by LAURA GALE
Sighing, Rachel sat down, pulling the enormous lounge chair close enough to Michaela’s bed so that she could reach over the siderail to hold her daughter’s hand.
It had been six days since the major cell infusion that counted as the bone marrow transplant—considered “day zero” in the countdown. Now they were into the count up, that portion of treatment that involved watching all sorts of numbers—blood counts especially. They were the proof that the new bone marrow was doing its job.
Once Michaela had stabilized, Rachel would resume her shift. After that, Michaela would still be staying in the hospital for several weeks. Typically, the stay was at least six weeks after day zero. Even then, returning home demanded controlled circumstances and precautions. That was when Rachel would have to take leave, several weeks at least.
She awaited this eagerly, anxiously. That would mean real progress in Michaela’s health.
Rachel sighed again. Waiting was difficult. But there was no choice.
And then—there’s Lucas. Another sigh.
An unofficial semitruce had emerged between Rachel and Lucas since the hospital encounter with his parents. Rachel felt awkward about that day, really awkward. Still, she couldn’t have done anything else.
You could have been more tactful, a voice whispered in her head.
Almost immediately a louder voice answered: Tact has no effect on Arnold Neuman. It would have been a waste of time.
In a sense, Rachel had tried to be tactful with Arnold for years. She had removed herself from his presence as much as she could. To no avail.
No, she had said exactly what needed to be said, and she would do it again if it meant protecting Michaela. Still, uneasiness bubbled inside when she considered some of what she’d said to Lucas. Things that needed to be said, things that probably should have been said years ago—but they came from deep inside Rachel and she didn’t like to throw them in people’s faces. Even if it was about time Lucas heard it.
Frustration and rage and the need to defend Michaela—those had been a combination she couldn’t conquer.
I’ll control myself from now on, she vowed. Losing control was too embarrassing. She had to live with herself afterward.
Rachel could only guess what was going through Lucas’s mind about that day. They hadn’t revisited the conversation since then, but there had been no further hospital visits from his parents. Rachel was satisfied with that.
He is making an effort at the fatherhood thing, Rachel had to acknowledge. He brings something to the parent role that I can’t necessarily be.
He’d shaved his head. He’d been hesitant about it. He’d asked her opinion. Michaela had laughed—or, at least, had come as close to laughing as she could these days.
“Now you still look like me, Papá, even with no hair.”
Lucas had been thrilled that Michaela had understood the gesture. Rachel had been touched by the anxious thought that had prompted him.
“I can’t exactly undo it now if she doesn’t like it,” he’d said.
He was making an effort, definitely. Rachel knew he cared deeply for Michaela and he was really trying to be a father to her. Under circumstances that can’t be the easiest way to get to know one’s daughter, she had to admit.
Strangely, Rachel knew she could trust Lucas in his interactions with Michaela. He was new to the task. If he made mistakes, they would be genuine mistakes and not something nefarious. His feelings for Michaela were sincere.
Rachel closed her eyes, admitting privately that the problem was between Lucas and her. That’s where the trust breakdown existed. She had to be careful. Steer clear of wishful thinking. And other similar pitfalls.
The fact was she still loved him. There was no point questioning it any longer. She’d been around him enough lately, conscious of her own reactions to his presence. No, she could no longer deny that her love for him still thrived within her. That meant he could still hurt her as no one else ever could. Or had.
In the darkness she knew—she didn’t want to be hurt like that again.
Chapter 12
Think, Lucas. How many times have I heard that lately?
Lights of the city twinkled in the valley below, but Lucas was focused on the darkness of his mother’s sunroom.
Lucas downed his brandy in one gulp, refilling his glass and setting it on the table beside him. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.
My God, haven’t I done enough thinking lately? Isn’t my brain about ready to explode with all the thinking I’ve done?
He reached over to pick up his brandy, took a gulp, not pausing to appreciate its fine quality.
And everything is so tied together. I pull on one strand, try to think about that, and it tightens things up somewhere else. So, I’ve got my parents to think about. Or, maybe I should say Mother and Dad. They’re not a combined unit anymore. They’re separate entities—maybe they always were. Then there’s Michaela. Rachel. My career. Well, hell, that just about covers everything that’s important in my life.
He raised his glass to his lips, slamming down the remainder, despite the way his throat was beginning to burn, knowing he would feel the effects soon. He poured another glass, raising it to his lips, as well.
Maybe getting drunk isn’t the answer. It won’t solve anything.
Defiantly he took a mouthful. Then another. He didn’t want to listen to that voice.
Clear thinking, that’s what I need. But, hell, it’s beginning to feel like all I’ve done lately is think. And what’s it getting me? Have I figured anything out yet?
Okay, he might be making some progress on the career front. He had a good feeling about Diego. If nothing else, his personal leave from Neuman Industries could easily turn into a resignation.
Yes, he sat up straight. That’s it. I’ll resign.
The thought brought a smile to his face. But, Lucas recognized, it was very close to being a drunken smile. And getting drunk was the kind of thing his father would do. He slammed his glass down on the side table, carelessly sloshing the expensive brandy, nearly shattering the delicate crystal. He was making another decision.
He needed coffee, that’s what he needed. He went back to the main part of the house.
His puttering around in the kitchen would not be appreciated by the cook several hours from now, Lucas knew, but he started a pot of coffee, anyway. He used the same kind of machine at home, so at least he knew how to operate the thing. Finding all the necessary bits and pieces, however, required a few minutes of slamming through cupboards. This mission addressed, he sat down to wait, drumming his fingers on the kitchen table.
This lasted only a few minutes. He jumped up and began pacing the kitchen floor, perhaps trying to ward off any effects of the brandy, perhaps trying to use up some of the frantic energy racing through his brain.
Finally he sat down with a cup of coffee. A warm glow began to take shape inside him, as he began, he hoped, to calmly analyze what needed analyzing.
Okay, then, he’d already examined his career and made a decision. He was making progress in that category, but he’d started on that first. He’d called Diego before Rachel had reentered his life, so her reappearance hadn’t motivated him on that score. He’d told Diego he wasn’t happy at Neuman Industries. Now he knew he never had been. Once the initial thrill of employment had worn off—no, he’d never been happy.
Right. Seeing his career in its true light and making adjustments so that he would like what he saw—that was definitely progress. He could feel good about that much at least.
What about Dad?
A good question. A difficult question. His unhappiness at work was connected to his feelings about his father. His mother was right. He knew what his father was. Maybe Lucas wasn’t very clear about what his mother was anymore, but she was in some kind of flux herself, so that was okay. Lucas did, however, recognize his father for what he was. He’d probably known for a while, but had preferred not to think about it.
So he was thinking about it now. And seeing the truth, admitting the truth.
Finally, the filter through which Lucas had always viewed his father fell away. He could no longer hide behind the childish notion that his father was perfect. His father, in reality, wasn’t a good man. He treated other people poorly. Arnold Neuman used other people—whether or not the other parties realized it. And he was bigoted for sure.
He had no respect—or true liking—for women. Despite viewing himself as a ladies’ man, he felt only disrespect toward women and saw them as having no other purpose than to elevate his status as a male—through whatever available means he saw. A pelado, Lucas realized.
Honor and integrity were not personal characteristics of his father. They weren’t professional characteristics, either, Lucas admitted ruefully. Fuentes de la Juventud was known as a company with a conscience—but Neuman Industries certainly wasn’t. Those reputations led directly back to the men heading the organizations.
I’ve stood beside my father. What does that say about my personal integrity? The question hurt.
If Lucas had had any doubts about it, he knew then, unequivocally, that it was time to step away from his father. It had been for a long time. He had given his father far too much credit, far too much benefit of the doubt. And he had gone along with his father’s opinions for far too long—his father’s flawed opinions, which had also played a role in the mess Lucas had made of his marriage.
Stop right there.
Lucas wasn’t ready to think about Rachel yet. He jumped up and fixed another cup of coffee.
His mother. Yes, she’d admitted to making mistakes and to wanting to make some changes. Namely, she wanted nothing to do with his father. That was probably a good idea, Lucas thought. If she was away from him, away from his influence, she might be able to discover herself again. She might still think she had to play a role—some habits were hard to break—but at least she’d have the chance to create her own role. As she had said, she just wanted to do better from now on. Lucas could relate to that.
Briefly he lumped them together again, saw them as his parents. He could see, if he forced himself, that he had tried to deliver what his parents expected. Rachel was right about that. But he was a grown man now, and he could make his own decisions. He could.
His mother also wanted to be a grandmother. She was excited, truly excited, about this possibility. Diego’s words about nuns came back to him—about them being happy in a certain, limited way that their life choice allowed them. Lucas thought this fit his mother, as well. She rarely, if ever, showed emotion. Lucas had become accustomed to thinking of her as cold. Tonight he had seen more feeling from her than ever before.
He considered her words—he couldn’t undo the past. Unfortunately. But, just as she had said, he could do better from now on. And wasn’t that exactly what he had already decided recently?
He had a daughter whom he was getting to know, whom he already loved. He treasured her, felt right about the world when he thought of her. He enjoyed being with her, even under the strain of the current situation. She was part of him as nothing else ever had been. He understood what his mother meant about wanting the best for one’s child. He felt it. Even as a novice father, he knew the feeling very well.
Michaela felt something for him, too, which thrilled him. When she called him Papá, when she would hug him, delivering love with the absolute honesty of a child—Lucas didn’t have the words to describe how that made him feel. It filled him, it fulfilled him. It was like nothing he had ever expected to feel, nothing he’d known existed. And he’d almost missed it. So he’d faced that, too, faced the fact that responsibility had its good side. Michaela was his responsibility, a joyful responsibility. The word no longer made him flinch.
What made him flinch was…his wife. He knew he didn’t want a divorce. He knew, when he let his mind wander, that he liked the idea of being a family with Rachel. He could feel how wonderful that would be. He could remember, so easily now, what it had been like to be married to her. Life had just been better with her. Much the way it was better with Michaela.
Thinking of how Rachel melted under his touch, Lucas knew it couldn’t get better than that. Except that it could—if she would only go with the feelings she wouldn’t acknowledge. Go with them the way she had before. When they’d been happy together. Before all the hurt had happened.
He missed Rachel. He had missed her all this time. He liked being around her again, despite the circumstances. If he was honest with himself, he knew he wanted to be in her life as her husband.
Could he convince her of that? Or had he completely blown his chance?
He had not been a good husband, he could see that now. It didn’t matter why. He could blame his parents, but ultimately it was his fault. He had taken the marriage for granted. Hell, he’d taken Rachel for granted. He’d been so caught up in what he thought he was supposed to get from the marriage, ideas his parents had fed him, that he’d never considered what she should get. He’d never thought about what he should be giving.
He’d never thought about what they should have had together. What the two of them should have been sharing. He’d just let things happen. At least, that’s what he thought he was doing at the time. He’d complained about Rachel not supporting him—but, dammit, she was right. He hadn’t supported her when she’d needed it.
During that crucial time in their marriage, he had declined to take responsibility for his life, for his own actions. He’d followed the path of least resistance. Usually the one his father recommended.
That’s why he’d brought Alana into his marriage, made her the third party in a relationship that should have only had two. He’d brought in a successor while Rachel was still there, just as she’d said. Then he’d made sure that Rachel had no place to return to if she’d wanted to. Diego had said that.
His parents had encouraged the relationship with Alana and, Lucas now admitted shamefully, it had indeed been easier to do what his parents wanted. To let Rachel absorb the fallout. She had argued about it at first, all his trips, all the time he spent with Alana—about how the two of them, Lucas and Rachel, didn’t have a life together anymore.
He’d had no time to listen to her concerns. She’d said he was gone too much. He’d said he was doing what he had to do to build his career. She’d asked him to slow down, to include her in his life. He’d said she needed to grow up, to get a clue about the world he lived in now. She’d said he needed to live in his marriage more often. He’d said she was nagging him. She’d never mentioned it again. Ever.
He thought of his return from Las Vegas.
Why the hell didn’t I drop to my knees and swear that nothing like that would ever happen again—and mean it? Why didn’t I tell her that I had been stupid and blind but that I wouldn’t do that anymore? Why didn’t I tell her I was sorry?
He had been sorry. He’d also been very confused, by what he’d done—or nearly done—to say nothing of why he’d been in that position. Because of the state of their marriage, and his state of mind, he’d been unable to tell Rachel that. Unable to ask her to help him. Unable to say he wanted to fix things, to make them the way they used to be—or even better. He should have told her.
If he had…how might things have been different?
Finally, Lucas began to grasp what he had really lost that night. He could finally comprehend what Rachel had meant when she said that night was the end—an end following a year of careless, casual, irresponsible behavior on his part.
For the first time, Lucas felt remorse and regret, not only for his behavior during his last year with Rachel, but also during all the years since then. He’d let Rachel down. He’d let himself down, too. And, although he hadn’t known it, he’d let Michaela down, as well.
What he’d brought home from Las Vegas—the evidence, the attitude, the hand without its wedding band—had been too much for Rachel.
He couldn’t change it now. He could only try to do better.
And he fully intended to do better. Because he still loved Rachel. He had never stopped. Even though he had allowed her to walk out of his life.
He’d been given the chance to walk back into hers.
He would do better from now on.
Lucas checked the microwave clock. It was 3:45 a.m. He’d consumed two pots of coffee, eating no food as he went, which probably accounted for his energized state.
Or maybe making decisions, sorting out your life, does this to a guy. Lucas wasn’t sure about that.
He knew his mother had had a room prepared for him, but he wasn’t going to use it. There was no way he could possibly sleep. Not tonight. Or, rather, this morning.
At four o’clock, he decided he would leave to go to the hospital. He wanted to see Michaela. He wanted to see Rachel.
But he had one small item to take care of first.
Well, maybe two, he amended. Two pots of coffee tended to go through a guy.
First, he opened the kitchen “junk drawer,” something his mother had always insisted they needed, although it was completely out of character for her to advocate such a state of messiness.
Or, at least, he had always assumed it was out of character. Now Lucas wondered. Maybe that was a glimpse of who she really was. He’d have to keep an open mind.
Shuffling things around, he finally found what he was looking for. He ripped a sheet of paper off the tablet that he had located, then popped the cap off the cherry-red marking pen.
“I love you, too, Mother.” He wrote the words, then folded the sheet of paper in two. He dashed upstairs, where her bedroom suite was. The door was closed, as it always was. But it wouldn’t be locked.
Carefully he opened the door and crept into the room. His mother was a light sleeper. He didn’t want to wake her. He went over to her vanity, propping his note against the mirror. He knew she would spot it immediately. He turned to leave then, but something made him go back over to her bedside instead.