Woman in Blue Page 14

  “That bad, huh?”

  Lindsay shrugged. “She wasn’t entirely to blame, I suppose. She had me when she was young-just seventeen. Also, I don’t think she was cut out to be a mom. She wasn’t what you’d call hands-on. She worked nights and slept during the day, so I pretty much raised myself. Then when my sister was born, I was stuck raising her, too.” She hastened to add, “Don’t get me wrong, I love my sister, but—” She broke off, thinking the past had come full circle in some ways.

  “Sounds like you had a lot on your shoulders.”

  “It wasn’t easy,” she admitted.

  “So what happened?”

  “When I was twelve Crystal went to prison for dealing drugs. My sister and I went into foster care.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, as if she were speaking about people and events unrelated to her. The years of loneliness and neglect had taught her to distance herself from those emotions.

  Randall was just the opposite. His face was like a seismograph charting his every mood, and right now it showed deep empathy. “That must have been hard on you and your sister.”

  “More for Kerrie Ann than for me. I was placed with a couple who ended up adopting me. My sister wasn’t so lucky. She was only three at the time, so the only life she’s known was being bounced from one foster home to the next. I even lost touch with her for a while—years.”

  “But she’s back in the picture now?”

  Lindsay nodded, taking a sip of wine. “Here’s the strange part—I’d spent half my life searching for her, and then a couple of weeks ago, she just showed up out of the blue. I hadn’t seen her since she was this high.” She held her hand out level with the table. “It was quite a shock.”

  Randall gave a low whistle. “I’ll bet. Must’ve been some reunion.”

  “It was. Though not like in movies, where everybody hugs and then it fades to black.” So many conflicting emotions had been stirred up by her sister’s unexpected arrival. “I’m happy she’s back in my life, of course, but it hasn’t exactly been smooth sailing. It isn’t just that we’re at opposite ends of the spectrum in terms of how we were raised—we’re very different.”

  “How so?”

  She hesitated, not sure how to put it without portraying her sister unfavorably—she didn’t want him to get the wrong impression. “Well, for one thing, Kerrie Ann’s not much of a reader. I can’t imagine my life without books, and my sister doesn’t even know who Dostoyevsky is. Also, I have a long fuse, while she … well, rub her the wrong way and she goes off like a Roman candle.” She paused to reflect, fingering the stem of her wineglass as she gazed off into space. “I know she hasn’t had an easy time of it, so I try to be understanding even though I’m not always that patient with her. I keep reminding myself that she hasn’t had all the advantages I’ve had.”

  “I’m sure it’ll get easier with time,” he said.

  “If we don’t kill each other first,” Lindsay replied with a dry laugh, explaining, “Kerrie Ann’s staying with me and Miss Honi for the time being, until she gets her own place.”

  His eyes crinkled in a wry smile. “And who, may I ask, is Miss Honi?”

  “You met her—the older lady at the register? I guess you could call her my adopted godmother. She was our neighbor when I was growing up, and she used to keep an eye on us when Crystal was at work. Anyway, she’s the only family I have left. Except Kerrie Ann, of course. I just wish it were as easy with my sister. So far we seem to spend more time bumping heads than bonding.”

  Randall nodded in sympathy. “My brother and I are like that, and we grew up under the same roof. He’s a Republican, I’m a Democrat. He’s a churchgoer, and I’m a lapsed Catholic. But even though we don’t always see eye to eye, it doesn’t mean we don’t care about each other.”

  Lindsay set her glass down, realizing she was ever so slightly tipsy. Tipsy enough, at least, to be able to look Randall in the eye without losing her train of thought. She regarded him for a long moment, liking what she saw. “Thank you,” she said. “It’s nice to talk to someone who understands. And who doesn’t think I’m a terrible person for occasionally wanting to strangle my sister.”

  “That doesn’t make you a terrible person. Just human.”

  He smiled and reached across the table to take her hand, giving it a squeeze. It might have been nothing more than a friendly gesture except that his fingers remained lightly curled about hers. There was no denying it now. They’d crossed the line from business into a place she had no business being. She felt a slow heat building in her and could see from the way he was looking at her that business was the last thing on his mind as well.

  What am I getting into here? I have a boyfriend. Reluctantly she withdrew her hand from Randall’s and sat back. “It doesn’t help, of course, that she showed up needing a place to stay when I’m about to be homeless myself—that is, if the powers that be have their way.” Lindsay told him about her predicament, careful to keep it brief lest she spoil the pleasant mood.

  Randall listened intently, his expression darkening as she spoke. Clearly he had a soft spot for the underdog. “How much do you know about this Lloyd Heywood?” he asked.

  “Not much outside what you can find out by Googling his name,” she said. “Except that he’s a bastard—and a charming one at that.”

  “The worst kind,” he muttered, his expression darkening further.

  “You can say that again,” she said, recalling Heywood’s cunning attempt to lure her into his web. “But how do you defend yourself against a man like that? He’s the one holding most of the cards. And he has deep pockets. He’ll put me in the poorhouse if he doesn’t first succeed in driving me out of my home.”

  Randall lapsed into a brooding silence, and she wondered if he was thinking about a similar experience of his own. Something that might explain why he’d left Wall Street at the peak of his earning years for the uncertain fate of a first-time novelist—perhaps a venture with someone unscrupulous in which he’d gotten burned? But before she could ask, their waiter appeared to clear away their plates. By the time coffee and dessert-slices of Paolo’s delectable torta di nonna—arrived, they’d moved on to other topics. He told her more about his mother, who, in addition to having suffered several strokes, was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. He confided how difficult it was watching the bright, articulate woman he’d known slip away by degrees. She spoke with emotion about what it had been like losing Ted and Arlene.

  When the check came, Randall paid the bill, then came around to take her arm as she rose to her feet. Just then they could have been any couple heading home after an evening out. She felt herself warm at his closeness and took note of the envious looks from several female diners, who no doubt thought them romantically linked and perhaps wished they could be as lucky in love. At the door, Randall paused to shake the hand of the portly, middle-aged Paolo. “The last time I had Italian food that good was at my nonna’s table in Montepulciano,” he complimented the chef-owner, whose passion for his cooking was evidenced in the liberally stained chef’s whites that strained at his ample belly, adding in fluent Italian, “Dal cuore mangiate l’alimento migliore.”

  The older man beamed at him, exclaiming, “Esattamente!”

  “What did you say to him?” Lindsay asked when they were outside.

  “Roughly translated, it means ‘From the heart comes the best food.’”

  “I didn’t know you spoke Italian.” She was impressed. Languages weren’t her strong suit.

  “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me,” he said, offering her his arm as they set off along the sidewalk. He spoke in a companionable tone, but she couldn’t help noticing the preoccupied look he wore.

  Randall had offered to drive her home, and she was in no shape to refuse. Even if she hadn’t given Kerrie Ann the keys to her car, she was too tipsy to be trusted behind the wheel. It wasn’t just from the wine, she thought, holding on to his arm as they made their way to where his car was parked.
It was also the nearness to Randall. She felt as she used to with the boys in school on whom she’d had crushes. A feeling she hadn’t had in a very long time.

  When they arrived at her house, Randall cut the engine instead of letting it idle. Nothing is going to happen, Lindsay told herself. Nothing could happen while they sat parked not more than a dozen feet from the house, light streaming from the windows and her dog barking excitedly. But she experienced a little thrill nonetheless. It felt like her high school years, coming home from a date with a boy she liked, knowing the evening wouldn’t end without a kiss. “I had a nice time tonight,” she told him. “Thank you again for dinner … and for the book.” Tame words compared to what she was feeling.

  “My pleasure. I hope we can do it again sometime.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “In the meantime, good luck with everything.”

  The relaxed mood at the restaurant had given way to self-consciousness on his part as well. She sensed him holding back. Maybe because of the earlier reference she’d made to her boyfriend. Was he merely being respectful of that? Or was he involved with someone as well? He hadn’t mentioned a girlfriend, and there was nothing in his bio about a wife, which meant he was either unattached or purposely keeping her in the dark. If it was the latter, it would mean he had designs on her and was only biding his time before he made his move. She felt a trickle of furtive pleasure at the thought.

  And what of her own motives? Wasn’t she supposed to be in love with Grant? What would he think if he could see her now?

  She lingered a moment longer until she was at risk of appearing obvious before saying, “Well … good night.” She leaned in to kiss Randall on the cheek and somehow connected with his mouth instead. The kiss was light, a fleeting sensation of lips brushing over hers, his warm breath tasting faintly of licorice from the anisette he’d had with dessert. But it might as well have been a passionate embrace. She felt a bolt shoot straight down through the pit of her stomach, and if she’d been standing, her knees would have buckled.

  She was trembling when they drew apart.

  Randall clearly wasn’t unaffected, either. “Good night, then.” His voice was low and husky, and his eyes searched her face.

  Even after they’d parted, she lingered for a moment or two on her doorstep, shivering in her light jacket, listening to the sound of his engine receding into the distance.

  Randall Craig had forgotten how dark it could get in these remote areas, where there were no streetlights or lighted storefronts to guide the way. There was only the glare of his headlights as he bumped over the dirt road in his Audi convertible, his hands clenched tightly about the wheel and his eyes staring straight ahead while he replayed the evening in his mind.

  You should have told her, he berated himself.

  He’d wanted to come clean, and a few times over the course of the evening he almost had. But they had been having such a nice time, it had seemed a shame to spoil it. Then at some point the realization had kicked in that it wasn’t just the evening he didn’t want to spoil.

  Nothing about this day, in fact, was going according to plan. He hadn’t intended to ask her out when he’d stopped to see her at her store. But chatting with her, he’d felt an instant connection that had taken him by surprise. She wasn’t the type of woman he was normally attracted to, with her understated prettiness and what seemed an almost purposeful attempt to downplay her looks. Yet there was something about her that had made him want to get to know her better. A feeling that had only deepened over the course of the evening. He’d quickly discovered that Lindsay Bishop, aside from being smart and well read, possessed a unique talent: She listened. Not like the women he’d dated in the past—the polite show of someone busy formulating a response that would showcase her in some way, demonstrate how sensitive and caring she was. Lindsay listened in the deeply attentive way of someone taking in every word, those big, solemn eyes of hers fixed on him all the while as if he were the only person in the room.

  Like when he’d been telling her about his mom. Any discussion of Alzheimer’s, he’d found, generally had people squirming in discomfort and rushing to change the subject. But she’d seemed not the least bit uncomfortable with the topic, her quiet focus acting on him like a sedative, calming the anxiety he felt at knowing the worst was yet to come. Nor had she stepped in with platitudes or attempted to relate to what he was going through by dredging up some tale about a friend of a friend’s cousin who was in similar straits. She’d waited until he was finished before saying gently, “It’s hard to watch a parent go. Believe me, I know. At times it’s all you can think about—the fact that they aren’t going to be around much longer. But it helps to remember the good times, too. Once you get into the habit of it, you start seeing them for who they really are, not just as an old, sick person you’re terrified of losing.” It was the best piece of advice he’d gotten so far—the only advice that hadn’t made him want to chuck some well-meaning but totally misguided person out a window.

  With her he hadn’t just been Randall Craig, Wall Street wunderkind turned best-selling author, but son of Barbara Craig and repository of worries as well as story ideas. Maybe because she’d known tragedy of her own. He thought of the old expression Still waters run deep. Lindsay Bishop was the stillest person he’d ever met.

  Not that the evening had been a somber one, by any means. They’d laughed over some shared observation just as often as commiserated over some tale of woe. They’d discovered that they had a number of favorite authors in common, even obscure ones most people wouldn’t have heard of. She’d told him about her adopted mother’s love of music and treasured collection of LPs ranging from Enrico Caruso to the Bee Gees, and he’d confessed to being a vinyl guy himself—a throwback in this digital age. And they’d both agreed that anyone who claimed to have heard the rumored Satanic message on the Beatles’ White Album played backward was either delusional or a liar.

  Had he only known her less than twenty-four hours? It seemed longer than that.

  So why didn’t you tell her? The most important aspect of his life where Lindsay was concerned, and he hadn’t had the guts to be up front about it. Suddenly the withholding of that information seemed more than just an attempt to portray himself in the most flattering light, like the careful editing of his bio: He was a cheat, a fraud. He’d encouraged her to open up to him, all the while knowing she’d want nothing more to do with him were she to learn the real truth about Randall Craig.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  All her life Kerrie Ann had relied on her wits to get by. Like the time a trucker with whom she’d hitched a ride had tried to fondle her and she’d escaped by flashing her breasts and kicking him in the groin while he was ogling them. And the time the cops had shown up at a friend’s house where she was doing drugs, and she’d escaped through the back while they were busting open the front door. But there were some situations quick thinking couldn’t get her out of. Like when her little girl had been taken from her. And the latest: Kerrie Ann had just learned that the Bartholds had put in a formal request to adopt Bella.

  At first she was stunned, then outraged. Who the fuck do they think they are? But her outrage quickly gave way to panic. She knew exactly who the Bartholds were: an upstanding professional couple with a nice house in a leafy suburb who just happened to be black—as was her daughter. What if the judge decided that what was best for Bella was to be with her own people, not some flaky white chick?

  The thought was like a knife twisting in her belly.

  “Do I look okay?” she asked Ollie. It was Sunday, two and a half weeks after she’d moved in with her sister, and he was driving her to Oakview, a suburb of San Luis Obispo, to see her daughter—a four-and-a-half-hour trip. One she’d been making from LA every other week for the past six months but which today had her as nervous as if she were on her way to an audience with the pope. From now on, her every move would be even more carefully scrutinized, she knew. It was no longer just a matter of w
hen she could get her daughter back but if she would be getting her back at all.

  “You look fine,” Ollie assured her.

  “You’re not just saying that?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” He took his eyes off the road long enough to shoot her a look of naked incredulity. “You? You’re, like, an eleven out of ten. How could you possibly look bad?”

  He’d missed the point entirely, but she smiled nonetheless. She couldn’t keep from smiling when she was around Ollie. When she looked into those big brown teddy-bear eyes, it was hard to hang on to the belief that the world was a shitty place full of bad people out to get her.

  “Thanks,” she said. “And not just for the vote of confidence. I’m sure you must have better things to do on a Sunday than drive me to Oakview.”

  “Like what?” he replied without missing a beat.

  “Like, I don’t know, watch the Lakers beat the crap out of the Warriors?”

  He snorted. “In your dreams, sister. The Warriors’ll wipe the court with those bums.”

  “Oh, yeah? What makes you so sure?”

  “I have one word for you—Baron Davis. That’s all I’m gonna say. Game over.”

  “That’s two words. And you still haven’t answered my question,” she said, staring at him with her arms crossed over her chest.

  “You mean would I rather spend the day with you or hang around the house waiting for my mom to find some chore for me to do? Gee, that’s a tough call.” Ollie stroked his chin, adopting a look of deep contemplation as he steered the Willys one-handed around a slow-moving truck.

  Kerrie Ann laughed in spite of herself. She was still nervous about what she’d find when they got to Oakview—would Bella be happy to see her, like always, or would the Bartholds have turned her head with a lot of talk about the wonderful life she’d have with her new mommy and daddy?—but she didn’t feel as tense as when they’d started out.