Her Mother's Shadow (7 page)

I
f it had not been for the beach traffic, Lacey would have ignored the speed limit and raced all the way to Kiss River from her studio. As it was, she was stuck in a sluggish trail of cars making their way north from Kill Devil Hills. She wanted to call the hospital and hear for herself that Jessica was all right. She wanted to talk to her old friend, hear her voice, reassure her that Mackenzie would be taken care of while she recovered. Again, she thought of packing a bag and flying to Arizona with Nola. They could spell each other while they took turns taking care of eleven-year-old Mackenzie and spending time with Jessica in the hospital. But even though she'd known Nola for as long as she could remember, she had never felt completely at ease with her. Nola could be difficult. She'd been divorced for many years and had never remarried or even dated, although at one time it had been clear that she had her eye on Lacey's father. Thank God Olivia had come along at that point, or Lacey might have ended up with Nola as a stepmother. Just talking to Nola on the phone could send a chill up her spine.

Nola had been a lax and permissive mother with Jessica. Lacey's mother had certainly been lenient and indulgent, as well, but Annie O'Neill's permissiveness had been balanced by her deep love for her children. Although Jessica had often been critical of Lacey's parents, she'd admitted just a few years ago that she had actually been envious of the close and loving relationships Lacey had enjoyed growing up in the O'Neill family.

The traffic was ridiculous! She was driving through Duck, her car creeping so slowly that she feared it might overheat. It had happened before. She turned off the air-conditioning and opened the windows to try to prevent it from happening again. She knew every alternate route available along the Outer Banks, but the island was so narrow here that there was only one road running south and north, and she was on it. She glanced at her cell phone lying on the passenger seat. She could try to call Jessica on the cell, but she didn't know what hospital she was in, and the thought of coping with cellular information and the iffy reception in the area was more than she could manage.

Her thoughts turned to Mackenzie. What had the accident been like? Mackenzie wasn't hurt, Nola had said, so maybe she had been conscious and had witnessed everything. Maybe she saw her mother's body pinned behind the wheel, or maybe the car had flipped over. Then she began wondering, as she always did when she thought about Mackenzie, what had become of the girl's father. That had been a sore spot between her and Jessica for years. Mackenzie's father was Bobby Asher. He'd been one of the many guys she and Jessica had hung around with the summer Lacey was fourteen. In her mind, Bobby would always be that seventeen-year-old chain-smoking, beer-drinking, pill-popping, sexy-as-hell guy, with the blond hair that touched his shoul
ders and the same light blue eyes she saw in every picture of Mackenzie. Lacey had lost her virginity to him, as had Jessica, the very next night. She'd been hurt that Bobby had ultimately picked Jessica over her. Jess had been less uptight, ready for anything. Lacey had been fairly wild that summer, too, but she knew the scared little kid inside her had been evident to anyone who looked hard enough. Nothing had seemed to frighten Jessica, however, and Bobby had been drawn to that quality in her.

At the end of that summer, Bobby returned to his home in Richmond, Virginia, and neither she nor Jessica ever saw him again. When Jessica realized she was pregnant, she adamantly refused to tell Nola or anyone else who the baby's father was. Only Lacey knew. Jessica had had other lovers, if you could call them that at age fourteen. They'd both had others. But the timing of her pregnancy fit perfectly with her time with Bobby.

At first Lacey thought that Jessica was right to keep the identity of the baby's father to herself. Bobby was crazy. Undoubtably, he would have talked her into an abortion so he could rid himself of the problem. Nola had tried to talk Jessica into an abortion herself, but Lacey had persuaded her not to do it. Lacey had only recently lost her mother, and the thought of yet another life being wiped off the planet, no matter how tiny and unformed that life might have been, was unbearable to her. Jessica agreed. She had turned fifteen by then, and there was no way any doctor would take that baby against her will. So Nola arranged for her to leave the Outer Banks, spiriting her away to an aunt in Phoenix so that her expanding belly would not be a source of gossip and shame for Nola, a prominent real estate agent.

When Lacey was sixteen, she learned that Tom was her biological father and her feelings about Jessica keeping the
identity of Mackenzie's father to herself changed. A child needed to know who her father was, even if knowing the truth created more problems than it solved. And a man needed to know that he was responsible for a child. The subject of Mackenzie's paternity had nearly caused a falling-out between her and Jessica. As recently as Mackenzie's eleventh birthday this past April, Lacey had once again brought it up with her. “You really should tell Bobby Asher,” she'd said. “Mackenzie's getting old enough to know the truth.” As always, Jessica had adamantly refused to even consider it.

She knew Jessica had told Mackenzie that her father was someone she'd seen for a short time and that she didn't know where he was. That was true, but he was findable. Anyone was findable. Lacey tried to picture Bobby Asher now—he would be nearly thirty, Clay's age, but the only image that came to her mind was of a long-haired man in need of a bath, standing at a corner of a busy Richmond street, holding a bowl out to drivers passing by, the sign at his side reading:
Homeless. Please Help.
That was surely the direction in which he'd been heading.

When she finally reached Kiss River, she was glad to see that the chain across the driveway was already down and she wouldn't need to get out of the car to unhook it. She turned onto the shaded lane and sped over the ruts, spraying gravel behind her, not really caring about anything other than getting to the phone.

Clay's Jeep was next to Gina's van in the parking lot, and she knew he was either in the woods with one of his search-and-rescue trainees or in the house waiting for a client to arrive. She jumped out of her car and ran across the sand toward the house.

Clay and Gina were in the kitchen when she pulled open the screen door, and Gina lifted a finger to her lips.

“Shh,” she said. “I just got her down for her nap.”

Clay was sweeping the always-sandy kitchen floor and he looked up from his task. “What's wrong?” he asked, and she knew her worry was showing in her face.

“Jessica and Mackenzie were in an accident,” she said. “They're alive, but Jessica was hurt.” She rattled off Jessica's injuries to the best of her memory. “I'm going to try to call her at the hospital.”

“Whose fault was the accident?” Clay asked, as if it mattered.

“Drunk driver.” Dropping her purse on the table, she reached for the cordless phone and dialed Information.

“Who's Jessica?” Gina asked Clay.

“An old friend of Lacey's,” he said. “She was crazy. She got pregnant when she was fourteen, and I think she used every drug in the book that summer.”

“She's completely different now.” Lacey felt tears burn her eyes as she waited to get a human being on the line. She didn't know the name of a single hospital in Phoenix, much less which one Jessica was in. “Besides,” she added, “you were not so staid yourself.” She was annoyed at the speed with which her brother jumped to judge her friend.

“My guy?” Gina asked, putting her arm around Clay's shoulders and planting a kiss on his cheek. “Did you have a wild side back then?”

“Lacey was so wasted that summer that she wouldn't have known what I was doing,” Clay said.

She
had
known, though. She'd been at parties where she'd watched her older brother drink himself into the adolescent oblivion that was typical of the other graduating seniors that year. True, he'd only used alcohol, at least to the
best of her knowledge, while she and her friends had dabbled in marijuana and an occasional tab of LSD. Some of the rowdier kids had actually used crack. But Clay had been old enough to pass himself off as a responsible adult when he needed to. She—and Jessica—had simply been a mess.

Finally, a male voice came on the phone. He gave her the numbers for three different hospitals and she wrote them down on a piece of paper Gina slipped onto the counter in front of her.

“I'm going to call her from the studio,” she said, clutching the paper in her hand as she headed out of the kitchen in the direction of the sunroom.

“Good luck,” Gina called after her, and as Lacey walked through the living room, she could hear her sister-in-law chastising Clay for his insensitivity.

Sunlight poured into her small home studio, filling it with color from the panels of glass hanging in the windows. The room was at the back of the keeper's house, away from the ocean and the lighthouse. Her view was of the stretch of sand between the house and the scrubby maritime growth in the distance. There were two worktables, one where she drew her designs out on paper, the other where she cut glass. Sitting down at that second table, she reached for the phone and dialed one of the numbers on the list.

“She's in the ICU,” the hospital operator told her after Lacey gave her Jessica's name. “No phones in the rooms up there.”

The ICU. She pictured machines and tubes. Respirators and EKGs. Poor Jess.

“Can I find out how she's doing?” Lacey asked. “Maybe talk to a nurse?”

“Hold on.” The operator sounded sick of her job. “I'll connect you to the ICU.”

A woman answered quickly, her voice friendly and upbeat.

“Hello,” Lacey said. “I'm calling to find out how one of your patients is doing. Jessica Dillard.”

“Are you family?” the woman asked.

“Nearly,” Lacey said. “A very close friend.”

“Her condition's been upgraded from critical to serious,” the woman said.

“Critical!” Lacey said. “I had no idea it was that bad.”

“She's doing much better now,” the woman reassured her. “We'll be moving her out of the ICU sometime this afternoon. Would you like to speak with her? I can carry the cordless into her room.”

“Oh, yes, please,” Lacey said. Jessica was well enough to talk. Thank God.

A few moments passed, and she could hear a rustling sound. The next voice she heard on the phone was weak but familiar.

“Hello?” Jessica said.

“Jess, it's Lacey.”

“Lacey.” She sounded tired. Maybe half-asleep. “You're so sweet to call.”

“How do you feel? Are you in terrible pain?”

She was slow to answer. “I think I would be if they weren't pumping me with drugs,” she said. “How did you know I was here? Did Mom call you?”

“She came into the studio to tell me about the accident and that she's going out there to help with Mackenzie.”

“Poor Mackenzie,” Jessica said. “I think it was worse for her than for me, since I was knocked out and don't remember a thing.”

“Do you want me to come out, too?” Lacey asked. “I can, you know. I mean, Dad has enough help that he can get by for a few days without—”

“No,” Jessica said. “I'll be fine. But you have to promise me that you'll come visit
after
I've recovered, okay? All these years I've been out here, and you've never visited.”

Lacey had to smile. As terrible as Jessica must be feeling, she was still able to push her guilt buttons. And she was right. Lacey always said she would visit Jessica “some day soon,” but in the nearly twelve years Jessica had lived in Phoenix, that day had never come.

“I will,” she said. “I promise.”

Jessica sighed. “I was so lucky, Lace,” she said. “This morning they told me how close I'd come to dying. I am going to really embrace every minute of my life from now on. You do the same, okay?”

“You sound so strong,” Lacey marveled. “How did you get that way?”

Jessica laughed, though the sound was weak. “Motherhood,” she said. “It either makes you strong or it kills you.”

“I love you,” Lacey said.

“Love you, too, Lace. Don't worry about me, okay?”

“Okay.”

Lacey hung up the phone, relieved by the conversation and wondering what she could do to help from two thousand miles away. Sending flowers was one option, but Jessica would probably get plenty of those. She'd buy her books and magazines, things to help her pass the time as she healed. Yet even that idea didn't ease her powerless feeling, and she wished she could do more.

She had no idea just how much she would be asked to do.

L
eda and Judy had been wrong about the rules. It wasn't until Faye's sixth date with Jim that they finally made love. And by then she felt so comfortable with him, so trusting and at home, that she was no longer anxious about her body or her performance. He had shared so much with her about himself and his life. He'd told her about his own performance anxiety—he'd had some prostate problems a few years ago—and she'd been able to share her own insecurities about her weight, her crepey skin, her wrinkles. He had only laughed, as though her concerns had been the furthest thing from his mind.

Of course, once the line had been crossed, they spent a lot more time in bed than they did going to dinner or the movies. The third time they made love, they had not even bothered with the pretense of going out. She drove directly from work to his house. She was exhausted, having taught an all-day seminar for chronic pain clinicians, and although she'd loved every minute of the training, it had taken a lot out of her. She found new energy in the car, though, as she thought about spending the evening with Jim.

It was the first time she'd been in his home, and he gave her a short tour before leading her up to the master suite. She'd known he had money, but she hadn't expected the absolute luxury that surrounded her when she walked into the grand foyer. It was obvious that every inch of the house had been professionally decorated, and she couldn't help but wonder if she was seeing Jim's taste in the elaborate window treatments and floral print upholstery or his late wife's.

The view from the bedroom—from nearly every room of the house, actually—was spectacular. The house stood on a hillside, and in the evening light La Jolla stretched out beneath it like a quilt. The sun was a vivid coral as it drifted toward the sea. Faye studied the scene before her with great attention, doing her best to ignore the fact that she would soon climb into Alice Price's antique bed. Was Jim thinking about that, too? Did it feel strange to him to have another woman in this room?

The thought slipped from her mind, though, as he began undressing her. Lovemaking with Jim was slow and sweet, and Judy had been right about him leaving her satisfied. Judy would have to speculate about that, though, since Faye had stopped sharing private information with her and Leda, much to their frustration.

After they made love and darkness had fallen in the room, Jim hugged her close and let out a long sigh. It sounded like contentment to her, and she nestled her head against his shoulder.

“I've been thinking about you a lot the past couple of days,” he said, rubbing her bare shoulder.

“You have?”

“I want you to know how much I've appreciated all the listening you've done,” he said. “I haven't been able to talk to anyone the way I've talked to you in a very long time. Maybe never.”

She was touched. “I'm glad you've felt able to,” she said, resting her palm flat against his chest.

“I realized, though, that you haven't really told me much about yourself,” he continued. “You tell me how you feel about things, and I really like that. You're such a straight shooter. I don't have to guess with you. But…” His voice trailed off.

“But?”

“I don't know anything about your past.”

“Ah,” she said. She'd hoped to avoid talking to him about her past, but clearly that was going to be impossible.

“Here's what I know,” he said. “You grew up in North Carolina, like I did. You were an only child. Your parents are dead. You have no children. You were married, but your husband died long ago and you haven't dated since. But I don't know what it was like for you growing up, or what your parents did for a living, and that's my fault for not asking questions. I know that. And I'm sorry.”

“It's all right,” she said.

“The biggest blank of all is your marriage.” His hand toyed with her hair where it fell in wisps at the back of her neck. “Your husband,” he said. “You never talk about him. You know all about Alice. I talk about her too much, I suppose.” He laughed self-consciously and she felt a little sorry for him.

“No, you don't,” she reassured him.

“I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm sorry I haven't asked you about these things before now,” he said. “That I haven't given you the chance to tell me about yourself. I hope you haven't misconstrued that as disinterest. It's really been…” He laughed. “It's been selfishness, pure and simple. I needed to dump my problems onto you. But I'm ready now.”

She was quiet, and he nudged her.

“So go ahead,” he said. “Tell me.”

She let out her breath. “Oh,” she said, “this is hard.”

“Why is it hard?”

She could feel the blank slate he'd placed in front of her, waiting for her to fill it. “Some things are difficult to talk about,” she said. “But I
do
want to tell you. I want a good relationship with you and I know I can't build one on lies.”

“Have you been lying to me?” It sounded as though this was not a complete surprise to him.

“Yes,” she said, “though mostly through omission.”

“You can tell me anything,” he said, and she wondered if he knew what he was getting himself into.

“I have to ask you to keep what I say just between us, okay?” she asked. “I mean, I'm ready to tell
you
…some things…but not the world.”

“All right.”

She was quiet a moment, forming her thoughts, and he spoke before she could get the first word out.

“You
have
had a child,” he said.

The question surprised her. Of the things she was preparing to say, that was low on her list. “Yes, I have,” she said. “But how did you know?”

“Your body gave it away.”

“My stretch marks?”

He laughed. “You are so self-conscious about your body,” he said. “I didn't notice any stretch marks. But the color of your nipples. The areolae are dark.”

“That's what I get for dating a doctor,” she said.

“Did you lose the child?”

She pressed her palm against his chest again, trying to formulate her response. “Yes,” she said. “But not the way you mean.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “My husband didn't
die,” she said. “I'm not really a widow.” She hurried on as she felt the muscles in his chest tighten up beneath her hand. “And I'm very, very sorry for having led you to believe that I am, because I know that's part of what drew you to me. Thinking we had that in common. I'm sorry.”

“You're still married?” he asked.

“No. I'm divorced. But when I moved here—to California—eight years ago, I couldn't bring myself to tell complete strangers the truth. It was easier to just say he'd died. I didn't want to have to answer questions about my ex. He
was
dead to me, as far as I was concerned, so it wasn't a lie that was hard for me to stick with. Until now. until you.”

“It was a nasty divorce, then.” He was upset over her pretense of being a widow. She could hear it in his voice, and she didn't blame him.

“I want you to know that I'm an honest person,” she said. “I mean, basically, I'm very honest. I do have this one big lie I've been living, but please don't think that it defines who I am. Because it doesn't.”

“Tell me,” he said.

“My ex-husband is in prison for murder.” She had said those words to herself many times, but never, not once, had she said them out loud. They echoed in the huge room.

“God,” he said. “What happened?”

She rolled away from him to turn on the Tiffany lamp on the night table. The old, nauseating images were filling her head and whenever that happened, she couldn't tolerate being in the dark.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She rested her head on his shoulder, swallowing hard against the nausea.

“Could that be enough for now?” she asked. “Enough of the truth? I still get nightmares about it sometimes and don't
really want to have any tonight.” How could she tell him she had lived in a cramped little North Carolina trailer—and spent time in a battered women's shelter—when here she was, lying in a $3000 carved cherry bed in La Jolla, trying to fit in with the sort of people she hadn't even known existed back then?

“Just tell me one thing,” Jim said. “He didn't kill your child, did he?”

“No,” she said. “Nothing like that.”

“Is it a boy or a girl?”

“A boy.” A man by now. “His name is Freddy. Fred. We're estranged. He blamed me for what happened with his father. He thought I somehow drove him to kill someone. After it happened, Freddy and I left North Carolina and moved to L.A., where I had an old girlfriend from nursing school. We moved in with her and I got my master's degree there. My son was very hard to manage, though. He wasn't a bad kid. Just…so terribly angry with me. The day he turned eighteen, he moved out. I went to a counselor who said I should practice tough love. You know, let him go, let him make it on his own. So that's what I did.” She recited the situation with little emotion. She couldn't let herself feel the pain behind the words or she might fall apart, and she wasn't ready to do that with Jim. With anyone.

“And you haven't been in touch with him since?”

“I don't know where he is, and he's never tried to find me.”

Jim sighed, rubbing her shoulder again. “I actually had a similar problem with my daughters,” he said.

“You did?” She had not yet met his adult twin daughters, but she'd seen pictures of them just that night during the house tour. Photographs of the blue-eyed blondes at various ages were on the bookshelf in the den. There were a few pho
tographs of Alice on that bookshelf, too, and she looked just as Faye had expected: well-coifed, well-dressed and glittering with gold. The woman was her opposite, at least on the surface.

“They didn't talk to me for a year after Alice died,” he said.

“Why?”

It was his turn to hesitate. “They blamed me for their mother's death,” he said. “I talked Alice into enrolling in an experimental treatment program. I didn't see that she had much of a chance otherwise, and I think—I hope—she understood that. The girls were furious with me, though. They said I turned Alice into a guinea pig, et cetera, et cetera.” He sighed, and she knew he'd been through quite a battle with his girls. She could only imagine what it had been like for him to endure the loss of his wife and his daughters' antipathy at the same time.

“I think they were cruel to turn their backs on you,” she said.

“They were in a lot of pain,” he said, “but eventually, they realized that I'd truly had Alice's best interest in mind. So maybe, someday Fred will come around, too.”

“God, I wish,” she said, struggling not to feel the sorrow welling up inside her. “Every time I see a young man come into the pain clinic, I think of him. Even when they don't look a thing like him.” Gunshot victims, especially, tugged at her emotions. If it hadn't been for Annie O'Neill, Freddy might have been one of them himself. She waved her hand in front of her face as if trying to bat away the thought. “I can't talk about it anymore,” she said.

She lifted her head to study his face. In the light from the Tiffany lamp, she could see the arc of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the deep crevices that ran from his nose to
his chin, and she knew he must be seeing similar flaws on her own face. She should turn off the light. But before she could roll over, he touched her cheek with his fingertip, tracing whatever lines he might be finding there, and smiled. “When you're ready to tell me more,” he said, “I'll be here for you.”