by Lisa Jackson
“Three nights. You come back Sunday morning. Think of it as a vacation from me.”
Bianca managed to roll her eyes for what had to be the twentieth time since dragging herself out of bed. She let out a disgusted puff of air that caused her newly cut bangs to float up and down.
“Drive carefully,” she advised her son.
Jeremy said, “I always do!”
“That’s what I love to hear.” Pescoli didn’t believe it for a second and, spying Cisco dancing near the front door, ready to go anywhere Jeremy would take him, scooped up the feisty little dog. She was rewarded with a slopping doggy kiss, Cisco’s tongue washing her cheek while his tail thumped against her side and he wriggled in her arms. “Tell your dad and Michelle, ‘Happy Thanksgiving.’”
“Yeah, like you mean it,” Jeremy grumbled.
“I do. I hope you have a great time.” Holding the squirming dog, she stood at the door and watched as the two of them made their way along the snowy path to Jeremy’s truck. In her mind’s eye she saw them as they once had been, Jer, the older, lanky brother with missing teeth and socks that never stayed up, Bianca, all springy reddish curls, chubby legs, and rosy cheeks, tagging after her adored older sibling.
Where had the time gone? Her heart twisted a little as she saw Jeremy help Bianca into the cab, slam the door, then trot around the front of his truck to climb behind the wheel.
Within seconds the pickup rumbled to life, a steady throb of bass reverberating from inside the cab as Jeremy pulled away. She stood for a while, watching the truck rumble through the trees guarding the lane, then slammed the front door shut.
“What do you think of that?” she asked, setting Cisco on the floor. “Alone at last, just you and me. Think of all the trouble we can get into.”
As if he understood, the little dog went crazy at her feet, wiggling and prancing toward the cupboard where she kept his leash and a few doggy treats. “Okay, okay, it is Thanksgiving.” She tossed him a bacon-flavored biscuit. “But we are not making a habit of this.”
She did need to run into the office; that wasn’t a lie. Alvarez seemed hell-bent to prove that Jocelyn Wallis’s death was a homicide. They planned to go over the autopsy, as it should have come in late last night.
Afterward, Pescoli was going over to Santana’s place. A small smile played upon her lips at that thought. If there was one thing about the man, it was that he was always interesting.
And that wasn’t a bad thing.
Definitely not bad at all.
Trace was halfway down the stairs when he called over his shoulder to his son, “Hey, Eli, let’s get a move on!”
No response.
He paused on the landing. “Eli?”
Trace drew a breath and headed up the stairs to the second floor of his farmhouse. Eli had been exceptionally quiet after Trace, trying his hardest not to stumble and pause and struggle for words, had told him that Miss Wallis had met with a terrible accident and was now in heaven. Eli hadn’t said anything in response, so Trace had asked if he knew what heaven was. Then Eli answered promptly, “That’s where you go when you’re dead. If you’re good.”
“Uh . . . yeah,” Trace responded, uncertain where to go after that. Eli had taken matters into his own hands by saying he wanted to watch TV. The subject had been dropped ever since.
Now Trace wondered if he was about to get into a deeper discussion about death with his seven-year-old. He mentally cursed Leanna for running out on them. He might not miss her, but he could’ve really used some help raising their son about now.
“Hey, bud,” Trace said, entering Eli’s room. “We gotta get over to the Zukovs for Turkey Day. Gobble, gobble. Let’s get a move on.” Eli’s room was one of two that faced the front of the house, and as Trace moved into the room, he saw that his son was seated on the floor, some of his Lego blocks scattered around him, cradling his blue cast. “Are you in pain?”
“Do we have to go?” Eli asked, looking up. Trace saw the shimmer of tears in his son’s eyes.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” As Trace crouched to comfort him, Eli shook his head. His little chin trembled, and he swiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his good arm. “Is this about your teacher? Miss Wallis is in good hands, son.”
Swallowing hard, Eli stared at Trace with serious, worried eyes. “Where’s Mommy?”
Trace tried hard not to react. It felt as if his heart were being ripped from his chest. What a fool he’d been to think that Leanna’s leaving had been forgotten. He totally got it that Eli losing his teacher had brought these feelings to the surface, but it still threw him for a loop. “I, uh, I don’t really know where she is right now,” Trace admitted.
“She should be here. I want to talk to her.”
Of course he did. “I don’t know how we can do that.” Reaching for the down jacket tossed on the foot of the unmade bed, Trace tried to reassure his boy. “At least not today. But I can try to find her if you want.”
“You don’t know where she is?”
“Not at this exact moment.” His guts twisted. Truth be known, he hoped Leanna never showed her face around here again. He prayed she’d leave her son to grow up without her intervention, because she was certain to screw the boy up.
Or was that his own selfishness talking? Maybe the boy would be better off knowing his mother, despite the fact that she was a liar and had left him without a word.
“Sometimes, I’d like to talk to her, too,” Trace said to Eli, still crouching, though it was a bald-faced lie.
“I want to talk to her now.”
“I’ll try to find her. That’s the best I can do. C’mon, now. Tilly and Ed are waiting for us.”
“Promise?” Eli demanded. He wasn’t going to let Trace off the hook.
“Promise.” Knowing this would lead to no good, he agreed nonetheless and tried to help the boy struggle into his damned jacket. The bulky sleeve fit over his good arm; the other side had to flop over his cast. Since Eli was already wearing a thermal undershirt, a long-sleeved sweatshirt, and a down vest, he’d be warm enough for the short span of time he was outside. Trace tried to force the zipper of the jacket, then gave up fighting with the stubborn tab. The Zukovs were right next door. Usually, on Thanksgiving, Trace spent the day alone with Eli. They played games, watched sports or cartoons, and ate a turkey dinner he bought as takeout from Wild Will’s, his favorite restaurant, but this year he’d decided to take the Zukovs up on their invitation. He’d figured Eli was probably tired of being cooped up and needed a change of scenery, and there was also the sadness and shock over losing Miss Wallis.
Now, as he and Eli clambered down the stairs, he wondered if he’d made a mistake. He shook his head. Today wasn’t the first time his son had asked about his mother, nor would it be the last, but every time the subject of Leanna came up, the questions were always unexpected and difficult to answer truthfully.
Get used to it. They’re not going to get any easier as time goes on.
They walked through the kitchen, where Sarge had taken up his favorite spot under the kitchen table. He thumped his tail as they grabbed gloves and hats from the hooks near the back door.
“She should call.” Eli’s little face was drawn into a frown of concentration. “She should call me.”
“Yeah, that she should.” Trace had tried to be honest with his boy from the get-go, but it hadn’t always been easy, especially with the trickier queries.
“Can you call her? Right now?”
That one stopped him cold. He snagged his jacket from a hook and shoved his arms down its sleeves. “I don’t know,” he said, holding his son’s gaze. “I think it would be best if she found us. She knows where we are.”
“You need to call her. Maybe she’s hurt! Maybe she’s dead like Miss Wallis!”
“She’s not dead,” Trace assured him.
“How do you know!”
“If anything happened to your mom, someone would phone us.” He jammed his Stetson onto his head.
“Not if they don’t know our number!”
Trace placed his hands on his son’s shoulders. Even with the padding of his quilted vest and down jacket, Eli’s body felt thin and small. “After Thanksgiving, I’ll call her.”
“Tell her to come back.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
“Tell her to come back!”
“Eli, it’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
Trace sighed. “Because . . . grown-ups always make things complicated.”
Eli’s jaw jutted out. “Then they should stop.”
“Probably.” He opened the door to the porch and felt the chill of winter seep into the house.
“She should be here.”
“She should be here, but she’s not.” He managed a thin smile. “But you and I, we’re solid.” With a gloved finger, he forced Eli to look into his eyes. “Right?”
“Yeah,” his son said without a lot of conviction, and one more time Trace found himself mentally berating his ex-wife for how callously she’d left her son.
“Are you gonna be okay?” he asked, knowing damned well the boy wasn’t.
Eli lifted one shoulder.
Trace took his kid’s hand and helped Eli down the back steps. “Okay, let’s go see Tilly and Ed.” They trudged through the broken path of snow to the truck. “I think Tilly mentioned something about taking you on at checkers again.”
“She’ll lose,” Eli predicted.
“Big talk.”
“I’ll show you.” For the first time that day, Eli almost flashed his smile.
“Don’t show me. Show her.” Feeling that this latest emotional storm had been weathered, Trace bustled his kid into the truck. The boy really did need a mother, but he’d be damned if he’d go out looking for some woman for the sole purpose of helping him raise his son.
No reason for that.
For a second he thought of Eli’s doctor, Acacia Lambert. She, like Leanna, had auburn hair and a wide mouth, but that was where the resemblance faded. Where Leanna had blue eyes, the doc’s were closer to green and sparked with intelligence.
He wondered about her, what she was doing on Thanksgiving and, as he drove the quarter mile to the Zukovs’ place, had the unlikely pang that he wanted to spend more time with her.
“Ridiculous,” he muttered, turning off the plowed road and onto the rutted lane, where several cars had already parked around the Zukovs’ garage and pump house.
“What?” Eli asked.
“Oh, I was just thinking,” he covered up, nosing the truck into a space beneath a winter apple tree where clusters of red fruit were visible as they dangled on leafless, snow-covered branches.
“About what?”
“About what you’re gonna want for Christmas this year.”
“You said ‘Ridiculous,’ ” his son charged.
Trace cut the engine. “That I did, because I imagined you wanted a mountain bike.”
“Sweet!” Eli said, then paused and skewered his father with his concerned gaze. “Why would that be ridiculous?”
“Because you’re wearing a cast, kiddo!” He rumpled his son’s already unruly hair. “How dumb would that be to put you on a bike when you already have a broken arm?”
“I’ll be fixed by then!” Eli said, unbuckling his seat belt and reaching for the handle of the door. He hopped down to the snowy ground and was racing to the front porch before Trace could climb out of the truck.
The boy’s exuberance was infectious, and Trace felt only a smidgen of guilt for lying to his son. But he didn’t want to admit the cold, hard truth to Eli. Nor did he really want to think it himself.
But the fact was, he’d been having trouble pushing Acacia Lambert out of his mind.
And that spelled trouble, plain and simple.
The kind of trouble he didn’t need.
CHAPTER 11
Kacey didn’t like the place.
No matter how many “stars” or “diamonds,” or whatever the ranking was as far as retirement homes went, Rolling Hills just wasn’t her idea of “independent” living. But it didn’t matter. Her mother loved it here in this lavish, hundred-year-old hotel that had been converted into individual apartments. Her mother’s place, a two-bedroom unit on the uppermost floor, had an incredible view of the rooftops of Helena and, farther away, on the horizon, the mountains.
There was a pool and spa, exercise room, and car service, if one preferred not to drive their own vehicle, though each unit came with one parking spot in an underground garage.
The building was spacious, the amenities top-notch, and still, when Kacey walked through the broad double doors and signed in at the reception desk, she felt a pang of sadness for the home she’d once shared with her parents, a little bungalow with a big yard.
That’s what it is, she decided. There was nothing wrong with Rolling Hills other than it wasn’t the place she’d grown up and this was the place where her father, after suffering a stroke, had died.
“She’ll be right down,” the receptionist, a petite woman with narrow reading glasses and lips the color of cranberries, advised Kacey. “If you want to take a seat . . .” She waved a hand toward a grouping of oversized chairs and a love seat near a stone fireplace that rose two full stories. Kacey crossed the broad foyer and stood before the glass-covered grate, where warmth radiated to the back of her legs.
For the past three years, ever since her divorce, Kacey had spent her Thanksgivings here, and she couldn’t help feeling a bit of nostalgia. Don’t go romanticizing your childhood. You know better . . . .
Maribelle, her mother, when invited to Kacey’s, had steadfastly refused, insisting Kacey make the trip to Helena instead.
“You must come here,” she’d intoned. “Chef Mitchell is a god when it comes to the menu, and neither one of us will have to spend hours cooking and cleaning. Besides, it’s just too much for me to get away.”
That had been a bald-faced lie. Why her mother wanted to play the age card when she was on the south side of seventy was beyond Kacey. Maribelle Collins had more energy than a lot of women half her age, and, for the most part, she was sharp as a tack. Kacey believed her mother was a bit of a queen bee at Rolling Hills Senior Estates and didn’t want to leave her position for a second.
But Kacey had decided making the trip would be simpler than insisting Maribelle come her direction.
“There you are, darling!” Her mother’s voice rang out across the grand foyer. Kacey snapped out of her reverie to spy her mother, shimmering in a silver dress and high heels, hurrying toward her.
Tall, thin, and striking, Maribelle smiled widely and clasped both her daughter’s hands as they met, which surprised Kacey as the last time she’d seen her, all she did was frown and complain. At sixty-five, she was spry and youthful, dressed as if she were going shopping on Fifth Avenue in New York City. Her hair was white, thick, and cut in a soft pageboy; her eyes were a sparkling blue behind fashionable glasses; her chin as strong as it ever was. “I’ve been so looking forward to this. Come, come!” She was already leading Kacey to the dining room near the back of the building. Garlands of pine boughs had been draped around the windows. White lights winked from beneath the long needles, while another fire burned brightly and the tables had been covered in white cloths and decorated with small poinsettias in red and white. A few other residents were scattered around the room, seated at tables, some as couples, a trio of friends, and a couple singles.
“Isn’t it festive?” Maribelle enthused. “They get a little jump on Christmas here, but why not? Oh, this is my table over here.” She motioned toward the windows, and as she did, she glanced around the seating area, her gaze skating over the few other diners.
“A lot of people are missing today. Off to see their children or siblings or whatever. So we have the table to ourselves!” For the first time in a long while she seemed excited and bubbly. “Sit, sit.” She waved Kacey into one of the cushy chairs as she took her own seat a
nd unrolled a napkin that had been placed in her wineglass.
“So tell me,” she said, smoothing the linen carefully over her dress. “How’s work going?”
“Hectic,” Kacey said, trying to understand the change in this woman who was her mother. Gone was the dour, stubborn, glass-is-half-empty person, replaced by a smiling, happy woman who seemed to embrace life. Someone who was interested in her daughter. “Just the other day a woman was rushed into the ER. She’d been out jogging and had fallen over that short little guard fence up on Boxer Bluff, by the park, you know the one I mean. Just at the crest, near the falls, from what I understand.”
“Oh, what a shame. I hope you fixed her back up again.” Maribelle flashed a quick smile and effectively changed the subject. “Now, honey, check out the menu,” she said, pointing with a cranberry-glossed nail to the list of offerings on the menu left on Kacey’s plate. So much for her interest in her daughter’s work or the patient’s well-being. “Look. You can have roast turkey or baron of beef. Can you believe it, an actual choice? It’s because of the new chef. Mitch.” She rotated her hands upward, as if to praise the heavens. “He’s just what this place needed after that miserable Crystal. How she ever got the job here in the first place is beyond me. . . . Let’s see, well, I don’t know why I even care. I’m having the turkey, of course. Tradition, you know!”
Who was this woman? Kacey wondered as her mother flagged down the waitress, Loni, and they ordered. Maribelle took another scan of the room, then welcomed the glasses of Chardonnay that Loni poured.
As the meal was served, they sipped and chatted, making small talk and working their way through a squash soup, green salad garnished with hazelnuts, feta cheese, and cranberries, and eventually sliced, moist turkey served with buttered sweet potatoes, sauteed green beans, and a delicate oyster stuffing with gravy. The meal wasn’t as homey as the corn-bread stuffing, Campbell’s soup green bean casserole, and yams with a marshmallow topping that Ada Collins, Kacey’s grannie, had served every year, but it was a close second best.