by Nora Roberts
During the outburst Pete had stayed very still. His voice was low and calm. He’d handled crises before, and knew how to turn them in his favor. “They found heroin, Stevie, and what’s politely called drug paraphernalia. They’re going to charge you with possession.”
“Just get me the fuck out.”
“Are you listening to me?” The question whipped out, cool and quiet. “They found enough in your place to put you away.”
“It was planted. Somebody set me up. Somebody—”
“Don’t bullshit me.” His eyes hardened, but whatever disgust he felt he kept carefully inside. “You have two choices. You can go to jail, or you can go into a clinic.”
“I’ve got a right—”
“You’ve got no rights here. You’re messed up, Stevie. If you want me to help you, you’re going to do exactly what I tell you.”
“Just get me out.” Stevie sank to the floor and folded into himself. “Just get me out.”
“How long will he have to stay in?” Bev poured the chilled Pouilly Fumé into glasses.
“Three months.” Johnno watched her, pleased that the old Bev wasn’t buried too deeply in the newer, sleeker model. “I’m not sure how Pete pulled it off, nor do I think I want to know, but if Stevie spends his time in the Whitehurst Clinic, he won’t stand trial.”
“I’m glad. He needs help, not a jail sentence.” She settled on the sofa beside him, feeling foolishly nervous. “The news is all over the radio. I was just wondering what to do, what I could do, when you knocked at the door. Perhaps, in a few weeks, I could go to see him.”
“I’m not sure he’ll be such a pretty sight.”
“He’ll need his friends,” she said, and set her wine down untasted.
“And are you still?”
She looked up. Her face softened before she lifted a hand to his cheek. “You look good, Johnno. I always wondered what you were hiding under that beard.”
“The sixties are over. More’s the pity. I actually wore a tie last week.”
“Please.”
“Well, it was white leather, but a tie nonetheless.” He leaned over and kissed her. Time, he thought, was only time after all. “I’ve missed you, Bev.”
“The years went by so quickly.”
“For some of us. I hear you and P.M. are an item.”
She picked up her wine, sipping, stalling. “Did you come to gossip, Johnno?”
“You know how I adore gossip, luv. Shall I pretend I didn’t see the pictures of you and P.M.?” The familiar sarcasm was back, faint, but sharp as a blade. “Of course my favorite is of you and Jane, right after you bloodied her lip.” He grabbed Bev’s hand before she could rise, and kissed it. “My hero.”
The laughter bubbled up, and though she took her hand away, she relaxed again. “I had no intention of fighting with her, and no regret that I did.”
“That’s the spirit. You Amazon.”
“She made a comment about Darren,” Bev murmured.
“I’m sorry.” His smile faded. When he took her hand again, she let hers lie comfortably in it.
“I just saw red. I know that’s a cliché, but you do when you’re viciously angry. The next thing I knew I was plowing into her, for Darren, for myself. And for Emma. A lot of nerve I have defending Emma after what I did to her.”
“Bev.”
“No, we won’t get into all that,” she interrupted. “It’s done now. I imagine Jane will say some filthy things about me in her next book, and my business will boom as a result.” Push it aside, she told herself, and go on. “P.M. tells me that you’re about to form your own label.”
“It should be official in a couple of weeks. Just where is our boy?”
“He had to fly to California a couple of days ago. The divorce business. Actually, he’s expected back anytime now.”
“Expected back here?”
She drank again, but met his eyes levelly. “Yes, here. Is that a problem, Johnno?”
“I don’t know. Is it?”
A trace of the old fire came into her eyes—stubborn, defensive. “He’s a very sweet man, a kind man.”
“I know. I’m rather fond of him myself.”
“I know you are.” She sighed, and let the fire die. “Don’t let’s make it complicated, Johnno. We’re just looking for a little happiness, a little peace of mind.”
“That’s bullshit. P.M.’s been in love with you for years.”
“So what if he is?” she demanded. “Don’t I deserve someone who loves me? Someone who puts me first?”
“Yes. And doesn’t he deserve the same?”
She shoved away from the sofa to pace to the window and back. The rain slicked down the glass like bars. “I’m not going to hurt him. He needs someone right now. So do I. What’s so wrong about that?”
“Brian,” he said simply.
“What does he have to do with this? That was over long ago.
He got up slowly. “I won’t insult you by calling you a liar, or by calling you a fool. I will say that I care about you, and P.M. And Bri. And I care about the band, what we are, what we’ve done, what we still can do.”
“I’m hardly a Yoko Ono,” she said stiffly. “I won’t come between your precious band. Have I ever? Could I ever?”
“You never have. Maybe you’ve never known how easily you could. Brian’s never loved anyone like he loved you, Bev. Believe me, I know.”
“Don’t say that to me.”
He started to speak again, but they both heard the door open, and the rush of footsteps down the hallway. “Bev! Bev!” P.M. turned into the room, his coat wet from the rain and flapping open. “Johnno, thank God. I just heard about Stevie on the radio. What the hell’s going on?”
“Have a seat, son.” Johnno settled back on the sofa himself. “And I’ll tell you.”
He loved her so sweetly. He touched her so gently. The candles flickered, flames dancing with the dark as Bev stroked a hand down P.M.’s back. His whispers were soft, the words lovely. It was easy, so easy to give herself to him, to let the strength of his feelings carry her along.
She would never have to ask herself if he needed her, if she would be, could always be, enough for him. With him, she would never have to spend nights wondering, worrying, aching. And she would never, never, feel that thrill of unity, of Tightness, of belonging.
She gave him all she could, arching up to him, opening for him, accepting, even welcoming him into her. Her body didn’t shudder as his did, her heart didn’t threaten to burst through the wall of her chest. But after a good, clean climax came the peace. And she was grateful.
But she should have known such simple things don’t last.
The candles still flickered as he drew her close, to hold her warmth to him. He loved the serenity that always cloaked her after sex, the complete and somehow elegant stillness of her body.
Her eyes were half closed, her lips soft and just parted. Her limbs were pliant. If he rested his head, as he often did, on her breast, he would hear the strong, steady beat of her heart.
Sometimes they talked like this—as he had never talked with his wife of seven years. They talked of what had happened to them during the day, or what had happened to the world. Or they lay and listened to the radio that had played during their lovemaking. They would drift to sleep like that, quiet and content. And in the morning he would wake, dazzled and delighted that she was beside him.
He shifted her so that he could brush his hand through her hair. “The divorce is going through.”
Roused out of a half-doze, she opened her eyes and watched the pattern of light and shadow on the wall. “I’m glad.”
“Are you?”
“Of course. I know how hard it’s been on you the last few weeks. You want it behind you.”
“I do. I married Angie for the wrong reasons, Bev. I wanted to settle down so badly, to have a wife, a home, a family. Of course that monster in Beverly Hills was never a home, and she always had an excellent excuse for pu
tting off starting a family. Just as well. I was as poor a choice for her as she was for me.”
She linked her fingers with his. “You’re too hard on yourself.”
“No, it’s true. I was a career choice for Angie. The pity is, she didn’t realize I was fond enough of her once to have helped her there without marriage. But we jumped in and were both too lazy or too cautious to jump out again when it went bad.” He studied her fingers, long and slender, tangled with his chunky ones. “Looking back, I can see every mistake so clearly. I won’t make them again, Bev—if you give me a chance.”
“P.M.” She moved then, flustered and frightened. His hands came to her shoulders, surprisingly firm, holding her face-to-face.
“I want you to marry me, Bev, for all the right reasons.”
She hesitated, surprising herself. The answer didn’t come through her lips as quickly, as surely, as it had jumped into her head. It was her heart that stopped it, she realized. Her heart that wanted to give him what he wanted. She lifted her hands to cover his.
“I can’t. I’m so sorry I can’t.”
He stared at her, watching her eyes, the regret in them—and the trace of pity that made him want to scream. “Because of Brian.”
She started to agree, then found that answer unclear as well. “No, because of me.” She drew away, and pulling on a robe, got out of bed. “I can’t let go, you see. I thought I had, I’ve wanted to, but I can’t.” She turned back, her face in shadows, her voice clear and filled with regrets. “Being with you is the best thing to happen to me in a long, long time. It’s made me feel happy again. And it’s made me see things clearly for the first time in years.”
“You’re still in love with him.”
“Yes. I think I could live with that, I think I could accept that somehow and go on, with you, with someone. But I’m the one who drove him away, you see.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Didn’t he ever tell you?” She smiled a little as she sat on the edge of the bed. It was easy to talk to him like this, to think of him as friend now, rather than lover. “No, I suppose he wouldn’t speak of it. Not even to you. After Darren was killed, I cut Brian out of my life. I punished him, P.M., and Emma. I hurt Brian when he needed me most, blaming him because I was too afraid to blame myself.”
“For God’s sake, Bev, neither of you was to blame.”
“I’ve never been sure of that. I wouldn’t let him grieve with me. And when he was suffering, when we both were suffering, I turned him away. He didn’t leave me, P.M. I left him. And poor little Emma. In our way, I suppose we both abandoned her. Seeing you again, being with you, has made me realize just what I did. To all of us. You deserve better than a woman who didn’t love enough, and who’ll always regret it.”
“I could make you happy, Bev.”
“Yes, I think you could.” She cupped his face in her hands. “But I wouldn’t make you happy, not for long. You’d always know I loved him first, and in a way I’ll never love anyone else.”
Yes, he had known, he had known that and her answer before he had asked the question. It would have helped if he could have hated her for it, and hated Brian. But he loved. “Why don’t you go back to him, talk to him?”
“Darren would be almost ten years old now. It’s too far to go back, P.M.”
Emma hurried across the grounds. If she looked as though she had a purpose, none of the sisters would stop and question her. She had an excuse prepared—a botany report for a science project.
She only wanted to be alone. She was ready to scream and wail with the need to be alone. She didn’t even want Marianne’s company. Emma was sorry she’d had to lie to her closest friend, and would confess the sin to Father Prelenski in the afternoon. But she needed an hour, an hour alone, to think.
She cast one quick look over her shoulder, then skirted around a row of hedges. Tucking the notebook she carried more securely under her arm, she dove into a small grove of trees.
Since it was Saturday, she was allowed her jeans and sneakers. It was cool enough in the shade of the greening trees to make her glad she’d worn the sweater. Once she was certain she was out of view from any of the windows of the academy, she dropped to the ground. Inside the notebook were more than a dozen clippings, most of which had been passed on to her by Teresa and other equally curious classmates.
The first was of herself, and Michael, from the summer before. She smoothed it carefully, battled embarrassed delight as she studied her face and form, depicted so clearly in newsprint. She looked wet and disheveled, and unfortunately for her ego, didn’t fill out the bikini very interestingly.
But Michael looked wonderful.
Michael Kesselring, she thought. Of course the paper hadn’t printed his name, hadn’t bothered to find it out. It had been her the press had been interested in. But all the girls had squealed over Michael and demanded to know who he was and if Emma had had a summer romance.
It had made her feel very grown-up to talk about him. Of course, she’d embellished the tale more than a little, about how he’d carried her in his arms, given her mouth-to-mouth, pledged his undying love. She didn’t think Michael would mind—especially since he’d never know about it.
With a sigh, she replaced the clipping and took out another. It was the one Teresa had brought over the night Emma had had her ears pierced. She couldn’t count the number of times she had taken it out, stared at it, studied it, tried to dissect it. Her eyes were constantly drawn to her mother’s face, frightened as they searched and searched for some resemblance. But not all heredity could be seen, she knew. She was a very good student, and had taken a special interest in biology when discussions of heredity and genes had come up.
That was her mother, and there was no denying it. She had grown inside that woman, had been born from her. No matter how many years had passed, Emma could still smell the stink of gin, she could still feel the pinches and slaps and hear the curses.
It terrified her—terrified her so that just looking at the picture had her digging bitten-down nails into her palms, had the palms themselves sweating.
On a choked cry, she tore her gaze from Jane’s picture and looked at her father’s. She prayed every night she was like him—kind, gentle, funny, fair. He had saved her. She had read the story often enough, and even without the printed words, she remembered. The way he had looked when she’d climbed out from under the sink, the kindness in his voice when he had spoken to her. He’d given her a home, and a life without fear. Even though he had sent her away, she would never forget the years he had given her. That he and Bev had given her.
It was hardest to look at Bev somehow. She was so beautiful, so perfect. Emma had never loved another woman more, never needed one more. And to look at her made it impossible not to think of Darren. Darren who had had the same rich dark hair and soft green eyes. Darren whom she had sworn to protect. Darren who had died.
Her fault, Emma thought now. She was never to be forgiven for it. Bev had sent her away. Her father had sent her away. She would never have a family again.
She put it away, and spent some time going through older clippings. Pictures of herself as a child, pictures of Darren, the wide, stark headlines about the murder. These she kept hidden deep in her drawer, knowing if the nuns found them and told her father, he would get that sad, hurt look in his eyes. She didn’t want to hurt him, but she couldn’t forget.
She read the stories through, though she could have recited them by heart by this time. Looking, she was always looking for something new, something that would tell her why it had happened, how she might have stopped it.
There was nothing. There never was.
There were new clippings now—pictures and stories about Bev and P.M. Some said Bev would at last get a divorce and marry P.M. Others played up the juicy angle of two men who had been like brothers torn apart by a woman. There was the announcement of Devastation’s new label, Prism, and pictures of the party in London on the day it had be
come official. There was her father with another new woman, and again with Johnno and P.M. and Pete. But not Stevie. With a sigh, Emma took out another clipping.
Stevie was in a clinic where they put drug abusers. They called him an addict. Others called him a criminal. Emma remembered she’d once thought he was an angel. Emma thought he looked tired in the picture, tired and thin and afraid. The papers said it was a tragedy; they said it was an outrage. Some of the girls snickered about it.
But no one would talk to her. When she had questioned her father, he had told her only that Stevie had lost control and was getting help. She wasn’t to worry.
But she did worry. They were her family, the only family she had left. She had lost Darren. She had to make sure she didn’t lose the rest.
Carefully, in her best penmanship, she began to compose letters.
Chapter Seventeen
Stevie read his in the sunlight, as he sat on a stone bench in the garden during his morning walk. It was a lovely spot, filled with tea roses and hollyhocks and bird songs. Little brick paths wound through it, under arbors of wisteria and morning glories. Both the staff and the patients at Whitehurst were given free rein there. Until the sturdy stone walls rose up.
He detested the clinic, the doctors, the other patients. He despised the therapy sessions, the scheduling, the determined smiles of the staff. But he did what he was told, and he told them what they wanted to hear.
He was an addict. He wanted help. He would take one day at a time.
He would take their methadone and dream of heroin.
He learned to be calm, and he learned to be cunning. In four weeks and three days, he would walk out a free man. This time he would be more careful. This time he would control the drugs. He would smile at the doctors and reporters, he would lecture on the evils of drugs, and he would lie through his teeth. When he was out, he would live his life as he chose.