He slipped on his heavy jacket. He couldn’t remember a colder November. He wasn’t ready to give up on helping Paris yet. Something in him just wouldn’t let go. Maybe it was the moments when, at her most vulnerable, she reached for him or put her head on his shoulder. Or when he made her laugh. He loved to make her laugh. He closed the door quietly behind him and walked out of the building.
Paris threw back the covers the minute she heard the front door close shut. She eased her body out of bed. My God, all these months lying around had really made her weak. She’d noticed when she’d gone down the hall a few times a day, but right now she needed strength, so she’d better find it. The kick of a baby inside her made her grab for the wall to steady herself. “Shhh. We’re going on a little trip,” she whispered to them.
She made it to the window in the bedroom, where she could push back the curtain and make sure they’d all left. She’d heard their plans. It’d been a stroke of luck for her, Millie showing up with a ride for Turner. Otherwise she’d have had to hire a limo to make her little trip.
While she’d been pretending to sleep, she’d figured that if Turner didn’t leave, she’d wait till he was asleep and sneak out. That would be hard—a very large woman not waking him up. She’d noticed that he slept pretty soundly though, as she’d passed by the sofa on her way to the toilet each night.
The laptop computer was logged in and ready, and she stood in front of the swing-away table by her bed to enter data. Paris pushed aside the covers and picked up the envelope with the Lake Meade address on it. She accessed Yahoo maps and entered Turner’s apartment address in one side, the Lake Meade address in the other, then she hit driving directions, then print. The printer booted into action.
She dressed herself in clothes, which was a big change from the huge flannel nightgowns she’d been living in. The only thing that fit was a big black jumper and a white maternity turtleneck Marla had sent her. Even that she had to pull down across her enormous belly with a big yank.
She’d had some amazing moments being pregnant—feeling the life within her grow and jump and move had been an experience she’d never forget. But other than that, what the hell was God thinking making women do this? Or maybe hell was more like it, because only the Devil could have thought up something this weird—swelling up like a hippo, craving sardines and mustard on rye, two aliens rolling around inside you, kicking your internal organs, and let’s not even get into the birthing process. Stephen King couldn’t have thought it up any weirder.
Now how was she going to get socks and shoes on? She rummaged in the tiny closet and found a pair of big boots from her earlier days. Well, socks were overrated anyhow. And underwear, for that matter. She held on to the closet doorjamb and pushed her bare feet into the boots. Thank God they weren’t zip-up.
She caught her reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door and had to hold on to the doorjamb again. Wow, she looked horrible. Her face was pale and blotched with red from crying, her hair was a rat’s nest. She stared at her image in the mirror. She looked like one of the nuns from school in her black-and-white jumper and top. Well, a very fat, pregnant nun.
Something inside her kind of snapped, and it wasn’t a foot in her ribs this time. For once in her life, she didn’t give a damn about what she looked like. This woman could either take her the way she came or forget it.
She’d prettied up for people her whole life. She was sick of it.
She grabbed a scrunchy black hat off the rack and stuffed it on her head, tucking in her wild red hair. Her purse was hanging on the bed, credit cards nearby for shopping emergencies.
Paris grabbed the envelope with her mother’s address on it, the directions, and the photograph. She lumbered out of the room and went toward the front door. She found the Vista Cruiser keys on the rack.
Every movement she made was awkward and difficult, and as she slowly moved herself out of the building and toward the car she realized that no undies and no socks had left her with a mighty big breeze under her black jumper. She was freezing her butt off. How could it be so freakin’ cold in Vegas?
She squeezed herself behind the wheel of the Cruiser and pulled her coat over her legs the best she could. It had been a very, very long time since she had actually driven the freeway, but she used to get around here just fine as a teenager. She’d always had a boyfriend with a car, and she’d done plenty of driving with plenty of those cars. She knew the way she needed to go. She lay the directions beside her in the seat and adjusted the bench back so her large-size self could fit behind it. If she wasn’t so unbelievably upset, angry, and freaked, it would be funny.
She doubted that she could ever forgive Turner for telling Sarah about her mother before he’d even discussed it with her. Not only that, he’d gone to see her mother. He’d seen her before Paris had even known she was alive. What the hell was he thinking? He’d taken overprotectiveness to a new extreme.
She started the car and let it warm up. She felt a rush of excitement at the thought of seeing her mother. Paris didn’t know so many mixed emotions could be inside one person. She was hot with anger, cold with fear, and terribly sad at the same time. She pulled the car out of the parking space with some jerky movements and put her foot down on the gas.
Turner was right about one thing: Everything had to change now. Right now.
22
All I Needed Was the Rain
Turner stood in the new nursery and wondered at all his wife had accomplished in a few days, or weeks, or months, without him knowing about it. The room was beautiful, with its walls painted like a picket fence with flowers and birds and a country scene in the distance. Of course her bears were here, as well. It looked as if Paris had given all her bears to the babies.
He had set up the bassinets, although he figured they might end up in the master bedroom at first. Even though this room was right next door, he felt like he wanted to watch them every minute for their first few weeks. He had absolutely no experience with children. Millie had some at least, although she’d been reading up like crazy. Every time Turner was done with a book, Millie snatched it from him.
But he was pretty sure books only gave you the merest hint of what to expect.
Paris had really outdone herself with this house. The neighborhood looked great. She hadn’t gone for the exclusive gated community but had opted instead for a mid-exclusiveness. That made him more comfortable. After all, Daddy was a minister with a wedding chapel in Vegas, not a stockbroker.
Turner checked his watch. He wanted to get back to Paris very quickly. The nursery was good enough for now. He’d had a bad feeling ever since they’d walked out the door of the apartment.
“Millie, what’s our time frame? I want to get back to Paris.”
“What’s the rush? You said she was sleeping, and she has your pager, right?” Millie had been folding up baby things and putting them in the drawers of a hand-painted armoire.
“Turner, honey, you can take my car over and check on her if you want. We’re having too much fun to stop. I’ve sold lots of houses, but helping set one up is just a blast,” Jenifer Shipley said. “But I sure understand why you want to keep an eye on Paris. Those babies are really getting big.”
“I’d appreciate that. I’ll go back and fix her some supper, then bring the car back by eight. Is that too late?”
“Heavens no. We’ve got two feet of sub sandwich here to keep us happy, and Suzy Wingate is going to drop by with window treatments in an hour. Here, you take my cell phone just in case.” Jenifer went to her purse in the corner and dug around.
“Believe it or not, I’ve got one.” Turner pulled the tiny cell phone out of his pocket. “I figured I might need it with the babies arriving any day now. I’ll write down the number for you.”
“Great. Here’s the keys to the Quest and my card with my cell number. You go on now. We’ll be fine,” Jenifer said.
“Worrywart,” Millie said.
“That’s me.�
�� Turner made his exit, went to the kitchen, and found a scrap of paper. He wrote the cell phone number down, then headed out the door to Jenifer’s minivan. He might as well test one out; his life was headed for minivan territory, although he wished they made one that was hybrid electric gas, because they really ate fuel.
It was a short trip back to the apartment, only twenty minutes, but the traffic was still heavy, and the strangest part of all was that the light rain had turned into snow. Snow. It only snowed once every fifty or a hundred years around here. The weather had been so odd all year.
Of course the odd snow made everyone go even slower. It was making him nuts. Every mile he went he felt less at ease about having left Paris. He pushed on the gas and moved around some crawling cars. He needed to get back home.
Paris couldn’t believe it was snowing in Nevada, and Arizona too. As she crossed the border she watched the flakes build into a dancing blizzard. But she was used to snow. She’d been on the East Coast for the last ten years.
And yet she’d come back to the warm desert for her thirtieth birthday bash. That was the last decent work she’d had as well. What had made her take that job anyway?
She’d been to Vegas for a few shoots since she started modeling, but in general she avoided contracts that took her here, because of the memories. She’d thought she was old enough to breeze into town and not think about growing up around here. She’d thought she could skim over her pain and stay on that oblivious roller coaster ride she’d carefully developed, forever.
But Turner had changed all that. Turner had changed everything in her life. In the last months he’d been beside her every day. No matter how cranky and whiney she’d gotten, he’d just rubbed her back, painted her toenails, or read her stupid newspaper articles about fish that could walk on land or some woman in Texas who had six babies. And now he’d found her mother for her.
She’d locked herself in a corner for sure. The fear rose up in her and almost made her sick. She just couldn’t let her babies live through what she’d lived through. She had no faith in herself, no trust that she’d be able to rise above. But she couldn’t just leave anymore. If there was just some way she could know for sure—without a doubt—that she wouldn’t turn all crazy like her mother had.
Maybe her mother could tell her what had happened. Paris couldn’t believe her mother was alive—that she’d hidden away from her all these years. Oddly enough, Paris understood why. Her head spun with the whole thing. It spun so much that she had to pull the car over and let it pass.
The snow was powder dry and swirled in the wind. She’d pulled over to the left so she could get out her own door and take a breath of fresh air—cold, fresh air.
She felt sick. This was probably a bad idea. But she couldn’t wait another minute to look into her mother’s face. And she didn’t want Turner with her. She wanted to do this alone. No one could understand what had happened but her…and her mother.
In less than an hour Paris was standing at the address given to her by Turner. She wished she could have called first. She felt as frightened as a child. Actually, she felt exactly the same as she had when she was little. She pulled her long wool coat around herself as a chill overtook her.
Paris took a deep breath and leaned on the doorbell. The door opened so quickly she almost fell inside. She caught her balance and looked straight into her mother’s gray-blue eyes.
The emotion hit her so hard she balled up her fist and covered her mouth as a cry escaped her lips.
“Mother?”
“Patty, oh, Patty.” The woman put her arms around Paris as best she could. Their cheeks touched. Paris’s cheeks had tears streaming down them. The snow drifted onto their hair.
Paris had no words. She couldn’t find herself. She was completely lost in the moment of seeing this woman again. The woman she’d thought was long dead. Paris touched her mother’s once-red hair as if to feel that she was alive. She felt the dusting of snowflakes, and the soft waves of her mother’s hair. Everything about her mother was the same. Years had hardly changed her.
Lucy took Paris’s hand and led her inside.
Turner knew immediately what had happened. He went to the computer and pulled up the last page viewed. There were the driving directions to Lucy Jamison’s house. He hit print, then dug in his pocket to find the cell phone and Jenifer Shipley’s card.
“Jenifer, I’m going to need your car. It’s an emergency. No, Paris has taken off. Can I speak to Millie? Thank you.”
“What the hell has that broad done now?” Millie asked.
“Went to see her mother.”
“Oh. That makes sense. The mother she thought was dead. Was that what you’ve had up your sleeve all this time? Well, heck, that can’t be all bad, can it?”
“I’m going after her. She shouldn’t be driving anyway. Jenifer said her husband can come and pick you all up. Tell her thanks again. I’ll speak to you later.”
“Don’t worry Turner, she’s a big girl.”
“Yeah, way big right now.”
Turner said good-bye and flipped the phone off. He replaced it in his pocket and grabbed the printout. His wife should not be driving on a freeway pregnant with twins, in the snow, upset as hell, and after being in bed for many months. He didn’t care what she thought was right or wrong; he was going to get her.
He ran out of the apartment and got in the van Jenifer had loaned him. Paris was even driving the Vista Cruiser, which didn’t have the best tires in the world. What had possessed her to do this crazy thing?
Well, that was easy to answer. To learn that her mother was living an hour away must have been more than she could stand. When Paris got a mind to do something, nothing stood in her way.
Turner spun out of the slick cross street they lived on and headed for the freeway. When was she going to let him in? He would have taken her there. He would have stood beside her. Turner hit the steering wheel with his fist. Damn her!
He’d had enough of being patient. He’d be damned if he was going to let Paris go. She was about to be the mother of his children. He loved her, and anything that happened, they could deal with together. Why couldn’t she see that?
She had to rise above her fears and allow herself to have a life—and love. He’d found her again, and this was the end of that road. She was either going to face the music and be a wife and mother and learn to trust, or she was going to get out of their lives, just like she’d sworn she would.
He’d truly believed he could find the way to her heart, but maybe he had failed. Either way, this would be the end of wondering. The snow was coming down hard, and the freeway was almost empty. Nature could dump a blizzard or a hurricane or a twister out on him—go ahead. Nothing was going to stop him from making this trip.
When he finally arrived on the street of the Lake Meade neighborhood, he found the simple home of Lucy Jamison Worth, with the Vista Cruiser parked in the driveway.
Turner pulled in behind her and shut off the car. Paris, Paris, how could she drive herself this far in her condition? He thought about that for a moment. Many women kept working up until they delivered. She was a tough girl, but her pregnancy hadn’t been easy. He prayed she was all right.
When Turner knocked on the door, Bill Worth opened it. “They are in the bedroom. Lucy made her lay down.” He didn’t even ask who Turner was. Turner figured Lucy had told him about his visit and he knew everything.
“Is she okay?”
“I think so. They’ve been talking for about two hours.”
Turner wondered if that was enough time to make up for over twelve years. “I need to see that she is all right.”
“Come in and have a cup of coffee. It’s mighty cold out there.” Bill Worth gestured to Turner. He looked like a very friendly man. Turner had hoped he would be understanding about all this. “I think it would be good to give them a little more time,” Bill said.
They went to the kitchen, as everyone does during a crisis. Turner smiled as he sat do
wn at their kitchen table. Bill went to pour coffee. It seemed like their whole life over the last year, since last April, had been a long, drawn-out crisis around the kitchen table.
Bill brought them both mugs and sat down across from Turner. He pulled the sugar bowl over and added a teaspoon to his own coffee. “Cream?”
“No, thanks.” Turner warmed his hands on the thick white mug.
“I know you talked to Lucy earlier. She was expecting to come and see Patty. But she said to me that she wasn’t surprised that she showed up here. Patty was always a very brave girl.”
“She had to be.”
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking. I’ve been through it with my wife a hundred times. After five years I stopped. Then when Bonnie found her, I thought it might make Lucy find Patty. She has all her magazine covers, you know. Bonnie has tried, too. But Lucy forbid her to contact Patty. Lucy felt that Patty made a new life for herself, and the ghosts of the past should be buried.”
“Did she know Paris thought she was dead?”
“No, she didn’t. I didn’t either. I figured Patty…Paris…would track Lucy down sooner or later. Lucy was convinced Paris didn’t want to find her. How people get into these circles of thinking is so hard to figure. I’m for straight-out talking.”
“Me, too.” Turner was starting to understand things better now. Lucy hadn’t thought Paris wanted to see her. She’d figured Paris knew she was alive but didn’t care to look into Lucy’s life again. But that left a whole lot of years when Paris had been too young to make that decision. Lucy had made it for her, with just the same kind of emotional pain that Paris had. The two of them were frighteningly similar.
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