Almost Perfect (32 page)

The phone rang in the distance and no one leapt to answer it.

“If you're talking about the news clip, those weren't Cleo's kids,” Jared said absently, toying with his remaining pasta while wondering if he could persuade Cleo to marry him on the basis of adopting the kids.

“I should hope not,” his mother said vehemently. “It's bad enough to have your picture broadcast across the countryside on the roof of a shack, but in the company of—”

Jared tuned out the static and listened to a maid answering the phone. He'd given his family's phone number to the kids in case they needed him. Not that he could do much from here, but he was learning responsibility carried a lot more worries than he'd anticipated. He had a flight booked for tonight. Idly, he wondered if he could catch an earlier one if he headed for the airport after lunch.

“Mother, you're a bigot,” Clay was expostulating as the maid appeared in the doorway, carrying the cordless receiver. “This is the twenty-first century. In another hundred years we'll be fortunate to find gender differences much less racial ones. I read a book …”

The maid held out the receiver to Jared rather than interrupt one of Clay's lectures.

It could be the movers with a question. He didn't have any reason to panic. He'd meant to call Cleo this morning to make certain the kids had gone off to school all right, but in the chaos of moving, his phone had been
disconnected. He'd only reached her machine all weekend. Not talking to her for over two days was about to drive him up a wall. Or maybe his family had already done that.

Pushing away from the table, Jared slipped away, taking the phone into the hallway. “Yes?”

“I have those franchise contracts revised, so stop by and initial the changes before you leave.” George always spoke abruptly, as if he were doing three things at once. “Where are you on that script? Bring it with you. I have the producer coming in this afternoon and he wants to talk with you about it. Plan on being here by three.”

Jared contorted his face in a grimace he once used on his teachers. Cleo and the kids had him practicing clean language. “I don't have anything in hard copy, George. I want to take this in a different direction than originally planned.” There, he'd said it. Impending bankruptcy terrified him, he didn't know how he'd handle it, but he had some weird idea that it wouldn't faze Cleo one iota if he risked pauperdom for creative freedom.

He could almost see George hitting panic mode as he practically bit off the telephone. “What do you mean, a different direction? You're using the same characters, aren't you? We're signing the deal this afternoon for those characters!”

“They can't print anything until I draw them, George. Keep your ass on. This will be far better. I just may need a little more time.” Jared winced at the string of epithets flying over the phone wire. So, he'd better work fast. He'd have to learn better working habits. This wasn't high school anymore. He could do it. “I'm on my way. We'll talk.”

He hit the “off ” button, his mind racing over all the things he needed to gather before leaving. He wanted to
head for the airport as soon as he left his agent's office. He might still catch an earlier flight.

His mother called his name as the phone rang again. Mind on other things, figuring it was George again, he hit the “talk” button. “Yeah, what is it now?”

“Jared?” a timid voice inquired.

Kismet. Panic sprang full-blown. “Yeah, Kis, is everything all right?”

“Gene's in jail,” she whispered.

Keep it cool, boy,
he told himself, as his gut clenched in fear.
Don't scare her.
“All right. I'll see what I can do. Where are you, hon? Have you talked to Cleo?”

Silence, then a whispered, “Help her, Jared.” Gently, the line disconnected.

Ohmigod. @#$%!

Something had happened to Cleo. He knew it with every terrified nerve in his body, and his mind shrieked into overload.

Career or Cleo.

His whole life—his career—lay on the line. After the TV flop, he couldn't afford to tick off his agent and the only producer willing to take a chance on him. He had this absolutely fantastic new idea that he
really
wanted to do—

Not without Cleo.

That realization whopped him backward as he dropped the phone in its cradle.

Not without Cleo, who had inspired him. Who couldn't survive in L.A. Who didn't belong anywhere but where she was.

Cleo—of the warm heart and prickly exterior, with the cynical green eyes that lit with joy when he held her. The woman who had been knocked down and shoved around and still determinedly scaled the ladder, intent on providing a better life for her son.

Cleo, who had given him more joy and life than a dozen Jags or three dozen bachelor pads.

Cleo.

Ignoring his mother's increasingly strident tones, Jared returned to the dining room and smacked his brother on the shoulder.

“Got your car? I need to get to the airport, ASAP.”

Clay lifted a cynical eyebrow. “Hollywood calls?”

Jared preferred to think he acted on sound instinct and not impulse as he threw his career down the toilet in exchange for the doubtful hope of building something good with an evil genius like Cleo. It no longer mattered if he made a right or wrong decision. It was the only one.

He shrugged. “Hollywood be damned. This is
my
life.”

Eyeing him with a measure of respect, ignoring their mother's cries of annoyance, Clay stood and reached for the keys in his pockets. “Maybe you've got the right idea, big brother. Who needs fortune and fame anyway?”

He walked toward the front door without further explanation, and Jared didn't demand any. He'd ask what was eating his little brother some other time.

Right now, he had Cleo on his mind.

“Where the hell is she?”
Jared refrained from leaping over the counter to strangle a strangely taciturn Marta.
Even the store seemed silent, although a few people quietly browsed the counters, throwing him surreptitious glances.

He'd caught a departing flight by the skin of his teeth, and repeatedly called Cleo from the plane, but he'd only reached her answering machines. Terror had become permanently embedded in his back teeth. And now he was here, and no one would tell him anything.

“Haven't seen her,” Marta said stiffly.

“Kismet called.” He tried not to shout. He was known for his good humor and laid-back manner. He wanted to scream the roof down now. “She said Gene's in jail. What do you know about that?”

Marta nervously wadded a corner of her shop apron and stepped back. “They caught him with an ounce of crack over by the school this morning.”

Inhale, Jared.
He gulped air and thought frantically. “He wouldn't do that,” he said in decision. But what would that do to Cleo? She'd have nightmares.

“Gene's mother says Cleo gave it to him. Word is, she's been arrested before for possession. Know anything about that?” Marta asked a little too casually.

“Dadblameit, woman!” he exploded. At least he'd managed to control his choice of words. One did not swear at women down here. He knew everyone behind him was listening intently, but panic laced his blood, and he didn't give a damn. “What do you think? You think Cleo would give those kids crack?
Are you out of your friggin' mind?
”

Perhaps he'd raised his voice a little too much. Marta took another step backward—and this was a woman who looked like she could bench press a sumo wrestler. Jared forced his voice down to a dull roar. “You'll have to ask Cleo about her past. That's not for me to say. But I can tell you this, Linda's lying through her pointy black
teeth.
Think.
Would the Cleo you know do anything at all to hurt those kids?”

Marta's shoulders slumped, and she wiped her eyes with her apron. “Cleo's the one who found my brother-in-law a job after he got sober,” she muttered almost incoherently. “He has three kids to support, and they would have all been evicted.” Dropping the apron, she set her chin pugnaciously. “She never says anything. She just goes to work and does it. I couldn't believe the gossip, but it's all over town. There's not a soul here who'll buy from a known dealer. Not in this town. I didn't know
what
to say.”

All right. He'd told Cleo he could deal with that. Give him something he could do, and he was okay. It was the helplessness that made him crazy. “Linda wants revenge.” He didn't lower his voice. Let everyone hear him. “She's out to get even with Cleo for calling Social Services about the kids. You call every damned soul Cleo ever helped and you tell them that. And you tell them to get their rear ends over here and let Cleo know they're behind her, one hundred percent. That's what friends are about.”

He stormed out, glaring at anyone who dared meet his eye. No more Mr. Nice Guy. People occasionally needed a good kick in the derriere to prompt them to do the right thing. SuperGoof could play Mr. Ass-kicker just fine when the occasion warranted.

His fury carried him halfway to the island, and fear took over from there. Would they have arrested her yet? Or would she be turning the house into a bonfire in a fit of self-destruction? Any normal person would be hunting Linda down with an ax, but not Cleo. She'd hack off her own hand first.

He knew her entirely too well, and that made him very afraid.

No witch or skeleton interfered with his progress. No Cleo sat on the roof, pounding out her rage. The house sat ominously silent, waiting.

He crossed the weathered soft gray of the porch. Cleo hadn't painted it, but she'd used treated lumber for repairs, making it stronger than the original. He could see Cleo reflected in this house, a sturdy gracious lady who scorned useless adornment but who would weather any storm and shelter those she loved.

She would be protecting Matty.

He strode in without knocking. All the pieces of sheet metal and cogs and gears had disappeared, but she'd done most of that earlier to give the kids room. Dropping his duffel and laptop on the armchair, he followed instinct, knowing she was here.

He found her sitting cross-legged on the bed, flipping through a scrapbook of photos and mementos. Beside her she'd heaped children's toys and collections of shells and stones, apparently in preparation for packing. The floor was littered with carefully sealed and labeled boxes.

Her eyes were dry when she looked up, but he could see tear tracks in the dust on her cheeks. She didn't look pleased to see him. She simply turned back to what she was doing.

“Have you called a lawyer?” he demanded. He had no patience left for sloppy sentimentality. Someone around here had to keep their head.

She shrugged. “What for? A public defender can handle Gene's case. He'll plead innocent. It's his first offense; they'll let him go.”

“And you?” That sounded too easy. Something was wrong here.

“Gene won't testify against his mother,” she said flatly.

She left him to figure it out. Linda claimed the drugs
came from Cleo. Gene wouldn't deny it. Cleo would return to jail.

“And you're sitting here packing up Matty's stuff and not even trying to fight it?” he asked incredulously, anger escalating.

She shot him a look of curiosity. “It's not as if I have any say in the matter. Just being involved with anyone who deals in drugs is a violation of my parole.”

“You're not even going to
fight
?” he yelled. “What the hell do you think lawyers are for? You're not guilty this time, Cleo! You've got a case. You don't have to go through this.” He wanted to pick her up and shake her, but she'd had enough violence in her life. He turned and slammed his fist into the wall instead.

“I trust that made you feel better,” she said dryly.

Shaken by the extent of his fury, not ready to deal with the source of it, Jared nursed his bruised fist and glared at her. “Sometimes, it pays to get angry. Have you called Axell? Have you heard from Kismet?”

He thought he saw concern finally awaken in her eyes. The fool woman wouldn't fight for herself, but she'd fight for someone else. All right, so he was in a relationship with a schizoid. He damned well had no intention of sacrificing his career for a woman who would spend the next year or two in jail rather than fight for her rights.

He'd make her fight. Thinking of Cleo behind bars would unhinge him.

“I assumed she was with her mother,” she answered tentatively. “The kids haven't been home all weekend. I looked everywhere. Wasn't she in school today?” Alarm danced across her features as she slowly realized how far she'd sunk into that depressed state she used as self-defense.

Jared wanted to reach out and comfort her, but Cleo had to learn things the hard way. He knew that now. He
was far more relieved to see the alarm and anger building than the sad, defeated expression he'd seen when he entered. “She called me in New York. I don't think it was from school. I'll call Liz and find out.”

Cleo clutched the scrapbook to her chest as Jared spun around and walked out. He'd looked harried and exhausted, with taut lines drawn about his mouth, not at all the smiling, charming man who'd left here. Had she done that to him?