Bones and Roses (25 page)

McGee flashes me an unrepentant grin. “Not a chance.”

“Speaking of ‘pitiful and incomprehensible' …” I look around me at tonight's unusually large assemblage. “I didn't know there were this many drunks in town who were looking to get sober.”

“They ain't all here to get sober,” he replies.

I utter a curse. “Unbelievable. This is a new low even for them.”

“I wasn't talking about the press.” He goes on, at the quizzical look I wear, “In case you haven't noticed, you're a celebrity, Ballard—our very own Kim Kardashian. You're good advertising.”

“That's ridiculous. If being on TV was all it took to be famous, Joan Trousdale would have her own perfume label.” It wasn't even on purpose, my being on TV; it was only when some reporter shoved a microphone in my face.

He shrugs. “What you're selling, money can't buy.”

“I'm not selling anything!”

“Sure you are. It's that little feathered thing called hope.”

Now he's quoting Emily Dickinson? I must be hallucinating. “What are you talking about?”

“Human nature. People need heroes. Because they're looking at you and thinking to themselves, ‘That could be me shaking the hand of the mayor and cashing that fat check for the reward money.'”

“What reward money? And I've never met our mayor much less shaken his hand.”

“Figure of speech.” Up front, tonight's chair, old-timer Gavin L., is approaching the mike. The smokers who were standing outside puffing up a storm when I was on my way in start to straggle back inside, stinking of nicotine. “Own it, Ballard. All Kim did was give birth to Kanye's kid. So the fuck what? Anyone can have a kid. Not everyone has a set of brass balls like you.”

“Wow.” I rock back on my spine to regard him. “That's a first. I didn't even know I had a set of balls.”

He pats my knee and treats me to another of his snaggle-toothed grins. “Whatever. You did good.”

“I couldn't have done it without your help,” I remind him.

“Maybe, but it's your name in the papers, not mine.” He was mentioned only as the “retired NYPD police officer” who'd been at the scene. His choice, not mine. He prefers to keep a low profile.

“You think I'm enjoying this?”

“I wouldn't go that far. But, you gotta admit, it had its moments.”

“Hardly.” I snort. “If this is what being a celebrity is like, I'm never having Kanye's baby.”

“I meant the adrenaline rush,” he clarifies. “From playing cops and robbers. It can be addictive.”

I stare at him. “You think I intend to make a habit of this? That it's every day I stumble on a dead body?”

“If anyone would, it's you.”

“Jesus. I hope not.”

He gives another low chuckle and rasps, “Don't worry about it.” It comes out sounding like one word as he rolls the consonants together in vintage Brooklynese fashion. “I got your back, Ballard.”

“Yeah, I know. That's what worries me.” It seems I created a monster in coaxing him out of his retirement from law enforcement. “First, it was you making a few calls. Then I'm buying myself a gun and you're teaching me how to shoot it. What's next? A police band short-wave and a Kevlar vest?”

Before he can respond, the meeting is called to order and the first speaker is introduced by Gavin L. A young woman with an old face and short, spiky hair dyed the color of India ink, Carol D. tells her tale without a trace of self-pity in her voice. At her lowest point she was a prostitute, turning tricks to pay for her habit. Her tough-girl demeanor cracks only when she talks about losing custody of her nine-month-old son. At the end, she steps away from the mike to a round of applause and shouted affirmations. Others take turns sharing. The chips are presented to more rounds of applause, the cheering no less enthusiastic for the newcomer who put together thirty days than for Gavin L. marking his twenty years of sobriety. The principle of “one day at a time” in action. Then we all join in reciting the Serenity Prayer.
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change …

There are things I would change about my life. I wish I could drink like a normal person. I wish my brother weren't mentally ill. I wish every candy bar I ate didn't go straight to my hips. But I don't dwell on those things. What I'm working on now is accepting that there's no future for Bradley and me. I'll never see him again unless it's in a courtroom. Over before it began, really. Sparks snuffed out before they could catch fire. The thing is, the heart wants what it wants. And my lady parts? They're like a room full of raucous drunks; they won't shut up. I glance toward the church sanctuary on the floor above as the Serenity Prayer is drawing to a close. Is it too late for me to become a nun? On second thought, God probably wouldn't have me, either.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

If I had my own reality show, it wouldn't remotely resemble
Meet the Kardashians
. I don't possess a single article of clothing that isn't off the rack. I favor Sketchers over Manolos, and, if my key ring holds more house keys than the average person's, it's not because I own multiple homes in various, exotic locales. In short, my life is fairly boring. When I'm not solving crimes or getting shot at by psychotic society matrons, that is. I'm not even getting laid these days.

On Friday, I deal with the ant infestation at the Oliveiras'. I follow up on a report of an overturned trashcan at the Iversons' split-level, where I catch the culprit—a raccoon—foraging for food in the strewn garbage. At the Willetts' Cape Cod I catch a minor leak under a bathroom sink before it can become a major flood. I tend to the bromeliads at the Russos' midcentury modern. The big drama of the day was my finding the ninety-year-old lady who lives next door to the O'Briens wandering around their front yard, looking for her cat that died the year before. I had to promise to find and return Pumpkin before she would allow me to escort her back to her house.

And yet I wouldn't trade my life for Kim Kardashian's. Being a small business owner isn't easy and I won't get rich from it, but I earn enough to get by with a little extra to set aside for a rainy day. I love that I don't have to dress up for work or deal with office politics that make me itch to throw a stapler at someone or spend entire days chauffeuring annoying people from one property to the next while they natter in my ear. Lately, too, my job has been a welcome distraction from the dark thoughts that crowd my head. Physically I'm fine, my wounds healed, but I still have nightmares and not just when I'm asleep. The only remedy is to keep busy, keep moving.

It pales compared to what Bradley must be going through. Imagine finding out your mother is criminally insane, your grandfather a serial killer, and your father possibly an accomplice to those murders? It'd be enough to make you go at the family tree with a chainsaw. I wonder if he's turned his back on his parents or if he's being the dutiful son. I have no way of knowing. He hasn't gotten in touch. Nor has he given any interviews to the press—being a canny newsman himself, he's apparently wise to their tricks. I'm told he's only speaking with the authorities.

And soon he'll be in another war zone halfway across the world.

If I think about that, I'll cry.

My last stop of the day is the Kims' Asian-style ranch house, where, after I've done my walk-through, I feed the school of piranha disguised as goldfish in their
koi
pond. It's dark out by the time I head home. Ivy phones to invite me over for Tandoori takeout and a DVD of my choosing. She's been hovering over me like a helicopter mom since the night she dubbed “Cypress Bay Chainsaw Massacre,” but I beg off this once. I want only to curl up on my sofa in my snuggies and zone out in front of the TV.
Free Willy
is airing on AMC tonight. That sounds about right.

I arrive home to find a present from my cat on the doorstep: a dead and partially disemboweled mole. Ugh. I know Hercules is only exercising his feline instincts—also, what's one less mole with the legions that are forever digging up my yard?—but I so do not need this right now. I grab a roll of paper towels from inside and, minutes later, I'm headed for the garbage cans along the side of the house with the corpse, wadded in paper towels, when I hear the sound of a car pulling into my driveway. I wasn't expecting company so I can only surmise it's a reporter. Crap. Another thing I so don't need. Most of them have moved on, but a few of the more persistent stringers—dingle berries of the media, as I call them—don't take “no comment” for an answer. Before I can retreat to my house, however, a shadowy male figure rounds the corner of the detached garage. I halt in my tracks when I see who it is, my heart leaping.

“Tish.” Bradley calls out my name. For a few seconds we stand there staring at each other, separated by a dozen feet of lawn. The shadow of the roof overhang accentuates the new sharpness of his cheekbones and hollows of his eyes. He's unshaven and appears to have dropped a few pounds; his jeans aren't quite as snug and the leather jacket he's wearing can't hide the pared-down look of a man who's weathered the family equivalent of a category-five hurricane.

When I finally find my voice, it comes out high and breathy. I sound like I did when I was thirteen making awkward conversation with Zach Mancusi, the boy I had a crush on in eighth grade. “Oh, hey. I wasn't expecting … um, did you call? I haven't checked my voicemail yet.”

His face creases in consternation. “Sorry, I should have phoned. Is this a bad time?”

“No, I was …” I hold out the wad of paper towels before remembering what's in it. I quickly lower my hand. “Nothing. I wasn't doing anything special, I mean. I just got home. It's … it's good to see you.”

He starts toward me. “Can we talk?”

“Sure. Let's go inside. If you'll excuse me a sec …” I dash to the nearest garbage can and toss the dead mole before we head up the walk. “Can I get you something to drink?” I ask when I'm ushering him into my living room. “Coffee, a soda? Sorry I can't offer you anything stronger.”

“I'm good,” he says, though he looks as if he could use a medicinal shot.

“Have a seat.” I gesture toward the Morris sofa as I lower myself onto the other end. I'm nervous and feel a childish urge to put my hands over my ears so I won't have to listen when he lists all the reasons why it wouldn't be a good idea for us to see each other again. Starting with his parents.

“I apologize for not returning your calls,” he begins. “It's been kind of crazy lately, as you might imagine.”

“No shit.” I glance down to see my cat sitting at my feet, eyeballing Bradley as a bouncer in a bar would a potential troublemaker. “You must be looking forward to the relative peace and quiet of the Middle East.”

“You have no idea. Unfortunately it'll have to wait until the dust settles.” Radioactive dust in the aftermath of a nuclear blast, to be precise. “But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“I know what you're going to say, and it's okay. I understand,” I jump in, wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible. The sooner I rip off the Band-Aid, the sooner the wound will heal.

“You do?”

“I get it,” I plow on. “You're looking at an epidemic and I'm patient zero. Your own personal Typhoid Mary. Oh, I know you don't blame me. But that doesn't change the fact that I'm a walking reminder. And they're still your parents, no matter what. So if you came to say goodbye, I—” I break off, registering the look of confusion on his face. “Wait. Why
are
you here?”

“I came to ask your forgiveness.”

I stare at him in astonishment. “What? You didn't do anything.”

“Not directly, no. But I knew Mom was having problems. She's been acting strange ever since she and Dad split up. But she was seeing a shrink, so I assumed everything was under control. Wishful thinking on my part,” he adds bitterly. “I should have acted sooner, before it was too late.”

“What could you have done?”

“I don't know. Something. Anything.” His balled fists are matched by the tightness in his face. His eyes glitter with unshed tears. I only wish I could take away the blot on his life like I did the stain on his shirt, the night of Ivy's gallery opening after I accidentally spilled red wine on him.

“You had no way of knowing how bad it had gotten. Your mom was good at hiding it. Even
I
was fooled, and remember, I have a mentally ill brother, so I'm no stranger to delusional behavior.”

“I'm her son. I should have made it my business to know. I ignored the red flags.” He pauses, his gaze turning briefly inward. “Though I have to admit what she said about my dad doesn't seem so farfetched, in light of everything that's happened since. He swears he had nothing to do with any of that other business—” He pales, looking physically ill— “and I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt for the time being, but between you and me, he's far from off the hook.”

I have my own opinion, but it would only cause further distress, so I don't voice it. “We all want to believe the best of our parents.”

“A fatal error in my case. You could have been killed!” he cries in a strangled voice.

“True. But I wasn't. I'm still here, aren't I?”

“Thank God for that. It's the one thing out of this whole fucking nightmare I can be grateful for.”

“Have you been to see her?”

He nods unhappily. “She was heavily sedated, so she wasn't very communicative. Just as well. I don't know what I would have said to her. I could hardly bring myself to look at her. That's a horrible thing to say about your own mother, but whenever I think of what she did to you …”

“She's not in her right mind. That night …” The memory hits me like a punch in the stomach, bringing a sharp intake of breath followed by a wave of dizziness, “she told me some stuff I never knew. About what it was like for her growing up. It sounded pretty awful. And we both know her marriage was no picnic. Then with the divorce …” I can't believe I'm making excuses for Joan, but however much grief as she caused me, I can't bear to see her son suffer. Besides, I'm not saying anything untrue. “Look, I won't deny what I went through was horrific, but the fact is, your mom isn't … well. And mental illness is no different from any other major illness, in one sense. No one
asks
for it. Take my brother, for instance. He's really, really smart, but the wiring in his brain is messed up. He often thinks he's being followed by secret government agents.” I refrain from pointing out that, unlike Joan, he's not a danger to society. No need to rub it in.

Bradley regards me in wonderment. “After what she did to you, you can still find it in your heart to forgive?”

“‘To err is human, to forgive divine,'” I quote loftily. I've never been called upon to forgive someone who terrorized, then tried to kill me, but I'm prepared to be generous for his sake.

“You're one in a million, Tish Ballard,” he says softly.

Our eyes meet and we stare at each other wordlessly. The silence is like a held breath, and I'm aware of every beat of my heart. Then in a sudden movement he closes the gap between us, I'm in his arms and we're kissing. And I'm on fire. Not a contained fire, an accelerant-fueled blaze that has my blood sizzling in my veins, my body alive like never before. I'm acutely aware of each and every sensation. The chafing of his beard stubble against my face. His soft lips contrasted with the rock-hard muscles of his arms and chest. The tip of his tongue playing over mine, and more insistent, the bulge in his jeans pressing against my thigh. We're going at it like horny teenagers alone in a house with no adults present—bodies entwined, mouths fused, hands tangled in each other's hair and clothing—when a loud crash from the next room causes us to jerk apart.

I jump up and run into the kitchen to investigate.

“Talk about lousy timing,” I moan to Bradley as I survey the damage. Ceramic shards and potting soil are strewn over the countertop where my cat knocked over the flowerpot that was on the windowsill—in a fit of pique, I imagine, at his being ignored in favor of another male.

Together, Bradley and I clean up the mess.

“Maybe it was a sign. The universe letting us know the last thing either of us needs is another complication,” he says, pulling me into his arms again, this time with tenderness rather than passion.

I tilt my head to look at him. “Since when does a manly man like yourself spout New Age-mantras?”

“Since the universe took a big crap on my head.”

“You're sure it wasn't a seagull?”

He smiles, and says with regret, “Tish. This is a bad idea and you know it.”

“Uh-huh. Whatever you say.” I brush my lips over his neck. He smells pleasantly of well-worn leather and the soap from the guest bathroom at the La Mar house and the deeper, muskier scent that is his alone.

He moans. “You're not making this any easier.”

“It's complicated, I know. So what? Life is complicated.”

“Seriously, Tish …”

“Is it because you're still in love with Genevieve?”

He pulls back to look at me, dark brows drawing together. “What gave you that idea? I told you, we broke up.”

“Ex-girlfriends are like missiles. Always ready to be deployed in a crisis.”

He chuckles. “You certainly have a way with words. One of the many things I love about you.”

“You still haven't answered my question.”

“No, I'm not still in love with her. I don't know that I ever was, at least not to the same degree as her feelings for me. You're right about one thing—she
did
want to fly out. I declined the offer.”

“Oh.” It an effort to contain my glee at learning it's really and truly over with him and Genevieve. Also, he used the L-word. Spoken lightly, and yes, I know “love” has as many meanings as “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” has musical variations, but whatever, I'm reveling in it.

“Speaking of breakups …” He tosses the ball into my court with an arch of his eyebrows.

“You heard about Daniel and me, huh?”

“He told me. He seemed pretty bummed.”

“He couldn't be too bummed. He's already seeing someone else.” Her name is Jillian Harper, a professor of women's studies whom I'd long suspected of having a crush on him. My suspicion was confirmed when Ivy reported that she'd spotted them together, strolling hand in hand along the sidewalk in front of the Gilded Lily.

Bradley whistles softly. “Wow. He didn't waste any time.”