In Good Conscience

by Gardiner, Cat

  The pairing worked! He knew he shouldn’t be, but he was proud of himself. He felt liked Q from a James Bond movie, and Frances was his leading lady. Unassuming, studied, gentleman landowner by day—and spy gadget guru by night. One day, he’d write a book about it and make a fortune.

  Knowing that the conversation was recording to the satellite’s data gallery he’d programmed, he clicked off and turned his desktop computer on. Logging into the cloud database where the recorded previous conversations were stored, he chose a random one from two IP addresses that showed frequent contact, assuming they could be both Morales’s and his lieutenant given the date and hour.

  Listening attentively to Luis’s early morning telephone call to Morales after Darcy’s explosive visit to Casa Luz, Bennet laughed. After an internet search of local sweet shops in Prague, he made the connection between Pilar’s intel and the conversation between the two thugs.

  He texted Darcy:

  Pairing to #2 working; Intel incoming. You hit a nerve in Panama; Diablo on fire! Thinks El Negro came with an army. Well done! BTW where is this El Negro? Internet viral with articles but no location

  Also, Macaroons = local shop Pâtisserie Saint Tropez, Wenceslas Square, Prague. Family compound is in Prague

  He laughed again, the music filling his soul. He hated to admit it, given all the harsh words he had spoken to Darcy, but in truth, he was having the time of his life!

  ***

  After a valium-induced good night’s sleep and an even better cry, Liz felt renewed and she was back in leather, fully recovered (and alert) following her ridiculous breakdown the night before. The tight sheath felt good against her skin despite the dog days of summer heat, but it felt even better against the seat of a Harley, even if Dixon traveled behind her in the H2.

  She’d considered purchasing another SuperLow so that she could give him Fitzwilliam’s new motorcycle, as both a thank you and for the selfish reason of missing a riding partner. Riding partners didn’t need to be great conversationalists, which Dixon was not. His companionship had grown to be more of a watchful older brother who dropped pearls of wisdom every now and again, but the security detail crap was getting tiresome. Besides, she didn’t need a bodyguard any longer; she was technically safe now and he had a life somewhere to get back to. Anyway, there would be no need to purchase a bike for herself; she had a perfectly good one sitting back on Black Mountain, not far from the Tail of the Dragon. When she returned from her trip, she’d give him her husband’s Harley, recalling that Fitzwilliam had once told her that the man used to ride.

  Although the Softail had all the high-tech bells and whistles and it had been the last place her husband’s fabulous thighs straddled, it was a monster to ride. Perfect for his tall physique, the cockpit was too roomy for her and she struggled slightly to accustom herself to the massive power of the V-twin engine and size of the bike as she navigated the winding George Washington Memorial Highway alongside the Potomac River. The murky waterway she loved so much symbolized her home. In many ways, this historic area would always be home, a piece of her that held both bright and muddied memories, as most childhood homes did.

  While coming home felt off—like her skin was on the wrong body—this new day gave her fresh determination to face life ahead. She took a deep breath, gunned the throttle on the next stretch of two-lane highway, and felt no guilt for leaving Dixon in her dust as she passed cars over the dashed white markings on the pavement. After today, she’d leave for North Carolina before heading off to who knows where. All of Fitzwilliam’s favorite tunes played from his playlist in her helmet on the ride from Washington to Longbourn, but the one playing was one of her own, which seemed to be on continuous loop for the last two weeks: Evanescence’s “My Immortal.” Like the lyrics bemoaned, he still lingered here, and she could hear him now cautioning her not to go so fast! She just chuckled to herself with a head shake, wishing to hear him admonish her through the head comms versus her imagination. Sadness overtook her spirit when she realized that, like almost all operas, their love affair had ended in tragedy. She hadn’t listened to opera since that afternoon when Rick and Knightley showed up at the compound. Ironically, the duet from Opera Lakmé that enamored him so, hence her nickname, had played in the background to their presence.

  Twenty minutes flew by in her ruminations, and she found herself at the long, now-paved drive to Longbourn Plantation. Admittedly, she missed her dad and their close relationship. That too, had been muddied by his actions, but she understood him much better given her own depression. She stopped the bike, flipped her visor up, and waited for the H2 to appear behind her.

  Within a few minutes, it arrived in a plume of dust. Visible through the tinted windshield, Dixon teased her with a shake to his head and a wag to his finger, but then smirked. God bless him; the dear man had been her solid shoulder when she had pushed everyone else away who wanted to be, even Jane. Since her arrival in DC, all of Obsidian had reached out to her, but each text and phone call had gone unanswered. Until her visit to see Rick, only Dixon had been allowed to stay close to her—and the man had been smart enough to not say a word at her short haircut.

  She rode down the drive, passed the mighty Bennet Oak and the infamous gazebo, and a rush of tenderness washed over her heart when she spied her greenhouse near the garages at the back of the house.

  Two cars were parked: one was Jane’s restored Camaro, and the other, a rental evident by the sticker on the bumper, was unfamiliar to her and she parked the bike beside it.

  “Great place to grow up,” Dixon said getting out of the H2.

  “Yeah. Jane and I had some good times. That’s the greenhouse I told you about.”

  He simply nodded, and she stretched her back.

  “Looks like your pop has visitors.”

  She removed her helmet then placed it on the seat of the Harley along with her leather jacket. “Jane is here.”

  “Oh. My. God!” her sister effused from behind the screen door. “Look at your hair!”

  “Sure sounds like she is,” he laughed.

  The door swung open and Jane, looking adorable in a pink dress and ballet slippers, barreled down the steps. Her hair was a little shorter and wavy, just touching the top of the silver hoop earrings she wore. The welcoming hug was like none she’d ever received from her sister, and they stood there embracing for what felt like long minutes. Jane cried, and so did she. Dammit, not again. She knew why she was crying but why was Jane? Because she missed Fitzwilliam? Because she’d missed her?

  “Let me look at you, sissy,” Jane commanded, finally pulling back with a sniffle and wipe to her cheek. “You lost more weight, but I love this hair.”

  “It’s all right, I guess. Jane, you remember Dixon right?”

  “Yeah! Sure! Hi, Dixon. Boy, we haven’t had this many people at Longbourn since your wedding to Bill. It’s turning out to be a regular party,” she said sarcastically.

  “Oh? Is Charlie with you?”

  “No. He wasn’t invited.”

  “Is everything okay? Is he doing okay?”

  Jane smiled wistfully. “I think he’s depressed.”

  “About Fitzwilliam?”

  “Yuppers. Anyway, you better … well, c’mon in the house. I hope you have your big girl panties on under that leather.”

  “If it’s all right with you, Mrs. D, I’m gonna stay out here. Such a fine day to soak up the sun.”

  He was such a liar; he hated the hot sun. Soon, Dixon, soon, you can go back to your own life.

  Arm-in-arm, the sisters walked to the door and she could hear her father’s voice above the cheerful music within the house. “Who is here?” she asked. “Is he talking to himself again?”

  But Jane didn’t reply.

  “Jane?”

  Literally tight lipped, her sister just shook her head.

  The old house looked like and felt like a new house when she entered. Apart from central air conditioning, a tangible metamorphosis had taken place
since last she’d visited. Was it the construction or something else? There was an aura of joy within like she remembered from long ago. On her great-grandmother’s pier table, an antique vase held Virginia wildflowers and long sprigs of lavender, replacing the musty fragrance of dead generations with a calming, uplifting fragrance. Two colorful bouquets wrapped in plastic lay beside the arrangement.

  “Is that ABBA playing? What’s going on here?” she asked. Disco? No classical?

  Still, Jane said nothing but her father came into the hallway with a spring to his step and a beaming smile. His ratty sweater was g.o.n.e! He’d even styled his hair with a little gel.

  “Lizzy-bear!”

  “Dad? Is that you? Are those blue jeans?”

  “Lordy, can’t your old man get with the times?” He kissed her cheek then put his arms around her. “How’s my girl?”

  There was that dreaded question—yet again! How did any of these people think she was? Like she’d suddenly exclaim, “I’m great! Couldn’t be better. Let’s party!”

  “One day at a time,” she said as cheerfully as possible, forcing a smile.

  “Well, in due time, you’ll be back to your old self. I have no doubt.”

  “I don’t see how that’s even remotely possible.” Her hand immediately went to her necklace for comfort.

  Something passed before his eyes, a sad expression—a secret. She recognized that look from his days of machinations with the repulsive lecher Henry Crawford. Was he reading Crime and Punishment again?

  Jane just stood by, distracting herself by fixing her hair in the mirror behind the flower arrangement. Obviously, she knew something, too, which was even more evident when she began to hum along with the song in typical Jane Bennet-style deflection.

  “You cut your hair, sweetheart. I like it.”

  “Thanks and thanks for fixing and sending the necklace to me.”

  “Of course. It was just a minor adjustment. Have you determined how it broke while protected in the safety deposit box?”

  “Odd isn’t it? I guess I’m just thankful it was there and not at Pemberley. We lost everything except what was in that panic room with me.” She shrugged, then looked away. “At least I wasn’t among the lost. Ya’ know, being in the workout room and all.”

  “Right! That’s my girl, always seeing the positive side of things. I must admit, I was quite surprised to find a microphone and transmitter within that tiny snake head. Your husband was quite ingenious.”

  She snorted, glad he brought the topic back to the necklace, and her hand toyed with the diamond-encrusted head. Thank God he didn’t say “late-husband” or she would have burst into tears for the one-thousandth time. “He was always thinking of ways to keep me close to him. Unfortunately, this time I wouldn’t mind his spying on me, but I’m too far out of his distance.” If only he were listening; she’d give anything for him to be on the receiving end of the necklace’s comms each time she’d spoken to him. Now, the only purpose it served was to remind her of their bond. “You didn’t remove the transmitter did you?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He smiled weirdly. Then again, he was dressed weirdly, was acting weirdly, and was listening to weird music, so she shrugged it off.

  “Now, I have a very special surprise for you today,” her father declared, sliding his hand into hers and led her toward the dining room as “Super Trouper” 70s music beat around her. The way he held her and kept looking over to her made her feel like she was being led to a slaughter while serenaded by Disco queens from 40 years ago. The abhorrent Disco was dead and, as far as she recalled, ABBA never played in Longbourn before. It all felt so surreal, like a bad movie or a time warp. What was next?—Olivia Newton John gliding across the living room on roller skates to Xanadu? A glance over her shoulder showed a now silent Jane wringing her hands as she trudged behind them with a furrowed brow and pursed lips. Okay, now she was officially worried. The woman looked ready to bolt, especially when she pensively glanced at the door over her own shoulder.

  They entered the brightly lit and cheerfully painted dining room, revealing a beautiful table setting: more flowers, fine china, and assorted accoutrements.

  … And her mother.

  She gasped at the shock: nine years. For nine friggin’ years, the woman had been gone from this house without a word.

  The abandoner stood holding the back of the chair at the head of the table—a smile graced her face. “Hi, darling.”

  Cut and run! Liz gagged and bolted from the room for the bathroom, eliciting her father’s immediate response of calling after her, his voice tinged with unwarranted and unrealistic frustration.

  “Let her go, Tommy. We both knew how she’d react,” she heard her mother’s dispirited voice say before the vomit came, yet again.

  “Oh, sissy. I know,” Jane soothed, opening the bathroom door followed by a rub to her back as the dry heaves and spit continued to wrack her body. Her sister sighed. “I felt sick, too, when I saw her. It’s going to be okay.”

  She rose and turned to Jane, blurred through the pooled tears and stressed eyeballs from upchucking food that wasn’t there. “Why … what … how? I can’t do this stuff all at once,” she sobbed into her sister’s welcoming embrace.

  “Me either. I don’t want to deal with this crap, but I can’t leave, not now—not when you need me.”

  “Oh, why is she back?”

  “She has lymphoma, and Dad wants to take care of her.”

  “Because he was sooooo good at taking care of us when we needed him! It was more like the other way around.” Incredulously she spat her words, “She came home because she fucking wants to be taken care of? I needed to be taken care of when I broke my damned ankle my senior year! And she sure as hell didn’t give a fuckety-fuck when you had that accident in Pot-Head Unibrow’s truck! Where was her motherly concern and advice when I almost married that dick-wad Bill? For God’s sake, I was trapped for seven fucking nightmarish hours down in the panic room! I didn’t see her there when I emerged.”

  Jane bit her lip, probably because she hadn’t heard her drop F-bombs like this since Caroline flew to Paris with intentions of seducing her husband! But she didn’t give a crap about her salty language. She had zero tolerance and absolute bitchiness today—and she hated fucking Disco!

  Now the tears rolled as furiously as her temper. “Un-fucking believable! My husband was just blown up and eaten by fucking sharks … and I have to feel pity for her? No fucking way! No fucking way!”

  “I know. I know. You have every right to swear like a deranged sailor, sweetie. The world is upside down. It’s been almost a decade of her not caring about anyone but herself.”

  With motherly tenderness, Jane wet a face cloth then wiped Liz’s cheeks and mouth. “I’m sorry she made you sick, Liz.”

  “Everything makes me sick and that’s why I need to get out of town. I thought I could find some peace back in Virginia, but I’m more convinced than ever that this can’t be home any longer; there is no peace or home without Fitzwilliam. Only he mattered!”

  “Is that why you didn’t call me when you got into Washington? You’re done with family?”

  “No!”

  “Well … um … I know you didn’t mean to, but it hurt my feelings, blowing me off like that, even changing your phone number without telling me. I had planned such a great homecoming for you.”

  “I’m so sorry, Janie. I’m not myself these days. I’m—numb.”

  “It’s okay. I really do understand.” She smiled sympathetically. “Can I … um … ask you something else?”

  “I guess,” she huffed but immediately regretted it, not meaning for it to sound so pissy when the snarkiness came out.

  “Had you come to see me at the houseboat, but then decided to get jiggy with Dave?”

  She softly laughed understanding why—at this moment—Jane herself needed levity and she indulged her. The one person Jane had once admired most in this world had returned after abandoning
her. “No! Of course I didn’t sleep with him, but damn if he didn’t look ready.”

  “I told you. That cowboy looks worth the wetness.”

  “It’s strictly platonic, not romantic. And what about you? He’s living with you on the houseboat. Don’t tell me you’re not tempted, even just a little to go all peeping Tom on that little shower.”

  And just like that, a shadow crossed Jane’s smile ending their forced humor. “I’d never cheat on Charlie.”

  Dropping the subject along with the commode lid, Liz sat and rubbed her temple. “I’m so tired. I just don’t have the strength to deal with this. Jane, what the heck are we gonna do about Mom?”

  “I don’t want conflict either. I have enough of it lately, and it’s messing with my mojo. Whatever her motive or excuses, I do think we should hear her out—”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass what she has to say! It’s over. It’s done. I forgave her, and I don’t need to rehash it.” It was much easier to forgive her when I thought she’d never return!

  “Right, but I guess we should just listen to what she has to say, just to say we did. Neither of us have the guts right now to fight the inevitable.”

  “What’s the inevitable?”

  “She’s staying and Dad is happy and we don’t have to like the reason why he’s happy, but he is. He didn’t like Darcy, but your husband made you happy and Dad had no choice but to deal with it.”

  “Two million dollars certainly made Fitzwilliam more likeable and Dad more accepting of our marriage. Besides, Fitzwilliam never broke my heart by disappearing then returning with flowers and some phony English accent after being M.I.A for nine years.”

  “The reality is that it doesn’t matter what we think. All that matters is that she’s here and Dad still loves her and is willing to forgive her for their remaining future together. It’s his life, not ours—right?”

  “He should be taking our side for all we did for him!” Liz argued.

  “We’re talking about Dad—that’s never going to happen. Not like we want anyway. But maybe he’s taking responsibility for running her off and is overjoyed at the opportunity to make it up to her.”