Tomorrow Wendell (White Dragon Black) (35 page)

“Hello, Claire. It’s good to finally meet you,” Adelaide said. “Your father has told me so much about you.” She had her head tilted down slightly so she looked up at me as though she were bashful. The smirk she had worn was now the demure smile of a shy new girlfriend meeting her beau’s family for the first time. The subtle change in her countenance was barely noticeable. Had I imagined her attitude toward me in that first instance? I looked at my dad, but he kept his attentive stare on Adelaide.

“Hi,” I croaked out.
Crazy is a relative term in my family
. That quote was taped up on the wall next to my breakfast bar. Other quotes were up on the wall as well, mostly inspirational ones about writing, but after today I’d concentrate on finding new ones about dysfunctional families. Dad’s new girlfriend was much too young for him to be dating.

A sickening, burning sensation churned inside my stomach as he stood up.

“I have an announcement,” Glen said, his smile widening.

My heat beat erratically when he looked at me. “Claire—” He then let his gaze fall on each of my brothers, spoke each their names tenderly before he said, “I called you together to let you know about my marriage to Adelaide—”

Anger swelled in my chest when I saw the ring on her left hand. Dad wasn’t a rich man, yet the diamond in the center of the thick gold band had to be two karats. He’d spent a fortune on her. I was pretty sure he continued to talk after announcing their elopement, but all I could do was clench my teeth and breathe.

How dare he?
Mom died less than a year ago. How could he forget her that quickly and run away with a woman young enough to be my sister? She was only a child. No matter how cliché it sounded, he was a— a cradle robber.

It was crazy. How could he have kept his wedding a secret? Why wasn’t I invited? Why weren’t we told he had a girlfriend, or even had a single date? Things didn’t make sense. Why would Adelaide want our dad? While she was a very pretty blue-eyed blond, he looked like a graying bloodhound without the long ears—adorable but hardly head-turning attractive. Although he had a good business, he wasn’t a rich man, even by the government’s definition. By all exterior evidence, she wasn’t looking for a wealthy husband.

Could it really be . . .
love
?

Adelaide kept glancing down at her ring, as if she couldn’t believe she was married.
She
couldn’t believe it? I was astonished. I wanted to shake Adelaide’s hand and accidentally-on-purpose rub the ring against a crystal glass to see if the ring had a mark left on it. If the diamond was really a fake, then my dad hadn’t completely lost his mind.

Adelaide never stopped smiling, not even when she caught Jarrod staring at her with a distinct frown on his lips. He might’ve been even angrier than me. Or maybe his emotions leaned more toward distrust.

Grant looked confused, while Emma only sweetly smiled. I looked at Neil. His grinning face hadn’t faltered since the announcement. He looked genuinely happy when all I wanted to do was scream at everyone what a stupid idea they had had, and that it wasn’t too late for an annulment.

“Congratulations,” I said, weakly. That was a step in the right direction, even if I didn’t feel it in my heart. What more could I do?

~*~

Three months later

Early May

Phoenix, Arizona

The emergency room’s hallway was crowded. I looked around at all the sad people waiting for someone they loved being treated, until I saw Neil leaning his shoulder against a wall. He’d sent me a text that Dad had taken a fall at home, and to meet at the hospital. I had saved my client’s manuscript I was editing on my laptop and hurried out the door. Taking the time to change out of my pajama bottoms and holey T-shirt, or even run a brush over my teeth didn’t seem that important.

“What happened?” I asked after stopping next to my brother.

Neil gazed at my feet. It was then I realized I still had on slippers. “Were you in bed, Claire?”

A nurse walked by. Her work scrubs looked very similar to my pajamas. With my being a freelance editor, working at home didn’t require business clothes—neither did being a struggling author. I practically never wore a dress, and I didn’t own a suit. Jeans and t-shirts were my standard wear. If I wanted to feel dressy, I’d ditch the t-shirt for a silky button-down. Instant glamour. “Just tell me about Dad.”

Neil scratched something dried off the front of my T-shirt. I swatted his hand away.

“He slipped in the kitchen and broke his right arm.”

“You’re kidding? He barely got the cast off his leg.”

“Yeah, what rotten timing.” He poked his finger through a hole in my sleeve.

“Stop that!” I slapped at his arm and stepped back away from him, ripping my sleeve. “Neil!”

He chuckled.

“What did he slip on this time?” I was having a hard time envisioning Dad’s condition.

“Addie was washing the floor, and she didn’t see him come in.”

“He slipped on a wet floor?” I blinked several times trying to erase that improbable image from my mind. “Why would he slip on a wet floor, cast or no cast? Dad skis better than me.”

Neil grinned. “Could be because Addie was on her hands and knees scrubbing and he was paying more attention to her shapely derrière than where he was walking. Don’t worry. She’ll take care of him, just like the last time.”

“Yeah . . .” I stared at the closed door, remembering how my stepmother fussed over Dad’s every need and want. She had even taped his get-well cards up on the wall, and had all his visitors sign a whiteboard near the front door before they had left. She practically glowed at their compliments at the wonderful job she did taking care of him.

I just realized what my brother had said. “Since when are you on a nickname basis with Adelaide?”

“Since when are you against getting along with family?”

I wanted to tell him,
I don’t get along with her,
three months ago when we were surprised about our unexpected new member. But I stayed quiet. Neil seemed to be the only one able to accept Adelaide at face value. My suspicions grew at her motives for marrying someone so much older. Jarrod refused to talk about their marriage—period. If she didn’t marry their dad for money—then what?

A disturbing notion kept coming back into my thoughts about how much Adelaide seemed to
like
taking care of our dad. She enjoyed getting him his dinner and waiting on his every need. It could be seen as love; after all, they were newlyweds. And I’d understand that kind of attention if Dad looked like the hunky firefighters gracing the calendar Neil had given me as a joke Christmas present last year. I loved my dad, but I just couldn’t understand why someone as pretty and young as Adelaide would be
initially
attracted to him without having a bag of glittering diamonds hanging around his neck.

The ER exam cubicle door opened, and a nurse came out. Neil caught the door before it could close. I peeked around his arm.

“Come in,” Adelaide said, motioning toward them with a flick of her hand. Her highly polished fingernails shone off the overhead lights.

Neil stepped back and let me go in first. Our dad lay on a narrow bed and was almost as white as the sheets underneath his body. My heart picked up pace. He’d lost weight.

“Dad—” I rushed to his side when he raised his hand, the one that wasn’t in a cast and strapped down to his ribs. I grasped his cool hand tightly to my chest. “Oh, Dad, are you all right? What can I do for you?”

“I’m fine, sweet Claire,” Glen said.

His voice sounded weak. It scared me more than seeing him after he’d broken his leg six weeks ago.

“He’ll be fine,” Adelaide said, pushing in between us, and taking his hand away from me. “I’ll take good care of him.”

It took every ounce of self-control not to push Adelaide right back. How dare she? I moved back, watching her tenderly stroke Dad’s forehead like she was in love and he was the center of her world. Was he? Did she love him? A shiver crossed between my shoulders blades. Why couldn’t I just accept their situation? As much as I wanted to see him happy, there was just something wrong with picturing him being in so much pain, and knowing both times it had something to do with Adelaide being careless.

Could that be the reason? Adelaide
enjoyed
taking care of my dad? Even though I didn’t necessarily believe it to be true after Dad had broken his leg, this new accident gave me the idea for a new book, one where the stepmother had a unique sickness, an insatiable need to be needed and praised for her self-sacrifice. I saw a movie once that had touched on a curious mental illness, and that tiny germ of an idea began to grow. An excitement tickled its way up into my chest. I needed to go home and write down my ideas before they faded.

“Dad, if you need anything, just call me.” I smiled at Adelaide. “Anytime. I’ll be at home—writing.”

After stopping by the Circle K to buy a Thirstbuster and a big bag of Animal Crackers, I headed for my apartment. First thing I did was an Internet search on an obscure mental illness I wasn’t even sure how to spell—until the spell check program helped find Munchhausen Syndrome by Proxy. The controversial term described a behavior pattern in which a caregiver deliberately exaggerated, fabricated, and even induced physical, psychological, behavioral, and/or mental health problems to those in their care. It made the caregiver look like a selfless hero.

I smiled at the computer screen as my mind started filling in the characters to my new story. The first face that popped into my mind was the pretty, young Adelaide Walker Abney. Every story needed a good villain.

~*~

3 ½ months later

End of August

Salt Lake City, Utah

Maximilian Chase took the photograph out from the carved glass frame. It’d had a prominent place on his desk at Moonwriting Publishing since it was taken. The picture was the one from the ski trip to Flagstaff six months ago—his and Meredith’s planned vacation. He’d reserved two suites next to each other, and had rented skies, and snowmobiles. He’d thoroughly enjoyed those five days in the mountains with her. They’d known each other for nearly a year.

Then, last night, on their usual dinner out, Meredith had told him she wanted to break up. Just like that. No preamble, no stuttering or having a hard time finding the right words. She didn’t even look emotionally wrought over telling him something that caught him completely by surprise. What cracked the foundation of his male ego more than her dumping him in the middle of his favorite restaurant was the reason for her sudden, if not dramatic, break-up. She thought he was boring.
Boring
.  

Truth be told, Max might’ve taken his relationship with Meredith a little for granted. He never had to work for a date—she was always available. Maybe he should’ve given her flowers. He sent the photograph through the shredder, grinding that once favorite memory into confetti. He turned his back on the growling machine as it chewed. He might not have been the most romantic man in Utah, but he was not boring. His job as assistant editor of a mid-sized publishing house kept him very busy.

Max touched the calendar icon on his computer and pulled up his planner. Five to six-thirty Monday through Friday he had blocked out for running and getting ready for work. By seven he was in his office chair, reading exciting manuscripts. Lunch was from noon to one. His schedule said he got off at five, but Max usually stayed well past that when he got lost reading an adventure. Then he’d get home just in time to get ready for a date with Meredith, usually dinner. Every day was filled with something . . . predictable.

Groaning, he leaned back in his chair. His girlfriend—correction, his ex-girlfriend—just might’ve been right. Since being hired at the publisher, he’d structured his life around his job. He had needed that structure to get out of the copy editor’s office to where he was now, sitting in his own private office. But at thirty-years-old, Max shouldn’t be dug so deeply into a rut that he couldn’t just step out of it. He could make that change—if he could only figure out how.

Two soft taps came at his closed door. It opened before he could say anything. Only one person did that.

“Are you busy?”

Elaina Pinkston, his boss, grinned at him. She owned Moonwriting Publishing and still acted as submissions editor when she didn’t go to writers’ conferences, give keynote speeches, and meet with aspiring authors.

“Not busy enough,” Max said as he stood up. “Please come in.”

All five-foot-nothing of the petite Elaina Pinkston, fashionably dressed in a matching charcoal gray skirt and fitted jacket and in color-coordinated sky-high heels, came into his office. Her red-coated lips carried a distinct smile on them as she walked over to the coffee maker sitting on the sideboard. Max didn’t drink coffee, but he knew his boss did, and he kept it ready for her. A slight pang of guilt hit him. She had enough coffee in her own office to hyper-stimulate a small western town; she certainly didn’t need him to feed her habit.

Elaina poured some hot coffee into an artisan-crafted mug. “You remember Claire Abney?”

That name made Max’s pulse skip a beat. He remembered her. He’d done both of her edits, and was struck at the lack of necessary editing he needed to do. She was a perfectionist, and she was beautiful, with her long, dark red hair curling around her shoulders, her pale blue eyes, and freckled skin set on a perfectly heart-shaped face. Her stories were witty and well crafted. While they might not be bestsellers, they most certainly were entertaining.

Max cleared his throat, sitting down again. “I think I do, yes. Have you received another submission from her you don’t need me to edit?”

Elaina laughed, turning toward him with her mug in hand and nodding. “I just sent her a contract for a new book she submitted yesterday. Check your email. I forwarded it to you.”

Max clicked on his email possibly a touch too quickly—he heard Elaina laughing again. The subject line had Claire Abney’s name. He clicked it open.