Unexpected Family (7 page)

“I had this huge order for those stupid horseshoe necklaces. An order so big I thought…I thought I had made it. I thought I’d struck gold. So I charged the store my regular wholesale price but when it became obvious that my little three-person studio couldn’t produce all the pieces, I subcontracted out the work, but I couldn’t raise the price that I charged the boutique and I’d never factored in the cost of having someone else make my jewelry for me. Suddenly, instead of making money on every piece, I was losing money. It was costing me everything to fill the order, so I had to back out of the contract. And now I’m waiting to hear from the accountant how much of a fee I owe.”

“But don’t you have other orders?”

“None big enough. And most of them, when they found out I’d started manufacturing pieces instead of making them by hand, started to lose interest.”

She lifted her chin as if to tell him it didn’t matter, the loss of that interest, but he knew better. You couldn’t hide a slap in the face.

“What about your employees?”

“I closed the studio. Set all my employees free and closed up shop.”

“Over one order?”

She blinked out at the columbines before turning to face him, her eyes bright.

Oh, shit. He’d made her cry.

Stop,
he wanted to beg,
please stop. No crying. Don’t cry.
He never handled this stuff right.

She blinked and the tears were gone. Thank God. “It was a doozy, Jeremiah, trust me. I had to sell my supplies, all the stones and gold, just to make my final payroll.”

He knew he was gaping at her, slack-jawed and stunned. “But your family—”

“Has no idea and I don’t want them to.”

“Your business is bust and you’re not telling them?”

Her eyes narrowed and she dropped her knees. “Don’t make me sorry I told you.”

He held up hands. “Sorry. God, Lucy…that sucks.”

Her laugh was slightly wild, frayed at the edges. “That sums it up to a T, Jeremiah.”

The silence that unfolded around them was heavy with everything she’d said. He wasn’t anyone’s confidant—he was everyone’s good time, their drinking buddy and flirt. He didn’t know what to say to make her feel better. All that bravado dried up and blown away and now Lucy sat there, looking and feeling like a failure, and he didn’t know what to say to make it better.

“I apologize for dumping that on you,” she said, slightly formal as if she, too, was aware of how the atmosphere between them was suddenly riddled with storm clouds.

“It’s all right. I’m dumping Ben on you.” He thought about the stress she must be under. “Are you sure you want to do this? I mean, it sounds like you’ve got enough on your plate.”

“I don’t have anything on my plate.” She laughed. “That’s the problem. Trust me, Ben will be a welcome diversion.”

“All right.” He sighed and pushed himself up to his feet. She did the same and the foot of distance between them crackled with awkward awareness. “So…Thursday.”

“Sounds good.”

He felt like he should hug her but it seemed strangely forward and she held herself so stiffly. But when he held out his hand to shake hers, she lifted her arms as if to hug him, and then dropped one arm just as he lifted his to hug her.

They laughed awkwardly, like strangers after a one-night stand.

And then, she lifted her palm and smacked his hand. A high five. They sealed the deal like they were in junior high basketball.

God,
he thought as he walked away.
Could that have been any worse?

* * *

T
HAT
COULD
NOT
HAVE
BEEN
any worse,
Lucy thought.
If one of them had spontaneously burst into flames that could not have been any more uncomfortable or strained.

A high five? Really?

She tried not to watch Jeremiah walk away, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. The wind blew his shirt against his skin, outlining the muscles fanning up from his lean hips out to wide shoulders, caressing the thick dip in the middle as if to tease her. One big
na na na boo boo, you can’t have this.

She’d taken care of that sweet attraction, the electric awareness, and replaced it with a graceless disdain.

And that,
she told herself, feeling sick with her own shame,
is why you aren’t telling anyone about closing down your company.
She already felt like a failure—she didn’t need everyone in her life confirming it.

“What were you thinking?” she asked herself, bending over to pick up the water bottles. She scattered the strawberries in the columbine.

That moment of weakness on her part was inspired by his moment of weakness. When he admitted that he didn’t know what he was doing with Ben and that he needed help, she turned to pudding. His vulnerability, that heart-wrenching honesty that he wore so painfully, so terribly uncomfortably, had unlocked her.

As if his grief had been a key to all of her secrets.

She kicked the mud and dirt off the soles of her Doc Martens, brushed off the shovel and clippers she’d found in the barn and headed back inside to tell her mom about Ben.

She could do this. The knowledge was a little seed in her gut. And she was going to protect that seed, feed it. Not just for her own sake. But for Jeremiah’s. The guy needed a break as much as she did.

The cell phone in her pocket rang and she dug it out. Joey. Again. On a Sunday afternoon.

“I’m on my way,” she said once she answered.

CHAPTER SEVEN

T
HE
DARK
WAS
A
WELCOME
embrace to Sandra as she sat on the corner of the couch wrapped in her mother’s thin red shawl that always made her think of fresh tomatillos and God. The fringe at the corners was worn, as Sandra had run the silk through her fingers like the beads on a rosary for over twenty years.

It was Tuesday night and she sat in the dark and tried—with all the power of her prayer and the grace of her faith—to control her hate. It was hard with the sweetness of her memories growing bitter on her tongue. And that bitterness was turning to an anger that churned in her belly.

Mother used to tell her, when Sandra was a girl and she came home from school with scrapes and black eyes and skinned knuckles, that the only way to get rid of her anger was to pray.

Mother had forced prayer upon her: daily mass, Catholic school, special meetings with the Father.

But sometimes the prayer didn’t work. And sometimes a person needed a fight to vent that anger.

This house she had cared for with her own two hands—baptizing the floor and the stove, the kitchen and every meal made here for twenty-five years with her blood, sweat and tears—this house was strange to her now.

And Walter just broke her heart. She knew Walter loved her, could feel it in the desperate way he looked at her, as if he were drowning and she was his only chance at survival. Walter’s wife had been right to worry. Not that Sandra would have taken advantage of Walter’s feelings, but who knew what a desperate man would do?

He was not a man for love. Not for her, anyway, maybe not for anyone. Well, except A.J. A.J. had loved Walter when the rest of the world threw their hands at the heavens on his behalf. A.J. had believed in Walter’s goodness. A.J. believed in everyone’s goodness.

I’m sorry, A.J.,
she thought, running the fringe between her fingers.
I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can help him. I don’t think I want to.

She couldn’t do all the fighting for a man who wouldn’t fight for himself. He skulked around this house like a ghost, his eyes on the ground like a kicked dog.

For a minute there after Walter’s accident she’d thought she could be useful again and her heart had rejoiced. Her spirit dry and dead after living so long in that city had swelled with purpose. It could be just like it was years ago.

But days had passed and there was no more purpose to her life here than there’d been in Los Angeles. Here, she was surrounded by ghosts. And Walter was either locked in his room or sitting on the back patio—refusing to even look at her. Kicking aside the food she left at his feet. Ignoring her efforts to help. To talk. She had no idea if he was drinking or if he’d stopped.

She had no idea what she was doing here.
When did I get so lost?

The easy answer was that it happened after her husband died, but the truth was an answer of a different color. Somewhere in the beginning of her marriage, when she dedicated herself to keeping up the pretense of happiness—that’s when she’d lost herself.

“Hey, Mom.” Lucy came into the living room. “What are you doing here in the dark?”

“Thinking.”

“Never good, Mom. Never good.” Lucy curled up next to her on the couch, and Sandra put her arms around her youngest daughter, stroking back her hair, holding her like she was seven years old again.

“Where have you been?”

“Well, this morning I took Reese to pick up his car.”

“It’s fixed?”

“Fixed and he’s gone. And then I was giving a couple of women from the west side retirement village a ride to get their hair done.”

“What are you doing, Lucy?” Sandra asked, baffled by her daughter. Not that the feeling was new.

“My civic duty, Mom, at twenty dollars a pop. The question is, what are you thinking about here in the dark?”

“I’m thinking about how you and Mia used to fight.” Lucy laughed and Sandra rocked her, glad that she had lied. Glad that lying came so easy to her. “Oh, like cats and dogs. You used to give your father ulcers.”

“Not you, though.”

“Nope. Girls need to know how to fight.”

Lucy was so different than Mia. Mia was a blunt instrument, hammering away at what she wanted until she broke down every wall in her way. Lucy took a good look around and figured out how to get around the wall, or if that wasn’t going to work, she found the weakness in the wall and applied the right pressure.

As children, once Lucy was old enough to know her own power, Mia could never beat her in an argument. Which was why Mia usually started using her fists.

By instinct Sandra had so much more in common with her oldest. But by practice she’d learned to be wily, like Lucy.

“You and Dad never fought,” Lucy said.

No,
she thought, the old wounds opening up, oozing resentment. “Your dad wasn’t much of a fighter.” She’d grown so used to pretending, to forcing that fond sweet smile on her lips. So used to it she didn’t even know what the alternative was. Screaming?

That wasn’t her.

“You okay, Mom?” Lucy asked, and Sandra stroked her cheek.

“Thinking of your father. Do you miss him?”

Lucy nodded. “Won’t I always?”

The bite of grief stole her breath for a moment. Grief for A.J., for a marriage that wasn’t always what it seemed and was never what she’d imagined for herself.

From the bedrooms in the back of the house there was a terrible crash. A thick thud.

Sandra shared one glance with her daughter and they were on their feet running toward Walter’s room. Sandra got there first and threw open the door only to find Walter spitting into a bowl on top of his dresser.

The light blue shirt of his pajamas was wet with sweat, a wide V down the back. His shoulders heaving over the dresser.

“Walter?”

He slammed his hand down on the dresser. “Get the hell out of here,” he yelled, wiping his mouth.

“Can I help?”

“I said get the hell out of here!” he hollered, and something in Sandra leaped at the sound. The tiger of her temper woke and it was as if she’d filled out her own skin suddenly. It was as if she were more herself from one moment to the next.

“Hey!” Lucy cried over Sandra’s shoulder. “Don’t talk to her like that.”

Walter turned, pale and wan. The buttons of his shirt open, revealing his chest. Still strong, despite the disease and his age. The hair there was silver, catching the moonlight like wire filament. His eyes spit fire and his muscles were still thick and he was suddenly far more man than ghost.

Sandra’s skin prickled awake, reminding her she wasn’t dead. Reminding her how long it had been since it had just been prayer accompanying her to bed at night.

Walter suddenly turned toward the bowl on top of his dresser, his shoulders heaving. His back rigid.

Realization dawned. He wasn’t sick, he was getting rid of the alcohol in his system. Detox. “You haven’t been drinking,” she said.

“I want you to leave,” he gasped, his hands shaking as he wiped his mouth. “And you said that’s what would get it done. So leave me the hell alone.”

“Hey! My mom’s here to help!” Lucy cried, stepping into the room as if to do battle with the man, and Sandra put her hand up, stopping her daughter.

This is my fight,
she thought, suddenly protective of the man in front of them.

“I don’t want help!” he cried. “I want you out of here.”

“Leave him alone,” she said, backing out of the room, taking her daughter with her. Sandra shut the door and both she and Lucy just stared at the wood grain. The silver doorknob.

“I don’t like him talking to you like that, Mom.”

“He’s going through detox, honey. He’s sick.”

“You think he’s going to be better when it’s over?”

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly.

“Let’s hope that ad Jack placed starts bringing in some nurses,” Lucy muttered, and then she leaned in to kiss Sandra’s cheek. “I’m going to bed.”

She watched her daughter disappear into the shadows of the hallway and turned back to look at the door. From the other side she heard Walter swearing, thumping around.

Not drinking.

She touched the grain wide and rough under her fingers. Suddenly, she felt like she had a fight on her hands. Her mother would tell her to pray, to find peace in God’s words. A.J.…well, A.J. wouldn’t say anything, would he? He kept his opinions and his secrets to himself.

She unwrapped the shawl from around her shoulders, folding it up in her hands. She’d followed her mother’s advice for a number of years. It got her out of trouble as a kid, led her to A.J., so handsome and so devout. And with so many secrets.

Prayer saw her through the loneliest years of her marriage. She’d found peace. She’d found affection and companionship and a love for her girls so profound she felt touched by God’s grace.

But she wasn’t going to pray this time around.

She was going to fight.

* * *

W
EDNESDAY
MORNING
L
UCY
sat back in her seat and watched Mia engage in a losing battle. It was sort of fun. Mia didn’t lose many battles and she was getting all hot under the collar.

“What if we offered you more money?” Mia asked Gina Burshot, a registered nurse with hospice care experience. None of which mattered because Gina had no interest in the job. Not since meeting Walter.

Gina slung her bag over her shoulder, putting her shoulders back. “Let me make this clear,” she said. “There is nothing you could offer me that would make me want to care for that odious old man.”

Lucy snorted and then quickly composed herself when Mia glared at her.

“Thanks, Gina, for coming in, and I’m sorry…again.” Mia led Gina to the front door and then came back into the kitchen. She braced herself against the dining room chair and sighed. Heavily.

“What did he do?” Lucy was almost afraid to ask.

“Threw that bowl he’s been throwing up in at her.”

“Was it full?”

“Full enough.”

Lucy groaned, and frankly, if she wasn’t jailed by this situation she would have laughed. Walter was not going down without a fight.

“I’ll go let Jack know what happened. Maybe he can talk to his father.”

“Right.” Like that would do any good. Lucy stood up from her chair. “Hey,” she said as her sister started to leave. “Remember Ben’s coming over Thursday.”

“Yeah, about that…what exactly are you going to do with him?”

“You don’t have to be so skeptical.”

“Well, how many kids do you know?”

“None. But I was a kid.”

“Yeah. A well-adjusted artist with two living parents. Ben’s a nine-year-old car-thieving orphan.”

Lucy stood, her back straight, her pride slightly inflamed by Mia’s doubt. Largely because Lucy shared that doubt and had her own huge misgivings about this arrangement. But she believed very strongly in the ancient proverb: fake it till you make it.

“We had a connection. He just needs someone to listen to him,” she said. “I can do that.”

“Yes. Of course you can. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Lucy grinned. “Trust me, I know it’s weird. But Jeremiah needs some help and…well, I’m not doing anything at the moment.”

“Not doing anything? You’ve been giving Thomas Matthews a ride home from the bars every night.”

Lucy lifted her hand. “Everyone’s opinion on my taxi service has been duly noted. Let’s move on.”

Mia stared at her and finally rolled her eyes. “Well, you’re right about Jeremiah. He does need help.” Mia patted down her back pocket and pulled out a pen. “Hey, I need to write Mom a note. Can I borrow your notebook?”

Lucy went still. “I, ah, I don’t have it.”

“What?” Mia looked at her as if Lucy had said she’d forgotten her hands. And in a way, she was right. Since she was sixteen Lucy had walked around with a little notebook in her back pocket or her purse, ready to sketch something when inspiration struck.

But it had been so long since inspiration had knocked on her door, she’d stopped carrying the notebook.

“What the hell is going on with you, Lucy?” Mia demanded. “Last I heard you were doing great, the jewelry business was doing great, and the next thing I know you’re hiding out here.”

“It’s just a notebook—”

“Bullshit, Lucy. It’s one thing if you want to lie to everyone, but it’s another thing lying to me. I know something’s wrong.”

Lucy sat back in her chair and studied her hands. “Is it so strange that I might want to do something else? Design, art, jewelry—it’s all I’ve ever done. Can’t I be tired of it?”

“Sure. If you really are.”

Lucy laughed, bitter and dark.
Tired of it? Sure. Terrified and destroyed—those, too.
“Trust me, I really am.”

“So…what? You’re going to do something else. For good.”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“Yeah. It is. You’re my sister the jewelry designer.”

“Well, now I’m your sister the parole officer, taxi driver and gardener. At least for a little while.”

“You’re pulling up half the vegetables.”

“I didn’t say I was good at it,” she snapped, and Mia held up her hands in surrender.

“You know I support you. We all do. We just want you to be happy.”

Happy,
she thought, feeling as if she were suddenly drowning. Suddenly without air or chance of air.

She wasn’t even sure if she could be happy again. Failure had done that to her. Her own mistakes suffocated her.

“You know, I’m here if you ever feel like telling me the truth.” Mia put her ball cap over her head and pulled her ponytail out the back. “See you later.”

Lucy nodded and listened to her sister’s footsteps walk out the mudroom. In the silence of the dining room she pulled her cell phone from her pocket and cradled it in her hands like a secret.

She pushed two buttons, leveled her heart rate, found the center of herself and pushed aside everything else.

“It’s about damn time,” Meisha said when she answered.

“That’s not how accountants talk.” She closed her eyes. “Tell me.”