Susan Mallery Fool's Gold Series Volume One: Chasing Perfect\Almost Perfect\Sister of the Bride\Finding Perfect (21 page)

“My mother was the most stubborn person in the world,” Charity whispered. “She was totally unconventional. She didn't care if I ate cake for breakfast, or what time I went to bed. She said she'd grown up with too many rules, that she didn't believe in them.”

She glanced at him. “It sounds great in theory, but the truth was, I would have liked a few rules. I had to take responsibility for everything myself. I knew she wouldn't. I was making sure there was food in the house by the time I was nine and handling the bills by the time I was twelve. I wanted to be a kid, but I was too scared of what would happen if no one was in charge.”

“I'm sorry,” he said, stroking her hair. “You should have had better.”

“I had better than a lot of people. I never went hungry. I had clothes and a roof over my head.”

A pretty low bar, Josh thought, seriously pissed, but determined not to show it. The last thing Charity needed was to deal with his feelings. This was about her.

“She wasn't a bad person,” Charity said. “Sandra loved me.”

Another point he wouldn't argue, but he didn't believe Sandra was all that good a person. He doubted Marsha had been a perfect mother—no one was—but she'd always led with her heart. She was tough, but
fair. No one changed that much and the woman he'd known since he was ten years old was giving and loving, and if she'd been strict, there would have been a reason. He would know—she'd looked after him, offering advice and support.

He knew she'd supplemented dozens of kids' college educations, gave both money and time to several charities and ached for the one thing she'd lost—a family.

To his way of thinking, the fault was Sandra's. Not for running away, but for insisting that Charity not have anything to do with her grandmother. It was one thing for Sandra to hold a grudge, but she'd had no right to impose those rules on her daughter.

“I don't know what to think,” Charity admitted.

“Give it time. Things have a way of getting clearer.”

“I ran out on Marsha. I have to say something to her. Explain.”

“She knows you were overwhelmed. That's why she called me.”

“The neutral third party?”

“The brilliant and hunky guy who will distract you.”

Charity managed a smile. “Oh, right. Silly me.” She straightened. “You're right. I need to give it time. This has been a huge shock and I don't have to do anything about it right now. I can live with the information, then decide what it means to me.”

“An excellent plan.”

The smile faded. “The worst of it is, I can't get closure. Not totally. Sandra's gone and I can't go back and ask why she never told me about my grandmother.”

“She had her reasons,” he said carefully, not wanting to step into anything unpleasant.

“Stupid ones.” She stood. “Okay. I need to get back to work. That will distract me.” She lightly kissed him. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

“You didn't have to come after me. I would have been fine.”

“I enjoy a good rescue.”

Her dark eyes stared into his. “You're a really nice guy.”

He pressed his index finger to his mouth. “It's a secret. Don't tell anyone.”

That earned him another smile. “I think word has already gotten out.”

* * *

D
EMONS CAME IN ALL
shapes and sizes. Josh's were in the form of twelve guys from the local high school. They ranged in age from fifteen to eighteen, mostly skinny and awkward-looking on the ground, but they could fly like the wind on bikes.

Coach Green, a tall, skinny guy about Josh's age, practically danced in place. “This is the best,” he said, grinning. “I raced in college. Nothing like you did, of course. I didn't have the raw ability. But man, I wanted
to be just like you. I can't tell you how excited we all are to have you working out with us.”

Josh swallowed against the tightness in his chest. It didn't help. The worship in Coach Green's voice was only making a crappy situation even more potentially disastrous. What the hell had he been thinking when he'd agreed to participate in the race? It wasn't that he was going to get his ass kicked—it was that he was going to humiliate himself in front of the world. Everyone was going to know he was a sniveling, frightened coward. Talk about a shitty legacy.

“It's been a long time since I've been on a bike,” Josh lied. His last ride had been the previous night. But it had been what felt like fifteen lifetimes since he'd ridden with anyone else. Stood next to other riders. Heard the sounds, exchanged conversation, then focused on the race.

Even looking at the kids who kept glancing at him, he felt the bands lock around his chest. He couldn't breathe, but that was the least of it. What killed him was the mind-numbing terror. Anywhere but here, he told himself. He'd rather stand in fire than go through this.

“The guys will go easy on you,” the coach joked.

Only it wasn't a joke and no one knew, Josh though grimly.

Green called the guys over. They walked their bikes toward him, their young faces bright with anticipation. They introduced themselves. A couple shook hands with him.

He'd seen most of them around town. He recognized their faces. Now he was supposed to ride with them. “Josh is coming out of retirement for a charity race in a few weeks,” Coach Green said. “He's going to be training with us until then.”

“Sweet!” one of the guys said.

“I'm old and out of shape,” Josh said. “Be gentle.”

The guys laughed.

Coach Green yelled for them to line up and start the warm up.

Josh moved behind the kids. He'd go in the back, he thought. Keep the other riders where he could see them. A few miles at an easy pace would be good.

A whistle blew. The riders pushed off and cycled away. Josh waited until they were at least a hundred yards ahead before starting himself. He focused on moving the bike forward, of warming up his muscles, of the familiar feel of what he did.

It had been two years since he'd ridden during the day. He'd forgotten how bright everything was, the colors of trees and buildings as they passed in a blur. There was a light wind and the temperature was in the sixties. Perfect, he thought.

The kids in front of him had picked up the pace, so he did, as well. Inside of him, something woke, stirring to life. A burning need to reach them and pass them. The desire to win.

The sensation surprised him. He would have thought humiliation would have crushed any competitive spirit he had left, but obviously not.

Without any kind of a plan, he pedaled harder and faster, easily closing the distance between him and the students. One of the guys noticed and yelled something. The pack sped up. Josh continued to gain, feeling the blood moving through his body, the rush when he realized all he was capable of, knew that he hadn't lost everything.

“No way, Golden,” one of the kids yelled as he reached them. “You're not beating us.”

They crowded together, around him. Moving close to trap him between them.

Their tactic was obvious and not especially skillful. He knew the maneuvers to outflank them. He didn't even have to think about it—the movements were instinctive.

Only he couldn't do it. The instructions flowed from his brain to his muscles, but somehow never arrived. Maybe it was the coldness seeping into his body. The chill that told him he was afraid. Maybe it was the memories flashing so quickly that he couldn't see anything but Frank soaring through the air before falling to his death. Suddenly Josh couldn't breathe. Cold sweat broke out everywhere. His muscles cramped painfully, forcing him to stop.

He didn't remember moving, but suddenly he was beside his bike, hunched over, waiting for his heart rate
to return to something close to normal. Nausea rose inside of him. He shook like a frightened, dripping dog.

When the kids started to turn, to come back and check on him, he waved them off. After he pointed to his bike, they nodded and waved, then continued their ride. They would assume he had a flat or something mechanical had gone wrong. With luck, they would never guess the truth.

As much as he wanted to compete, as strong and powerful as the drive was within him, he couldn't do it. That part of him, the pieces that made him whole, were shattered beyond repair. None of the trophies sitting in boxes mattered. There wasn't enough money in the world to make this right. He was a loser and a coward, and the hell of it was, he didn't know how to make any of it better.

* * *

S
ATURDAY AFTERNOON
, C
HARITY
walked the short distance between the hotel and Marsha's house. Despite the weeks she'd been in town, she'd never been to her boss's house before. Not that she was visiting as Marsha's employee. Instead, Charity was going to see her grandmother for the first time in her life.

Grandmother. The word felt strange. She couldn't seem to grasp the whole meaning of what she'd been told. For the past couple of days she'd alternated between happiness and confusion. She'd wanted to be
a part of a family for so long, she couldn't believe it had finally happened.

She was also wrestling with anger, mostly at her mother. Maybe Sandra hadn't wanted anything to do with Marsha, but she'd had no right to keep Charity from that relationship. Especially after her death. Why hadn't she told her own daughter that she had other family? Sandra had known how much Charity had wanted to belong somewhere. Yet she hadn't bothered to leave a note, or even a hint.

As Charity approached the house, she did her best to push away the annoyance she felt. She didn't want to start her afternoon with Marsha in a bad mood.

She turned the corner and saw the white house Marsha had described. It was two stories, in a craftsman style typical of the area, probably built in the 1920s. There were elements that were similar to the house Charity had fallen in love with. The house Josh wanted to sell her at a discount. Something else she'd yet to come to terms with, she thought humorously. Who could have known her life would go from fairly boring to wildly confusing in a matter of a few days?

She walked up the three steps to the wide porch and knocked. Marsha opened the door almost immediately.

“I'm so glad you're here,” the older woman said. “Come in.”

Charity stepped into a bright, open living room. Something about the combination of colors, furniture
placement and windows made her want to sink into one of the overstuffed seats and never leave.

“Thanks for having me,” she said, feeling a tiny bit awkward.

Marsha had replaced her usual well-tailored suits with jeans and a long-sleeved blouse. Her white hair was more casual, soft waves rather than a bun. She linked arms with Charity.

“Instead of dancing around the topic, I thought we'd face it head-on,” she said, leading the way to the stairs. “Let's go look at Sandra's room. I'm hoping you can get a sense of what her life was like before you were born.”

“I'd like that,” Charity told her.

They climbed the wide staircase and turned left at the landing.

“The last door on the right,” Marsha said, releasing Charity. “Nothing has been changed, I'm afraid. Despite my best intentions, I turned my daughter's room into a shrine. I'm sure any number of psychologists would have plenty to say about that.”

Her tone was easy, but Charity saw the flash of pain in her eyes.

Not knowing what to say, she walked toward the open door. When she reached it, she turned and looked at the bedroom that had belonged to her mother.

The whole room had been done in shades of lavender, her mother's favorite color. A full-sized bed was covered in a purple and lavender quilt. Built-in
bookcases flanked the bed. The shelves were crowded with books, knick-knacks and pictures. There were posters on the wall. A very young Michael Jackson and a group Charity wouldn't have known except for the word “Blondie” in script at the bottom.

She stepped inside the bedroom and walked to the desk. School books were still stacked. A half-written essay on Julius Caesar was next to them. A gold flower necklace on a thin chain lay carelessly across the paper.

She moved to the shelves and studied the pictures. Sandra was in nearly all of them. Her mother with her friends, at a school dance. The familiar smile made her chest ache, but other than that, she felt no connection with the room or the former occupant.

“All she took were some clothes and money,” Marsha said from the doorway. “Nothing else. There wasn't a note. She never said goodbye.”

“I'm sorry,” Charity said, not sure how to ease Marsha's pain. “For what it's worth, I don't think her constant moving on was about you. She loved new places. We'd settle somewhere for a few months and then she'd start talking about the next place and the next. Where we were going was always more exciting than where we were.”

Charity looked around at the room. The pretty curtains, the small collection of worn stuffed animals shoved carelessly in a corner. Something like this was exactly what she'd dreamed about when she'd been younger. A place to call her own. Nothing fancy—just
a regular kind of home. Yet her mother had walked away from it and had never looked back.

“I wish she'd told me about you,” she said.

“Me, too.” Marsha's eyes were sad again. “I wish I'd been more understanding of who she was. She desperately wanted to go away to college, but I always said she had to stay here. I was such a fool. Controlling and unyielding. I had to be right. In the end, being right cost me my only child. If I'd—”

“No,” Charity said, cutting her off. “She would have left anyway. It's what she wanted. I don't think there's anything you could have done to change her.”

“You can't be sure about that.”

“Yes, I can,” Charity said, trying not to sound bitter. “I knew her.”