Raspy breaths broke from Michael’s throat. Ending the kiss, he eased himself on top of her. Darcy held on to his hips, her teeth grazing his shoulder.
Unbound, he caressed her neck, her breasts. He groaned again. The sound—deep, nearly animalistic—made Darcy’s eyes drift open. Her gaze hung on him like stars pinned to a night sky.
He entered her with a deep thrust. A slick jolt of consuming pleasure, and Darcy gasped. Her eyes remained locked on his. He found his rhythm, and she joined him, racing fast alongside him with anticipation and a greedy sensuality as they rose to the summit. Her eyes never left his face.
They were twin lights, calling him home.
Chapter 23
On Sunday, Darcy awoke to the rumble of thunder.
A quick glance at her phone confirmed her suspicions. She threw off the blanket. She had overslept. Given her habit of rising early, it was a striking development.
She padded across the chilly floorboards and drew back the curtains. Slate-colored clouds skimmed the sky. Pressing her forehead against the window’s cool glass, she watched the sky churn and flash.
Yesterday, she had remained with Michael on the riverbank until the last glimmers of sunlight retreated from the forest. Professing their love, vowing to never again allow circumstance to break them apart. Later, they were slow and tender, savoring the fit of their bodies as they took exquisite care in bringing each other pleasure.
The memory was pure and beautiful. Yet doubt rimmed its fragile edges. Michael had discovered her alone by the riverbank yesterday—but she hadn’t gone there in hopes of seeing him. She’d gone to sort through her awful theories about her father.
When they left the forest, after Michael pulled her close for one last, lingering kiss, why didn’t she tell him the rest? If she was correct—and an awful certainty was lodged inside her like a stone—the secrets she’d uncovered affected him too. They explained why Rosalind despised Nella.
It would have been wiser to lay the facts at his feet. She wasn’t sure how he would have reacted, but he’d deserved a full accounting. As he strode away in the waning daylight, why didn’t she call him back?
She dressed quickly. There was no sense worrying about what she’d hidden from Michael. She’d find the courage to fill him in later. For now, it was best to get to the bottom of her family’s secrets and lies.
In the kitchen, pancake batter resembled spatter art on the counter. At the table, Emerson swung his legs back and forth. A book sat near his elbow as he stared out at the storm clouds.
Darcy counted three dishes in the sink. “Did Samson make pancakes for you and Grandmother?”
“I had seconds. Grandmother didn’t want any.”
“Where’s Samson?”
“In the living room. It’s gross, how boys his age like to talk to girls on the phone. They’ve been talking for a long time.”
Despite the tension centering inside her, Darcy grinned. “As in plural? I’ll bet he’s only talking to one girl on the phone. The girl he met yesterday.”
“Her name is Makayla. She’s a senior at Chagrin Falls High School.” Emerson’s nose wrinkled with disgust. “Samson is in love.”
“If he is, it’s none of your business. And no making fun of him, okay? He’s old enough to have a girlfriend.” On autopilot, she filled the coffeepot with water. Changing her mind, she poured the water down the drain. Apprehension over the upcoming discussion knotted her stomach. “Grandmother hasn’t come down yet?”
“She’s still in bed, going through the newspaper.”
Reading the New York Times in the master suite was a Sunday habit. Usually Rosalind didn’t come downstairs until late morning. All the better. It was best to have the conversation out of earshot of Emerson.
“I’ll be right back. Stay here, okay?”
He looked up. “Where are you going?”
“To talk to Grandmother.”
“You shouldn’t bug her when she’s reading. She doesn’t like it.”
“No one does. But yes, I get it.” Darcy palmed away the perspiration beading on her neck. She hesitated. “Did you have fun yesterday at the block party? I’m sorry I left early.”
“It was okay.”
“Just okay?” His attention was back on the window, and the storm brewing outside.
He paused for a long moment. Then he looked at her. “Question,” he said, mimicking her oft-used opener for tricky conversations. “When you came home in June, Grandmother was very angry with you.”
“That’s a statement, Emerson. Not a question.”
“She still gets angry at you a lot.”
“Still a statement. And I’m making progress with her. At least most of the time.”
“Can you try harder? Persuade her to become real friends with you?”
“Nice word choice.” She sat down beside him. With dismay, she noticed the worry curving his spine. A mother-daughter friendship was clearly an important topic to him. “What’s going on, sweetie? You look awfully serious.”
“I am serious. If you don’t make Grandmother like you all the time, she won’t trust you. If she doesn’t trust you, how will you save her life? I heard Samson ask Latrice why Grandmother won’t get a new heart. Latrice said the only way she’ll agree is if you talk her into it.”
The explanation—not to mention her nephew’s poignant logic—was impossible to refute. This was on Darcy. If she didn’t break down her mother’s resistance, Rosalind was facing a death sentence.
There was a second issue, one Darcy tackled first.
“Is there anything about heart transplants you need to know?” she asked. They’d all agreed not to tell Emerson about the procedure unless Rosalind changed her mind. Why get his hopes up? But since he’d brought up the topic, it seemed wise to jump in fully. “I’m guessing you’ve already been prowling Google.”
“Not really. I don’t like stuff that’s got to do with blood. I thought I should talk to you instead.”
“Smart boy.”
“If Grandmother has the operation, will it hurt?”
“She’ll be sedated. She’ll sleep through the entire procedure.”
“Can I visit her?”
“Not for the first day or two. Once she’s moved out of critical care, you’ll be able to see her.”
“The Tin Man got a new heart.” Emerson laughed at his own joke. A nervous reaction, one Darcy recognized. It was also embedded in her own DNA.
“Weird,” she muttered. She’d made the same joke to her mother, weeks ago.
“What is?”
“The way your mind works.” Like mine. “You know. The crack about the Tin Man.”
“That was inappropriate.”
“No worries, kiddo. It was also kind of funny.”
“Thanks.” Lowering his chin to his knuckles, Emerson got back down to business. “Will you work harder at making Grandmother your friend? So we can get her fixed up?”
“Starting tomorrow,” she promised. “I can’t bring it up today. There’s something else I need to discuss with her.”
Emerson looked marginally better. Less worried, nearly hopeful. “You won’t forget?” he asked.
“I won’t.” She rose. “Do me a favor. Stay downstairs until I finish talking to her.”
“Okay.”
“Want to go into the Falls this afternoon? The forecast calls for nonstop rain, but we can take a spin through the roller rink.” She frowned. “You do know how to roller skate, right?”
“I’m a pretty good skater.”
“Great. We’ll hit the rink this afternoon.”
After giving him a quick kiss, she left the kitchen. From the living room, Samson’s murmured conversation drifted out. Marshaling her thoughts, she ascended the stairwell.
The spacious master suite, like its occupant, was subtle and elegant. Plush ivory carpeting softened Darcy’s footsteps. A chaise longue in a deeper shade of cream sat near the French doors, which led out to the private balcony. The dr
essers, as well as the two nightstands on either side of the king-size bed, were golden teak. In the bed, her mother lifted questioning eyes.
“Darcy.” The newspaper rustled to her lap. “Can I help you?”
A faint reprimand. Darcy swallowed against the dry spaces in her throat. Rarely did she enter her mother’s suite. The infrequent visits made her alert to the changes. A new photograph on the dresser, of her playing with Emerson out back. A pair of supple leather gloves, folded on a nightstand.
Pivoting, she surveyed the long expanse of wall beside the French doors. The room was nearly spartan in design, with the exception of this one wall and its horizontal arrangement of photographs. All in matching teak frames—photos of Darcy and her late sister during childhood, more recent images of Emerson as he raced through the stages of childhood development. A decades-old portrait of Rosalind in her judge’s robes, taken soon after she’d been elected to the bench. Surprise lifted Darcy’s brows.
“I’ve never noticed before,” she murmured. “There’s not one photograph of my father in your bedroom.” Given her upsetting conclusions, she now understood why.
“Does it matter?”
“Not to me. Not anymore.”
Unable to quell the tension invading her muscles, she began pacing. Tossing the newspaper aside, her mother watched with growing impatience.
“What is wrong with you this morning?” Rosalind asked. “You look absolutely . . . frenzied. It’s not your best look.”
“I need to ask you something. You won’t want to answer.”
“Thank goodness you didn’t pursue a law career. Your courtroom manner would not have swayed a witness.”
“I need the truth.” She stopped at the base of the bed. “Was my father unfaithful?”
Silence filled the room. Rosalind sat up straighter.
Her features unreadable, she motioned to the door. “I’m not having this conversation in front of the entire household. Where are Emerson and Samson?”
Darcy shut the door. “Downstairs. Emerson is in the kitchen, and Samson is chatting on the phone in the living room.” She returned to the bed with her heart pulsing out of rhythm.
“Why are you asking about your father?”
“I saw Ellen Caraway. Yesterday, at the block party.”
“The CPA?”
She gave a tight nod. “When I started walking over to say hello, Ellen looked alarmed. She ran off, like she couldn’t get away from me fast enough. She reacted exactly the same way as Morgan Harbert the day you confronted her in the parking lot. So I’m asking. Did the ‘good doctor’ play around on you?”
“Stop with the cynicism. It doesn’t suit you. He was a good doctor. One of the finest.”
“And he was also unfaithful?”
Surrendering, her mother expelled a weary breath. She reached for the leather gloves. Darcy hurried forward to help her put them on. Rosalind lifted a hand, driving her off.
“Your father was unfaithful.” Wincing with pain, she slipped on the left glove. “Repeatedly.” Injured pride raised her chin. “Why do you care? It was a long time ago.”
“Because I have the right to know if my parents raised me in a sham marriage.” Darcy couldn’t keep the anger at bay. “When did it start?” A terrible intuition warned she already knew the answer. But she wanted proof.
Which her mother, slipping on the second glove, quickly supplied. “When I was pregnant with you.” She stabbed Darcy with an assessing glance. “Ah, I see. You’ve put most of this together on your own. Yes, Darcy—he was unfaithful even then.”
“I’m not surprised. Everything about him was a lie.”
“And now you’re curious as to why I tolerated his behavior? Or are you merely appalled that a woman of my caliber did so? Yes, I let my love for him blind me. I spent years believing every lie. I believed him every time he promised never to stray again. When my safe delusions no longer worked, I realized it was too late to even consider divorce.”
The explanation sickened Darcy. “You made the wrong choice. No woman should put up with a husband like that. You should’ve kicked him to the curb.”
“I had you and Elizabeth to consider. I didn’t want you growing up in a broken home.”
Stunned, Darcy stared at her. Did her mother actually believe she’d done the right thing? That her great and tragic sacrifice had benefited her daughters?
“We did grow up in a broken home.” Heartache threatened to steal her composure. As did the sob rising from her throat. “We grew up believing we were second best. That we didn’t measure up, not against your stellar careers. The famous judge and the talented doctor.”
“Stop this. You’re attacking me.”
“For good reason,” she tossed back, the pain of betrayal too strong to tamp down. “You and my father hid inside your careers because you hated each other. Your hate became a prison for you both—and for me and Elizabeth. You trapped the four of us in a crucible.”
“Not intentionally.”
“What about Nella? He seduced her after she lost her husband, didn’t he? That’s why your broke off my friendship with Michael when I was twelve. Isn’t it?”
“I didn’t want you around that family. Not after what happened between Nella and Jack. I couldn’t bear the reminder. Your father respected my wishes.”
“Oh, I doubt a man like my father had your best interests in mind—or mine. He had the perfect arrangement, didn’t he? The ideal home life, and a wife who quietly accepted his infidelities. The veneer of respectability gave him cover for his exploits.”
“This conversation ends now. I won’t allow you to stand there and judge my life.”
A low growl of frustration escaped Darcy. “Yes, you will. I’m not going anywhere until I have all the answers.” When her mother stared at her, apparently stunned by the demand, she added, “Nella was your closest friend. How could you let a . . . predator get to her? Because that’s what we’re talking about. A man who sleeps around repeatedly, relentlessly—a married man, one who uses his status and his wealth to get what he wants—he preys on women.”
Rosalind got out of bed. She moved with the care of a woman no longer sure of her balance, which amyloidosis stole at inopportune moments. At last she steadied herself.
“The younger women your father targeted were arguably his prey,” she conceded. Her mouth tightened. “Nella was different. She continued on with your father. It wasn’t a short affair.”
“I don’t believe you. Where’s the proof?”
“Darcy, you’re nearing the line. Don’t cross it.”
“You don’t have proof. You’re angry at what he did to you, and she’s an easy target. You’ve kept your hatred burning for Nella because he’s dead, and you can’t take it out on him. Should I ask her what really happened?”
“Don’t you dare!” her mother shouted. She snatched up her robe. “You can’t march into my bedroom and start digging into my past as if my private life is yours to inspect. Stay out of my business! If you discuss any of this with Nella, I will never forgive you.”
The full brunt of Rosalind’s misguided hatred struck like a fist. Darcy had lost Michael thanks to her father’s abhorrent behavior. She’d lost her beloved sister on a rain-streaked night because she’d gone out drinking alone, cowed by her father’s demands that she break up with the only man she’d ever loved.
Michael. Elizabeth. Eight years spent away from Ohio. Spent away from Emerson, a little boy I now love like a son. All of the heartache a result of my father’s lust and my mother’s unrelenting fury.
“You win, Mother. I’ll let you keep your pathetic rationalizations.” Darcy choked off a sob. “I won’t talk to Nella. There’s no point. You’ve spent so many years consumed by hate, you’re unable to change.”
She spun for the door. She left her bewildered mother rooted in the middle of the suite.
At the bottom of the stairwell, Samson paced in a tense circle. The sound of her footsteps lifted his gaze.
“What’s going on upstairs? Were you fighting with your mama?”
Darcy scraped the hair from her brow. “I guess so.”
“Is Emerson allowed to go over to Michael’s house?”
“What? No.”
“He just took off—without a raincoat. It’s pouring.”
Outside, thunder cracked. They both flinched as the sound rocketed through the house. Then Darcy felt sick as understanding dawned.
Her mother appeared at the top of the stairwell. “What’s going on? Where’s my grandson?”
She’d dressed in a hurry, the leather gloves no longer on her sensitive hands.
Ignoring the question, Darcy gripped Samson’s arm. “Before Emerson went out, was he in the kitchen? Please tell me he was at the table, reading.”
“He was upstairs.”
“He heard the shouting?”
No.
The conversation was hurtful, brutal. Too sordid for a child’s consumption.
Samson blanched. “I was in the living room. I only saw him for a second. When he came down. He shot out of here fast.”
Yanking open the foyer closet, she grabbed a raincoat. “I’m going over to the Varanos’. I need to talk to him.”
Rosalind came down the stairs. “I’m coming too.”
“No, Mother. Stay here.” Thunder rolled closer, rattling the windows. “He’s upset. Let me talk to him.”
Samson frowned. “I’m going with you.”
“Stay with my mother. She needs you.”
“Wait!” Rosalind rushed across the foyer. “Let’s all go together. We’ll find Emerson faster.” She whirled on Samson. “Are you sure he’s with Michael? He’s not in the forest? He hides in the forest when he’s upset. What did he tell you?”
Darcy never heard the rest. She dashed out the door.
Rain pelted her in heavy sheets as she climbed over the fence. The scream of blades whirring sent her past the house. Michael was in his shop, working.
The Road She Left Behind Page 26