Dark Room (37 page)

Six months later…

M
organ stared out the passenger window of Lane’s car, watching the sun reflect off the East River as they crossed the Williamsburg Bridge and headed into Brooklyn.

It was hard to believe that half a year had passed since her foundation had been ripped out from under her, and her world had been turned upside down—again.

She glanced down at her engagement ring—a square-cut diamond, simple, classy, and elegant. Lane had slid it on her finger on the first day of spring. The perfect time for new beginnings, he’d said.

They hadn’t set a wedding date. Not yet. She wasn’t quite ready. Not when there was so much still unresolved, both emotionally and legally.

The charges against Arthur had yet to be filed. Monty was pushing for second-degree murder, but he had his work cut out for him.

The team of defense attorneys Arthur had hired was the best. Following their advice, he’d stayed totally silent while his attorneys’ motions were flying. Motions to dismiss. Motions to change venue. Motions to you-name-it—they were all flooding the court. Indicting him on anything more than covering up a crime was going to be tough, since all the physical evidence implicated Lenny, who was being charged with second-degree manslaughter. Between his age, his standing in the community, and his plea of self-defense, Arthur’s attorneys were confident they could keep Lenny’s sentence to a minimum, with no jail time. The story they were going with was that Lara had been killed by a bullet accidentally fired when Jack brutally assaulted Lenny, after which Lenny had shot Jack out of fear for his own life.

Part truth. Part lies. Altogether believable.

It didn’t matter what Arthur said. Morgan knew the truth. So did the rest of the family. And they each fought to cope in their own way. But Lenny was a broken man. It was Rhoda who held him together. She kept the deli open and running—for his sake, for her own sake, and for their customers’ sakes. It kept her hands busy, her mind occupied, and her customers happy. Besides, Jonah was working longer hours now that summer vacation was here, and it did Rhoda a world of good to spend time with her grandson.

Jonah valued the relationship building as well, particularly the one with his biological mother. His parents fully supported his efforts, and did everything they could to make Karly feel like a welcome addition to Jonah’s life.

Despite everything that had happened or maybe because of it, Winshore was thriving, since the unintended publicity of the current scandal brought in new clients by the droves. Hard work was the best medicine Morgan could ask for. It kept her focused and gave her a sense of purpose.

So did Lane.

He was the one who ultimately convinced her that while the past would always be part of her, it didn’t have the power to control her—not unless she let it. Life, as he taught her, was like art. Rarely black-and-white. Mostly shades of gray.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Lane observed now, accelerating slightly and turning onto Atlantic Avenue.

“I’m wondering what this meeting is all about.” Morgan shot him a questioning look. “Are you sure Barbara didn’t say why she wanted to see us?”

“Positive.” He kept his eyes on the road. “She sounded rushed. When I told her you were in the shower, she just asked if we could run over for a half hour. I knew you’d say yes, so I said it for you.”

“But we told your parents we’d be up at the farm in time for lunch.”

“We will be. Besides, I wouldn’t worry about being missed. Devon and Blake are already up there. My parents will be hovering over Devon like EMTs, making sure she’s eating, taking it easy—the works. Monty will probably have the truck engine idling, in case the baby decides to show up three weeks early. Believe me, they’ll be plenty busy.”

Morgan smiled. “You’re about to become an uncle. That’s pretty exciting.”

“Yup. I can’t wait.” Lane slowed down and made a right, then another, until he swung onto Williams Avenue.

“This isn’t the way to Healthy Healing,” Morgan observed in a wooden tone.

“I know.” He continued driving toward the very building she most dreaded and had avoided revisiting all these years.

“Lane…” she managed.

“It’s okay.” He reached over, squeezed her hand. “Trust me.”

She’d opened her mouth to reply, when he pulled up in front of their destination—and her mouth snapped shut, her eyes widening in astonishment.

The three-story brick building had been totally restored, its white plaster-trimmed windows numerous and expansive, its twin banisters flanking a bluestone path and stairs, and its fence enclosing a small playground/ backyard. The front door was solid cherry, and over it hung a brass plaque that read:
THE LARA WINTER WOMEN’S CENTER
.

Morgan stared. “I don’t understand.”

“You will.” Lane pressed a key into her hand. “It’s a gift from me to you.”

She glanced from the key to Lane, comprehension slowly dawning. “You bought the building?”

“Good guess.” A crooked grin. “It worked out well all ways around. The thrift-shop owner relocated a few blocks away, and the landlord liked my
offer enough to accelerate the transfer of title. I hired the construction workers; Barbara hired the staff. The doors open in a week. We just need your final okay. Which is why we’re here—to get it.” Lane got out of the car and walked around to offer her a hand. “Come on. Let’s take a look.”

She did as he asked, placing her fingers in his and walking up the front steps. It took her three tries to unlock the door, her fingers were trembling so badly.

Stepping inside, she sucked in her breath, taking in the parquet floors and soothing aqua walls. There were three distinct sections—a semicircle of chairs that was clearly the women’s conversation center, a small room filled with toys and books for child care, and a card table, set up with jars of Snickers and Milky Ways in the center.

On the wall just inside the front entranceway was a framed photo that Morgan knew like the back of her hand—the beloved and final photograph she’d taken with her parents, dated November 16, 1989, with the words
Jack, Lara, and Morgan
calligraphied at the bottom in her mother’s hand.

It was just like the original. Only better. Because it had been enlarged and enhanced, cropped with absolute precision. It was as if her parents were right there in the room with her—and with all the other women who’d now walk through these doors for support and camaraderie.

Tears glistened on Morgan’s lashes. “I…I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything,” Lane replied. “Spend a few minutes alone with your parents. I’ll be waiting outside.” He turned to go.

“Lane.” Her voice was watery. “I love you.”

“I know. I love you, too.” With a quiet click, the door shut behind him.

Morgan stood still for a moment, just staring at the photo and letting its impact sink in. Essentially, it was the same photo she’d been staring at night after night, drenched in sweat from her nightmares.

This experience was different. Hanging here, in this center dedicated to her mother, the photograph was no longer a prelude to death. It was a living testimonial. A celebration of her parents; a fulfillment of their dreams.

A way for them to endure.

This building was no longer the embodiment of a nightmare.

It was the embodiment of hope, a promise for the future—everything Lara had wanted and worked for.

Her throat tight with emotion, Morgan ran her fingertips over the wooden frame, the glass casing that protected the photograph beneath. A sanctuary, she thought, tracing every beloved line of her parents’ faces. This center was a sanctuary. Not only for the women in desperate need of refuge, but for her. It was a meaningful, tangible place for her to come and to be. To visit, to help out, to feel that precious connection to her parents.

They weren’t lost to her. Thanks to Lane’s gift, they never would be.

Turning, Morgan walked slowly around the room, feeling her parents’ presence with every step she took, and letting the memories flood back. She smoothed her palm over the card table, smiled at the candy bars that would soon serve as winnings, and felt a sense of inner peace that, until now, had eluded her.

That’s what Lane had brought to her life, she acknowledged. He’d taught her to accept and give love again—not half measure, but fully and without reservation. He’d taught her to trust. And he’d taught her that love meant risk. It sometimes meant pain. But a life without risk—worse, a life without love—was no life at all.

Finally, and for the first time, she could put the past to rest. Her parents weren’t gone. They were with her—always. And their legacy would live on at the Lara Winter Women’s Center.

On that thought, Morgan retraced her steps to the doorway. She paused to gaze at the photo again, silently acknowledging her feelings, saying good-bye and yet knowing it would never really be good-bye.

Then, with a tranquil smile, she left, closing the door behind her.