She couldn’t know the truth. Audra speared a hunk of watermelon and watched the juice ooze around the fork tines. When she trusted her voice wouldn’t betray her, she asked, “What reason is that?”
Leslie leaned forward. “Sex,” she murmured, her full lips spreading into a wicked smile.
“Sex?”
“Come on. We both know the only reason Christian dumped me was because I wouldn’t give it to him.” She eyed Audra knowingly. “And you did.”
“Leslie—”
“No problems.” She shrugged with a nonchalance that made Audra believe she meant it. “Really. It bothered me at first, but then, I decided to fix that.”
“You did?”
“Sure. I had what I like to call an epiphany.” Her voice dipped. “A sexual epiphany. It became my specialty.”
“Oh. That’s great.”
Laughter spilled from Leslie’s lips. “Actually, it is. No man will ever leave me again, trust me on that.”
Images of Jack and Leslie, naked and having sex, lots of it, filled Audra’s head. “I’m sure not.”
“Jack won’t, that’s for sure.” She sat back and fluffed her dark hair around her shoulders. “He’ll never leave me, not with what I do to him.”
Audra bit into her ham and Swiss, pushing away visions of naked body parts and Jack Wheyton’s piercing gaze.
“If I’d stayed with Christian, I would have limited myself to one man. I mean, how vanilla is that, at least until a woman learns to navigate around a man’s body. Then, she’s ready to settle down.”
“I see.” How many men did a woman need to navigate around to become an expert?
“Besides, if you hadn’t stolen Christian, I never would have discovered Jack.” She chewed her sandwich as though considering the tragedy of life without Jack Wheyton.
Audra forked another piece of watermelon and jammed it in her mouth, wishing she could tell Leslie the truth behind her marriage to Christian and Jack’s role in it.
“Jack’s everything and then some.” Leslie sighed. “He has the most beautiful silver eyes. Have you ever noticed how they just grab you and won’t let go? God, it’s such a turn on. And that hair—thick yet silky.” She purred. “Then there’s his mouth. He can perform miracles with that mouth. And that body.” A tiny moan escaped her full lips. “Imagine what a beautiful child he’d produce—”
Audra dropped the bowl of watermelon, splashing juice on the floor, the chair, the table. She leapt to clean up the sticky mess, murmuring, “I’m sorry, it just slipped.”
“Don’t worry about it. A little watermelon juice on the floor is nothing compared to what I’ve spilled on just about every piece of furniture in this room.” She laughed. “The walls, too. Can I help it if my man gets horny after surgery and can’t wait until he gets home?”
Audra jumped up and brushed the back of her slacks. Her gaze shot to the couch she’d been sitting on. Thank God it was standard hospital vinyl. Visions of Jack on that same couch with Leslie sprawled on top of him pecked at her brain.
“Anyway, we’ll never know how beautiful his children could be because Jack doesn’t want any.”
The floor shifted and Audra fell back onto the couch. “Why not?”
Leslie shrugged. “Too much heartache. He’s not big into sharing his heart, if you haven’t noticed.”
I noticed nine years ago. Before Audra could respond, the door to the doctor’s lounge opened, providing a welcome distraction from Leslie and her arsenal of sexual imagery. A man bearing a faint resemblance to a much younger Robert Redford entered. When he saw her, his blue gaze swept over her, taking in her hair, her eyes, her lips, her body.
“Come to bum half a sandwich, Grant?” Leslie held out half her ham and cheese sandwich to him.
Ah. One of Leslie’s past sexual navigations.
The man swiped the sandwich from her without a glance. “Thanks.” He smiled at Audra. “Have we met before? You look very familiar.”
“That’s Audra Valentine...Wheyton,” Leslie said.
“Ah.” A glimmer of understanding flitted across his face, telling her he knew all about her, and her mother.
“Hello,” Audra managed, wishing she could book the first available flight back to San Diego.
“I’m Grant. Leslie’s my sister. I’m very sorry to hear about Christian. He was a great guy.”
“Yes, he was.” His sister?
He propped a leg on the end of the coffee table and studied her. “So, what brings you here? Certainly not the food,” he said, gesturing to her half eaten ham and Swiss. And I know it’s not your brother-in-law, pain that he is.”
Was there just the tiniest hint of annoyance in his voice?
“Grant, play nice.”
“Oh, that’s right. You love the guy.”
“Yes, I do.”
Audra tried not to picture Jack and Leslie in yet another sexual position as a result of her sexual epiphany.
“Why are you here Audra?”
There was a caring tone to his voice that made it easier to tell him the truth. “My daughter’s been experiencing headaches and she’s having a few tests done.”
“Jack’s seeing her?”
“Yes, along with Dr. Kalowicz.”
“Bernie’s a good man.” No mention of Jack. “I think I’ll pop in and see if I can find out what’s going on. Is that okay?” His smile grabbed her, twisted her heart.
“Thank you. That would be wonderful.”
Grant Richot clasped her hand and squeezed. “The pleasure is all mine.”
***
An hour later, Jack found Audra leaning against the wall of the deserted doctor’s lounge, eyes closed, hair tucked behind her ears, mouth slightly open. He stared at that mouth, remembering the taste of it, the touch of that tongue as it rimmed his lips. She looked beautiful and fragile. And totally untouchable. “Audra?”
She opened her eyes. “Jack?” Her voice held a soft echo reminiscent of the first time she’d spoken his name nine years ago.
He met her gaze, wishing for once he believed in divine intervention. “Why don’t we sit down?”
“Just tell me. What is it? What’s wrong?”
The quiver in her voice sounded like every other parent in this situation. And she was. And yet she wasn’t. This was the woman he’d never forgotten or forgiven. Still, if it had to be said, he’d rather be the one saying it. He waited until she’d taken a seat beside him on the vinyl sofa. He almost grasped her hands to ease his words, but stopped. “The MRI revealed Chiari malformation, as Dr. Gressling suspected but no syringomyelia.”
Her eyes grew bright. “What exactly does that mean?”
“The brain is slipping into the spinal canal because her skull isn’t large enough.” A tear slid down her cheek. “We’ll need to operate to make room for the brain. It’s called a posterior fossa decompression surgery.”
She bit her lower lip and asked, “How could this be happening?”
“Some say it’s hereditary. Some say not. There’s just not enough research yet to make these determinations.”
“If it’s hereditary, you’ll need a thorough family history.”
He knew what she was thinking. “It would help.”
“What if I came up with a list of names for you to look into?”
She couldn’t be serious. “I assume you’re speaking of men who might be your father?” When she nodded, he asked, “How do you plan to do that? You can’t very well show up on somebody’s doorstep and introduce yourself as his potential daughter.”
“Why not? Everyone thinks my mother slept with half the town anyway. Why can’t I go on that assumption, narrow it down, and send a list to you?”
“You’re talking about people’s lives. Men who have wives, children, careers.”
“I’m talking about my daughter.” She raked her fingers through her hair so hard he expected to find chunks of hair on the ground.
“I know.” He couldn’t ignore the pain
on her face. She might have done him wrong, but no one deserved such misery. “We can start taking histories from my side of the family. My mother’s got a cousin in Pittsburgh and an aunt in Detroit. Let’s see what comes up. Okay?” She stared at her clenched hands. “Audra?”
“Can you fix it?” The words slid out, hopeful, broken.
The eternal question with no answer. Could he operate? Of course. Could he fix it? That depended on the definition of the word. He rested his hand on her arm because words were inadequate. She let him touch her, let him stroke the crook of her elbow as he spoke. “You’ll need to save your strength for Kara. This is brain surgery, Audra, so you know there are risks.” When she flinched, he tightened his grip. “I’ll do everything I can for her, I promise you. I’ll treat her as though she were my own child.”
Chapter 17
“Genetics will get you every time.”—Doris O’Brien
Peter Andellieu arrived on the red-eye from San Diego. First class, no doubt. He’d been invited for Alice Wheyton’s famous chicken tetrazzini and apple cobbler and being a man who obviously knew how to navigate social situations, he’d accepted. Good move on Andellieu’s part. The man had been invited, summoned would be a better word, so the family could study him and determine his relevance to Audra, without being obvious.
Jack, for one, wanted to know exactly what kind of relationship existed between the two. The man was too damn good looking to be just a friend. What kind of friend was so welcome the child called him uncle? Jack hadn’t missed the way Audra ran to the rented Jaguar and clung to Andellieu in a way that made Jack want to punch something.
Joe Wheyton must be of the same mind because his shrewd gaze never left the man seated across the table for more than fifteen seconds. Joe checked out Andellieu’s tanned hands, manicured nails, Movado watch—though Jack doubted his father knew what one was. The old man would know it cost a pretty penny though, as did the tailored shirt and slacks. When Joe pinned his sights on the man’s haircut, Jack knew his old man was visualizing Andellieu getting a trim from a fancy salon that sold aromatherapy candles and full body massages.
Alice tended toward a more subtle scrutiny. Her body language welcomed the stranger with food and casual conversation but pulled back when the man offered compliments or a flash of capped teeth.
Leslie was the only one smitten with the plastic surgeon’s cultured voice and perfect manners. She practically gushed her excitement, which irritated Jack because he couldn’t concentrate on the interaction between Andellieu and Audra with Leslie’s coy little remarks interrupting every three seconds. Sometimes, the lady really annoyed the hell out of him.
Which brought him to Audra. She sat next to Kara, who insisted on sitting beside Peter. Jack didn’t miss the little smiles Audra and Andellieu slid toward each other now and then. As if they shared a special secret—which they probably did. As if they were the only two in the world—which they probably thought they were. As if they couldn’t wait to be alone—which they probably couldn’t. Jack bit into a hard roll and chewed until his jaw hurt. He swallowed and sloshed back the rest of his wine. “Do you perform real surgery or is it strictly for the camera?”
Audra gasped. Alice coughed. Leslie groaned.
Peter Andellieu merely fixed his Warren Beatty gaze on Jack and smiled. “Actually, what I do on camera is real surgery, just a bit dressed up for the audience. Of course, it’s not as noble as the heroics you perform, but in our own way I like to think we’re saving lives, too.”
“How so?” By trimming fat and stuffing boobs?
Dr. Perfection swept a tanned hand in a graceful arc. “Giving someone a second chance. Pulling them from the dregs of inferiority and low self-esteem to create a new life in which they can experience joy.”
Bullshit. “Isn’t that all a bit fabricated? I mean, if you’re plucking and tucking and stuffing, who’s really left once you finish?”
The man’s smile stretched so far Jack swore he could see his molars. “A new person. A second chance. Hope.”
“I see.” Of course, he didn’t see a damn thing. All he saw was bullshit covered in dollar signs.
“Mr. Andelleiu, would you care for another roll?” Alice thrust the bread basket at him. That was one thing about his mother, she had impeccable manners, even in the face of disaster.
“Thank you, Mrs. Wheyton, but Kara told me there’s apple cobbler for dessert and I’m saving room for that. It’s my favorite.”
Sure it is. And if she’d said they were having cherry pie, Dr. Perfection would have said that was his favorite.
Alice beamed, momentarily caught off guard by the man’s phony charm.
“It’s my favorite, too, Uncle Peter.” Kara smiled up at the man she called uncle who wasn’t really even an uncle. Andellieu brushed a blond ringlet from her face and placed a soft kiss on her forehead.
Jack may not like him, and he might be a sham of a doctor, but one thing was certain—Peter Andellieu loved Kara.
***
Doris O’Brien lived on the south side of town in a house rumored to have once belonged to the granddaughter of a Rockefeller. The three-story built of brick and wood swayed and peeled and cracked with a history all its own. With the exception of two live-in attendants and a driver, which she never used, Doris lived alone, had lived alone on and off since the death of her daughter. Of course, there were the occasional institutionalizations that Doris attributed to a greedy nephew’s scheming attempts to obtain the family money.
The young buck had failed three times to have her caged. Let him keep trying—he’d fail thirty-three times. She’d make certain of it. Doris sat on her bed and puffed on a Salem. An oxygen tank rested against the wall along with the tubing she’d use to fill her lungs once she contaminated them with smoke.
She’d never see fifty. Some might consider that a sad admission, but Doris Esther O’Brien had seen more life in forty-six years than she cared to, and it wasn’t all sweet honey, either. It was pain, and heartbreak, and disillusion and it had all started with Corrine. If Doris had possessed enough backbone to stand up against her father’s demand that she avoid a ‘whore’ like Corrine Valentine, Doris could have defended her friend. Maybe even saved her.
But she’d been afraid. And then there was the twinge that ate at her for years and had forced her to obliterate her memory with drugs and sex. Only it hadn’t erased the guilt. That piece lived on, grew through the years until it festered and took on a life of its own. Doris had been jealous of her best friend. Not just passing jealous but putrid, hateful jealous. It didn’t matter how hard Doris tried to imitate her friend, she couldn’t succeed with her coltish legs and thin lips.
She could have lived with those few issues, maybe made adjustments to compensate for her deficiencies. But the disparity grew. Boys began seeking Corrine out after class, asking her to the movies, the sock hop, the Burger Den for fries and a shake. They snubbed Doris. Even when she offered to give one or two a hand job behind the Burger Den, they just laughed and followed Corrine like she was Snow White, The Pure, and they were her little follower dwarfs, which made Doris The Wicked One, a role she gladly accepted. If she couldn’t find her own brand of popularity, she’d make damn sure her best friend didn’t either.
Corrine’s pregnancy was a surprise, one which Doris leaked to the entire senior class during an assembly. She even supplied a list of seven or eight prospective fathers, boys who’d snubbed her. It didn’t matter Corrine confessed to loving the father of her unborn child, vowed he was the only one she’d even been with—nothing mattered but crushing her best friend’s popularity. Doris succeeded. By the time she realized the destruction she’d caused, not only to her best friend, but to herself, it was too late.
This was the reason she must help the girl find her real father. She owed Corrine that much. Audra would be here soon and Doris would confess her sins. Maybe God wouldn’t burn her sorry soul in hell for eternity. Maybe He’d only toss her in for the first thousand ye
ars.
She smoked her way through three more cigarettes before Audra Valentine knocked on her door and entered, a dark-haired, slimmer version of her mother. “Thank you for seeing me, Ms. O’Brien.”
Doris fiddled with a string on her chenille robe, wishing for one more cigarette. “Doris, child. Call me Doris.” Corrine’s daughter smiled, just the way her mother used to when she and Doris passed notes in Chemistry class. “I know I tell you this every time I see you, but you look just like your mother.” A faint blush crept along the daughter’s neck, as though it were an embarrassment to resemble a beautiful woman. “Sit down. Please.”
Audra sat in the chair next to the bed and set her purse on the floor. “You must be wondering why I’m here.”
“Actually, I thought you’d come to learn more about your mother.”
“Indirectly, yes.” She looked away, her face awash with despair, so like Corrine’s the last time Doris saw her. “It’s my daughter. She’s sick.” Pause. “Possibly a genetic condition.”
“Ahhh.” Doris sucked in three puffs of air. “Genetics will get you every time.”
Corrine’s daughter fiddled with her wristwatch and stumbled on, “I’d like to ask if you can give me a list of names.”
The air in the room evaporated, shrink-wrapping Doris’s lungs. “My oxygen,” she croaked, “in the corner.” Audra sprung from her chair to retrieve the canister and tubing Doris so hated. The only reason she used it at all was so she could get her smokes in. Corrine’s daughter helped fit the tubing in Doris’s nose and turned on the tank. A steady rush of oxygen filled Doris’s lungs. “There is no list,” Doris managed. “No string of men either.”
“But—”
“There isn’t,” Doris insisted, forcing the words out in a blast of desperation. “Your mother never slept around. Not early on. The strings of men were later, after the town ruined her.” She paused, puffed a breath. “After I ruined her.”
Pulling Home (That Second Chance) Page 11