Bouquet of Lies Part 2

She hated the label. It kept her stuck. Even if she pulled herself together and did something outside its scope-like go to the Huntington alone-she would still be thought of as sick. Her family didn't understand her, and only Lacey cared. She flopped back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, the pillow still clutched in her arms.

Thank G.o.d for the Reverend Irene. She had only known her three months. And how they met had been a fluke. If the Reverend hadn't been lost. If she hadn't somehow chosen their house to persistently knock on the door. If anyone else had been home to answer . . .

Darla sat up. It was time to go. If the Reverend believed she was secure enough to go out on her own, then it was so. And besides. Her mother would be there. She was going to see her mother!

She adjusted her bag and moved into the hall. As she headed downstairs, worry returned. The Metro. The bus. She'd never taken either before. The idea of public transportation was more intimidating than the thought of going to the Huntington alone. That's when she realized she could take a cab. The Reverend never said that wasn't okay.

The Huntington was part library, part art gallery, part botanical gardens. It was located in a residential neighborhood and boasted world-cla.s.s literary works, historical papers for scholars, and master artworks.

Darla had visited the place once, as a child. She and Lacey. Their au pair had taken them. She didn't remember much, except that she found it boring. What three-year-old wouldn't? She did remember wanting to pet the squirrels, but even that memory might have been erased if it weren't for the terrible scene that took place when they arrived home.

Grandfather screamed at the au pair and backhanded her across the face. Darla cowered behind a door while brave Lacey kicked him in the shin and shouted at him, her little six-year-old hands balled into fists. Their grandfather would have smacked her if he'd been able to catch her. They never saw the au pair after that, and later that night their father and grandfather argued.

"So far, so good," Darla muttered, moving along the cement walk to the entrance pavilion where she obtained a map. The Huntington was 207 acres in size. Reverend Irene had mentioned the Chinese Garden, the lily ponds, and the Jungle Garden. She said to sketch the famous paintings after sketching landscapes.

The gardens were beautiful under the blazing sun and despite the heat, lots of people roamed the grounds. But she saw no one who could be her mother. After comparing every blonde she spotted to the 4 X 6 photo she'd brought along, only one woman held her interest for longer than a second. However, when the woman turned, she was clearly too old. Her mother would be thirty-nine today. In the photo she was twenty-two. This 4 X 6 shot and the one in her locket were the only pictures Darla had of Crystal.

The temperature was easily in the nineties and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Darla hadn't brought sun block or a hat. Her fair skin burned easily. She remained outdoors for only forty minutes before she decided to head inside the museum's Beaux-Arts style mansion. It had been the residence of the Huntington family and now housed a collection of European art.

With her feet planted in front of "The Young Fortune Tellers" painted in 1777 by Sir Joshua Reynolds, Darla began to sketch. Twice the appearance of an attractive, fortyish blonde stole her attention and each time she sketched the woman before determining the blonde was not who she wanted her to be. Then she went back to the Reynolds painting.

"This is stupid. Where is she?" Darla's hand slipped, marring the drawing. Furiously, she erased the errant streak of charcoal and spoke louder. "Maybe I am insane."

"Insanely good," a male voice close to her ear responded.

She jumped, dropped her charcoal pencil, and clutched the sketchpad to her chest. She didn't look at the person who had issued the compliment, and with head down, held her breath.

"Sorry. I wasn't trying to scare you. I just thought you should know I liked your drawing." He stooped for the pencil and held it out to her. Like a feral animal afraid of capture, she reached for it.

"Thank you," her voice a choked whisper. She spun in the opposite direction and scurried away.

"Wait a minute. You weren't finished." The young man caught up to her, but she didn't stop. He equaled her pace. "You should finish."

"No. I can't now."

"Because of me?"

She nodded once.

"Oh, don't say that. You make me feel like a louse. Look, I'll go right over there." He pointed. "And leave you alone."

She slowed her step.

"How about that? You go and finish and I won't feel guilty for disturbing you."

"Don't," Darla said.

"Don't what? Don't go?"

"Don't feel guilty."

She heard him chuckle. She lifted her line of sight from the floor to his face. He was in his twenties and had a bright, friendly smile. His hair was dark brown and neatly trimmed. She managed to look at his eyes. They were friendly, too, and even in the soft lighting of the gallery, she could see they were a deep cobalt blue.

"Hi." His smile softened.

Her obvious appraisal of his face must have made him feel welcome to stay. He sure wasn't walking away like he said he would. Darla's skin grew hot. She felt certain embarra.s.sment at having been caught ogling his charms had turned her face a glowing shade of crimson.

"What else were you drawing? I saw you outside, but you were gone so quickly. May I see?"

He held out his hand for the sketchbook Darla still clutched like a shield. She allowed him to take it.

He examined the first sketch. "This is nice. You're good." He issued a smile and turned to the next page. "I thought I saw you drawing this woman."

He saw me drawing outside . . . He thought he saw me drawing this woman . . .

For some reason, instead of feeling anxious about the uninvited attention, she found the idea that he was interested in her exciting. She began to tremble. Somewhat out of fear, but mostly out of attraction.

She watched him peruse her sketchbook and accepted his compliments without responding. She could remember feeling this way, or at least some childish version of it, about Jake, the chauffeur's son, when she was seven. Jake was a few years older, and a big tease most of the time. Once, when he found her crying because of something her grandfather had said, he sat down next to her and consoled her.

He may be your grandfather, but he's a slimeball. If he goes too far, just let me know. I've got a cousin in Schenectady who owes me a favor.

Jake had winked and she always wondered if he was serious or not.

She sighed.

"What are you thinking about?" the guy with the cobalt eyes asked.

Darla jolted back to the present and stared at him. "Uh. Nothing."

"That sigh sounded like something."

Darla swallowed. She didn't know what to say.

He noticed the 4 X 6 photo tucked in the sketchbook and held it out to her.

"Who's this?"

"My mother."

He placed the photo next to Darla's face and compared. "I see the resemblance."

"You do?" Darla always thought she looked like her mother, but no one ever mentioned it.

"You're prettier."

Darla felt her stomach flip. Did he really think she was pretty? Lacey was the pretty one. Everybody said.

"She's dead." The remark flew out of her mouth before she could stop it. Why had she said it? She didn't even believe it. Perhaps to change the subject. Their conversation had gotten too personal, way outside her comfort zone.

"I'm sorry." He looked genuinely abashed. He handed her the photo.

"She isn't really dead."

His brow creased.

"I mean, I don't think she is."

"You don't think?"

"They say she died giving birth to me. But I've seen her."

Why was she rambling on? She didn't usually talk so much. And she didn't know this guy. He was a complete stranger.

Get your sketchpad and go. Stop looking into his eyes.

But her arms wrapped around her waist and her feet stayed put. "I'm sorry," she said.

"Sorry? For what?"

"For babbling."

"Well." He handed her the sketchbook. "I wouldn't call that babbling. And if you say you've seen her, I believe you."

His smile was warm and aside from Reverend Irene, no one ever said they believed her. Grandfather called her crazy. Lacey told her to get her head out of the clouds. Her father just said to shush.

"Thank you," she mumbled.

He slid a finger down the side of her mouth and her heart skipped at least two beats. His touch was as sweet as a kiss. At least an imagined one. She had never been kissed by a boy in her life.

"You've got a bit of charcoal . . . There. All gone."

Oh, he was just cleaning her face. She started to put a hand to her cheek, but he stopped it by grabbing her wrist.

"You'd best wash your hands."

Her face grew hot again and she nodded. He hesitated for only a moment before he turned away. He looked back once as he walked from the building and Darla felt her heart flutter like an excited b.u.t.terfly.

Three.

CHICKEN KIEV. DAN looked at his aunt and uncle, knives and forks poised above their plates, and knew what they were thinking. Would this dish be a disaster?

"One of Sally's favorites?" Aunt Helen asked.

"Yes." Dan took a bite. The chicken was dry and a little too salty. He could never quite duplicate Sally's cooking.

"Well." Uncle Carrick cut into the chicken and forked a small bite into his mouth. He shook his head. "Better. Better. But how about you come to our house next Sunday and let Helen cook?"

He saw Aunt Helen place a hand on his uncle's brawny arm. Uncle Carrick knew how to say it like it was while his aunt always chose diplomacy. Don't beat around the bush, his uncle often bellowed. Sometimes they seemed like a mismatched pair, but their marriage worked and they were clearly devoted to each other.

Dan took another bite. It wasn't so bad, but it wasn't so good either. Sally loved to cook. Usually gourmet. Always with a gla.s.s of wine. Sunday night was when she tried something new, and they had started asking Aunt Helen and Uncle Carrick to eat with them once a month. He wasn't ready to give up the ritual.

"If you don't want to do that, how about just barbequing some plain old steak? I know you can do that." Uncle Carrick took a sip of Chardonnay.

Aunt Helen tried the rice and her face said it all. She swallowed and didn't go back for more. Dan took a forkful. It was gritty and he spit it into his napkin.

His uncle laughed. "Thanks for the warning."

"It's probably just old." His aunt waved her hand.

"Or I didn't follow the recipe." Dan wiped his mouth with a napkin.

"Next time try minute rice. You can't go wrong." She cut into the chicken.

"Meat and potatoes." Uncle Carrick shook his fork at Dan.

Sally was gone fifteen months now, longer than their marriage had lasted, and he hadn't cooked rice in all that time. Once in a while he got the meal right or his aunt and uncle probably would have foregone his invitations long ago. He was certain, once they got home tonight, they would eat again.

"Look." His uncle shoved the plate away.

Dan glanced at him and then his aunt. Concern etched her face. Evidently she knew what her husband was going to say and agreed it needed to be said. "I'm looking," Dan replied.

"I know you've been through a lot. Seen more than your share of death serving in Afghanistan and all. There's no question you've handled it. And there's no doubt you've coped with Sally's death. To lose her to a drunk driver. Especially hard when you're a traffic cop."

No. Just losing her was the bad part. But he knew what his uncle meant. Like if Helen was murdered with him being a homicide detective.

Aunt Helen's eyes filled with affection. "You loved her. That's clear to everyone who knows you. But, honey, you're only twenty-five."

"You won't be young forever." Uncle Carrick tapped a finger.

Dan stirred the rice with his fork. "I know."

His uncle came to the point. "You've mourned her. It's time to move on."

Silence. Dan stared at his plate. Move on. How did one do that exactly?

As if she heard his question, Aunt Helen jumped in. "You still have all her toiletries on the counter in the bathroom. And if I were a betting woman, I'd say her clothes are still in the closet. Sweetheart, it's okay to let go of those things. That's not being disloyal. It doesn't mean you didn't love her or that you've forgotten her."

"It means you're still above ground, alive and kicking." Uncle Carrick's expression was sympathetic but serious.

Dan rubbed his face with both hands. He knew they were right. He just wasn't able to do it because every time he thought about tossing out her things, it felt like he was throwing her away. "I suppose I could stop using her recipes to make you dinner."

"Or take some lessons and invite us more often." Uncle Carrick stretched and pulled on the snug belt surrounding his rotund belly. "Can we order a pizza? Everything on it."