What the Heart Wants (25 page)

The immensity of death hovered over the room.

Hugo licked her hands. Lolly stroked his back, then returned to his ears again. “If she's dying, this would be my last time to see her.” She looked into the dog's eyes. “Maybe…” She turned toward her father. “Dad, if I go, will you go with me?”

“Of course, honey. I'll be with you all the way.”

“I don't mean you'll just take me there. I mean will you go inside the house with me and stay with me the whole time I'm in the room with her?”

“Yes.”

She turned to Laurel. “And you'll go too?”

“If it's all right with your father.”

Jase gave her a look that could have jump-started a three-day corpse. “I'd like to have you there.”

Lolly continued to stroke Hugo. “And if she starts saying ugly things to me again, I can leave, right?”

Jase nodded. “If she starts saying ugly things to you, we'll
all
leave.”

Lolly took a deep breath and stood up. “Okay. I'll go, then.”

Ten minutes later, Jase had them all in the car and they were on the road.

God only knew what awaited them, but he wanted Lolly to have closure—as his shrink would have said—so here he was, driving hell for leather down I-35 again, taking Lolly to the very person he'd tried to protect her from her whole life. And he'd thought he was through with Marguerite Shelton once and for all sixteen years ago, when they got caught. The scene had played out like an X-rated soap opera.

He'd finished up his job at the car wash Wednesday night and driven over to her neighborhood, parking his car in an alley a block away from the little stone house.

He usually came in about eight and left around midnight, but Wednesdays were difficult to manage because of school the day before and the day after. So instead of enjoying a light doze before leaving, he fell heavily asleep.

The bulldozer roar of a familiar voice had cut through his dreams. Had he conked out in American history again? Struggling to consciousness, he realized the overhead light had been turned on and he was lying in bed bare-ass naked with his English teacher while his high school principal was standing in the doorway, jabbing his finger at him and yelling himself red-faced.

“You son of a bitch! You'll pay for this!”

Gloriously nude, Marguerite, her full, buoyant breasts swaying, rose from her side of the bed and walked nonchalantly to the chair to reclaim her negligee. “Keep your voice down, Bert. Let's not give the neighbors any more to talk about than they already do. Remember your position.”

“Damn my position! What's that snot-nose kid doing here?”

Marguerite smiled. “What's he doing here?” she repeated in her husky, sexy voice. “The same thing you do, Bert, but he does it better.”

Nyquist stopped dead, his mouth flapping, his angry eyes popping fire.

Jase swung to the side of the bed and Marguerite looked over at him. “I think you'd better go now, Jase. I'll take care of this.”

He'd stumbled out of bed, grabbed his jeans and jerked them on, Mr. Nyquist glaring at him the whole time. His shirt and shoes were somewhere around the room, and there was no telling what had happened to his underwear and socks. He'd pushed his feet into his sneakers without tying them and poked his arms through the sleeves of his T-shirt as he headed out the back door, feeling like a kid who'd been kicked out of the house once the adults came home.

To top it off, his fucking truck wouldn't start. Some jerkface had stolen his distributor cap, and he'd had to leave the pickup in the alley and hike home in the dark.

L
aurel watched the familiar scenery roll by. They'd passed the San Marcos outlet malls already. Next would come Wonder World, then on to New Braunfels—Schlitterbahn and Landa Park, where she and her college friends would go tubing during spring break.

Soon the gravel pits lined up against the Balcones Escarpment were in sight. Not much longer.

Jase glanced at her in his rearview mirror. “Laurel, you okay back there?”

“Just fine.”
Not really.
When she was a child, the drive to Alamo City seemed interminable. Today it was taking no time at all. Of course, back then, the zoo was their goal—lions and tigers and bears. This time, there was no telling what awaited them at the end of the line. Marguerite could lash out at Lolly again, and Jase's reunion with her wasn't going to be any picnic either.

Jase swerved off the highway toward Broadway Street, then turned onto a residential street south of Brackenridge Park, near the old stable at the west gate of Fort Sam Houston.

Lolly played nervously with a loose curl. “Dad, do you know how to get there? Do you know the address?”

“Nyquist gave me directions.”

Laurel looked around as he turned onto a cross street. As long as she remembered, this neighborhood had been a mixture of grand old homes interspersed with more modest ones, but the last time she'd visited San Antonio, most of the mansions had been cut up into apartments, and the smaller houses were going downhill. Now the area seemed to be on an upward trajectory. Several of the larger homes had been refitted as single-family homes and were sporting fresh paint, new roofs, and well-tended lawns.

Jase turned again, and Lolly pointed to a small stucco house with a browned-out lawn centered by a dead palm tree. “That's it.”

Laurel's eyebrows went up. She would have expected the glamorous Marguerite Shelton to have ended up in one of the mansions. This house, with its railed porch, reminded her of Jase's house from sixteen years ago. A rusty old glider sat to the left of the door, and a dead plant in a black plastic nursery pot was on the right. No dog, though.

The car eased to a stop. After a moment's awkwardness while the three of them got their land legs under them, Lolly glared at the house, took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and marched up the buckling, broken sidewalk. Laurel caught up with her, and Jase fell in behind. They walked up the steps onto the porch. Venetian blinds were drawn tight against the summer sun, and a dingy hand-lettered sign instructed visitors to knock rather than ring.

Jase took the lead and rapped lightly on the sagging screen door, waited a minute, then knocked so hard that the door reverberated against its frame.

Maybe Nyquist had taken Marguerite to the hospital for her last hours. No—someone was working the lock. A bald, sallow-faced man Jase would never have recognized as Bert Nyquist in a thousand years held the screen open for them. The man must be in his sixties, but he looked more like eighty. The Bert Nyquist he remembered had been a typical ex-coach—big and beefy. This Bert Nyquist seemed to have lost several inches in height and about fifty pounds in muscle.

“Come in, Jason. Do come in. I didn't realize you would get here so soon. Come in, come in.” His pale eyes darted back and forth as if he was having trouble counting his visitors. “It's so good of all of you to come.” He smiled nervously at Lolly. “And Miss Redlander—thank you for returning. Marguerite wants to see you again so much, so very much.”

Laurel extended her hand. “I'm Laurel Harlow, Mr. Nyquist. Lolly asked me to accompany her.”

“Yes, yes. Laurel Harlow. Such a nice girl. I recognized you immediately. You look just the same.”

Jase studied his former principal as he shook Laurel's hand. Somewhere along the line, Bert Nyquist had lost his belligerent edge. Life with Marguerite Shelton must have been pure hell. Why had he stayed?

“Margo's awake,” Nyquist cautioned, “but she's very weak, very weak. She may not be able to open her eyes, and she probably won't say anything, but she'll know you're here.”

He led them past the bathroom, toward the rear of the house. Jase recognized the layout as a standard reversal of his old homestead in Bosque Bend, with the bedrooms and bath on the right instead of the left.

Laurel seemed to hang back as they entered Marguerite's room, deferring to him and Lolly, but Girl Child grabbed her arm and urged her forward. “You promised you'd stay with me.”

In contrast to the rest of the house, Marguerite's bedroom was well lit and airy. Big, old-fashioned windows opened onto the backyard and driveway, and a mat of vines draped over the chain-link fence next to the house filled the air with the scent of honeysuckle.

This room—bright, cheerful, and immaculately clean—was obviously where all of Bert Nyquist's attention was concentrated. Prints of paintings by van Gogh and Renoir—rented from the public library according to the discreet gold tags affixed to their frames—hung on the walls, and an arrangement of glads and daisies had been placed on the bureau. In the center of the far wall, a motionless figure lay on an adjustable hospital bed.

Nyquist walked over to the bed and, despite the warning thump in his chest, Jase followed.

He studied the woman in the bed for some resemblance to the sexy siren he remembered from sixteen years ago, but if Bert Nyquist looked eighty, Marguerite looked at least a hundred. Her frail head, propped up on two plump pillows, seemed transparent to the skull, her hair was white and wispy, and the sockets around her eyes were deep as death.

Nyquist scurried to his wife's side and leaned across the folding table laden with pill bottles and medical supplies.

“Margo, honey. Margo, she's here. Just like you wanted, Lolly is here. Your daughter came back.”

He motioned for Lolly to come forward. “Take her hand and tell her who you are.”

Lolly walked to the bed step-by-step, obviously ready to bolt at the least provocation.

“Her hand, her hand,” Nyquist prompted.

Lolly lifted the frail hand on top of the bedsheet.

“Tell her who you are.”

“I'm Lolly, Lolly Redlander.”

The sherry-colored eyes opened. A slight frown creased Marguerite's forehead. She wet her lips in slow motion and tried to speak.

Jase tensed.
If a single foul word comes out of that woman's mouth…

Marguerite finally found her voice, and, in the silence of the room, her hoarse, labored words were audible to everyone. “I'm sorry…” Her sunken eyes seemed to be trying to memorize Lolly's face. “Forgive me.”

Jase relaxed. Marguerite was trying to make amends.

Lolly's voice was barely audible. “It's—it's okay.”

Marguerite nodded and released Lolly's hand, but those beautiful, horrible eyes were searching the room now.

“Jase,” she whispered, fastening him in her gaze.

He moved forward like an automaton.

Nyquist gave him a look of appeal. “Take her hand. Remember to take her hand.”

Jase looked at the flesh-covered talon, clenching and unclenching in agitation.

“Please, Jase…,” Marguerite forced out, struggling to articulate. “Forgive…”

A knot inside his chest dissolved and he warmed her cold, skeletal hand between both of his. “You gave me a wonderful daughter. That's all that matters now.”

Marguerite attempted a smile, and her eyelids closed. Lolly started forward, but Bert Nyquist was in front of her. He adjusted the sheet around his wife's shoulders and caressed her cheek.

Lolly raised a hand to her mouth. “Is she—?”

Nyquist shook his head. “No, just very tired. She needs to rest now.”

He led them back to the living room and shook Jase's hand.

“Thank you, Jason. And thank you for bringing Lolly. Marguerite didn't know what she was saying when Lolly came before, and she wanted to set things right.” Nyquist's chin trembled. “Margo and I—we wronged you, Jason. You've been better to us than we deserved.”

“Is it cancer?” Laurel asked quietly.

Nyquist nodded. “Marguerite taught until two years ago, when she started going downhill fast. She's been through it all—chemo, radiation, surgery, acupuncture—everything. There's nothing for her now but painkillers. The doctor said she'll probably go within the next twenty-four hours.”

Jase frowned, trying to understand. “And you've taken care of her all this time?”

Nyquist looked at him in surprise. “What else could I do? I love her.”

Jase's his mouth opened, but he couldn't think of anything to say. Marguerite Shelton must have led Bert Nyquist on a merry chase. Apparently he'd quit his job and deserted his family for her, but Jase doubted she'd ever given up a thing for him, least of all her string of young lovers. Yet none of that mattered to Nyquist.

He loved Marguerite whether she was faithful or not, in sickness and in health, till death did them part. There was no getting around it. For all his sins, Bert Nyquist was a better man than he.

Grabbing a card out of his billfold, he scribbled his cell phone number on the back of it, and handed it to Nyquist.

“Call me if you need anything.
Anything.
I mean it.”

The three of them walked to the car in silence. Lolly slid into the back and lay down on the seat, so Laurel sat up front with Jase. The air was thick with melancholy. The past had caught up with the present, Laurel realized, and they all had a lot to think about.

Jase was like a carving in stone, occasional movements of his arms and head being the only indicators that he was more than part of the car's driving mechanism, while Lolly had wedged herself in the corner next to the door, wrapped her arms around herself, and closed her eyes. Maybe she slept, maybe not.

A few miles out of San Antonio, thunder began to roll around the sunny sky. Laurel searched the horizon and saw that a row of clouds was bunched up to the south, their bottoms darkening. As she watched, a few tentative rain drops descended, dancing delicately on the windshield. Minutes later, the wind picked up and the clouds darkened to purple.

Jase switched on his wipers as the storm hit.

Laurel tried to stay alert, but she felt totally depleted. The tension that had been building ever since Lolly appeared on her doorstep a second time had dissipated, and she was exhausted. The last thing she remembered was the Selma town hall, the old Spanish-style one that was a Hooters now, its bright pink stucco overpainted with blue-gray.

She woke up when Jase turned off I-35 at the familiar Bosque Bend exit.

After pulling into her driveway, Jase retrieved a collapsible umbrella from his center console and walked her to the porch. “We have to talk, Laurel,” he said, then glanced back at the car as a long bolt of lightning lit up the sky. “But not right now. I've got to get Lolly home.”

The flowers arrived the next day—a dozen red roses. The accompanying card read
Love, Jase.

What did that mean? Was he apologizing for leaving or thanking her for taking care of his daughter? Or did it mean that…
no
, she refused to go there. Her future was built on reality, not romantic daydreams. She arranged the roses in a vase and left it on the kitchen counter.

Four days later there was still no follow-up from Jase. It was as if Jase had disappeared off the face of the earth. Despite herself, Laurel tried to call him, but a steely-voiced woman who declined to identify herself said that the ladies of the household were indisposed and Mr. Redlander was unavailable.

She replaced the phone in its cradle and moved into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. This was going to be her last day in Kinkaid House. She'd consigned her bedroom suite, the portraits, and the family mementoes in storage, and her personal belongings were either stuffed in her luggage or on their way to Brownsville. The only things she'd saved out were her traveling outfit for tomorrow and the clothes she had on—an old pair of jeans and a loose Mexican-style blouse.

The doorbell rang. Probably her Realtor with yet another paper to sign. Luckily she'd just put Hugo, who didn't like the man, in the backyard to enjoy one last day of squirrel chasing.

She threw the door open and stepped back in surprise. “Kel!”

He smiled. “May I come in?”

She stepped aside. “Of course.”

Why did this polite young man make her so nervous, so self-conscious? It wasn't as though she was attracted to him—or was she? For all his soft voice and innocent eyes, there was something seductive about him. He wasn't as tall as Jase, of course, and had a lighter build, but there were real muscles beneath that thin T-shirt.

Stepping inside, he glanced at the luggage heaped by the door. “Pen told me you've sold the house and you're leaving town tomorrow.”

Laurel edged over to the stairs and anchored her hand to the newel post. “Yes, I've got a new teaching job in Brownsville. That's in South Texas.”

He gave her an amused smile. “I know where Brownsville is. I'm Texas born and bred. That's the reason I got the part in
Garner's Crossing
. Benjamin is a role I can really sink my teeth into.”

He walked slowly over to her, stopping just close enough to make her feel uncomfortable. Was he coming on to her?

“Do you have to leave tomorrow? As I remember, school doesn't start till the last week of August.”

“I thought I'd get an early start.”

He picked up her hand and stroked a slow, gentle line down her index finger from knuckle to nail, watching her all the while. “From what I saw at the Bosque Club, you need a vacation.”

Laurel sucked in her breath. His voice was a love song, and her whole body was tingling with the melody.

His sank into a hypnotizing whisper. “You're a beautiful woman, Laurel. How about spending a couple of days with me in California? I'd take good care of you, and the job will still be there when you get back.”