“Yep.” Frankie stood. “I’m done. Besides, I think you two need some time alone. I’ll do the dishes.”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll help,” Helena protested.
“But you hardly even touched your food,” Frankie said.
“I don’t know what it is, maybe the ride, but my stomach is kind of queasy.” As Helena walked past Patrick with her plate in her hand, he grabbed her by the other wrist. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” Patrick said.
“About what?”
She was still a bad liar. “About what I called you.”
“Oh Gosh, didn’t even faze me. No big deal.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.” She stared blankly at him.
“Maybe we do need to talk. There’re some things I’d like to say.” Her lack of emotion was disconcerting. Was she simply trying to hide from the feelings he was sure were still there? At least he felt them.
“Patrick, not tonight okay? I’m enjoying myself and don’t want to wreck it by discussing the past.”
His gut sank. “What about the future?”
“What are you talking about? All I know is that we have a daughter to raise. I’m grateful you’ve let me back into her life, I really am. But if you think that includes you back on a level other than friendship, you’re wrong. I did that once, and look where it got us.”
Her blank look turned to one of anger. He dropped her wrist. Now it was his turn to feel like crying. Patrick hadn’t realized how strongly he still yearned for Helena until tonight.
He remembered the first time he’d called her Lena. They’d been in Italy that night. They’d heard
La
Traviata
at La Scala. He’d held her hand loosely, as if they’d been a couple forever, completely meant for each other. It was easy being with her, unlike his high-strung wife.
Each time he looked at her, he’d tried to forget she was only seventeen. He’d never felt happier. Leeza was at home running the business and partying with the LA crowd. Patrick spent most of his time in Manhattan. Only their fourth year of marriage, but he couldn’t make her happy. He’d wanted a baby, thinking that might bring them closer, but he was in love with Lena. If it hadn’t been for her age…
Patrick took his plate into the kitchen, wondering if Frankie was right. Regardless of what Helena had told him, there did seem to be feelings there. He knew that he had them, and if calling her Lena had caused such a stir in her, perhaps it proved that she also had feelings for him. Could he be that lucky? Could they be a family together? He hoped secretly it was a possibility.
On her way back home, Helena dialed Tim’s number on her cell-phone. She needed to talk to someone who would understand. The night had been successful in many ways. She was overjoyed that she and Frankie had made a real connection. But she’d been disturbed that Patrick still had romantic feelings for her. It was a problem she was not sure she was ready for or could handle.
Tim would hassle her. He’d told her that he thought they should get back together, loving the idea of romances rekindled and one big happy family. He picked up on the third ring. She checked her watch. It was already ten-thirty—an hour away from home yet.
“Hey, lovey,” he yawned.
“Were you sleeping?”
“No, relaxing. A friend of mine just left. He had to go home to the other half, if you know what I mean.”
“Uh-huh.” Though Helena knew full well the pain that cheating caused, it was Tim’s life, and he reveled in all its sensationalism.
“What’s up, cutie pie? You sound disturbed. Did something happen at the ranch?”
“You could say that.”
“Did you get into your ex’s pants?”
“Nothing like that.”
“Then why all the tension in your voice?”
Helena paused before replying. “He called me Lena tonight.” Tim would know the significance of that. They’d had many talks about her nights with Patrick.
“No! He still loves you! What are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t think that’s it. A simple slip up, that’s all. I mean, what am I supposed to do?”
“Tell me something, and you know I’ll never reveal your secret.”
“What?” She was afraid to hear the question.
“How do you feel about him? Really? What is your gut saying?”
“Tim, I have no idea. I’ve spent so many years trying not to feel anything about Patrick. I’m pretty mixed up.”
“I can see we need another therapy session. Do you want me to meet you at your house tonight?”
“Not this late. Besides, I’ve still got to run the dog. I didn’t have time earlier today.”
“Are you sure? I don’t mind. I’m worried about that nasty ex of his sending out another goon after you.”
“And that’s why I love you so much. You’re a wonderful friend. But no, get some sleep.”
“I don’t suppose I need to bother harping on you about caution, because I know it won’t do me any good to try and help.”
“Nope. You can chat me up about it in the morning.”
“I’ll bring the lattes.”
“You’d better.”
Helena clicked off the phone with the question of the day banging in her head—how did she really feel about Patrick?
No sooner than she’d set down the phone did it ring again. Surely, it was Tim calling back to razz her some more. “I said we’d talk about it in the morning.”
“Helena?” It was a woman’s voice.
“Yes.”
“Hi, it’s me, Lindsay from The Sober Living House, and we’ve been trying to reach you for the last hour.”
“I’m on the road. What’s up? Is something wrong?”
Helena could hear it in Lindsay’s voice. It crackled when she spoke next, “Yes, yes, something is. A little over an hour ago, I received a call from the UCLA burn center. Rachel was burned pretty badly in a fire this evening.”
“What? Oh, my God. Where? The baby? What about the baby? Oh God. Is she okay?” Helena tried hard to stay on the road as her vision blurred, not believing what she’d heard.
“The baby was here. I was taking care of him. She told me she was going to walk over to the new place, you know your place, Shea House, and check it out. She was all excited about it.”
“I know, I know. Tell me what happened?” Her heart was beating so fast it hurt.
“Apparently she got inside somehow and was looking around when the building . . . when the building . . .”
“When the building WHAT, Lindsay?!” Helena screamed into the phone, a panic rising in her like she’d never known before.
“The front part of the building, the part Rachel was in, blew. It blew up, Helena. They don’t know if she’ll make it.” Helena could hear Lindsey crying. “They don’t know if Rachel is going to live.”
Claire’s dinner with Leeza was anything but dull. The broad had
flair
, you had to give her that. Claire sat across from her wondering how much hairspray it took to get that huge heap of bright red curls to stay put.
“You know, I’m not totally heartless. I don’t want the kid to get hurt.”
Claire held back her urge to laugh, nearly choking on her Caesar salad.
Leeza must have read her thoughts. She leaned her head to one side, doing that sultry but innocent thing she’d become famous for. “I know what you’re thinking, Claire. In the past, I’ve been pretty vindictive.”
“Nothing short of a barracuda,” Claire snorted gleefully.
“It’s not like they didn’t deserve it, especially that bitch Helena. But no matter what, I didn’t want to hurt Frances.” Leeza slowly sipped her champagne, staining the rim of the glass with her shell-pink lipstick. Claire could feel heads turn in their direction. Did Leeza feel the men’s lustful glances and the jealous looks from their companions? For what Leeza lacked in charm, she made up for in the full-bodied sexiness department.
It wasn’t as if Claire was some slouch. She had looks too, but in a cute, petite way. The magnetic seductress across from her licked the rim of her flute. Claire shifted uncomfortably in her chair.
Leeza set the flute down and looked directly at Claire. As she leaned over the table, her cleavage left nothing to the imagination. Claire caught a whiff of expensive floral perfume Leeza must’ve bathed in. It nearly bowled her over, causing her to sneeze.
“Now you have no reason to believe anything I say about this, because last year, when I brought you the story, I didn’t care who got hurt, not even the kid. But I’ve thought a lot about that little girl in the last couple of months. And I’ve got to tell you, I didn’t come from the easiest upbringing myself. I think a little of my spunk wore off on her over the years.”
Claire shook her head trying once again to stifle her laughter. Was this self-deluded woman for real? Maybe she was beginning to believe her own lies.
“Sounds crazy I know. But I’ve read some of the snotty cracks she’s dished out to the reporters. That kid’s no dummy.”
“What are you saying, Leeza?”
“Can you write the story I told you without involving Frances?”
Claire finally laughed this time. “Leeza, how can I? It’s all about her birth mother threatening you if you don’t leave the girl alone.”
“Can’t you write something nasty about Helena then?”
“I probably could, but it’s not worth my time. Either I print the whole sordid conversation, or I don’t do it at all. Anyway, what’s your deal? Patrick paid you up the yang, you’ve had your day in the sun, beat him, her, and the kid to a pulp mentally. Now it looks like Helena’s trying to do some payback for her mistakes with this new center she’s having built. Why don’t you can it for a while? Enjoy life. Get over your spite. Take some of your cash and spend a week at one of those hedonist places down in the Bahamas, or some place like that. You’d love it. It’s right up your alley.”
“All right then.” Leeza rolled her eyes.
“All right, what?”
“Don’t do it. I’ll drop it.”
The bill came, Leeza’s cue to go to the ladies room. Claire was baffled by this turn of events. She paid the bill and weighed running the story anyway.
Waiting for Leeza to return, Claire ordered a stiff drink so she could at least ask her about her
Playboy
spread, reminding herself that sex sells.
She sucked back the drink and made a final decision not to run the story about Helena. She knew that she might hate herself later for not going through with it.
“Oh God,” she thought. “Am I getting a conscience? What in the hell are they putting in the water around here?” She held up the glass, studying the liquid inside, then quickly ordered another drink. God help her if she truly was gaining a sense of moral decency.
1974
Before . . .
Richard leaned against the headboard of his bead and reread
Ligeia
, the poem about Poe’s true love. It reminded him of Janie Keaton every time he read it. For the first year after her death, he couldn’t read “Murders on the Rue Morgue” or any of Poe’s poetry. But as the years passed, so did the feelings of contempt for himself and for her. He’d learned not to care or feel anything at all about it. He knew that she would still be alive if she’d been nice to him.
What a relief it was that no one ever discovered what really happened to Janie Keaton that late summer night four years earlier. He’d been stupid and careless then. Now at seventeen, he was much wiser and far more calculating. He played dumb, but Richard knew he could pretty much play any role required of him. Acting came easily for him. He’d been lucky that no one ever suspected him. Of course, no one had any inkling that he and Janie had been friends.
Richard set down the book of poetry on the nightstand beside him and laughed aloud, thinking what people around town believed happened to Janie. Her ignorant drunk of a father made himself look pretty guilty when, only two months after Janie’s disappearance, neighbors found the Keatons dead. Janie’s father had murdered his wife in a drunken rage, then turned the gun on himself and blew his own brains out. It was the talk of the town for quite some time.
Richard used to sit in the deli and listen to people speculate about the murder/suicide and Janie’s disappearance.
“Her dad did it. Everyone knows it. Poor Janie’s probably buried out in the woods somewhere. You know he was a drunk? She sure hid that one. Mrs. Stone says he was probably raping her and he was afraid she’d tell someone.” The rumor grew grander with each conversation, and soon his guilt was pretty much the consensus around town. Richard got off totally free.
Richard headed out the back door to have a look at his collection. After the incident with Janie, he’d been determined to get a few things right.
As the door slammed, he heard Aunt Valerie yell after him, “Richard! Richard, where are you going? Thanksgiving’s tomorrow, and I need you to get that turkey for me.”
Richard didn’t reply. She kept on yelling. He kept on walking. During the six years that he’d lived with his uncle and aunt, he’d learned to ignore her. Uncle James never said anything to him about it, probably because Uncle James knew how cruel she’d been to him. She took every opportunity to knock him or put his mother down. She was a real hypocrite, always touting her undying faith while heaping abuse on him and his uncle.