Damage Control (32 page)

That meant that long after D. H. Lathrop’s death, Mona Tipton still kept track of her rival’s comings and goings.

“I read my father’s journals,” Joanna answered quietly. “I know you and he were involved.”

“Yes,” Mona said, thoughtfully sipping her coffee. “Yes, we were. Your father was a wonderful man. He was loyal and strong, but what I loved most about him was his sense of humor. No matter how bad my day was, he always found a way to make me laugh. I don’t think your mother ever appreciated that in him. I don’t think she ever appreciated him at all.”

Joanna didn’t doubt the appreciation bit was true. Eleanor had always been as hard on her husband as she had been on her daughter, but Joanna was beginning to realize that was how Eleanor Lathrop showed her love—by being toughest on the people she cared for most.

“I hear she gave that new husband of hers the same kind of
deal—my way or the highway,” Mona continued. “And I heard she won that round, too, won it hands-down. Your mother’s a very fortunate woman to be able to wield that kind of influence on the men in her life.”

“Wait a minute,” Joanna said after a pause. “What do you mean, ‘won that one, too’?”

“Because your father chose her instead of me,” Mona said quietly. “He called me that Saturday morning—the morning he died—before he went to pick you and your friends up from that camping trip. He told me he had made up his mind—that you and your mother came first. He said I’d have to leave the sheriff’s department—that he’d give me good references but that it wouldn’t work for me to stay on. Hearing it broke my heart, of course. Then he died, and that broke it even more. I don’t know how your mother found out about it. I thought we’d been very discreet, but that’s the way small towns are. She knew. She called me up and told me that if I dared set foot anywhere near the funeral, she’d tear me apart. I believed her, and I didn’t go.”

Mona’s eyes filled with tears. The woman’s hurt was still there. And somehow Joanna understood that D. H. Lathrop had loved her, too—just as deeply as she had loved him. Making the difficult choice must have hurt him, too.

“He talked about you in his journals,” Joanna said softly. “He may have chosen my mother and me, but I know he loved you, too.”

“Thank you for saying that,” Mona said. “Thank you very much.”

When Joanna left Mona Tipton’s house an hour later, she felt older but not much wiser. She had come away with a sense that her parents were real people in their own right. That they had
existed in ways that she’d known nothing about. On the surface they were still the same people they had always been. Now they were more than that. And less.

Joanna could have stopped then. She could have come down to the bottom of Quality Hill and turned her car around and driven right back to the Justice Center or back to the ranch. But one piece of unfinished business still haunted her. She had one more ghost, one that she either had to lay to rest or learn to live with. With that in mind, she headed for Tucson.

Suzanne Quayle’s house wasn’t hard to find. Her name and address, well, her initial, anyway, and address were right there in the phone book. “S. Quayle.” She lived in one of the newer housing developments off Kino out near the airport. The homes were on the smallish size—affordable places in a neighborhood where newly planted landscaping was just barely taking hold.

Suzanne Quayle’s house didn’t have trees in the fenced front yard, but there was a swing set with two little boys, one with blond hair and one with brown, playing on it, swinging as high as their little legs could pump. It was getting on toward noon and very hot by Bisbee standards, but these two little desert dwellers—laughing and flying through the air—seemed totally unaffected by the heat.

Joanna studied them closely, searching both tanned small faces for some resemblance to Andy. If it was there, it wasn’t readily apparent. She walked up to the gate.

“Is your mommy home?” she asked.

One of the two, the one with a mop of brown hair, skidded to a stop. “She’s inside,” he said. “I’ll go get her.”

He dashed away before Joanna could stop him and returned a moment later with a woman—the same small blond woman
Joanna remembered from the sheriff’s department’s group photo—following behind. “Jimmy, I don’t know who—” She saw Joanna and stopped short.

“Oh,” she said. “What are you doing here? How did you find me?” She glanced nervously in her son’s direction.

“It wasn’t hard,” Joanna said. “You’re in the book.”

“What do you want?”

“To talk to you.”

“Let’s go inside, then,” Suzanne said. “Jimmy, you and Gus stay out here for a little while longer, then we’ll have lunch.”

For the second time that day, Joanna was led into a home—an “other woman’s” home. As soon as they were inside, however, Suzanne Quayle ditched any pretense of being polite.

“You’ve got no business coming here,” she said. “No right bringing up the past. I’ve done my best to put it behind me. I’m listed in the book because I’ve got nothing to hide. I’m proud of my little boy, but if you’re here to cause any kind of trouble—”

Joanna’s heart was breaking. This was every bit as bad as she had expected. “I’m not here to make trouble,” she managed. “But he is Andy’s, then? Was your son’s father my husband?”

“Excuse me?” Suzanne demanded.

“Your little boy,” Joanna said again. “Was Andy his father?”

“Absolutely not!” Suzanne declared. “How could you even think such a thing?”

“But I—”

“Of course Andy wasn’t the father. It turns out Jimmy’s father wasn’t a father, either. He wanted me to have an abortion instead of a baby. He wanted me to ‘get rid’ of him. If Andy hadn’t helped me, I don’t know what I would have done. He was the only one who said it didn’t matter what the father said. That if I wanted to
have the baby, I should have the baby. And I did. That’s why Jimmy’s named the way he is—James Andrew—after your husband.”

“Oh,” Joanna said sheepishly. “Do you mind if I sit down for a minute? I think I’m feeling a little woozy.”

When Joanna left Suzanne Quayle’s house some time later, it was with a profound sense of gratitude. Her mother was a fortunate woman, and so was she. They had both chosen wisely. Twice.

Even then, she might have gone home, but she didn’t. She was learning the painful truth that even though change hurts, it isn’t all bad. There was one more thing she needed to do, something she wanted to buy that wasn’t available in Bisbee.

It took a while to find the right dealer. Then, once she had made her purchase, it was hell finding someone who would gift-wrap it. Eventually, though, she succeeded. When she got back to Bisbee, she didn’t even slow down for the Justice Center. She drove home.

Butch was at the kitchen table, writing. “The kids are at the other house,” he said, not looking up from his computer. “Carol said if she took them all to her place, maybe I’d have a better chance of getting some work done.”

“Fine,” Joanna said, “but right now you have to stop and open this.” She set the gift-wrapped package in front of him.

“What is it?” he asked. “Am I in trouble? Did I forget a birthday or an anniversary?”

“It’s a surprise,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because you’re a good man,” she said. “And I’ve decided to give you your heart’s desire.”

“What is it?”

“Open it up and find out.”

When he unwrapped the box and saw what was inside, he looked back at Joanna with some consternation. “But I don’t need this,” he said. “I already have a motorcycle helmet.”

“It’s not for you,” she said. “It’s for me.”

“But I thought you said it would be a cold day in hell before you’d ever get on that damned Goldwing with me.”

“Something like that,” Joanna said with a smile. “So get out your leather jacket. I have a feeling we’re in for a very cold day.”