A Father's Quest

by Debra Salonen

  Jessie snickered softly in agreement.

  “And I’m rethinking my plan to stay in Baylorville.”

  “No way. You’ve always loved it here.”

  Remy shrugged. “Probably because I felt accepted. Mama made sure of that. I was Marlene Bouchard’s odd daughter, but that was okay. This is the South. Families are expected to have one or two slightly off members, right?”

  Before Jessie could protest that Remy wasn’t odd, Remy rushed to add, “I’m not feeling sorry for myself. I simply don’t want to be known as that dream girl anymore. I want to be normal and have a normal life. And I don’t think I can do that here.”

  Jessie’s expression turned to pure horror. “Remy, you can’t change who you are. Nobody wants you to. You’re a wonderful person. I’ve always wished I was more like you. Everyone wished I was more like you. You’re even-tempered and kind and sweet. You’re the family peacemaker.”

  Remy finished her coffee then stared at the bottom of her empty mug. That was exactly how she’d felt lately—empty. Useless. Unfulfilled. “Yeah,” she said, looking up. “And do you know what my psychology teacher used to say about peacemakers? They use other people’s drama to avoid facing their own problems. And it’s true. Did I or did I not travel two days by bus to South Dakota to involve myself in the middle of your extremely dramatic business?”

  “But you told me you had a dream. It woke you up and you knew I was in trouble. And you were right. How can that be a bad thing?”

  Remy got up, set her cup on the bedside table, then walked to the French doors that led to a tiny, ridiculously impractical balcony that one of Mama’s suitors built for her. She opened the doors with a flourish. But she didn’t step outside. Instead, she looked at her sister.

  “I lied. There, I said it. I lied about the dream, Jessie. I’ve always lied. I don’t dream any more or any less than anyone else. I may remember my dreams a wee bit more clearly than most people, but that comes from practice. It certainly doesn’t make me clairvoyant or psychic or gifted.”

  Jessie’s expression turned stormy. And belligerent. Jess was always Remy’s most fervent defender. More than one little boy went home from school with a fat lip after calling Remy “crazy” or “weird.” “That’s not true. You are gifted. You inherited your gift from—”

  “Our great-great-aunt, the witch.” Remy made a no-no motion with her hands. “Jess, there was never a witchy great-aunt. Mama made that up. She told me so before she died.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, please, don’t look so surprised. Everyone knew Mama bent the truth when it suited her needs.”

  “But she told people you could see things in your dreams. And you did, Rem,” Jessie argued. “I remember all sorts of times when you saw stuff in your dreams and it turned out exactly the way you said it would. And…and what about Jonas Galloway? You saved his life when he fell down that well. You can’t deny that.”

  Remy had known this conversation wasn’t going to be easy—changing a lifetime’s belief never was with someone as stubborn as Jessie—but now that she’d finally brought up the subject, her knees felt wobbly and her palms were starting to sweat. She stepped outside for a breath of fresh air and to grasp the wrought-iron railing.

  “I can’t say for sure what happened with Jonas,” she said, raising her voice so Jessie didn’t have to get up. “I was only eight at the time. Maybe I dreamed something or maybe Mama elaborated on my lucky guess. Maybe she made the whole thing up. I don’t know.”

  “Well, I do. I was in the beauty parlor when you woke up from that nap, sobbing and wailing. All the ladies gathered around Mama to comfort you and find out what was wrong. When you finally quit crying so much, you told them you saw the little boy at the bottom of a well.”

  Remy had no memory of that whatsoever, but she’d heard it repeated often enough over the years that she could imagine it quite clearly. She also knew from her college courses on psychology and aging that memory changed over the years. Nothing was ever quite as clear as you thought it was.

  “The human brain is an amazing thing. There are a number of explanations for what happened, if, in fact, you’re recalling a true scene and not something your mind thinks happened.”

  Jessie sat up, angrily. “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “No. Not at all. I’m saying there’s a lot we don’t understand about the mind and our subconscious. As an impressionable little kid, my brain might have filed away all the details I overheard the ladies in the beauty parlor talking about and suddenly put those facts together in a dream.”

  Jessie didn’t say anything, but Remy could tell she remained unconvinced.

  “Lucid dreaming has been around a long time, Jess.

  People can train themselves to remember their dreams.

  There are books to explain what the imagery means. It’s like breaking a code. Maybe I’ve developed my inherent ability a bit more than most people over the years because Mama and her friends made such a big deal about what I supposedly saw. Then Mama added the witchy great-aunt element to turn me into a sort of minor celebrity. I don’t know. But you have to admit I’ve never claimed to have any psychic abilities.”

  Jessie was silent for long enough that Remy thought she would have to drag out more evidence to persuade her twin she had no special talents. Then Jessie asked, “Why are you bringing this up now? Is it because Mama’s gone and you don’t have to pretend for her sake? Now, that I do understand.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe I’m tired of living up to other people’s expectations. Sweet, demure, dreamy…fey. I’m not any of those things, Jess.”

  “Well, who are you then?”

  Remy threw out her hands. “I don’t know. But I’m going to find out. Starting today. My first order of business is finding a job. A new, exciting, interesting job that could be anywhere in the world.”

  “Travel? You? The girl who took a bus to South Dakota because planes cost too much and sometimes fall out of the sky?”

  She stuck out her tongue. “I never said that last part.

  I’m not a hick, you know. I’d just lost my job. I was being thrifty. And responsible.”

  “Okay. You’re not afraid to fly, but my point is you’re a homebody. You’ve always loved this town. You couldn’t wait to get back here when we left Nashville. I, on the other hand, immediately split for the West Coast. Are we doing some kind of role reversal here? I’m the one who’s supposed to be footloose and fancy-free and you’re the hearth-and-home kind of girl. What happened?”

  Time for honesty. “I learned from watching you fall in love with Cade.”

  “Really? Like what?”

  “I decided a real relationship—the kind that’s going to last—has to be built on trust. When you cut that rope on the climbing tower and fell into Cade’s arms, you trusted him to catch you.”

  Jessie made a face. “Sorta. I mean, it’s not like I had a lot of choices at the time. But, you’re right, he did catch me and I do trust him.”

  “What I’m saying is I will never be able to find that around here because nobody in this town knows who I really am.” Including me.

  Remy could tell by the widening of Jessie’s eyes that she understood. “Wow. That’s insightful, Rem. So, what does that mean, exactly? You’re moving?”

  “Maybe. Probably. All I know for sure is I’m done pretending. My whole life has been one big pretense.”

  “No. I don’t agree.”

  “Yes, it has. I pretended not to be angry with Mama for what she did to me and Jonas. I was the good girl in the family, for heaven’s sake. The freakin’ peacemaker.” It was hard for her to even think the word peacemaker without contempt. Who wanted to use other people’s problems to deny the existence of their own? “A good girl wouldn’t hate her mother for doing what she thought was best for her daughter, right?”

  “You hated Mama, too?” Jessie’s voice was so quiet Remy almost didn’t hear the question.

  “Why do you think
I went to Nashville with you? I was so mad I couldn’t stand to be in the same room with her, let alone live in her house. But I couldn’t admit that out loud.”

  Jessie let out a low whistle. “I knew you were upset, but I thought you were pissed off at Jonas. The way he went to Europe instead of sticking around to make sure you were okay.”

  It had been a double whammy of hurt. First, her mother broke up Remy and Jonas; then, Jonas broke Remy’s heart by running away as if she were contemptible—toxic—because she was her mother’s daughter.

  Reinforcing, she realized later, the deep inner self-doubt she’d always harbored.

  “What Mama told us that night confirmed something I’d always suspected.”

  “What?” Despite her obvious reluctance, Jessie rose and approached the balcony—a clear sign she wouldn’t abandon this discussion.

  “That our family isn’t normal. Mama was a slut. And we’re bastards. Not only that, but she admitted to depriving of us of a chance to know our father. All those years she pretended he was dead, he wasn’t. We could have had a relationship with him. But by the time she told us, he was gone. That’s pretty damn low, wouldn’t you say?”

  “But you came home again, after Nashville.”

  “I wanted to go to college, and Mama offered to let me live here free of charge while I went to school. And she apologized for everything, tried to explain and justify her choices.” She shrugged. “You know how persuasive she could be. And you were in California by then, so there went my backbone.”

  “The brains and the brawn,” Jessie said wistfully. “Isn’t that what it said under our yearbook pictures?”

  Remy was still thinking about her mother, the choices Mama made and how they affected her daughters. “Don’t you ever wonder what our lives would have been like if we’d had a real father—not a string of Mama’s boy friends, who often happened to be someone else’s dad?”

  “Not really. Did you talk to Mom about this when you sat with her at the hospital?”

  Remy shook her head. “It was too late by then. I didn’t want her to feel bad.”

  Jessie took a step closer and touched Remy’s shoulder in a supportive way. “See? You can’t help yourself, Rem. You’re nice. You care about people. That’s why you tried to help Mama’s clients by telling them about your dreams.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I’m done with all of that. I’ve decided to be more like you.”

  Jessie made a skeptical sound. “Me?”

  “Yes. You do what you want and to hell with what people think. When we were little, everybody cut you slack because of your burns, but you know as well as I do that you had a chip on your shoulder before you were injured. I probably tried a little too hard to be easygoing to make up for your attitude.”

  Jessie looked aghast. “You were sweet because I wasn’t? Really? That’s wild. Because I actually used to resent you for being so nice. I should have known you weren’t as perfect as you pretended to be. After all—” she winked “—you’re my twin.”

  Remy smiled. She felt better after getting some of her pent-up feelings off her chest. She still didn’t have a plan, per se, but telling Jessie about her intentions was a big first step. She’d have to explain her position to their three older sisters at some point.

  Or, not. Maybe she’d take a page from the Jessie Bouchard playbook and act first, explain later.

  Jessie hobbled into the room and resumed her seated position to rest her ankle. “So, what does this epiphany mean exactly? Are you going to sell Mama’s house and move? I’d love to have you closer to me.”

  Remy followed her inside but left the doors open. “We can’t sell it. The market is too depressed. Maybe I’ll rent it out. First I have to finish fixing it up.” She nodded toward her walls, which she’d painted a brilliant shade of ruby. In a way, choosing such a bold color—something her mother would not have chosen—had been Remy’s first act of rebellion.

  “But, don’t worry. Whatever I decide, I’ll keep you informed,” she said. “We do own this place together.”

  Their mother had been so proud to be able to give her daughters a tangible legacy. As she rightly should. She’d started her own hair salon, expanded to include two other locations, paid off this house and raised five daughters almost entirely on her own. Whatever her faults—and there were many—Marlene had provided financially for her children.

  Remy and Jessie talked about some much lighter topics for a few minutes longer until a loud, insistent barking interrupted.

  “Is that my dog?” Jessie asked, returning to the balcony.

  Beau, Jessie’s foundling, was ordinarily calm and quiet. The mature Catahoula hound rarely made a sound.

  She leaned past Remy to check out the side yard where the dog was able to run free.

  “Hey, boy, what are you upset about?”

  The leggy tricolor mutt paced along the hedge.

  Jessie frowned. “I thought it might be Cade and Shiloh, but there’s no sign of a big orange truck in the drive. Only Yota.”

  Remy’s gaze was drawn to the nose of a shiny black car parked across the street. She couldn’t identify the make or model because the hedge blocked her view, but the pristine paint job sparkled in the morning light.

  “There’s someone in the car across the street.”

  Jessie tensed visibly. A predictable reaction given the fact she’d recently faced down a hit man who had been causing her grief. “Who?”

  “I don’t know. The hedge is in the way. But I’m guessing your dog can sense that someone’s there.”

  “Do you want me to go check this out? Maybe you have a stalker of your own.”

  Remy put a hand on her sister’s arm. “Chill, Kung Fu Panda. I’ll finish dressing and put on some makeup, then meet you downstairs. Once I’m presentable, we can take a stroll and check out the car—together.”

  Jessie rolled her eyes. “Get presentable and take a stroll. My God, you do sound like Mama.”

  Remy waited for Jessie to go inside before she closed and locked the French doors. “You know, Jess, despite comments like that, I’m going to miss you. I’ve really enjoyed these past few weeks together.”

  “Me, too. It was almost like the old days in Nashville.”

  They’d worked crappy jobs to fund their living expenses while they played heartfelt songs about love and loss—and fire—in out-of-the-way joints. Everyone said that was what you had to do to get big. But apparently their out-of-the-way joints were never frequented by scouts for the legitimate record labels. They lasted three years and had some wonderful memories between them, but no recording contract.

  “Except for the waiting-tables part,” Remy returned with a smile. “You really, really hated that.”

  “True. I was easily the worst waitress on the planet. Thank God you made enough in tips for both of us.” Jessie laughed but turned serious almost immediately. “Remy, I wish you didn’t think you had to change to make your life better. I love you just the way you are. I mean that.”

  Remy could tell her sister was speaking from the heart. She gave her a hug then picked up her cosmetic bag and started toward the door. “Don’t worry. My psychology professor liked to say that personality was formed in the womb. Knowing me, I probably ushered the way for you to exit first. ‘Please, Jessie, be my guest. Yell extra loud and make a big fuss, then I’ll come out nice and quiet so everyone likes me best.’”

  They looked at each other for a moment in silence. Remy hadn’t planned for quite that much frankness, but she didn’t retract the comment, either.

  Jessie threw back her head and laughed. “You know, you’re probably right. That is too funny. And a little sad, but I’m not going to think about what I can’t change.” She grabbed Remy’s empty cup on her way to the door. “Hey, I meant to ask. I found Mama’s glass cake plate in the cupboard. You know I can’t bake for squat, but I thought I might take it if you don’t care. It reminds me of her. In a good way.”

  “It’s yo
urs. Take it.”

  Jessie looked at her a moment, then grinned. “Thanks. You’re a nice person, Remy. Whatever big changes you decide to make, try not to lose that part of your personality.”

  Remy didn’t reply. Instead, she walked into the bathroom and closed the door. She felt like a traveler at a giant crossroads. Seeing her sister in love—really, truly, head-over-heels in love with Cade—had been the tipping point for Remy. Their completeness made her realize she wanted a full life, not the half-life she’d allowed herself. Not the kind their mother had lived, always holding back a part of her heart because the one love of her life left, never to return.

  Remy knew how difficult it was to change old patterns. Her teacher had called this an addiction to the familiar. If Remy didn’t initiate a change, she might very easily become her mother—filling up the hours of her day with other people’s worries and drama and filling her nights with unavailable men who conveniently made themselves available to take the place of the only man she ever loved.

  CHAPTER TWO

  JONAS GALLOWAY SLUMPED down in the seat of his Dodge Challenger and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He wasn’t the indecisive type. Normally. But nothing about his life had been normal for twenty-plus months.

  Being dropped into the middle of the Iraq desert with his National Guard unit was craziness in and of itself. He still hadn’t quite come to grips with everything he’d seen and dealt with there. The heat, the dust, the death, the fear, frustration and anxiety—24/7—was just a start. But he’d survived in one piece and brought his entire squad back alive. Something to be proud of. And he would have gladly embraced the praise of his coworkers and friends if he’d come home to find Birdie waiting for him.

  Birdie. His nickname for his seven-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Brigitte Leann Galloway.

  He glanced at the small, colorful frame attached to his dash. A treasure from her preschool days, adorned with globs of primary paint and bursts of purple glitter, it was one of the most tangible reminders he had of his creative, delightfully imaginative, gifted child.