ALMOST EVERYTHING

by Williams, Mary J.

  “Rance instructed me to give you an old-fashioned beatdown. Then, I kick what’s left of your sorry ass out of town.” Laird grabbed his arm, lowering his voice. “No coming back. Next time you show your face in Lake Darwell, all bets are off. Understand?”

  “Yes.” Morgan met his father’s gaze. “You brought in extra muscle. Why not do as your boss told you and take care of the job yourself?”

  Something flickered in Laird’s eyes, a flash of emotion Morgan couldn’t identify.

  “I’ve never raised a hand to you. Not going to start now.”

  “Figured you wanted to on more than one occasion” He might never have another chance to ask. “What stopped you then? And now?

  “Promised your mother.” Laird shrugged. “I didn’t love her.”

  Hardly breaking news, Morgan thought with a wave of sympathy for the woman who gave him life.

  “She was a mousy little thing. Shy, easy to take, easy to forget. Married her when I was too drunk to know better. But she knew.” Laird shook his head as if he couldn’t figure out why a woman—any woman—would tie herself to him of her own free will. “She stuck by me. Took my shit. Cleaned, cooked. Gave me a place to call home.”

  “And you treated her like shit.”

  “I wasn’t always kind,” Laird conceded. “Rarely, if I’m honest. She never asked for anything except when she knew the cancer was terminal.”

  “Well?” Morgan swallowed the lump in his throat. “What did my mother want?”

  “Made me promise to do my best by you. And I did.”

  Unrepentant, Laird sent Morgan a defiant look as if daring him to argue.

  After eighteen years of virtual silence, he and his father had exchanged more words, showed more emotion toward each other than Morgan could remember. They’d hardly reached a, let bygones be bygones understanding.

  However, they were about to part ways, probably for good with the animosity between them at an all-time low. Progress of sorts, Morgan supposed. In terms of father/son bonding, their timing sucked.

  “Will you tell them not to hit me in the mouth.” He ran his tongue over his teeth. “Not a single cavity.”

  “Kid, you have better things to worry about than your goddamn vanity.” Laird rolled his eyes. “I’ll try. Can’t make any guarantees.”

  Laird didn’t have time to make his request. The instant Morgan stepped into the living room, he doubled over from the impact of a fist to his midsection. Air rushed from his lungs. He barely had time to register the pain before another punch landed, a direct hit to his ribcage.

  The sound of the bone cracking seemed to echo from one side of the room to the other. Two against one. Could have been worse. On his knees, Morgan grimaced and braced in anticipation the next blow. From the corner of his eye, he saw his father push one of the men.

  “I told you,” Laird growled. “One at a time.”

  “Direct orders from the boss.” The man chuckled. “Your boy ain’t gonna be so pretty when we’re done with him.”

  The second man stepped forward.

  “Got a problem with that?” he growled

  “Guess I do,” Laird said to Morgan’s surprise.

  “Then fuck you.”

  The man took out a gun and hit Laird, hard, on the temple. Morgan watched in horror as his father crumpled to the ground.

  “Dad!”

  A hand grasped Morgan by the arm, holding him down.

  “Save your breath, kid. You’re gonna need it.”

  Morgan hit the floor, ears ringing from a direct hit to his temple. He was inches from his father’s unconscious form, but at least Laird’s chest moved up and down. Still breathing.

  A foot smashed into Morgan’s side, and he wondered, crying out in pain, if, when the night was over, he would be able to say the same.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ♫~♫~♫

  PRESENT DAY

  A STEPFORD WIFE pleasant smile plastered on her lips, India made a show of raising the ornate antique spoon to her lips. Lord, she despised the cold potato soup. Vichyssoise. She mentally rolled her eyes. A fancy French name couldn’t mask the truth. The stuff tasted like gutter swill.

  Probably originated when a chef made a mistake in the kitchen. Rather than admit his error, he decided to pass the stuff off as a gourmet treat—and succeeded. Ha, ha. Joke on everyone.

  Now, a century later, India paid the price.

  “Pretentious crap.”

  “Excuse me,” Jinx Brill asked from her place to India’s right. “Did you say something?”

  “Just enjoying my lunch,” India said as she pretended to take another sip. “Mm.”

  Unlike India, Jinx took a healthy mouthful and smacked her lips. No accounting for taste.

  “Your cook is a magician. If we weren’t such dear friends, I’d steal her away in a heartbeat.”

  “Feel free to try,” India said with a serene smile.

  To herself, she shouted, Take the vicious woman, please. With my blessing.

  “She wouldn’t leave you.” Jinx sighed. “Must be nice to have someone around whose loyalty is absolute.

  Jinx was right on one count. Mrs. Danvers would do anything for her employer, Allard Hallstrom. As for India, the woman would happily throw her under a bus. Or out a window.

  The woman worked for Allard long before he married India. Her job description varied. Cook. Housekeeper. Spy.

  Basically, whatever Allard asked of her, she was happy to comply.

  Like the same-named character from the novel Rebecca, she apparently had no first name. Another trait the women shared was they were jealous, manipulative harpies. So far, the real Mrs. Danvers hadn’t displayed any homicidal tendencies. However, India didn’t take any chances. She kept her bedroom door locked and since the kitchen was filled with sharp, pointy objects, she never presented the cook with a clean shot at her back.

  “Mrs. Danvers is a treasure.”

  Jinx, bless her heart, was a genuinely kind and sweet soul. Because they were friends, India refused to burst the other woman’s bubble of optimistic innocence.

  India didn’t know the true nature of Allard and Mrs. Danvers’ twisted relationship. She preferred they keep the gory details to themselves.

  Whatever the truth, for five years, she’d felt more like a third wheel than the lady of the house. Which was fine with her. The second Allard gave the word, India would leave.

  If only, she thought with a muffled sigh. If only.

  “I love when you host the Lake Darwell Hospital Fund luncheons. The food and décor are always just right.” Jinx bit her lip. “Next month, I’m up for the first time, and the prospect terrifies me.”

  India smiled, something she did more when Jinx was around. Funny, without trying, the other woman was a much-needed balm to her soul. Unfortunately, she was also young, tender-hearted, and easily intimidated. Like a fawn in a den of wolves, Jinx brought out India’s protective instincts. Grateful for the excuse, she set aside her spoon.

  “Two pieces of advice.”

  “Wait.” Jinx looked around. “I need a pen. And a piece of paper.”

  Swallowing another smile, India shook her head. So serious, so earnest. She tried to remember a time when every little thing seemed big and important. Was there ever a time when life held anything but the ominous threat of sameness, day after day after day?

  The answer wasn’t hard for India to find. The last time she felt truly alive, she was eighteen and lay in Morgan’s arms.

  “I’ll get my purse.”

  Grateful for the interruption of her wayward thoughts, India placed a staying hand on Jinx’s arm, keeping the other woman in her seat.

  “No need to take notes,” India said. “Just remember. Breathe and keep the booze flowing.”

  Frowning, Jinx stole a glance down the table at the other committee members, twenty in total.

  “They do seem relaxed.”

 
“The polite term is well-lubricated.” India leaned closer and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “In layman’s terms, our fellow do-gooders are half-snockered.

  Behind the cover of her napkin, Jinx snickered.

  “Mrs. Croydon?” India gave a slight nod toward the lady dressed in blue organdy. “One mojito away from crocked.”

  Eyes sparkling with humor, Jinx nodded, her nerves forgotten. She’d be fine. Smart and capable, all she needed was a guiding hand and a dose of confidence. India was happy to supply a bit of both.

  Looking around, India allowed herself a rare moment to reflect on where she was and what she’d become. Once, she would have fallen on the floor with laughter if anyone predicted the turn her life had taken. Married to an amoral creep? Never! Working for her father? Impossible! Afternoons spent at one committee meeting or another. Absolutely not!

  Yet here she was. The perfect wife, the perfect daughter, the perfect hostess. The perfect fraud.

  India took her own advice and remembered to breathe. After all, not everything about her life was useless. The Hospital Fund did good work. And the members were a much more interesting and diversified group than when she first joined.

  The days when only the crème de la crème of Lake Darwell society need apply were gone. India used her tenure as chairwoman to bring in a much-needed influx of new blood.

  The old guard put up a perfunctory objection, pushing against change. Though at the time India hadn’t been with the group for long, she had the name and the clout to get her way. The transition had a few bumps, but three years later, everyone seemed content with the new status quo.

  India believed the charity work she did was important. Yet, as time passed, she felt less and less human. She’d turned into a flesh and blood robot, going through the motions.

  “Is something wrong?” Jinx asked.

  “Wrong?” India shrugged. “Of course not. Why do you ask?”

  “You’re usually so focused but today, you seem distracted. As though you have something on your mind.”

  More like someone. Morgan McCloud’s out of the blue appearance had thrown her for a loop. He was the reason she couldn’t settle. She felt jumpy and restless. Her skin felt tight, and her mind raced. One meeting, only a few minutes in his presence, and the outer shell of calm she’d adopted as a defense mechanism felt ready to explode, leaving her exposed and vulnerable.

  India worked too hard for too long to gain a semblance of control over her life. A few cracks, she could handle. But she would not give Morgan McCloud and his damn knowing green eyes the satisfaction of seeing her crumble.

  Mercifully, the luncheon finally ended. Always the perfect hostess, India showed everyone to the door, taking time to thank each committee member for her attendance.

  Jinx, the last to leave, gave India a hug.

  “Lunch on Friday?”

  “I have another commitment,” India said. One she couldn’t miss. “Call me next week.”

  “Okay.”

  As she closed the door, India blessed the silence. Was there anything as beautiful as the sound of nothing? Not in her world. She rarely found herself alone, especially in the house she supposedly called home.

  As though determined to illustrate her point, India turned and found Mrs. Danvers hovering a few feet away. Tall, with a sturdy build and disapproving frown, the woman seemed to be everywhere at the same time.

  More accurate, except for the confines of India’s bedroom, wherever she went, Mrs. Danvers was never far behind.

  “Was there something you needed?”

  “Mr. Hallstrom called. He won’t be home until late.”

  Five years and still, Mrs. Danvers expected India to decry the absence of her husband as though a night without Allard was a form of punishment. Just the opposite, India was thrilled.

  “Oh, well. He’s a busy man,” she said with the proper solemnity. Inside, she danced a jig.

  “Mm.” Mrs. Danvers raised a pencil eyebrow. “Would you like me to leave something in the refrigerator for your dinner before I leave?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Mrs. Danvers ran an efficient household. As for hobbies, she seemed to get the greatest joy from lurking in corners. What the somber woman chose to do on her one night off a week, India didn’t care to imagine.

  “Mrs. Danvers?”

  The housekeeper’s nose inched a little higher.

  “Yes?”

  “Have a nice night.”

  Surprise flashed in the woman’s small, dark eyes at India’s pleasant words.

  “If you need me before I leave, I’ll be in the laundry room.”

  India hid her smile. Kill them with kindness wasn’t her usual M.O. However, didn’t hurt to throw her enemy off balance now and then.

  Skirting the Gone with the Wind style staircase, India walked to the kitchen, a place she avoided when Mrs. Danvers wasn’t otherwise occupied. Peckish more than hungry, she opened the refrigerator and surveyed the contents.

  “There you are,” India said, spying the object of her search.

  One red, ripe Honeycrisp picked that morning for optimal juiciness. India took a bite, licked the juice from her lips and, inevitably, thought of Morgan.

  Not the man she encountered today—harsh, cold, calculating. She closed her eyes and pictured the younger version. Her Morgan. He supplied her first Reinhold Farms apple and turned her on to the habit. One time, one bite, and she was hooked. These days, she had a direct connection to the source. Sven and Marcy, bless them.

  India slipped off her toe-pinching shoes. Why now? Morgan could have returned at any time in the last five years. Nothing to stop him after she married.

  The memory of their last meeting still made her stomach burn as if coated with freshly poured acid.

  Barefoot, a bottle of water in one hand and the apple in the other, she took the backstairs to her bedroom three flights up. Closing the door behind her, she removed her jacket and matching pencil skirt before hanging them carefully in the walk-in closet.

  Dressed in loose-fitting linen pants and an old Detroit Tigers t-shirt, something she only wore when no one else was around, India curled up in her favorite chair. Butter soft and overstuffed, she arranged the piece of furniture to face the large bank of windows. The seat provided her with what she considered the best view in the house—a perfect, unobstructed look at Lake Darwell.

  India took a deep breath, allowing herself to relax for the first time all day. To the outside world, she seemed in control. Cool, calm, collected. The Ice Queen. She had everyone fooled, including herself.

  In truth, India’s problem wasn’t that she felt nothing. Just the opposite, she felt too much.

  How much easier would her life be if she were numb? Head to toe nothingness sounded like pure bliss until she remembered that when she married Allard, she purposefully put her emotions in storage. One day, she would give the full range of her feelings a good airing.

  She’d known happiness—brief and glorious. Unfettered joy was easy when she was young and still believed the bad guys always got their comeuppance, and good guys were destined to win in the end.

  India curled her legs beneath her and took another bite of the apple. She would be happy again, damn it.

  Eyes closed, her head slumped to rest on the chair’s cushioned back. Morgan. He once played a major role in her plans, her future. For so long, she clung to the idea that they would find their way back to each other.

  Righteous and triumphant, love would conquer all.

  Telling herself she was a glutton for punishment, India took her iPad from the nearby coffee table and tapped the keypad. She changed the password on all her accounts from banking to social media, every week. Her deal with Allard included unrestricted access to her body. Everything else she deemed off limits.

  One of Allard’s minions could probably gain access if he cared enough to ask. However, the firewalls India put in pla
ce would hold off any hacker for a little while. Once in, they would find the effort had been pointless. She made certain there was nothing of interest.

  The damning information she’d collected on her husband over the last five years was too important to keep online. Instead, India went old school.

  Multiple copies of handwritten files hidden in places no one would think to look. And if he did, good luck finding them all. Unlike Allard, the arrogant bastard, she covered her bases, up, down, and sideways.

  Tucking a blanket around her shoulders, India looked at the screen and bit her lip. She knew what she wanted. Like the apples he introduced her to so long ago, Morgan was the sum and cause of her other secret addiction.

  At least fruit was good for her, giving her body much-needed nutrients. The Razor’s Edge videos she watched with the rapt attention of a fangirl on crack were a different matter.

  India discovered the up and coming group by accident when she was still in college. A recommendation from her roommate. Curious, she clicked onto YouTube and searched out the band.

  Lead singer Jaxon Cross caught her eye immediately. The chemistry he had with Skye Monroe, the only female member of the group, practically melted the screen. Then there was Kane Harrison who had a reputation as a bad boy genius. According to a popular gossip website, songwriting was Kane’s specialty, trouble, his middle name.

  India’s roommate had a huge crush on the drummer for Razor’s Edge. Cute more than sexy, Beckett Kramer kept the beat with impressive skill and a good dose of personal charisma.

  As India watched, drawn more and more to the music, she understood why girls went crazy over Jaxon, Kane, and Beckett. And why Skye’s amazing voice and enviable fashion style made her a favorite. Yet, she wasn’t drawn to the obvious. Her eyes strayed to the fifth member of the band. While the others relished the limelight, he seemed content in the shadows.

  Curious, intrigued, India searched for his name. Morgan Ames. Her heart stopped, then raced like an out of control freight train. Head shaved, sporting a scruffy brown beard, he couldn’t hide his identity, not from her.

  The man behind the sunglasses was Morgan McCloud. Her Morgan. He could change his name and alter his appearance, but India would know him anywhere.