“No more sorrys. From this point forward, no regrets. That’s the way I live.”
“No regrets,” he said.
It wasn’t until she hung up that she finally breathed, finally smiled. Phase one of the new plan was complete. Time now for phase two.
Chapter Twenty-three
VANESSA
Vanessa turned on the ignition, then sat back and closed her eyes. It had been a battle of her heart and mind. For the last three hours she’d strolled the Pacific shore, believing that the ocean was as close as you could get to God in nature.
She’d made her way from Venice to Santa Monica and then back a few times, walking the miles, never tiring, just needing an answer to her prayer: “Please take me away from this, Lord. I don’t want to hurt anymore.”
But today God hadn’t answered. All she’d heard was the sea’s song as the surf caressed her bare feet.
She backed her car away from the beach parking lot and maneuvered through the streets toward home. It had been almost two weeks since Reed’s funeral, but she felt as if she hadn’t moved beyond that day. She was stuck and couldn’t find a way out.
With a sigh, Vanessa turned her car onto her street and then slowed as she approached her house. A Camry sat in her driveway—it made her smile. It had been three days since she’d heard from Louise and she needed her friend. But as she came closer, she realized that it wasn’t Louise’s car, and now she frowned. She’d barely stopped before she jumped out, her anger rising.
The scent of a home-cooked meal wrapped its arm around her and her empty stomach rumbled. “Mother!”
“Vanessa, I didn’t expect you home so early.” She heard Wanda’s southern drawl before she saw her. Moments later, her mother emerged from the kitchen donned in an apron with GOD COULDN’T BE EVERYWHERE, SO HE MADE MOTHERS printed on the front.
Those words made Vanessa pause. Made her wonder—since she hadn’t heard from God, maybe she could discuss her situation with Wanda. But she hurled that thought away a second after it came to her mind. Didn’t think her mother would take well to the news that she wanted to join Reed. “Mother, what are you doing here?” Vanessa threw her purse onto the couch, returning her focus to her irritation.
Wanda frowned at her daughter’s tone. “I came by to see how you were doing since you haven’t returned a single call. It’s been almost two weeks since I’ve seen you. What did you expect me to do?” Her eyes took in her daughter’s jeans and sweatshirt. “Did you wear that to work?”
“I haven’t gone back to work yet, but the real question is, how did you get in?”
The lines in Wanda’s forehead deepened. “I used the key you gave me.”
“That key was for emergencies, Mother.”
“I can’t think of a bigger emergency than taking care of my daughter because her husband…” Wanda paused, sniffed, wiped the corner of her eye with the tip of her apron.
Vanessa pushed down her scream. “Mother, please! I can’t handle you and your grief anymore.”
Wanda’s head reared back, her tears gone. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I need some time alone.”
“You’ve had plenty of time alone.”
“I need more.”
“No, you don’t.”
With her hands flailing through the air, Vanessa asked, “How are you going to tell me what I need?”
“Because I’ve been in your place, Vanessa.” Her words were wrapped in patience. “I know how tough it is to lose the man you love and you shouldn’t have to do it alone.”
“I want to do it alone.”
“Why?” Wanda whined.
“Why do I have to stand in my own home and defend myself? Why can’t my mother just leave me alone?”
“Because I am your mother and I’m worried about you.”
“I don’t want you to worry. But I want you to give me some room.” She paused. “Mother, sometimes you hold on so tight that I can’t breathe.” She softened as she watched Wanda’s face crumble into sorrow. “I know you want the best for me, but let me decide what that best is.”
Wanda’s bottom lip trembled.
“I’m fine, Mother. Really, I’m getting stronger every day.”
“Is that why you won’t answer your phone or return my calls?”
“This is just my way. Mother, I’m forty-two years old. Let me do this my way.”
“Well”—Wanda wiped her hands on the apron—“I started dinner, so I have to finish.”
“No. You don’t.”
Wanda’s eyes flashed with surprise. “I have sweet potatoes in the oven,” she argued, “and the green beans are already cooking. I was just about to put the trout in.”
Vanessa’s stomach rumbled again. “I’ll take care of it; I’m not hungry anyway.”
“When was the last time you ate?”
“A little while ago.”
“I didn’t see anything in the refrigerator but water and—”
She held up her hand. “Mother, I’ll take care of it. I just want you to go.”
“But I was going to join you for dinner.” Wanda’s eyes filled again. “I know how hard it is to eat alone…to be alone.” She sniffed.
Vanessa took a deep breath. It was taking all that she had to fight the thoughts that came to her. It was taking everything inside not to take those pills like her mind told her to do. But if she spent one hour with her mother, she had no doubt that by the end of the night, she’d be swallowing every pill in sight.
Wanda continued, “Why are you being so difficult? It’s bordering on…meanness.”
“I just…” Vanessa paused, closed her eyes, held her aching head in her hands.
“Vanessa, what’s wrong?”
She waited for a moment. “Nothing. I just need to rest.” Softly, she added, “So, could you please…?”
Wanda narrowed her eyes, and then with a quick nod, she turned.
Vanessa sank onto the couch and listened as her mother banged pots and pans and whatever else she could find. Minutes later, she stomped from the kitchen with her purse dangling in the crook of her elbow.
“I am only trying to help. I am only being your mother.”
“And you do a fabulous job of being my mother. But for now, if you can back away and just be my friend.”
Wanda peered at her daughter as if she were trying to figure out those words. Finally, she leaned over and pressed soft lips against Vanessa’s cheek.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said as she opened the door. Then she peered back and added, “Make sure you answer the phone!”
Chapter Twenty-four
KENDALL
Kendall stuffed résumés that she needed to review into her briefcase and then shrugged her purse strap onto her shoulder. The ringing telephone interrupted her stride toward the door, but only for a moment. Her focus was on getting to the church so that she could be out of that prayer meeting in an hour.
The phone had stopped ringing when she stepped from her office, but before she could lock the door, the telephone rang again and she grabbed it at her assistant’s desk.
“Kendall!” At first it sounded like he was calling to berate her for missing their regular dinner this past Tuesday. “Kendall, are you there?” But then she heard the anguish in his shout.
She clutched the phone tighter. “Daddy, what’s wrong?”
“Your sister. I’m at Cedar Sinai. Sabrina’s been rushed to the hospital.”
Kendall rested her hand against her chest. Questions rose from inside, but she stopped them, remembered her pact: no connections—especially not with her past. “Why are you calling me?”
“I tell you your sister’s in the hospital and that’s what you say to me?”
She closed her eyes. Saw Sabrina falling, screaming. “What do you want me to do.”
“Get your butt down here.”
She slumped into the chair. Pushed back the memories of her sister; remembered only the harlot. “I can’
t do that.” With her eyes closed, she clutched her fists and waited for his wrath.
A pause, and then, “I’d never thought I’d see the day when I’d be ashamed of one of my daughters,” Edwin said.
Her eyes popped open. “Well, I know it’s not the first time. I’m sure you shed a tear or two when you found out that your daughter slept with my husband.”
Her father’s sigh was loud. “Kendall, how long are you going to hold on to this?”
“For the rest of my life. Sabrina and Anthony sentenced me with a lifetime of that memory.”
“No, you’ve sentenced yourself.”
“Daddy, I don’t want to go over this anymore.”
“Baby girl,” he said softly, “this is not what I want either. What I want is for you to come down here and find out what’s wrong with your sister.”
She swallowed. “I can’t; I have a meeting.”
“A meeting that is more important than your sister?”
Again the questions started their rise, but she pushed back her concern. “I’m going to a prayer meeting.”
“Good, you need to pray.”
She raised her chin. “You expect me to pray for Sabrina?”
“I expect you to pray for yourself. Every word you say to God needs to be about asking Him to cleanse your heart.”
Kendall heard a crackle of air and then nothing, the connection broken. In shock, she stared at the receiver.
Kendall closed her eyes, tried to press his words, her questions away. Sabrina being sick wasn’t any of her concern. Knowing her sister, it was just a cold. A cry for attention. But whatever it was, it didn’t matter to her. Sabrina could be dying, and she wouldn’t care.
“She’s the enemy,” Kendall whispered as she gathered her purse and briefcase and then marched to the door. She had to get to church.
Chapter Twenty-five
SHERIDAN
Sheridan wanted to stop the video—the one that played mercilessly in her mind. The one that starred Vanessa, Kendall, and Asia. The one that showed her over and over that she was not the one to lead this group. Somehow, she’d have to convince Pastor Ford of that.
With a sigh, Sheridan slid from her car. She was surprised that the entire first level of her house was dark; she’d expected her home to be bright with lights, the sign that Tori and Lara were gallivanting throughout, enjoying the privilege of a no-school-tomorrow night since the teachers had a planning day. When Tori had asked if her best friend could stay over, Sheridan had readily agreed. She hoped the senseless chatter and endless giggles of the thirteen-year-olds would take her mind away from not only the prayer meetings but also from Brock, whom she hadn’t heard from in three days.
The moment she inserted her key, her stomach rumbled. She paused, waited for the feeling to pass. She hated that sensation—hadn’t had it in a while. Not since the morning that her father died. She closed her eyes; pushed those thoughts away. Nothing bad was going to happen.
She stepped into the house, clicked on the light, and gasped. She stood still, the sight rendering her frozen.
Her daughter—on the edge of the couch. Next to her best friend, Lara. Holding hands. Lips locked in a kiss. Tongues exploring. So engrossed that they hadn’t heard her, hadn’t felt her.
“Tori!” Sheridan didn’t recognize her own scream.
The girls jumped apart.
“Mom. What’re you doing here?”
She didn’t think it was possible, but her eyes widened more. “What am I doing here?”
“Yeah.” Tori shrugged and wiped her lips. “I thought you had a meeting at church.”
“And so, because I had a meeting, that’s why you…” Sheridan didn’t finish. Couldn’t. Her eyes bounced between Tori and Lara.
Her daughter’s friend sat primly proper, on the edge of the couch. Hands folded, head bowed in shame.
But not Tori. With a shrug of her shoulders, she leaned back, said, “Mom, don’t get excited. Lara and I…we were just…” She stopped as if those words were explanation enough.
The flashback came like a sucker punch. Three years ago, she’d walked into the same house, same room, same scene. Almost. Last time, it was her sixteen-year-old son humping his half-naked girlfriend. She would have never believed then how normal that scenario would seem to her one day.
Sheridan couldn’t take her eyes off the girls. “Lara, get your things. I’m taking you home.”
The girls jumped from the couch together. Lara scurried away, while Tori waved her hands in protest. “Mom, Lara’s supposed to spend the night.”
“Like that’s going to happen now.”
“Why not?”
“Ask me that question again.”
“We were only—”
“I saw what you were only doing.” Sheridan stopped. Is Tori gay? she wondered. Oh, God. “I’ll talk to you when I get back.”
Tori flopped onto the couch. Folded her arms, pouted, shifted her eyes away from her mother—Sheridan’s punishment.
Lara waited at the front door, her overnight bag in one hand, her eyes still down.
Sheridan’s heart hammered as she marched to the car and tried to move faster than the thoughts in her head. But she couldn’t outrun her mind.
Is Tori gay?
Inside the car, Sheridan commanded, “Put on your seat belt,” and then she didn’t say another word. She ignored Lara’s gasp when she screeched out of the driveway, sped down the streets, and swerved around the corners. Sheridan didn’t say a word. Couldn’t, because her mind took her places she didn’t want to go.
First her husband. Now her daughter.
Did Quentin do this to Tori? Pass it on in her DNA?
She searched inside for a scripture. Something that she could pray now, to ensure that Tori was more like her mother than her father. But her mind’s eye wouldn’t release the picture—Tori and Lara. Kissing.
Is Tori gay? was all she could think.
The normally ten-minute ride took barely five minutes when Sheridan brought her SUV to a halt in front of the Nelsons’ house.
Lara hobbled out of the car as if she was stepping off a roller coaster. Then with tear-filled eyes, she spoke her first words. “Mrs. Hart, please don’t tell my mother.” Her voice trembled with shame.
Sheridan said nothing. Just stomped toward the house. But before she knocked, her senses returned. What if the Nelsons weren’t home?
Please, God, she prayed. She didn’t know what she would do if she had to take Lara back with her.
“Sheridan,” Irma Nelson exclaimed when she opened the door. Then she turned to her daughter, and her questions became etched in her face.
“Mommy!” Lara wrapped her arms around her mother.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” she asked, although her eyes were on Sheridan.
“Irma, do you have a minute to talk?” Sheridan asked.
“Sure.” The moment Lara stepped inside, she rushed up the steps out of sight. “What happened?” Irma asked as she closed the door. “Wait.” She chuckled. “Don’t tell me. Lara and Tori. They got into something, huh?”
Into something.
Irma continued, “A fight. And so Lara wanted to come home.” She shook her head. “Those girls are as close as sisters. In fifteen minutes, she’ll be begging me to take her back to your house.”
“It’s a bit more serious than that.” Sheridan followed Irma into the living room and sat across from her. “It was the strangest thing. I came home and found Tori and Lara…” The sight ambushed her once again, but this time her mind replaced the girls. Now the two with lips interlocked were her husband and Jett Jennings, the man who’d taken Quentin away from his family. She shivered. “I found Tori and Lara…kissing.”
Irma frowned. Said, “Kissing?” as if she’d never heard the word before.
Sheridan nodded and watched Irma’s face change from confusion to understanding, from shock to horror. Her eyes widened. “Kissing!” The word no longer foreign. “What were they d
oing kissing?”
“I don’t know. I just thought it best that I bring Lara home.”
Irma nodded, her expression pensive as if her mind were still evaluating. Then, as if a million understanding thoughts converged in her mind, Irma jumped up. Glared at Sheridan. “Well, thank you so much for bringing Lara home,” she said, her tone formal now.
Sheridan followed Irma’s stiff gait to the front door. “I’m sure this was nothing,” Sheridan said, suddenly sorry that she hadn’t calmed down, thought this through.
Irma stopped moving. Turned. With thin eyes, she said, “Sheridan, we both know this was more than nothing. It’s obvious.”
“What’s obvious?”
“Your daughter. Your husband. Obvious.” It sounded like Morse code, but Sheridan got the message. Irma opened the door and gave Sheridan parting words, “I don’t want Lara anywhere near Tori.” Sheridan’s piercing stare made Irma amend her statement. “I think it best if Tori and Lara stay away from each other…for a while.”
“Irma, I’m sure it’s not that serious,” she said, now speaking with the sense she wished she’d had when she first saw the girls. “If we both talk to them—”
Irma held up her hand. “I’ll talk to Lara. But she’ll have to find a new best friend.” She paused. “I’m sorry,” were the last words she spoke before she closed the door on Sheridan’s world.
Sheridan stood waiting for Irma to open the door. Apologize for her severe overreaction. But moments later, it was clear that the words Irma Nelson had spoken were the ones she meant.
Oh, God, Sheridan thought as she rushed back to her car. What have I done to my daughter?
Tori lay on her stomach, across her bed, her chin resting on her hands, her ears covered by headphones.
As Sheridan watched, she repeated the prayer she’d been saying since Irma Nelson had slammed the door on her and Tori.
Finally, Sheridan tapped her daughter’s shoulder. Tori clicked off her MP3 player, then scooted away from her mother. With her arms crossed, she scowled.
“You look like you’re mad at me.” Sheridan sat on the edge of the bed.
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