The Rebel's Return (3 page)

Maddie parked, helped Nadine from the car and to the front door. Instead of bothering with trying to unlock the door, she simply rang the bell. Ernesta Sanchez, her mother's longtime housekeeper, opened the door.

“Oh, my, Señora Delarue, are you all right?” The short, squat Ernesta's concern was genuine. Maddie
knew, even though her mother would never admit being fond of a servant, that Ernesta was probably her mother's best friend.

“Mother's had a busy day.” Maddie escorted Nadine past Ernesta and into the huge marble-floored foyer. “She had lunch with the girls at the club.” Maddie and Ernesta exchanged so-she-had-too-much-to-drink glances. “I'll have one of the valets bring her car home later. She didn't feel quite up to driving herself.”

“Let me help you.” Ernesta took Nadine over completely, her big arm securely circling her employer's waist. “What you need is a nice, long afternoon nap.”

“Yes, you're probably right,” Nadine said, smiling forlornly at her housekeeper. “I am a bit tired.” Nadine glanced at Maddie. “Do you mind terribly, dear? I'm sure you'd hoped we could spend the afternoon together. But I'm afraid I suddenly have a horrific headache.”

“I don't mind,” Maddie said. “Let Ernesta help you up to your room. I'll run along, but I'll phone later this evening to check on you.”

“Yes, do that. Please. I do so look forward to your calls.” Nadine allowed Ernesta to lead her toward the massive staircase. “You should phone more often. I get terribly lonely.”

“I promise that I'll do better in the future.”

While Nadine leaned on Ernesta as the two walked up the stairs, Maddie let herself out and rushed to her
car. She sat behind the wheel for a couple of minutes, contemplating her mother's life and their relationship. She had been trying—unsuccessfully—for the past ten years to get her mother to see a psychiatrist, to seek professional help for her depression, but Nadine adamantly refused.

“I'm perfectly sane,” she'd said. “As sane as any woman could be whose husband humiliated her in front of the whole world. The man promised to love and honor me, to be faithful to me until death. Whatever you do, Maddie, never trust any man. They're all alike. They'll break your heart.”

Snap out of it, Maddie told herself. If you let yourself, you could wallow so deeply in your mother's self-pity that you might wind up drowning in it the way she has.

Twenty minutes later, Maddie parked in the garage in the basement of her condo. After college, her mother had insisted she move home with her, but Maddie had struck a blow for independence then and there. And she'd never regretted having moved into the condo and separating herself from her mother. If she hadn't done that, she doubted she would have survived without psychiatric help of her own.

As she unlocked the door of her three-thousand-square-foot, two-story home, she heard music playing. That could mean only one thing. Thelma was here. Thelma Hewitt was her personal maid, a five-foot-tall ball of fire, with gray-streaked, short black hair and
keen brown eyes that saw straight through most people and especially Maddie. Highly efficient, but a notorious busybody, Thelma had worked for Maddie for twelve years. Maddie hadn't wanted a live-in maid, having grown up with a house full of servants. Being a daily maid had suited Thelma just fine. After all, she needed time for her husband, five children and fifteen grandchildren.

After tossing her handbag and keys on the velvet Louis XIV chair in the foyer, Maddie followed the sound of the country-western music, which led her into the kitchen. There stood Thelma, singing along with an old Eddy Arnold tune, peeling apples and dropping the slices directly into an uncooked pie shell.

“You look busy,” Maddie said.

Thelma gasped, dropped her knife and the half-peeled apple onto the granite countertop. “Good Lord, gal, you scared the bejesus out of me!”

“Sorry, I thought you heard me walk in.”

Thelma wiped her hands on her apron, reached over to turn off the radio, then looked Maddie up and down. “What are you doing home at three o'clock?”

Maddie eased up and onto a stool at the bar area that ran behind the work center. “I had to drive Mother home from the club.”

Thelma raised her eyebrows. “How is Nadine?”

“The same.”

“Are you okay?”

“Sure, I'm fine.” Thelma was a mother-to-the-
world type of woman and she'd been mothering Maddie since the first day she came to work for her. “I just wish there was something I could do for Mother, some way I could help her.”

“Nadine doesn't want to be helped. She wants to be pitied. So you just go on pitying her and doing what you can. Can't nobody help that woman but herself. You should be concentrating on your own life a bit more.”

“Is this the get-married-and-have-babies talk that we've had on numerous occasions?”

Thelma picked up the apple and the paring knife. “I know you modern girls think you don't need a man to complete your life or kids of your own to give you a reason to live, but—”

“But you think I'm the kind of woman who needs to have a husband and children.” Maddie reached over and picked up an apple slice from inside the pie pan. “On that one subject, you and Mother agree totally.” Maddie popped the apple bite into her mouth.

“There's a man out there waiting for you. You just haven't found him yet.”

“There are dozens of men out there waiting for me,” Maddie said. “Probably hundreds, if not thousands. And they all want one thing—my money. You know the funny thing is that Mother wants me to get married and give her grandchildren, but at the same time she warns me to never trust any man. And
you know what, Thelma? I don't trust men. Not any of them.”

“Ah, but one of these days—”

“One of these days, what? Some daring man will sweep me off my feet, make mad, passionate love to me and not give a damn that I'm the richest woman in Texas?”

“Something like that.”

“You're daydreaming.”

“Dreams are free, Maddie, my girl. If we don't have our dreams, we don't have anything. So what's wrong with your dreaming about being swept off your feet by some handsome man?”

“The last time I got swept off my feet, I wound up at the police station. It seems my Romeo had stolen a car to impress me.”

“You're talking about that Bridges boy…Dylan Bridges. That youngun sure was a boil on his daddy's backside. Did everything and anything to rile the judge. I wonder whatever happened to him. Last time I saw him was right before he got sent off to Amarillo to that reform school. Lord, he was a sight, with that long hair and that earring. Looked like a damn hippie.”

Maddie hopped off the stool, opened the refrigerator, removed a bottle of Perrier and headed for the door. “I think I'll get some work done in my study. Say goodbye before you leave, okay?”

“Sure thing. And I'll bring you a piece of this pie, just as soon as I take it out of the oven.”

Maddie smiled, then escaped to her study, a small, cozy retreat, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on three sides and a wall of windows on the fourth. As she positioned herself in the oversized, navy-blue leather chair and placed her feet on the matching ottoman, she thought about Dylan Bridges. Over the years she'd thought of him from time to time, and always wondered what had happened to him. Rumors had abounded: he'd become everything from a mercenary to a priest. Which was highly unlikely because his family wasn't Catholic.

Where was Dylan now? And what was he doing? He'd been one boy who hadn't given a damn that her daddy was Jock Delarue. He'd liked her. Wanted her. She'd known that fact as surely as she'd ever known anything. If only Dylan had come into her life later, when she'd been more mature—when they'd both been adults.

If she met a guy like Dylan Bridges now, would she have the guts to reach out and grab him? Or would she let her doubts and insecurities about love, marriage and men in general stop her from taking a chance?

Maddie shrugged. What difference did it make what she might or might not do? She was about as likely to meet a man like Dylan Bridges as she was to sprout wings and fly.

F
or just a split second Dylan felt as if he'd stepped back in time. Seventeen years. The old home looked the same, there on the big, level lot in the middle of town, only a few blocks from the courthouse. Did his father still walk to work every morning and then home again in the evenings? Probably. Carl Bridges was a creature of habit. If other things had changed about him, that probably hadn't.

His father had inherited this 1920s Craftsman style house from his uncle, who'd died a bachelor. Like many of the homes of its day, the Bridges house possessed two stories, a sloping roof line, a large square front porch with a swing and a detached two-car garage. The white picket fence around the property boasted a fresh coat of paint, as did the house. Dylan wondered if his great-uncle's old Packard was still parked inside the garage. As a teenager, he had longed to get behind the wheel of that antique gem, but his father had refused to let him even sit inside the car.

A large American flag, waving slightly in the wind, hung over the porch. His father, a Vietnam veteran, had been, in the best of times, a patriotic citizen, and
no doubt he was now more so than ever. Looking back to his boyhood, Dylan could recall many reasons to have been proud of his dad. Why couldn't he have realized it at the time?

As he stepped away from the cab and onto the walkway that led up to the front porch, Dylan experienced a moment of uncertainty. Standing at the front door, he hesitated before ringing the bell. Maybe he should have telephoned first to tell his father he was coming. Why the hell had he wanted his arrival to be a surprise?

Reminding himself that his father had been the one to call him, to extend the olive branch, to ask forgiveness, he punched the doorbell. Within seconds he heard footsteps inside the house, then the front door opened and there stood a broad-shouldered, stern-faced man of sixty, with a stock of neatly trimmed white hair and the same watery-blue eyes that Dylan remembered so well.

A sudden smile flashed across Carl Bridges' face as he reached out to grab Dylan's arm. “Come on in, son. Come on in.” Carl draped one arm around Dylan's shoulders and escorted him into the house.

Dylan wasn't sure what he had expected. A cordial handshake at most. But certainly not this warm, enthusiastic welcome. His father had never been an overly emotional man, and never one for displays of affection. The only hugs and kisses Dylan had gotten as a boy had come from his gentle, loving mother.

“I had no idea you would come home so soon,” Carl said as he led Dylan into living room. “I'd hoped you would want to see me as much I wanted to see you, but…” Carl cleared his throat.

Dylan stared at his dad, startled by the fact that the old man was almost in tears. This wasn't the Carl Bridges he remembered. And this softer side of his father unnerved him. He had been prepared for both of them to feel and act a bit awkward, but it had never entered his mind that his father might have mellowed with age.

“Have you had supper?” Carl asked. “I could make us some sandwiches here at the house. Or if you'd like we could run over to the Mission Creek Café for some barbecue. Whatever you'd like.”

“Sandwiches here are fine with me, Dad.” Odd how easily he could say that word. Dad. And even more strange was how comfortable he felt in this house. The place had never felt more like home than it did at this very minute.

Dylan glanced around the living room and found fresh tan paint on the walls and a new sofa and chair. The same simple wood paneling around the fireplace and the sturdy coffee and end tables remained, but wooden shutters had replaced the heavy curtains and window shades.

“Come on back into the kitchen with me, son, and let's talk.” Carl nodded the direction. “I'll fix ham and cheese. That used to be your favorite.”

His dad actually remembered what his favorite sandwich had been. He would have sworn that his father hadn't known a thing about him back then, certainly nothing as personal as his preferences in food. Guess it just went to show how wrong he'd probably been about other things, too.

“Yeah, it's still my favorite.” Dylan followed his dad into the kitchen, a room that had changed even less than the living room. A new refrigerator seemed to be the only major difference. And the walls were now beige instead of the sunny yellow his mom had painted them.

“Sit down. Sit down.” Carl opened the fridge and began removing items, laying ham and various condiments on the table. “Tell me about yourself, Dylan. I know you live in Dallas and that you're a stockbroker. That private detective I hired to find you told me that much.”

Dylan pulled out one of the wooden ladder-back chairs from the table and sat. “Why did you hire a private detective? Why didn't you just use your local and state law enforcement connections?”

“You know me, boy, I go strictly by the book whenever possible. I call in favors only if I have no other choice.” Carl sliced several thick slabs of ham. “There are times when a man gets himself in a jam and he has to do whatever is necessary to get himself out of trouble.”

Staring at his father, Dylan wondered if he'd heard
him right. “Are you in some sort of trouble? Is that why you asked me to come home? Do you need my help?”

Carl took a loaf of bread out of the cupboard, removed four pieces and placed them on two earthenware dinner plates. “I asked you to come home because I want a chance to get to know my grown son and—” Carl cleared his throat “—to make amends for past mistakes.”

“You weren't the only one who made mistakes,” Dylan said. “I wasn't blameless. I screwed up a lot, and most of the time it was on purpose. It seemed to be the only way I could get your attention.”

“I'm not making any excuses, but…well, I had a mighty difficult time after your mama died.” Carl spread mayonnaise and hot mustard on the bread, then stacked ham, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes and dill pickle slices before adding the top piece of bread. “I should have been a better father. I should have done something to help you after you stole that Porsche from the country club. I let my stupid pride keep me from doing what I really wanted to do. But at the time, I told myself I was doing the right thing, letting you learn your lesson the hard way.”

“That's exactly what I did,” Dylan said. “I had to learn everything the hard way back then. Even when I left the reform center, it took me a few more years to get on track and turn my life around.”

“You've done well, son, and I'm awfully proud of you.”

Dylan swallowed hard. “I…uh…I thought about calling you, you know. Over the years. From time to time. I even considered coming home, but I always chickened out. I wasn't sure you ever wanted to see me again.”

Carl placed the plate in front of Dylan, walked around the table and laid his hand on Dylan's shoulder. “Not a day has gone by since you left for Amarillo that I haven't thought about you, worried about you and…cared about you.”

Dylan clenched his teeth, then lifted his hand and laid it on top of his father's. “We've got a lot of catching up to do. That's why I've come home for a while.”

Tears misted Carl's eyes. “Thank you, son. Thank you.”

 

While nibbling on a Caesar salad, served to her at an umbrella-shaded table on the patio adjacent to the club's outdoor swimming pool, Maddie went over her checklist for the Mystery Gala coming up in only a few more days. Everything was set. The menu had been approved by Chef Tomas. The jazz band from New Orleans was due to fly in on a charter plane on Friday afternoon at one. Actors from the local Little Theater had been hired to play the murder victim and the police detective, and both had been sworn to se
crecy on the mystery plot. Mrs. McKenzie, the talented designer who owned Mission Creek Creations, had whipped up a perfectly divine little black satin gown for Maddie, and a matching satin shawl with pearls and Austrian crystals dripping from the edges. She'd wear diamond earrings and a couple of her diamond bracelets, but no necklace. Understated elegance was the style she preferred.

One of the things Maddie enjoyed most about being filthy rich was being able to afford the best clothes money could buy. Some people called her a clotheshorse; maybe she was. Well, actually, no maybe about it. Her walk-in, fourteen-by-sixteen closet was a dead giveaway.

A young waitress who was part of the staff that rotated shifts in the Empire Room, the Yellow Rose Café and the temporary Men's Grill replenished Maddie's iced tea, then asked, “Would you care for dessert today, Ms. Delarue?”

“I'm not sure.” What was the young woman's name? Maddie tried to remember. Daisy something or other, wasn't it? “Maybe some fruit. Let me think a minute, please…Daisy.”

The waitress smiled. Ah, Maddie thought, I must have gotten her name right.

Wearing a modest one-piece dark green bathing suit, Josie Carson stopped by Maddie's table on her way to the pool. “Working hard, I see.”

“Just going over things for the Mystery Gala Friday night. You and Flynt are coming, aren't you?”

“We wouldn't miss it.” Josie smiled, her face alight with a surreal glow. “Unless I have another serious bout of nausea and wind up in bed again.”

“Nausea? Have you been sick?” Maddie asked, thinking the young bride looked the very picture of health.

Josie laughed. “I'm not sick. Not the way you think. I'm pregnant.”

“Oh, Josie, how wonderful!” Maddie shot up out of her chair and hugged Josie. “Flynt must be ecstatic.”

“He's so attentive that he's driving me crazy.” Josie's emerald eyes sparkled. “You'd think no other woman had ever had a baby.”

“The man's madly in love with you, so just relax and let him pamper you. That's what prospective fathers are supposed to do. Right?”

“I guess so. By the way he acts with Lena, he's already shown me what a wonderful father he's going to be.”

“How is little Lena?”

“Growing bigger and prettier every day.”

“I don't suppose there's any news about her real parents?”

Josie shook her head, swinging her shoulder-length, platinum-blond hair about her face. “I'm really torn about Lena. I know it's selfish of me to want to keep
her. Flynt and I adore her so much. But somewhere out there she has a mother, possibly both parents.”

Maddie suddenly remembered the waitress who stood attentively waiting for her to decide about dessert. “Oh, Daisy, I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. I'd like a bowl of strawberries. No cream.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Daisy turned to Josie. “Mrs. Carson, may I add my congratulations about your pregnancy? This must be a wonderful time for you and your husband. And I imagine having a child of your own will help y'all give up little Lena when…if her real mother shows up to claim her.”

“Thank you, Miss…Daisy, is it?” Josie smiled at the young waitress.

“Yes, ma'am. Daisy Parker.” Daisy turned her attention to Maddie. “I'll bring those strawberries right back out, Ms. Delarue.”

“Thank you,” Maddie said, then when Daisy hurried off, Maddie hugged Josie again. “Give Flynt my love and tell him how happy I am for the two of you.”

Josie nodded, then headed toward the pool. Maddie slumped down in her chair and glared sightlessly at her planning book lying open on the table. Josie Carson was pregnant. How did it feel, Maddie wondered, to be carrying the child of the man you loved—a man who adored you. She'd probably never know. Not all of her billions, not even all the money in the world, could buy her the kind of happiness Josie and Flynt shared.

 

Dylan and Carl sat up until nearly midnight. Father and son talked—really talked—for the first time in
Dylan's life. They reminisced about the years before Dylan's mother died, when they had been a family. Then they caught up on the years they'd lost during Dylan's self-imposed exile, each cautiously sidestepping any discussion of the events directly prior to and following Dylan's two-year term in the Reform Center. Twice during the evening, Carl had received phone calls that obviously upset him, but he assured Dylan that it wasn't anything to worry about, simply legal matters that he was having a slight problem solving. And since he was just getting reacquainted with his father, Dylan didn't press Carl to disclose the particulars.

As the evening wore on, they shared a pot of coffee and kept talking. Carl wanted to know everything about Dylan, all the details of the years they had spent apart. And Dylan found himself questioning his father about Mission Creek and some of the people he remembered from his youth.

“So, whatever happened to Maddie Delarue?” Dylan asked.

Carl sighed. “Jock's dead, you know. Died a few years back.”

“Yeah, I'd heard. When a man as important as Jock Delarue dies, the whole state knows about it.”

“Maddie inherited everything, except for some sizable charitable donations and the trust fund he'd set up for his second wife, Renee,” Carl said. “You know
he divorced Nadine and married a girl not ten years older than Maddie, whom he'd been having an affair with for years.”

“When did that happen? The divorce?”

“Oh, about a year after…” Carl paused, then looked Dylan square in the eyes. “You were still in the Reform Center, so I suppose Maddie was seventeen.”

Seventeen? He'd been seventeen when he'd received that strange letter from Maddie, the one telling him that life could throw you some cruel punches. Hell, she'd probably written to him around the time of her parents' divorce. Back then, he'd been too self-absorbed to have considered that maybe she needed him to write back to her, to be a strong shoulder for her to cry on. God, what a terrible time that must have been for a girl like Maddie, who'd always been the center of her parents' lives.

Carl sighed. “There was a big scandal and a messy divorce. I don't think Maddie spoke to her daddy for quite a few years after the divorce. And of course, Nadine was a basket case, so Maddie wound up taking care of her instead of the other way around.”