Her Mother's Shadow (4 page)

T
he cottage was tucked deep in the woods on the sound side of the island, but when Rick sat on the small, rotting deck, he could see patches of sun-soaked water between the branches of the loblolly pines. He could hold the kaleidoscope to his eye, aim it toward those silvery patches of water, and watch the beads of glass form designs as he twirled the wheel.

The cottage did not belong to a friend, as he had told Lacey O'Neill. He wasn't even certain why he'd said that. Maybe he was simply practicing for the other lies he would have to tell. He was actually renting this place. It had two minuscule bedrooms, one more than he needed. No TV to distract him from his writing. No air-conditioning, but he could handle the heat. There was a phone line to connect him to e-mail and the Internet, and electricity for his computer. That was all he required. When he'd first entered the musty-smelling cottage four days earlier, he'd guessed it had not changed in the seventy years or so of its existence. He doubted a stick of furniture had been replaced. The tourists
who usually came to the Outer Banks for the summer would disdain this sort of place. They wanted houses that slept ten, televisions in every room, hot tubs, pools, views. That's why he'd been able to get the run-down cottage for a song. And it was perfect.

There was a short, overgrown path that ran from the deck through the woods to a sliver of sand at the edge of the sound. Each day since his arrival, he'd taken a beach chair down to the water's edge and read or worked or just watched the boats from his nearly hidden vantage point. Last night, when it had been too hot to sleep, he took his flashlight and walked through the trees to the water's edge, then swam out into the bay, the quiet of the night surrounding him. He planned to make that nighttime swim a habit. There were grasses or something underwater that had given him the creeps as he swam away from the shore, but once he'd gotten past the grasping tendrils, the cool, dark water had buoyed him up and felt good against his skin. He'd floated on his back, and thought about Lacey O'Neill. That red hair. The warmth in her blue eyes. She was a kind person; you could tell that before she even opened her mouth. He would have to try again with her. He was not the type to give up. You didn't make it through law school by being a quitter.

He'd practiced law for only a year before going the teaching route. The university had overlooked his lack of experience for his excellent command of his material, and he'd been grateful. He preferred teaching law to practicing it. He'd never liked twisting the truth to fit the needs of his clients, and sometimes that had been not only necessary but expected. He could never tell a lie without remembering his father's advice. He'd been only eight or nine when he'd overheard his father tell an elderly aunt that she looked nice in a new outfit when in reality, she'd looked like a pruny old
woman trying to appear far younger than her years. In private, he'd asked his father if he really believed the old woman looked nice. “Sometimes a lie can be a gift,” his father had said. They were the words Rick tried to follow in his life. He would lie only when it was a gift.

 

He waited two days before returning to the stained glass studio, and he was glad to find Lacey there alone. The older man with the ponytail had made him uncomfortable. He'd seemed entirely too interested in his conversation with Lacey.

She was standing on a stepladder, hanging a stained glass panel in the window, when he walked in.

“Hi, Lacey,” he said.

She glanced down at him, and he was pleased to see her smile.

“Hi, Rick,” she said, slipping the wire attached to the panel over a hook above the window.

“Do you need some help there?”

“I do this all the time,” she said as she descended the ladder. Once on the floor, she started to fold the ladder, but he took it from her hands.

“I don't mean to badger you,” he said, folding it for her. “But you've been on my mind. Every time I look through that kaleidoscope, I think about you and your red hair. I'd really like to buy you dinner. Any night. You can choose.”

She sighed with a smile, and he knew he was making it difficult for her to offer a graceful rejection.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “The truth is, I'm taking a break from dating these days.”

“Oh. Oh, I understand.” He had the feeling she was being honest, and that only increased his guilt. “I've done that a time or two myself. You're getting over a bad relationship, I guess, huh?”

“Something like that.” She took the ladder from him and carried it over to the side of the studio, resting it against the wall.

“Well, how about if it's not a date?” he asked. “We won't dress up. I won't even pick you up. We can meet someplace very public. And we won't have any fun.”

That made her laugh. “All right,” she said, shaking her head. “You win.”

They made arrangements for the following night, and he left the studio far happier than when he'd arrived. In the parking lot, he got into his car and buckled his seat belt.

Yes,
he thought as he turned the key in the ignition.
I win.

F
aye Collier walked into the hospital gym and climbed onto her favorite elliptical trainer machine, the one positioned in the middle of the wall of windows, so she could have an uninterrupted view of the San Diego hills while she worked out. Judy and Leda, the two physical therapists in the chronic pain program and her workout buddies, took the elliptical trainers on either side of her. Faye wondered briefly how the three of them looked from the rear. She was Judy and Leda's supervisor and had a master's degree in nursing. She was blond, while they were both brunettes, yet she was twenty-five years older than either of them, and when it came to the backs of their thighs, she had no illusion that the physical therapists had her beat.

“What do you think of that new patient?” Judy pressed some buttons on the console and started moving her legs and arms in a long, smooth stride.

“The young guy with bone cancer?” Faye asked. “I think he needs—”

“Hi, Faye.” Jim Price was suddenly next to her, standing
between her elliptical trainer and Leda's. The sight of him put an instant smile on her face. She hoped she wasn't blushing.

“Hi,” she said, slowing her pace on the machine. “I didn't know you worked out during lunch.”

“I don't,” he said. “But I just finished the paper you gave me to read and wanted to compliment you on it. Excellent.”

“I'm glad you liked it,” she said. She could feel perspiration, the result of the workout and a poorly timed hot flash, running down her throat and between her breasts. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.

“I made a few comments on it,” Jim said. “I'll show you tonight, okay?”

She
was
blushing now. Judy and Leda had grown very quiet. They both slowed their machines to soften the noise from the flywheels, and she knew they were hanging on every word of her conversation with Jim. “That'll be great,” she said. In the light from the window, his eyes were a delicate bronze color. She had not noticed that about him before.

Jim motioned for her to lean down so he could whisper in her ear. “You look terrific,” he said, his breath soft against her skin.

She straightened up again, smiling, and mouthed the word “thanks.”

He left her side, and Faye was grateful that Judy and Leda had the presence of mind not to say anything until he was well out of hearing distance.

“So,” Judy asked. “When's your next date with him?”

“Tonight,” she said. Even though she had slowed her pace significantly, the monitor showed that her heart rate was the highest it had been since she'd climbed on the machine. She could not believe she was allowing a man to have that sort of effect on her.

“You are so lucky,” Leda said.

Faye knew that many of the women—and some of the men—working in the hospital had a thing for Jim Price. Even the young women wanted him. A widower for two years, Jim had left his surgery practice to take care of his wife during the last few months of her life, and nearly everyone found that sort of love and sacrifice laudable. He had money, looks that were rare for a man of fifty-five, and he was kind to patients and staff alike. Faye had known him for years, since he often referred patients to the pain program she had created, but he had not truly seemed to notice her until a few weeks ago, when her book on treating chronic pain was published. Someone must have told him that she had also lost a spouse, and his interest in her had been doubly piqued. In their first real conversation, they'd discovered another commonality: they had both grown up in North Carolina. That fact seemed to seal their fate as two people who should get to know one another better.

“Is it getting serious?” Leda asked.

“Define serious.”

“Have you slept with him?”

“Of course not. Not that it's any of your business.”

“But this will be the third date, right?” Judy asked.

“Yes. So?”

Leda laughed. “So you'd better shave your legs.”

“Why?” She felt dense. Old and dense. She was also a little breathless and couldn't help but notice that Leda and Judy seemed to be having no problem talking as they pedaled the machines.

“The third date is when you do it,” Leda said.

Faye laughed. “Who says?”

“That's the rule these days, Faye.”

Faye pulled her water bottle from the holder near the ma
chine's console and took a drink. “Well, he probably doesn't know the rules any better than I do,” she said. As their superior, she knew she was crossing a boundary by talking to Judy and Leda about her love life, but this was one area in which they were more knowledgeable than she was and she wanted their input. “We talked about that, actually,” she said. “About dating being new to each of us.” She hoped no one was filling Jim in on “the third-date rule.”

“It really depends on what those first two dates were like, though.” Judy let go of the handlebars to pull the scrunchie from her dark hair and stick it in the pocket of her shorts. “Where did you go?”

“Starbucks the first time, and out to eat the second.” Their first date had been a casual, impromptu sort of thing. He'd bumped into her in the hospital corridor, told her he'd read her new book and been impressed by it, and asked her if she wanted to get a drink after work that evening. They'd ended up at a Starbucks instead of a bar, and the coffee date lasted four hours. He did most of the talking, and that had been fine with her. As a matter of fact, she'd asked him questions nonstop to keep him from asking any of her. She was not good at sharing her life story. He had opened up easily about his, though, telling her about his North Carolina childhood, his marriage, his two daughters. He was so open that she'd felt guilty for all she was keeping to herself. But he didn't seem to mind. He wanted someone's ear to bend, and she'd been very willing.

“Starbucks doesn't really count.” Judy took a swig from her own water bottle.

“How long did you stay there?” Leda asked.

“Four hours.” They probably would have stayed longer, but Starbucks had been closing.

“Oh,” they both said at the same time, nodding.

“That counts, then,” Leda said. “That's totally a first date.”

“And do you talk on the phone a lot?” Judy asked.

“Not really.” He had called her a couple of times and e-mailed a couple more, but nothing lengthy or deep.

“Because a lot of phone calls count as a date.”

Faye laughed. “You two…”

“I would say that four hours on the phone equals one date,” Judy said.

Faye rolled her eyes, nearly too winded to respond. Her thighs were burning.

“Where was the second date?” Leda asked.

“The Sky Room,” she managed to say. Again, he had been the talkative one. By the end of the evening, she realized he had not asked her a single question about herself other than what she wanted to eat. Another woman might have found that annoying. She'd welcomed it.

“Very nice.” Judy nodded her approval. “Did he pay for you?”

“Yes…but I wasn't sure how to handle that,” she said. “Should I have paid for myself?”

“No. Always let the guy pay,” Leda said.

“I don't agree,” Judy countered. “You should at least offer to pay your share. Or pick up the check the next time you go out. So, you can pay tonight.”

“I would never pay,” Leda said. “Especially not with someone as wealthy as Dr. Price.”

“Where is he taking you tonight?” Judy asked.

Faye hesitated. She really was saying far too much. She pushed the button to lower the machine's resistance. “We're going to a party,” she said. “Some friends of his.”

“And then back to your house for a nightcap?” Judy asked.

“I haven't thought that far ahead.”

“Oh, girl,” Leda laughed. “You are ending up in bed tonight. No doubt about it.”

“I barely know him.” Faye felt priggish. “Or rather, he barely knows me.”

“Well, what did you talk about all those hours in Starbucks and at the restaurant?” Leda asked.

“He did most of the talking.”

Leda groaned, shaking her head in disgust. “That is so typical. All they want is someone to listen to them.”

“You make sure he gets to know you before you sleep with him,” Judy said. “You know, you as a person.” She let go of the handlebar to take another swallow of water. “Otherwise you'll feel used,” she continued. “He can say to himself, I slept with that hot-looking nurse and I didn't even have to listen to her whine about her life.”

Faye was quiet, enjoying the fact that Judy had called her hot-looking. She hoped she was not being patronized.

“How long has it been for you?” Leda asked.

“Hey!” Faye said with a shake of her head. “I'm your supervisor, remember?”

“This conversation is off the record,” Leda said conspiratorially. “Okay? You need help.”

She let out her breath, knowing she was going to tell them. She
did
need help. “My husband was my first and only,” she admitted.

“Oh, my God.” Judy stopped her machine altogether. “And he die…passed away, what? Ten years ago?”

Faye had to smile at the euphemism. They worked in a hospital, for heaven's sake, and Judy never used the term “passed away.” But somehow, everyone had learned to treat Faye with kid gloves when it came to the subject of her late husband.

“Nearly thirteen years,” she said.

“Wow, Faye,” Leda said. “It must feel like being a virgin all over again.”

She grew quiet. That was exactly how she felt, awkward and scared by the thought of taking off her clothes in front of a man, by the uncertainty of what to do, what would be expected of her. No one would call her fat—at least she hoped not—but she had grown bulky the way women often did at middle age, despite working out and watching her diet. She had little waistline left, her thighs were well padded. When she lay on her side in bed, she was aware of the force of gravity on her belly and breasts and could hardly imagine a man wrapping his arm around her in that position. Yet she
had
been imagining it lately. She'd been wondering what it would be like to lie in bed with Jim Price.

Judy reached out to touch her arm in sympathy. “It will be fine. He's the type who'll use protection and make sure you're…you know, happy.”

“He wouldn't need to use protection,” she said. “He hasn't had anyone since his wife. And I'm menopausal.”

“Oh, my God.” Leda laughed. “You'd better take a tube of K-Y Jelly from the supply room.”

“Okay, that's really enough!” Faye's cheeks burned, although she was laughing herself. She stopped the machine and stepped off it too quickly. The carpeted floor felt as if it was moving beneath her feet. “I'm done,” she said. “See you downstairs.”

 

Jim picked her up at 7:30 p.m., looking handsome, his salt-and-pepper hair in contrast to his black suit and tie. It was to be a fancy event, something for charity, and she hoped she was dressed appropriately. Semiformal, he'd said. She wore a short-sleeved, tea-length burgundy dress. She had good an
kles—of that she was confident. His eyes lit up when she opened the door for him, and she guessed she was dressed just fine.

He was talkative, as usual, on the way to the party, but the conversation was geared to the article she had written on the use of meditation in the treatment of chronic pain. She'd wanted his feedback on it before she submitted it to a journal. His comments were excellent, right on target, and she could tell the subject matter was nearly as close to his heart as it was to her own. She wondered if he was thinking about the pain of his patients or of his wife as he made a few suggestions for changes in the article.

The party was held on the twelfth floor of a downtown hotel, in a huge penthouse that offered a spectacular view of the city lights and the Coronado bay bridge. The crowd, slightly stiff and overdressed, was made up of doctors and politicians and their spouses. The women glittered with jewelry, and she wondered how obvious it would be to them that her earrings were made of cubic zirconium and her dress had been purchased at JCPenney's.

Jim took her arm and held it locked through his own, as if to give her courage. She recognized many of the physicians and saw a few of them raise their eyebrows in what she gathered was surprise at seeing her so firmly tethered to Jim Price's side. A photographer from
San Diego Magazine
snapped pictures of the guests as they milled around the huge, open room, and Faye wondered if she would see her face in the society pages of the magazine. She'd never cared for glitter, for the trappings of wealth, but she could not help but be impressed with both the other guests and with herself for simply being there. She wondered how much Jim had paid to get them into this party. It was a cancer benefit, though, she reminded herself. Cancer had killed his wife. He
probably welcomed any opportunity to donate to that cause. He had not asked her what had killed her husband, and for that, she was grateful.