False Hope (McKay-Tucker Men Book 2)

by Marianne Rice

Emma’s heart skipped a beat. “How close?”

  “A few hours south. Massachusetts.”

  “Oh,” she said, relieved to hear he wasn’t in the neighborhood or the next town over. That would be a little too close for comfort. “Can we leave in the morning? I don’t work on Saturday. Do you?”

  “I’ll pick you up at eight.” Mason picked up the papers from the printer and walked past her into the hall.

  “Wait! Your therapy. Mason, it’s been over a week. I’ve bailed on you twice this week. You need to regain your shoulder strength. And I’m sure carrying me the other day didn’t help matters.”

  “You didn’t bail. Y-you were in the hospital. Big difference.”

  “Well, yeah, okay. But I really want to do this for you.”

  Mason raised an eyebrow. He looked so serious Emma had to laugh. “Okay, I guess your therapy is as much for me as it is for you. I still feel guilty about tackling you a few weeks ago, but you have to admit, I’m pretty good for a girl.” Emma flexed and fake pumped an imaginary football.

  He smiled. Mason Tucker actually smiled, and hot damn he was adorable when he did. Those dimples pivoted deeper in his cheeks, making his chocolate eyes crinkle, crack, and pop.

  Or maybe it was her heart.

  * * * *

  At precisely eight, Mason pulled into Emma’s short driveway. She expected nothing less than perfect punctuality. That was Mason Tucker. Reliable, dependable, beautiful, and incredibly shy. Emma grabbed her backpack—eventually she would learn to pack light, but for now she packed every snack imaginable and enough diabetes backup supplies to last her a week—and trotted out to Mason’s jeep.

  “I can’t thank you enough, Mason. I don’t think I could do this by myself.”

  In true Mason fashion, he nodded and checked his rearview mirror as he backed out the driveway.

  The two-hour drive down Interstate 93 was quiet, with the exception of country music softly playing from the car’s speakers. She used the quiet time to gather her thoughts and calm her nerves. Her stomach tightened as they crossed the Massachusetts border and Lola, Mason’s GPS, started calling out directions. As she reached out to lower the music, Emma noticed her shaking hand. Unfortunately, Mason noticed too.

  “You should check your blood sugar.” It was more of an order than a suggestion. Emma knew her shakes weren’t from her sugar levels but from another life-changing event which was about to happen.

  Too nervous to argue, she reached to the back seat and grabbed her bag, pulling out her test meter. As expected, her sugar was 120. Perfect. Mason peered over her shoulder to read the meter as well and nodded. She smiled, once again grateful for his support.

  Lola spouted out the final directions until they reached their destination. Mason slowed the car to a stop in front of a large home in an upscale residential area in Beverly, Massachusetts. Most of the homes weren’t too ostentatious, but grand nonetheless. The neighbors showed signs of being family homes. Swing sets in the backyard, bikes parked in the driveway. J.T. Spiller’s house stood out as an immaculate, if not sterile, monstrosity in the neighborhood. The front yard was nicely landscaped, but not overly done. Emma wondered if he had a family. If they knew about her. Did she have half-siblings? A stepmother? There wasn’t much current information on her long-lost dad. He completely fell off the radar map five years ago, the day after he retired.

  Emma let out a deep breath and turned to face Mason. “Ready?”

  “You want me to go in with you?” He regarded her with surprise.

  “Yes! Mason, I can’t go in there alone. Please come with me.”

  Mason nodded, removed the keys from the ignition, and then slowly got out of the car. He walked over to Emma’s side and opened the door for her. Reaching down, he offered her his hand, which she gladly accepted. The warmth and comfort relaxed her. She squeezed and he gently stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. She didn’t let go, not even when they made their way to the front door.

  They both stood, still holding hands, staring at the door, and waiting for the other to make the next move. Taking another deep breath, Emma reached out and rang the doorbell, tightening her death grip on Mason’s fingers. In what seemed like hours but was really only seconds later, a short, plump woman probably in her mid-sixties opened the door. Could she be her grandmother?

  “Hi there.” She smiled. “Can I help you?”

  “Um, yeah,” Emma said. “Um, I was wondering if…um…is James Spiller home?”

  The lady’s smile dropped and she peered speculatively from Emma to Mason. “And you would be?”

  “I just…I need to talk with him.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss…?”

  “Emma. He knows me. Sort of. I really need to talk with him.” But did he? In twenty-eight years he never attempted to make any contact with her. Or maybe her mother hid all the letters from her father, blocked all his calls. Did he think she had rejected him all these years? Or did he even know about her? Was she a secret baby? Would her presence be a total shock to him? When she got back to New Hampshire, she really needed to have a heart-to-heart with her mother. Maybe ignoring her mom’s calls for the past few days was a bad idea. Waves of doubt and fear took over her body and her knees buckled. Thankful for Mason’s support, physically and emotionally, she gripped him tighter and felt him move closer.

  “Tell him Mason Tucker is here to see him,” he said.

  Emma took comfort in his strength, thankful for his calmness. She found it ironic that she started stuttering, and Mason turned into the effective communicator. The lady said she’d be right back and closed the door.

  “Holy crap, Mason. I don’t think I can do this.”

  Mason lifted her chin until she looked into his eyes. “Yes, you can.”

  Three little words, but the power behind Mason’s voice and the sheer confidence that shone in his eyes spread to Emma. She closed her eyes and nodded her head in agreement. A moment later the door opened and an elderly, tall, slender man stood smiling at Mason.

  “Mason Tucker? I can’t believe it.” J.T. opened the door wider and invited them both in with a sweep of his arm.

  He wasn’t what she expected from a former football player. Connor still had his muscle and carried it very well. She expected Spiller to look the same. But his face was gaunt and pale and his body almost emaciated. He supported himself heavily on a cane and led them slowly to the closest space, a formal living room. He seemed decades older than the photos she’d seen of him.

  The inside of his home mirrored the outside. Perfect, elegant, and not overdone. The rooms were spacious and nicely filled with furniture. The house didn’t feel lived in, at least not like there were children around. But could he be her father? She studied the lines on his face. Connor’s slight wrinkles were laugh lines, her mother’s barely visible, but J.T.’s aged him by at least two decades.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure? And who is your—” Spiller cut himself off as he noticed at Emma for the first time. They stared at each other, their blue eyes mirroring each other’s. James started to shake and drew himself down on a leather recliner. His eyes never left hers. “Emma,” he said softly. His eyes glistened, and he wasn’t too ashamed to let a stray tear slip from the corner of his blue eyes.

  Regaining her own composure, Emma cleared her throat and went into interviewer mode. “So, you know who I am. Great. That saves us some time.” She drew a notebook out of her backpack and perched herself on the edge of the leather recliner on the opposite end of the living room. “I only have a few questions for you, and then I’ll be out of your way. I know your brother has Type 1 Diabetes. Does anyone else in your family have it as well?” She watched the shock flash across his face.

  “No, just my brother,” he said in a hushed tone. Spiller eyed her speculatively and asked, “Why the interview? Why now?”

  “I want to know my birth family’s medical history to keep me abreast of anything I may need to watch for in the future. It will also be i
mportant for my children to know.”

  “You have children?” James smiled and looked from Emma to Mason, who stood behind her.

  “Me? Him?” She shook her head. “No, we’re not…well, he’s not…No.” Eager to change the subject she asked, “Is there any sign of cancer in your family? Breast, cervical, lung, stomach—” She stopped when she saw his jaw drop and his face became more ashen, if that was even possible.

  “Can I ask you a question?” He spoke softly.

  Emma nodded.

  “Why are you coming now? Are you okay?”

  “My medical history is none of your concern.” Emma sat up straighter, refusing to let herself get personal with J.T. Spiller.

  “That’s fair.” He sounded resounded. “My mother is as healthy as they come. My father too, but he has had two hip replacements. But I’m pretty sure it’s not hereditary. My brother, as I take it you know, has diabetes. I have…” James closed his eyes and lowered his head. “I have…amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. ALS.”

  Spiller’s head hung low, his elbows resting on his legs, barely able to support his upper body. Emma let out the breath she didn’t realize she held. That would explain his sickly appearance. She wanted to know more but wasn’t sure how to ask.

  “Lou Gehrig’s disease. Hey, at least it’s a manly disease,” he joked and then started coughing. It didn’t stop but worsened. Emma sat frozen. Mason moved from behind her and approached J.T. at the same time the woman who answered the door came into the room. The woman smacked J.T. on the back a few times and handed him a glass of water.

  “Emma,” he croaked after finishing his drink. “I’m so sorry about…your mother. I was a troubled, arrogant teen. The rape…”

  Emma gasped.

  “I hope she has had time to heal from it. I’m a changed man. I only hope she’s had time to forgive me.” He coughed. “That you can forgive me.” As he coughed and nearly choked, the woman banged harshly on his back.

  “Mr. Spiller, you need to rest. You really shouldn’t have gotten up.”

  He nodded and allowed the woman to escort him from the room the way a mother leads her child to bed. Emma and Mason stood speechless in the room. Thoughts swirled around so fast in her brain making a cyclone of questions and emotions. Rape?

  “He’s resting now.” The woman came back, a sweet, sad smile on her face. “I’m Nancy, Mr. Spiller’s caregiver. I’m sorry for being rude earlier, but Mr. Spiller likes his privacy. I didn’t recognize you at first.”

  “Recognize? How would you know me?” Emma’s mind whirled in a confused mess of pity, rage and shock.

  Nancy smiled. “Come here, sweet child.” She led Emma and Mason through the kitchen and down the hall to an elegant study. An old-fashioned, oversized cherry desk filled one corner of the room while shelves full of trophies and pictures filled the other side. Nancy withdrew three albums from a shelf and laid them on the coffee table in front of two black, leather chairs. “Take your time,” she said as she left, quietly closing the door behind her.

  Emma turned to Mason, who seemed as confused as her. She sat down and opened the first album not wanting to know about the man who raped her mother yet needing to dig deeper into the mystery. It had newspaper clippings from over twenty years ago. She skimmed through them as they were mostly about the rising football star. Confused as to why Nancy would want to show her the clippings, wondering if the intent was to make her forgive him, she passed the album to Mason and opened the second.

  “Holy crap.”

  “What?”

  There were pages of newspaper articles. Meg Fulton reforms inner city school. Boston school saddened by Principal Fulton’s resignation. The articles followed her mother’s career and highlighted the lows and highs of it. None of the articles and pictures seemed genuine like they were cut from a newspaper but were downloaded articles and archives from the Internet.

  And then there was Emma. Countless articles covering her sporting events in high school filled dozens of pages. Pictures, write-ups, stats, and scores from her field hockey and lacrosse team. He had articles in the album she never knew were written. James Spiller had done his research.

  On the last page in the album was her senior year photo mentioning her as well as the other top 10 percent from her class. If Emma was the crying type, she would have shed a tear or two, but she wasn’t. She and Mason sat in silence as they read through Emma’s life.

  “We have to get out of here.” Emma stood up and yanked the door open, not checking behind her but knowing Mason would be close at her heels. She didn’t address Nancy, who stood in the kitchen making lunch, but walked right through the house to the front door. She heard Mason behind her thanking Nancy—always using manners for other people but had no problem being rude to her—and he quickly caught up to open the car door for her.

  “Drive. Just get out of here. Now!” Emma closed her eyes, willing her tears to stay at bay.

  Ten minutes later, the car stopped. Emma had yet to open her eyes, but when Mason opened her door she felt the cool air on her face and heard soft waves crashing in the distance. She looked up and saw they were at a beach. How did he know exactly what she needed?

  Mason grabbed her hand and reached around her for her backpack—always the Boy Scout—and led her to an uninhabited section of the beach. He pulled her down next to him in the sand and stared out at the ocean. Emma’s mind should have been racing with thoughts, but it was veiled with a black cloud.

  Hours could have passed as they sat in perfect silence. Each alone with their thoughts. Emma knew if she had come to Massachusetts with anyone else they would be analyzing the situation, asking her how she felt, telling her what to think or do. But Mason was perfect. She leaned her head against his shoulder and he wrapped his arm around her. They didn’t move for a long time, not until the tears stopped.

  He didn’t console. He didn’t tell her everything would be okay. He sat quietly with his arm around her waist. He was her support, her life-line. Her rock.

  Chapter 5

  It had been two days since Emma cried. Two days since she met her birth father. Two days since her life changed. Again.

  Thankfully her mother respected her wish to be left alone, but the guilt from shutting out her family and friends started to eat at her. After her last client left, Emma stared at the pile of mail and messages in her inbox and then shifted her attention to her computer screen.

  Her fingers moved across the keyboard at a rate faster than her mind could process. Before she registered what she was doing, Google listed 416,000 websites for Lou Gehrig disease. Emma pulled her hands away from the laptop, confused by the churning emotions in her gut. She didn’t care about the man who ruined her mother’s life. Who passed down a terrible hereditary disease to her. Who stripped her mother of her childhood and now took Emma’s health. But he had scrapbooks of her, and he was dying, and Emma had never been a heartless person. Could she hate someone who only had months, maybe years, to live? Do I really care?

  She researched for medical reasons. It was vital for her to know if she had a deadly disease in her genes. Wasn’t that why she made the trip to meet him? She didn’t care if the man died. He was a stranger to her. A stranger who raped her mother.

  Yes, yes she did care. Not necessarily about J.T. Spiller the football player but about James Spiller, the man who shared her DNA. She cared about her family, the ones who mattered. And cared about her future. Which meant doing a little investigative research.

  She had a simple life. Her mother didn’t. Raising an infant at the age of sixteen had paid its toll on her mother, but Emma was none the worse for it. She grew up oblivious to the struggles her mother faced day in and day out. Emma had a wonderful childhood: nice friends, great schooling, active in competitive sports programs—even though her mother tried to keep her away from them—she never lacked for male or female companionship. She worked out and had been blessed with a nice physique and decent looks. Maybe this was God’s punishmen
t for having it too easy? But seriously, how much could a person take? She’d always been mentally, physically, and emotionally strong, but the last blow—finding out her she was the result of a rape—had knocked her on her ass.

  Muttering a curse, Emma clicked on a link and skimmed. Symptoms include stiffness and increasing muscle weakness, especially involving the hands and feet…The disease eventually affects speech, swallowing, and breathing…The average expected survival time for those suffering from ALS is three to five years…Patients do not have a family history of the disease, and their family members are not considered to be at increased risk for developing Lou Gehrig's disease.

  Emma should have felt relieved the chances of her inheriting this terrible disease were no greater than anyone else’s, but the news didn’t relieve the sinking feeling in her heart. And Emma didn’t do depressed.

  Knowing what she had to do, what she needed to do, Emma logged off her computer, picked up her bag and keys, and drove to her mama.

  * * * *

  “Baby, sweet baby girl.” Meg held her daughter tight and gently swayed their bodies in a soothing motion while stroking her back. “It’s okay to cry, honey. Don’t hold back for my sake.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I was so cruel to you in the hospital. Had I known—”

  “Hush, this has been a huge shock for you.” Meg pulled her daughter in closer and let her own tears fall. The guilt over not telling Emma about her birth father washed over her, making her feel like the worst mother in the world.

  Emma pulled away and rubbed her hands across her face. “I’m okay, Mom. Really. I got it all out the other day. Cried me a river.” She smiled. “You would have been proud. Sobbed like a little baby girl,” she teased.

  Meg worried about her daughter’s cheerful disposition. Emma had always been in control of her emotions, and nine times out of ten—actually more like ten times out of ten—Emma was the cheerleader. She had a temper she didn’t hide, a laugh she loved to share, but she didn’t like to cry, even when she was little. Meg knew it was because Emma didn’t want to appear weak. A trait she unfortunately inherited from her mother.