The House on Sugar Plum Lane (8 page)

All Brandon had ever wanted was to be successful, to be a good provider and someone his wife and child could be proud of. But apparently, according to Amy, he'd overdone it. Yet in spite of what she might think, he loved her and Callie. He just hadn't realized how much until she moved out of the La Jolla house and took their daughter with her.

And what made it all worse was that he didn't have a clue how to make things right, which was as unsettling as it was surprising. At work, he tackled cases all the time that had fallen apart for other attorneys. He was good at picking up the pieces, at structuring a new game plan, and moving ahead full throttle. It was a skill he'd learned early in life.

As a teenager, he'd figured out a way to move out of the squalid apartment in which he'd grown up, a way to break free from the lousy childhood he'd had. Education had been his ticket out, his only path to a better life than the one he'd known so far. So he'd taken the ball and run with it, snagging scholarships that took him all the way to law school and helped him land a position with a top firm. He'd even made partner in short order.

Everyone at Price, Feller, Goldstein, and Masterson considered him a success and one of the top attorneys in the state. But little did they know that, these days, their boy wonder went home each night to an empty house in an up-scale neighborhood, where he wandered the expansive rooms all by himself.

Of course, Jake Goldstein probably knew, since their wives were friends, but Jake hadn't said a word about it. And neither had Brandon.

What was he supposed to admit, that his beautiful wife had left him?

He could almost hear them all whispering behind his back, “What a loser, Masterson.”

Brandon cringed at the thought. He hadn't failed at anything in his life, other than at marriage and family, which he blamed on his old man. If he'd had a better role model, if he'd grown up in a loving, two-parent home….

He blew out a sigh and continued the ten-block walk to the harbor, where a guy ran a stand near the water and sold the best hot dogs Brandon had ever tasted. He sure had a hankering for a couple of them today.

As the red-striped umbrella that shaded the stand came into view, he heard whistling to his right and glanced toward the musical sound.

A man seated on a bench met his gaze in one of those weird, déjà vu moments, and the whistling stopped.

A homeless man, Brandon suspected.

He didn't look particularly dirty, though, but his beard and hair needed a trim, and his worn and frayed clothing suggested he'd hit upon hard times.

Brandon sympathized with guys like that, but he never gave them cash. Not when he wasn't sure how they'd spend the money. But he didn't mind buying them something to eat, so he continued on to the stand with that in mind.

He could smell the meat cooking, and his stomach growled in anticipation.

“Hey there.” Hank, the middle-aged hot-dog hawker, broke into a bright-eyed grin when he spotted Brandon's approach. “How's it goin', Mr. Masterson?”

“Not bad.” Brandon pointed to the plump wieners on the grill. “Give me four, and put them in two sacks.”

“You got it.”

Five minutes later, Brandon returned to the bus stop.

“You hungry?” he asked the shaggy-haired guy on the bench.

The man, his eyes a remarkable shade of blue, looked up and smiled as he took the bag Brandon offered. “Thanks.”

Apparently assuming that Brandon meant to join him for lunch, he scooted over, freeing up a place to sit.

Usually, Brandon would have declined and headed back to the office, but for some crazy reason—hunger, most likely—he took a seat.

“That was nice of you,” the guy said.

Brandon didn't respond. He'd gone through a few hungry days himself, and it was a do-unto-others sort of thing. So he looked out at the water, at a couple of noisy seagulls swooping near the surface and back up again. Then he dug into the bag for his hot dog.

“You know,” the homeless man said, “it's never too late to change.”

Brandon figured the stranger was sharing an epiphany he'd recently had. “You're right about that.”

“Sometimes fixing a key relationship can help you make sense of everything else in life,” he added.

Brandon didn't feel the need to comment.

“It can also help a man rebuild a marriage.”

Now
that
hit a little too close to home and caught Brandon's attention. “What are you talking about?”

“You got a raw deal as a kid, and it's created havoc in your interpersonal relationships ever since.”

“Me?” Brandon merely stared at him. Other than his dad, no one had screwed him over. But that was in the past. And it certainly hadn't caused his breakup with Amy. So he shook off the pseudo-psychic vibe, but he couldn't quite ignore the words. “What in the world makes you think that?”

“There's a sadness about you. It's obvious to anyone who gets within a few feet of you. You look like someone who's down on his luck.”

Oh, for Pete's sake. How could his rough-edged bench mate, of all people, make a leap like that?

Brandon was wearing an Armani suit today. Okay, so he'd left the tie back in the office, but he clearly wasn't unkempt or wearing ragged clothes.

On the other hand, he risked a glance across the bench at the man who not only appeared to be struggling to get by in life, but who was probably a taco short of a combination plate.

Deciding to put some distance between them, Brandon folded the remainder of his lunch in the waxed paper in which it had been wrapped. As he got to his feet, he bit back the urge to respond, “You're one crazy dude.”

What had compelled him to sit next to a guy like that in the first place?

“Believe it or not,” the man added, “it's a fairly easy fix.”

What was? Backpedaling? Going back in time?

Hunting down his old man only to find he'd probably drank himself to death by now?

Winning back Amy?

Brandon slowly shook his head but held his tongue. Who was giving the advice here? Who was offering whom a handout?

He turned away, intending to return to the office where sanity reigned, only to hear the man say, “Just because you messed up once doesn't mean you have to keep doing the wrong thing.”

Brandon froze in his tracks. Then he looked over his shoulder at the guy most people would classify as a total failure. “Who said I ‘messed up'?”

“Didn't you?” Those blue eyes, clear and piercing, seemed to chip away at Brandon's façade, the one he'd created while in high school and had polished to perfection in college. “Everyone makes mistakes that can have an unexpected effect on the lives of others. And it's tough to correct what's already been done. But the future offers healing, if you'll open your heart. And making peace with the past is often the first step.”

Brandon glanced out over the harbor, felt the sea breeze ruffle his hair. Was he suggesting that Brandon acknowledge defeat? That he make peace with what he'd done, what he'd failed to do?

Or was he just plain crazy?

“The next time you're in Fairbrook,” the man said, “stop by the soup kitchen at Parkside Community Church.”

Brandon stiffened. Fairbrook was only ten miles from here, but other than tracking down Amy on Sugar Plum Lane, he'd never even driven through the town; he'd never had any reason to.

“Why would I want to do that?” he asked.

“To face the past and make amends.”

“With whom?” Brandon asked, chuckling in an effort to blow the guy off.

The man took another bite of his hot dog, then looked out over the water, at the ships and beyond. “You'll figure it out.”

Brandon dismissed the encounter, telling himself the guy was off his rocker, that he was homeless for a reason.

“And if you
don't
catch on,” the guy said, those blue eyes peeling back the last gilded layer of Brandon's armor, “talk to Pastor Craig.”

“About what?”

“Just tell him Jesse sent you.”

 

The Italian leather of Barbara's Gucci pumps clicked and tapped against the polished linoleum as she stepped off the elevator and turned left toward the cardiac unit on her way to visit Joey again.

She caught a whiff of the food cart, the scent of which mingled with the ever-present odor of disinfectant and pungent pharmaceuticals that seemed to drip from the walls.

A wave of nausea gripped her, just as it had in 1966, when she'd arrived at the hospital in Honolulu and had to face her husband for the first time since she'd done the unspeakable.

She'd thought that she'd caught an intestinal flu bug, since she'd felt absolutely fine for the first half of her pregnancy. Then as if a curse had been set in motion, the nausea had struck with a vengeance when she'd had to walk into Joseph's room.

She'd thought for sure that he would see the betrayal in her eyes. But he hadn't, and she'd considered it a stroke of luck.

The loose-fitting clothing she'd worn had covered a multitude of sins. And he'd been too wrapped up in himself—in the seriousness of his injury and the resulting depression after learning that there was a possibility he'd never walk again—to notice her bulging waistline.

Barbara had stayed in Hawaii for three weeks that summer, then she'd returned to Fairbrook when they'd sent Joseph to a rehabilitation hospital on the mainland. Two months later, just before he was discharged from the service and sent home, she'd gone into premature labor.

Hadn't that been an even bigger stroke of luck? A sign that she'd be able to wipe the slate clean? That no one needed to ever know what she'd done?

After she'd given birth to a four-pound baby girl, a child she'd refused to look at before signing the adoption papers, the nursing staff hadn't been able to bundle her up and take her away soon enough.

Thank God Joseph had never found out.

He'd not only survived his injuries, but their marriage had survived her indiscretion.

Over the next few decades, Joseph had gone on to make something of his life. He was now a successful businessman, the CEO of an aerospace company, and seriously considering a run for Congress next year.

Barbara had no doubt he'd make it. Her husband had been destined for big things, which was why he'd been spared in Vietnam.

Thank goodness, it was behind them now, although a ghost from the past had almost ruined it six months ago.

She could nearly hear the woman's soft, almost frail voice on the phone now.

“Mrs. Davila?”

“Yes?”

“Barbara Rucker Davila?”

“Yes,” she'd said again, this time louder. She'd hoped the caller would cut to the chase. She'd had an appointment for a manicure and pedicure that afternoon and needed to leave.

“I'm Susan Rossi,” the woman said. “You don't know me, but I think you're my mother.”

Everything Barbara had set to rights had turned topsy-turvy again, but she'd pulled out of the tailspin long enough to say, “I'm sorry. You have the wrong number. I'm not your mother. Please don't ever call this house again.”

“But—”

Barbara had hung up the phone. Her heart had pounded like an old-fashioned steam locomotive, and she'd felt the blood pulsating in her ears. She'd managed to keep her secret for nearly forty-five years.

And she'd be darned if she would let it out now.

The next day, as Amy drove down Sugar Plum Lane, she spotted the gardener's pickup parked in front of the house, but there was no sign of Eddie in the yard.

The lawn had been mowed and trimmed, though. And a sprinkler, which had been attached to a hose, was spraying water over the driest patch of brown grass. So Amy suspected he was in the back.

“How come we keep coming here?” Callie asked, as Amy pulled into the driveway and parked.

“Because Mommy is renting this house for a while. That means we can come by and go inside whenever we want to.” Amy glanced into the rearview mirror, caught a wisp of confusion in her daughter's eyes. “I'm also packing things in boxes for the lady who used to live here.”

The answer seemed to satisfy Callie for a moment, then she asked, “But we're not going to move all our stuff
again,
are we?”

“No, honey.” Relocating from the sprawling, custom-built house on the bluffs in La Jolla to the three-bedroom townhome in Del Mar had been tough enough on the child.

“Good,” Callie said, as she unbuckled the seat belt that secured her in her booster. “I don't like moving.”

Guilt, as it was sometimes prone to do, sliced through Amy, reminding her that she'd made the decision to uproot Callie even though her mom had advised against it before she died.

“Don't you like the new house?” Amy asked.

“It's okay. I like my new room better than the old one, but I miss my swing set. It was the funnest one in the whole wide world.”

Callie had spent hours playing on the combination swing set/climbing structure, but it had been too big and bulky to move. Besides, it would have never fit in the little patio area that now served as their only yard.

“But we
do
have the community park,” Amy reminded her, the tone of her voice holding a bit more enthusiasm than she felt. “And you get to play in the old backyard whenever you visit Daddy.”

“Yeah, but I don't see him that much.”

Actually, it seemed that Callie saw Brandon more now than ever before, since she'd usually been asleep whenever he'd decided to finally leave the office and come home.

“I wish we still lived in the other house,” Callie said.

Amy didn't. The townhome was so much warmer and cozier. And while she still couldn't claim to be happy, she didn't feel nearly as sad and lonely there.

For a moment, she had to acknowledge that she still missed her mother, that she still grieved her death. And that the move hadn't changed any of that.

Now's not the time to make a decision like this,
Brandon had said when Amy announced she was moving out.
Your mother just died. Leaving me isn't going to make you happy. Nothing will.

I've wanted out of our marriage for a long time,
she'd countered.
And my mom tried to talk me out of it. To be honest, since it seemed to give her peace thinking we'd worked through our problems, I put it off until after she was gone.

I'll admit that I'm to blame for some of your unhappiness, honey. But not all of it. A lot of your misery comes from seeing your mom so sick and losing her. Divorcing me isn't going to make the grief go away.

Instead of continuing to explain her decision, Amy had clamped her mouth shut and started to pack. She'd never stood a chance arguing against a skilled attorney who could make a solid point even if he didn't believe what he was saying.

Brandon had been right, though. After she'd moved out, she still hurt. But she couldn't help believing she'd made the right decision.

When her mother died, Brandon should have realized that she would need him around more than ever. That she would covet his love, understanding, and support.

So no matter how she looked at it, he was to blame for the divorce.

As Amy shut off the ignition, she noticed Maria standing in her own yard, talking to her two youngest children.

Maria waved, and when she spotted Callie in the backseat, she placed her hand on her daughter's shoulder and guided her toward the shrubbery that divided the properties in the front.

Amy supposed there was no getting around introducing the girls now, so she got out of the car, opened the rear passenger door, and helped her daughter out. While Callie reached for her doll, Amy snatched the pink backpack and the additional packing boxes she'd brought.

“Hi,” Maria said to the child. “You must be Callie. This is Sara.”

The girls looked at each other and smiled shyly, but neither spoke.

“What have you got there?” Maria asked, looking at the doll Callie carried.

“This is Tina.”

“I have a baby, too,” Sara said, warming up and pressing forward. “Do you want to see her?”

Callie nodded, and the dark-haired girl dashed toward the house, a ponytail swishing along her back.

“How's the packing coming along?” Maria asked Amy.

“Slower than I expected.” Actually, she'd found herself taking her time, getting to know her mother's biological grandmother better. And with each moment she spent in the house, she sensed a growing connection to the woman who'd once lived in the old Victorian. It was almost eerie. Still, she wasn't about to share what she was doing with the neighbors. It was bad enough that Brandon knew what she was up to, that he thought she'd overstepped a boundary of some kind.

“If you'd like to get some work done without Callie underfoot,” Maria said, “she can come over and help Sara and me roll out tortillas. I mixed up the dough early this morning, and we were going to head inside and finish them.”

“I've heard making homemade tortillas isn't as easy as it looks.”

Maria laughed. “These will taste good, but we'll probably end up with some odd shapes.”

Amy smiled, imagining they would. “Callie likes to cook and bake. Are you sure you don't mind?”

“Not at all. It'll be nice for Sara to have another little girl to play with for a change.”

“All right. When you get finished, why don't the girls come over here and watch TV. I have a DVD player set up and several Disney movies for them to choose from.”

“That sounds great.”

Sara came back outside with her doll just as the gardener returned from the backyard.

“How's it going?” Amy asked Eddie.

“It's all right. I was on the side of the house and heard you two talking. It reminded me that I forgot to have Maria sign a release form for me to cut her tree yesterday.”

“But you've already done the work,” Maria said.

“Yeah, well….” Eddie shrugged, and a crooked smile stretched across his face. “My brother is a real stickler for formalities, and it'll make my life a whole lot easier if I get the paperwork in order—even if it's after the fact.”

“Then you'd better get the form.” Maria's eyes glistened with humor. “I wouldn't want you to get into trouble.”

As Eddie started for his pickup, Amy said, “Should I come and get the girls in an hour or so?”

“Don't worry about it. I'll bring them back when we're done.”

“Then if you'll excuse me, I'll go inside and get busy.”

As Amy unlocked the front door of Ellie's house and went inside, Maria watched her go.

She probably should have mentioned that Ellie was living with her. It wasn't as though it was a big secret, although Barbara thought it was.

“Don't let the new neighbors know that my mother is living with you,” she'd said when she'd called to tell Maria someone was leasing the house. “I don't want them bothering her. I've hired a property manager to deal with any issues that might crop up.”

Maria could understand that, but it wouldn't take more than a few moments of conversation for anyone to realize Ellie wasn't going to be able to deal with a leaky toilet or a faulty furnace. Still, Maria would look out for her as long as she could.

The trouble was, she didn't know how much longer she could keep Ellie. The poor woman's memory seemed to be fading more each day. And before long, she and the Davilas would all have to face the truth: Ellie would have to move to a convalescent hospital to live out her final days.

“Here you go,” Eddie said, returning with a clipboard that had a sheet of paper attached.

Maria couldn't help noting how the sun shimmered off the dark strands of his hair, how beads of sweat and a smudge of dirt marred his brow.

He was a handsome man. And younger than she was.

Not that it mattered. Nothing would become of her fleeting attraction to him. A guy like that wouldn't want to be strapped to a single mom with three kids. And even if he did? She wouldn't risk heartbreak and disappointment again. Her ex had proven to be a loser in so many ways.

“It's a pretty standard form,” Eddie said, handing it to her.

He was right, Maria decided, so she signed her name, giving Gonzales Landscaping permission to enter her yard and cut her tree limb—after the fact.

“What's the date?” she asked.

“Yesterday was Wednesday, the fourth.”

She completed the form and returned the clipboard to Eddie. Sometimes her days blurred into one another. Had a week gone by already?

Barbara Davila usually stopped by on Tuesdays to see her mother, although with her son in the hospital, she'd missed a couple of weeks.

“You know,” Eddie said, “my brother coaches a kids' baseball team, and I might be able to get your son on it. If so, I can take him back and forth to practices for you.”

The comment, it seemed, had come out of the blue, and she couldn't help wondering why.

Yesterday, while Eddie had cut the tree limb in the backyard, Danny had stuck to him like glue. She'd glanced out the window several times and seen them talking, but hadn't thought anything of it.

Had Danny mentioned that he'd wanted to play Little League, but that it hadn't worked out?

Was that why he'd been so unhappy lately? Did he resent having to stick around the house so much of the time?

Maria crossed her arms and shifted her weight to one hip. “Did Danny put you up to asking me?”

“No, I'm afraid I came up with the idea all by myself.”

“Why? He must have said something to you.”

“Not really.”

Did she dare tell Eddie about the problems she'd been having with her son?

Or had Danny already revealed that, giving the situation his own spin?

“I was just making conversation with him,” Eddie said. “And I asked if he played baseball. He went on to say that you needed his help around the house, but that it was okay. He wasn't all that big on sports. But…”

“You didn't believe him?”

“Not really.” Eddie studied her with an intensity that surprised her, unnerved her. “You seem uneasy about something. What's wrong?”

She'd never been one to open up to strangers, but for some reason, she couldn't hold back from this one. Maybe because Danny had already reached out to him and she hoped to find a mediator, someone who could make things go back to being the way they used to be.

“Nothing's wrong,” she said. “Not really. It's just that I'm having some problems with him. He's always been a happy kid and easy to get along with. Helpful, too. But he's…Well, I don't know if he's unhappy, going through a rebellious stage, or both.”

“Getting involved in sports might help. Of course, the team Ramon coaches is made up of kids at risk. So I'm not sure how you'd feel about having Danny play with them, but they're basically good kids. They just have a couple of strikes against them.”

“They're at risk?” she asked. “For what?”

“Getting into trouble. Each of them has at least one parent in jail or in prison. So they need the structure and the outlet that baseball provides.”

She stiffened. Had Danny told Eddie about his dad? About how he was serving time for killing a man? She hated to ask. Instead, she said, “The season's almost over. Isn't it?”

“Actually, the team isn't affiliated with Little League. It'll last all summer. And then they'll play football in the fall and basketball in the winter.”

“Who do they play against?”

“It's a new county-wide program. Quite a few of the bigger cities have received grants to fund the league and to provide equipment. And so far, it's been a big success.”

Danny must have said something, although that was surprising. As far as she knew, he usually kept that secret close to the vest. And she couldn't blame him. It had been a crushing blow to her, too. To make matters worse, she'd had to stay in L.A. to testify. The details of Ray's affair with a married woman had come out during the trial, and it had been ugly—just the kind of sordid story the media loved. The Los Angeles newspapers' and the local television stations' coverage of the trial hadn't allowed her or Danny a moment's peace or privacy.

In fact, she'd taken the kids back to Fairbrook as soon as she could. She'd needed to keep them away from the embarrassing limelight and give them time to forget.

As much as she'd like to keep the conversation away from talk about her ex, about the heartache he'd dumped on her and the kids, she couldn't help asking, “Did Danny tell you about his dad?”

“Not really. He just said that he doesn't live here. And that he doesn't see him very often.”

“My ex-husband is in prison,” Maria admitted.

Had the news shocked him? Or had she only imagined seeing the twitch in his eye, the tension in his jaw?

“I had no idea,” he finally said. “When I mentioned the ball team and the kids at risk, I was just throwing an idea out there. I wasn't even sure if the league rules would allow him to play in the games, although I figured he could at least practice with them.”

“Unfortunately, Danny qualifies to play.” Her voice came out soft, resigned.