The door opened and she looked up into Greg’s puzzled face. Stepping back, he motioned her inside. “Hey, Sam, told you that I’d bring Roxy back this morning.”
“I know, but I need to talk to you,” Sam replied with a nervous glance over her shoulder.
As she stepped inside, Roxy greeted her and Sam paused to crouch and rest her chin on the dog’s head. Then she rose and followed Greg into the living room. Gratefully, she sank down onto the couch.
Instead of joining her, Greg eyed her. “Rough night?”
“You might say that.”
“Like some coffee?”
“Love it.” She sighed.
He left the room and returned a few moments later bearing a steaming cup.
Gratefully she accepted the cup and took a careful sip. As soon as the coffee hit her throat, the warmth spread through her body until it hit the cold spot that had lingered inside ever since she’d heard the words residential facility. It remained like a chunk of ice that refused to melt.
“Everything okay?” Greg asked cautiously.
“Not really,” she replied with a grimace, then hesitated. “I need your help.” Quickly, she related everything that had happened at the hospital. A hard look crossed his face when he heard Jackson’s opinion of Anne.
“She doesn’t have a mercenary bone in her body.”
“I know, but I can’t ask her for help. Dad’s already mad, and she doesn’t have the means to go up against him. To involve her further would only bring her more trouble.”
Greg shook his head slowly. “I’d like to help you, but I don’t know what I can do.”
“I’m not crazy, Greg.”
“I believe you, but—”
“I don’t understand what’s happening to me—the dreams, the blackouts—but if I could know for sure that it’s Blanche, it might help.”
He sat next to her and pulled his fingers through his hair. “I was just a kid when Blanche lived up here and I don’t remember much about her. I know my mom didn’t like her, and I overheard a few conversations between her and my dad about her doings.”
“What did she say?”
“She didn’t approve of the way Blanche was carrying on with Ted Brighton.”
“Did she ever mention Edward Dunlap and Blanche being an item?”
He rubbed his chin. “No.” He paused. “But Mom didn’t like Esther either, and I vaguely remember her saying something about how Esther resented the way Edward followed Blanche around.”
Sam shifted toward him. “So they were involved,” she said, the excitement apparent in her voice.
“Sam,” he cautioned, “an offhand remark made years ago doesn’t prove anything. You know how gossip flies around here.”
She sat back. “The old adage—‘where there’s smoke, there’s fire.’ ”
“Only in some people’s imaginations.”
“Okay, so who was the man Blanche ran off with? We know it wasn’t Ted Brighton or Edward Dunlap.”
“No idea.” Greg leaned back against the couch and propped his long legs on the coffee table.
“No one ever heard from her again?”
“No.”
“What about Harley?”
“No—he sold out and moved shortly after Blanche left.”
“What about friends? Did she have any friends?”
He arched an eyebrow. “You mean other than her boyfriends?”
Sam nodded.
“I remember her hanging out over at Fritz’s.”
“Really.” She leaned forward in surprise. “I didn’t think he liked her.”
“That’s probably true. Since I became an adult and heard the stories about her, I’ve wondered if Fritz didn’t hang out with her solely because of the trouble she caused. He likes seeing people squirm, especially Ted Brighton. He hated old Ted when he was alive—that I remember very well.”
“Do you know why?”
“Fritz was involved in some kind of scandal at the college where he taught, and he was forced to leave.”
“What does that have to do with the Brightons?”
“Ted was on the alumni board, and since they’d grown up together here on the lake, Fritz expected him to help save his job. Ted refused, according to gossip.” Greg shook his head. “You’re asking me to remember things I haven’t thought about in years.” He turned toward her. “And, Sam, I don’t know how any of this old gossip will help you and I don’t have any clue about how accurate it is.”
Sam bent and stroked Roxy’s ears. “You’re right,” she said, discouraged. “I should be thinking of ways to outfox my father and Jackson.” She sighed and sat back, leaning her head against the couch. “I’m so tired right now that I can’t think straight.”
Greg turned toward her and leaned closer. “Don’t worry, Sam. You’ll figure a way out of this.”
She lifted her head, surprised at his confidence in her. Her eyes widened. It had been so long since anyone had thought her capable, and here was Greg, telling her that she could succeed. The coldness inside of her shrank as she stared into his brown eyes, warm with concern for her. His strength, his raw masculinity, seemed to reach out and wrap around her. Unconsciously, she inched toward him.
He met her halfway, and when his lips brushed hers, the last of the coldness disappeared. She snuggled closer, seeking more of the heat surrounding him. Her arms went around his neck as he whispered her name against her mouth then deepened the kiss. The warmth inside her built until she felt like every nerve in her body was glowing. A satisfied sigh escaped her lips.
Suddenly Greg drew back, ending the kiss. A puzzled look pinched his face.
“Wow,” he said in a shaky voice while he ran his fingers through his hair. “I—I’m sorry, Sam. I don’t know where that came from.”
He was sorry? She wasn’t. Sam felt the blood rushing to her face. “Me either.”
“You’ve got enough problems without me—” A brittle laugh cut off his words while he put distance between them. “Um, let’s say that wasn’t very ‘gentlemanly’ of me, but honest, I wasn’t trying to take advantage of you.”
She rested a hand lightly on his thigh. “It’s okay, Greg,” she said gently. “We’re friends, right?”
He nodded.
“So what’s a little kiss between friends?”
“Uh-huh . . . a little kiss,” he muttered.
Lifting her hand, she plopped it back in her lap. “If only I could prove at least to myself that Blanche has been haunting my dreams,” she said quickly, trying to steer the conversation back to a safer topic.
Greg suddenly snapped his fingers and sprang to his feet. “Wait a second—I’ll be right back.” He left the room, and soon Sam heard him opening and shutting drawers, then the sound of rustling papers. He returned a few minutes later with his arms full of what looked like photo albums. He dumped them on the couch next to her and smiled.
“There—take a look at those,” he said, pointing to the pile. “Maybe there’s a photo of Blanche in one of them. If there is, you can compare it to your sketch.”
“Good idea,” she said as she eyed them, “but I don’t have the sketch. I left it at the cabin and I don’t dare go back in case Jackson and my father are there.”
“Not a problem. Remember you gave it to me last night?” He crossed to the bookcase and came back holding her sketch. “I brought it home with me.”
Sam opened the first album and began to thumb through the pages, examining each faded photo one by one. She saw a teenage Greg, recognizable by the cocky smile, dressed in cutoffs and mugging for the camera. She saw a younger Fritz, much the way he had appeared to her in her dream, sprawled in a lawn chair and toasting the photographer with a bottle of beer.
But the woman from her dream was missing.
Not willing to give up, she picked up another album and browsed through it. One picture caught her attention.
She held it out to Greg. “Is this Irene Brighton?”
“Yeah
, I think so,” he said, after studying the picture of a woman with a haughty look about her.
“Is that Ted Brighton standing next to her?”
“Probably, but with his face in the shadows, I really can’t tell. Why?”
“In the first dream, the woman was flirting with a man. This might be the same man.”
“Let’s see,” he said, digging through the albums. “Mom and Dad threw a Labor Day party every year and Mom kept all the photos in the same album.” He held one up triumphantly. “Here it is.” Laying it on his lap, he opened it and began scanning the pages. Finally he stopped and tapped one of the pictures. “This is old Ted.”
Sam pulled the album over onto her lap and stared at the picture. “That’s him,” she said, not hiding her excitement. “Now, if we can only find one of Blanche.”
Greg grabbed the album back and flipped the pages. The room was silent except for the sound of the turning pages. He stopped and let out a low whistle. “Dad must’ve taken this one,” he murmured. “I’m surprised Mom didn’t burn it.” He shoved the album onto Sam’s lap. “That’s Blanche.”
Sam looked at the picture. It showed a woman standing at the end of a dock, and if Sam wasn’t mistaken, it was the dock at her cabin. The woman was wearing a purple bikini that revealed her voluptuous curves. Both her arms were lifted as she held a mass of red curls on top of her head. The photographer had been standing at the top of the hill, so her features weren’t sharp, but even at that distance, Sam saw the half smile lighting the woman’s face.
“What do you think? Is this the same woman?”
Sam let her breath out slowly before answering. “To be honest—it’s hard to say. The bone structure looks similar, but I can’t say for certain.”
“Let’s take it out of the album,” he said as he peeled back the yellowed plastic and held it up. “Still can’t tell?”
She shook her head.
“I’ve got a magnifying glass in the desk. Wait and I’ll get it.”
When he returned, he handed it to Sam, along with her sketch. She held the glass over the photo then studied her drawing. Her excitement rose. She gave them to Greg. “Tell me what you think—and be honest. Don’t just say what you think I want to hear,” she cautioned.
He was quiet while he carefully looked at the picture and her sketch. His face grew serious and he placed both images faceup on the coffee table.
Sam’s emotions dipped and she sank back against the couch. “You don’t think it’s the same woman, do you?”
He turned to her, his face still somber. “No, as a matter of fact, I do.” Placing his arm across the back of the couch, he rubbed his chin. “But this brings up another question.”
“What question?”
“How is it that you’re dreaming of a woman you’ve never met?” He hesitated. “And why?”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Mom, what are you doing home?” Caleb asked as he meandered into the kitchen. “I thought you were spending the night at Ms. Moore’s.”
Anne’s lips turned downward. “No, Sam had to be hospitalized.”
“Is she okay?” he asked, grabbing a box of cereal and a carton of milk.
“Yeah, they wanted to keep her for observation.” She leaned against the counter and watched her son eat his breakfast while her mind flashed back to her insulting conversation with Lawrence Moore. She wanted to help Sam, but she knew Mr. Moore wouldn’t let her near his daughter now. Maybe later she’d talk to Greg . . . Suddenly a mad idea popped into her head. Maybe together, she and Greg could spring Sam, just like an old-fashioned jailbreak. Immediately she shook her head at the silly notion. She’d worked at that hospital and hoped to do so again. Attempting anything as foolish as sneaking a patient out would ruin her career . . . and she expected Lawrence Moore already had plans to ruin it without her assistance. She needed to protect herself. She had Caleb’s future to consider. She’d have to come up with another way to help Sam.
Caleb and his future . . . now was as good a time as any to tell him that without the income from her job at Samantha’s, St. Michael’s was a pipe dream.
“Hey,” she began, as a preface before dropping the bomb about St. Michael’s, “I’m proud of you for telling Duane the truth.”
Caleb lifted one shoulder. “You were right. Why should I take the heat for Teddy Brighton?”
Coming up behind him, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and propped her chin on the top of his head. “You know I love you, right?”
“Yeah,” he mumbled with a mouth full of cereal.
“And there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you?”
He nodded, making her head bounce.
Letting go, she moved around him and took a seat at the table. “So here’s the way it is. I’m not going to be working for Samantha anymore. I do have a job lined up at the care facility in Hankton, but it’s for a lot less money.” Tracing a finger across the table, she couldn’t look at him while she delivered the blow. “I’m afraid St. Michael’s is going to be out of the question. We can’t afford it.”
She stole a look and was surprised at his reaction. He was reading the back of the cereal box. “Aren’t you upset?”
He shrugged carelessly. “Nah.”
“But I thought you wanted to go to St. Michael’s? They have one of the best prelaw—”
“I’m not going into prelaw, Mom,” he said, laying the cereal box to the side. “I wanted to go to St. Michael’s because of their music department.” Catching the look on her face, he held up his hand. “You’re right about needing a college education, but why can’t it be in something I love? I love music, Mom.”
Anne shot to her feet, knocking her chair over. “If you think I’m going to waste all the money I’ve saved over the years so you can chase after some crazy—”
“It’s not crazy. People with a degree in music earn a living.”
“At what? Teaching?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, but I wanted more for you.”
Red-faced, Caleb rose. “What about what I want for myself?” He began to pace the kitchen. “I don’t want to be crammed in some stuffy office, writing wills, handling divorce cases. I want music in my life.”
“It can be a hobby,” she insisted.
He whirled on her. “You don’t get it, do you? I’m not a kid anymore and you can’t tell me how to live my life.”
Anne glared at him. “Oh yes I can, Caleb Weaver. As long as you’re under my roof, I,” she said, stabbing a finger at her chest, “make the rules.”
“I won’t be under your roof if I’m away at college,” he argued back.
“But I’ll be paying for the roof you are under.”
“If it means getting to make my own choices then I’ll pay for college myself,” he spit at her.
She crossed her arms and tried to stare him down. “How?”
“Scholarships, part-time jobs, loans. It may take me longer to finish, but I can do it.” He spun on his heel and stomped toward the door. Reaching it, he stopped. “In fact, Mom, why don’t I start supporting myself right now. I’m eighteen. I’ll move out. You won’t have to worry about paying for a damn thing!” He yanked the door open, then slammed it behind him, leaving Anne standing alone in the kitchen.
She righted the chair and sat down hard. Dazed, she couldn’t believe Caleb’s reaction. He’d never talked to her like that. Oh, sure, he argued, but she’d never seen him so vehement about a subject. He’d grouse and grumble, but in the end, he did what she thought best. Thought best? Anne groaned. Those were the exact words she’d heard Lawrence Moore say to Sam. No, she didn’t treat Caleb the same way Sam’s family treated her. She respected his opinion.
As long as his opinion agrees with yours, said a little voice inside her head.
Suddenly weary, Anne laid her head on the table and began to cry. She hadn’t meant to bully her son. She’d only wanted to see him have a better life than hers had been. Deep
sobs shook her shoulders while guilt racked her heart. How could she have been so stupid, so blind? Hadn’t both Greg and Fritz tried to talk to her? Caleb was a good kid, a smart kid. She should’ve trusted him to know what would make him happy. Now he was going to move out, go off on his own. He’d never be able to earn enough to meet his expenses while going to school. He might talk himself into dropping out. After working all these years to make sure he had a shot at a good life, she’d lost him.
Raising her head, she picked up a napkin and blew her nose. Sitting here blubbering and having a pity party wouldn’t solve anything. When Caleb calmed down, they’d talk. And for once, she’d listen. She blew out a shaky breath and rose to her feet. She needed to keep busy until she could talk to him again, but she was at a loss about what to do with herself. Her eyes roamed the kitchen, searching for something to do.
Guess I’m unemployed. The thought felt strange to her. She’d gone to work every day she possibly could, seldom, if ever, taking any time off. She’d dreamed of having a day all to herself, and now that she had one, she didn’t know what to do with it. Shoving her hands in her pockets, she jumped when the phone suddenly rang.
Caleb, calling to apologize. She ran to pick it up. She wouldn’t let him—she’d tell him how sorry she was before he had a chance.
“Caleb,” she cried with the phone to her ear. “I’m sor—”
“It’s not Caleb, Anne. It’s Fritz.” His voice sounded tight, strained. “Have you heard anything about Edward? I know you’re friends and I was hoping you had news.”
“News? What news?” Anne’s grip on the phone tightened. “Has something happened to Edward?”
“You don’t know?”
“No,” she exclaimed.
“Edward had an accident last night. His car . . . he wrapped it around a tree.”
“Oh no.” Anne gasped.
“They took him to the hospital in Pardo, then by air ambulance to the Cities, but that’s all I know.”
Anne remembered Dr. Douglas mentioning an emergency delaying Sam’s CAT scan. Had Edward been the subject of that emergency?
Love Lies Bleeding Page 25