Very idyllic. Very quaint. Norman Rockwell with a tropical twist. Of course, real life was never as simple as one of those paintings.
At the end of The Strip she turned right, heading back into residential neighborhoods. She took another right on Snowy Egret Avenue and then pulled into the third driveway on the left in front of a white, two-story, Key West-style house.
Layla hadn’t even gotten the key out of the ignition when the screen door opened and two older women walked out. The first was tall and angular, with graying hair pulled back in a tight bun on top of her head. A beaming smile was the only softness about Dr. Barbara McCarthy. A step behind was her polar opposite. Shorter by almost half a foot, Grace-Anne Carter retained a gently rounded figure even well into her seventh decade. Her blonde hair – which she refused to admit she colored – flowed to her shoulders in soft waves. Everything about Aunt Grace was soft and welcoming.
Seeing them, the last of Layla’s anxiety vanished. She got out of the car and was almost immediately pulled into Gran’s chest, where Layla was enveloped by the twin scents of scented body spray and mega-powered antiseptic. The first came courtesy of the gift she’d given Gran on her birthday. The second was due to Gran’s never-abandoned habit of continually washing her hands as if she was about to head into surgery.
Layla blinked back tears as her grandmother’s warmth invaded the ice encased around her heart. The protective coating that had kept her from losing it throughout the whole ordeal with Melanie and Julian.
Gran pulled back and framed Layla’s face between her hands. “We’ll make it better,” she said, with such conviction that Layla almost believed her. “I promise.”
Making it better had always been Gran’s promise. Unfortunately, her surgeon’s skills couldn’t repair damage of an emotional nature.
“My turn,” Aunt Grace said, shouldering her sister out of the way. She had to stand on her toes to reach Layla, who’d inherited her grandmother’s impressive height. “If I could find that French boy and string him up by his entrails for you, I would.”
For all of her sweetness and light, Aunt Grace always stood ready to avenge the ones she loved in the most gruesome, horror-movie-death way possible. A tendency that was the result of a naturally dramatic nature coupled with way too many television shows featuring crime scene investigators. “Thanks. I’ll let you know if hanging is ever a possibility.”
She nodded, and then sent Layla a dazzling smile. “Oh, but we’re going to have so much fun. Wait till you see The Paradise. You’ll love it. She’s just weeping to be revived.”
“I’m not sure I want to work in a building that weeps,” Layla said. “In fact, if I start hearing sobs emanating from the walls I’m running the other way as fast as I can. I’ve seen those movies, and they usually end with some poor, terrified family fleeing for their lives.”
Aunt Grace chuckled and kissed Layla’s cheek. “I have missed your way with words.”
“Grace, let her go so we can get her things inside,” Gran said. “We’ve been holding off dinner so we’ll eat as soon as you’ve settled a bit.”
Layla wrestled three suitcases out of the trunk, up the steps to the wrap-around porch, and then individually dragged each one up the narrow staircase to her old room. Gran huffed while Aunt Grace fluttered the entire way, with both insisting they should help. Layla wasn’t about to let one of them break a hip, however.
She might be an unemployed businesswoman, but she’d be a well-dressed one, toting designer clothes.
Her grandmother and great-aunt continued to fuss until Layla told them as gently as possible that she’d be down for dinner in a bit. Aunt Grace opened her mouth to protest, but Gran must have sensed that Layla needed a moment to fall apart.
Gran grabbed her sister’s elbow. “We’ll go set the table.”
Layla heard them grumbling all the way down the stairs, and chuckled to herself. They hadn’t changed a bit. No two females loved each other more or drove each other crazier than Barbara McCarthy and Grace-Anne Carter. No two people had ever loved Layla more. They’d been her saviors her entire life. Her shelter in a storm.
Now they were out to save her again.
She should be past the point where she needed to be bailed out by her elderly relatives. She should be living in her twentieth floor condo overlooking Biscayne Bay, and preparing to roll out a new campaign for a client.
Instead, she was back in her old room, with a few suitcases and her battered pride. She sat down on the twin bed and stared at her new quarters. A battered, furless, stuffed dog lay in a place of honor next to the pillow. Layla picked up the toy and stared at it. Woo-Woo had been with her for as long as she could remember. Woo-Woo held a lot of secrets. He’d been a witness to her every heartbreak growing up and countless tears.
Layla hugged Woo-Woo to her chest and lay down, curling up into a ball.
Then the tears came.
Barbara McCarthy, M.D. had not just broken through glass ceilings. She’d shattered them. In high school she’d ignored the teasing of the boys who were intimidated by a girl who was smarter than them. In college, she’d stared down professors who’d sneered at the thought of a female in pre-med. She’d fought to earn respect from her peers and instructors in medical school. Struggled to even be allowed into an operating room. Worked to be accepted as the first female surgeon in a town still entrenched in the notion that a woman’s only job should be marrying and producing babies.
She’d fought the good fight for women’s rights. Made it possible for girls who were more interested in chemistry than ballet to follow their dreams. She was a trailblazer, an inspiration.
She was also a failure.
The byproduct of her failure lay sleeping a few feet away.
“There were two of you involved in the rift, you know,” a gentle voice said from behind Barbara.
She jerked in surprise. “Grace-Anne, you shouldn’t sneak up on me.”
Her sister chuckled. “If you weren’t so caught up in castigating yourself, you would have heard me. Come on now, before Layla wakes up and sees you hovering over her like the specter of death. You’ll give the poor girl a heart attack.”
Barbara sighed and followed her sister. “How did you know I was thinking about Elizabeth?”
“Because you always get that faraway expression on your face whenever you look at her daughter.”
She stopped, drawing her shoulders back. “Excuse me?”
Grace didn’t even blink. “Don’t poker up at me, Barbara Jean McCarthy,” she said, exhibiting none of her usual flightiness. “I’m not one of your residents, and you can’t intimidate me. I know the guilt you still carry over what happened.”
All the stiffness, the fight, left her in an instant. “I can’t help it.”
Warmth, love, and understanding reflected in the dim light of the hallway as Grace smiled. “As I said, there were two very stubborn women responsible for the rift. Elizabeth was more like you than either of you wanted to admit. You both made choices. Hurtful, life-changing ones, and Layla ended up paying the price.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Barbara said, flinging out the words even though she knew they would strike a painful wound.
Her sister finally flinched. Barbara saw the memories of the three stillborn babies in her sister’s eyes, and shame hit her full force.
“Grace, I’m sorry,” she said.
“No, you’re right.” She shook her head. “I never had children, but I loved Elizabeth, too. I helped you raise Layla. I know what you went through, and I know you’ve been punishing yourself for the last thirty years. All I’m saying is that you weren’t alone. You’ve forgiven Elizabeth. Why can’t you forgive yourself?”
They reached her room, and Barbara kissed her sister’s cheek. “Goodnight Grace.”
She went inside and shut the door. Leaning back against the solid surface, she felt every one of her eighty-three years pressing down on her like a freight train. A train loaded with regr
et and shame.
She walked to her nightstand and reached back to remove her pearl necklace. She looked up at herself in the vanity mirror, but had to shut her eyes to block out the darkness she saw reflected there.
A figure flitted by the open doorway. Barbara paused, the ends of the necklace dangling between her fingers.
“Elizabeth!”
“I’m late for school,” her daughter called out.
She dropped the pearls and hurried out to the hallway. “Don’t walk away from me.”
Elizabeth paused on the bottom step. Her head went to her chest for a moment. When she turned, all traces of weakness were gone. Defiance radiated up the stairs in pulsing waves. An answering shimmer of frustration traveled up Barbara’s spine, especially when she got a good look at her daughter’s clothes.
“Go change,” Barbara said. “Now.”
Elizabeth’s mouth thinned. “Mom, all the girls are wearing stuff like this.”
“All the girls don’t look like—” she stopped, attempting to reign in her temper before she said something horrible.
Her daughter heard the implication anyway. “Like a slut.”
Barbara gasped. “Elizabeth Joy!”
“You won’t say the word, but it’s what you think,” Elizabeth said as she trudged up the stairs.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Barbara didn’t think that. Couldn’t think it. She loved her daughter. It’s just that Elizabeth was so difficult and headstrong. So hard to read and understand. It didn’t help that she had a figure that made men of all ages stop and stare. Or that the girl didn’t know the meaning of the word modesty. She dressed to tease and taunt. Mostly to taunt her mother.
Elizabeth stopped. Barbara’s heart ached to see tears shimmering in her daughter’s eyes. “I know you wish I was smarter and less—” she gestured to her body, and her mouth quirked in a sarcastic grimace. “Just less.”
Why did every conversation have to be like this? How could she command a team in the operating room or deliver a speech in front of a crowd but be unable to speak to her own daughter?
“I don’t.”
Elizabeth tossed her head. “Too bad you got stuck with me, right?”
She was gone. Before Barbara could call her back. Before she could shout that she wouldn’t change anything.
The necklace slipped from Barbara’s fingers, clattering to the wooden floor. The sound was like a shot in the darkness. Heart racing, she scooped up the pearls and dropped them on the nightstand. Hands still shaking, she undressed and slipped into bed. She lay down, but knew sleep would not come easily. It hadn’t for the last thirty years.
Grace had been right. Barbara couldn’t forgive herself. Because she knew everything that had happened all those years ago, all the hardship her granddaughter had faced growing up, had been her fault.
Because while Dr. Barbara McCarthy had been busy becoming an icon, she’d lost the one thing that should have mattered more.
Chapter Two
At sixteen, Layla had gone through a purple phase. Which might explain why it looked like that singing purple dinosaur had thrown up all over her old bedroom. She’d managed to use every shade, too. Plum-colored bedspread, sheets with little lavender flowers, frilly violet dust ruffle, mauve shag throw rug. Even the walls had been given the purple treatment. One had been painted a deep plum, while the others were white with plum-colored stripes.
Her grandmother hadn’t changed a thing since Layla left for college, which was sweet, but unsettling. This room held so many memories. So many secrets. How many nights had she sobbed into the pillow, her heart crying out for an answer as to why her mom hadn’t loved her enough to keep her? Or wept over some stupid boy or the suspicious, often judgmental looks, from other girls?
She threw off her comforter and padded to the window. Puffy white clouds dotted a dazzling blue sky. Chances were the cheerful puffs would gather and transform into angry gray beasts ready to unleash a downpour. Afternoon storms were the hallmark of a Florida summer after all.
Layla shook her head and laughed at herself. She couldn’t even look at the sky without being cynical. Kelly would be so proud to be proven right.
Layla turned from the window and went to her dresser to pick out a fresh T-shirt. Gran had mentioned driving out to The Paradise this morning so she needed to get ready, not audition for the role of Debbie Downer.
As she pulled out the top drawer, something fluttered to the floor. The faces of three girls stared up at her. She bent and picked up the old picture. She let out a soft “oh” of surprise when she recognized the three faces staring back at her. Herself, with Emma Bertram and Callie Williams, her two best childhood friends. They’d taken this the day they’d made The Vow at eight years old.
Layla lit the three candles and placed them in the center of a circle she’d drawn on the floor. She looked up at Emma and Callie and bit back a sigh. Emma was scratching at a scab on her knee and Callie was gazing out the window at the gathering storm, a frown on her face. The wind was starting to howl, and the salty smell of rain floated around the abandoned shed- turned-clubhouse in Layla’s back yard.
Gran was working at the hospital, of course, and the babysitter, Cindy, was so absorbed in her soap opera she wouldn’t notice a bonfire in the backyard. But the show ended soon and then Cindy would remember she was supposed to be watching them and come looking.
“Pay attention,” Layla said, knowing they didn’t have much time.
Callie swiveled her head around, and Emma lowered her knee. “Sorry,” they said.
“What are the candles for again?” Emma asked, twirling a dark blonde curl around her finger.
Layla shrugged. “They always use them in the movies.”
Emma rolled her eyes. “Okay. We gotta hurry. My mom said to be home for dinner. It’s pot roast night.” She rubbed her tummy. “Mmm…”
“Yeah, and I left my mom alone,” Callie said.
“Is she sad again?” Layla asked.
Callie looked away. “She’s always sad.”
Emma slung an arm around Callie’s shoulders. “We could bake her some cookies. That’ll make her feel better.”
Callie shrugged.
Layla’s heart always twisted when she thought about Callie’s mom. She never smiled or laughed. Layla didn’t think cookies would help, either, even if Emma’s mom made the best cookies in the whole world. But at least Emma and Callie had mommies who didn’t disappear forever.
Layla didn’t want to think about that either, so she clapped. “Come on.”
She held out both hands. Emma took one, and Callie grabbed the other. Layla looked down at the book, which she’d snuck out of her grandfather’s study. The book had something to do with myth…myth…made up creatures.
Layla hadn’t understood most of it, but the drawings were cool. She’d even found a whole chapter on spells and chants. There’d been one that was supposed to bind people together for life. Layla had liked that. Maybe a spell would keep everyone from leaving her behind like her mom had.
She looked down and read from the page. “I pledge…” She paused and then glared at the other two. “You’re supposed to repeat after me.”
“Sorry,” the girls murmured. “We pledge…”
Layla nodded and continued. “To be faithful to each other…”
“To be faithful to each other.”
“And be friends forever and ever,” Layla finished.
“Forever and ever.”
Layla looked at the picture again, and a wave of sadness and nostalgia rushed through her.
Friends forever and ever.
Or not.
Callie’s mother died a year after the picture was taken. She and her father moved away within weeks, seeking to escape memories of the awful tragedy. A few years after that, Emma’s parents divorced, and she and her mother left town. The pinky swears of lifelong friendship made in that backyard clubhouse hadn’t survived the distance and the years. She’d
seen Emma occasionally when she came to visit her father, but things hadn’t been the same. Once Emma graduated from high school, her visits had become even more rare. Now, she was working as a chef. Layla wasn’t even sure where. Callie had taken the most unexpected path, as the wife of one the most popular televangelists in the country. Her husband’s church service broadcasted to millions every Sunday.
“Good morning, Layla.”
Layla spun around to find her grandmother standing in the doorway. “Morning Gran.”
Her grandmother came closer. “What did you find?”
Layla held up the picture.
“Emma and Callie,” Gran said with a soft smile. “You were inseparable back then. It’s a shame you three lost touch.”
Layla looked down again at the three innocent faces. “I know.”
“I always said, there’s nothing like the friends who knew you when.”
Layla smiled. “Like you and Aunt Grace?”
“That’s right. We were born sisters, but we became best friends. I don’t know what I would have done without her all these years. Even when she drives me crazy.”
“Like buying a run-down dinner theatre in a fit of nostalgia?”
“Even then,” Gran said, coming over to sit on the bed. She sighed, and her shoulders dropped. Layla noticed a new tightness around her grandmother’s mouth and a gray pallor to her skin that hadn’t been there last night.
“Gran, are you feeling all right?” Layla asked.
She looked up and smiled. “Of course, Baby. I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep very well.”
Layla couldn’t help but think back to Gran’s plea, and her admission that her energy was starting to wane. “We can put off visiting the dinner theatre today. I don’t mind.”
“No, we can’t wait,” Gran snapped out. Then she took a deep breath. “We need to get moving before Grace and I are gone from this earth.”
Layla could have sworn she’d heard panic in her grandmother’s voice. Except Dr. Barbara McCarthy didn’t panic. Ever. “Is there something going on that you’re not telling me?”
Left Turn at Paradise Page 2