Thorns of Truth (45 page)

But was it all
her
fault? If their roles had been reversed, with Brian running his own firm, say, wouldn’t she have been more understanding? Why was it that all the successful women she knew felt continually torn—and their husbands almost never did?

Rachel felt a flare of resentment that just as quickly died.

Marriage, she thought, was more than a feminist issue. Like God, it was in the details—the small courtesies, the loving touch in passing, the thoughtful remembrances. She remembered the days when whoever had to get up earliest would leave a little love note for the other by the coffee machine. When she’d bring Brian supper on a tray if he was racing to meet a deadline; or, if it was the other way around and she’d had to work late, he’d show up at the clinic with a picnic basket. And winter nights, when she’d climb into bed, her feet blocks of ice, Brian would let her warm them against his with only a good-natured grunt of protest.

The night of the engagement party was the last time they’d made love—if you could call it that. Since then, they’d slept with their backs to each other. Even so, the thought of losing Brian brought a depth charge of panic exploding to the surface. What would she do without him? How would she survive? Oh God, dear God,
who would love her?

Except for Iris, she had no family. No
real
family, not anymore. Only the pair of sisters she’d somehow inherited, who were little more than strangers. Skinny, hardbitten Marie, and the insufferably sanctimonious Clare. She’d socialized with them, sure, at Rose’s, on family occasions and holidays, but the concept of their actually being related to her was still utterly and completely foreign to her. Last week, when Marie, gruff as a prisoner welcoming a fellow inmate to the cell block, had invited her over for coffee, Rachel had scrambled to make up an excuse. She didn’t know if she’d ever be able to see Marie as anything other than Rose’s sister.

When Brian’s limo arrived to take him to the airport, Rachel kissed him lightly on the cheek, fighting back her tears. She’d spare him those. “Take care,” she murmured, thinking how ironic it was: all those years, she had imagined every catastrophe that might befall Brian while he was away, when the real threat to their happiness had been right here at home.

Watching from the window as Brian emerged onto the sidewalk, where a black Town Car was idling at the curb, Rachel wondered if she’d merely imagined the searching look he gave her at the door. The way his thoughtful gray eyes had seemed to rest on her, as if waiting for an answer to the question neither of them dared ask.

As the limo pulled away, she brought her forehead to rest against the cool glass, welcoming the chill that seeped down into her hot cheeks. It numbed her, put her tears on hold, reminded her she had work to do.

Hours later, as she was plowing through the last of the folders on her desk, her private line at the clinic rang.
Brian,
Rachel thought. Reaching for the phone, she glanced at the clock on her desk, and saw that it wasn’t quite nine. No. His plane might have landed, but he wouldn’t be at his hotel yet.

“It’s Drew,” said the taut voice on the other end. He sounded upset. “I can’t seem to find Iris. Have you seen her?”

“Iris?” Rachel echoed, feeling a sudden chill. “I thought she was with you. Yesterday, when I called … she told me you two had plans.”

“We did.”

“I’ve been trying to make a date with her—for lunch, coffee, whatever—but she always says she’s too busy.” Even as she said it, Rachel felt a pang of guilt for not having pursued it; for being so caught up in her own
tsuris
she didn’t just march over there and demand to know what was
really
going on. “Drew, I’m worried about her. She doesn’t look well. I know how distraught she is about her grandmother … but …” Rachel drew in a breath. “Drew, is something wrong?”

He hesitated a beat too long, and that’s when she knew.
Oh God.
She’d been counting on Drew to act as watchdog—but where had
she
been, Iris’ own mother?

A little guiltily, he replied, “I was expecting her last night … and she never showed up.”

“Last night?” Rachel had to restrain herself to keep from shouting. “Why didn’t you
call
?”

“She was at a friend’s. I just figured she’d changed her mind about coming over. We … we haven’t been getting along all that well lately. Besides …” He paused. “Look, I know it was wrong, but she made me promise. She didn’t want to worry you. That’s why she’s been avoiding you.”

“What mother
wouldn’t
worry?” Her voice rose, edged with hysteria.
She tried to kill herself. Twice. Isn’t that reason enough?

“I should’ve called sooner, I know.” His voice was low and ashamed. “I thought we could handle it. She even talked to her shrink about it. After that, for a little while, she really
did
seem better … but this thing with Sylvie, and the house, it really got to her.” He exhaled raggedly.

“
Drew, what happened?
”

“She locked herself in the bathroom,” Drew said. “She had the razor out, and …” His voice caught, ending in a muffled sob.

Rachel felt a lightning bolt of alarm streak through her.
Rose warned me. Mama, too …

When she could trust herself to speak normally, she demanded with quiet urgency, “Tell me everything you know.”

Drew cleared his throat, and his voice grew stronger. “Okay, but not now. We have to look for her. Right now, that’s what we have to do.”

Rachel squeezed her eyes shut. “Have you … Are the police involved?” she forced herself to ask.

“I haven’t told anyone except my sister,” he said. “She’s out looking for Iris now. With my mom’s boyfriend. Eric. He’s taking Mandy over to some shelter for runaways that he knows of.”

“Iris is …” Rachel stopped. She’d been about to protest that Iris was too old to be considered a runaway, and besides, she
had
a home to go to. Then she reminded herself: Iris wasn’t like other girls her age. Gripping the receiver hard enough to make her knuckles pop, she told Drew, “I’ll be right over.”

Rachel hung up, rushed about the office, grabbed her coat and purse. She wasn’t just scared—she was furious. At herself.

For letting her daughter down, believing Iris was out of the woods when she should have known better.

I’m her mother. I should have done something.

Even Mama, however misguided, and however horrible the consequences in the end, had tried to protect her daughter, her Rachel—though in the end it was Rachel, not Mama, who was paying the price.

Rachel wanted to scream, throw something at the wall. Yet all she could do was stand in the doorway, struggling with a coat that seemed to have grown three sleeves since she’d last put it on. In her mind, too, everything had gotten tangled. Brian’s leaving … Iris’ running away … Mama’s dying.

Yes, Mama, I’m angry at you, too.
For taking away the only mother she’d known—not just in body, but in spirit as well. Because the woman Rachel had called Mama never could have abandoned her own baby, then, decades later, deny that child her birthright. It was monstrous. Cruel. Unforgivable.

Suddenly Rachel knew who she needed to call.

Rose.

Rose, to whom she was bound by a secret stronger than blood—one that had destroyed lives, no question, but which had to have
some
purpose as well, some thread of redemption. And, however slender that thread, however tightly woven into the tapestry of lies and deception, it might ultimately lead to her daughter.

The office was quiet. It was after nine, and Mallory had left hours ago. Rose was getting ready to pack it in herself; she’d promised Jay she would stop at Blockbuster for a movie he wanted to watch. Even the unwelcome prospect of Sly Stallone, drenched in sweat and blood, slugging it out with the baddies wasn’t enough to deter her from what might be her last chance ever to curl up on the sofa with her younger son, who, for a brief shining moment, seemed to have forgotten that
she
was the bad guy.

Good. Because at the moment she felt more like the innocent bystander who’d been shot through the heart.

Less than forty-eight hours since Eric had walked out of her life … and already the thought of not seeing him again,
ever
, felt like a small death. She hadn’t been prepared to miss him this much. Rose couldn’t remember when she’d felt so desolate. Losing Max had been the worst—it had nearly killed her—but there had been no one to blame, least of all herself. And always, at the heart of her misery, had lain the knowledge that, had she been given the choice, she would have sacrificed everything to bring back her husband.

With Eric, she wouldn’t have to give up anything. All she’d have to do was pick up the phone.

Rose found herself remembering a long-ago trip to Montana, a three-day trail ride through the wilderness Max had talked her into. It would be fun for the boys, he’d cajoled. As city dwellers, they knew next to nothing about roughing it, and even less about horses. Overcoming her terror, Rose had agreed—and lived to regret it. The second day, halfway up a narrow switchback, her horse had balked. Without warning, it began backing up—a wild little dance that sent a small avalanche of stones skittering down the steep slope inches away. She’d thought for sure she was going to die, from a heart attack if not a broken neck, but somehow had managed to bring the horse under control before they both went plunging over the edge. Afterwards—when she was too shaken to walk, much less ride—their trail guide said, “Ain’t no such thing as a guaranteed safe horse. Even the quietest ones can spook … and nobody knows why.”

Rose knew why. The poor animal had been scared out of its wits.

All these years later, she felt a kinship with that horse. There was no rhyme or reason to why she’d balked with Eric, at least none she could adequately put into words. But the plain fact was, she was terrified.

Seated at the desk in her office, staring sightlessly down at the string of Matchbox cars crawling along Park Avenue, Rose wondered if maybe certain people weren’t meant to be lucky in love. If her true legacy, more real than any house, was the losses lined up one after another, like dominoes, starting with a mother who had left her at birth.

If only she could find a way to stop
wanting
him so much. If she could simply accept her fate, and move on.

Go home,
she told herself, disgusted by her self-pity.
Go home to your son. That’s where you belong. He needs you.

Rose pulled herself heavily to her feet, and began stuffing papers into her briefcase. Minutes later, as she was making her way along the corridor to the reception area, she passed the open door to Mandy’s office, and gave a little wave to Hayden Lockwood, hunched like a tall question mark over a stack of files he was placing on Mandy’s desk. In his cardigan vest and tortoiseshell spectacles, he looked strangely out of sync with the rest of his generation, like a young actor poorly made up as an elder statesman. But where was Mandy? Her stepdaughter usually worked late herself; she must have had plans. Or else …

Don’t even think it,
a voice in her head warned.

Nevertheless, Rose offered up a silent little prayer that her stepdaughter wasn’t off getting plastered in some bar. Since the big showdown, Mandy, as far as Rose could tell, had been sober … but you never knew. Did Mandy have the slightest idea how worried she was? And how dearly Rose loved her, as if Mandy were her very own daughter? Rose felt a tiny bit guilty, too, like the tickle at the back of the throat when a cold is coming on. It was as if Max had left her to watch over, not only this office, but his daughter as well, and she were somehow letting him down.

Riding down in the elevator. Rose had to suck in her breath; the glassy descent seemed sharper than usual. She was stepping into the lobby when she caught sight of someone familiar. Rachel—walking briskly toward her wearing a look of grim determination. Her raincoat was unbuttoned, one end of its belt trailing along the polished marble floor tiles. Their eyes met, and Rachel smiled, a joyless smile that melted faster than a snowflake.

“I tried to reach you at home,” Rachel said, when she’d caught up to her. “But Jay said you were working late. I came straight over.”

“What is it? Is something wrong?” Rose was instantly alert—another by-product of Max’s death: every pale, stricken face with which she was confronted, in her mind immediately equaled disaster.

“I need your help,” Rachel said in a low voice, pulling Rose to one side. “It’s Iris—she’s been missing since yesterday, and no one seems to know where she is. Not even Drew. He’s worried she might be”—she swallowed hard—“in some kind of trouble.”

“You’re sure he’s not just jumping the gun?” Rose felt obligated to ask. “Maybe they had a fight.”

“I don’t think so.” Rachel looked as if she wished that were all it was. Her gaze was troubled, her mouth thin and flat as a surgical scar. “Do
you
?”

Rose’s mouth went suddenly dry. “No.”

Rachel leaned forward, gripping Rose’s wrist. “Will you help me look for her?”

Something in Rose balked.
Enough!
What thanks had she gotten for trying to reason with Rachel, get her to see that Iris needed more than Drew could provide? Now she was supposed to drop everything and take off on some rescue mission?

But under the spotlight of Rachel’s unblinking blue gaze, Rose somehow couldn’t bring herself to refuse. Her burst of obstinacy faded as abruptly as it had flared. She sighed. “Where do you suggest we start?”

For once, Rachel wasn’t quick to direct the operation. Except for her permanent-press posture, as crisp and upright as ever, she seemed almost defeated. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “According to Drew, none of her friends know where she is, or where she might have gone. Any ideas?”

“Maybe she decided to leave town without telling anyone. Has she talked about taking a trip?”