Her Sister's Secret (Mills & Boon Vintage Superromance) (18 page)

“Sure,” she said, her jaws tightening as she hung up. She’d fled, all right—and she’d stayed away. Although she’d called, tried to stay in touch with Morgan, suggested she come live with Whitney, it hadn’t done any good. Eventually Morgan left, too. Whether she’d been thrown out or fled on her own accord, she’d never know. But it was obvious Morgan blamed her or she’d have kept in touch. Come to her for help. Maybe Morgan was right.

If she hadn’t quarreled with her mother and left home, maybe Morgan wouldn’t have felt abandoned; maybe her little sister would be alive today.

That was Whitney’s burden to bear. And sitting around thinking about it was simply putting off the inevitable.

Make the damned call. The sooner you do it, the sooner it’ll be over with.
Steeling herself, she entered the number.

Four…five rings. She lost count. Then a man’s voice answered, slurred.

“Daddy?”

“Whitney, darlin’, iss thaad you?”

“I only have a minute, Dad. Is Mom there?”

“Nooope. Not here.” A long pause, then a dull clunk like glass against the receiver. “Gone. Sheez gone. Left.” His voice was nearly inaudible.

“Dad, just tell me where Mom is! I can’t talk now.”

“Wait, jus a sec…jus hold on, missy,” he mumbled. The phone clunked, papers rustled, heavy breathing, more rustling. “Goddit. Goddtha nummer.”

Whitney listened. “Repeat it for me, Dad.” And before she hung up, she made him say the number three more times to be sure.

She recognized the area code as one in California. Probably some resort spa where her mom could be pampered while she drank herself into oblivion. Hands shaking, she punched in the number and waited.

“Palmetto Clinic.”

Her stomach sank. Not again. When she finally managed to ask questions, she learned that her mother had overdosed on pills and alcohol, whether purposely or by accident, no one could say. They told Whitney where to go if she wanted to be part of her mother’s rehab program.

Letting the phone drop from her ear, the old familiar pain lodged in her midsection.
Oh, Mother.
She pressed her hand to her mouth, hard, battling the tears.

Why now? What good will it do?
What good had it ever done?

Clearing her head, she forced herself toward the bathroom, where she turned on the faucet and sat on the edge of the claw-footed tub, watching the water creep up like the rising bile in the back of her throat.

One more thing to think about, one more problem to solve. Slowly she pulled off her clothes, hoping the tepid water would wash away her despair.

After her bath, she tried reading in bed, but her sense of hopelessness seemed only to grow—an insidious cloak of darkness wrapping tightly around her. There was no escape.

She hadn’t conquered the demons of the past at all, and tonight they rose up, spitting fire and flame.

She crossed her arms over her chest, holding tight, rocking back and forth, longing for the comfort of Rhys’s arms. Wishing she had an ounce of Rhys’s strength and determination—and his ability to love.

Lord, how she wished…until she drifted into a fitful sleep and wished no more.

FEELING THE WARMTH of sunlight on her face, Whitney stretched languidly, then curled on her side. A door slammed somewhere in the distance and she roused herself enough to realize it must be Rhys bringing SaraJane for the day. She’d overslept.

Groggy, she struggled to orient herself. She threw off the sheets and the down comforter, rolled from the bed and stumbled to the window. The Jeep was there, but she didn’t see Rhys. He was probably inside, but there wasn’t time to get dressed and go downstairs before he left.

Then she saw him in the drive heading toward the Jeep. She tapped on the glass. He looked up, and she tried to raise the window, but it wouldn’t budge.

She tugged again. No luck. Waving to keep his attention, she mouthed, “Wait, I need to talk to you.”

He shrugged, palms up and she repeated herself, moving her lips very slowly. Finally she motioned for him to come inside.

How was she going to do this and not give anything away? She swished a toothbrush in her mouth, tossed on her robe, and flung open the door, ready to charge downstairs to catch him. But he’d reached her door first and she nearly plowed him down in her haste.

“Whoa.” He grabbed her arms to avoid the collision. His gaze dropped to where the robe ended somewhere around the middle of her thighs. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he joked. “But on second thought—” he waggled his eyebrows “—maybe not.” He ended with a wicked grin.

She backed away, smoothed the satin lapels and tightened the tie around her waist before she managed a weak smile.

“Rhys, I need a minute,” she said, shifting from one bare foot to the other. “To talk.” How could she tell him about her mother without revealing too much about herself? God, she was so sick of the lies.

Interest sparked in Rhys’s eyes as he shut the door behind him.

Her pulse quickened and she had a crazy urge to throw herself into his arms and blurt it all out.

Instead, she turned away, walked to the couch, and sank into the welcoming softness of the cushions.“It’ll only take a minute?” she said, clasping her hands together.

“Sure.” He came over and sat next to her. “What’s up?”

“I need to go to California for a couple of days.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Business.”

“No. Not business. A family problem.”

A look of relief flickered on his face. Then he took her hand, almost as if he sensed she needed his strength. Lord, if he only knew how much she did.

“Anything I can do to help?” His eyes held hers.

She shook her head, touched by the tenderness in his eyes…and she’d crumble if she gave in to her self-pity. She broke the gaze and launched to her feet, turned to face the window and folded her arms across her chest.

Within seconds she felt the heat of his body behind her. A painful ache grew in her chest, and she wanted more than anything to lose herself in the comfort of his arms.

“No,” she said softly. “No one can do anything. I’ve tried for years.”

He moved a step closer, placed his hands on her upper arms. Weary, she leaned against him. God, she longed to tell him the truth, the whole truth, not just about her mother, but also about Morgan and herself.

But what was the point? What would be gained by telling him she was there to gain custody of SaraJane?

He’d already said he’d fight for his son’s rights, no matter what. And once he knew why she’d come to Estrade, once he realized everything she’d said was a lie, he’d never trust her again.

“It’s my mother. An overdose. She’s in a treatment center.” She made every effort to steady her voice before she continued. “I know it might sound cold, but unless she wants to help herself, treatment won’t do a damn bit of good.” As Whitney pulled in a deep steadying breath, a lifetime of ugly memories flashed through her head. “It isn’t anything new. We’ve been through this before.”

He gently rubbed her arms. “Pills?”

“And alcohol.”

“Anyone with her?”

Whitney shook her head.

“Your father? Where’s he?”

A brittle laugh tumbled from her lips. “My father. He’s as bad as my mother. I talked to him last night. He didn’t have any idea where she went. He probably doesn’t even remember I called.”

Her anger flared; she moved out of Rhys’s reach and stalked across the room. She couldn’t let him see her this way. And if he touched her again, she might fall apart. “My father—” she repeated and gave another hollow laugh “—could barely read me a phone number. He didn’t have a clue about anything.” She paced, desperate to hide her turmoil.

“I had no idea.” Rhys stepped toward her. “I’m sorry. Maybe if your father understood how you feel—”

“Please!” Whitney whirled around, hand raised. “Please. Don’t. I’ve had years of experience with this,” she said, unable to keep the bitterness from her words. “Alcoholics aren’t concerned with anyone’s feelings. They’re selfish, egocentric people whose only thought is—” She stopped abruptly, before she crumbled into a weeping mess. The last thing she wanted was for him to see her like this. She waved a hand. “It’s…my problem.”

Rhys pulled back, seeming surprised, even a little hurt at her response. “Sorry,” he said. “Sometimes I really put my foot in it.”

He went to the door, turned to look at her and, for a moment, he just stood there, looking irresolute. Then he walked toward her again; he rested his hands on her shoulders and massaged lightly. He traced a fingertip along her jawline and, tilting her chin up, leaned down to brush his lips over hers. Softly, tenderly.

“We’ll miss you,” he said, then backed away. “Call, if you need anything. Anytime. I’ll be here.” He turned and disappeared into the stairwell.

***

Tanya met Whitney at LAX, and the two of them drove to the clinic together. “I can’t believe you’re actually behind the wheel, that you’re actually driving a car,” Whitney teased. Tanya didn’t own a car, didn’t want one, didn’t need one in New York.

“Self-defense,” her friend said. “You can’t do anything out here if you don’t have a car.”

“Didn’t Albert pick you up at the airport?”

Tanya nodded. “But I can’t have your cousin driving me everywhere.”

“You could’ve used mine.”

“Yeah, but your car’s expensive, and I’m no Danica Patrick behind the wheel.”

Whitney murmured a response, her thoughts focused on her mother. She dreaded what she’d find when they arrived. She was grateful her best friend had insisted on flying out to go with her. Tanya had denied that was the reason, saying she needed a break, but it was obvious to Whitney Tanya had come simply to be with her.

Spotting the clinic ahead, Whitney’s pulse raced. She tried to draw a full breath but couldn’t. That’s how they always began, the panic attacks. She grabbed a paper bag she’d brought along and clamped it over her mouth, breathing deeply, fighting the anxiety, the inevitable chest pains.

Tanya reached across the seat and placed a hand on Whitney’s arm. “It’s gonna be okay, Whit. Just take it one step at a time.”

After another deep breath, Whitney muttered, “Sure.” But the truth was, she didn’t want to do it at all, much less one freaking excruciatingly painful step at a time. She honestly didn’t think she could go through with it, not without sacrificing the emotional stability she’d gained over the past twelve years.

She knew exactly what would happen. Because every time she had contact with her mother, even by phone, it all came back—the tirades, the hateful words spewing from her mother’s mouth as though she were possessed.

Whitney had thought she’d exorcized all those demons, and in less than a heartbeat, they were back with a vengeance.

She was a little girl again, standing in front of her mother, tears streaming, still waiting, wanting more than anything to hear her mommy say she loved her.

That was all she’d wanted. Ever.

“I’ll wait,” Tanya said after they’d checked in at the clinic’s desk. “Maybe get some coffee or do some shopping.”

Whitney nodded, suddenly feeling numb, somehow removed from it all...as if this was happening to someone else, not her. She held up her cell.“I’ll call when I’m ready.”

“Great. It’ll work out. I know it will.”Tanya hugged Whitney and left. Less than fifteen minutes later Whitney called her back. Ten minutes with her mother and it was all over. She couldn’t do it. God help her, she just couldn’t.

Driving home, she was silent. It hurt too much to talk, and if she could just put some distance between herself and this awful place… Forget it, close it out of her mind—like she’d learned to do so many years ago. But this time, she couldn’t seem to do it.

When they arrived at Whitney’s house in La Jolla, Tanya suggested Whitney take a nap. “Maybe I will,” she said, then plodded upstairs. She
was
tired. More tired than she’d ever been.

Her nerves felt raw and exposed. Thinking about everything in her life—her mother, Morgan, Rhys and SaraJane—the responsibility of it all weighed her down.

All the lies and secrets…and what for? So her mother could keep her faux persona…her social status?

So she wouldn’t hurt Rhys and SaraJane?

Such diametrically opposite reasons and yet the result was the same. Deception. Emotionally disabling deception.

Every muscle in her body seemed to hurt. She was exhausted. Completely emotionally exhausted. And sleep was a welcome respite.

She slept all afternoon. All night.

When she awoke, Whitney got up from the queen-size four-poster and padded to the window, throwing it open, allowing the chilly Pacific breeze to sharpen her senses.

Mmm. She inhaled deeply of the moist salt air and listened to the seagulls squawk. She loved the ocean and the healing effect it had on her.

She rubbed her bare arms. Today was a new day. If she could just manage to think about anything other than the fact that she’d abandoned her mother, she might be okay.

Whitney raked a hand through her hair. Why did she feel compelled to help her mother
now?

Kathryn Sheffield had never given an ounce of love to anyone, least of all her children. And her mother’s acceptance no longer mattered to Whitney. She’d conquered that weakness, that need—or so she’d thought until yesterday, when the floodgates were thrown open and every heartbreaking memory came crashing in on her.

Why had yesterday’s meeting affected her so much? Nothing had changed. She hadn’t expected it to.

She’d always been the one to take over, to fix things, clean up the mess, wipe away Morgan’s tears. No one had ever been there for her. Why try again? Was there some little hope—

God. How could she even think it?
She couldn’t go back. She couldn’t face all that heartache and pain.

She wasn’t strong enough.

She closed her eyes, wanting to shut it all out, but the thought persisted.

What if this was the one time that might be different—and she turned away?

A soft knock at the door roused her from her thoughts. She’d almost forgotten Tanya was there with her. Glad of her friend’s presence, she collected herself. “C’mon in.”

“Hey, you’re up.” Tanya smiled brightly.

Tanya’s olive complexion was even more golden from just a few hours yesterday in the California sun, and in a black concert T-shirt and bleached jeans, she looked more like a teenager than a thirtyish New York editor.

“I’m up, but just barely.” Whitney walked to the bed and sat on it, cross-legged. “Apparently, beach living agrees with you.”

Tanya frowned. “Yeah, but not right this minute, though. You have a visitor.”

“Really? This early? Who? No one knows I’m here except my mother. And—” her heart raced “—Rhys.”

“Rhys?”

When Tanya gave her a blank look, she added, “The motorcycle guy.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, someone else knows you’re here, and he’s downstairs waiting for you to be summoned. If you want, I’ll tell him to drop dead.”

There was only one person who evoked that kind of response from Tanya. “Brock?”

“In the living, slimy, crawling flesh.”

Whitney chuckled at Tanya’s animosity. “D’you think you could be a tad more explicit about your feelings?”

Tanya wheeled around. “Sorry. Guess it’s none of my business. I just have this foul taste in my mouth about him since he was such a jerk to you. And someday I’ll tell you about an experience I had that makes me hate him even more.”

Whitney arched an eyebrow. Tanya’s dislike for Brock went deeper than she’d imagined. “Tell me now. Before I see him.”

Tanya wrinkled her nose. “You sure? It’s ugly. And you’ve got enough on your plate.”

“Spit it out,” Whitney said. Nothing could be worse than what she’d been through recently.

“Okay. If you’re sure…” Looking skeptical, Tanya blurted, “This happened last March. I saw Brock checking into the Plaza with two women while you were still engaged to him. And he asked me to join them.”

Whitney drew back and, after a moment, exhaled long and hard. “Whew. I don’t know if I’m happy to know that or not. Certainly validates my decision to dump him.”