A Mother's Love (10 page)

Leila's eyes widened as shock, in fact, stole her breath. Yes. Oh, yes, there was.

She whispered, “Did Dad make you…”

She saw the answer on her mother's face, the sadness, and felt a huge swell of grief for the kind man she'd adored.

Mom sat down again, and they filled the silence that had opened like a Grand Canyon between them, but everything important had already been said.

Talk to her about your confusion,
Mark had said. Had he
guessed she'd end up even more confused, and not just about her parents or her mother's wedding plans? That she would finally know what to call that shaky, trembling-on-the-edge-of-a-precipice feeling she always had in his presence?

Half an hour later Leila locked the door behind her mother, then leaned against it, her eyes closed, her heartbeat filling her ears.

How had so much changed—and so fast?

T
HE LESS SHE SAW OF
Mark, the hungrier she was for brief glimpses. It was ridiculous and completely illogical, of course; she'd forget that kiss a lot more easily if she didn't see him. But reason didn't seem to have anything to do with it.

By Friday Leila was driven to making excuses to walk down the hall in hopes of running into him or at least catching his eye if he was at his desk. She went to the restroom so often Marge in her unit kindly suggested cranberry juice.

Friday afternoon, leaving for the weekend, she'd given up. Halfway to her car in the parking lot, she groped in her purse for her keys and mumbled under her breath when she couldn't find them. That'd teach her to carry a sinkhole of a purse.

Hands closed on her shoulders, and she gasped and lifted her head to find she'd been about to walk right into somebody. Not somebody—Detective Mark Duncan.

He smiled at her quizzically. “You're lucky I wasn't a car.”

“I'm so sorry!” No, she wasn't. There he was, right in front of her, gray eyes intent on her face as though he saw so much more than the surface. “I was trying to find my keys and…”

“Are they missing?”

She hoisted the tote-size bag. “Oh, I'm sure they're in here. Somewhere.”

His grin flashed. “I'll walk you to your car.”

To keep her safe? “My own crossing guard,” she murmured as they started walking. Too bad, she thought flippantly, he wouldn't be available Saturday night, when she needed someone courageous at her side.

Leila's eyes widened. That was actually a really, really good idea. He would be the perfect distraction when she went to her mother's for dinner and to meet Robert Wojack. In his presence, conversation would be more general, the focus on her less intense. Hmm…

“How's it going?” Mark asked as if he genuinely cared.

She gave him a sidelong look. “Okay. I'm to meet my stepfather-to-be this weekend. In fact, I was, um, just thinking…”

Wait, wait!
She'd decided not to date him for good and ample reasons. What was she
doing?

He slanted a glance at her. “Thinking?”

“Well, wondering if you're free Saturday night.” She talked fast, drowning out the Klaxon screaming in her head. “My mother's a great cook. And since you've heard the whole story, I thought you might be interested in meeting all parties concerned.”

He stopped dead. Astonishment was followed by alarm and then amusement on his face, the startled train of reactions ending at last in an arrested expression. “Let me get this straight. You're inviting me to have dinner at your mother's house? For your first encounter with this, uh…”

“Robert. Robert Wojack.” She sucked in a deep breath. “Yes.”

“Am I meant to surprise your mother?”

With as much dignity as she could muster, Leila said, “Of course not. I'd let her know you were coming.”

“Huh.” That was all he said for a minute, studying her. They both jumped when a horn sounded and they had to move a few feet so a car could back out. “Okay. I'm in.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah.” His grin was either predatory or very happy, she wasn't sure which. “I'll pick you up.”

She told him the time and let him escort her the rest of the way to her car. Leila had to sit there for some time after he headed back toward the station before she felt competent to drive. If she hadn't been quite certain she hadn't had a drop of alcohol, she'd have thought she was tipsy again. It was that same unsteady, giddy sensation.

Giddy.
Oh, no! Wasn't that the word Jon had used to describe their mother? Leila pressed her hands to her cheeks.
What did I just do?

 

T
HIS WEEK
M
ARK HAD
begun to be afraid that he'd scared Leila off. The expression on her face after he'd shut that damn teakettle up… Remembering still shook him. He'd known better than to come on to her so aggressively. But when she'd thrown her arms around his neck and pressed her body up against his, he'd lost it. He'd been about ready to take her right there in the kitchen.

She'd wanted him, too, he would swear she had. Until she'd remembered whatever it was that had her convinced he was completely untrustworthy.

But, miracle of miracles, he was getting a second chance—and he wouldn't blow it. He wouldn't rush her again. And he'd guard her with his life…against the man who wanted to marry her mother.

He was hoping that flinging his body into the breach wouldn't be necessary, that the invitation was just an excuse on Leila's part to retreat from her determined no-date stance.

It worried him a little that she might be changing her mind because he'd opened his big mouth and agreed he, too, was at an age where he considered a new relationship might end in marriage. Mark didn't even know where that had come from. He hadn't consciously chosen to lie, and it was certainly true that he'd always assumed that someday he'd have a wife and family. He'd even come close once before realizing he was about to make one hell of a big mistake. No, the fact that he'd kept noticing Leila, kept thinking about her, sure wasn't because he'd been hearing the faint ringing of wedding bells. He was a man; he wanted her in his bed.

His optimism that she might be thinking about him in
her
bed suffered a check Saturday once he picked her up. She was pretty clearly freaked out about meeting her mother's fiancé. Maybe she really had latched onto him out of sheer desperation.

Leila directed him to her mother's house, where she'd grown up. She sounded pensive, talking about the For Sale sign that had recently sprung up in the yard.

“Dumb to feel sad, since I've been encouraging Mom to think about moving. The house is too big for her. I just…didn't think it would be so soon.”

A blue sedan that had to be a rental sat in the driveway. Staring at it, Leila made no move to unfasten her seat belt, even after Mark had parked at the curb and turned off the engine.

To buck her up, he said, “Your strategy might work, you know. They're going to be so busy wondering who the hell
I am and why I'm there they won't be watching for your reaction to him.”

“Do you think?” She sighed. “I suppose we should go in.”

Still she sat unmoving. Mark got out, went around to her side of the car and held open her door for her. “The best defense…”

“Is a good offense.” She wrinkled her nose but finally unbuckled the seat belt. “Yeah, yeah.”

Her mother answered the door, a tall man with dark hair gone silver at his temples waiting politely a good ten feet behind her.

Smart,
Mark approved.
Don't crowd her if you know what's good for you. Trust me. Been there, done that.

“Honey.” Her mother gave Leila a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek, then appraised Mark with an expression ostensibly friendly but secretly narrow-eyed.

She was an attractive woman whose daughter had inherited her looks. Chestnut hair, a gentle oval face and that creamy complexion had all been passed on. Leila's brown eyes must have come from her father, though, because Joanne Foster's eyes were blue.

Mark and Leila's mother shook hands, and then she said, “Come in, please.”

The moment of truth had arrived. Smiling, Robert Wojack came forward and held out his hand. “I was just looking at the family photos in the hall. Even so, I hadn't realized how much you look like your mom. I'm glad to meet you at last.”

Leila lied through her teeth and professed to be delighted.

“I hope you'll forgive me for hustling your mother along so fast,” he said. “I find I'm not as patient at this age as I used to be.”

Her mother jumped in. “Nor am I.”

The two of them exchanged sappy smiles. Leila rolled her eyes Mark's way, desperation in them. Her mother and Robert Wojack were so captivated by each other they didn't notice.

His high-wattage smile turning back to Leila, Robert asked, “Can I pour you some wine?” He had the air of a man who was very much at home.

Good God. He was probably staying here. Had that occurred to Leila? Mark took a look and saw from the compressed line of her mouth that, yes, it had.

Robert handed them glasses of white wine, and they moved into the living room. Joanne Foster excused herself to check on dinner, pointedly refusing Leila's help.

Mark lost track of the conversation for a few minutes as he glanced around, trying to picture Leila here as a little girl, a teenager, a young woman leaving for college. He liked the feel of the house. While formal, even the living room still looked as if people actually lived here. He wandered over to look at the framed portraits on the mantel. One was of Leila's college graduation. In it, she was beaming, her arms around her mother and presumably her father, a thin man who looked uncomfortable in the camera's eye. Leila's glorious hair hung to her waist over the black robes, and her smile glowed with pride. Another portrait must be of the brother and his family: three kids lined up stair-step-style, one a flaming redhead with the freckles his dad, aunt and grandma didn't have. Yet another photo of an earlier vintage had three children grinning at the camera, a very young Leila flanked by two boys. Her hair was pigtailed and both her front teeth were missing. Kindergarten age, maybe? Peering closely and comparing photographs, Mark guessed the youngest boy was Jon. So who was the other one?

Behind him, conversation had became less stilted once Leila and Robert discovered their common interest in gardening. Leaving his curiosity about the photos unsatisfied, Mark rejoined the two but was forced to admit that the extent of his gardening was mowing the lawn.

Over dinner, Mark found Robert Wojack easy to like. Even Leila appeared to be succumbing despite her internal struggles. After dessert, the older man brought out pictures of his kids, a daughter and a son who were nearly the ages of Leila and Jon. The daughter had recently presented him with his first grandchild, a preemie who had scared them all but was now thriving. He talked about his business, his big indulgence—a sailboat—and included his wife's name often with a complete lack of self-consciousness. Joanne mentioned Leila's dad several times, too, Mark noticed. The last time, Robert laid his hand over hers and squeezed. Leila stared at the joined hands, biting her lip so hard it must hurt.

Mark reached over, unseen below the level of the table, and followed suit, taking Leila's hand in his. As if she were drowning, she grabbed tight.

A second chance,
he thought again.
Yes.

L
EILA FELT FOR ALL
the world as if she were alone with Mark, although they weren't the only diners in the restaurant. It might be the effect of the lighting or of the placement of tables that kept other voices to no more than a background murmur.

Or maybe the real problem was she had to admit that they were on a date. The real thing. And, darn it, she couldn't even pretend she hadn't wanted to spend more time with him.

Watching her with hooded eyes, he lifted his wineglass to her in a wordless toast. Hiding her panic, she touched hers to his with a tiny crystalline clink. She hid her twitchiness in a sip.

“So you survived the week,” he said. “What's the verdict on the guy?”

She relaxed a little at the question, which kept them in familiar territory. After that first meeting, Leila had gone sightseeing with her mother and Robert on Sunday, then had dinner with them a couple more times. Robert was flying home to San Diego tomorrow, and Leila couldn't help noticing that she hadn't been invited to spend this evening with them.

“He's…not what I expected,” she admitted. “It's hard not to like him.”

Mark's brows rose at that. “You're still trying, then?”

“No, I didn't mean that.” She struggled to articulate her unhappiness. When words finally burst from her, they sounded childish. “He's nothing like Dad!”

“Did you expect him to be?”

“I guess I'd expect her to have picked the same type. You know?”

“From what you told me, she was running from Robert. Maybe she went for the opposite type.”

“You mean, on the rebound?” Had her father, the man Leila worshipped, only ended up married to her mother by a sort of accident, because he'd been in the right place at the right time? Or, worse yet, because he'd been so different from the man who'd broken her mother's heart? It was a horrible thought.

“They did look a little alike,” Mark said thoughtfully.

“Well…they both have brown hair and brown eyes. And they're tall. Otherwise…I don't know. I'm not sure we're so much attracted to a physical type as we are to more intangible qualities, anyway,” Leila replied.

“Yeah? What's your type?”

Why not be honest? She shrugged. “Nerds, probably. You know, smart, sometimes vague, completely lacking in temper, faithful, kind, easygoing.”

They stared at each other. “So that's what's wrong with me,” he observed at last mildly.

“I guess, um, you aren't my usual type.” More like the opposite. Oh, heavens, what did that say about her previous relationships or this inexplicable attraction to a man she had been convinced was so wrong for her?

What was his type? Did she remind him of other women he'd dated? The thought bothered her more than it should.
Ask,
she thought but lost the moment when the waiter brought their dinners to replace the salads.

Instead Mark persuaded her to talk more about her father, and she fondly described the man who had always managed to look just a little rumpled even when he dressed up for special occasions, who'd come without being asked to clean the gutters on her house or replace the washer on the dripping kitchen sink or mow her lawn when she'd had an especially busy week. She found herself smiling as she told him how literal her father's mind had been.

“He hardly ever got jokes. You could see him puzzling them out, bewildered when everyone else laughed.”

Mark seemed to really want to know who her father was and why she'd loved him so dearly. How could she say,
Because he was there?
Not, at least, without telling him about Cody and about her seven-year-old self's shocked realization that her mommy
wasn't
there for her surviving children. And she wasn't quite ready for that.

“What about your mother?” she asked. “Did she ever remarry?”

He shook his head. “Never even dated, as far as I know. I think she was worn-out. Shoring up Dad's mood all those years must have been hard. And pretending for our sakes—and for his, too, I suppose. She has friends, but she seems very happy to be living alone.”

“I can understand that, I suppose.” After all, Leila was happy living alone, wasn't she? Although perhaps not in the same way. She'd always assumed this was a preamble, that sooner or later she'd meet the right man and would then have a family like the one in which she'd grown up. Although perhaps that family hadn't been quite as happy as she'd believed.

Leila kept Mark talking. “You don't sound as if you're very close to your mother.

“My sister is more so,” he said. “Rachel's six years
younger than I am and she was less traumatized by Dad's suicide. For one thing, she didn't see his body.”

Horrified, Leila asked, “You mean, you found him?”

“Yes.”

“That…must have been very hard.”

“It was.” He kept eating, as though they were talking about the Mariners' chances of making the play-offs, but somehow Leila doubted he was tasting a bite of his food.

A bit tentatively, Leila forged on. “You said he'd been a baseball player. What did he do for a living?”

Mark met her gaze, his eyes bleak. “Guess.”

“Guess?” She set down her fork, pondering. Then her eyes widened. “Not—oh, no! He wasn't a police officer!”

“Yep. Killed himself with his service revolver.”

“Is that why…” Of course it was. Even though his father was no longer there to cheer him on, what else could that stunned boy do but follow in his footsteps, even into adulthood? She stared at him in consternation.

“I look like him.” He sounded almost casual but also…dark. “I can't seem to get any answers from my mother on whether Dad was always depressed or whether it hit in his twenties, his thirties… That leaves me wondering, of course. How much like him am I?”

Leila was shocked to her core. “
Are
you depressed?”

His mouth twisted. “No. Just…uh, living with the possibility that the time will come.”

Suddenly outraged, she said sharply, “And you dared to nag
me
to talk to my mother! Call her. Tomorrow. Demand to know his medical history. You're entitled! Unless you
like
living in suspense.”

He blinked. “No, I can't say as I do. I have asked before, you know. She's…evasive.”

“But…why would she be?”

Mark shook his head. “I can't be sure, but I suspect she feels culpable. Could she have said something different, noticed something, done something? Wouldn't you believe, in her circumstances, that it had to be partly your fault?”

“Then shouldn't it comfort her to understand that he was clinically depressed and that she couldn't have prevented his death any more than if he'd had cancer?”

“Is it ever that straightforward? If she'd been home that day, maybe he wouldn't have done it.”

“Not then.”

His shoulders moved. “If he'd had to survive that day, would he have felt as low the next one? Or the next? I think, looking back, he'd spent years somehow managing to convince himself to go on another day. So maybe she could have made a difference.”

“That's not the same as being at fault.” She frowned. “You're still angry at her, aren't you?”

Mark gave her a wry smile. “Not because she wasn't home that day. It's the pretense I resent. What if he had died of cancer and Rachel and I hadn't known he'd been having chemotherapy for the past two years? The effect is the same.”

“That's not fair,” Leila said slowly. “People used to think of any kind of mental illness as shameful. If your mother grew up believing it was… Anyway, how do you know
he
isn't the one who wanted it hidden?”

She'd startled him again. His face went very still, and he seemed to be looking inward. “You know, that never occurred to me.”

Leila thought she'd pressed enough, and he certainly looked thoughtful. They talked of lighter subjects then.

Thank goodness,
she thought during the drive home. Chitchat about nothing in particular was much easier to sustain for someone whose heart had begun to flutter with anticipation and old-fashioned nerves.

Mark parked in front of her house, walked her to the door and waited while she unlocked it and turned to face him.

“Thank you for dinner,” she said, hearing how stiff she sounded. At her age, she really ought to have more poise than this!

“You're welcome.” He stepped a little closer, lifted her chin with one hand and rubbed the pad of his thumb across her lips in an astonishingly sensual caress, then bent his head and kissed her.

Just like the last time, her knees weakened; once again, she reached out and grabbed hold of him. His breath rasped—or maybe it was hers. The slow, aching way he was exploring her mouth changed, became urgent, needy.

But then she felt his fingers dig briefly into her upper arms, and he lifted his head. They stared at each other, with Leila wondering wildly what he saw. His face was taut, drawn, his eyes so dark she couldn't have guessed the color even in the porch light, his breath coming hard and fast.

“Good night,” he said. “Lock up.”

She bit her lip and backed inside, stumbling over the half step. “Yes,
sir,
” she managed, the mock snap in her voice wavering only a little.

Holding to her the sight of his smile, she closed the door and flipped the dead bolt. Her heart was racing now, as if she'd escaped some peril she couldn't even name.