Lover's Lane (13 page)

18

Long Beach,
California

THE 710 FREEWAY DUMPED JAKE INTO TOWN NEAR THE Aquarium of the Pacific. He drove past the Marina and Shoreline Village with its shops and restaurants and the Queen Mary across the water.

Instead of heading straight to his condo, he turned into Naples, an area where million-dollar homes were wedged side by side onto thirty-by-ninety-foot lots fronting either Alamitos Bay or a man-made canal dredged out of marsh-land back in the early twenties.

His grandfather had raised Jake’s dad there. It was the kind of area where kids who left home wanted to buy property and move back—if they could afford it.

Kat had said his grandfather hadn’t sounded like himself, so he decided to stop by and check on the old man for himself.

Jackson Montgomery’s maid ushered Jake in and quietly slipped off to her own room. Granddad was in the living room watching television, but when Jake walked in, the older man picked up the remote and punched the mute button.

“What are you doing here?” Jackson continued to slouch in an overstuffed brown leather recliner.

“Nice to see you, too, Granddad.”

Jake sat down opposite his grandfather, his gaze drawn by the view beyond the two-story windows that fronted the bay. A long, sleek sailboat silently cut the black water, trailing a blue-white phosphorescent wake. As the sparkling wedge widened, the reflection of lights spilling out of the sumptuous homes across the bay danced on the water.

“Want a Scotch?” Jackson asked.

Jake shook his head. “No, thanks. I haven’t eaten yet. I just stopped by to see how you’re doing.”

“Well, I’m not dead yet, if that’s what you came to find out. Why don’t you fix me another?” He picked up the tumbler that had been sitting on the table beside him, handed it over to Jake who got up and walked over to the wet bar.

Jake freshened the ice and poured a healthy dose of Scotch, knowing if he didn’t, the old man would just send him back to add more.

Jackson looked unusually pale, too shrunken and frail for someone who’d always been larger than life. It was a moment or two before Jake realized that, for the first time, his grandfather not only looked his age, but also very vulnerable.

“How are you, Granddad?”

“Oh, hell, I’m all right. Nothing a long fishing trip down to Cabo and a few shots of good tequila wouldn’t cure.” He took a sip of Scotch, reverently cradled the glass in liver-spotted hands. “Sure you don’t want a drink?”

“Positive.”

“What’s wrong? Are you working?”

Jake shook his head. “Not tonight.”

He knew what was coming next. There wasn’t room for a sigh between his answer and his grandfather’s first verbal attack.

“When are you going to quit wasting your time with that Goddamn nickel-and-dime business and come work for me? You could have made some real money by now if you’d come into the company. Why in the hell you want to run around sifting through other people’s dirty laundry is beyond me.”

For as long as he could remember, Jake had wanted to be a detective. When he was a kid he always tried to figure out how books and movies were going to end, and he thought he was pretty good at it. As he got older he realized there was more to being a detective than solving puzzles and guessing how plots unfolded.

At thirteen, when he announced to his folks that he wanted to be a policeman, his mother had withdrawn into worried silence. She’d come to his room that night after he’d gone to bed and sat down beside him in the dark.

“I lost your father because of his racing. It was his dream, Jake, so I never stood in his way. If, in a few years, you still want to be a police officer, I’ll support you, but I’m asking you now to think about it and to think of me and what I’d be going through if you were out there in harm’s way.”

He never forgot those quiet words she’d spoken in the dark, and when he went to college, he’d majored in criminal justice, but always with the intention of doing undercover work and never planning to go to the police academy.

From day one, he’d loved private investigating and would never trade it for a desk job, even if that meant giving up being the CEO of Montgomery Pipeline Supply.

That he became the owner of his own firm had never impressed his grandfather. The old man never asked about his work, and knowing how he felt, Jake never volunteered anything about it, either.

“Granddad, you’ve wasted a hell of a lot of time trying to convince me to quit being a P.I. When are you going to give it up?”

“You’re as stubborn as your father. I couldn’t stop him from ruining his life either. He could have had anything. He could have been running Montgomery Pipeline Supply all these years. If he had, he’d still be alive. But no, he
had
to marry that
woman
.”

“That
woman
is my mother,” Jake cut him off, wondering why he’d even bothered to stop by. “She wasn’t the one responsible for Dad wanting to race.”

“She encouraged him.”

“She loved him.”

Something his mother strongly believed, something his granddad never understood and never would, was that loving someone meant encouraging and supporting their choices and helping them dream big dreams. She had always been there for his dad, no matter how terrified she was when he raced. She’d never once failed to champion Jake, either, never ever trampled on his dreams.

Jackson swallowed more Scotch. “I was only trying to keep you from making the same mistake as your father.”

“That’s what life is all about. Living and learning.” Jake thought of Carly and Christopher, of their afternoon at the house. Of Carly’s fear, of Christopher’s curiosity and trust. Of how they were learning from each other.

He wondered what Carly was doing now, tried to imagine her in her small studio, painting. Was she listening to the sound of the sea? Was she thinking of him at all, or was he out of sight and out of mind? He turned to hear what his grandfather was saying, tried to concentrate on something other than Carly.

Jackson shook his head. “Mistakes can kill you. Just look at your father. I never understood him. Or you.” He lifted his head, pinned Jake with a watery blue stare. “Your secretary said you were up the coast.”

“Kat’s my partner, not my secretary. I drove up the coast to Twilight Cove.”

“Never heard of it.” Which, in Granddad’s vernacular, meant that the place had to be worth next to nothing.

“It’s a little south of San Luis Obispo. I’m thinking about spending some time up there this summer. I found a great rental house to lease for a couple of months.”

That got the old man’s attention. He stopped staring at the bay and put his drink down. “What
kind
of a house?”

“A fixer-upper. An old Craftsman built in the early 1900s.”

“You buying it?”

Jake shook his head. “Can’t afford it.”

Jackson snorted. “If you’d worked for me, you could. You could have had anything you wanted. I’d have given you anything.”

“If only I’d have moved out of Mom’s house at fifteen and lived with you. If only I’d done everything you wanted me to do.”

“You’d have been better off here than living with her and that bleeding-heart-liberal
handyman
she married.”

“Manny was a skilled artisan. Why would I leave anyone like Mom and Manny to live with a belligerent drunk?”

“Touché.” Jackson took another sip of Scotch, lifted the glass to the light, and swirled the ice in the amber liquid.

“You ever really loved anybody, Granddad? I mean, have you ever really,
really
loved anybody? Even Grandma?” Jake had barely known his grandmother. His only memory of her was a pale shadow hovering beside Granddad. She wore neat, tailored knit suits and pearls. Always the pearls. She said very little and kept the old man’s glass full. She’d died shortly after Jake lost his dad.

Jackson mumbled something. Jake leaned forward. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“I said it’s not worth it.”

“What’s not?”

“Loving anybody.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because they always leave you—one way or another.” Any notion of asking for a loan had evaporated the minute Jake had walked in. He would sooner lie down buck naked on hot coals. He’d go ahead and rent the house above Twilight for the summer, do some minimal painting, clean it up enough to make it livable for the brief amount of time he would get to use it.

Owning the Craftsman overlooking the sea had been a pipe dream. He would have probably ended up hating the commute, not to mention having to squirrel away time to get up there.

Jackson drained the Scotch and set down the empty glass. Jake had no idea how many drinks the old man had polished off before he got there, but there was no use trying to carry on a conversation now. Only a fool debated drunken logic.

Granddad stared at him, his heavy jowls hanging, almost as if his skin was beginning to slide off his face. The old man was working himself up to say something. When he finally did, it came out as a tight growl.

“Why’d you come over?”

“You left me a message.”

“But why come to see me? You could have just called.” The words were slurred, as if Jackson were talking around a mouthful of dimes. “D’you come by to see if I was dead yet?”

“I didn’t come by to have you try to pick a fight.”

Jake stood up, unwilling to waste any more time. As he walked past the old man’s chair, Jackson grabbed his wrist. His grandfather hadn’t the strength to keep him from walking out, but succeeded in stopping him in his tracks.

“Why, Jake? D’you come over because you think I might change my mind and that I’ll put you into my will so you can get that house you want? You think I owe you something, just because you’re m’ grandson?”

Something inside Jake snapped as he listened to the weak, surly old man who had made his dad and mom’s short time together miserable.

“You really don’t get it, do you, Granddad? You never have. You cut Dad out of your life the day he chose racing over your company. You continued to make Mom miserable after he died, complaining about the way she was raising me, demanding I stay with you every summer. You honestly want to know why I still come by to see you? Why I’m still even in contact with you? Because it matters to
her
.

“Mom’s the one who insisted I go on those fishing trips every damn summer. She wanted me to spend time with you because we’re family.
She’s
the one who insisted we stay connected because, even though Dad was gone, I was still a Montgomery.

“She taught me and Julie that the only thing worth anything in this life is family. Strip away that goddamn money you’re so worried about, and what have you got left? Nothing. You’ve tried to use it as leverage for years, first with Dad, then me, but you never understood that neither of us cared enough about it to dance to your tune.”

Jackson slowly righted himself, propped his elbow on the arm of the chair, and leaned forward. “So, you’re trying to tell me that you
suffered
through those fishing trips to Baja, eh?”

Memories flashed through Jake’s mind. Billfish flashing like bright iridescent slivers of rainbows against the open sky. Blazing sun on aquamarine water. Bonfires and barbeques at night. Flaky lobster served up on fresh, warm tortillas. Rocking to sleep on the open deck of the yacht. Swimming and diving for abalone with Rick and the other sons and grandsons of club members he’d eventually come to know. Laughing brown-skinned girls who taught them how to make love. Cold bottles of
Corona
.

The sun-drenched summers of his youth.

Despite the verbal abuse he’d had to take from Granddad, he had had Rick’s friendship, and when he got back home, there was plenty of love and support from Mom and Manny.

“You must really hate me.” Jackson slumped back into the chair.

Jake shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged, refusing the invitation to his grandfather’s private pity party.

“You know what, Granddad? I should, but I don’t. You can thank Mom for that, too. But thank yourself for the fact that I feel very little for you at all.” He glanced out at the bay, envied the old man’s spectacular view but nothing else. The stunning view of the water was all Jackson Montgomery could enjoy anymore. The view and his Scotch.

“I’ve got to go.” Drained, Jake longed for a shower, a cold beer, and the solitude of his own place.

Jackson acted as if he hadn’t heard. “I got a call the other day. Somebody asking if you were still in business.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jake was surprised his grandfather had even bothered to remember. “Who from?”

“Anna Saunders.”

The name sent Jake’s mind reeling.

Why me?
he wondered.
Why now?

The Saunders had hired the well-established firm of Alexander and Perry not because he’d been employed there, but because of the prestige and success associated with the firm. But Charles Saunders had told him early on that he was relieved to know that someone who had known and cared about Rick would be assisting on the case.

But Saunders hadn’t been relieved enough to retain him to continue the search when Jake left Alexander and Perry.

“Did Mrs. Saunders say what she wanted?”

“She talked about how nobody ever found that woman or the boy.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Maybe she wants you to give it a try. She wants you to call her.”

Jake ran his hand over the back of his neck. Was this synchronicity or just bad timing?

“Why now?” Merely thinking aloud, he wasn’t really expecting an answer.

“Maybe you ought to call her and find out.”

19

CARLY PULLED BETTY FORD OVER TO THE CURB IN FRONT OF Twilight Cove Elementary and kept the engine running as the primary grades spilled out of the building. Chris spotted the car and ran over, opened the door, and hopped in, automatically reaching for the seat belt.

“Why the long face?” She ruffled his hair, noticing he wasn’t his usual exuberant self. “Didn’t you get to share your beetle?”

He shrugged and then sighed, a sure sign things hadn’t gone well. “Yeah. I shared it. I even chased some of the girls with it at lunch, but then it died.”

“I’m so sorry. Did you get into trouble?”

“Nah.”

“So what’s wrong?”

He dug in the backpack. Carly glanced down, saw a crumpled piece of yellow paper in his hand. He held it up.

“I can’t read while I’m driving, honey.”

“It says Friday is Grandparents’ Day and I don’t have any.” Carly hit the turn signal and carefully eased out onto Cabrillo Road.
Grandparents’ Day.
When would these people realize not every kid came from a cookie-cutter family? That most parents were just trying to keep it together, to get by day to day without having to prop up the educational system by showing up all the time?

“We’re all ’posed to bring a grandparent, but Mrs. Schack said if we don’t have one, then we can bring someone who’s like a . . . mentor.”

“A mentor?”

He scratched his nose and sighed. “You know, Mom. Somebody who can share a skill or hobby.”

Carly didn’t think life should be this hard on a kindergartner. Lost in thought, she continued down the road, then turned between the tiki torches. One was lit, the other wasn’t.

“Mom?”

“What?”

“What about it? I need a grandparent by
Friday
.”

“How about Mrs. Schwartz?”

“Oh, sheesh, Mom. What if she came with purple hair or something? Besides,
what
is she going to share? How to yell Bunco and fall off a chair?”

Carly had to bite her lips and collect herself before she could answer. “It’s not nice to make fun of Etta. She might be a little eccentric, but she loves you dearly.”

She pulled into the parking space in front of their mobile home, turned the key. When the death rattle stopped, she took the flyer from Chris.

Grandparents’ Day.

“What about Selma?” she suggested.

His eyes widened as he immediately shook his head. “She’s nice, but . . .
not
Selma, Mom.” He scrunched his brows and tapped his forehead, thinking.

“How about
Jake
?” The idea had not just come to him, she could tell because, despite his intelligence, he was a terrible actor.

“Jake isn’t even in Twilight, and I’m not sure when he’ll be back.”
Or if he’ll want to see me again when he gets here.

“I like Jake a lot. How ’bout you, Mom?”

“I think he’s very nice.”

“Do you think he likes you?”

“I’m sure he likes both of us.”

“What about Joe?”

Chris had changed the subject so quickly she shook her head.

“What
about
Joe?”

“He could be the grandparent for the day.”

“You mean Joe Caron? The cook?”

“Yeah. Joe’s great.”

“He has to work.”

“He wouldn’t have to talk long. Since everybody has to have a turn, it’ll only take a few minutes.” Chris reached for the door handle, ready to go inside. “Think about it, Mom,” he said, sounding very much like she did whenever she tried to talk him into something. With that he opened the door and jumped out.

Carly pulled the keys, wondering if Joe might consider attending grandparents’ day. She knew he had grandkids of his own. Their photos were stapled to the back door in the diner. Besides, he
was
the grandfatherly type, with his huge belly laugh and easy going nature.

“Mom! I gotta use the bathroom.” Chris was hopping up and down the porch steps.

When she unlocked the front door, Chris shot around her, headed down the hall.

“I’ll ask Joe tomorrow,” she called after him. “Maybe he will be able to help.”

Chris skidded to a stop. “Ask him to wear his bullfighter cape, too, okay? Will ya remember, Mom? I’ll be the only one with a bullfighter, even if he is only a
fake
grandpa.”

She never knew her own grandparents.

Mom never came back after she walked out, but she’d
never been there that much anyway, so life stayed pretty
much the same for six years. Dad’s world narrowed to the
living room couch, his bed, the liquor store where he cashed
his disability checks.

She had food and a roof over her head. He signed her up
for school when she was five. Teachers reported that she
was a bright and capable child, quiet and serious.

They had no idea what home was like.

By December of the sixth grade she was in the middle of
her best school year yet. Miss DeCoudres, her teacher, had
seen the loneliness in her, recognized her need to shine, and
often let her stay after school to help straighten up the room
and check papers.

She liked to think that Miss DeCoudres could see deep
into her heart and knew who she really was—not the little
blonde who wore old, stained clothes, the girl with the tangled hair. Not the girl who went home to a mess clouded by
a smoky haze, forced to get dinner together herself if she
and Dad were going to eat anything at all.

She loved the way Miss DeCoudres always smelled like
baby powder, the way she wore her hair long and straight.
She wished just once she could get up the nerve to ask if
Miss DeCoudres would teach her how to fix her own hair
so it would look nicer, like the girls who had someone at
home to braid and comb theirs for them.

Her teacher wore pretty clothes, mostly jumpers and
pleated, plaid skirts. She had pins with rhinestones, too, one
for each and every holiday.

Miss DeCoudres was wearing her special Christmas pin,
a glistening emerald tree with a bright yellow rhinestone
star and little multicolored stones for ornaments on the last
morning that Carly ever walked into her favorite classroom
and took her seat up front.

When it was time to go to the cafeteria for lunch, she was
still sitting at her desk. Miss DeCoudres walked over and
stood in front of her. As if her teacher’s voice was being funneled to her through an empty oatmeal box, she heard her
say, “Are you all right, dear? You look pale. Maybe you
need to go to the nurse?”

While Miss DeCoudres reached down to feel her forehead, she stared at her teacher’s plaid wool skirt because
lifting her eyes would take too much effort. She wasn’t exactly sick. Just numb.

She’d gotten up that morning and dressed and walked
into the kitchen to make herself a bowl of Count Chocula.

It wasn’t a good idea to wake Dad before school, so she
usually left without even talking to him. But that morning,
after she grabbed her backpack and walked through the living room, she got a creepy feeling along her spine and
turned around. Dad was sprawled on the couch.

Seeing him there at that time of day wasn’t all that
strange. Lots of nights he never made it to bed. But that
morning his mouth was hanging open and his skin was the
color of a bad bruise.

She walked over, gazed down at the foam on his lips and
stared into unseeing, olive-colored eyes.

No one needed to tell her that he wouldn’t be walking
down to the liquor store later for a case of beer and a carton
of cigarettes. Cancer sticks he always called them, then
he’d laugh as if he hadn’t said it a hundred thousand times
already.

Miss DeCoudres was waiting patiently for her to look up,
so she mustered barely enough courage to finally put into
words what she had tried to deny all morning.

“I think my dad’s dead,” she whispered, shaking all over,
tasting each word, cold and hard as stones.

Her teacher dropped to her knees. Suddenly they were
eye-to-eye, the intimate contact jarring and unfamiliar.

“What are you saying, honey?”

“My dad’s dead on the couch at home. I’m pretty sure he
is. He was kinda blue. And his skin was real cold.” When
she realized she was looking at Miss DeCoudres through a
smeary blur, she blinked. A hot tear trailed down her cheek,
and she got embarrassed and quickly wiped it off with the
back of her hand.

The nightmare thickened after that. She never saw Miss
DeCoudres again. Never even went back home. Child services picked her up at school, and that night she slept at a
foster home, a way station where she waited four weeks until they placed her with another foster family.

She wasn’t an infant. People looking to adopt never
chose eleven-year-olds. She quickly learned that moving
from one foster home to another wasn’t any better than taking care of a drunk.