Bouquet of Lies Part 4

"Ahh, she remembers."

"n.o.body calls me Miss Priss. You've changed!"

"So have you."

He lifted a brow that said he questioned her taste in clothes and makeup. She'd forgotten how she looked. She scrunched her nose at him and didn't explain. Let him wonder.

He bent down so his b.u.t.t rested on his heels and his face was level with hers.

"How are you?" she said.

"I asked you first."

"So. I asked you second." She laughed. This was how they'd bantered as kids. "Right now I'm late. But we'll catch up when I get home. You did say, earn your keep? You'll be here?"

"All summer." He rose and took a step back from the car.

She nodded at him. The surprise of finding thirteen-year-old Jake, now a man, back at the house left her short on words.

"Love the car." He motioned with a finger. "The hair and clothes? Not so much."

She chuckled and started the engine. "Well, who asked you?"

He laughed. "There's the Miss Priss I know and love."

She waved as she drove toward the street, her mind racing. Jake was back. She could hardly believe it. They'd been three peas in a pod: Herself, Darla and Jake. When he'd left, both she and Darla had cried their eyes out. For whatever reason, he went to live with his mother in another state, out of reach. It felt like a betrayal at the time, never occurring to her young soul that he was in the same position as she and Darla were-children at the mercy of their parents' disorderly lives.

Did Harper know Jake was back? He wouldn't care, but Edward would. She paused at the end of the driveway and watched a couple of cars shoot past.

Things could get very interesting this summer. Jake was back. Good pal Jake. Hadn't he turned out well?

And there was the cop who had given her a ticket and then joined her at the Roxy. Dan-the-Man. Well, maybe Dan-the-Man. He had yet to call.

She pulled into the street and pressed the accelerator.

Motorcycle cop. All around stick-in-the-mud. Hottie on the dance floor. Officer Daniel O'Donnell. Yum.

But hadn't she decided that he wasn't going to call? She pushed him from her thoughts and he bounced back again. Stop it! Stay in the present. Pay attention to your driving. She punctuated the thought with a sharp nod. She wouldn't think about Dan anymore. Nope, not for a second.

Unless of course, she did.

Five.

STILL DRESSED IN her nightgown, Darla sat on her bed with arms wrapped around knees that were up to her chin. She stared out the window at the expansive backyard which included the large motor court at the far end of the mansion. It separated the house from the seven-car garage that contained her father's fleet of luxury vehicles. Above it stretched Henry's apartment.

Lacey had just finished flirting with Jake and driven away. And Jake was now moving about the motor court with that signature swagger Darla would know anywhere. It was a strut that said: Here I come. I'm ready for anything. As a child she'd been captivated by it. He was all grown up now and looked nothing like the boy she once knew. But that strut gave him away.

"So gorgeous," Darla sighed. "Hot, Lacey would say."

He'd grown tall. His lean, bronzed body had very broad shoulders. She liked his hair. Long and wavy, bouncing with every stride.

Darla's heart urged her to go talk to him. But she felt like she was still seven years old and didn't know what to say.

What was the big deal? He was an old friend. She wondered why she was the way she was. Lacey had no problem talking to anybody. Lacey was outgoing and fun. Nothing bothered her. Why couldn't she be more like her sister?

Darla watched Jake run up the stairs and disappear into his father's apartment. Almost immediately he reappeared and loped back down. He entered the garage and emerged at the wheel of the Bentley. The garage door closed as he drove out of sight.

Where was he going? If she'd spoken to him, he might have invited her to go along and . . .

And what? I'd have been all tongue tied and would have looked like an idiot.

She climbed off the bed and started getting dressed. She couldn't go anywhere anyway. Important company was coming. The Reverend Irene.

Darla wiggled into one of the long-sleeved shirts she liked to wear over tees and checked the time. Hopefully Henry would return soon and leave again to take Edward to his men's club. Then she would have the house to herself and no one would know about her visit with the Reverend.

She hated keeping secrets from Lacey, but Lacey had brought this on herself. She could hear her conversation with her big sister now.

Another psychic! Don't you ever learn?

She's not a psychic. She's a spiritual advisor. Just because you don't believe . . .

You're not looking for spirituality. You're looking for Mom and she's dead!

She'd stopped talking about Reverend Irene after that.

Darla reached for her journal and a pen before settling back on the bed. Images of Jake swirled in her head. She smiled, put the pen down, and allowed herself to remember when they'd played together as kids.

Thirty minutes later she realized she hadn't written a thing. Reverend Irene would not be pleased. She wanted Darla to write in her journal every morning.

Darla scribbled something about what a lovely day it was before she noticed Henry return in the Rolls. In a few minutes he would drive Edward to the club.

Or he was supposed to. An hour went by and Darla eyed the clock nervously. It would be ten soon. Reverend Irene was coming at two. Henry was still in his apartment. If her grandfather didn't go to the club today she should reschedule.

Darla decided to check on Edward and climbed off the bed. The door to his bedroom was closed and she didn't dare open it or even knock. Instead, she moved closer, positioned her ear, and heard snoring. He was asleep! Disappointment caused her to sigh. He had probably drunk more scotches or bourbons or whatevers for breakfast than usual.

She frowned. Should she postpone her meeting with Reverend Irene or not? It wasn't what she wanted to do. She needed to discuss the Huntington. She needed to know why her mother hadn't shown up. She needed rea.s.surance that she hadn't done something wrong. And when might she see her mother again? What happened now? The Reverend always had some sort of glimpse into the future.

Darla thought: This is my house. I'm not a child. I have a right to have a friend over.

But what if Edward caught her?

A nervous ripple traveled her skin and she chewed on a fingernail.

He won't catch us, she told herself. She and the Reverend were going to meet in the sitting room. It was off the foyer, far away from Edward's room. If they spoke quietly, Edward would never know the Reverend was there. He would probably sleep the whole afternoon.

When the Reverend Irene arrived, Darla handed her three one-hundred dollar bills and received a cold nod of the head.

It's not enough money, Darla thought, guilt making her feel a little queasy. On their first meeting, the Reverend had said she didn't charge for her services. Her abilities were a gift from G.o.d and she gave all insights freely. However, she wasn't adverse to donations. She did have to eat. She said this with sincerity and Darla got the message. She needed to pay if she expected the Reverend's help.

Next time I'll give her five hundred instead of three.

They sat across from each other in comfortable wingback chairs. The Reverend wore a flowery kaftan, the billowy fabric covering her ample torso. Crystals dangled from chains around her neck and brown hair fell in a ma.s.s of ringlets past her shoulders. She wore too much makeup, almost to the point of being a mask. Darla thought that odd because although the Reverend might be middle-aged, she clearly had a beautiful face.

"Mom didn't show," Darla declared, all her anxiety bursting forth as if a dam had been breached.

The Reverend raised a hand. "First things first. Have you been writing in the journal I told you to keep?"

"Of course."

"May I see it please?" She held out a neatly manicured, long-nailed, red-lacquered hand.

Darla gave her what she wanted. At first it had seemed strange to allow another person to examine her intimate thoughts. But now she was used to it. She sat quietly and allowed the Reverend to read.

"I see that you're still angry with your grandfather. Understandable. But you haven't written anything about your father."

Darla shrugged. "I don't think about him much."

"I know. The question is, why? You must have buried your feelings about him very deep." The Reverend had mentioned this before.

"I guess. But if it doesn't bother me-"

"It does bother you or . . ." She didn't finish the sentence. Instead she arched her brows knowingly.

Darla folded her arms in a defensive gesture. "He isn't mean to me. Mostly it's like he doesn't know I'm here. He ignores Lacey too. It bugs her, but I don't really care."

"What about the fact that he tells you your mother is dead? Insists that she is dead?"

"He hasn't said anything in a long time. Since before . . ."

"Since before you were hospitalized?" The Reverend's eyes were like lasers.

Darla shifted uncomfortably in the chair. "Yes. But you and I have talked about it and you believe me. You support me. That's all I need."

"And yet you write about your grandfather. You write that he insists she's dead and wants you to stop with the fantasies."

"Because unlike my dad, he brings it up. He gets mad at me out of the blue. He seeks me out sometimes, just to yell and remind me that she's dead. It's like he obsesses about it. I don't understand why he can't just leave me alone."

"At least he's an open book."

"I'd rather he be closed."

"No. Then he'd be like your father."

Darla didn't think that would be so bad.

Reverend Irene leaned forward. "Listen. I want you to give some thought to your father. I want the anger I know is locked inside you to come to the surface. I want you to write about him. I want you to let it all out."

Darla sat quietly. She trusted the Reverend, but she didn't like this a.s.signment. It would open old wounds. She'd do it though, since the Reverend thought she should. She nodded.

"Now. Let's talk about your sister. You say you think she has your best interest at heart."

Darla uncrossed her arms and nodded again. Lacey did have her best interest at heart. She believed it completely.

"In what ways has she shown this to be so?"

"She loves me."

"She loves you. Tell me how she loves you."

"She encourages me. She wants me to get my driver's license and be more independent. She defends me when Grandfather picks on me. Sometimes she invites me to go out with her and her friends even though I always say no. She wants me to move out and get an apartment with her when I turn eighteen."

The Reverend looked surprised. "And you think you're ready for that?"

"Maybe not. But I'll be away from Grandfather. And I can always move back."

The Reverend opened her mouth to say something, then didn't. Instead she studied Darla for several seconds before she spoke. "I think your sister is only interested in herself."

"That's not true."

"Does she support your belief that your mother is alive?"

"No. But that's because we were told she died."

"But you told her you saw her."

There was a pause.

"I want you to be more circ.u.mspect about the things Lacey says to you, the things she encourages you to do. Think about what she says. What she does. And write about it. Pick it apart. Don't a.s.sume she knows best just because she appears to be stronger than you are. Notice I used the word appear."

Darla frowned.

"Of course, if you don't want my help . . ." The Reverend pushed on the arms of the chair and lifted herself as if she were going to leave.

"No. Please. Of course I want your help."

The Reverend settled back down.

"You want me to question my sister's motives?" Darla searched the air as if answers were in the atmosphere. "She's giving a costume party in a couple of weeks. She does every summer. She makes me go and I never want to. Should I-"

"A costume party? That's interesting." Reverend Irene lowered her eyes in thought.

"It is?"