Rocky sank to his knees at the far end of the flower bed and started pulling things up randomly—some plants, some weeds.
Liam opened his mouth to correct him and got a nudge from Yasmin’s foot for his trouble. When he looked up at her, she shook her head marginally.
“Was he bald?” Rocky asked, so low Liam wasn’t sure he’d heard it.
He rewound the conversation with the chief. “I don’t know. Chief said he had a ’Bama hat floating around in the car, but there was nothing else that could identify the guy.”
He glanced over at the boy in time to see him press his lips together. His hands on the plants went still.
Yes, he knew something, all right.
“I’m going upstairs,” Rocky said suddenly, and ran into the house.
Yasmin looked after him and then turned to Liam. “He’s seen too much,” she said.
The words brought back a memory, his older brother Sean explaining away some misbehavior of Liam’s with the exact same phrase. Since studying psychology in school and talking to the evaluator during his preemployment psychological evaluation, he’d read up on the effects violence had on kids.
Liam had witnessed his first bad fight—that he remembered, anyway—when he was probably around five. A bunch of yelling and screaming had woken him up, and he’d stumbled out of his room to discover his brothers already on the stairs. He’d climbed into Sean’s lap and they’d all sat and listened to shouts and shrieks and bangs, including the banging shut of the back door.
Once the silence had lasted a few minutes, they’d crept downstairs. Mom was lying on the floor, facedown, and outside they could hear Dad’s truck squealing away.
Liam could still remember the way his heart had thudded and raced. He’d just wanted to get to her.
“Is she dead?” Cash had asked, holding Liam back.
Just like Rocky had asked. That kids could worry their mom was dead—that he and his brothers had feared it—made Liam’s chest feel tight and straightened his spine. Anything he could do to help fix this problem, he’d do.
Even now, he remembered how he’d been frozen with fear, how he and Cash had waited while Sean went over and shook her, got a wet bunch of paper towels and started cleaning up the blood on her face and arms, talking to her.
Pretty soon, she’d awakened, had looked around and reached toward him and Cash, forcing a weak imitation of a smile. Liam had struggled to go to her then, but Sean had made him stay back until he’d gotten her sitting up, leaning against some pillows. Then she’d beckoned him over and kissed him, held her arms out to Cash and Sean, too, and they’d all hugged.
That was the first time he’d seen how vulnerable his mother was.
He stood, wanting to escape the memories, and headed to Yasmin’s tiny gardening hutch to put away the small shovel she’d given him. He leaned inside and blinked, remembering.
There in the corner was a figure made of white stone, about two feet tall: the yard angel he’d gotten for her. He’d wondered if it was tacky, not sure about his own tastes, especially buying a gift for someone who’d grown up with the best of everything.
But it looked so much like her, he’d explained when he’d given it to her. And it would look pretty in the garden of the place she was buying. She’d hugged him and said she loved it. He could still remember the happy, carefree smile on her face.
He’d imagined them putting it up together as they worked on the yard, him doing the hauling and lifting and mowing while she made it all look pretty.
That fantasy hadn’t come true, obviously.
He backed out of the hutch, and turned back toward the house, thinking. She’d kept the stone angel rather than throwing it away. But she’d put it in the shed, not out on display in her garden.
What did that mean?
And what did it mean that Josiah was now going inside, following Rocky, throwing weird, fearful glances back over his shoulder?
CHAPTER FIVE
TWO HOURS LATER, after she’d gotten Rocky settled in bed and seen that Josiah was watching TV in the living room, Yasmin’s shoulders relaxed a little. She wanted nothing more than to hide out in her bedroom and shut out the day, preferably with a big bowl of popcorn and a mindless movie.
She wouldn’t think about Liam. His expressive face, his fatherly hand on Rocky’s shoulder, the dimple that flashed when he was trying to hide his amusement.
She wouldn’t think about him...except she couldn’t help it. For years before they’d started dating, Liam had been the subject of her youthful romantic fantasies. They’d had that short stretch of months when those dreams had come true for her, when she’d been free to spend all the time she wanted with him, when his smile had been just for her.
Even though she’d had to break up with him, the dreams hadn’t gone away. If anything, they’d gotten more intense.
She’d just grabbed a bag of cheesy popcorn and clicked on the TV when her phone buzzed, caller unknown. She clicked on the call.
“Yasmin? It’s Eldora. I own the Pig?”
“Hey.” Yasmin was surprised the older woman, who managed Safe Haven’s most popular dive bar, even had her phone number.
“Listen,” Eldora said, “I got your number from your mom.”
“My mom? Are you in Charleston?”
“She’s here in town. Sitting at the bar.”
Yasmin’s mouth went dry. “I’ll be right there. Thanks.” She slid her feet into flip-flops and grabbed her purse and keys.
What was her mother doing at the Palmetto Pig?
Yasmin adored her mom, but not in the way some people adored theirs. She had friends who looked up to their mothers, called them for advice, respected their life wisdom. Yasmin’s mom was smart in the sense of being well-read, but their role reversal had started even before that first breakdown when Yasmin was ten, and by the time she’d entered her twenties, it was complete.
Mom definitely couldn’t take care of her and Josiah as kids. And recent events had illustrated that she couldn’t take care of Josiah as an adult.
Yasmin often wondered whether Mom could take care of herself, but you couldn’t say that to a fifty-year-old woman with a degree from Yale. Couldn’t suggest that she come live with you, or at least in the same town.
Mom needed the stimulation of a bigger city, or so she always said. So Yasmin had had to be content with taking Josiah off Mom’s hands and leaving her set up two hours away in Charleston, with a few friends from church and book club, a big library and quaint shopping area within walking distance, and a weekly appointment with a good therapist.
In the Palmetto Pig, the greasy smell of fried fish and hush puppies competed with a faint aroma of alcohol. Night was falling outside, but inside, the lighting level was always the same: dark, illuminated by lit-up beer signs.
And there, at the scarred mahogany bar, sat Yasmin’s mother.
Her hair bounced silvery-blond, halfway down her back, and her size-four figure was accentuated by the gauzy palazzo pants and tank top she wore. Not at all to Yasmin’s surprise, several of the male patrons were casting speculative glances at the pretty stranger.
Yasmin knew they were of no interest to Mom, who’d never loved anyone but Dad. In fact, their relationship had sealed Mom’s fate as a Southern small-town outsider, due to his being biracial. In a bigger city, or in the North, the choice wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow; Mom was pretty and fragile, the daughter of older parents in poor health. Dad—her parents’ physician and closer to their age than hers—had fallen in love, and Mom had needed someone to take care of her. The chemistry between them had been palpable even to their children.
In the conservative, upper-crust society Mom had come from, though, marrying a biracial man had marked her as an outsider, even in the 1980s.
To her credit, Mom didn’t care.
As Yasmin approac
hed her, a familiar mix of love and longing and worry tightened her stomach. She slid slowly onto the bar stool next to her mother and touched her arm featherlight, and even so, Mom jumped. “Yasmin! You scared me!”
“You scared me, too, Mom.” She put a careful arm around her mother’s shoulders and squeezed, lightly. “Why didn’t you call? I would have come down to Charleston and gotten you.”
“I just got so worried about Josiah.”
That was no surprise. Yasmin was worried, too. “Did something bring that on?”
Her mother shrugged and looked away, waved for the bartender. Chip, in his twenties and eager to please, hurried over. “What can I get for you two beautiful ladies?”
“I’d like another gin fizz, honey, thank you.”
Mom obviously wasn’t driving back down to Charleston tonight. “Make it two,” Yasmin said, and then turned back to her mother. “Did Josiah say something that got you worried?”
“No. I was looking online, reading about his condition.”
“And you found out...”
“That we should maybe have him committed before he hurts himself. Or somebody else. Honey.” She gripped Yasmin’s hand, tight. “It’s a lot on you to take care of him. I’ll freely admit it was too much for me, and I’m his mother.”
Everything is too much for you, Mom. But of course, Yasmin didn’t say that out loud. She’d talked to Mom’s doctors over the years, surfed the internet and had figured out that her mother probably had an anxiety disorder. But she was an artist, dabbled in painting and the occasional community theater production. She just thought of herself as temperamental.
“The way he sits and stares, the way he acts like he’s hearing voices...”
“He does hear voices. That’s part of his disease.” Yasmin had done plenty of research herself, including watching a segment where a journalist had worn earphones mimicking what people with schizophrenia heard in their own heads. It had been awful.
Yasmin was constantly on the watch for those voices inside her own head. Whenever she scolded herself or went into an extended daydream, she worried. Was it the onset for her? Women were typically diagnosed later than men...
Their drinks arrived and they sat and sipped for a few minutes, looking in the mirrored wall at the growing number of patrons talking and laughing, listening to the country music playing.
“How has he been?” Mom asked finally.
Yasmin hesitated. “Okay.”
“I can tell from how you say that that he’s not.”
“He is okay. Sometimes, he’s okay.” Her throat tightened and she swallowed another big swig of gin fizz. “He likes his job at the library a lot. You know how he’s always loved books, and he’s brilliant with the technology. And Miss Vi—remember her?—she’s got him running a chess club for disadvantaged kids.”
Mom bit her lip. “Is it really good for him to work?”
“It’s not just good, it’s crucial.” Yasmin was convinced of that. “In fact, once he’s in a good routine with the job, he might go for a graduate degree in library science.”
“Oh, no! That would be way too much for him.”
“He feels better when he has a focus like that. He’s still supersmart, Mom. He has a lot to offer. And he gets so excited when we talk about him going back to school. There are all kinds of online degrees—”
Mom waved her hand back and forth, obviously done listening.
Yasmin wanted to get through to her mother, to convince her to see Josiah as himself, as a person rather than a problem. But it was hard when she knew, deep inside, that Josiah wasn’t himself, not yet. And exhibit A was the way he refused to talk about what had happened the night he and Rocky had come to the center. Yasmin had asked him twice, and Rocky once. Neither of them would say anything about it.
“Hey, ladies!” A happy, hearty voice from behind them brought them both turning around on their bar stools. “Yasmin, I haven’t seen you in forever!”
Yasmin couldn’t help smiling at her younger friend. “Mom, this is my friend Claire. Claire, my mom, Erin Tanner.”
Mom smiled and clutched Claire’s hand. “Won’t you join us, dear?”
“Sure, for a few.” Claire looked back toward the door.
“Gin fizz while you wait for your special someone?” Yasmin teased.
“Sounds good. And I hear you don’t have to wait. Your special someone’s living in your garage apartment. True? Does your mama know?”
“Um.” Yasmin tried to signal Claire with her eyes to shut up.
Mom giggled, obviously pleased to be included in the girl talk. “I didn’t know you were seeing someone! Is it serious?”
Yasmin waved both hands, and when Chip came back, pointed to her glass for another. “I’m not seeing anyone! I have a tenant.”
“A hot tenant,” Claire said, laughing.
Yasmin kicked her ankle.
“Who is it, dear?” Mom asked, delicately sipping the dregs of her gin fizz. Another appeared in front of her without her even having to ask.
“It’s Liam O’Dwyer. One of the dreamy O’Dwyer brothers, the youngest.” Claire looked off into space, smiling. “All three of those men look good enough to...well. They’re handsome.”
Mom frowned and tilted her head to one side. “Liam O’Dwyer? From when you were in school? I’m...surprised.”
Yasmin knew why: she didn’t think Liam was very smart, and had told Yasmin numerous times that he wouldn’t amount to anything. “He’s a Safe Haven police officer,” she said firmly. “And an old friend who needed a place to stay.”
“Some people have all the luck,” Claire said, sighing. “We have plenty of extra room at my house. He could have stayed with me in a heartbeat.”
Yasmin glared at her.
“Kidding!” Claire laughed merrily. “Hey, I also heard you have a teenager staying with you. One of the women’s center kids? Listen, my folks have two of my nephews here for the summer. My sister’s kids. If you’re looking for some friends for your guy, bring him over. We’ve got the pool and a basketball hoop, and my spoiled little nephews don’t fight as much if there are other kids around.”
“Thanks,” Yasmin said. She wondered if sulky, angry Rocky would be able to get along with Claire’s suburban nephews. That was likely to be a mismatch.
Of course, according to some, she and Liam were a mismatch, too.
Mom was frowning, biting her lip, her pleasure in the conversation obviously evaporated, her anxieties starting to kick in. “Why are all those people living at your house?” she asked Yasmin. “How can you take care of your brother?”
Yasmin sighed. Josiah had told her how Mom had infantilized him when he’d stayed with her right after his diagnosis, how she hadn’t wanted him to leave the house, how she’d tried to help him make phone calls and to screen his friends. He’d made Yasmin promise not to treat him that way, and she’d agreed.
“Hey, Mom, it’s okay,” she said, rubbing her arm gently. “Maybe it’s time to pay the tab and go back to my place.”
“It sounds like you have a full house already!” Mom’s eyes brimmed with tears. “I don’t know what I’m going to do tonight. I don’t think I can drive all the way home.”
“There’s plenty of room. Come on.” Yasmin signaled for Chip and made a writing motion in the air. Claire said goodbye and went to meet Tony, her on-again, off-again boyfriend.
Yasmin paid the check and then put an arm around Mom and headed for the exit. She’d learned to recognize, from too-frequent experience, when Mom needed to be treated carefully.
It had happened for the first time when Yasmin was ten. Back then, in Mom’s circles at least, nervous breakdowns were a thing; Mom had gone to a rehab center to get over hers. It had crushed Yasmin to spend six months without her mom, alone in the house with her dad and brother, trying to make a home,
to supervise the help, arrange for groceries to be brought in and laundry sent out. Trying to be a mom, so her own real mommy could come home.
The only bright spot in that fifth-grade year had been Liam, held back a grade at the same time Yasmin had been promoted forward. They’d been the biggest and smallest kids in the class, respectively, and neither one of them had fit in.
Truth was, she’d fallen in love with him then and never fallen out of it, despite their differences.
As Mom got into the passenger seat of Yasmin’s car, she gripped Yasmin’s arm. “Josiah could be violent to a child,” she said. “Did you ever think of that?”
“Oh, Mom, I don’t think so.” She hadn’t even considered the possibility that Josiah could hurt Rocky; the two of them seemed thoroughly bonded.
Even so, Mom’s negative attitudes about Josiah unsettled her. When Yasmin was around her beloved brother, it was hard to think of him as doing anything to hurt anyone. But what had really happened on the night of the murder? Whatever it was, it had made both Josiah and Rocky act strange.
She was pretty sure they at least knew something about the crime, even if she couldn’t believe they’d participated in it.
But neither was very proficient at speaking carefully and creating a good impression. Which was why she hoped the police didn’t catch wind of their possible involvement.
* * *
RITA WATCHED THE last of the burly movers head out the door of her friend Norma’s beachfront condo, generous tips in hand.
“That’s a wrap,” Norma said, hands on hips. “Easiest move I ever did in my life. Amazing what money will do for you.”
“You deserve every penny.” Norma had been part of a lawsuit involving a building she’d worked in for years, unknowingly absorbing cancer-causing chemicals. She’d won her battle with breast cancer—at least, she hoped so—but the generous settlement didn’t make up for the suffering she’d gone through.
The wall-to-wall windows overlooking the ocean, the rustic private balcony off the bedroom, the gleaming modern kitchen...it gave Rita a pang that just as quickly faded away. “I’m coming over here at least twice a week to see how the other half lives.”
Low Country Dreams Page 6