Bridge to Haven (22 page)

The sun came up and she felt Dylan’s hands combing through her hair. He searched her face, his expression bemused. “I’m usually tired of a girl by this time. But I still want you.”

She heard what he didn’t say.
It’s only a matter of time until I’m done with you.
Dylan would do exactly what he wanted to do. Ironically, that had been one of the things that had most attracted her to him.

Eyes hooded, he ran a fingertip down her forehead, over her nose and lips, down her throat. “I’ve got enough money for gas to get me home. I guess it’s time to face the dragon.”

Dylan hardly spoke after that. Abra grew more nervous with each passing mile he drove along the Pacific Coast Highway, though she did her best not to show it. He took San Vicente to Wilshire, turning off at South Beverly Glen to Sunset Boulevard. Pristine neighborhoods with green lawns like carpets and clipped hedges flashed by.
Bakeries and dress shops, shoe and tailor shops, jewelry stores and steak houses, and more houses, then another turn onto Benedict Canyon Drive. He sped up and the Corvette hugged the road. Houses were set farther back, grander, more hidden.

He made a hard right turn onto Tower Road, sped up, then downshifted and made another hard right, screeching to a stop by a raised box in front of two huge stone pillars and a massive, ornate iron gate. He punched a button. A man’s voice crackled. Dylan called the man by name and told him to open the gate, then waited, his hand on the gearshift. A muscle twitched in his cheek as the minutes ticked by. Abra knew she wasn’t the only one on edge.

Dylan revved the engine and bumped the gate. “Come on, Mother. Enough stalling.” Tires screeched as he backed up and slammed on his brakes. He revved the engine again. The gate opened slowly. “About time!” As soon as it opened enough for the Corvette to fit through, he gunned it.

A man rode a car-size lawn mower in the woodland. The estate reminded her of Golden Gate Park—carefully manicured grass, trees, shrubs, flowers. The road curved and an enormous Mediterranean mansion with a red tile roof came into view.

Dylan sped up, swinging the car in a sharp circle and skidding to a stop in front of the house. Leaving the keys in the ignition, he shoved his door open and got out. He came around and acted like a perfect gentleman. He took her hand and kissed it as he helped her out. “Mother always stressed good manners.” He winked. “She’s probably watching us from her tower.” Slipping his arm around her waist, he kissed her cheek. “Be brave. If she starts breathing fire, just get behind me. I can take the heat.”

A servant opened the front door and greeted Dylan deferentially. She gave Abra a polite nod. Dylan led her across the threshold into a red marble, white-pillared entryway with potted palms in colorful terra-cotta pots. An enormous, elegantly furnished living room
spread out before them with plate-glass windows overlooking a courtyard with a huge swimming pool. On the other side lay formal gardens that sloped toward the valley view.

“Where is she?” Dylan asked the doorman.

“Upstairs office, Mr. Stark. She rang when the gatehouse let her know you’d come home. She wants you to come up.”

Dylan grasped Abra by the elbow. Tiny beads of sweat stood out on his brow. Was it the Southern California heat, or was he really that afraid of his mother? His hand tightened as they walked down a corridor lined with oil paintings and marble statuary tucked into alcoves. It felt like a museum. He stopped in front of a large carved door, his fingers biting painfully into her flesh. “Don’t say anything. Let me do the talking.”

Muffled voices came from behind the door.

Dylan let go of Abra and, without knocking, opened the door wide and strode in. “Hello, Mother.” A man in a suit and tie and a young woman in glasses, a black skirt, a button-down blouse, and black pumps retreated through a door off to the right.

A reed-thin woman in an elegant pink suit stood at windows overlooking the front drive, her blonde hair immaculately arranged in a chignon. She turned and tilted her head to one side. “Dylan, darling. The prodigal, home at last.” She presented her cheek for him to kiss. “So good to see you.” She sounded anything but pleased. She stepped away from him, her cold blue eyes fixed on Abra, standing in the doorway, where Dylan had left her. “And you brought a friend with you. Isn’t that wonderful?” Her tone dripped sarcasm.

Dylan made a formal introduction. Abra offered the suitable salutations, embarrassed that she sounded like a frightened child.

Lilith turned on Dylan. “Are you completely out of your mind? How old is this one? Fifteen?”

This one?

Dylan laughed it off with a shrug. “I forgot to ask.” He looked at Abra and raised a quizzical brow.

“Seventeen.” It wasn’t too much of a lie, since her birthday was in two weeks.

Dylan’s mother glared at her like a laboratory technician examining a plague-causing germ under a microscope. She gave a sound of disgust. “Another tangled web to unweave. I like to write about scandals, not be in the maelstrom of one.”

“No one cares about her.”

“Your father called and said the police came to see him. And then I got a call from a man wanting to know where you were.”

“When was that?”

“A week ago.”

“Anyone call since?”

“No.”

Dylan gave her a smug smile. “Like I said. Nobody cares.”

Abra felt Lilith Stark’s cold blue eyes on her again. “Why wouldn’t anyone worry about you?”

Dylan answered for her. “She doesn’t have any parents.”

Lilith Stark ignored her son. “What do you say I give you some money? Dylan can put you on a Greyhound bus and send you back to wherever you came from.”

Abra felt a moment of panic and looked at Dylan. Would he do it? How could she face the people of Haven after what she’d done? Everyone would say, “I told you so.”

“I’m keeping her, Mother.” Dylan sounded furious.

“What is she? A pet?” Lilith studied him. “You usually go for willowy blondes, Dylan. What do you see in this girl?”

“It’s not something I can put into words. She’s just got . . . something.”

“And how long will
something
last this time?”

“As long as I want.”

“Always your answer, Dylan.” Lilith picked up diamond-studded reading glasses. “I give this affair a month.” She flipped through a book. “Fine. Keep her. She can stay in the blue bedroom.”

“I want the guesthouse.”

Lilith pulled her glasses down her nose. “All right. The guesthouse. She’s your cousin, daughter of my sister.”

“You don’t have a sister.”

“Who would know?” She glared at him. “I don’t want anyone thinking I approve of seedy affairs under my own roof.”

Dylan laughed, really laughed. “I won’t mention the banker from New York or the artist from Mexico or—”

“Careful, Dylan.” Her eyes narrowed. “This is
my
house.”

“And you know how much I adore and admire you, Mother.” Undaunted, Dylan chuckled. “Seedy affairs are the way you make your living. Oh. I need some money. I’m all out.”

“I’ll give you money. After you work for it.” Lilith leaned back and gave him an indulgent smile. “I have a big party scheduled for Saturday. I expect you to attend.”

“Who’s coming this time?”

“Everyone, of course.”

Dylan grinned at Abra. “You’re in for a treat, baby. All those country bumpkins back in Haven would die to be in your shoes right now.”

“Speaking of shoes . . .” Lilith looked with distaste at Abra’s and wrote something on a tablet. She tore off the page and handed it to Dylan. “Call Marisa and have her do something with your little friend.” Lilith grimaced. “She looks like something the cat dragged in.”

“We’ve been riding with the top down.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“How much can I spend on her?”

“The sky’s the limit.” Her bright-white smile was the same as her son’s. “The bill will be sent to your daddy.” Her attention drifted
briefly and then fixed on him again. “Oh, and another thing, darling. Take her to our doctor and make sure she has protection.” Her expression filled with heavy meaning. “If you create another little problem, Dylan, you’ll be the one making and paying for all the arrangements this time around.”

The telephone rang. Lilith clamped a bejeweled hand on the receiver. Her voice changed when she answered. “Darling, what juicy bits of news do you have for me?”

Zeke sat forward on Mitzi’s couch as she handed him a delicate porcelain teacup and saucer. “You look like you could use something stronger than tea, Pastor Zeke. I’ve got some good brandy in my cabinet—only for medicinal purposes, of course.”

Her wry tone made him chuckle. “Tea is fine, Mitzi.” He watched the old woman cross the room. She’d lost weight she couldn’t afford to lose. She eased her thin body carefully into the faded-red velvet chair near the front windows. Her ankles were swollen, her fingers twisted with arthritis. Ian Brubaker was filling in for Abra at church, and while he had retained all the skills of a concert pianist, Zeke missed the lighter touch Abra had learned from Mitzi. Mitzi had a wonderful way of sneaking in humor now and then—to the consternation of Hodge and a few others. “How are you, Mitzi?”

She gave him a droll look. “I’m just fine and dandy, Pastor Zeke. Have Peter and Priscilla had any word on Abra?” When he shook his head, she sighed and rested hers against the back of her easy chair. “I was afraid of that. Teenage girls can be so stupid.” She gave him a pinched look. “I ought to know. I was one once.”

“Abra might call you before she calls anyone else.”

“If she does, I’ll let you know, but I can’t promise I’ll tell you what she says or where she is, if she asks me not to.”

“She trusts you, Mitzi. So do I.” He’d always liked Mitzi. Hodge
seemed to be torn between mortification and pride. He adored his mother, but said she drove him insane at times. He admitted once he never knew how his hardworking, somewhat-shy, prim and proper father had even met her, let alone married her. Not that he wasn’t glad it had happened, being the only product of the union.

Zeke knew Mitzi as a woman of wit and wisdom, one who might seem flighty if not so solidly grounded in faith. Life experience didn’t always bring wisdom. In Mitzi’s case, it brought a great deal more. She said she’d been passionate in sin, but she was even more so in repentance. She had the gift of compassion for outcasts to prove it. “I will never ask you to break Abra’s trust, Mitzi.”

“I know. I have a list of names I could call that Dylan Stark, but I won’t. Who is he, anyway? He appeared out of nowhere, and I got a whiff of sulfur smoke from the pit. Where did he come from? Do you know anything about him?”

Mitzi had made the tea strong and hot and laced it heavily with honey. “He’s Cole Thurman’s son.”

“Oh. The wolf’s cub.” She looked at Zeke with those wise old eyes. “Poor Abra.” She shook her head and stared into her cup of tea. “She’s in for a rude awakening.” She sipped her tea. “How’s Joshua?”

“Grieving. Working hard. Taking long walks in the hills. He doesn’t sleep much.”

“Sounds like a chip off the old block. Even when you know the train is coming, you don’t always know how to get out of the way, Zeke.” She looked ready to cry. “I worry about that boy of yours.”

“He has strong faith.”

“He’ll need it. It could be a long time, you know.”

“I still have hope.”

“You hold on to that. God isn’t finished with Abra, even if she wants to be finished with Him.” Her smile held the old hint of mischief. “I’m going to pray she remembers every single line of every hymn I made her learn.” She chuckled. “I’m sure she’ll want to forget,
but I believe God will bring it all to mind when she most needs it.” She tapped her temple. “It’s all right there inside her head, Zeke. God can use it.”

Zeke leaned back, relaxing into the cushions of the old settee. “Sounds like you knew this day was coming.”

She sipped her tea again. “Abra and I may be decades apart, but we have a lot in common. Besides, aren’t you the one who told me nobody is born a Christian? The war over a soul begins before a baby even draws breath.” Mitzi put her teacup and saucer on the coffee table. “I can’t walk all over town like you do, or wander the hills like Joshua, but I sure can sit right here in my easy chair and pray all day long. The devil can take that and shove it. I may be the oldest dame in town, Zeke, but I haven’t taken my armor off since the day I put it on.” Her aging face crinkled with a gentle smile. “And I’ll tell you something else. I’m not the only one in this town willing to come alongside you and Joshua to go to battle for Abra. I’m not just talking about those other two grieving souls, Peter and Priscilla. Abra has friends in this town she doesn’t even know about.”

Zeke hoped so.

He stayed for another hour.

He had come to comfort. He went away comforted.

CHAPTER 7