Forbidden Fruit (46 page)

Someone screamed. Clusters of people appeared in shop doorways, some spilled out onto the sidewalk, eager to get a look.

Santos ran for the vehicle. “Police!” he shouted, holding up his badge. “Call 911! Somebody get an ambulance!”

He reached the car. At impact, its trunk had popped open. Stuffed inside, tied up like a sacrificial lamb, was Tina.

Santos knees went weak with relief. She was alive.

T
he popularity of the Garden of Earthly Delights had mushroomed almost overnight. The rave review in the
Times Picayune
by food critic Gregory Roberts hadn't hurt, nor had the notoriety Liz had gained when the scandal involving Santos and Hope St. Germaine had hit the media. Liz and her restaurant had been named, again and again, on TV and in print.

The restaurant had become so popular, in fact, that she rarely got a chance to sit down. This was one of those rare occasions—the 3:00 p.m. lull between the lunch and dinner crowd—and she was enjoying it. She sank onto one of the bar stools and sighed.

Her bartender came over with a cup of herbal tea. “Success is tiring.”

“But nice, Darryl.” She smiled and curved her hands around the warm mug. “Very nice.”

“Hey, I'm not complaining. The tips have been great.” The man grinned. “Believe it or not, we made the paper again.”

“Not again?” She slipped off a shoe and rubbed her aching arch on one of the stool's rungs. “It's been a month.”

Darryl handed her the
Times Picayune,
main news section, open to page four, tapping the article in question. “And this time, they call you ‘the proprietor of the trendy and popular restaurant, the Garden of Earthly Delights.' That's a quote, by the way.” He flashed her another of his devilish grins, then went down the bar to fill one of the waitress's orders.

Liz sipped her tea, scanned the article and smiled. She found it ironic that her act of conscience had paid off like this. She hadn't expected anything in return for her honesty but the ability to sleep nights, but to get this professional recognition and monetary success, well, it boggled the mind.

She hadn't expected it, but she was enjoying it. Sometimes she wanted to clap her hands and giggle with delight over her newfound success. She had done this, created this place, on her own. Just as Santos had said, she
was
making a difference in the world, she
was
helping people.

Her life had turned out pretty damn good, after all. If only she had Santos, it would be perfect.

“Hello, Liz.”

Glory. Liz stiffened, then took a deep, fortifying breath and swiveled to face her former friend. Glory stood several feet behind her, looking hesitant and uncomfortable, but determined. Liz swept her gaze over her. The last weeks had taken their toll on Glory, her face was drawn and tired-looking, the expression in her eyes sad, almost haunted.

What must it be like to learn that your mother was a sort of monster?

Liz tipped up her chin, fighting against her thoughts and the sympathy they brought. “What are you doing here?”

“Can we talk?” Glory laced her fingers together. “Please.”

Liz swept her gaze coldly over her once more. “I can't imagine what we would have to talk to each other about.”

“About the past,” she said softly, her words thick with emotion. “About…us.”

Sudden, unexpected tears stung Liz's eyes, and horrified, she blinked them back. “There is no us.”

“There was. A long time ago.” Glory drew a deep breath. “Please, Liz.”

Liz hesitated, then nodded and slid off the stool. “All right.” She slipped back into her shoe and motioned to her bartender. “Darryl, I'll be in my office if you need me.”

He gave her a thumbs-up, and Liz led Glory to her office. Once inside, she closed the door behind them, then faced Glory, not offering her a seat.

“Your restaurant is lovely, Liz. And I hear the food is wonderful. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” She folded her arms across her chest, despising herself for being so pleased at Glory's approval. She didn't want, or need, it. “You have something on your mind?”

“Yes, I…” Glory drew a deep breath, then released it in a rush. “There's so much I want to say to you, I don't know where to begin. I guess, first, I want to say I'm sorry. For all those years ago. I never thought my mother would hurt you. Never. I don't know why. I should have thought, I should have suspected…”

Glory made a helpless gesture with her right hand. “I didn't know her very well, obviously. I guess no one did. But I'm sure you've watched the news.”

“Yes.”

“I'm…sorry, too, that…” Glory's words faltered as she struggled, Liz saw, not to cry. “I'm sorry that I didn't stand by you. That I didn't show you how much you meant to me. How much I…loved you. You
were
my best friend.”

She lowered her gaze to the floor, then looked back up at Liz, her eyes brimming. “I was so afraid of my mother, of what she might do to me, that I forgot to be afraid for you. And that day, I…I fell apart.”

A lump formed in Liz's throat. She understood. And she wished she didn't. That day, she had fallen apart, too.

Liz swung away from Glory and crossed to her desk. She stared down at its littered top, calling herself a fool for letting Glory get to her, even a little.

She squeezed her eyes shut. If only she could shake the things she had learned about Glory's mother in the past weeks, about the kind of person she had been revealed to be. If only she could stop wondering what it had been like growing up as Hope St. Germaine's daughter.

She couldn't.

All those years ago, Glory had been right to be afraid.

“I came today, too, to thank you for what you did for Santos.”

At the mention of Santos, Liz stiffened, anger and hurt sweeping over her, stealing empathy and understanding. She swung to face Glory once more, defiantly. “I didn't do it for him,” she said sharply. “And I certainly didn't do it so the two of you could live happily ever after.”

Glory drew a deep breath and met Liz's gaze evenly. “I never stopped loving him, Liz. Never.”

Something in Glory's eyes took Liz by surprise. Something fierce and sad and hot. Something that spoke to Liz of the depth of Glory's feelings for Santos—feelings too strong, too substantive to be the whim of a spoiled, selfish girl in search of a trophy or an adventure. Something that her own feelings paled in comparison to.

And something that began to heal an old wound.

Liz's mind went spinning back to two young girls, standing by their high school locker, giggling together. Two girls who had had their whole lives before them. One of them had just met a boy. A boy she had loved on first sight. A boy she had claimed was her destiny.

Maybe he was.

Tears welled up in her eyes, and Liz quickly averted her gaze, checking her watch. “If that's all,” she said crisply, feigning indifference, “I really need to get back to work.”

“Of course.” Looking as if Liz had slapped her, Glory took a step backward, toward the door. “Thank you for your time, Liz. Thanks for listening. I know you're very…busy. I'll see myself out.”

Liz watched as Glory turned and walked to the door, watched as she opened it and stepped through.
And out of her life forever.

She couldn't let her go this way, not without the whole truth.

Liz caught her breath. “Glory!”

Glory stopped and looked over her shoulder at Liz.

“That day at A.I.C….that day your mother had me expelled, I fell apart, too.” Liz looked down at her hands, then back up at Glory. “You mother told me she would intercede with Sister Marguerite for me. If I would tell her everything I knew about you and Santos.”

She drew in a shuddering breath. “I told myself she already knew about you and Santos being lovers, but I knew in my heart she didn't. I was afraid, too, Glory. Of your mother. Of losing my scholarship. Of facing my father.”

“You were sixteen,” Glory said softly. “Sixteen-year-olds get scared sometimes.”

“So do twenty-eight-year-olds.” Liz met Glory's eyes and smiled, feeling good, really good. “But you know what, Glo? It's over now. It's in the past. And I think I'm going to let it stay there.”

T
he kid from the drugstore, John Francis Bourgeois, was arrested, and in a matter of days, charged with the killing of eight young women. The physical evidence against him was overwhelming and indisputable: matching bite marks from the apples, DNA tests results on blood and body fluids found on the victims and at the scene set the likelihood that anyone else was the killer to be one in six billion; hair and fiber evidence, fingerprints—the list went on and on.

And then there was Tina and her testimony. John Bourgeois wasn't the man who had picked up her friend Billie on the last night of her life. But he had been there. Moments before, Tina had seen him and said hello.

She hadn't thought anything of it. But John had been afraid she would. He had feared, once the police started grilling her, she would remember. And the police, he had been certain, would have thought something of it. Tina had been a loose end.

So he had begun to follow her, watching, waiting for the right time. She had given John what he'd thought was the right time and the perfect opportunity. He had seen her at the phone and had invited her to come inside and wait. Where she would be safe, he had told her.

And then he'd had her.

Santos sat on his living room couch, the silence of his empty apartment deafening. Santos had been right about everything: the working girls had all known and liked him; John had been trying to “save” them. After all, as John's uncle always said, “He who knows the Lord, knows no darkness or pain.” Santos had been right, too, about the fact that John had been preparing to move on.

But he hadn't been right about one thing. The most important one. Santos tipped his head toward the ceiling. John Thomas Bourgeois was twenty-two years old. He had been five years old when Santos's mother had been murdered.

He wasn't the guy.

Santos drew in a deep, aching breath. He hadn't found his mother's killer; he hadn't avenged her murder.

He never would.

Santos stood and crossed to the window and gazed out at the quiet street. Just after dawn, the rest of the world slept. He longed for sleep, too, but it eluded him. It always had.

He touched the window with his fingertips, finding the glass already warm with the day. He thought back to that evening a week ago, when he had untied Tina and lifted her out of the trunk. She had clung to him, sobbing, grateful, so very grateful, to be alive.

Santos squeezed his eyes shut, emotion choking him. Though he hadn't been there for his mother, he had been for Tina. He had saved her life. By catching the Snow White, he had saved countless other girls.

That felt good. Really good.

It would have to be good enough.

In a fairy-tale kind of ending, Tina had vowed she was getting out of the life. She was going to move somewhere no one knew her, to a small town, get a job doing anything but hooking and start making a real life for herself. The time had come, she had told him, to let go and move on.

He hoped she made it. He had given her some money, as much as he could spare. She had promised to pay it back, though he didn't care. If it helped her begin her new life, it would be the best money he had ever spent. Finally, he would have done for her what he promised all those years ago—he had come back for her; he had helped her.

Santos turned away from the window and gazed at his living room, thinking of his mother. Of her life and death. Of the way she had loved him and despite everything, loved life. The time had come to let go, he realized. Just as Tina had said. Of his past. Of his anger and guilt. Of his pain. Those were destructive, as was hatred, as was affixing blame instead of facing life and accepting responsibility.

The time had come to move on.

The truth of that moved over him and he smiled, then laughed out loud. He felt good, really good, for the first time in forever. He, too, was grateful for life. Grateful to be here, to be in this moment, grateful for all the love he had known and been blessed by.

Glory.

She had been right about him, about his judging her, about him being unwilling to believe in her, unwilling to believe in her love for him. He had wanted her to prove her feelings were true. Because he didn't see his own worth. Even when he went to her father's wake, it wasn't to claim her—but for her to claim
him.
For her to prove she really loved him.

He laughed again. Hope's hatred of Lily had mirrored Lily's own hatred of herself. In Lily, he had never understood it. He had never understood why Lily hadn't been able to see herself as she really was. Good. Loving. Worth being loved.

And yet, he had done the same thing. He had refused to see himself as the man he was, refused to see that he was worth being loved, that he was worth Glory's love.

He saw now.

The past fell away from him, and in that moment he felt light and free and able to soar with the eagles. He loved Glory. He deserved her love; he could make her happy. He would make her happy.

He went to claim her. No proof required.