by Nora Roberts
“I’ve been keeping my eye on you over the years, baby. You and I could make quite a team.” He wet his lips, then deliberately rubbed his free hand over his crotch. “I could teach you more than you’ll find in these books.”
“You have sex with my mother.”
His teeth flashed. He liked the way she called a spade a spade. “That’s right. We’ll just keep it in the family.”
“You’re disgusting.” She yanked her hand away and lifted the books like a shield. “When I tell my mother—”
“You won’t tell your old lady a thing.” He kept smiling. The drug made him feel tall and strong and sexy; the alcohol made him feel confident and tough and determined. “I’m the meal ticket, remember.”
“You work for my mother; she doesn’t work for you.”
“Get real. Without me Phoebe Spring couldn’t get a job peddling garbage bags in a thirty-second commercial. She’s washed up, and you and I both know it. I put a roof over your head, honeybunch. Get her a job now and again and keep the fact that she’s a pill junkie and a booze hound out of the press. You should show a little gratitude.”
He lunged, so quickly that Adrianne’s scream caught in her throat. The books flew as he dragged her across the table. She bucked, kicking out, raking with her hands, but managed only a glancing scrape down his face before he pinned her arms.
“You’re going to thank me for this,” he told her before he closed his mouth over hers.
She felt the sickness rise up, hot and bitter in her throat. It clogged there so that she had to gasp to draw in even a breath of air. He bent over her on the table. When she kept her lips locked, he moved on, sucking at her breast through her shirt. There was pain, sharp pain, but deeper was the shame.
She began to scream, over and over, squirming, twisting, desperate to free herself. The glass he’d set on the table went shattering to the floor. The sound of it tossed her back to Jaquir, her mother’s room.
Through her terrified eyes she saw her father looming over her, felt his hands violate her as they ripped at her shirt. Her screams turned to sobs as his hand slid up her leg and under her shorts to probe and penetrate.
Her struggles were driving him into a sexual frenzy. To him she was like young fruit, firm, smooth, moist. Her body was as slim as a boy’s but soft as butter. He felt hard and heavy as stone. There was nothing like a virgin, he thought as he dragged her to the floor. Nothing quite like a virgin. Panting, he squeezed her small breasts in his hands and watched the tears stream down her face. The fight was going out of her. He pulled her back under him easily as she tried to crawl away.
She hardly felt him now. Body and mind had separated. She heard weeping, but it seemed to come from someone else. There was pain, but it was dull, cushioned by shock.
A woman was weaker than a man, bound to a man, made to be guided by a man.
Then he was gone. She heard screaming, crashing. It didn’t concern her. Rolling to her side, Adrianne curled into a ball.
“You bastard.” Phoebe had him by the throat. Eyes wild, teeth bared, she squeezed the breath out of him. Caught off guard, Larry stumbled back. He managed to pry her off and draw in air just before her freshly manicured nails sliced down his face.
“Crazy fucking bitch.” On a howl of pain he knocked her back. “She asked for it. She wanted it.”
Phoebe was on him like a tiger, fists pounding, sinking in teeth and nails. She ripped at him, tearing clothes and flesh. They were nearly even when it came to height and weight, but she was driven by a rage so hot, so deep, only murder would quench it.
“I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you for putting your filthy hands on my baby.” She bit deep into his shoulder and tasted his blood.
Cursing, he struck out and through more luck than skill caught her on the jaw hard enough to stun her. “Useless cunt.” He was crying himself, deep, gulping sobs, amazed that a woman could have hurt him. His face was bleeding and his chest and arms felt like putty. A shooting pain ran up his leg as he struggled to his feet. “Jealous ’cause I wanted a little taste of the kid.” He swiped a hand under his nose, then fumbled for a handkerchief to staunch the blood. “You broke my fucking nose.”
Panting, Phoebe stumbled to her feet. She saw the bourbon open on the counter. Taking the bottle, she smashed it down, then held out the broken shard. Her glorious face was twisted with fury, and a smear of blood, his blood, was on her lip. “Get out. Get out before I cut you into little pieces.”
“I’m going.” He limped to the door, holding the dripping handkerchief to his face. “We’re through, baby. And if you think another agent’s going to take you on, you’re in for a surprise. You’re washed up, sweetheart. You’re nothing but a fucking joke in this town.” He pulled open the door when Phoebe advanced. “Don’t call me when you run out of pills and money.”
When the door slammed, she heaved the bottle against it. She wanted to scream, to stand in the middle of the room, lift up her face, and scream. But there was Adrianne. Phoebe crouched beside her and gently gathered her close.
“There, baby, don’t be afraid. Mama’s here.” Shivering, Adrianne curled against her. “I’m right here, Addy, right here. He’s gone. He’s gone and he’s never coming back. Nobody’s going to hurt you again.”
Her shirt was in tatters. Phoebe wrapped her arms tightly around her daughter and rocked. There was no blood. She held on to that. He hadn’t raped her. God knew what he’d done to Adrianne before she found them, but he hadn’t raped her little girl.
When Adrianne began to cry, Phoebe closed her eyes and continued to rock. The tears would help. No one knew better. “Everything’s going to be all right, Addy. I promise. I’m going to do what’s best for you.”
Chapter Nine
She was eighteen years old. Adrianne stood in the quiet, pastel-toned office of Dr. Horace Schroeder, one of the leading authorities on abnormal behavior in the country. It was her birthday, but she didn’t feel any sweep of joy, any tingle of excitement.
Outside the window was a long blanket of lawn, crisscrossed by bricked paths where people walked or were wheeled by white-coated orderlies and nurses. There was a weeping cherry in full bloom and an ornamental hedge of azaleas. She could see honeybees hovering over the blossoms, then streaking off, plump with nectar. Sun struck the water in a marble birdbath, but the robins and swallows that nested in the nearby grove of oak weren’t tempted today.
Through the window she could see beyond the lawn and the trees to the shadows of the Catskills to the north. They gave the view a sense of openness, of freedom. Adrianne wondered if it was the same when the window was barred.
“Oh, Mama.” She rested her forehead against the glass a moment, letting her eyes close and her shoulders droop. “How did we come to this?”
When she heard the door open, she straightened quickly. Dr. Schroeder walked in to see a calm young woman, slightly too thin, in a pale blue suit. She’d pinned her hair up to add height and maturity.
“Princess Adrianne.” He crossed to her, accepting the hand she offered. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting.”
“It wasn’t long.” For Adrianne, five minutes in this place was too long. “You wanted to see me before I take my mother home.”
“Yes. Please sit down.” He offered one of the wing chairs that helped his office look like a cozy parlor. There was an antique piecrust table beside it. On it was a discreet box of white tissues. Adrianne remembered having had need of them on her first visit two years before. Now she folded her hands in her lap and gave Dr. Schroeder a small smile. With his long-jawed face and sagging brown eyes, he made her think of a big, sad dog. “Can I get you some coffee or tea?”
“No, thank you. I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for my mother—and for me.” When he started to brush this aside, she held up a hand. “No, I mean it. She feels very comfortable with you, and that means a great deal to me. I also know that you’ve done more than you had to do to keep details
of her illness out of the press.”
“All my patients have a right to their privacy.” He took a seat, choosing the chair beside her rather than the one behind his desk. “My dear, I know how much your mother means to you, and how concerned you are about her well-being. I’d like you to reconsider taking her home.”
Adrianne braced herself. Though her eyes never wavered, her fingers tightened in her lap. “Are you telling me she’s had a relapse?”
“No, no, not at all. Phoebe’s progress is satisfactory. The medication and treatment have done a great deal to stabilize her condition.” He paused, then let out a long breath. “I don’t want to crowd this conversation with technical terms. You’ve heard them all before. Neither do I want to downplay her condition or the prognosis.”
“I understand that.” She resisted the urge to pull herself out of the chair and pace. “Dr. Schroeder, I know what’s wrong with my mother, I know why and I know what needs to be done for her.”
“My dear, manic depression is a very difficult and heartbreaking illness—for the patient and the patient’s family. You’re well aware by now that the depressions and the hyperactivity can have abrupt onsets and recoveries. Phoebe’s response over the last two months has been good, but it has been only two months.”
“This time,” Adrianne reminded him. “In the past two years she’s been in this sanitarium as much as she’s been home. There’s been nothing I could do to change that until now. I turned eighteen today, Doctor. In the eyes of the law, I’m an adult. I can take responsibility for my mother, and I intend to.”
“We both know that you took responsibility for your mother a long time ago. I admire you for it more than I can say.”
“There’s nothing to admire.” This time she did rise. She needed to see the sun, the mountains. The freedom. “She’s my mother. Nothing and no one means more to me. No one knows as much about her life and mine as you do. Tell me, Dr. Schroeder, in my place could you do less?”
He studied her when she faced him. Her eyes were very dark, very adult, very determined. “I would hope not. You’re quite young, Princess Adrianne. The fact is, your mother may need constant and intense care for the rest of her life.”
“She’ll get it. I hired a nurse from the list of candidates you gave me. I’ve arranged my schedule to be certain my mother is never left alone. Our apartment is in a very quiet neighborhood near my mother’s oldest and closest friend.”
“Love and friendship will certainly play an important part in your mother’s emotional and mental health.”
Adrianne smiled. “That’s the easy part.”
“She’ll have to be brought in for therapy weekly at this point.”
“I’ll arrange it.”
“I can’t insist that you leave Phoebe with us for another month or two. But I am going to recommend it strongly. As much for your sake as hers.”
“I can’t.” Because she respected him, she wanted him to understand. “I promised her. When I brought her in this time, I swore to her that I’d take her home again by spring.”
“My dear, I needn’t remind you that Phoebe was comatose when she arrived. She won’t remember that promise.”
“I remember it.” She crossed to him, offering her hand again. “Thank you for all you’ve done, and all that I’m sure you’ll continue to do. I’m going to take Mama home now.”
He’d known he’d been wasting his time. Dr. Schroeder held her hand a moment longer. “Call, even if you need only to talk.”
“I will.” She was afraid she would cry again, as she had the first time she’d met him. “I’m going to take very good care of her.”
Who’s going to take care of you, he wondered, but led her out into the corridor.
She walked beside him in silence. It was too easy to remember other visits, other walks down the wide hallways. It wasn’t always quiet. Sometimes there had been weeping. Or worse, much worse, laughing. The first time her mother had been hospitalized she had been brought in looking like a broken doll with eyes opened and fixed, body limp. Adrianne had been sixteen, but had managed to rent a room at a motel twenty miles away so that she could visit daily. It had been three weeks before her mother had spoken a word.
Panic. Adrianne felt a little bubble of it skip through her body, echoing the panic she’d felt the first time. She’d been so certain that Phoebe had been going to die in that narrow white bed in chronic care, surrounded by strangers. Then she had spoken. Just one word. Adrianne.
From that point their life had entered a new phase. Adrianne had done everything she could to see that Phoebe would receive the best treatment. Everything, including writing Abdu and begging for help. When he’d refused, she’d found another way. She drew a deep breath as they turned a corner. She was still finding another way.
At the Richardson Institute, nonviolent patients were given spacious rooms furnished as elegantly as a suite in a five-star hotel. Security was unobtrusive, unlike the east wing with its bars and locks and reinforced glass, where Phoebe had spent two miserable weeks the year before.
Adrianne found her now, sitting by the window of her room, her red hair freshly washed and pinned back from her face. She was wearing a bright blue dress with a gold butterfly pinned to the collar.
“Mama.”
Phoebe turned her head quickly. The face she’d carefully composed in case a nurse should look brightened. She managed, with what acting skill she had left, to hide the desperation she felt as she rose, arms open wide. “Addy.”
“You look wonderful.” Adrianne held on tight, drawing in the scent Phoebe wore. For a moment she wanted to wallow in her mother’s embrace, be a child again. She pulled back, smiling to disguise her careful study of her mother’s face. “Rested,” she said with some relief.
“I feel wonderful, especially now that you’re here. I’m all packed.” It was hard to keep the edge out of her voice. “We are going home, aren’t we?”
“Yes.” It was the right decision, Adrianne thought as she stroked her mother’s cheek. It had to be. “Do you want to see anyone before we go?”
“No, I’ve said good-bye.” She held out a hand. She wanted out, and quickly. But she knew a good actress made her exit as beautifully as she timed her entrance. “Dr. Schroeder, it’s good of you to come. I want to thank you for everything.”
“Take care of yourself, and that’s thanks enough.” He cupped her hand between his. “You’re a very special woman, Phoebe. And you have a very special daughter. I’ll see you next week.”
“Next week?” Phoebe tightened her arm around Adrianne.
“You’re going to come in for therapy,” Adrianne explained, soothing. “On an outpatient basis.”
“But I’ll live at home, with you.”
“Yes. I’ll drive up with you for your sessions. It’s a lovely drive. Then you’ll talk with Dr. Schroeder about anything you like.”
“All right.” She relaxed enough to smile. “Are we ready?”
“Just let me get your bag.” Adrianne lifted the small case, then because she felt Phoebe needed it, took her hand once more. “Thank you again, Doctor. It’s a beautiful day,” she began when they started down the corridor again. “It was wonderful to see all the trees in bud on the way up, and the flowers.” They walked outside into the sunshine and delicately scented air. “Every time I drive upstate I think how nice it might be to have a house in the country. Thank you, Robert,” she said to the driver as he took the bag. She slid into the back of the limousine with her mother. “Then I get back to New York, and I don’t see how anyone lives anywhere else.”
“You’re happy there.” Phoebe swallowed hard as the car pulled away from the institute. Escape. They were escaping again.
“I’ve always liked it, since the first time. Remember the first afternoon, when you and Celeste and I walked all over midtown? I thought it was the most fabulous place on earth.”
“Will Celeste be there?” Celeste had had the tickets waiting. She’d met them
at the airport.
“She said she’d come over later today. She’s about to start a new play.”
Phoebe blinked as she focused on Adrianne’s face. Her little girl was grown-up. They were only driving home, not running away from Abdu. No one was going to hurt Adrianne ever again. “I’m so glad you’ve had her while—while I haven’t been well.” She glanced out the window. Adrianne had been right. It was a beautiful day. Perhaps the most beautiful day she’d ever seen. “But I’m better now.” She gave Adrianne a quick, laughing kiss. “In fact, I’ve never felt better in my life. I can’t wait to go back to work.”
“Mama—”
She felt the adrenaline rise like champagne bubbles, fast and frothy. “Now, don’t start telling me I should rest. I’ve rested enough. I just need a good script.” She linked her hands together, certain there was one waiting. “It’s time I got back to taking care of my little girl. As soon as word gets out that I’m available, the offers will come in. Don’t worry.”
She seemed unable to stem the flow of optimistic words about the parts awaiting her, the producers she should lunch with, the trips she and Adrianne should take together. Adrianne said little. She knew the excitement, the utterly unrealistic planning was as symptomatic of her mother’s illness as the deep depressions. But after seeing Phoebe’s misery, it was impossible to even try to crush her illusions.
“I’ve hated to think of you living here on your own,” Phoebe began as they walked into the apartment.
“I’ve hardly been alone.” After setting down the bag, Adrianne peeled off the jacket of her suit. “Celeste has been staying here more than she stayed at home. She took the fact that you made her my guardian very seriously.”
Worry flicked back into Phoebe’s eyes. Without the suit jacket, Adrianne looked like a child again. Vulnerable. “I knew she would. I counted on it.”