“But he’s not—”
Rebecca interrupted her. “Let me tell you something else. You drop this Smith business and quit trying to ruin my agency and my reputation… or find another job.”
Teryl grew very still. Her hand where she clutched the phone was clammy, and a funny, empty place had appeared deep in her stomach. “You’re saying that if I don’t turn my back on the truth, if I don’t sell out my principles for your agency, your reputation, and your commissions, you’ll fire me.”
“That sums it up nicely.”
As recently as three days ago, Teryl would have done almost anything to salvage her job. She would have argued, would have pleaded. She would have made promises and compromises. She probably would have begged. But not this morning. This morning she could think of only one thing to say. “Don’t bother with warnings, Rebecca. I quit.” Then, very quietly, very calmly, she hung up, returned the phone to the night table, and turned to find John watching her. Her cheeks turned a little pink. “I didn’t know you were awake.”
“Did I just hear you quit your job?” When she nodded, he grimaced. “Then I’m awake. You love that job, Teryl. Why did you quit?”
“Rebecca has decided, for the sake of the agency, that whoever wrote Resurrection gets to be the real Simon Tremont. She said that if I kept trying to prove that you were Simon, she would fire me, so I quit.”
“Screw her. When we get this all straightened out, I intend to fire her. Then you can be my agent.” He threw the covers back and was rising from the bed when Teryl spoke again.
“John, your sister’s back in Florida. The only number I gave her was the agency’s because I didn’t want you to know I had called her. She left a message there last night, asking me to call her today.”
He sat back down and reached for the phone, bracing the receiver between his shoulder and ear while he dialed the number. “Something must have happened to make her cut the trip short. What did she say?”
Teryl repeated the message as close as she could recall it, all the while aware that the phone was ringing endlessly in his ear. How many rings had it taken for the machine to pick up when she’d called before? Three, maybe four. Definitely no more than five.
John disconnected and dialed the number again, with the same results. Holding the phone tightly, he looked at Teryl. “She said she would be home all day.”
She nodded.
“Even if she had to go out for something, the machine should have picked up.”
“Maybe you’re dialing the wrong number.”
He shook his head. “She’s had the same number for ten years.” Still, the next call he placed was to information. Teryl could see by his expression that he had the right number. There had to be some other reason why the call wasn’t going through.
Like maybe Simon had already gotten to her.
She tried not to think about that, but her mind kept coming back to it; so, she could see, did John’s as he dialed the number again, let it ring ten or twelve times, disconnected, then dialed again.
Setting the phone down with a bang, he got to his feet, grabbed his shirt from the chair, and headed for the bathroom. “Call the airlines. Get us two seats on the first flight to Verona.”
“John, we can’t just drop everything and go,” she protested. “I don’t even have any shoes, and we need to talk to the police here. We can call the cops down there. We can tell them that Simon has threatened her and ask them to keep an eye on her.”
In the doorway he stopped and faced her. “She’s my sister, damn it! She’s all I’ve got! I’ve got to make sure she’s all right.” Drawing his wallet from his hip pocket, he tossed it on the bed in front of her. “Reserve one seat on the next flight to Florida. You can wait here and go shopping for shoes.”
His sarcasm hurt, but not nearly as much as his message. He would leave her here in Richmond, here in the same city where the man trying to kill them was running free, here to fend for herself from the danger he had put her in, so he could go to Florida and look after his precious sister. She’s all I’ve got, he had said. Well, he had her, too, and he knew it. He just didn’t consider her important enough to rank with Janie. Outside of this very small part of his life—proving Simon Tremont a fraud and reclaiming what was rightfully his—he didn’t consider her important at all.
She listened to the bathroom door slam behind him before she reached for the wallet. Flipping it open to his Mastercard, she sat down, opened the Yellow Pages to the listing for Airlines, and began dialing. By the time he came out again, she had made reservations for two to Verona and had called for a cab. The flight would leave in ninety minutes; that would give them time to stop and get her a pair of shoes. She might even persuade John to spring for new jeans and T-shirts to replace their rain-stiffened clothing. Considering that, in the last ten hours or so, he’d gotten her house blown up, had almost gotten her killed, and had helped her lose her job, it seemed the least he could do.
They talked very little before the cab arrived. If he was surprised that she climbed into the backseat with him, he didn’t say anything. He probably thought she intended to go shopping after dropping him off at the airport, she thought bitterly. He was at least partly right.
She directed the driver to stop at the nearest variety store. Without a word, John handed her a couple of twenties and sent her inside alone. She felt self-conscious as hell as she walked through the doors and down the broad central aisle toward the shoe department at the back. She tried to imagine how D.J. would handle the situation. Of course, D.J. would never be caught in public looking less than her best, but if the world stopped turning and the impossible did happen, she would bluff it out. She would be so brazen, so brassy and bold, that no one would dare say anything to her.
Maybe that was how she ended up, less than fifteen minutes later, hurrying back to the cab in an all new outfit: sandals, a short denim skirt, a T-shirt, a suede vest, and a pair of lace-edged panties that were more lace than panty. Her own clothes, still damp, stiff, wrinkled, and smelling faintly of gasoline, were in the ladies’ room where she’d changed after checking out.
He gave her a long look. “Not exactly your style, is it?”
She stared out the side window, her jaw stubbornly set. No, short, sexy, and cute wasn’t her style. Jeans were. Tailored outfits. Plain, unspectacular dresses. Long, flowing skirts and concealing jackets and flats and low heels. Nothing too tight, nothing too trendy, nothing that might bring a little attention her way.
Reaching across the seat, John drew his fingertips down her arm from just below the cuffed sleeve of her shirt to her hand. Her expression turned even harder, and she moved closer to the door. His own expression gained a degree or two in hardness, and he pulled back, clenching his hand into a fist on his thigh.
He had hurt her feelings at the motel with that crack about going shopping. He knew, of course, that replacing her ruined clothes was by no means more important to Teryl than Janie’s safety, but she needed to understand the stress he was under. If that bastard Tremont got to Janie before he did, if anything happened to her because of him, he didn’t think he could stand it. She had already suffered enough for the misfortune of being his sister. He couldn’t bear any more guilt.
At the same time, to be fair, he needed to understand the stress Teryl was under. Through no fault of her own, she had lost her house, her car, and everything she owned. In the space of a few minutes, she’d gone from a comfortable home to nothing. Furniture, knicknacks, her mother’s movies, family photos, closets filled with favorite clothes, her CD collection, her personal library, all the mementos and keepsakes of her life, had been reduced to ash. She’d been left with nothing but the clothes on her back, not even a pair of damned shoes. On top of that, she’d lost the job she loved, and then he had insulted her.
No wonder she didn’t want him to touch her.
The cab driver pulled into a vacant space in front of the terminal and waited silently for his fare. John removed all but
one twenty from his wallet, added one of his credit cards, and offered it and the cash to Teryl. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. How can I find you?”
She gave the money a long look, but didn’t take it. “It won’t be necessary,” she said at last, opening the door. “I’m going with you.”
Her announcement sent a tremendous feeling of relief through him. He wanted to hug her tight, to kiss her hard. Instead, he simply paid the fare, then followed her out of the cab.
They checked in, found their way to the gate, and were soon seated on the plane, awaiting takeoff. The seats were first-class, all that was available on such short notice, Teryl stiffly explained. John didn’t give a damn how much the tickets cost. He would have paid for the entire damned plane if it had been necessary.
He buckled his seat belt, leaned his head back, and blew out his breath. “Did I ever mention that flying scares the shit out of me?”
Finally, for the first time in far too long, she looked at him, meeting his gaze to see if he was serious. He was. He was so damned serious that he felt sick already, and they hadn’t even moved away from the terminal yet. “No,” she murmured. “You didn’t.”
“That’s why I drove from Rapid River to New Orleans. That’s why we drove from there to Richmond.” The pilot started the engines, and John felt sweat beading on his forehead. “My family flew to Florida when I was… I don’t know, fifteen, sixteen. It was the first time I’d ever been on a plane. I’d never been so scared or so sick in my life.” His hands were clammy, and his heart was starting to thud loud enough to compete with the engines in noise level. “The next summer we were going to Hawaii for vacation. Not even the prospect of getting out on those waves was enough to get me willingly on that plane. I pleaded to stay home. I begged, and my father said, ‘Grow up. Show a little backbone.’” He took a deep breath to ease the tightness in his chest. “I thought I was going to die. I swore when I got back home that I would never, ever get on a plane again as long as I lived, and I never did. Until now.”
She reached across the space that separated them and slid her hand into his. “Just remember why you’re here,” she advised, curling her fingers tightly around his. “Just think about Janie.”
He survived the takeoff, the flight, and the landing in Charlotte, where they changed planes. He also survived the second leg of their journey. He walked off the plane in Florida feeling like death warmed over, but he hadn’t panicked. He hadn’t lost control. He hadn’t gotten sick as a dog. Maybe thinking about Janie had helped.
Holding on to Teryl definitely had.
They rented a car for the short drive to Verona, following the rental clerk’s directions to Janie’s neighborhood. She had lived there ten years, but John had never visited. He had loaned her the down payment for the house—she had refused his offer of a gift but had been happy to accept a loan—but he had never seen the house. Like Teryl’s, it was stucco with a red tile roof and plenty of arches, but where Teryl’s house was—had been—close to a hundred years old, this one had been new when Janie had moved in. She’d chosen the wallpaper and the paint, the tile and the carpet. She’d made the necessary modifications and had loved every part of it. When it was finished and ready for her to move in, she had pronounced it absolutely perfect.
Perfect. She used the word a lot for a woman whose life, thanks to him, had little perfection in it.
Teryl pulled the car into the empty driveway and shut off the engine, then glanced at him. “Are you feeling better?”
He nodded, even though it was a lie. He felt pretty damned lousy—still queasy from the plane and worried sick over Janie.
Teryl gave his hand a squeeze before climbing out. “Come on. Let’s see if she’s here.”
By the time he got out, she was halfway to the small porch. If she thought there was anything odd about the ramp that replaced the usual steps, she didn’t comment on it. She simply walked to the top, rang the doorbell once, waited a moment, then rang it again. She was reaching to press the button a third time when he stopped her. “Sometimes she’s kind of slow. Give her a minute.”
But maybe this morning she wasn’t simply slow. Maybe she wasn’t here. Maybe she was here but couldn’t answer the door. Maybe she was inside, hurt and unable to call out. Maybe—
The door swung in, interrupting his worries, and for the first time in more years than he wanted to count, he found himself face to face with his sister. She looked at Teryl first, wearing a polite smile, waiting for a greeting of some sort; then her gaze shifted to him. The smile faded, disappeared completely, then returned, brighter, broader, than before. “Johnny?” she asked, her voice sharp and shaky with shock. “Oh, my God, it is you! Johnny!”
Teryl took a step back, trying not to stare as John bent to hug his sister. She tried to remember what he had told her about Janie and the accident that had killed their brother. All she’d needed to do to make the Olympic track team, he’d said, was show up for the trials, but she hadn’t, because of the accident. But she had survived, Teryl had stated rather than asked, and he’d given a rather cryptic answer that she hadn’t pursued. More or less.
She had survived in a wheelchair.
That was the other part of John’s great grief regarding the wreck. It had been his car, and he had been driving. His brother had died, and his sister, the world-class runner, the Olympic hopeful, had suffered injuries so devastating that she would spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair. And John had walked away without a scratch.
Teryl felt a surge of pain in her chest. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and hold him close, wanted to convince him that he’d punished himself long enough, wanted to ease his guilt and his sorrow. She wanted to comfort him, to somehow heal him. She wanted to tell him that she was sorry she hadn’t understood his need to come here, to see for himself that Janie was all right. She wanted to simply hold him and love him. But Janie was holding him now. He didn’t need her when he had his sister.
Turning her back on them, she stared at the ramp. It hadn’t really registered with her when they’d arrived; she hadn’t noticed that all the other houses on the block had steps. She hadn’t noticed the flower beds, either, that ran the length of the house, built up behind pink stucco walls to a height of two and a half to three feet—convenient for gardening from a chair. She was so unobservant.
Behind her Janie sniffled and dried her tears. “Jeez, Johnny, it’s been twenty years since you brought a girl around. Introduce us, will you?”
Teryl indulged in her own covert sniff before turning to face them again. She wished he would reach for her hand, but he didn’t. She wished he didn’t look so embarrassed by the emotion—both Janie’s and his own—but he did. He simply, plainly introduced her. “This is Teryl Weaver.”
Janie’s gaze turned speculative. “Teryl.” She offered her hand, and Teryl moved forward to shake it. “We’ve traded messages.” With that knowing, schoolteacher sort of look sharpening, she wheeled her chair back so they could enter the house. “Come on in, you two. I think you both owe me some explanations.”
Traffic on I-95 was light when they crossed into North Carolina. It was coming up on 3:00 A.M., and they’d been driving, it seemed to Teryl, for forever. All their worries over Janie, it turned out, had been for nothing. After having the worst luck in the world and facing every misfortune that could have possibly befallen them—from lost luggage to stolen passports, from misplaced reservations to illnesses of every variety—she and her fellow teachers had ended their trip early and returned home. She had found Teryl’s message on her machine and called the agency to leave her own message, but it wasn’t her fault, she’d said with a shrug, if a fierce summer storm that night had knocked out the phones.
After explaining the situation with Simon, they had moved her into a hotel, and John had made arrangements for security guards to watch her every move. She had protested, but in the end, she’d done exactly what her brother wanted. It was because he didn’t often ask favors of her,
he had awkwardly teased, but she had disagreed. It was because she loved him.
No wonder Teryl had liked her from the start. They had that much in common.
Once Janie was settled and John had promised to see her again when this mess was over, they had headed north in the rental car. Although she hadn’t relished the long drive when she was already feeling pretty ragged, Teryl hadn’t even considered asking him to fly again… although she would give just about anything if he would find a motel and stop. She had dozed from time to time, but the rental car wasn’t nearly as comfortable as the Blazer. There was no room to stretch her legs, and, even with the seat reclined, her position was still awkward. It was only sheer exhaustion that had allowed her to sleep what little she’d managed.
She was lying on her side, staring at billboards in garish, neon-bright colors, when John spoke for the first time in hours. “Are you awake?”
“Hmm.”
“You’ve been extraordinarily patient today. I appreciate it.”
She didn’t reply. She wasn’t like D.J. She didn’t want to be appreciated. She wasn’t that desperate yet… was she?
“Today was the first time I’d seen Janie since it happened. The accident,” he explained, as if she could possibly need clarification. “She’s changed so much.”
Turning to face him, she pillowed her head on her clasped hands. “She’s a lovely woman.”
“She always was. She was the definitive California girl: tall, pretty, blue-eyed, blond-haired, tanned, healthy, athletic.” He sighed heavily. “Then she got in the car with me, and all that changed.”
“Only the athletic part. She’s still tall, pretty, blue-eyed, blond-haired, tanned, and healthy. She seems better adjusted than most people. She’s independent. She has a job she likes and plenty of friends. She keeps busy with volunteer work, teaching English as a second language to emigrants. She has a boyfriend.” Teryl shrugged. “She’s happy.”
Passion Page 40