Shadow Lover (26 page)
She'd always thought of them as her family. A not very close-knit, not very loving family, but family nonetheless. The last week had shown her ail too clearly how wrong she'd been.
Odd, that didn't ignite the usual feelings of desolation and abandonment. Suddenly freedom loomed, in all its uncertainty, and while a small part of her was frightened by its vastness, she was past ready to go.
All she had to do was avoid being alone with the man pretending to be Alexander
MacDowell
.
Patsy had retired back to her room;
Warren
was sitting in the small library, going through the checkbook and looking both bored and impatient. Tessa and George were nowhere around, which left Sally.
The room was warm and dark, utterly still except for the sound of the various medical monitors. Carolyn stood in the door, watching her, trying desperately to distance herself from the old lady who had been her only mother, who was still the only family who cared about her.
And she was dying. In the last few days she'd seemed to shrink, draw in on herself. The first two days when she thought she had her son back, Sally had had more life and energy than Carolyn had seen in months. But she was paying for that burst of false health, moving further down that road toward death.
She was asleep, as she usually
was,
her pale, waxy face still in the shadows. The chair that usually resided by her bed had been pushed out of the way, as if someone had left in a rage and hadn't cared what he trashed as he went. A wastebasket lay spilled on the
floor,
a glass lay broken and crushed on the carpet.
Sally opened her eyes. It took her a moment to focus on Carolyn, and the disappointment was clear.
"I'll get someone to clean up this mess," Carolyn said softly, turning to go.
"No!" Sally's voice was nothing more than a raw hush. "Sit by me, Carolyn. I need to talk to you."
The pale white tracks of dried tears were almost indistinguishable on Sally's papery skin. But they were there, and Carolyn had never seen Sally
MacDowell
cry.
"Of course," she said, pulling the chair back beside the bed. She put her hand on Sally's trembling one. "Are you in a lot of pain? Should I try to find Mrs. Hathaway?"
Sally shook her head. "I don't think morphine will help this time. I'm paying for my sins, Carolyn. It's not that I don't deserve to. But let me tell you—I'm not enjoying myself."
"I can't imagine your sins have been that great that you have to suffer for them," Carolyn murmured.
"And I always thought your imagination was one of your strong points." Sally managed a faint smile. "I've done more wicked, selfish things than you can even begin to guess. Don't worry, I'm not about to make a deathbed confession. You don't need to hear about it, and there are some things I'd rather take with me to the grave."
"Maybe you'd feel better if you talked about it."
"Maybe. And maybe I don't deserve to feel better." She sighed, seeming to shrink back into the pillows.
"Alex is upset with you." It was a reasonable conclusion.
"As he should be." Sally glanced over at Carolyn. "I've done only one thing in this life that I can be proud of, Carolyn, and I'm afraid I've come very close to destroying that as well."
"You haven't destroyed Alex."
"That's not what I'm talking about. I can't take credit for the good things that Alex is, only the bad things. I'm more than responsible for that. No, the best thing I've done in my life is be your mother. Even if I was never able to adopt you, at least I brought you up with love and security. The sort of things you wouldn't have had…" Her voice trailed off, either from weariness, or the sudden knowledge that she'd said too much.
"You've been the best mother in the world to me," Carolyn said softly.
"Hardly that. But I tried." Sally sighed. "Stay with me, Carolyn. I'm afraid to be alone."
Sally
MacDowell
had never been afraid of anything or anybody in her entire life. "Of course I'll stay," she promised. "I'll be here as long as you want me."
* * *
I killed your mother
, she'd said. The woman who'd raised him, spoiled him, loved him,
betrayed
him.
Alex slammed his foot down on the accelerator, oblivious to the tall pines that flew by. He hadn't believed her. He'd even laughed at Sally's flat confession, certain it was some kind of sick joke.
"Sure you did," he'd said. "What did you do, hire a hit man just to cover up your tracks?"
And Sally had stared at him from bleak, sorrowful eyes. "My baby was premature, Alex. He died inside me, three weeks before he was due, and the doctors had to deliver him or I'd die. And I had to have a baby.
"It was easy enough if you had enough money. Easy enough to find the doctors to agree, easy enough to make that poor girl agree. They induced her, at my instructions. And when you still wouldn't come, they did a cesarean on her to get you out, and she bled to death. There were complications, and they couldn't stop the bleeding, and if she'd just been left to deliver on her own, when her body was ready, she would have been fine."
"You can't know that." He couldn't recognize his own voice.
"That's what the doctor told me. Of course, he
was wanting
a larger payoff, so maybe he was exaggerating. It didn't matter. In the end I was responsible. Playing God, trying to make everything go my way. They were buried together, you know. My baby and the woman who died giving birth to you. I used to wonder if she took care of my baby in heaven." She sighed. "These damned drugs. I can't keep my mouth shut once they start working. But I can't bear the pain. Maybe I should, as payment for my sins."
"What was her name?" Alex didn't bother to soften the cold anger in his voice. "Where was she buried?"
Sally had turned to look at him, her eyes glazed and drugged. "Dear boy, I had her buried in a pauper's grave under a phony name. I don't even remember which one."
And he'd gotten up and left her, knocking things over as he went.
Funny, he thought bitterly, he hadn't realized what a sentimental streak he still possessed. He'd always had the notion, in the back of his
mind, that
he'd find the woman who'd given birth to him. She had to be younger than Sally—chances are she was in her mid-fifties or even younger. Sally was dying, and he hadn't wanted to cause her pain. He figured he could trace the woman who'd borne him after she died.
But there was no middle-aged woman waiting to welcome him. She'd died, died at the hands of a ruthless woman and incompetent doctors. Died giving birth to him, whether it was his fault or not.
He was twenty miles away from the
MacDowell
house before he pulled off the side of the road and turned off the motor. His hands were shaking, he noticed absently. He didn't ever remember his hands shaking before.
He should have stayed in
There were some questions better left unanswered. But he'd come after those answers anyway, and now he was paying the price.
The best thing he could do was to keep driving. He didn't want their damned money, and had no intention of claiming it. He wanted to see the expression on
Warren
's face when he found out that he'd been duped by the real Alex the whole time, but apart from that he had nothing left to accomplish. Whoever had tried to kill him had probably had very good reasons. Maybe it was the retired sportscaster, whose car he had stolen that summer night eighteen years ago. Maybe it was a serial killer.
He didn't think so. Some member of his loving family had shot him in the back and dragged or thrown him into the ocean to drown. And for some reason he no longer gave a damn. Some mysteries were better left unsolved.
If he went back he'd have to make his peace with Sally, and he wasn't ready to even look at her. If he went back he'd have to come to terms with Carolyn Smith, another mystery. If he went back…
He'd spent most of his life running. Running away from home, from responsibility, from family, from commitment. He was a loner, happier that way. He had acquaintances, he had a few close friends, but he always prided himself on needing no one.
But he was afraid he was going to start needing someone. Not just anyone. Carolyn.
He was too young to be going through a midlife crisis. Maybe it was simply a reaction to the idea of losing his mother. Losing two mothers in short order, he thought grimly. It was no wonder he was screwed up.
He couldn't stay a spoiled kid forever. Maybe it wasn't midlife, maybe it was simply the long-delayed inevitability of growing up. He couldn't run away. He could leave, but he had to make his peace with them before he left.
He had to face Sally and forgive her. No matter what she'd done, she was his mother, despite legalities or honor or blood ties.
And he had to face Carolyn Smith, or she'd haunt him the way she had for the last eighteen years. She was a woman, a quiet, bewitching, complicated woman, but only human. He'd never needed or wanted anyone in his life before. He wasn't going to start with a piece of his past.
He'd leave them both, but he'd say goodbye first.
And then he'd be free.
Chapter 17
It was
midafternoon
when he drove back up the deceptively narrow drive to the
MacDowell
house. A light rain had begun to fall; the silver-gray bark on the maples had a faint blush to them. Spring was finally coming to the frozen reaches of
MacDowell
was tired of waiting.
He could hear voices in the living room, and the clink of glasses. It was early for cocktail hour, but Patsy was always one to start drinking as soon as she had the chance. He should go in, pour himself a stiff single-malt Scotch and be pleasant. There were things that couldn't be changed.
Instead he took a sharp right to Sally's suite of rooms. She was sleeping, her color even worse in the filtered afternoon light, and he stood at the end of her hospital bed, watching her, searching for anger, searching for forgiveness.
She was his mother. It was that simple, that basic. No matter what she had done, no matter
who
she was. Whether she regretted her selfish sins or not, she had always loved him to the best of her ability. And he loved her—he could accept that now. Just as he could accept it was time to let her go.
She wasn't alone in the room. He hadn't even noticed Carolyn in the shadows, curled up in the overstuffed chair, sound asleep. In the shifting shadows she looked ethereal and delicately beautiful. Odd that she had no idea how lovely she was. It seemed as if she'd done her best to negate any effect her beauty might have on people. It was simply a fact about her, like her blonde hair or the smattering of freckles across her elegant nose.
The room was still and silent, only the quiet whirr of the machines filling the air, a soothing white noise that blotted out the world. He took the chair at the end of the bed, folding his long limbs into it, and watched the two women who were so powerful in his life.
It was strange, almost dreamlike, as he let his gaze travel back and forth between the two of them, their faces blending, one old, one young, one aged and dying, one practically flawless. The elegant nose, the wide-set eyes, the same generous mouth. One old, one young. The same face. The same
patrician,
MacDowell
face
on both women.
He was too stunned to move, to react. How could he have missed it before? How could anyone have failed to see the powerful family resemblance? Once noticed, there was no way it could be ignored, and yet Carolyn had no idea, of that he was absolutely certain. She went through life as an outsider, one who was with the
MacDowells
on sufferance. She had no notion that she had more right to be here than he did.
But where did she come from? Sally would have been in her late forties when Carolyn was born—there was no way she could have been her mother. Tessa was only a few months older than Carolyn, which left Patsy out.
There were a few distant relatives, of course, but in truth the
MacDowell
lineage had proven surprisingly weak in the last few generations, and except for Patsy's brood, seemed likely to die out.
Which brought him to
Warren
.
When he was a snotty teenager he used to wonder whether
Warren
was gay, and whether the elegant, well-bred women he occasionally dated were simply a smokescreen. It had seemed incomprehensible that a man could find other things more interesting than sex and passion.
But quite obviously sex and passion had ruled his life for at least a short time thirty years ago, or Carolyn Smith wouldn't exist.
He could be wrong.
Warren
had never evinced the slightest bit of paternal interest in Carolyn—he seemed to view her as a cross between an intrusion and a convenience, nothing more. When he'd briefed Sam
Kinkaid
the imposter on how to impersonate Alexander
MacDowell
he'd dismissed Carolyn as a minor family retainer, of no possible interest or importance. As a matter of fact, if his memory served him properly,
Warren
even complained about the small trust fund Sally had set aside for her, saying it was totally unnecessary.
