I Think I Love You (18 page)

Mica blinked, but her heart leaped childishly at the spontaneous invitation. "Sure, I'll walk back with you."

She gave Regina an apologetic look, then turned to follow Justine. As the minutes passed, her mind raced for a safe subject, but with everything going on in their lives at the moment, she couldn't think of a topic that wasn't a land mine.

"I like your car," she ventured.

"Thanks. It was a gift from the company."

"They must think a lot of you."

"Yes. I have everything I could possibly want."

Mica was happy for her, truly.

Justine reached up to grab a leaf from a limb as they walked by. She twirled it by the stem. "I gather from your commercials that you're doing well, too."

For now. "Oh, we're—I'm comfortable."

"Must be exciting, all the parties, the clothes, the celebrities."

The booze, the debt, the sucking up. "Yeah, it's exciting, all right." Then she sighed. "Look, Justine, I've been waiting for the right time to tell you this, but I left Dean."

Justine tore the leaf in two, then tossed the pieces to the ground. "How am I supposed to feel about that, Mica? Sad? Happy? Indifferent?"

She shrank from the venom in Justine's voice. "I just thought you should know."

Justine's laugh was brittle. "Did you meet someone else?"

Mica was stunned. "No."

"I mean, you hear stories about models and their agents hooking up."

Everett?
She laughed. "My agent is gay."

Justine frowned. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I mean, Everett's never told me, and he isn't effeminate at all, but I have it on good word." Then
she
frowned—Dean knew how much she respected Everett, adored him even. Had Dean told her Everett was gay to circumvent any possible attraction on her part?

"So," Justine said, "now that your affair with my fiancé has run its course, you expect that you and I can just pick up where we left off?"

Mica chose her words carefully. "I was hoping we could start somewhere."

Justine stopped and turned her back, staring over a rolling field of Queen Anne's lace. Mica took the fact that her sister wasn't swinging as a good sign and tried to think of the next step on the road to forgiveness. Of course! "How about us driving to Asheville to do some shopping? I missed your birthday last month."

"You missed my birthday for the last twelve years."

"So let me make it up to you." She'd write a check for everything and worry about it later. "Come on; it'll be fun."

Justine turned to look behind them, but they were alone on the trail. "Should we invite Regina?"

She loved Regina, but she didn't want the subject returning to Lyla's murder and more questions about keeping their pact. "Let's just me and you go—it'll be like old times."

For the first time since she'd arrived, Justine looked at her without contempt. "Okay. Let's go spend an obscene amount of money."

Chapter 15

DO touch, but DON'T look. Too closely.

By the time Regina got past the initial hurt of Justine's words, rehashed the decision at hand—to no good end—and walked home, Justine's car was gone. But another car was there, a black Lincoln with D.C. tags. She smiled—
Uncle Lawrence.

She jogged up to the house and found her favorite relative sitting on the front porch with his sister, Cissy, drinking lemonade. He stood and clasped Regina in a bear hug. "How's my best girl?"

She grinned, always at ease with Lawrence's happy-go-lucky personality. He was still ramrod-straight, still handsome. "I'm fine. I saw you on
Meet the Press
a few weeks ago. You stole the show."

Uncle Lawrence had such presence, and his life story was so fascinating—impoverished childhood, academic wonder boy, Vietnam war hero, successful entrepreneur, beloved political figure, the total package.

His smile was humble. "Thank you, sweetheart."

"Where are your sisters?" Cissy asked from the rocking chair. Her hair was bound up loosely. She still wore her flowery church dress and jewelry, but she was barefoot.

Regina gave her a kiss on the cheek. "I don't know. We went for a walk, but they came back before I did." She omitted the part about being shot at. Her mother had enough on her mind.

Cissy tsk-tsked. "Lawrence dropped by to see all of you, and you're the only one here."

And she wasn't worth the trip.

Lawrence squeezed her arm to cover Cissy's gaffe. "Don't tell them, Regina," he said in a conspiratorial whisper, "but you were always my favorite anyway. Sit down with us, my dear. Your mother says you've come to save her and John from the poor house."

Regina sat on the top step with her back against a white column. "I'm just helping the appraiser from the bank."

"He's probably at the shop right now, stealing the good things for himself," Cissy said.

"Mom, Mitchell Cooke isn't going to steal from you. Besides, Daddy is at the shop with him." She looked back to her uncle. "I believe the appraiser's connections will help bring more attention to the auction."

"Cooke—is he local?"

"No, he... travels around."

"That name's familiar to me." Then he laughed. "But heck, every name is familiar to me."

"She has a crush on him," her mother said in a disapproving tone. "Regina, you just wait and see—he's flirting with you so he can take advantage."

She winked at her uncle. "Thanks for the warning, Mom."

Lawrence laughed. "How's the book business?"

Dearest Lawrence, he always showed an interest in whatever she was doing in life—high school, college, and now her career. "It's wonderful—I love my job. How's the campaign going?"

"It's looking very good, very good indeed." He leaned over to scratch his ankle, then ran a finger along the inside of the heel of his stiff wingtip and sighed. "I'm starting to feel as if all these years of wearing bad suits and uncomfortable shoes might have been worth it."

She laughed. "I can't wait to call you Senator Gilbert."

"Fingers crossed." He gave her a coy smile. "You know, my manager has been approached by a couple of publishers for my memoirs if this race pans out. Haplin, I think, and Grass House. Do you think your press would be interested?"

"Are you kidding? Of course we would, but I'm afraid we can't offer the kind of advance that those publishers will put on the table."

He dismissed her concerns with a wave. "Nonsense. I've got all the money I need, but I'll only have one shot at a book, and I want it to be good. I'd want you to be my editor, of course."

Anticipation welled in her chest—Green Label had never released a political best-seller. She couldn't deny it would be a feather in her cap. "I'd be honored, Uncle Lawrence."

He raised his finger. "
If
I win."

"You'll win."

"Lawrence has offered me a job with his campaign," Cissy announced.

"That's great." Regina gave her uncle's hand a grateful pat. The position would transition Cissy back into the working world. Regina had meant to talk to her sisters today about possible financial assistance for their parents, but she'd let their petty words get to her and distract her from what was important. As usual. "How long will you be in town?"

His smile faded a bit. "Just tonight—I'm afraid I have some unpleasant business to attend to in Charlotte next week."

"That murderer Elmore Bracken wants a new trial," Cissy said. "The nerve of that scum. Disrupting Lawrence's life after all this time, now, when he's about to run the biggest race of his career."

Guilt was a foul-tasting substance. How could she take her shaky story to the authorities and possibly plow a furrow through Uncle Lawrence's life? He'd been through so much, including the humiliation of Lyla's indiscretion and sensational murder. He'd channeled that pain into public service, and Monroeville had profited hugely from his political influence—new roads, a new water plant, new schools.

"There, there," he said, soothing Cissy. "I'm certain the timing is precisely the angle Bracken and his attorney are going for. They think I'll be too busy to attend the hearing, or that the judge will grant a new trial to avoid the appearance of favoritism because my name is connected to the case."

A new wrinkle occurred to Regina. "Do you think your political adversaries could be behind the hearing?"

He made a rueful noise. "You don't get to this level without making a few enemies. A new trial and the commotion around it would be a gift to my opponent."

"The voters would sympathize with you," Cissy declared, already sounding like a good campaign worker.

"Maybe," he conceded. "Or my constituents might be convinced that I'd be so distracted by a new trial that I couldn't fulfill my duties." He shrugged. "And maybe I couldn't."

She digested his insightful words. She hadn't considered all the motivations coming into play, or all the ramifications of a cathartic confession. Maybe Justine and Mica were right... for all the wrong reasons, but still....

Then her uncle brightened and pushed himself to his feet. "I've just decided to take it one day at a time. I'm afraid I must go—I'm presiding over Cub Scout presentations at your aunt's park." He grinned. "Too bad the tykes can't vote."

Regina laughed and walked him to his car for a last hug. "Uncle Lawrence, I hope that everything turns out the way you want."

"My dear, I learned a long time ago that things don't always turn out the way you want, but things generally turn out for the best." He sobered. "It's good of you to come home and look after your mother."

"Since Justine and Mica are home, they're looking after her." She glanced toward the porch where her mother sat rocking. "They're both closer to Mom."

"Maybe. But everyone in this family knows you're the one to count on in a pinch."

He always knew what to say, how to make the middle daughter feel special. And she loved him for it. Such a shame that he'd never had any children of his own.

Uncle Lawrence climbed into the car and started the engine, then rolled down his window. "Oh, and some advice on your Mr. Cooke." He winked. "Flirt back."

* * *

"You're here early," Mitchell said from the office door.

Regina looked up from a ledger, annoyed that she was glad to see him, then reasoned that it was only because he wasn't related to her. "It was the least I could do since I left you on your own yesterday." Plus she'd wanted to get out of the house as soon as possible this morning.

"I only worked half a day," he said. "I tagged a few more pieces for the dump—the truck is coming Wednesday." He held out the requisite box of doughnuts.

Many missed gym visits crossed her mind, but she took one anyway. "What did you do the rest of the day?"

"Filled a cooler with beer; then your dad, Sam, and I went fishing."

She frowned. "I thought Dad was watching the shop."

He shrugged. "Business was slow, and he looked like he could use some male company. No offense."

The idea of her father turning to a stranger for support rankled her. "He did seem better when he stopped by the house last night." He hadn't been hammered.

"Your dad isn't much of a talker—or a fisherman, for that matter—but he does adore you girls."

"He and Mica were especially close. Her absence has been hard on him, and now that she's back, it's almost as if he's afraid to talk to anyone."

"He blames himself for hiring that loser guy to work here."

She raised her eyebrows, surprised that her father would confide in Mitchell. "Dad couldn't have known how things would turn out with Dean."

He shrugged. "Bottom line, he believes he didn't protect his daughters." Then he held up his hands. "But you didn't hear that from me."

She nodded, dismayed to discover yet another layer of family disharmony. She pointed. "I made coffee, but don't expect miracles."

He poured himself a cup. "So what did you do yesterday?"

"I spent time with Justine and Mica, got shot at, and I helped Mom in the garden."

"Run that middle one by me again."

She waved her hand. "We took a walk; a hunter mistook us for game; we're fine."

"O-kay."
He snagged two doughnuts from the box. "How are your sisters getting along?"

"A temporary truce." So they could gang up on her. And go shopping, according to the bags they'd toted in. But at least they were talking, and that was something.

"You look tired."

She shrugged. "Just missing my own bed, I guess."

He tried the coffee, winced, then dropped into one of the desk chairs. "Hm. Don't think I've ever been attached to one particular bed." He flashed her a cocky smile. "Yours must be special."

Over her coffee, she gave him a withering look.

He looked at Sam and shrugged. "Just trying to get her to smile. She's really something when she smiles, isn't she, Sam?"

Sam barked in agreement, forcing her to smile and shake her head at their silliness.

"Ah, there it is. Now, Sam, if we could only figure out why she wears her hair in such a tight little bun."