The Sooner the Better (3 page)

“You're right, I haven't,” she agreed, cradling the mug with both hands, letting its warmth seep into her palms. Somehow she managed to go in to work most days, but she'd been late a number of times. Again and again she sat in front of the television and escaped into her favorite movies. Movies her mother had loved, too—romance, adventure, suspense, anything that would take her mind off the lies Virginia had told her. Lies
both
her parents had conspired in.

“What do you do here every night?” he asked. “Besides watch Humphrey Bogart and Cary Grant movies.”

“Do?” It seemed he had only to look around for an answer to that.

He glanced back into the living room and frowned.

Lorraine tried to look at the house through his eyes and had to admit its appearance must come as something of a shock. She was as neat and orderly as her mother had been. Both were meticulous housekeepers, yet Lorraine had gone about systematically tearing every room apart. The place was a shambles.

“What do you hope to prove?” he asked.

Lorraine was stunned by his lack of comprehension. “I'm not hoping to
prove
anything. I'm hoping to find what else my mother saw fit to hide from me.”

He gazed into the distance as if it took some effort to assimilate her words. “Don't take this the wrong way, but have you thought about talking to a counselor?” he asked gently. He risked glancing in her direction.

“You mean a mental-health professional?”

“Ah…yes.”

Lorraine burst out laughing. “You think I've gone off the deep end? That I'm losing it?” As her laugh turned to
a giggle, she wondered if he was right. At times the feeling of betrayal and pain threatened to strangle her. That her parents, particularly her mother, had chosen to lie to her was incomprehensible.

“I know how difficult this is for you,” Gary added, rushing his words. “I'm trying to understand, and I know the people at Group Wellness are, too, but there's a limit to just how accommodating everyone can be while you deal with this.”

“I agree with you.”

Gary's eyes revealed his suspicion. “You do?”

“I'm booking the next month off work.”

“A month?” She could tell he was taken aback by the news. “That long? I think a week or two should be sufficient, don't you?”

“Not for what I have in mind.”

“I thought we were going to save most of our vacation time for our honeymoon and—” He stopped midsentence and his eyes narrowed. “Have in mind? You have something in mind?”

“I'm going to see my father.”

It was a moment before he spoke. “When?”

“My flight's scheduled to leave at seven o'clock Tuesday morning.”

Gary stared at her. “When did you decide this?” His voice was calm, which Lorraine recognized as a sign of anger.

“Last week.” She'd known when she bought the ticket that Gary would disapprove. It was one of the reasons she hadn't discussed her plans with him beforehand.

“I see,” he said in a hurt-little-boy voice. He picked up his mug and took a long swallow.

“I phoned the school where he teaches and talked to the secretary.” Communication had been difficult, but
the woman's English was far superior to Lorraine's high-school Spanish.

Gary's silence was comment enough, but Lorraine hurried on with the details, hoping to settle this before she left for Mexico. She didn't want to slight Gary or offend him, but she had to see her father, talk to him face-to-face. She had to find out what had driven him and her mother apart. Why her parents had allowed her to believe he was dead. There had to be a logical explanation for the lie; she prayed there was. Of all the emotions he'd revealed in his letter, the strongest was love, for her and for Virginia. And all these years they'd deprived her of that love.
Why?

“Have you talked to your father?” Gary asked, his voice now devoid of emotion.

She hesitated before answering, knowing Gary would find fault with this aspect of her plan. “Not directly.”

“I see.”

“The phone number is for the school where he teaches.”

“So you said.”

“And he was in class when I called,” she continued. Surely that made perfect sense. “I left a message giving my flight information and asking him to meet my plane.”

“Then he returned your phone call?”

Again she hesitated. “Not exactly.”

Gary snorted. “It's a simple question, Lorraine. Either he returned your call or he didn't.”

This conversation had been unsatisfactory almost from the first. “I resent your tone, Gary. I was hoping you'd support me.”

He released his breath in a long-suffering sigh. “I just wish you'd talked to me about it first.”

“I'm sorry,” she told him, and she was. “I realize this is unfair to you, but I have to find out what happened between my parents. My father's alive, and I want a chance to know him—to talk to him, to learn why they felt they had to lie. You can understand that, can't you?”

He took his time answering. “Yes,” he admitted with obvious reluctance. “But like I said, I wish you'd included me in this decision. We're engaged. I would've thought you'd want to talk it over with me before you booked the trip.”

“I'm going to see my father, not quit my job.”

“Taking a month off has…ramifications,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Our honeymoon time,” he shot back. “Group Wellness isn't going to give you a month off now and then two more weeks a couple of months down the road.”

“Five months.”

“Whatever.”

“Gary, please. Try to see it from my point of view.”

“See it from mine.”

“Darling, I'm sorry,” Lorraine said. “I was hoping you'd understand. I have to do this before I can get on with my life—with
our
life.”

Slowly he nodded, as if his agreeing to her trip was a gift. “I still wish you'd told me so I could've changed my schedule and joined you.”

Joined her? Not once had Lorraine considered asking Gary to accompany her. He couldn't come anyway, she thought with a surge of relief. Not when he was so recently promoted and training his replacement.

But that wasn't the real reason, and she knew it. She loved Gary, but she didn't want him with her. This journey into her family's past was her adventure, and hers alone.

 

Letting Lorraine travel to Mexico by herself had never sat easy with Gary Franklin. He loved his fiancée and realized this was a difficult, unsettling time for her. A measure of his love was his willingness to stand by and watch her fly off on her own. Not only that, he'd offered to drive her to the airport—which meant getting up at 4:00 a.m. He glanced at his watch in the dashboard light. Quarter to five now. They'd discussed this trip countless times since the morning she'd sprung it on him, and he was convinced she was making a mistake. But Lorraine didn't want to hear that and had stopped listening to him.

Although his only intent was to protect her, shield her from further hurt, she refused to imagine any outcome other than a joyful reunion with the father she'd never known. He'd long admired Lorraine for her common sense, but she exhibited little of it in this unpleasant matter.

Gary had liked Virginia, and her death had shaken him, too. He'd respected Lorraine's mother for her business savvy and the way she worked in what was still largely a man's world. Furthermore he trusted her judgment. Since she'd chosen to tell Lorraine a lie regarding her father, he figured there had to be a good reason. Gary feared that whatever it was would mean bad news for Lorraine, maybe even heartbreak.

Besides her unwillingness to listen to his advice, he couldn't help resenting the fact that she didn't want him with her. She hadn't tried to hide it, either, and that hurt.

He parked the car and collected his thoughts as he approached the house.

“Ready?” he asked Lorraine when she answered the door.

She nodded. At least she'd packed sensibly, he noted—just one medium-size wheeled suitcase. She wasn't like some women, who found it necessary to bring every outfit they owned. She looked smart, too, in an off-white linen pantsuit, her blond hair neatly pulled back. She seemed a little uncertain, but obviously determined to follow through.

“Do you have your passport?”

“Yes.”

“Traveler's checks and cash?”

She nodded.

“Insect repellant?”

“Gary! Honestly, you make me sound like a child heading off to camp.”

He hadn't seen it like that, but she was probably right. “Sorry,” he said with a grin.

Because there was hardly any traffic this early, the drive to the airport didn't take long. He insisted on having a coffee with her after she'd checked in. They sat there, not knowing what to say.

“I don't want you to worry,” she murmured at last.

“I'll try not to. Will you phone?”

She shrugged lightly. “I don't know about the phone situation in El Mirador. My guess is the schoolhouse is the only place in town with a working phone.”

He wished she hadn't reminded him how primitive this village was likely to be.

“I'll write,” she promised, “and phone if I can. Plus I'll email if I have a chance.”

“Great.” He had to be happy with that.

They hugged and kissed and he clung to her for a moment, then stepped back as she left for the departure
lounge. She'd vanished from view, and still Gary stood there.

Despite Lorraine's optimism, he couldn't shake the feeling that everything—in his life and in hers—was about to change.

J
ack Keller had never thought of himself as a big-game fisherman. But owning a thirty-two-foot twin-diesel cabin cruiser made about as much sense as anything else in his life, which was damn little.

He'd “retired” as a mercenary, gotten out of the death-defying game while the getting was good. At the end of his five-year stint he was sick of it all. Sick of the low-profile corporate rescues Deliverance Company had specialized in. Jack was tired of fighting hotheaded terrorist groups and corrupt governments that used innocents in a cruel game of greed and revenge.

He had, however, been paid well for his skills, and he'd managed to save most of it. The major part had been wisely invested, and with the proceeds of the sale of his condominium in Kansas City, he could live comfortably in Mexico until he was a very old man. Growing old in the tropics appealed to Jack. Footloose and fancy-free, that was him. The boat was a bonus he hadn't expected. An inheritance of sorts from Quinn McBride, a friend whose life he'd saved a decade earlier. Jack had lived aboard
Scotch on Water
for the past three years. He'd stayed in the Gulf of Mexico for most of that time, dropped
anchor here and there, made a few friends. The strongest of these friendships was with Thomas Dancy, another American expatriate who lived in the tiny coastal town of El Mirador.

Although Thomas was about fifteen years his senior, the two shared a camaraderie and a deep love of their adopted country. Thomas was a man of secrets, but Jack had a few of his own. It was because of Thomas and Azucena that Jack had hung around the Yucatán; in the past few weeks, though, he'd decided to expand his horizons. Lately he'd been thinking about heading to the Florida Keys, stopping off at some of those small Caribbean paradises along the way. He'd heard the people were friendly, and it didn't hurt any that the women were gorgeous.

Then again, he might return to Belize. He'd pulled into port at Belize City any number of times and he was impressed with the beauty of the country. His American dollars were always welcome; Jack had no problem with that. The women were warm and friendly—and there was a pretty
señorita
he was sure would be glad to see him. Jack couldn't quite remember her name, but no doubt it'd come to him in time.

Either Florida or Belize—he had yet to decide. Before he set his course for either destination, he needed supplies and figured he might as well check his mail, too. Not that he was expecting anything. He hadn't heard from Cain, Murphy or Mallory in several weeks, but he wasn't much for keeping in touch with old friends himself. His life as a mercenary was far behind him. These days he had little in common with the men of what used to be Deliverance Company. His friends were married now, and the last Jack had heard they'd settled into domesticity. Not Jack, though.

Standing on the flybridge, the sun in his face and a breeze slapping his unbuttoned shirt against his tanned chest, Jack set
Scotch on Water
in a westerly direction. He checked the chart and saw he wasn't far from El Mirador. It'd been a couple of months since he'd had a beer with Thomas. Azucena must be ready to pop that kid of hers any day now, if memory served him right. Perhaps he'd arrive in time for the blessed event, and he and the new father could celebrate.

This was their third kid in six years. Good grief, Thomas was as bad as Cain and Murphy, but at least Thomas had an excuse. Azucena was a traditional Catholic and didn't believe in birth control. Sex without marriage, sure; birth control, no. Interesting logic, Jack thought with a grin. During one visit, Thomas had confessed how upset he'd been when Azucena got pregnant the first time around. In the years since, he'd apparently grown accustomed to fatherhood. Then again, Jack might, too, if he had a hot-blooded woman like Azucena warming his bed. There was some reason Thomas couldn't marry her, some reason in his past; he'd alluded to it but never explained.

A few years back, fool that he was, Jack had given marriage serious consideration. He found it hard to believe now, but he'd actually been ready to buy into the whole scene—wife, family, house in the suburbs. Luckily he'd escaped
that
trap…but at the time he hadn't felt especially lucky. In fact, it'd hurt pretty badly when Marcie turned down his proposal. What really got him was that she'd married a plumber named Clifford instead. It still boggled his mind that a woman as smart and sexy as Marcie would find happiness with a slow-witted moose of a man named Clifford.

But they did seem happy. He found it remarkable, but
had to admit he felt relieved; he wouldn't want her to be anything else. He'd received picture Christmas cards from her and Clifford for the past two years. The first one showed her standing proudly beside her big oafish husband with her stomach halfway across the room. She looked ten months' pregnant. Next year's Christmas card explained why. Twins. He'd forgotten their names now, but they were rather unimaginative, as he recalled. Billy and Bobby or something like that. What he remembered most was how happy Marcie had seemed. Her face had glowed with joy as she held one squirming toddler and Clifford hoisted the other. Jack had kept the photograph tucked away on the boat as a reminder that she'd made the right choice in not marrying him. Other than that one all-too-brief episode, Jack had realized a long time ago that he wasn't the marrying kind. Nope, not even close. He wasn't interested in settling down with a woman, putting up with all that domestic stuff. He enjoyed his carefree life and didn't need anyone messing with his mind. Or his heart…such as it was.

No question, things had worked out for the best when Marcie married Clifford. Jack would have made a rotten husband, but there were times, albeit few and far between, when he wondered what would've happened if Marcie
had
married him.

He'd drink a beer in her honor, Jack decided, frowning into the wind. To Marcie and their lucky escape.

 

The Boeing 767 landed in Mérida on the Yucatán Peninsula early that afternoon. As Lorraine exited the aircraft, she peered over the customs counter, hoping her father had received her message and follow-up letter and been able to meet her plane. The only photograph she had of him was the wedding picture, which showed him with
long hair and a beard. He'd be fifty now, and Lorraine had no idea whether or not she'd even recognize him.

The map securely tucked in her purse showed that El Mirador was about seventy-five miles north of Mérida. She glanced around anxiously. It took an unusually long time to clear customs, with lots of people complaining about the unnecessary hold-up. From what Lorraine could make out, the small customs office was short-staffed because of some museum theft. Apparently every available officer was checking the luggage of passengers leaving the country.

After what seemed like an eternity, she was waved through. She collected her suitcase and carefully searched the waiting area, but saw no one remotely resembling the man in the photograph.

“Time for Plan B,” she muttered to herself, grateful that she'd thought this out beforehand. She made her way across the airport to the car-rental booth.

“Can I help you?” the clerk asked.

“Great,” she said, digging through her purse for her driver's license. “You speak English.”

“Yes.” The young woman flashed her a toothy grin.

“I need to rent a car.”

“Very good.”

“I'm not sure how long I'm going to be needing it, possibly an entire month, unless there's a rental agency I can return it to near El Mirador.”

The friendly smile faded when Lorraine mentioned the name of the town. The clerk looked over her shoulder and said something in Spanish that Lorraine didn't understand. Right away the first woman was joined by a second, who appeared to be the manager. They spoke in rapid Spanish, and while Lorraine recognized a few words, she couldn't catch the gist of the conversation.

When they finished, the girl with the toothpaste-ad smile turned serenely to face Lorraine once again. “I'm sorry, but my supervisor says we have no cars available at this time.”

Lorraine didn't believe it. “But you were perfectly willing to rent me one a minute ago.”

“Yes.” She didn't deny that.

“Why won't you now?”

“El Mirador has no roads.”

“No roads?”

The clerk pulled out a rental agreement, silently read it over and underlined the appropriate section before handing it to Lorraine. People in the line behind her were becoming impatient, so Lorraine moved away and sat down to read the section the other woman had highlighted. With the aid of her dictionary, she discovered that rental cars were not allowed on anything but paved roads. In other words, El Mirador was well off the beaten path, and the roads leading in and out of it were either dirt or gravel. Getting there, it seemed, would be no easy task.

“Okay, then. Plan C.” Except she hadn't yet figured out what that would be. There
had
to be another way to reach El Mirador. A bus. If she couldn't get a rental car, she'd take a bus. Which meant she had to find the bus station first.

That decided, she wheeled her suitcase out of the air-conditioned airport. The blast of heat made her stagger. She felt as if someone had thrown a hot towel over her head. Almost immediately her linen pantsuit became damp and clung to her like a second skin. Summers in Louisville could be stifling, but she'd never experienced anything like this—and it was only May. She looked down at her limp wrinkled trousers and sweat-stained jacket; this was what she got for wanting to make a good
impression on her father. If she'd been meeting anyone else, she would've dressed less formally.

Joining the long line for a
colectivo
—cab—she patiently waited her turn. Unfortunately the taxi driver spoke little English, but with her pocket dictionary and traveler's phrase book, she was able to get her message across. The driver nodded repeatedly at every question, then loaded her suitcase into his trunk, which he tied shut with a frayed rope.

Lorraine climbed into the backseat and searched for a seat belt. There wasn't one. The instant he got behind the wheel, her meek and mild-mannered driver turned into a road warrior. Lorraine was tossed about the backseat like a sack of oranges, flung from one side of the vehicle to the other as he wove in and out of traffic. He switched from lane to lane, sometimes racing toward oncoming traffic at a death-defying rate. It would have helped had she found something to hang on to, but all she had were her wits, and those had scattered long ago. The one compensation was that she was too terrified to notice how miserably hot it was.

By the time she arrived at the bus station, she was grateful to have survived the trip. Her shoulder ached from being slammed against the side of the car and her jaws hurt from being clenched. She paid the fare with no argument but without any tip, either, and lugged her suitcase into the depot.

One thing was for sure: her presence certainly attracted a lot of attention. Every eye in the dilapidated place was focused on her. With what she hoped was grace and style, she squared her shoulders and made her way up to the window as if she'd done this every day of her life.

“I'd like a ticket to El Mirador,” she said in English, forgetting to use Spanish.

The man stared at her blankly.

Lorraine reached for her phrase book and flipped pages. Mentioning the name of the town apparently wasn't enough to achieve the result she wanted, so she attempted more than once to ask for a ticket. Each time, the agent merely shrugged and looked blank.

Then he tried speaking to her. First he spoke slowly, then louder as if that would make her understand. After five minutes of this, she was ready to scream with frustration.

“Perhaps I can help.”

Lorraine turned to find a smiling clean-cut man standing next to her.

“Jason Applebee,” he said.

“Lorraine Dancy.” She held out her hand, noting that his was bandaged. “You're American?”

“Sure am.” He grinned. “I guess that's fairly obvious, isn't it?”

“And you speak Spanish?”

“Fluently.” Then, as if to prove it, he spoke to the man behind the counter. The clerk grinned, nodded and said something in return. His eyes moved to Lorraine; she couldn't miss the relief in his expression.

Lorraine didn't understand what either of them had said. By this point she was beyond translating even the simplest verbs. Jason turned to her. “Now, what were you trying to ask?”

“I need a ticket to El Mirador.”

“You're joking,” Jason said, his face lighting up. “I'm heading that way myself.”

“Really? I thought it was just a small town.”

“Actually, I'm going to a place not far from there. I was planning to spend the night in El Mirador.”

“You mean there's a hotel?” If things didn't work out
with her father, it was reassuring to know she'd have someplace to sleep that night.

“I guess you could call it that,” Jason said, and they both laughed.

Lorraine paid for her ticket, and Jason bought his, as well. When they'd finished, they sat in the shade outside and waited for the bus, which was due to arrive, Jason said, in thirty minutes.

“Will you be staying at the hotel, too?” her newfound friend asked as he arranged his backpack at his feet.

“I don't know yet,” Lorraine said. It had been a long day already, with a plane change in Atlanta and a two-hour delay. “How long will it take to reach El Mirador?”

“A couple of hours, possibly more—if the bus doesn't break down, that is.”

“Oh, great.” She sighed loudly, wondering if anything else could possibly go wrong.

“Hey, it isn't so bad,” Jason said. “At least there aren't any
bandidos.
Not like the dig I was on last week.” He explained that he was a part-time archaeology lecturer at a small college in Missouri; she didn't recognize the name. He was here doing research for his doctoral thesis. He'd been in Mexico a month now, he told her, although this wasn't his first trip. Lorraine guessed him to be in his mid-thirties. He had short dark hair and the ubiquitous sunglasses, and wore a short-sleeved cotton shirt tucked neatly into khaki pants. The freshness of his clothes made Lorraine feel even more despairing about the condition of her own.