Homecoming (25 page)

“Nothing,” Lyse said, holding the book protectively in her lap.

Arrabelle and Dev had both been great, arranging everything—and she meant
everything
—for the memorial, and Lyse would always be grateful to them. But right now she just didn't want to share this new information with anyone.

She wanted to hold it close. To treat it like something shiny and new that needed her protection.

“Okay, I won't press you,” Arrabelle said. “But if you want to talk, my door is always open.”

After what seemed like an eternity, Arrabelle crawled to her feet and gave Lyse's shoulder a quick squeeze before she disappeared into the crowd. When she was gone, Lyse stuffed the Bible back into the bookcase.

She needed to get the hell out of there.

*   *   *

Lyse had arrived in Los Angeles during the coldest days of October—but after Eleanora's death, the cold spell broke and a fierce Indian summer sent daytime temperatures soaring into the eighties. She hardly noticed the heat as she ran, feet pounding across the wooden bridge and down the stairs that led to the road.

She didn't know where she was going or what she was doing, but three little words echoed in her brain:
Sonya May Eames.

Sonya May Eames was Lyse's mother—
My Twins
, Eleanora had written—which meant Eleanora was not Lyse's distant relative; she was Lyse's
grandmother
.

“Hey, where are you headed in such a hurry? I only just got here.”

The voice was teasing.

“Huh?” she replied, her mind blank as she looked up and saw Weir standing in the street beside his car, staring at her. He looked incredible in his black suit and skinny tie, dark blond hair pleasantly mussed. There were dark circles under his eyes, but Lyse knew hers were worse.

“Are you okay?” he asked, crossing to her. His long fingers brushed her bangs out of her eyes. “You look awful. What's wrong?”

“I don't. I—” she said, not making sense even to herself. “A walk. I—I had to get out of there.”

There was no judgment in his eyes. He seemed to understand her need to flee.

“How about some company?” he asked, taking her hand and slipping it inside his own.

She didn't know if she wanted company. There was so much information to think over, so many thoughts she wanted to take out and look at without anyone keeping tabs, or looking over her shoulder, or inserting themselves into the process. She almost said as much to Weir, but then something about his tranquil gaze disarmed her.

She wasn't sure what had changed, or why she felt so different—and then it hit her: All of her frantic, out-of-control feelings were gone. She didn't know what part of him was responsible, but something in the very essence of who he was had calmed her down. Maybe it was his unobtrusive presence, the way he didn't need anything from her, just wanted to hold her and love her.

She'd never had that in a lover before, and suddenly she understood that being with him was, for her, no different from being alone. He didn't take anything away, only added to the equation.

She hadn't noticed it before, but when she thought back over their interactions, she could see that he brought a sense of peace wherever he went.

“I've tried to give you a little space,” he said, squeezing her fingers. “I know it's been rough and I didn't want you to think I needed anything from you. I'm just . . . here. If you want me.”

She returned his squeeze.

“I appreciate it. I'd like you to stay. Maybe take a walk with me?”

He nodded, and they began to stroll. They didn't need words, each unconsciously choosing to head away from Echo Park Avenue, toward the set of stairs that rose up out of the hills where Curran came to a dead end.

“I wanted to see you,” he said. “Of course, I wanted to see you, but I knew—I could feel—that you needed some time alone to process things before I started bugging you.”

He followed her down the slanted steps, leaving Curran Street and Eleanora's memorial far behind them.

“Yeah?” she said.

“Yeah,” he said, softly, bringing them to a stop just below the top of the stairs, so they could see Elysian Park laid out before them like an oil painting.

“I appreciate that,” Lyse said. “My brain's been a little foggy the last few days.”

“Sit down,” he said, taking her by the shoulders and gently easing her onto one of the steps.

He sat beside her.

“Now look at the view.”

She did as he said. It was so beautiful here on the stairs. Like that old Carole King song her mom had liked to sing when Lyse was a kid . . . “Up on the Roof”—only sitting here was like sitting up on the roof of the world with only the deep blue sky to keep you from floating into outer space.

“I used to hide out here when I was a teenager,” Lyse said, lacing her fingers in between his. “When I was mad at Eleanora, I'd sit out on the stairs and watch the sunset. It reminded me, no matter how angry, or lonely, or frustrated I felt, there was so much more out there to see. That sooner or later things would get better.”

Weir nodded.

“But right now, I don't know. I'm not a kid anymore. I'm not supposed to believe things will get better—I'm supposed to
make
them better.”

Weir wrapped his arm around Lyse's shoulders and pulled her close. She wanted to tell him about Eleanora, but she didn't even know how to begin. Instead, she let her brain go, focusing on his nearness, the way he smelled and tasted . . . the beat of his heart against her cheek.

“You smell so good,” she said, lifting her chin, so she could nuzzle her face against his neck.

He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head.

“So do you.”

He held her chin in his hand, lifting her face, so he could look into her eyes before he leaned in and took her mouth. He tasted so sweet. She turned, wrapping her arms around his waist and squeezing him tight as they kissed. The connection between them was delicious.

She wanted more, wanted to crawl inside him and wear him like a second skin. Her kisses became more urgent as she felt herself give over to the burning attraction, tiny guttural moans escaping her lips. He grabbed her by the back of the head, gently tugging at her hair to expose her throat, trailing kisses down her skin and nibbling at her neck, leaving delicate love bites in his wake.

He put his callused hands on either side of her face, his fingers pressing into the hollows of her cheeks. His pupils were dilated, large black windows giving her a view into his soul—and she could see that his need was as desperate as her own.

“I want you,” he said, kissing her full on the mouth, sucking on her lower lip until it felt heavy and bruised.

She felt lazy with lust, the smell of hormones and sex so overpowering and undeniable it took her breath away. She couldn't speak, so she just nodded.

“You're the most glorious thing I've ever seen,” he whispered in her ear, his moist breath tickling her earlobe. “So beautiful. Your face, your body . . . I get hard just imagining you.”

She ached for him, his words as much of an aphrodisiac as the hard thing between his legs.

“I feel like I already know you, know what you like, what turns you on,” he said, kissing down the length of her jawline. “Like I've already made love to you—”

His words doused her ardor like a bucket of cold water. Weir sensed the change in her mood and immediately stopped kissing her.

“Lyse? What's wrong?”

She could see she'd confused him but that he was trying to be gentle with her.

“Those things you said . . .” She trailed off.

“That you're glorious, that I get hard just thinking about you?” he repeated, teasing. “Too sexy?”

She shook her head, not looking him in the eye.

“No, I liked all that stuff. That stuff was amazing.”

“What did I say that upset you, then?” he asked, taking her fingers and rubbing them in between his hands.

She wasn't sure how to respond. She just knew she felt incredibly raw and vulnerable—and she wasn't one hundred percent sure why.

“Lyse?” Weir said, encouraging her to tell him what was wrong.

She shrugged, eyes focusing on the view—not him.

“The familiar part,” she began. “You said you feel like we've already been together—”

“
That's
what's bothering you?” he asked, a teasing lilt to his words.

“It's just that . . . something happened to me.”

“Oh, Lyse,” he said. “I want you to know that you're safe with me. Always . . .”

She realized he'd misinterpreted her words.

“No, it's nothing like that,” she said, feeling frazzled. “I've never . . . I've been lucky on that front.”

He squeezed her hand.

“You can tell me anything, Lyse.”

She shook her head, unwilling to meet his gaze.

“I—”

She stopped, deciding to approach the subject from another direction.

“Do you believe in magic?” she asked.

“What do you mean? Like fairies, witches, and ghosts? That kind of magic? Or Magic Castle, card tricks, and sawing-a-lady-in-half magic?”

She shook her head—not feeling like this was the right way to broach the subject, after all.

“I don't know. Let's just drop it.”

She leaned into him, rubbing her cheek against his neck, and tried to erase the awkwardness with butterfly kisses—but he put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her away.

“I know what you're doing,” he said, with a crooked smile. “And as much as I want to kiss you and touch you, I don't want to be placated with sex because you're too scared to talk to me about something.”

“I'm not scared—” she protested.

“You feel vulnerable talking about whatever it is you want to talk about,” he said. “And I get that—but you need to understand something, Lyse. This isn't just gonna be about sex. When I say that I want you, I mean
all
of you. I want your body and your mouth and your brain and your heart. Everything that makes you
you
. I'm the guy you come with and the guy you come
to
when you need to talk. And if you can't handle that, then we shouldn't be doing this.”

Lyse was shocked. No man had ever spoken to her so bluntly. Weir had laid it all out there, being as honest as possible with her, wanting her to know exactly what he was thinking and where he stood. Obviously, the man meant what he said, and said what he meant—and this was both intoxicating and utterly terrifying to her.

“I don't know,” she said, after a few seconds of silence on her part. “It's a lot to think about. What you just said.”

What are you doing?
her brain was screaming at her.
Shut up! Don't ruin this because you're a coward! Just tell him that you understand!

Weir stared at her face for a long moment, then nodded. Was she mistaken, or did he look disappointed by her response?

“Sure,” he said. “Yes, it is a lot to think about. Maybe you should go think about it for a while and get back to me.”

He would never say it out loud, but she knew she'd dealt with his feelings badly.

“I'm sorry,” she said, fumbling for words. “I just . . . Eleanora . . . and I'm confused. I don't know if I'm ready to jump into something super-serious with you right now.”

“I'm not asking you to jump into anything,” he said, not arguing with her, but trying to clarify. “I'm telling you that I don't want to just fuck you. I want to be your friend, too. That means being honest with each other. It means that this is a no-bullshit zone.”

She sighed, the sun beating down on top of her head and making her feel cranky. She hated the long tank dress she was wearing, the only piece of black clothing she'd been able to find in her closet—since she'd obviously brought nothing appropriate for a funeral with her from Athens. The dress made her feel constrained, frustrated, and she wanted to rip it off and shred it into pieces—even if it meant she had to sit on the steps in her bra and underwear.

“Don't be mad at me,” he said, reaching for her hand. “I'm not trying to force you into anything. Take your time. Think about it. I'm not going anywhere.”

He began to stroke her inner wrist, drawing concentric circles on her skin with his thumb. It was distracting and made it hard for her to think straight.

“I need to get out of here,” she said, standing up and pulling her hand from his grasp.

“Lyse—” he began, but she was already moving, her feet slapping loudly against the concrete stairs as she took them two at a time.

She didn't slow down when she reached the top, only picked up speed, running down the middle of the street as a flood of tears blinded her. She didn't see the man in front of her. She slammed into him, and her legs flew out from under her. She landed on the ground, fingers clutching at the dirty asphalt. She didn't try to get up, but sat in the street, blood smeared across her abraded palms.

“Are you all right?”

The man was beside her, worry pinching his handsome face into a grimace. She looked at him, and shook her head.

“No,” she said, as a sob escaped her lips.

He nodded, pursing his lips into a straight line. Something about this gesture reminded her of Eleanora, and she stopped crying. There was something familiar about this man with the steel-gray buzz cut and intelligent green eyes. She couldn't stop herself from thinking that she knew him—or, at least, felt like she did.

“Well, I don't know if this is gonna make you feel any better,” he said, giving her a quizzical smile, “but I think I might be your uncle.”

T
he Bible sat between them on the round oak kitchen table, open to the front cover, so that everyone could see the names written inside. There was no mistaking Eleanora's handwriting, her neat block letters straight and precise.

This was the real deal, Arrabelle realized.

“See? There's my name and my mom's name—” Lyse said, as she pointed to each entry. Then she turned her gaze to the man sitting beside her. “And that's your name, isn't it? David Davenport Eames.”

“Yes, I think that's me,” the man—David, as he'd introduced himself—said. “I've never seen my actual birth certificate, but I know David was my birth name and Eleanora Eames was my mother.”

Arrabelle had to admit the whole thing was a bit of a shock. She'd been completely unaware of Eleanora's secret life—but now that everything was out in the open, the pieces of the puzzle were starting to fall into place.

No wonder you wanted Lyse to join us, to take your place even, Eleanora,
she thought.
She was your granddaughter.

Arrabelle did not often bow to emotion. Emotion was vulnerability, a weakness that others could exploit—but the idea of Eleanora living such a horrific lie, and dying before she had a chance to tell her granddaughter the truth . . . well, it broke Arrabelle's heart.

And now here was this man. Purporting to be Eleanora's son and Lyse's uncle—and there was just something not right about him.

Even his name felt wrong.

This
David didn't seem like the kind of man who fought Goliath for a living. He reminded Arrabelle more of a machine, all crew cut and unwavering gaze, green eyes that cut through to the heart of things, mining the delicate innards of his prey for information and profit—and she didn't believe he'd made his presence known to Lyse out of any filial concern.

No, he wanted something from her—and it was Arrabelle's job (she owed this much to Eleanora) to stop him from collecting whatever prize he'd come for.

“How did you find us?” Arrabelle asked. “I mean, find Eleanora and Lyse?”

She tried to appear nonchalant as she sipped from her chipped mug of green tea, but she was nervous. There was something about David, the way he held himself and moved his body, that reminded her of an ex-military man she'd dated—a relationship that hadn't gone anywhere because she couldn't stand his moral inflexibility. To men like her ex and David, there were no gradations of gray—only the fierce black and white of a German Expressionist print.

“I've actually been searching for my birth mother for a long time,” David said, an earnest quality to his voice that made Arrabelle suddenly doubt her first impression of the man. “In 1974, a fire destroyed the agency that handled our adoption, along with all their records, so this made finding information difficult—”

He seemed to have an easy answer for every question put to him—not that the others had asked him anything more pressing than, “Do you want more coffee?” or “Can I get you some quiche?”

“You look unhappy with me,” he continued, giving Arrabelle an apologetic smile. “Because that's not really what you wanted to know. You want to know why
now
? Why choose the day of my mother's memorial service?”

Arrabelle leaned forward in her chair, elbows pressing into the top of Eleanora's round oak table.

Yes, why didn't you come sooner? Why didn't you want to meet the woman who bore you?
Arrabelle thought.
It would've been the top priority on my list.

“Well, to be honest, the answer is . . . I don't know. I don't know why I waited to confront her. I think it was because I was scared”—he turned to Lyse, who was curled in her seat, knees against her chest—“and now I realize I don't want to make that same mistake with you, Lyse.”

Lyse nodded, eyes red and puffy from crying.

“I wish you'd known her,” Lyse said, swallowing hard to dislodge the growing lump in her throat. “She was . . . wonderful and tough and I miss her so much already.”

“I can only imagine how much,” David said, covering her hand with his own and giving it a gentle squeeze. “But I hope we can be there for each other during this painful time.”

The words sounded false coming out of his mouth—like he was a funeral director parroting what the mourners wanted to hear. Arrabelle wondered if Lyse had picked up on the discrepancy—but she couldn't tell.

As they'd been talking, Dev had quietly slipped into the seat next to Arrabelle. Now Arrabelle caught her casting worried glances in Lyse's direction.

“Yeah, it's been really tough,” Lyse said, gently removing her hand from David's grasp, so she could wrap her arms around her knees again. “She was sick, was dying, really, but I just . . . I didn't expect it to happen so quickly.”

“I understand,” he said, nodding. “Nothing really happens until it
happens
.”

“Yes, something like that,” Lyse agreed, then said, “But if there was a fire? How did you find Eleanora when all the information was destroyed?”

“Everyone loves a good story without a happy ending,” Daniela said, from her perch on the kitchen counter. Until that moment she'd been watching the proceedings with half-closed cat's eyes, but now she jumped into the conversation.

“Excuse me?” David said, turning in his seat to look at her.

Daniela—black leather gloves her only nod to the somber occasion—hopped off the kitchen counter.

“Well,” she said, extracting a silver flask from her back pocket and taking a long swallow. “Your timing was pretty shitty.”

She wiped her mouth with the back of her gloved hand and leaned against the kitchen sink, glaring at him.

“Don't you think?”

Arrabelle wished that whatever was in the flask, Daniela would pass it her way. She could use a stiff drink.

“No, you're right,” David said, without hesitation, looking first at Daniela and then at each of the others in turn. “You're
all
right. I should've been here. Should've made my peace with my mother before she died. It was stupid of me. But you can't fault a man for being human, can you? For making a mistake.”

He was good. Very, very good. Was she actually judging an honest man to be false—and declaring him guilty because she could?

“In the end,
I
didn't actually find anyone. They found me.”

“Who found you?” Lyse wanted to know.

“My father. Your grandfather.”

“Why isn't he here now?” Lyse asked, brows knit together as she frowned. “Why didn't he come with you? I don't understand.”

“He and Eleanora were . . . I think
estranged
is the right word,” David said. “When she found out she was pregnant, she wanted to get rid of the babies, but our father said no. So she ran away, and put us up for adoption as soon as we were born. That way she could be free,
and
could also punish our father at the same time. I hate to think of the woman who gave birth to me being so deceitful, but, well, you can imagine how betrayed he felt. The loss of his family almost destroyed him . . .”

“I don't think Eleanora would do that,” Lyse said. “I think there has to be some kind of misunderstanding.”

“That doesn't sound like Eleanora,” Arrabelle agreed. “She may have had secrets, but she wasn't a cruel person—”

“She destroyed three—no, four—people's lives, and never did anything to make it right,” David said, his voice rising in anger. “Her whole life was a lie!”

“You didn't know her. She wouldn't have—” Lyse began.

“I'm glad I didn't,” David spat back at Lyse. “She wasn't capable of love. She was empty.”

“That's not true,” Arrabelle said, slamming her fists down on the tabletop. “Eleanora loved you, Lyse. I believe she had reasons for not being completely honest—”

“She lied to us. She selfishly kept you from me, and your grandfather,” David whispered, compelling Lyse to listen to him. “Prevented me from ever knowing your mother, my own twin—”

Lyse stood up.

“I need a refill. Arrabelle? Would you get the tea for me, please?”

“Of course.”

But when Arrabelle began to open the drawer where they both knew Eleanora kept her tea, Lyse shook her head.

“No, not that drawer. The one back there.”

Arrabelle followed Lyse's gaze over to the cabinet where Eleanora kept her drugs, her eyes widening in surprise. Lyse gave another subtle nod, and Arrabelle understood: Lyse wanted Arrabelle to dose her uncle.

While Arrabelle began to put their plan into action, David continued to wheedle Lyse:

“I'm not looking to start a fight with anyone here,” he was saying, “but you should know that your grandfather would love to meet you. In fact, I told him I'd bring you straight to see him once we'd talked.”

“Oh?” Lyse said, filling the kettle with water and setting it on the stove. “You did?”

Behind her, blocked from his view, Arrabelle was uncorking one of Eleanora's pot tinctures. She measured out a dosage that wouldn't kill him—but would make him
wish
he were dead—and poured it into a nondescript brown mug.

The kettle whistled, and Lyse poured hot water into the waiting mugs, including the one laced with marijuana.

“We can go this afternoon,” David said, taking out his cell phone. “I can arrange it right now.”

Lyse indicated that Arrabelle should carry the mugs back to the table—except for the one reserved for her uncle. That one Lyse delivered herself, setting it down directly in front of him.

“Have some tea with me, Uncle David,” Lyse said, retaking her chair.

David stared down at the mug and made a face—but Arrabelle could see that he didn't want to offend Lyse.

“Cheers,” Lyse said, tapping the side of her mug against his own. “Drink up.”

David picked up the tea and took a tentative sip.

“So where is he?” Lyse asked.

Impatient for David to drink his tea, Arrabelle took a sip from her own steaming mug, and burned her mouth.

“He's in San Francisco right now,” David said, sipping his drink. “He travels a lot for work.”

“Oh,” Lyse said. “I thought you meant he was nearby. That he was itching to meet me.”

“That
was
the plan,” David assured her, “but at the last minute he was called away on business. Trust me when I say he's dying to see you.”

Just to be done with it, David raised his mug to his lips and, making a face, downed the whole thing in one swallow. Arrabelle sat back in her chair and smiled.

“We can leave right now, if you want to,” David said. “Once you've finished your tea.”

Lyse considered her uncle's offer.

“Well, we're scattering Eleanora's ashes tomorrow afternoon—”

David nodded, schooling his features into something resembling thoughtfulness.

“Of course. I understand. But, in full disclosure, your grandfather is leaving for Chile in the morning, and I'm not sure when he'll be back.”

Arrabelle opened her mouth, but Lyse caught her eye and slowly shook her head.

“I don't know,” Lyse said, as if she were a small child who couldn't make a decision between cupcakes or ice cream. “It's such a difficult decision . . .”

David began to rub his eyes.

“Lyse, I really must insist you come with me.” He stood up and grabbed hold of her arm, trying to drag her to her feet—but the tincture was finally starting to take effect, and he began to sway woozily.

“I don't feel well,” he murmured, dropping Lyse's arm and resting his forehead on the back of his chair.

Dev stared at David, confused by his odd behavior—and then her eyes flew to Arrabelle's face.

What did you do?
she mouthed. Arrabelle shook her head and pointed at Lyse.

“Are you all right?” Arrabelle asked David.

He looked up at her and shook his head.

“What . . . did you . . . do?”
he moaned, and lunged for Arrabelle.

She sidestepped his uncoordinated attack, and he slammed into the table, overturning cups and sending hot tea spilling onto the floor.

“I'm gonna kill you,” he said, picking himself up and glaring at Arrabelle.

He began to lurch toward Arrabelle again, but Daniela stepped in.

“I've got this,” she said—and shoved a kitchen chair in his path.

His reaction time was too slow, and he couldn't get out of the way in time. His legs hit the solid wood seat, knocking him off his feet. He landed on his ass, his legs sprawled across the floor—but he didn't stay down for long. He grabbed for the chair and dragged himself back onto his feet, eyes pinwheeling in their sockets as he lunged for Daniela, who easily danced out of his reach.