The Ring on Her Finger (25 page)

“Sometimes I can get by,” Lucy admitted. “But it’s a struggle. I taught myself a few tricks over the years, and sometimes, if I concentrate very hard, I can eventually decipher enough words in something to get the gist of it. But, no, I can’t sit down with a book or a newspaper, or—” She tilted her head toward the magazine with Max’s photo on the cover that she’d brought to Rosemary’s room. “—or a magazine, and tell you what it says in any detail.”

“But you’re an English major,” Rosemary pointed out. “A graduate student. You have a university degree.”

Lucy had really been hoping Rosemary wouldn’t make that connection. At least until after she left Harborcourt. Or, at the very least, until she got her life straightened out so she could tell everyone the truth. Suddenly, the thought of leaving Harborcourt made her stomach roil as much as did the fact that she was lying to everyone here.

She decided to gloss over the first part of Rosemary’s observation and focus instead on the second, where she could be—sort of—truthful. “I actually did my undergrad work in art. But I barely passed my classes. Don’t get me wrong—I learned plenty, by listening closely to lectures and checking out as many audiobooks as I could and watching a lot of documentaries. And I could always hire someone to take dictation and transcribe my research papers for me. But I did badly on every test I took.”

“Well,” Rosemary said, “that would explain the Omar Khayyam and Genghis Khan problem, wouldn’t it?”

Lucy laughed nervously. “I actually do know the difference there. Like I said, I’ve always loved watching documentaries and biographies. I’ve learned more than a lot of people, in spite of not being able to read very well.”

Only when she said that did she realize it was true. After so many years of hearing her parents say she wasn’t bright and that she was lazy, Lucy had begun to think it was true. Her mother had always equated “different learning pattern” with “not learning at all.” But Lucy did have a different learning pattern. She had learned. She was bright. And she wasn’t lazy. On the contrary, she’d probably worked twice as hard as most people to learn what she had. Only now was she beginning to understand that. Her mother was wrong. About a lot of things.

“But my grades were always terrible,” she continued, knowing that was true, even if there was a legitimate reason for it. “And I think, truly, that the only reason I lasted at college as long as I did was because my father endowed a chair at the university I attended.”

At this, Rosemary’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “It costs a lot of money to do that, doesn’t it?”

Honesty, she reminded herself. She was finally being honest. As honest as she could be without putting herself in a dangerous position, anyway. “Yes,” she said. “It does.”

“You come from a wealthy family then.”

“Yes,” Lucy replied. Honestly. “I do.”

The nanny leveled another one of those long, considering looks on her, then nodded slowly, as if she understood. Wow, that was pretty amazing, if Rosemary understood all that. Maybe she could explain it all to Lucy, too.

“So then your studies now,” Rosemary said. “Is your father footing the bills for those, as well?”

Lucy shook her head. “No. My parents don’t even know where I am.”

She tried to reassure herself that she was once again telling the truth, but what she said was still misleading, and she knew it. She had to offer some excuse for her current enrollment to satisfy Rosemary’s curiosity, though.

“Going back to college now... Well, I guess it’s been kind of a test for me.” It was with much surprise that Lucy realized she was still telling the truth. “And really, I am learning something.”

Also true. She was learning that she wasn’t lazy or stupid. She was dyslexic.

Rosemary smiled. “And now you can look for some proper help. We can look for someone who can help you and Abby both.”

Lucy started to object. Number one, she might be too old to be treated for her problem. Number two, she wasn’t going to be here long enough to be helped by anyone who would help Abby. At least, she didn’t think she would. For some reason, though, she couldn’t make herself utter the objection.

She looked at the magazine sitting on the table between her and Rosemary, recalling the photos inside, especially the one of Max and the beautiful, dark-haired woman. It was as good a time as any to change the subject.

“Have you read the story?” she asked Rosemary, knowing the question would need no clarification.

Rosemary sipped her tea and nodded. “Yes, I have.”

“So you know about Max’s past.”

“Yes. For about a year now.”

“Abby’s known about it, too.”

“Yes.”

“Does everyone at Harborcourt know?”

“Mr. Cove does, since Abby found those magazines in a box down in the basement with some of his other things before she claimed them for herself. I don’t know if Mrs. Cove knows, but I doubt it. She’d talk. None of the other employees know. They’d talk, too. And no one does. Not even me or Abby.”

“So Max doesn’t know you know?”

“No. I made Abby promise she would never bring it up with him or anyone else, and she’s very good about keeping promises.”

“But why has no one asked him about it?”

Rosemary set her cup down in its saucer and met Lucy’s gaze. “Some of those magazines are almost ten years old. Whatever happened to Max then, it was a long time ago. For whatever reason, he doesn’t want to discuss it. Otherwise, he would.” Her expression went almost grim as she added, “Everyone has something in the past that they want to keep in the past, Lucy. Everyone has a secret. And everyone is entitled to keep it, if they want to.”

Oh, boy, did that hit home. Not just with Lucy, either. Somehow, she knew Rosemary was talking about herself, too. Not that Lucy could imagine what kind of deep, dark secret a nice person like Rosemary would have to keep.

In spite of the admonition, Lucy said, “If you’ve read the article, then will you tell me what it says?”

Rosemary studied her for a moment, then told her, “You won’t like it. It isn’t about the Max we know. He was different then.”

“I want to know what it says anyway. I need to know, Rosemary. I need to understand him. He’s...” She met the other woman’s gaze now. “He’s become...important to me.”

The other woman smiled at that, but there was something decidedly sad in the gesture. Before Lucy could question it, Rosemary reached for the magazine and opened it up to the article about Max. Then she began to read aloud.

Max was hiding out in his apartment—ah...that is...he was taking a break from his work...which, admittedly, he somehow neglected to start that day—when he heard a soft knock at his door. He didn’t want to answer it, since he knew it was Lucy coming to check on him. Besides, he was only half-dressed due to the not starting work thing and because of the lack of air-conditioning. Not that he didn’t have air-conditioning, he just wasn’t allowed to use it. So he was sitting around in his boxer shorts. Drinking a warm, bad beer. Staring off into space. Fantasizing about making love to Lucy. Berating himself for being such a jackass.

But because he knew the knocking would sound again—and it did—he went to his bedroom and tugged on a pair of ragged blue jeans and a white T-shirt. Then, because he knew the knocking would sound a third time—and it did—he went to answer the door. And wow, what a surprise to find Lucy standing on the other side.

“Hi,” she said.

Her soft brown hair was like sun-streaked honey, her blue eyes were clear and enormous. She wore a skimpy little dress the color of late-afternoon sunshine, with a skimpy little hem that fell to mid-thigh, and skimpy little straps to hold it up. It was all Max had could do not to lean forward and run his tongue along one of her bare shoulders. She was also, he noted, holding something behind her back.

He frowned when he noticed that, because he somehow knew that whatever she was hiding from him, he didn’t want to find out what it was. He also knew she would show it to him, anyway. Then she did show it to him, pulling the item gingerly from behind her back to hold it at waist level. When Max saw what it was, a sick, ghastly feeling exploded in his belly, firing like a cannon blast to every cell in his body.

It had been five years since Max last saw a copy of Velocity, The Magazine of F1 Racing. Reading it wasn’t allowed. But this issue in particular made him feel sick inside. Not just because of the photograph of himself staring back at him, but because of the photograph of him and Sylvie Balisteri on the inside.

“I, um, I found this today when I was cleaning at the big house,” Lucy said.

Of course, she did. She was bound to find something like that somewhere, at some point. Things had been going too well with her, in spite of his efforts to keep his distance. He’d been feeling too good since her arrival at Harborcourt, in spite of his reminders to himself that he couldn’t have her. Lucy had managed to scale the mile-high walls it had taken him years to erect. She had wheedled her way under his skin and made herself comfortable. Worse, she had made him comfortable. No matter how hard he’d tried to make himself miserable, he’d felt pretty damned good for the past couple of weeks. He’d actually started thinking positive thoughts. He’d even entertained a hope or two. Like maybe that he and Lucy might eventually—

Well. Just that maybe he’d finally paid his dues, that maybe his penance was over. He’d started thinking maybe Lucy was his reward for living his ascetic life so dutifully for so long. But now, by her finding this little remnant of his past, it pretty much killed off any chance he might have had for a future with her. Max would never be happy. It wasn’t allowed. He didn’t deserve it. But for that, he had no one but himself to blame. How could he have thought his penance would ever be over? Hell, five years in, it was just beginning. He should have seen this coming from a mile away.

“I thought Monday was your day off,” he said. Mostly because he didn’t know what else to say.

“Yeah, well, I was feeling a little restless.”

He expelled a rough sound at that. “Lotta that going around.”

“Can we talk about this?”

He muttered a single, ripe expletive.

Lucy didn’t flinch. “Please? I think it’s important.”

He shook his head. “Nothing about that time was ever important. Not one damned thing.”

“I’d still like to talk about it.”

“And I’d like to forget about it. The hell of it is, Lucy, we don’t always get what we want, you know?”

“Then can I just come in? Can we talk about...what happened Friday night?”

Max’s first instinct was to tell her no, because he was trying to forget about that, too. Then he realized he was no more likely to forget about what happened Friday night than he was what happened five years ago. So he took a couple of steps backward, pulled his door open wider, and allowed Lucy inside. He didn’t close it behind her, though. She was going to need it open when she bolted from the room after hearing what a menace to society—and nice women—he was.

“Uh...nice place,” she said as she entered, clearly absorbing the fact that there was nothing there to be absorbed.

With its sparse, ugly furniture—he’d chosen it himself—and its complete lack of accessories and warmth, Max’s apartment left a lot to be desired. Which was the whole point. There was nothing inessential here. Nothing of a personal nature. Nothing luxurious. Nothing cozy. No creature comforts. He wasn’t supposed to be comfortable here. He wasn’t supposed to be comfortable anywhere. It wasn’t allowed. He had eventually, grudgingly, bought himself a small black-and-white TV and a cheap DVD player to watch old movies. He did that because, if he hadn’t, he would have gone nuts. And going nuts would be too easy. Going nuts wasn’t allowed. So in an effort to maintain his sanity—thereby maintaining his suffering—he allowed himself that one small concession. But that was it. Anything else that brought pleasure or distraction, Max wanted—deserved—none of it.

“Thanks,” he replied. “It suits me, I think.”

“No, it doesn’t,” she said. But she didn’t elaborate.

“Can I get you anything?” He was striving to be a good host, since he couldn’t be a good anything else. “Wanna beer?”

She made a face. “It’s bad beer, Max.”

“Yes, it is. It’s exceptionally bad beer.”

“And you’re drinking it warm again, aren’t you?”

“You betcha.”

“Why?”

“Because that enhances its badness.”

“And you need exceptionally enhanced badness because...?”

He lifted the bottle to his mouth for a long, leisurely—exceptionally, enhancedly bad—taste, bit back a grimace, and told her, “Because I’m an exceptionally, enhancedly bad person.”

“No, you’re not.”

He pointed to the publication she had let fall to her side. “I’m assuming you read the article in there about me.”

She glanced away. “I know what it says, yes.”

“Then why do you say I’m not a bad person?”

Her gaze connected with his again and held firm. “Because the Max Hogan in this article isn’t the Max Hogan I know.”

“Same social security number, sweetheart. It’s the same guy. Trust me.”

“I do trust you. That’s the point.”

He turned and made his way to the couch, where he slumped into a corner and wished the world would swallow him whole. Lucy followed, folding herself onto the sofa beside him, scarcely an inch away.

“I wouldn’t trust the guy in this article,” she said, still holding the magazine. “This guy is vain, arrogant, and totally self-absorbed. You’re none of those things, Max. You’re not the same guy as him.”

“I am the same guy. I just live differently now, that’s all.”

“Which leads to my next question. Why are you here? Why are you working as Justin Cove’s car guy when you used to be so famous on the racing circuit that they put you on magazine covers? They even had a nickname for you. What was it they called you?”

She flipped open the magazine to the article in question. But she didn’t read it, only held it up for Max to look at. He didn’t want to look at it. They used to call him a lot of things, few of the terms polite, but all of them appropriate. The one Lucy was referring to, however...