“Purple is your special color, Daddy. I see it when I close my eyes and think of you,” she’d told him at the time.
Although the frame was several years old, the photo it held was the most current he had. He’d cropped and printed it from an email Cheryl, his ex-wife, had sent him in Iraq. The pixel quality wasn’t great, but the image had the power to bring him to the brink of tears. His daughter’s wide smile showed an age-appropriate mix of baby teeth, recently lost gaps in the gum line and a couple of new, gigantic-looking permanent teeth.
The picture was his most valued possession at the moment. It was the last one he had of the little girl who, along with her mother, had vanished five months earlier.
He shifted uneasily. The heat was starting to build inside the car, despite the fact he had all the windows lowered. He was killing time, waiting for what his mother would have called a “decent” hour before knocking on the door of the house across the street.
His mother had always preached good manners and etiquette while Jonas was growing up. He knew she would have been appalled if he went visiting before nine in the morning. Bad enough he was showing up unannounced.
“Manners say a lot about a person, Jonas,” his mother often said. “And the person who raised him.”
The person who raised him—nearly single-handedly, Jonas acknowledged—was Charlotte Gainsford Galloway of the Mobile Gainsfords. Mother had tacked on that qualifier until the day he asked why he’d never met any of the Mobile Gainsfords. Tearfully, she’d explained that her parents had disowned her when she ran away with his father—a movie-star handsome, smooth-talking car salesman—instead of going to college, as planned. In the years that followed, she made numerous attempts to reestablish contact with family members, but after her parents died, she lost touch with her siblings completely.
Jonas had thought about tracking down her older brother and baby sister using the internet, but it hardly seemed worth the effort at this point. His mother was suffering from Alzheimer’s or early onset dementia. Two diagnoses that seemed to mean the same thing—his mother’s cognitive, thinking functions were sporadic, at best, and on the decline. In a way, she was as lost to him as he feared his baby girl might become if he didn’t locate Birdie soon.
He’d never felt more alone and helpless. Well, except for that one time, when he was eight.
He closed his eyes and let his head fall against the headrest. The memory remained one of the most vivid of his childhood. Not surprising, he imagined, given he’d nearly died.
His parents were still married at the time, but his father was gone a lot. When Dad was around, the tension between his parents was tangible; Jonas would lie in bed at night with a pillow over his head to block the sound of their fights. Not gentle arguments befitting his society-conscious mother, but loud, skillet-throwing skirmishes that made him want to run away.
So, one day, he did.
He rose before dawn, made himself a peanut butter sandwich and headed into the woods behind his house. He’d been exploring the area the week before with some friends from school. Sorta friends. Boys Jonas wanted to be his friends. Two were older. They knew everything, including the location of an old well that had gotten covered up and forgotten near an abandoned farm that Jonas’s mother had forbidden him to go near.
They’d tossed rocks at the rotten boards until one cracked in half, then they’d dared the youngest of the group—Jonas—to make a wish and drop a quarter into the abyss.
He’d been too afraid to accept the challenge and had run home. Naturally, the other boys had teased him mercilessly the next day. So, his first stop on the road to his new life would be the well—to prove that he was brave enough to go on.
He even knew exactly what he’d drop into the well when he made his wish—a small oval St. Christopher medal that belonged to his father. Jonas had carefully removed the medallion from the cheap chain—converted dog tags from last year’s G.I. Joe Halloween costume—then knelt on the soft, moist ground near the yawn of an opening. He’d had to stretch out a long way because the medal was so small—no bigger than some of the fishing lures Jonas had seen in the hardware store. He’d leaned closer, straining to hear a splash, but unfortunately, that extra bit of weight on the well opening had proved too much for the rotted timbers.
He didn’t remember falling. He didn’t remember hitting bottom, but he could still recall with surprising clarity waking up in a black pit with a small uneven oval of blue above him and a wet, sandy, dead-leaf-lined well floor below him.
The walls were slick with moisture. Roots stuck out in places, but none were low enough for him to reach. He now had a new definition of alone.
It took rescuers twenty-nine hours to find him. He’d later learned that most of that time was spent dealing with his hysterical mother and organizing a search party. The actual finding was made simple once the men in charge took heed of a local beautician who insisted they listen to her daughter. A child Jonas’s age.
“He’s at the bottom of a well,” Remy Bouchard was reputed to have said.
Jonas looked at the house on the corner lot across from where he was parked.
He hadn’t known Remy at the time he fell in the well. They were in the same grade but had different teachers. He’d seen her on the playground, but one of his friends— Tommy Fergen, he thought—told him she was queer in the head and could put a hex on you if you looked at her funny. Jonas had kept his distance.
He didn’t meet her the day of the rescue, either. But his mother had dragged him to the Bouchards’—a different house, not this place—to thank them. Remy wasn’t at all what he’d been expecting. She was tiny, for one thing. With a halo of white-blond hair that looked too perfect to be real. And she still had her baby teeth. He remembered that strange fact way too clearly.
He remembered a lot about that day because it was the day he fell in love with Remy Bouchard. He never told anyone, of course. He never acted on his feelings until that night in high school when they bumped into each other at a hayride and wound up holding hands.
They’d done more than that eventually. They’d kissed until their lips were puffy and numb. They’d explored each other’s body with joyful curiosity and a certain amount of pride. And, then, mere days away from their planned “first time” date, Remy’s mother dropped the bomb of a lifetime in their laps, changing everything.
Jonas’s mother had unwittingly provided the ultimate escape from the nightmare he’d been forbidden to tell her about. As a graduation gift she took him on a whirlwind tour of Europe. Upon his return, he did the responsible thing. Instead of going after Remy, who had moved to Nashville with her sister, he joined the National Guard to help pay for college.
He hadn’t seen her since that fateful day. How many years? Fifteen? He’d never attended any of their class reunions. The only person he would have wanted to see was the one person he had no business in the world seeing.
The same person he was now about to beg for help.
He glanced at his watch. It was time.
He got out of the car and marched across the street, grateful for the breeze that touched the dampness across his back, producing an odd chill. He plucked at the fabric of his black, short-sleeve cotton shirt and rolled his shoulders, collecting himself. He looked down at his knee-length shorts and rugged, waterproof sandals.
Did he look like a tourist? Probably, but readapting to Louisiana humidity after his stay in a desert was taking time. Plus, he was on leave from his job. His suit and ties were retired until he found Birdie.
He knocked on the old-fashioned wood screen door. The sound echoed through the home’s entry and elicited an excited barking from the rear of the house. The dog he’d heard earlier when he first pulled up, he assumed.
There were voices—including a loud, “Quiet, Beau”—coming from what he supposed was the kitchen. He’d been in homes like this one on the job. Insurance adjusters saw everything imaginable in the course of a day—even outright stupidity.
He’d also been attacked at least twice by dogs that should have known better, since he was a huge improvement over their owners.
The buzz of female chatter made its way down the corridor, followed by footsteps. Two women. He recognized them both immediately. Remy and Jessie. As different as twins could be, but still alike in so many ways.
The moment they reached the openness of the entry and had a good look at him they froze. Jessie threw an arm across her sister’s chest, like a mother trying to keep her child from flying forward in a car coming to a stop too fast.
Remy tilted her head and blinked, as if not quite believing her eyes. “Jonas? Jonas Galloway?”
“Yep. It’s me. How are you doing, Remy? Jessie?” He shuffled his feet, wishing he’d used the time in the car to prepare what he needed to say. “I’m sorry to bother you so early on a Saturday. Would you happen to have a few minutes for an old friend?”
Jessie stepped forward, crossing her arms. “An old friend?” she repeated. “Jonas Galloway, you’re the reason my sister is all alone and never married. You can’t sashay back into her life like nothing happened.”
The revelation was both painful and enlightening. He had no idea what to say to that.
Remy did. She shoved her sister aside with a force that seemed to surprise them both. Jessie staggered slightly. “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said. Where the heck is Cade with your moving van? I swear, girl.” She shook her head.
Amazingly, her hair was still long, still blond and still gorgeous, Jonas couldn’t help noticing when she opened the door for him.
“Pretend you didn’t hear that, Jonas. I’m not the loser my sister has made me out to be, and you did not ruin my life. Just to be clear.”
Jessie’s mouth opened and closed a few times but whatever she’d hoped to offer in her own defense was put on hold by the sound of a truck pulling into the driveway.
“They’re back,” she exclaimed, grinning as she headed for the door. He noticed she had an odd gait and he realized her ankle was wrapped. Even so, she managed a good speed and Jonas had no choice but to step inside or be mowed over—gimpy foot or no gimpy foot.
“Hi, you two,” she called, hobbling toward the moving van, where a man and teenage girl waited. “You took long enough.”
“Jessie’s married?”
Remy shook her head. “Not yet. She and Cade have to decide a few details, but I think everything will work out great in the end.”
“And if anyone would know, it would be you, right? You’re the Dream Girl of Baylorville, Louisiana. Aren’t you?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she shouted, clamping her hands to her hips, which made the flowing material of her dress dance around her knees. “See? This is exactly what Jessie and I were just talking about. Once you get a reputation in a small town, it is impossible to change people’s minds.”
She pivoted on one heel and stomped to the edge of the porch. She leaned over the railing, as if addressing the entire town, and yelled at the top of her voice, “I am not a psychic.”
The hem of her skirt came up, revealing the very legs he’d never stopped dreaming about. Still as gorgeous as they had been fifteen years ago. He couldn’t help but look. And remember. Until she spun around and caught him staring.
Her eyes narrowed and she advanced on him with the sort of intensity he’d witnessed in combat. If looks could kill…
A second later, the realization struck him that he was turned on. Good grief. His mind had snapped. Not only was he here on a mission of life and death, he wasn’t over her. He still wanted her.
Remy.
His goddamned sister.
CHAPTER THREE
“OKAY,” REMY SAID, returning from her outburst to stop a foot in front of him. “I don’t know why you’re here, but let’s get one thing straight. I don’t read tarot cards. I don’t predict the future. And I don’t see dead people.”
Jonas was still trying to collect his highly valued, completely absent equanimity, so before he could respond, she added, “If you want to know where someone is buried, call a cadaver dog.”
The thought made a chill run down his spine. “But you do find people. You found me.”
Her green eyes narrowed with anger or frustration, he couldn’t tell which. Whatever emotion it was, she felt it passionately. A memory of kissing her jumped into his brain and wouldn’t leave. They’d come within a single layer of silk panties from consummating their feelings for each other. And they’d set the date for that, too. Until her mother intervened.
“So everybody says,” she snapped. “But the only person who really knows for sure what happened that day at the beauty parlor is dead.”
Her mother. Marlene Bouchard, the woman he considered the Machiavelli of Baylorville. He’d read the obit online.
“And like I said, I don’t have a direct line to the great beyond.” She paused and gave him a serious look, her lips pressed together. “Is that why you’re here? To talk to someone who has crossed over? Oh, my God, your mother—”
“No. Mom’s still with us…more or less.”
She put a hand to her breast. She looked relieved. This was more like the Remy he remembered. Kind and concerned about people. Nice. Jessie was the fly-off-the-handle kind of person. Touchy.
“So, why are you here?”
A reasonable question.
“My daughter is missing. I need your help to find her.”
There. A reasonable answer. Simple. A small favor for an old friend.
Remy took a step back. Could she read the desperation and fear he tried his level best to keep pushed way, way down below the surface? She’d been good at reading him. Did she guess how close he was to losing it?
“I’m sorry to hear that, Jonas. Really, I am. But I can’t help you. I wish I could, but I can’t.”
No. That was not the truthful answer. She could help but was choosing not to. Was this a way to pay him back for running away when her mother sabotaged their lives?
“She’s only seven. She’s in trouble. I can feel it. Please, Remy, don’t punish Birdie because you hate me.”
“Hate?” she repeated softly.
She turned, as if preparing to run or call for help. He didn’t blame her. He probably sounded crazy. Desperate. He was both. He stepped in her path to block her escape and grabbed both her arms. Partly to steady himself. Partly to beg for her help.
“Jonas, let go of me. Stop. What—”
He pulled her to him, hard. As though she was the last person standing in a fight to the death. To let go would mean giving up everything he’d fought so hard to hold on to. He couldn’t…not now.
He put his mouth close to her ear and whispered, “My little girl is missing. Something bad is going to happen. I know it. You’re the one person in the world I didn’t think I’d have to explain that to. Please, Rem, please. Help me.”
“Holy moly,” a voice exclaimed. “Jonas, let her go. Did you forget something? Like the fact you guys are related?”
REMY HEARD HER SISTER’S voice. She couldn’t quite make out the words, though, because her head was reeling from a lack of oxygen. And she hoped panic—not the fact that the breath in her lungs evaporated the moment Jonas touched her—was to blame for her giddiness. Even after Jonas let go of her and dropped his arms, Remy struggled to remember how to breathe.
“Rem,” Jessie said, taking her arm. “Are you okay? You’re white as a ghost. Let’s go inside and sit down. What did he do to you? One minute you’re yelling at the neighbors and the next you’re making out with him.”
Remy put the brakes on, glancing over her shoulder at Jonas. He looked so lost, shell-shocked and helpless. Her heart twisted in a way she hadn’t felt since she watched her mother pass away.
“No. We didn’t. He didn’t.” She brushed off her sister’s hand. “I’m okay, Jess. Really. It’s Jonas who is in trouble.”
His back was to her but she could tell he was struggling to regain control over his emoti
ons. She’d never known him to lose control—ever. Even that night when her mother delivered the most gut-wrenching news of their young lives—that she’d had an affair with Jonas’s father nine months before Jessie and Remy were born—Jonas had been a pillar. No tears. No ranting. He’d held Remy’s hand as they walked to his car. He’d told her they should sleep on it, maybe look into some kind of test or something. Of course, his or something turned out to be a trip to Europe with his mother.
“Everybody has their unique way of mourning,” Jessie had said facetiously when they found out he was gone.
Remy had taken his leaving as proof that he didn’t love her as much as she’d loved him. Or worse, that he considered her to be her mother’s daughter.
But that was old news. Water long under the bridge.
The pain she heard in his voice now told her how much he loved his daughter and feared for her safety.
“Jonas’s daughter is missing,” she told her sister. “He wants me to help find her.”
“Because of your gift.” But her tone was softer, less defensive. Remy knew her sister wasn’t as tough as she liked people to think. And Jessie had a real soft spot in her heart for kids.
“Because she found me,” Jonas said, facing them. His shoulders were straight, his posture erect. She could almost see the invisible outline of his military uniform. She didn’t know what branch he belonged to, but she had seen his photo displayed on his mother’s dresser at the nursing home where she used to work.
“Everyone in Baylorville knows the story,” he went on. “Remy fell asleep then woke up, crying and carrying on about a little boy in a well. Me.” He hooked his thumb toward his chest. “My mother repeated the story a million times or more. You snapped out of your trance and told the police exactly where to find me.”
“I never went into a trance.” But she couldn’t bring herself to repeat her doubts as she had earlier with Jessie. She knew how much Jonas hated her mother. The very last words they’d said to each other before he drove away had been about Marlene.
A Father's Quest Page 3