Darkling I Listen (14 page)

Forcing her gaze up to Betty's, Alyson asked softly, "Can she hear us?"

"No."

"Are you certain? It almost seems like—"

"No, Miss James." Betty's expression softened and saddened. She gently stroked Bernie's hair. "There's something about the dear woman that continues to inspire hope in us. But the doctors have assured us that what's left of Bernice is little more than a shell." Lowering her voice, she looked directly into Alyson's eyes. "She won't last much longer. I simply do all I can to keep her as comfortable as possible. And to support her family, of course. This tragedy has been draining and painful for them, as you can well imagine."

"Obviously they're very lucky to have you," Alyson said.

A smile turned up the corners of Betty's red mouth. "Miss James, I'm the one who's lucky. They've become like family to me. Their generosity has been a gift from God." She placed one hand on Bernice's shoulder, which looked exceedingly fragile under Betty's fingers.

Alyson backed away and directed her look toward
Brandon
.

He sat on the hearth, his back to the sputtering flames, elbows on his knees, watching her.

Just what the hell was he doing, bringing this stranger into his home? And what had prodded him to call her at two that morning, to agree to her idiotic idea of an autobiography? She'd left him by a highway in the dark. No way in hell would he have thumbed it home: the last thing he needed was to be picked up by someone who might recognize him. So he'd trudged ten miles along back roads, was drenched and partially frozen by the time he got home. He felt numb from lack of sleep, and a cold had begun to scratch at his throat and eyes. By nightfall Betty would be forced to infuse him with hot Thera-flu—after he turned her loose on the muscles in his legs that cramped like hell.

Yet, there she stood in leggings, Roper boots, and a football jersey, hair slightly disheveled, eyes sleepy. Mouth still so red it looked as if he'd just kissed it
…
again.

Maybe you've lost your touch, lover boy.

Henry sat down beside him and adjusted his glasses on his nose. He, too, focused on Alyson James as she spoke quietly with Betty, her gaze frequently shifting between Bernie and Brandon, dodging his eyes, which apparently made her nervous.

"Nice-looking woman," Henry commented under his breath, his words diluted by the Weather Channel.

Brandon
shrugged. "I hadn't noticed."

Henry chuckled and handed
Brandon
his glasses. "Then you need these more than I do."

"She's too full of sass,"
Brandon
commented, watching Alyson continue to avoid his gaze. She attempted to focus on Betty, who had begun to brush Bernie's hair.

"Sass is good. Bernie had sass."

"Yeah, but there wasn't a dishonest bone in Bernie's body."

"You don't trust our Miss James, I take it."

"Not as far as I can throw her." He glanced over his shoulder at the fire. It was finally catching, throwing minute amounts of heat against his cold back.

"Then what's the point?" Henry asked, frowning.

Exactly,
Brandon
thought. If he didn't trust her motives, why the hell was she standing there now, looking like she wanted to throw herself out the window and run as hard as she could down the road?

"The point is, I offered her a million bucks to get lost, and she didn't take it. Money obviously doesn't mean a hell of a lot to her. But her career does. Maybe I'm just curious to what lengths she'll go to get her name on a book."

"You serious about this book?" Henry regarded
Brandon
's profile, his brow creased. "You know how you've always shied away from interviews. Could stir up a lot of hornets again. Are you sure you're ready for it?"

"Serious?"
Brandon
shook his head and ran one hand through his hair, massaged the back of his tense neck. "I'd rather crawl into a bed
a fire
ants."

"Then why put yourself through it?"

Looking into his uncle's concerned eyes,
Brandon
said, "I haven't actually decided to do it yet. I'm thinking about it."

"
Which brings us back to why she's here.
" Henry nodded toward Alyson, who appeared to be focusing on the stack of romance paperbacks. She was bent at the waist, butt toward
Brandon
, as she searched through the books, flipping them over to read the blurbs on the back. His mouth went dry, and while he wanted to think it was because he was growing more ill by the minute, he suspected cold germs had nothing to do with it. Undoubtedly every cold germ squirming in his system right now had just got a hard-on at the site of Miz James's tight tush.

"I haven't figured that out yet," he finally replied. "The woman abrades my nerves like sandpaper. Every time I look at her, I want to do something evil."

A slow smile curled Henry's mouth. "I can't say I'm not pleased that she's here. She's a hell of a lot better for you than Charlotte Minger."

Brandon
winced and groaned, and again attempted to block last night's fiasco from his mind. He sure as hell didn't want to think about what might have happened if Alyson hadn't shown up when she did. If nothing else, he owed her for that. "We don't want to go there, Henry. Trust me, it wasn't pretty."

"That bad, huh?"

"Let's just say that while I was spending my days counting the cracks in the ceiling of my cell for three years, I vowed strict celibacy for the rest of my life, because women were, and had been all my life, misery and trouble. A flash of
Charlotte
's legs obviously confused my reasoning. Last night was a brutal reminder that women are nothing but worry. In fact, I'm convinced there was no serpent in the Garden of Eden at all. There was only Eve with triple D boobs and temptation winking out of both flirtatious eyes."

Before Henry could respond,
Brandon
stood, arched his stiff back, and moved across the room, his gaze fixed on Alyson's butt as she shifted from one foot to the other while she perused the paperbacks. He eased up behind her as the naughty image of her bent over with thong panties around her ankles slid into his thoughts. No doubt about it, she was just the right height to—
She turned around suddenly, plowing into him, dropped the book in her hand, stumbled back, her eyes flying wide and her lips parting as she found herself against him and no place to go but over the stack of books at her back. She didn't retreat. It wasn't in her to back down if she thought she was being harassed or bullied.

"Time we talk," he told her, took her arm, and turned her toward the door, aware that Henry and Betty were watching; aware, too, that, judging by the color on Alyson's face, she had a few words to say herself, but wisely kept her trap shut in front of witnesses.

He walked her through the kitchen, down a short, dark corridor, and opened the den door. They moved down several steps, his fingers still gripping her arm—uncomfortably, he suspected. He ushered her to the plaid early American sofa situated before the fireplace, and shoved her down onto it. She glared up at him, her eyes narrowed and her face in full flush, darkening even more as he leaned over her, forcing her to sit back against the pillows and hold her breath, her eyes dropping to his mouth, then back up again.

"Let's get something straight from the beginning, Miz James. If you want to make idle chitchat about the weather, fine and dandy. If you wish to elaborate on your choice of Twinkies over Ding Dongs, then be my guest. But never, under any circumstances, question Henry about my life. Do we understand one another?"

She nodded.

"I have a few chores to do. Can I trust you to behave while I'm gone?"

Her lips curved and her eyelids drooped. "I guess you're gonna have to, Bubba."

"I don't gotta do nothin', Cupcake. I can toss your cute butt out in the rain and tell you to take a hike back to Alan, God help him, and you can spend the rest of your life languishing in obscurity."

Eyes narrowing, she said, "You're an ass, Carlyle. Anybody ever told you that?"

"Yeah, a few agents and a dozen or so directors." Pushing away, he backed toward the French doors across the room. "And another thing. I won't be so nice to your pretty camera next time you take a photograph without my permission."

"Oooh, I'm scared." She relaxed against the pillowed sofa arm in a half-reclining position, crossed one booted foot over the other, and stifled a yawn. "My best to Dolly if you see her."

«
^
»

T
he rain fell in sheets, the sound on the roof and windows
like a lullaby that made Alyson drowsy. Having removed her boots, she curled her legs under her and sank into the sofa, her head resting on the pillowed arm, and tried not to think about how good the Carlyle house felt. It made her melancholy. Made her compare this warmth and comfort to the stark, dreary apartment over the Three Forks Café. There had been no pictures on the walls. No colorful rugs on the floors. Instead of frilly country curtains there were brittle yellow newspapers plastered with Richard Nixon's squint-eyed face and the bold headlines
I AM NOT A CROOK!
No harvest table with a colorful rooster, just an overworked, old-before-her-time grandmother who slung hash for truckers and, more often than not, forgot the kid upstairs waiting for her dinner. If it hadn't been for Twinkies and Moon Pies and Fritos, she'd have starved before reaching her fourth birthday. And not to forget the jukebox bumping twenty-four hours a day. She woke up to Waylon Jennings and fell asleep to Tammy Wynette with a good dose of Elvis in between.

But this house was perfection, like the ones in the magazines her granny occasionally brought home, bought out of boxes at flea markets for a dime. She could almost hear Granny now, slumped in a chair with her swollen feet propped on a crate, a cigarette hanging slack from one corner of her mouth, her thin gray hair tucked into a hair net. "There's two
kind
of people in the world, Princess. Trash like us and the others. Have a gander at how the others live. Makes you a little sick, don't it?"

It didn't make her sick. Not at all. It inspired her not to settle.

The aroma of turkey sausage and strong coffee hung in the air, as did the underlying perfume of the scented Tranquillity candle burning on a far table. There was tobacco, too, just a hint, giving the masculine room even more of a male ambience, as if it needed anything to emphasize the air of testosterone and virility. Obviously, this room was Henry's haven. Mounted deer heads and mallard ducks and striped bass graced three of the paneled walls, as did framed photographs like the ones in Bernie's room. A built-in gun cabinet that would rival the
United States
arsenal took up the fourth wall, along with shelves lined with what appeared to be every
Field and Stream
and
Guns
magazine printed in the last three decades.

"I brought you a blanket in case you're cold."

Alyson opened her eyes and looked up into Henry's smiling face. As he draped the blue and white throw over her body and tucked it around her feet, he said, "
Brandon
'll be a while. Stock needs feeding. Rain'll slow him a bit. Sure as the devil needed this rain,
though.
Not that it's goin' to do us hay farmers any good. Could have used it three, four months ago when our pastures were dryin' up."

He took split wood from a stack on the hearth and carefully placed it among the cold ashes of the previous fire, turned the gas key, then tossed in a lit match, stepping back as the whoosh of fire erupted among the oak and pine logs. Firelight immediately bloomed, giving the dim room a warm, cozy glow.

Henry reached for a pipe on the mantel, along with a bag of tobacco. With his back to the fire, he packed the pipe bowl with something that smelled slightly spicy, his inscrutable eyes coming back to her. "Mind if I smoke, Al?"

"Not at all." She sat up, pulling the throw around her shoulders.

Thunder shook the walls. She glanced toward the French doors, thinking of the cold, damp wind that had rushed through the room at
Brandon
's exit, and how she had fretted over his being out in the inclement weather. She'd stood at the door, shivering, watching him run toward the barn, his head bowed under the onslaught of rain, and feeling
…
what? Stunned that she'd somehow bamboozled her way into Carlyle's life? Unsettled that he'd trust her with his confidences—not to mention his family? Giddy, like some spacy fan
who
looks into Carlyle's face and at his body, and sees her ultimate fantasy? Even worse, fantasizes that he's going to find something in her that will magically make him fall in love and desire to stroll hand in hand with her into the sunset? There was that kiss, after all. She could still taste it—smoky, like his voice. She could still feel it, hot and wet and so impassioned that its energy had electrified every erogenous nerve in her body. She wanted to feel it again, because never in her life had she ever been kissed like that.

"Since
Brandon
's out, I thought we could take this opportunity to get to know one another better. You don't mind indulging an old man awhile, do you?"

She smiled. "You should know that your nephew has forbidden me to talk to you."

Chuckling, Henry lit his pipe. "He'll bully you if you let him. Don't let him, Al. Stand up to him. He likes that. He'll respect you. He also likes discipline. If he acts like a jackass, which he will frequently, get in his face about it. One thing I never did with the boy is pander to him like everybody else—treatin' him like his being on this earth was the Second Comin' or somethin'. If Cara knew how many times I took my belt off to that boy, she would've croaked." He puffed on the pipe and looked thoughtful. "Now Bernie was a different matter. I whupped him, and she cuddled him. I used to tell her that my disciplinin'
Brandon
for being bratty wasn't goin' to do him any good if she was goin' to coo like some mamma pigeon over him and staff him full of milk and oatmeal cookies."

Henry moved to a wall and pointed to the collection of photographs. "Have you had a look at my gallery, Al?"

Alyson tossed aside the throw and joined him, comfortable in his company and eager to hear more about the Brandon Carlyle that few people, aside from Henry and Bernie, would ever know. She focused on the black-and-white shot of a young man in a plaid shirt and faded jeans, a baseball mitt on one hand, a baseball in the other.

"
Brandon
likes baseball?" she asked.

"That's not
Brandon
," Henry replied. "That's
Brandon
's father, John."

She stared harder. "My God, they're clones."

He laughed. "If you stood them up side by side right now, you couldn't tell the difference, aside from Brandon's bein' a hair taller." He pointed to others: of John Carlyle with his newborn son; John and a toddler Brandon with a mass of wild, dark curls; another of John squatting beside a two-year-old Brandon wearing a little baseball uniform, the too large cap over one eye. The boy gripped a miniature bat in both hands, as if prepared to take a swing.

"This one here is my favorite." Henry gently touched the glass, his fingertip stroking the image that made Alyson's chest tighten. Father and son sat under a tree,
Brandon
nestled on John's lap, his head on his father's shoulder as he slept. With his arms wrapped around his child's body, John rested his cheek on
Brandon
's head, his expression so full of love the image virtually radiated with it. There were toys scattered around them, and discarded wrapping paper and bows. "
Brandon
's fourth birthday. Tyke was wore out and so stuffed with birthday cake and ice cream he couldn't move. They'd been playin' with the new bat and ball John bought him. Sat down under that old pine out there to take a breather.
Brandon
fell asleep." Henry looked away, and when he spoke again, his voice was raspy. "Next mornin' John was killed. Freak accident. Load of trees came off the truck on top of him. Hardly enough left of him to bury. He was twenty-three years old
…
gone, just like that."

Alyson slid one arm around Henry's shoulders, her own eyes burning and her throat aching, as much for his loss as for
Brandon
's.

Henry turned away, reached into the hip pocket of his overalls, and dragged out a handkerchief. He removed his glasses and blotted his eyes, sniffed self-consciously, then walked to the next group of photos. "These here are of
Brandon
from five to ten years old. Once Cara got ahold of him, he didn't get to come home more than three times a year, so we went a little camera crazy." He put on his glasses and tucked the kerchief back in his pocket. "Tell me what you think."

She scanned the photos, obviously arranged by age, the young images vibrant and smiling, but hauntingly empty after the previous shots of
Brandon
with his father. She moved down the wall, smiling to herself as she saw him gradually changing from one year to the next, but always with the infectious, engaging smile and twinkling eyes. And then
…

She stopped. Frowned.

Alyson looked away, then back. Closed her eyes briefly,
then
focused again. "A different child," she said more to
herself
than to Henry, who moved up behind her and pointed to the shot of
Brandon
sprawled on the front porch steps, a hole in the knee of his jeans and his sneakers untied, his face full of sunshine as he laughed.

"He was eight here. Home durin' a break from shooting
Those Foster Kids.
Here he was nine. Just one year later."

She moved back, as if space would somehow give her a better perspective on the boy whose vacant eyes would not look directly into the camera. Where was the twinkle? Where was the smile? His young mouth barely curled up on one end, as if the effort to smile caused him pain. He'd gone from eight to ancient in a year.

"What happened?" she asked softly. She felt cold, drawn into the dark pits of Carlyle's young eyes.

"Bernie and I have asked the same question for the last twenty-seven years. We'd stand here side by side, just as we're standing now, stare at this group of pictures, then at that one, and ask,
What
happened?"

"You've asked him, of course." Alyson continued to move along the groups of pictures, noting how the vacant eyes metamorphosed into anger.

"Until we were blue in the face." Henry walked back to the fireplace and stood staring into the flames. "Kids change, I guess. Acting is a tough business. Hard on children. His mother didn't help, always pushin' him. He grew up too fast. Hell, he skipped adolescence and went straight to manhood. When he was fifteen, he was playin' adult roles. I use to tell Bernie,
Brandon
was a kid held hostage by his mother in an adult world. God only knows what happened to him there. Knowin' Cara, it wasn't good. No telling what kind of debauchery she subjected him to."

He set down his pipe and walked to the gun cabinet, opened a low drawer. When he turned again, he held out a copy of the dreaded biography. "Have you seen this?"

Alyson winced and looked past him, at the drawer full of books, all the same:
Hollywood
Hellion.

"Trash. All trash. Grover Comstock, manager over at the Wal-Mart, called me the minute the books showed up there. I beelined it down there and bought ever' last book on the shelf. Now it's one thing if some fruitcake wants to make up a lot of garbage. It happens in this business. But when his own mother starts in on him, then that's somethin' else. What kind of mother does that, I ask you—turns on her own flesh and blood, her own boy, blamin' the failure of her career on him when she's the one who drove him to alcoholism by the time he was thirteen?" He turned and flung the book as hard as he could into the fire. He threw a second book,
then
a third, his face growing redder, his breath shorter, as the flames leaped higher, devouring the curling pages.

As he reached for a fourth, Alyson grabbed it and threw it in the fire. "Calm down," she told him sternly, taking his arm and squeezing it for emphasis. She directed him toward a chair and made him sit. Dropping to her knees beside him, she took his big hand between hers and patted it. "You shouldn't get so worked up, Henry. It isn't good for you."

He stared at her, his eyes bright with emotion and tears. "I should've fought her. Soon as we put John in the ground and Cara showed up here in her black leather pants and her gigolo boyfriend, I should've told her to her face that no way was she gettin' her hands on
Brandon
, especially since she hadn't so much as called him in over a year. But I didn't. I didn't. She was his mother, after all."

"What could you have done?" she commiserated, and squeezed his hand.

"Nothin'. I've been able to do nothin' but offer him a safe house from her craziness. Maybe if I could've done more, taken a firmer stand, circumstances might have been different for him. But we were afraid of rockin' the boat, Al. We felt lucky she let him come back to Ticky Creek at all. If we'd
raised
too much of a stink, she'd have cut us off altogether, and then where would
Brandon
have been? So we watched him grow angrier by the year, our hearts breakin' for him."

Sitting on her heels, Alyson watched emotion deepen the lines on his face. Gradually he relaxed. His breathing eased. His color returned to normal. When he spoke again, the feistiness was back, as was the twinkle in his eye, though he wouldn't look at her directly, as if embarrassed that he'd confided such personal matters to a virtual stranger.