"That's sick!"
"Ty said that one of the tabloids bribed a nurse into describing Jess's reaction when he found out he'd lost his arm. The headlines said something like 'famous race-car driver Jess Dante goes berserk when he realizes he's become a freak.'"
Horrified beyond words, Hazel found herself thinking about Jess lying helpless in a hospital bed, unable even to come to grips with his changed body in privacy.
"No wonder he keeps so much to himself," she said slowly.
Cait nodded. "Wouldn't you, if you had his memories?"
Hazel expelled a ragged breath. "After Ron's funeral, I spent months alone in our apartment eating junk food and feeling sorry for myself."
"You're not doing that now. Well, the feeling sorry part, anyway."
"Don't be so sure about that." Hazel propped her head on her elbow. "Tell me the truth, Cait. What would you do?"
Cait pushed aside her cup in order to prop her hands under her chin. "I would marry the man on his terms and then seduce the bejabbers out of him."
Hazel leaned back, her hand resting on the table. "And if he refused to be seduced? Then what? A platonic marriage until Francey goes off to college?" She shook her head. "I want to be a mother – Francey's mother – but I'm not sure I could handle that kind of pain."
She pushed back her chair and went to fetch the brownies. Done or not, they were history.
* * *
A call to Santa Rita told Hazel that Silvia was to be buried in the small central valley community of Hargrove. The service was held late Tuesday afternoon. It took some juggling, but she cleared her schedule so she could pay her respects.
Located halfway between Sacramento and Pleasanton, Hargrove was unincorporated and appeared on few maps, a fact she hadn't discovered until she was already late.
Asking directions along Highway 99 got her to the town, where a paperboy on a bicycle pointed her toward the church. Simple in design and in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint, it sat alone on a windswept rise near a grove of drought-withered eucalyptus.
What little grass that had survived the wind and drought had been killed by neglect. Someone had planted annuals in ragged rows by the cracked sidewalk, only to see them wither and die, too, because water was too scarce in the valley to waste on mere beauty.
Except for the hearse parked near the entrance and a few dented, dusty pickup trucks, the lot in front of the sad little building was empty.
As she pulled in, however, she spied another car parked to the rear, in the sparse shade of one of the few remaining trees.
It, too, was far from new, but unlike the trucks in the front, Jess's Mercedes had been lovingly restored and carefully maintained.
She hadn't expected to see him there, even though she knew that he was paying Silvia's funeral expenses, something she'd discovered when she'd called the prison to inquire about doing the same thing.
Her heart thudded beneath her black dress, driven by a rush of adrenaline. She hadn't seen him since he'd left her house on Saturday night.
She parked where the Mercedes could block the worst of the wind, checked the rearview mirror to make sure she didn't have lipstick on her teeth and stepped from the air-conditioned comfort of her BMW into what she felt like a blast from an oven.
Central California in summer was hell, pure and simple. By the time she reached the door to the church, her face was damp and her hair was windblown and crackling with static electricity.
The church was too small to have a foyer. Inside, the air was only a few degrees cooler and smelled of candle wax and old wood.
The altar was simple pine, but the white lacy cloth covering it was spotless, and the statues of Mary and Jesus on either side of the hand-carved wooden crucifix showed signs of loving attention.
Because she was afraid no one else would, Hazel had sent flowers. Now she realized her fears had been groundless.
There were flowers everywhere. Marigolds and black-eyed Susans from someone's backyard, carnations, roses and others she didn't recognize in formal urns, and a heartbreakingly simple spray of pearly roses on the casket itself. The few people in attendance were sitting in the first few rows, listening to the priest, who was standing near the simple but clearly expensive casket.
He was speaking in Spanish, and it took her ear a moment to adjust to the softer vowels and quicker cadence. Without pausing he glanced her way and nodded as she slipped silently into a back pew.
Jess was sitting in the front on the right, along with about a dozen others, who Hazel took to be Silvia's family. There were mostly women and children, she noticed, and several of the women were quietly weeping.
The service was brief, the words simple and strangely comforting, even though Hazel's Spanish wasn't as polished as she would have liked it to be.
Because the church had no organ or even a piano, the final hymn was sung without music, the voices of the adults and children blending in a ragged, heartfelt chorus, making the song all the more touching.
Hazel's eyes were blurry with tears by the time the last notes faded. She was frantically searching in her purse for a tissue when the funeral director wheeled the casket up the aisle, followed by the solemn-faced priest and the rest of the silent mourners.
Jess was the last in line, and to her surprise, she saw that he was accompanied by three dark-haired, dark-eyed little boys, one of whom, the smallest, was clinging tightly to Jess's hand.
Silvia's sons? she wondered, and then knew that was exactly who they were.
When Jess and the boys reached her pew, he stopped. If he was surprised to see her there, he gave no sign as he quietly introduced her to the children.
The eldest, a skinny sullen boy of about eight named Cleve Junior, had yellow eyes and a faceful of half-faded but still painful-looking bruises. The middle boy, Randall, was shy and seemed to resemble Silvia the most in appearance and temperament, while Johnny, the youngest, stuttered incoherently when he tried to reply to her greeting.
"I'm sorry about your mother, boys," she said solemnly, "but I know she loved you very much. Her last thoughts were of you and your new baby sister."
"Mommy's not ever coming back," Randall piped up in a reedy voice.
"No," she agreed gently, knowing that acceptance was painful, but necessary to the healing process.
"Mr. Dante said that Mommy's in heaven now and she's going to be our guardian angel." His nervous little fingers worrying a button on his jacket, Randall glanced up at Jess's face and asked, "Do you really think she's watching us right now, Mr. Dante?"
"Yes, Randall, I do."
"So do I," Hazel told him. "And she'll always be there for you in your thoughts."
"My old lady was a convict, and everybody knows it," Cleve Junior muttered to no one – and everyone.
"Your mother was a good woman, son. She did what she had to do to survive. Someday I intend to make sure you understand that." Jess didn't raise his voice, but Cleve Junior's sullen face took on a sudden red tinge, and his mouth shut with an audible snap.
Jess was at his impressive best in a dark suit and white shirt, but even without the somber clothing, he would have projected the kind of unmistakable integrity and authority children instinctively understood.
Without another word, Cleve broke into a run, racing down the aisle and into the blinding sunlight beyond the door. Left behind, Randall stood silently, biting his lip. Johnny began to cry.
"I know you're sad, and that's okay," Hazel murmured, dropping to her knees. She tried to take the shaking little boy into her arms, but he stiffened and shied away.
"Daddy says that only sissies cry," Randall declared with little boy bravado.
The effect was marred, however, when he cast a furtive look toward the back of the church as though he expected his father to rise up in judgment?
"I think everyone cries when they're sad," she said, choosing her words with great care. "Sometimes people do it where others can see them, sometimes they don't, but either way
, crying isn't a bad thing."
"Is too," Randall muttered, looking more like Cleve Junior now than his mother. "Daddy said Johnny's a crybaby just like—" The boy stopped short, his gaze fixed on a spot behind Hazel's shoulder.
"Go on, boy," an annoyingly nasal voice boomed. "Tell the little lady what I done told you."
Hazel rose quickly, turning toward the intruder at the same time. The man striding toward them was above average height and barrel-chested, with a head shaped like a bullet and soulless eyes the color of wet straw.
So this was Cleve Yoder, she thought, with a small private shudder of sympathy for Silvia. Looking smug, Cleve Junior matched his father step for step. The closer his father got, the more Randall seemed to shrink. His brother Johnny had already taken refuge behind Jess's long legs.
"Well, boy, cat got your tongue? I told you to tell the lady what I told you about crybabies."
Randall flushed and dropped his gaze. "Like our mom was," he mumbled, cowering under his father's glare.
Yoder's fishhook mouth quirked. "That's right, like that no-good, candy-ass mother of yours. Always whining about something that didn't matter a diddly damn, and don't you forget it."
For a terrible instant Hazel was certain he meant to hit the boy, but before she could take action, Jess stepped between Yoder and the children. His face was hard, his eyes harder still.
"You're out of line, Yoder." His words were deliberate, balanced on a knife-edge.
Cleve's nostrils flared, the reaction of even the most savage of animals in the presence of clear danger.
"That's rich, coming from a blackmailer like you, Dante."
"I meant what I said. Silvia asked me to watch over her children, and I intend to do just that."
"You and how many others to help you?"
Hazel saw the shimmer of chilled steel appear suddenly in the jet depths of Jess's eyes. "Rash words from a big, brave wife beater like you, Yoder."
Yoder sucked in his breath, his eyes bulging and his skin blooming with unhealthy color. "So help me, if you weren't a cripple—"
"Hey, don't let that stop you."
Yoder's eyes slitted, and his chunky face stilled, reminding Hazel of a rattlesnake sizing up his prey.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Dante? Get yourself beat up fair and square and then sue me for assault. All you lawyers are alike, bloodsuckers all of you. But I ain't gonna fall for no shyster's game, not me."
Jess's expression didn't change. "Suit yourself. Just don't forget what I told you. Silvia's sons are under my protection now. One way or another, I'm not going to let them forget their mother."
Yoder mouthed an ugly obscenity, then ordered Cleve Junior to grab his baby brother's hand. He himself took hold of his middle son so violently the boy cried out.
"I ain't hurting you, you wimp," Yoder snarled before aiming a look of pure hatred Jess's way. "This isn't the last there'll be between us, Dante. I give you my word on it."
Hazel watched Yoder stalk up the aisle, his three boys in his wake. The door creaked on unoiled hinges, then slammed against the jamb as Yoder charged out. Hazel exhaled slowly, her gaze returning to Jess's face.
"Too bad Silvia had lousy aim," she murmured with heartfelt vehemence.
Jess looked startled; then the ice in his eyes cracked, and the corners crinkled. "Yeah, that would have solved a lot of problems."
"Meaning the bruises on Cleve Junior and Johnny?"
"You noticed those, did you?" Jess met Hazel's eyes steadily.
She nodded, suddenly chilled even though the sun had shifted slightly, drenching the chapel's interior with light. "Do you think he's started in on them now that he doesn't have Silvia to knock around?"
His expression turned grim. "I'd bet big money on it." Hazel watched dust motes jerk crazily in the light flooding the plain windows. "We have to do something—"
"Already done. Someone from the county children's services will be waiting for Cleve at his place with a writ. The boys will be safely in foster care by nightfall."
Hazel blinked. "You called them?"
He nodded. "From my car before the service started. While Silvia's sisters were busy getting reacquainted with the boys Cleve never let them see."
"They never should have been allowed to remain with him in the first place."
Jess frowned. "After Silvia admitted under oath that she was the only one he'd brutalized, the court had no reason to remove them."
Hazel glanced toward the altar. Suddenly the flowers didn't seem so comforting, nor the words of the service so healing.
"Why did Yoder accuse you of blackmail?"
"Because I threatened him with legal action if he didn't allow the boys to say goodbye to their mother."
"Could you have done that?"
"Not in time, no, but he didn't know that."
Hazel wondered if Jess had ever played poker. "What happens next?" she asked, shifting her gaze to Jess's face again. The daylight brought out the wash of silver at his temples and deepened the grooves framing his mouth.
"Next I file a petition to transfer temporary custody to Silvia's sister, Yolanda, while the authorities look into the charges of child abuse I intend to file."
His jaw was suddenly tight and his expression bleak. Hazel had a feeling he'd been berating himself for not doing enough for Silvia while she was alive, perhaps even blaming himself for her death.
She started walking up the aisle. Jess fell in step, fitting his longer stride to hers, and she noticed that once again he'd maneuvered so that she was on his left.
As soon as they stepped outside, Jess worried the knot of his tie loose and hooked a finger under the collar button to free it from the buttonhole.
Hazel hid a smile. Jess was only barely civilized when it came to the clothes he wore. As for his ties, they were the most god-awful things she'd ever seen hanging around a man's neck.
"I've always meant to ask you – how do you tie a tie one-handed?"
Hazel saw the sudden stillness in his eyes. Some questions he handled well, others not. Which was this? she wondered, knowing that she wouldn't stop asking no matter what his response.
"I don't," he said finally, his tone impassive. "The clerk in the men's store ties it for me and I never untie it."
"Ah, very clever."
Neither spoke until they'd reached the driver's side of her car. The hearse was gone, the parking lot deserted.
"I didn't expect to see you here," he said, looking around as though suddenly seeing the place for the first time. Already the brutal heat had sheened his skin with moisture, and his hair was beginning to curl where it lay against his neck.
She'd expected him to take off his suit coat as soon as the funeral had ended. When he hadn't, she'd wondered if he made it a habit to wait until he was alone to do things that took more than normal effort.
"I very nearly didn't make it in time," she confided, pushing back her damp bangs. "I'm usually good about getting directions ahead of time, but lately everything seems topsy-turvy."
"Must be going around."
Tensing, Hazel wondered what she'd said to put the rasp of irritation in his voice. "How's Francey?"
"Doing well." He hesitated. "She's still with Cait."
"Yes, I know, and I've been thinking about that." She wet her suddenly dry lips, then plunged in. "My next-door neighbor, Mrs. Weller, is a licensed care giver. She's not working at the moment, because her grandchildren have been visiting, but they're leaving tomorrow."
"Are you recommending her as a nanny?"
"At least temporarily." She took a deep breath. "I thought I could keep Francey at night, and then Mrs. Weller could come in when I leave for the office. I have room, and, well, Cait was looking pretty tired last time I saw her."
Instead of responding, he drew a pair of aviator sunglasses from his breast pocket, shook them open and fitted them over the bridge of his nose. To avoid eye contact? she wondered, looking up at him and seeing a reflection of herself
in the opaque lenses.
"Does that mean you're accepting my proposal?"
She sensed a leashed tension in him now. Like a wild predator masquerading as a docile pet.
"You promised to give me until Thursday to give you my answer."
"But I didn't promise not to plead my case one more time," he said, his mouth descending.
His mouth sought hers slowly, as though he were giving her time to draw back, an opportunity to escape. To reject him as he'd been rejected before.
Incapable of moving, unable to breathe, Hazel let her eyelids drift closed, accepting him, sealing the image of his lived-in face into her mind.
This time his kisses were more demanding – moist, draining kisses that had her thoughts and senses swirling and her arms slipping around his neck. His shoulders were iron stiff, his skin on fire beneath her palms, his hair thick and cool and very springy where her knuckles burrowed.
At the first sign of response, he shuddered hard, as though flinching from sudden pain, and then his fingers were tightening, holding her and yet caressing her at the same time.
When she moaned, he drew her closer, then abruptly drew his mouth from hers, leaving her lips bruised and damp.
"Have dinner with me tomorrow night. We'll talk about this Mrs. Weller of yours." His voice was ragged, his breathing far less controlled than it should have been for a man so intensely fit and strong.
"All right." She dropped her arms and took an unsteady step backward.
He withdrew his hand slowly, letting his fingers trail gently over the fragile bones of her throat. "I'll pick you up at six."
"At the office."
Jess opened the door for her and waited until she got in before bending lower to kiss her one last, lingering time.
"At the office," he repeated before shutting her door. "And O'Connor?" he asked through the open window.
"Hmm?"
"Time is running out."
* * *
Chapter 9
«^»
Neil Kenyon had been Hazel's patient for almost three months. A strapping, good-looking seventeen-year-old with startling blue eyes and a marked resemblance to a young Clint Eastwood, he had been diagnosed as severely depressed and potentially suicidal after he'd broken his neck in a diving competition.
ONCE UPON A WEDDING Page 11