"I’ll pay you whatever you would have made tonight."
"It’s not the money. I’m just not… oh, hell. Give me directions."
~ * ~
The nurses and technicians came and went. Some of them may have recognized him, but if they did they hid it well or it did not matter to them. It was a private room, the lights dimmed for the night and quiet except for the not too distant beeps and rings and clanks of the instruments on the ward. Dane shifted in the "guest" chair, leaning forward, his elbows propped on his knees as he braced his chin against his clasped hands. Watching Rita sleep.
She didn’t look so bad. How long had the drinking been going on? Melissa had lied for her mother, he knew. It might have been a gradual increase, over the years. Perhaps when she parted ways with Fred. Or maybe back before then, when she’d found out about Dane and… whoever it was. Whatever girl she’d heard he’d been seen with.
He closed his eyes. It wasn’t a pleasant memory, certainly one he’d like to forget.
A glance at the wall clock above Rita’s bed indicated it was almost time for them to bother her again. A blood draw, perhaps. A 1 a.m. injection of some kind. A change in the I.V. drip. A movement from the bed caught his eye. Rita was waking up.
"What the hell are you doing here?" she said hoarsely, looking around. "And where is here, anyway?" She attempted to sit up, but Dane was quick on his feet and held her back.
"Don’t. You’re all wired up. It’s Mercy General, you… fell and bashed yourself on the head."
Alarm crept onto Rita’s face. Alarm and the obvious worry about the obvious problem; someone, possibly many someones, knew about her drinking.
"Where are the girls?"
"They are asleep, at home, with a sitter. Don’t worry. It’s under control."
"And I suppose I have you to thank for that. Well, no thanks."
Dane shook his head. "You really hate me, don’t you?"
Rita turned her head away, grimacing. "Christ that hurts."
"It should. You put a good sized dent in your noggin."
"Like you really care."
"I do care."
Rita turned back to look at him, still frowning. He couldn’t tell if it was from the pain in her head or because it was his face to which she’d awakened.
"Is that all that happened?" she asked guardedly.
"If you mean does anyone know you were stinking drunk, yes, they do. Everybody knows, so you can quit worrying about them finding out. Your daughters will forgive you."
Rita’s eyes filled with tears and she looked down at her hands. "How do you know?"
"Because they forgave me, and what I did was a lot worse. That’s how I know."
His ex-wife sniffed, and tried to brush away a tear. "They never stopped loving you, you know. Melissa defended you forever. We finally called a truce and agreed not to talk about you at all."
Now it was Dane’s turn to battle a lump in his throat. He’d had no idea of his oldest daughter’s devotion.
"I hear you’ve stepped in it again with the new one. What’s up with that? She asking too much? Like wanting you to stay around some?"
Dane didn’t answer.
"You might as well pack it in. You’ll never be good at that relationship crap. You can’t commit."
"What did you say?"
"I said you can’t fully commit to anyone. Don’t sneer at me. I know. Not to be trite, but I’ve been there."
"I didn’t give up my whole day and night to be pissed on, Margarita. I do have better things to do."
"Like what? What’s left to do? One of these days, you’re going to have to stop blaming every woman you meet for your mother’s death." Rita groaned and lay back, closing her eyes.
"Leave her out of this. My mother has nothing to do with our splitting up, or my problems with any other woman, for that matter. I don’t know where you’re coming from."
"It doesn’t matter," she murmured. "Could you please call a nurse or something? My head is killing me."
He was tempted to leave while the nurses huddled over Rita, poking, prodding and making notes. Something made him stay. The first rays of light were just beginning to color the draperies when she spoke to him again.
"It wasn’t all your fault," she said softly. "It was mine, too."
Dane pushed his hair back away from his forehead. "How do you figure?"
"I sat by and let it happen. I didn’t fight for you. I was bitter, I was younger, I wanted you to just come back and apologize. Instead I substituted someone else to make me feel important."
"Rita--"
"No, Dane, it’s true. I should have come back to L.A. and hauled you out of bed and made you at least talk it out. I know, now, that you can’t take the heat. You not only get out of the kitchen, you get out of town. And right now, you’re even out of state, aren’t you?"
Dane squirmed in his chair. Damn this woman for being right. "It’s not that simple."
"It never is simple, is it? That’s what scares you. You’re so afraid she’ll leave you, like Mom did, so you make sure you leave first. Am I right?"
"Mom didn’t leave me, God damn it! She died! It wasn’t her choosing."
"Be that as it may, she wasn’t there anymore, and it hurt."
Dane gave his ex-wife a level stare, and she turned away. After a time, he was able to speak again. "What ever happened with Fred, anyway?"
"Oh, Fred, the-tennis-pro-Fred? Hmm," she responded with a little smile. "Let’s just say he was encouraged to swing his racket elsewhere."
"And… Was this before, or after, you lost the baby?"
"There was no baby."
"But you told me--"
"I lied."
Dane wet his lips. This conversation was almost more than he could handle at one time.
"I wanted to hurt you, like you were hurting me."
"We weren’t very good to each other, were we?"
"Could have been better," Rita acknowledged. "You still have a chance with… what’s her name? Jessica? Unless she’s already given up the fight."
Dane recalled the night Jessica had shown up at the restaurant, and their subsequent argument at the new house in Malibu. Jessica had done exactly what Rita regretted not doing--she’d shown up, prepared for battle, hoping to take her husband home with her. Instead, he’d forced her to leave him there, drunk and unwilling to abandon his unjustified self-pity.
"I’m sorry," he said softly, and Rita lifted her eyes to peer into Dane’s face.
"For what? For how you treated me, or how you’re treating her now?"
"For everything. Such a fool…"
"Are you sleeping with someone else yet?"
"No, I’m not."
"Then don’t blow it."
The morning nurse, bringing medication and thinly disguised irritation, interrupted their talk. "How are we doing this morning? Ready to get out of bed?"
"We are feeling shaky," Rita grumbled. "Can I have some coffee?"
"I’ll have some decaf brought in with your breakfast."
"Decaf? Worthless."
Dane smiled in spite of himself. "Look. I’d better get back to the house and check on the girls. I’ll be back this afternoon to drive you up to Monroe."
"Monroe? Oh, no, you don’t. I’m not going there. You can just forget that idea, Mr. Pierce. I’m going home, today, to my own house and--"
"And to what? A new bottle of gin?"
The startled nurse faded away and Rita gave Dane a steely look.
Dane sighed. "I made a deal with your doctor. You check in at Monroe, he keeps this whole little incident under wraps."
"And if I don’t?"
"No telling who might find out."
"Crap. What about the girls?"
"They’re going up to the ranch with me for Thanksgiving. I’ll keep them until you’re out of treatment." Rita’s startled expression spurred him on. "Melissa needs a break from the responsibility of taking care of you. You need to go back to being her mo
ther, and she can go back to being a kid. Got it?"
~ * ~
Dane nearly laughed out loud at the sight awaiting him in Rita’s kitchen. Trina was digging browned scrambled eggs out of a skillet, grumbling something about cold cereal, and the girls were both giggling from their seats at the breakfast bar. Dressed in well-worn jeans, ragged at the bottoms and adorned with rhinestones, the babysitter also sported a short, midriff-baring top and high-heeled cork sandals. Her now magenta hair popped out above a green bandana wrapped around her forehead.
"Daddy! Trina is soooo cool!" Zoe exclaimed, hopping down from the stool and running to meet her father.
"Yeah, she’s pretty cool, all right," Dane agreed, lifting Zoe into his arms. "Glad to see we’ve all acclimated," he added, grinning at Trina.
"We’re having a bang-up time, Dad," Trina agreed. "Hope you warned these ladies that I can’t cook worth a darn…"
Thirty-one
A Walk in the Snow
"Ten weeks. Minimum. And that’s if they let him re-enter the U.S. with that expired visa on his record."
Lydia’s face was a picture of despair, and Jessica’s heart ached for her. "That’s not so bad, Lyd. Could be worse. At least his, uh, wife is willing to cooperate. It will pass before you know it."
"Things are so hard now. Immigration is just awful. I was so hoping we could get married sooner, like we planned, before Christmas."
Jessica sighed. "Well, it doesn’t look like that will happen." She put her arm around her personal assistant and friend. "Look. If Pete can’t come home, then I guess we’ll just have to package you up and mail you to England."
Lydia looked stunned. "Me? To England? Are you kidding?"
"I wouldn’t joke about such an important thing. You need to be with Peter, and that’s that. Call the airline, then get yourself packing. You can be there by Thanksgiving."
"They don’t exactly celebrate it over there, Jess."
"So what?" Jessica giggled. "You won’t have any trouble finding a turkey then."
Jessica hoped she would not regret sending Lydia to Great Britain. Although Dane had mentioned coming home, she forced herself not to count on it. He could bail out at the last minute, and she’d have a very cozy holiday with Devon and Alexander. And a large turkey, to boot.
Fortunately, Lydia’s passport was in order. The recent trip to her mother’s home in Argentina had proved beneficial. In a flurry of anticipation and excitement, Jessica bid her goodbye and Lydia was off to meet her betrothed in London.
~ * ~
The midday sun took the chill off the brisk November air. The drive to the Monroe Institute had been sobering, riding along with the woman Dane thought he’d known so well. Rita had resigned herself to the future, but was mostly quiet along the way. Her only request was that he take good care of the girls, and tell them she loved them; that she’d be home and back with them soon. They did not talk about the admonitions she’d flung his way from her hospital bed, nor the duration of her drinking habit. He gave her a brief hug when it was time to go.
Now, hours later, Dane steered the Mustang between the iron gates of the memorial park, slowly maneuvering along the narrow roads that passed between the different burial "regions." Near the end of the last road, he pulled over and sat in the car for several minutes before forcing himself to get out.
It was another fifty or sixty yards to his first destination. His mother’s crypt, set on a small knoll, was no different than it had been the day she’d been laid to rest there. Yet he was different. Placing a small nosegay in the permanent bud vase on the front of the crypt, Dane sat on the bench in front and smiled. Rita’s words were coming back to him, back to him in a big way. He’d been completely devoted to Marian Pierce, and she had left him.
"Ah, Mom," he whispered. "What should I do?"
He didn’t really expect an answer. Getting off the bench, he placed his hand against the small brass placard bearing her name. "I’ll do the right thing. Right? I will." I hope.
Farther up the hill was the gravesite of his best friend. Nothing fancy, not showy, Mac MacKendall’s final resting place looked just the same as the majority of plots in the park. Dane shoved his hands into his pockets and stood at the foot of the grave.
"Damn you, MacKendall." Dane shook his head slowly, a bittersweet smile curling his lips. "This is all your fault."
Right. Like he ever did anything but try to protect what was rightfully his.
"I’m, uh, sorry for what I said that night. You didn’t deserve it." Dane looked over his shoulder, hoping there was no one within earshot of his confession. "I just… I just love her so much, dammit. I’m not telling you anything new." He leaned his head back, peering at the sky above, wondering if Mac was watching from somewhere on high. "I can’t change what happened. I’ve wished a hundred times, a thousand times that I could. Maybe if I’d said something different, or done something different… maybe if I hadn’t made that stupid promise…"
The silence around him was unnerving, and Dane was getting no answers. What had he hoped to find? To hear? After another glance down at Mac’s headstone, he turned and made a quick trek back to his car. There was one more stop to make.
The house in Benedict Canyon was, for the most part, exactly as he’d left it five years before. The bloodstained carpet had been replaced; there was no physical evidence of the grisly morning Jackie Spencer had shot herself, and him, on the living room floor. A crew routinely removed the cobwebs and cleaned up the yard. It was colder than he could stand, however, and he flipped on the forced air heat before touring the big house.
As if driven by some unseen force, Dane went into his old bedroom and directly to the closet. In the back corner, on a high shelf next to the spot where he used to keep his Stetson was a locked cashbox. He took it down and unceremoniously blew the dust from the top. From the keys in his pocket, he selected one and slid it into the lock; the key turned easily and with a tug of handle, the box was open.
Inside laid the journal.
March 16:
If I had any doubts about MacKendall they have been dashed, and I have the sore jaw to prove it. Too bad he is such a fool he can’t see what he is doing to her, and to himself…
I drove him to the airstrip this morning, playing the role, being his "friend" when in truth I am hoping he takes a wrong turn and ends up in the Bermuda Triangle… or worse. And now she is sad. I can only hope that his abrupt departure will turn her off and buy me some time with her…
Dane groaned at his own words of years before. Flipping a few pages, he read more.
Try as I might, I cannot seem to put her in the background. It upsets me to think that I could become so completely enticed by one woman. She is like a tattoo upon my soul. This is insane.
"This is insane. Why am I doing this?" Dane snapped the journal closed and carried it downstairs to the large, rustic den. He sat down on the brown leather couch and held the book against his chest. Rubbing his eyes, he tried to focus on the cold, empty fireplace before him.
Mac was leaning against the mantel, his eyes blazing. His voice was thick with anger and he began to pace as he spoke.
"…yes, I read it. Read every damned page."
"You had no right--"
"I know that, and I’m sorry. Be that as it may, I read it."
"You’re sorry. And did you do that to punish me, or yourself?"
Mac stopped pacing briefly and stared at him.
"You’re pissed off," Dane recalled saying.
"Christ, Dane, you’re in love with my wife! How do you expect me to feel?" Mac began pacing again, his agitation building. "I thought--I thought that was all over. I thought we were friends!"
We were friends, Mac. You were the best friend. Like my brother.
Dane again rubbed his eyes. Mac wasn’t really here. Mac was dead. But when he looked again, the apparition was still seething. Dane’s own words came back, as if the confrontation had been only yesterday.
"You are
the last jerk on earth I wanted to get close to. You beat me hands down at my own game. And you don’t play dirty. You make me sick with your morality, your reason, and you’re a lousy drinker. You are forever making me look bad. But the night your son was born, it occurred to me that I didn’t have to compete with you, and, I won’t. You have my word, Mac."
My word.
"…just one word of caution," Dane had added. "If you ever, ever take off on her again, I’m only giving you twenty-four hours to get back. After that, she’s fair game."
"You won’t ever have to worry about that."
"I won’t. It’s you who should worry, pal."
Twenty-four hours to get back. How stupid. As if he could come back at all.
"I won’t worry."
But he did worry. And that’s why he called me that night from his hotel room.
Dane sighed and got to his feet, now pacing before the couch himself. He was still holding the journal, and he was angry with himself for writing it. For still having it. For reading it again. He threw the book onto the couch.
It was time to pick up his daughters and go home. If Wyoming was still to be his home.
~ * ~
More antsy than ever, Jessica paced the big house, frequently tuning in on the all-news television stations for any updates about Chester and the wicked Irma Carvey. She was rewarded, at last, on the day before Thanksgiving.
Neighbors had turned her in. The cameras zoomed in on Irma’s staunch, pale face as authorities in Minneapolis handcuffed the former adoption agency clerk. A stoic Russ Morrison stood by.
"Who’s that, Mommy?" Devon wanted to know, climbing into his mother’s lap.
"A bad woman," Jessica murmured, her eyes focused intensely, hoping to get a glimpse of her young nephew. Unfortunately, the media was not yet privy to the boy’s whereabouts at the time of the arrest. "A very bad woman."
Her mind racing, Jessica stood and placed her son on his feet. "Devon, go find Greg, will you? Mommy needs to talk to him. I think he’s in the barn. And put your coat on!"
Devon scampered from the room and Jessica picked up the telephone. "Northwind Airlines, reservations please," she said to the information operator. After the airline answered, she was put on hold. Still, she watched the television screen. After a minute or two, Greg tramped into the great room, stomping snow from his boots at the door.
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