What the Heart Wants (20 page)

S
o, it was over.

Just like that, she was alone again. Sure, Jase's belongings were strewn all over the house, but that was only temporary. Maybe he'd take back the dishwasher repair too.

She trudged upstairs and exchanged the sexy fuchsia dress for a chaste white cotton nightgown, then returned to the den. There was no way she could sleep in the bed tonight that she and Jase had shared. Instead, tucking her feet under herself, she curled up in a chair and pulled an afghan over her shoulders to keep herself warm, then flicked the remote at the TV.

The programs seemed even more banal than usual, but the real performance was in her brain as it continuously reran the Betsy Simcek show. And she hadn't been the only audience. By the time Betsy finished, everyone in the building must have crowded into the room to find out what the ruckus was about—the waiters, Dave's new wife's family, Art Sawyer, Mrs. Atherton, Kel, Pendleton Swaim (where had those two come from?)—people she knew and people she didn't. Everyone.

Dear God, she'd almost made it, almost gotten out of the club scot-free, and then Jase's minion appeared with Larry Traylor and Rick Simcek right behind him.

She understood Aunt Betsy's reaction to seeing Edward Harlow's daughter all dressed up and enjoying an evening out. The Simceks didn't have any children, so Betsy lavished all her attention on her sister's only son. Laurel was still writing monthly checks for his psychotherapy, although she suspected his problems went far beyond her father. Still, she didn't begrudge him. How could she? What Daddy had done was unforgivable.

There was no getting around the fact that she was her father's daughter, and, as far as Betsy Simcek was concerned, if Daddy wasn't what he should have been, his daughter wasn't either. Apparently Jase felt the same way.

The glare from the television screen began to bother her, and she closed her eyes for a moment's rest. This was absolutely the worst day of her life, even worse than when Daddy had made his confession.

Jase had no particular destination in mind when he left Laurel's house. He just needed to get away. Everything was too much—a bad dream, a nightmare. If only the world would reverse course and go back to the way it was sixteen years ago, when Laurel was princess of Bosque Bend, and Reverend Ed its virtual king.

Sexual abuse—molestation, probably other things he didn't want to think about. He couldn't believe it.

Damn.
How many times had he daydreamed about Growler dying and Reverend Ed adopting him?

The psychologist had told him that sexual predators seemed to have an instinct for children deprived of affection. That's why Marguerite Shelton had zeroed in on him, because he'd been vulnerable. Was that what Reverend Ed had seen in him too, his vulnerability? What might have happened if he had stayed around town another year or two?

Halfway through an intersection, he realized he'd run a red light. Who cared? It was night, there weren't any other cars around, and he could buy his way out—just pay the ticket and be done with it. In fact, he could buy almost anything he wanted. Not like Laurel, who apparently was stone-cold broke.

Well, at least now he knew where the Kinkaid fortune had gone. And why she hid herself away in that big house all the time. And why she wanted to leave Bosque Bend. All his questions had been answered, just as he'd wanted, but the answers hadn't been anywhere near what he'd expected. If only he'd left well enough alone. Maybe he and Laurel could have slipped out of town, flown up to Nevada and married quietly, then appeared in Dallas as man and wife, and no one would be the wiser—least of all him.

But ignorance is
not
bliss. He would have learned about Reverend Ed sooner or later, and if he couldn't deal with learning the truth now, how would he have felt learning about it after he'd brought her into his house as his wife?

He hit the wheel with his hand in frustration. Damn! He'd governed everything he did by Edward Harlow's precepts, and so much of his feeling for Laurel was bound up with his admiration for her father…

He was careful to stop at the next light. Bosque Bend didn't have that many traffic signals, but he was hitting them all wrong. Fuck! Must be bad timing. Just like with Laurel.

The ring felt heavy as lead in his pocket.

Maybe they could still do Vegas. He could make a U-turn right now, pick Laurel up, and whisk her out of town to a new life. They'd lock all this—this
sordidness
in a closet and never talk about it again.

But would it be that easy to forget? Every time he looked at Laurel, he saw her father in her—her gray eyes and dark hair, something in the shape of her face, the way she carried herself. She even sounded like him—calm, soothing, concerned. He snorted. Maybe her concern was as false as Reverend Ed's must have been.

No, he knew better than that—didn't he? Oh God, what
did
he know? His whole world had just been blasted to smithereens.

He deliberately ignored a stop sign.

Would he ever be able to make love to her again without thinking of what her father had done?

Fuck, what was he doing at the Shallows? He'd thought he was driving aimlessly, but maybe this was an appropriate destination. For all its beautification, the place was just river bottom. And, for all his money and closetful of Armani suits, he was just Jase Redlander, son of the Meanest Man in Texas.

He parked in the lot, rolled down his window, and stared up into the night. Holy shit, the cicadas were wailing like banshees on crack.

Had Traylor and Simcek recognized his name? He certainly knew theirs. Those canny old buzzards had been wheeling and dealing around Bosque Bend since he'd been in grade school. But then, the way he figured it, if there was a buck to be made, they'd remember him as the angel Gabriel. And apparently, for his sake, they were even willing to make nice to Reverend Ed's daughter too—all except Mrs. Simcek, that is.

He uttered a brief, sharp laugh. What a switch. Laurel Harlow, the princess of Bosque Bend, being tolerated only because she was with Jase Redlander, despoiler of innocent schoolteachers.

The stars were high now, and the moon was a distant disc of white. His world had been knocked out of orbit, but the heavens kept revolving as usual. He stared out the windshield into the dark night and wondered what would happen if he married Laurel, and they had children. Could he protect them from learning about Reverend Ed? Hell—what if they found out about Growler? He was having a hard enough time trying to protect Lolly from learning about Marguerite.

God didn't send him any answers, so finally he put in a CD of Charlie Pride oldies and leaned back on the seat to rest, awakening occasionally through the night to fight off images of two fig-leafed Greek statues closing in on him.

The next thing he knew, a cruelly bright sun was glaring through the windshield as it rose over the placid Bosque. He glanced around at his surroundings, trying to orient himself.

Damn, sleeping out here all night—that was a stupid thing to do. There was no way to fence the park off, and he'd bet bad boys still congregated in hidden places when the sun went down. He was lucky he hadn't been mugged.

Putting the Caddie in gear, he backed out of the parking space and headed home, home to the old house on the west arm of the Bosque for a morning shower and a good cup of coffee. He was sticky with sweat and his mouth tasted fuzzy.

Besides, he didn't want to face Laurel yet.

She'd understand.

There was an insistent ringing in Laurel's ear. If the phone hadn't been on the desk next to her, she never would have picked it up in time.

“Hullo?” Was it Jase? Her brain hustled itself into wakefulness.

“Good morning, Ms. Harlow. This is Craig—Craig Freiberg. I, uh, want to apologize for the incident at the club last night. I'm so sorry about Mrs. Simcek. I hope you won't hold it against me. Her husband said she'd been having nervous problems lately. I had no idea she would fly off the handle like that.”

“That's okay.” What else could she say? Nothing was Craig Freiberg's fault. He was trying to help Jase by introducing him to the mayor and his business crony.

“Uh, may I speak with Jase, please?”

“He's not here.” She tried to sound nonchalant. “Have you tried his cell?”

“It seems to be turned off, but he gave me this number as a backup. I assumed…”

Glancing at the century-old photo of Erasmus in the bookcase across from her, Laurel straightened her shoulders, put on her best schoolteacher voice, and took control of the conversation. “Mr. Redlander's visit was limited in duration, and I do not know when he will be returning.”

“But I thought…” Craig stopped dead, finally realizing something was wrong. “Uh…okay…thank you. I'll try him again.”

Laurel replaced the phone on its cradle, switched off an irritatingly cheery morning TV host, made her way up the stairs, and started running her bath.

Brazening it out hadn't worked. She was defeated, kayoed, out for the count. There was no other way their relationship could end. She'd known from the beginning that Jase wouldn't be able to handle the scandal.

She stripped off her gown and stepped into the warm water. Her affair with Jase had been a wonderful interlude, a magic bubble, one she would always hold in her heart. Now she had to continue with the rest of her life, which meant there was nothing left to do but clean up the leftovers and erase all evidence of Jase's habitation. She'd pack up his stuff and put everything in the coat closet next to the front door. No reason to waste time hunting and gathering when he sent someone to pick up his belongings.

In a way, it was a relief that Jase was out of the picture. Now she could follow up on that job offer from Brownsville. Betty Arnold had been as good as her word in supplying her with a good reference.

Game plan decided, she dried herself and dressed in shorts and the blue-checked shirt, the tough one, the one that could absorb anything and wash out clean.

The phone rang while she was filling out her information form for Brownsville. Should she just ignore it? Maybe it was Craig Freiberg again, and she absolutely didn't want to talk to him. But maybe it was the Realtor with a hot prospect.

“Laurel? Is this Laurel?”

It was Jase. Her silly heart leapt up.

“Yes.”

“You didn't sound like yourself at first.”

She laughed. “It's me.” Was he coming back?

“I just called to say I'm sorry I left like that. I'm heading off to Dallas in a bit, but I'll be in touch.”

Her heart landed with a thud. “Oh. Well, have a good trip.”

“Are you—are you okay? You sound odd again.”

“Just fine.”
Except that my heart is broken
.

“I'm sorry, Laurel, but I need time to get my head around this. Reverend Ed…”

“I understand.”

“People like Betsy Simcek…you've had a hard time of it, haven't you? Will you be safe? I could get you a bodyguard or something.”

“I can call the police if anything happens. Mervin Hruska doesn't look the other way like his predecessor did.”

“Well, call me if you change your mind about the protection. You've got my number.”

“Thanks.”

Her eyes began to smart as soon as she hung up the phone, but she refused to allow herself to cry. She'd cried a week ago when he was about to leave, and look how that had ended up—now she was more alone than ever.

Instead, she made herself a strong cup of coffee, sat down at the kitchen table, and checked in with her Realtor again.

Good news. He'd talked to an out-of-town couple, the Cokers, about Kinkaid House, and they'd be coming to town next week to visit the property. She hoped it would work out. The way things looked right now, she would need to be in Brownsville by mid-August, and she'd prefer to sell the house before then.

Now to drink her coffee and brood awhile. She could indulge herself that much.

What was that?
Someone was knocking on the door.

She started to get up, but sat back down. She didn't feel like talking to anyone. Maybe her visitor would cease and desist if she pretended she wasn't at home.

The bell started ringing and a loud, familiar voice called out her name.

“Laurel! Laurel Elizabeth Harlow! Answer the door! I know you're in there!”

It was Sarah.

Laurel put down her coffee, walked slowly to the door, and opened it a hand's width. “Go away.”

“Let me in right now, or I'll call the cops and have them break down the door!”

“You can't do that!”

“The hell I can't! I'll tell them you're suicidal! Besides, you know that Mervin Hruska always did whatever I asked him to!”

Laurel opened the door. Sarah threw her arms around her the second she stepped across the threshold.

“Sweetie, I've missed you so much, and I just had to come over when I heard about what happened at the Bosque Club. Besides, Mother told me that black Cadillac wasn't in your driveway last night.”

Laurel drooped her head to Sarah's shoulder. She needed her so much right now. “Betsy Simcek—”

“Betsy Simcek should be institutionalized. And Jase Redlander should be hung from a yardarm, whatever that is. Now, let's go into the kitchen and talk everything over.”

Jase gave Craig Freiberg instructions about finishing up the two deals he'd committed himself to in Bosque Bend, then drove over to Dairy Queen for his meeting with Arthur Sawyer.

Sawyer hailed him from a table near the door. “You're right on time, Jason. I like that. Dependable.”

“I try.” Jase looked around. The store wasn't even recognizable from the last time he'd been there. Laurel had told him the Mayfields had redone the restaurant, but he hadn't expected the place to look quite so upscale.