Chapter 22
“. . . and so, if you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I would be forever grateful,” Everett said. He’d taken a seat at the table next to Darlene and across from Rory and had opened his Bible to a marked section. After quoting a passage on forgiveness, he’d explained that he’d straightened out his life, had become the manager of a local plumbing store by day and, in his free time, a youth minister. He owed his transformation from criminal and thug to finding Jesus through the love of a good woman, his wife, Mary-Catherine. Named after two saints, she was the most loving woman Everett had ever met.
Liam stood inches from Rory, just out of the shade of the umbrella but listening to all of the conversation, his gaze razor-sharp on the heavier man. Thankfully, Derek and Stella were standing near the mobile bar, next to the French doors, talking to each other and shooting looks at the small gathering. For once Candace was actually in the pool with the kids.
And Everett was begging Rory to let bygones be bygones. “. . . but I don’t think I can live with myself if I don’t right the wrongs I’ve dealt, and one of them is you, Aurora.” He tried to take her hand, but she drew away from his touch. She hadn’t trusted him as a teenager and she wasn’t going to start now. “Mary-Catherine says it’s important to face those you’ve wronged, admit your sins against them, to them and to God, through Jesus.”
He appeared sincere, but Rory remembered him as a teenager, the barely repressed anger, the hot eyes that scoured her body. Still, he wasn’t the person who’d been following her; this Everett was too bulky, far different from the slender man of his youth. Not the person she’d seen from afar.
“You’re trying to convince me that you weren’t part of the attack at the wedding,” she said, clarifying, though he’d gone around that subject, never really addressing it.
He blinked at her. “You don’t think . . . I mean, surely you know I would never hurt Aaron.”
Well, when was this miraculous change? She let the thought cross her mind, but she kept it to herself.
He held her gaze. “No, no . . . I’ve told the police all about where I was that day, and it wasn’t anywhere near the wedding.”
“But you could have hired DeGrere.”
“Is that what you think?” For the first time it seemed his denials weren’t staged. “No.” He shook his head, ponytail sliding across his shoulders, reminding her of a serpent. “Dear Lord, Father in Heaven, I swear to you on this”—he thumped a finger on the Bible splayed open between them—“the Word of the Holy Father, that I wasn’t involved in any way in that attack.” He flattened his hand over his heart. “No, Rory. Never.”
He was either a better liar than even she knew, or he was telling the truth. The hint of deception had disappeared from his eyes, but it was going to take more to convince her than one staged appearance. He went on, “So now, Rory, can you find it in your heart to forgive me for any time that I . . . that I made you uncomfortable . . .”
“Uncomfortable?” she repeated dryly, realizing the times he’d tried to sexually assault her.
Darlene interjected, “Just hear him out.”
“I think I’ve got the gist,” she said.
“Rory.” His voice had the same smooth quality she’d heard in her darkened bedroom when he’d closed the door and spoken to her.
Her flesh crawled. No, no, no.
She didn’t trust him, would never, and she wanted him gone. Away from her. Away from her child.
She had trouble keeping her quavering voice steady, but she wasn’t going to hold back. “You scared me . . .” She glanced at her mother. “And you didn’t come to my rescue.”
“Nothing happened,” Darlene protested.
“Something happened.” Rory rounded on her. “He made it impossible for me to trust for a long time.” She leveled her gaze at the man she’d feared for half of her years and decided, if nothing else, that fear was gone. “If you want forgiveness, take it up with God.”
“Who do you think sent me here?”
“Not your wife? Who said you have to face those you’ve wronged?” she challenged.
“You should leave,” Liam told him. He’d been standing behind Rory throughout Everett’s unburdening, but now he moved forward. From the sound of it, he was having as much trouble believing Everett’s bid for atonement as Rory was herself. Maybe he’d found the Lord, maybe he would never hurt anyone again, maybe she should forgive him and move on.
Or, maybe this was an act, a phase, a way to assuage guilt. Whatever his truth, she didn’t want to be involved in it.
“Rory, please . . .” he tried.
“I’m sorry, Everett, but I’ve got nothing to say to you. I hope you’re sincere. I really do. But—”
“I am.”
“Liam’s right. You need to go.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Charlotte climb out of the pool and start tippy-toeing toward her, trying to heed her mother’s warning not to run as she left a trail of small wet footprints across the cement. Rory didn’t want Everett Stemple anywhere near her child.
“I’ve come a long way, and I’m not talking about physical miles,” he said.
“Good. Just keep on that journey.”
“If I could just hear the words—”
“What words?” Charlotte asked as she climbed, wet and dripping, onto Rory’s lap.
“Nothing, sweetheart.” Rory held her daughter close. To Everett, she said, “I appreciate that you came all the way here, now—”
“Rory, honey!” Darlene broke in. “Don’t you think—?”
Rory swiftly cut her off. “No, Mom.”
“This is your child?” Everett asked, and Rory, Charlotte tight in her arms, rose so abruptly that her chair squeaked as it scraped against the concrete. She didn’t like the way his gaze appraised her daughter.
“She’s beautiful.”
Rory’s stomach convulsed. She’d heard that comment on his lips too many times. A wheedling plea for her to allow him in.
Her heart was thudding in that same horrendous panic she’d felt years before. “Thank you for apologizing.” Her voice was brittle. “But don’t ever try to contact me or my family again.”
“Time to leave.” Liam’s voice was steel as he escorted Rory and Charlotte around Everett, keeping his body between them.
Rory took Charlotte toward the gate to the pool area. “Let’s get you dried off,” she said into her daughter’s wet curls as she snatched a towel hanging from a hook on the fence. She swept through the gate and Liam closed it behind her. She set Charlotte down inside the doorway leading to the upper unit and rubbed her down with the towel. Her skin was still crawling at the site of her stepbrother. She never, never wanted to see him again, God or no God. She hadn’t liked the way he looked at either her or her daughter. The man was a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
They climbed up the stairs and Rory found a dry set of shorts and T-shirt for Charlotte, then combed her daughter’s wild, wet hair into a curly ponytail.
Within minutes Darlene had climbed up the stairs, padded into the bathroom, and found Charlotte sitting on the counter, Rory standing in front of the mirror, putting clips into the little girl’s hair to keep the stragglers out of her face. The reproachful look in Darlene’s eyes portended an argument—or at least a discussion—and Rory wasn’t in the mood. She didn’t want to hear about Everett’s new life with God, nor the pious Mary-Catherine, whoever the hell she was, nor Laurie’s predictions of a happy, flowers-and-sunshine future for all of them.
“Don’t, Mom,” she warned. “If you want a relationship with Harold and Everett, then fine, but I’m not going to. Nor is my daughter.” Then realizing Charlotte was staring at her with worried eyes, added, “You know what you need?”
“Ice cream?”
“Well, yeah, probably that, too, but I was thinking of—let’s see if you’ve got one.” She dug in Charlotte’s backpack, found an aqua ribbon that she quickly wrapped around the band holding the ponytail in pl
ace. “What d’ya say?” Using a hand mirror, she showed her daughter her work, and while Charlotte was surveying the back of her head, Rory sent Darlene a don’t even think about crossing me look in the larger mirror’s reflection.
“I don’t think he was following you,” her mother said.
“I don’t, either. I think it was that private investigator that Liam hired.”
Darlene brightened, then her face clouded over.
“What?” Rory asked.
“You’re not going to like it.”
Rory groaned, “Oh, Mom.”
“I’ve gotten a couple of calls. One was from a reporter. A woman.”
Rory silently swore inside her head. “Pauline Kirby?”
“Why, yes. Channel 7.”
“I’m telling you right now, I’m not talking to her. And you’d better not, either.” Rory picked up Charlotte and put her on the floor, and the little girl ran off to the living area.
“Well . . . I believe she’s on her way over . . .”
“Mom!”
“Well, I didn’t ask her to come,” Darlene retorted. “She just is.”
Rory drew a breath. “I almost don’t want to ask what the other call was.”
“It was a detective.”
Rory’s heart clutched. “Grant . . . or Susskind?”
She paused, slowly shook her head. “No . . . He was with the police in Seattle. He said he wanted to talk to you. He’s on his way.”
“To Portland? The Seattle police?”
“His name is Mike. Or was that his last name? Michaelson? I have his number on my phone.” She dug in the pocket of her caftan, and if Rory’s heart had sunk a second ago, it was now in free fall.
“Mick,” Rory corrected. She’d read everything she could about the investigation into the assault on the wedding once she’d learned what happened. She knew the name of the lead homicide investigator. “Mick Mickelson. Surely you talked to him after Aaron was killed.”
“Oh, that’s right. That’s who he is.”
“What did you tell him?” she asked, then she heard a loud noise from the other room. A braying noise, a donkey? Peeking into the living room, she saw that Charlotte was on the couch, a blanket wrapped around her, her stuffed animal tucked under her arm as she stared at the giant screen where some cartoon was playing. Satisfied her daughter was safe, Rory turned to Darlene again. Her mother was eyeing her own image in the mirror and slicking back a few hairs that had escaped her braid.
Rory said, “I thought he quit the department.”
“All I know is he wants to meet you here.”
“Here in Portland . . . or here at the Bastians’?” She stared at her mother in dawning horror. “I can’t meet him here!”
“Them. He’s with an associate. Well, I wasn’t sure what to tell them,” she said defensively.
“Tell them I’ll call them.”
“Rory, they’re on their way over,” she admitted. “And celestially it’s a really good time for you to take care of old business.”
* * *
Liam checked on Rory and Charlotte to find his daughter asleep on the couch, wound tight in a blanket, a plate with the remains of toast and pieces of banana sitting on the coffee table next to a half-drunk glass of milk. Darlene, feet tucked under the folds of her caftan, was propped by an array of pillows on the other end of the couch and she, too, seemed to be dozing.
Rory appeared from the stairway and held a finger to her lips, then, seeing that he’d gotten the message, went back to her task of sweeping crumbs from the counter into a waiting waste bin.
“Everett’s gone.” He hesitated only briefly before folding her into his arms and kissing the top of her head.
“Good,” she stated flatly.
“Something else . . . ?”
Pulling him into the hallway, she related the conversation with her mother and the impending visits from Pauline Kirby and two investigators from Seattle, one of them being Mick Mickelson. She ended with, “We’ve got to get out of here. It isn’t good for Charlotte or me. Your mother makes no bones about how she feels, and your father believes I’m somehow responsible for the shooting. All we are is trouble, so . . . we’re going to have to go.”
“My father doesn’t think you’re responsible.”
“Coulda fooled me.”
He’d made a mistake not circling back immediately and breaking up his father’s meeting with Rory. “You could live with me,” he said.
She sighed. “We’re moving fast. Maybe too fast.”
He wanted to deny it, but just last week he’d been hell-bent on divorcing her. That was a fact. “Mickelson’s been calling me and I’ve ignored him. Maybe seeing him and his partner is a good start to . . . the rest of our lives.”
“You and my mother.”
“What?”
“What about Pauline Kirby?”
He smiled. “We’ll take care of her, too.”
Rory made a strangled sound.
“Be strong,” he said and kissed her warmly.
She leaned into him, soft and pliant. He remembered making love to her long before, at the beach, in a room where they could hear the roar of the ocean and the pounding of the rain on the roof, and again, in the apartment they’d briefly shared, when the neighbor cat slipped in through an open window and scared the life out of Rory. The black tomcat had hopped onto the bed, causing her to shriek and him to laugh. And then they’d shooed the little beast back outside and collapsed on the bed and made love all over again.
God, he’d lost her once, he couldn’t bear the thought of it again.
She lifted her head and stared into his eyes. “Okay. But now, to be strong, and not in the aromatic sense of the word, I’m just gonna hop into the shower. Wanna join?”
More than anything.
But he thought of Charlotte on the couch . . . or Darlene with her lack of boundaries . . . “How about a rain check,” he said, “when we’re alone or Charlotte’s in bed for the night.”
“Deal,” she said. “Give me twenty minutes and I’ll find you.”
He closed his mind to the erection that had started to rise and headed back to his family. By the time he’d reached the bottom step he’d decided that the first order of business was to move Rory and Charlotte to his town house. Though he appreciated her being there for Charlotte, Darlene was not invited. He wanted it to be him and Rory and Charlotte looking to the future as a family.
Still a lot of unanswered questions, he reminded himself.
He walked through the gate to the pool area, but no one was lingering on the patio, the tables and chairs were empty, only a forgotten orange flip-flop and a wadded-up towel evidence that anyone had been outside recently. The water in the pool was calm and quiet, shadows stretching across the surface. A few filmy clouds stretched over the horizon and the sun was lowering over the forested slopes, a warm evening on a bit of breeze, bees still buzzing over Stella’s pots of jasmine and lavender.
He entered the family room through the open patio door. Candace and the kids were situated around the TV, Estella and Landon watching some cartoon show he didn’t recognize, the sitter lounging on the couch near the children, but, of course, paying more attention to her cell phone than her charges. They had, though, changed into shorts and tops and were picking at what looked to be microwaved Tater Tots and pizza.
“When’s Viv coming back?” he asked Candace. She didn’t remove her attention from her cell phone, but she cocked her head his way, as if listening. “Has she called?” he questioned when she didn’t respond.
“Uh . . . yeah, I think. Yeah. She’s, um, like, coming back soon.” She finally blinked up at him and Liam made a mental note to tell his sister to find someone a little more interested in her kids. He heard raised voices from the hallway and followed the sound.
His parents. At it again. He probably should let things be. But they should know that the investigators and reporter were coming. “You might want to take it down a notch,?
?? he said, pushing open the doorway to Geoff’s office. His father was scowling and red faced, seated behind his desk in his wheelchair, Stella was standing to one side of his desk, while Derek sat in a chair near the window, drink in hand.
“Why?” Geoff demanded.
“Hey, Mr. CEO. Right on time.” Derek hoisted his glass in a mock toast, then took a long pull from what Liam assumed was some of their father’s whiskey.
“For what?” Liam asked.
Stella turned, her expression pinched, and in that instant Liam wondered when he’d last seen his mother smiling or laughing. Not that Stella had ever been light-hearted, but somehow, over the years, she’d become as bitter as her husband. Had it been since the assault and Geoffrey’s confinement to the chair? Or had it occurred earlier, when the marriage and her dreams had begun to sour, when the gilt of being Mrs. Geoffrey Bastian had worn thin and maybe even become a burden?
“It’s Viv,” Derek said, and Stella shot him a warning glance. “She’s up to something.”
Liam closed the door behind him, didn’t want the kids hearing. “Like what?”
Geoffrey snorted. “Derek’s got it in his mind that your sister might be in some kind of... trouble.”
“With Javier?” Liam asked, trying to follow.
“He thinks she’s gotten herself into some kind of money problem or dire financial straits. That’s what all the talk was about the job.”
“She’s sneaking around,” Stella said through tight lips.
“Actually, I think she might be involved in what happened at the wedding,” Derek admitted carefully, eyeing first Stella and then his father.
“No.” Liam shook his head.
“I told him the same thing,” Stella snapped.
“There’s no way.” Liam faced his brother, flabbergasted. “You’re talking about Viv. Viv?”