A Different Blue (40 page)

“Jimmy said I kept saying blue . . .”  The puzzle piece clicked into place, and I halted midsentence.

“Jimmy said I kept saying 'blue,'” I repeated. “So that's what he called me.”

“That's how you got your name?” Wilson was incredulous, understanding dawning across his handsome face.

“Yes . . . and all the time, I must have just wanted my blanket. You would think she would have left it with me, wrapped it around me when she left me on that front seat. That she would have known how scared I would be, how much I would need that damn blanket.” I pushed away, fighting out of Wilson's arms, desperate to breathe. But my chest was so tight I couldn't inhale. I felt myself cracking, the fissures spreading at lightning speed across the thin ice that I had been walking on my whole life. And then I was submerged in grief, consumed by it. I fought for breath, fought to rise to the surface. But there was lead in my feet, and I was sinking fast.

“You've had enough for today, Blue.” Wilson gathered me against him and pulled the door open, signaling to someone beyond the door.

“She's had all she can take,” I heard him say, and someone else was suddenly there beside me. My vision blurred and darkness closed in. I felt myself being lowered to a chair, and my head was forced between my legs.

“Breathe, Blue. Come on, Baby. Deep breaths,” Wilson crooned in my ear. My head cleared slightly, and the ice in my veins began to thaw the slightest degree. One breath, then several more. When my vision cleared I had only one request.

“I want to go home, Wilson. I don't want to know any more.”

We left the police station with a copy of the file. Wilson insisted I take it, as well as the contact information for people who shared my blood but had never shared my life. I wanted to throw the file out the window as we drove and let the pages spill out across the road and into the Reno night, a hundred pages of a tragic life tossed into the wind so they could be forgotten and never gathered again.

We ate a drive-thru, too weary and subdued to leave the car or even converse. But home was eight hours away and our flight wasn't until 8 the next morning, so we found a hotel and paid for one room for one night. Wilson didn't ask me if I wanted my own. I didn't. But there were two double beds in the room, and as soon as we checked in, I brushed my teeth, pulled off my jeans, and crawled into one, promptly falling asleep.

I dreamed of strings of paper-doll cutouts with my mother's face and blankets in every color but blue. I dreamed I was still in high school, walking through endless hallways, looking for Wilson but instead finding dozens of children who didn't know their names. I came awake with tears on my cheeks and terror writhing in my belly, convinced that Wilson had left Reno while I slept. But he was still there in the bed next to mine, his long arms wrapped around the spare pillow, his tousled hair a dark contrast against the white sheets. Moonlight spilled onto him, and I watched him sleep for a long time, memorizing the line of his jaw, the sweep of long lashes against his lean cheeks, watching his lips as he sighed in his sleep.

Then, without giving myself time to consider my actions, I crept into his bed and curled myself around him, resting my head against his back, wrapping my arms around his chest. I wanted to seal him to me, to fuse him to my skin, to reassure myself that he was actually mine. I pressed my lips against his back and slid my hands up under his T-shirt, pressing my hands against his flat abdomen, stroking upward to his chest. I felt him come awake, and he turned toward me, his face falling into the shadows as he held himself above me. Moonlight limned him in white, and when I reached up and touched his face, he was perfectly still, letting me trace his features with my fingertips, letting me rise up and rain kisses across his jaw, across his closed lids, and finally against his lips. Then, without a word, he pressed me down against the pillows and captured my hands in his. My breath caught in anticipation as he pulled me firmly against his chest, trapping my hands between us.

But he didn't kiss my mouth or run his hands along my skin. He didn't whisper words of love or desire. Instead, he tucked my head beneath his chin and wrapped me in his arms so securely I could hardly move, and he didn't let me go. I lay in stunned surprise, waiting for him to loosen his grip, waiting for his hands to touch, for his body to move against mine. But his arms stayed locked around me, his breathing remained steady, and his body remained still. And there, in the circle of his arms, held so fiercely that there was no room to doubt him or fear his loss, I slept.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

When I awoke the next morning, Wilson was already up, showered and clean-shaven, but his eyes were tired, and I wondered if holding me all night had taken a toll. And I was a little embarrassed that I had been rebuffed, as tender as his refusal had been. He didn't act awkward or uncomfortable, so I pushed away my hurt feelings and rushed through a shower and a quick breakfast so we could make our flight home. I was preoccupied and quiet, Wilson was introspective and morose, and by the time we dragged ourselves through the doors of Pemberley, we were both in need of our separate corners, the weight of the last twenty-four hours hovering like a black cloud. Wilson carried my duffle bag to my apartment and paused before heading to his own.

“Blue. I know you're exhausted. I'm absolutely knackered, and I'm not the one who's had their world turned upside down over and over again over the last few months. But you need to see this through to the end,” he entreated.

“I know, Wilson.”

“Would you like me to call her? It might make it easier to take the next step.”

“Is that weak?” I asked, really wanting to let him but not wanting to do the easy thing if it meant I was a wimp.

“It's delegation, luv. It's ensuring it gets done without tying yourself up in knots.”

“Then, yes. Please. And I'll be ready whenever she is.”

It turned out Stella Aguilar was tougher than I because she was ready immediately. So Wilson and I headed for St. George, Utah, the very next morning in Wilson's Subaru. We had both had a solid twelve hours of sleep in our own beds . . . separately, which concerned me a little, mostly because I didn't know what to make of it. Wilson was a completely different kind of guy than I was used to. He was a gentleman in a world of Masons and Colbys. And I was very afraid that the fact that I wasn't much of a lady was going to be a problem.

“Tell me what it's like,” I pleaded, my thoughts narrowed on the task that lay ahead .

“What what's like?” Wilson replied, his eyes on the road.

“Meeting your birth parents for the first time. What did you say? Tiffa said you did it on your own. You are obviously braver than I am. I don't think I could do this alone.”

“The circumstances are completely different, Blue. Don't ever believe you aren't brave. You are the toughest bird I know, and that, luv, is a compliment. I was eighteen when I met my birth parents. My mum had maintained contact with them throughout the years so that someday I could. She thought there might come a time when it might be important to me. My dad was against it. He thought it was unnecessary, and he was certain it would be distracting. I was one semester away from graduating, and I had been burying myself in school, which was very like me, I have to confess. I'd managed to fit four years of school into two-and-a-half, keeping to a schedule my father and I had mapped out. My father was an incredibly driven man, and I thought being a man meant being just like him. But it was semester break, and I was restless and irritable, and frankly, I was a powder keg, waiting to explode. So I flew to England and stayed with Alice. And I looked up the folks,” Wilson finished glibly, as if it had been no big deal. “My mum and I thought we could keep it a secret from Dad. Bad idea. But that's another story.”

“What was it like?” I prodded.

“It was bloody awful,” he answered promptly. “And enlightening and . . . very confusing.”

I had no idea what to say to that, so I just waited, watching his thoughts play across his face. He brooded for a moment, lost in remembering.

“When I met my birth father my first impression was that he was a bit of a bum,” he mused. “After a few hours talking to him, walking around, seeing his neighborhood, meeting his mates, I began to see him a little differently. We went to a pub where he liked to have a bitter after shift, a place called Wally's, where everyone seemed to know him and like him. Bert's a copper.”

“A copper?”

“A policeman. Which seemed so at odds with his personality. He is incredibly jovial and free-spirited. I always thought coppers were the strong, silent type.”

“Maybe more like your dad?”

“Yes! Like John Wilson. Driven, hard, serious. And Bert Wheatley was anything but serious or driven. He said he was a copper because he loved his neighborhood. He liked being with people, and when he was a boy he'd always wanted to drive a car with lights and a siren.” Wilson laughed and shook his head. “That's what he said! I remember thinking what a nutter he was.” Wilson looked over at me as if I was going to scold him for his opinion. I just stayed quiet.

“But I noticed other things. Bert seemed very content. And he was very fun to be with.” Wilson laughed again, but his laughter was pained. “In those ways, he was very different from my dad, too. John Wilson was never satisfied – rarely happy – and he wasn't exactly a pleasure to be around most of the time.” Wilson shook his head and abruptly changed the subject.

“My birth mother's name is Jenny. She never married Bert, obviously. She married a plumber named Gunnar Woodrow. Gunnar the plumber.” Wilson said it like Gunna the Plumma, and I tried not to snicker. I'd gotten to the point where I didn't even notice his accent . . . most of the time.

“She and Gunnar have five kids, and their house is like a zoo. I stayed for an hour or two, until Gunnar got home from work, and then Jenny and I slipped out and had tea around the corner where we could talk without the monkeys interrupting.”

“Did you like her?”

“Very much. She's lovely. Loves books and history, loves to quote poetry.”

“Sounds like you.”

Wilson nodded. “We have a great deal in common, which thrilled me, I must say. We talked about everything. She asked me all the things mothers are interested in: what my hopes and dreams were and whether I had a girlfriend. I told her I didn't have time for girls. I told her that history and books were the only loves in my life so far. We talked about school, and she asked me what my plans were for my future. I rambled off my ten year plan, involving grad school, medical school, and working with my father. She seemed a little surprised by my career goals and said, 'But what about the loves in your life?'”

“She was worried about your love life? You were only eighteen,” I protested, ridiculously grateful he didn't have a past like mine.

“No. She wasn't worried about my love life. She was worried about the 'loves in my life,'” Wilson repeated. “History and books.”

“Oh!” I responded, understanding.

“Meeting my parents had me questioning myself for the first time ever. I suddenly wondered if I really wanted to be a doctor. I found myself thinking about what would make me happy. I thought about lights and sirens.” Wilson's lips quirked, a hint of a smile. “I thought about how I wanted to share everything I learned with anyone who would listen. In fact, I drove my parents and my sisters crazy, constantly reciting this or that historical fact.”