’t know where my mother, LaDonna, is these days, and I don’t care, so if I never see her again, that’s just fine with me.”
To Cole, who’d grown up in a great loving family, her revelation was heartbreaking. Hard to imagine a mother being so cruel. He wanted to take Sloan’s hands in his, but the table took up the space between them, and he guessed that Sloan was not a person who wanted anyone’s sympathy, so he veered by asking, “Do you want it to be true? Lindsey’s story about you being her half sister?”
Sloan weighed her answer, finally said, “Growing up, there were times when I wished with all my heart for a daddy to come and pick me up for the weekend like girls at school who had divorced parents. I heard them whine and complain about having to live in two places. And about how they hated their dad’s new ‘girlfriend’ or their stepmothers, and sharing spaces with ‘sisters’ and ‘brothers’ they loathed. I’d have traded places with them in a snap.” Her expression turned defiant. “Instead I learned to play guitar and sing. I always believed my voice was my get-out-of-jail-free card. And now, nothing’s more important to me than making it in the music world. Nothing.”
The fervor in her voice lit a fire in her eyes. Her hunger for success was palpable.
“And thousands of people felt the same way when they voted for you on American Singer.”
She became self-conscious, realizing she’d told this man, a near stranger, way more about herself than she ever wanted to say. Not only in words, but in attitude and nuance. “I won’t be sidetracked in my career, but I’ve been lied to all my life about my father. I do want to know the truth, Cole.”
“I’m sure Lindsey will tell you more when she’s able. Chemo takes a lot out of her.” Cole sat up straighter, cocked his ear. “I hear the school bus. Toby’s coming home.”
Sloan strained to locate the sound, but heard only the white noise of the air-conditioning system.
Cole stood, held out his hand. “Let’s walk to Lindsey’s together. I haven’t seen Little Man for a few days, and I’d like to toss the baseball with him.” She hesitated. He didn’t withdraw his hand. His
palm looked strong and steady, never wavering. She stood, took his hand, calloused and rough, and let him walk her to the front door, where he paused. “For the record, Lindsey had a daddy who loved her but a husband who abused her.”
“While she had cancer?”
“Even then. When I asked her why she stayed, she told me, ‘Bo kept saying he was sorry, and I believed him. Besides, I’d watched Daddy stick it out, and figured I should too.’ And so she stayed with Bo Ridley, who kept slapping her around. Then one day he started hitting Toby. That’s when she took their son and left.”
“She said she divorced him. Doesn’t that mean she’s rid of him?”
“He’s Toby’s father. He still has rights under the law.”
His comment was sobering, and Sloan saw a bigger piece of the picture. Cole had become a self-appointed guardian, a watchman over the makeshift family next door. Sloan had grown up with a revolving door of men who had come and gone through hers and LaDonna’s lives. No watchdog to protect little Sloan. She gave an involuntary shiver.
“You cold?”
“I’ll warm up on the walk over.” And once outside in the dazzling sunlight, she did.
Lindsey and Toby were huddled together on the couch looking at a book when Sloan and Cole came inside the house. Seeing Cole, Toby broke into a gap-toothed grin and shot off the cushion.
“Hey, Little Man. How’s the book?”
Toby half turned. “Boring. No monsters. No aliens. Bor-ring.”
Lindsey laughed. “He’s reading real good. I’m so proud of him.”
Cole cupped Toby’s chin. “You learn to read that one, and we’ll go buy you a book you want.”
“Any book?”
“That your mama approves.”
His enthusiasm waned, so he glanced shyly at Sloan. “Hello, Sloan.”
The image of Lindsey and Toby together side by side, cozy and loving, had unexpectedly wrenched Sloan’s heart, made her think of another time, another child. She cleared emotion from her throat, said, “Hello to you too.”
Somebody's Baby Page 6
