A Father's Quest (7 page)

She was tempted to take off the necklace, but she didn’t. The cheap, little medal had been her most cherished possession since she was the age of his daughter. She’d had to change the necklace many times, but she always kept the silver oval close to her heart.

Suzie brought their lunch a minute later.

“Should I know her?” Jonas whispered as the woman walked away. “She looks vaguely familiar.”

Her name didn’t ring any bells but she’d seemed to know a great deal about Remy. Of course, Remy had returned to Baylorville after her stint in Nashville, whereas Jonas only visited a couple of times a year.

“Probably not. She was ahead of us in school. She and my sister, Pauline, play Bunko together.”

“Pauline…Bing, right? I remember her. Does she still live here?”

Remy chomped down on a mammoth bite and chewed quite a long time before answering. He had to force himself not to grin. She’d always been a big eater, which had amused him to no end. And yet, she remained as trim as ever, with perfect, lush curves he didn’t seem to be able to keep his eyes off. Accidentally touching her a few minutes earlier had caused a chain reaction of sensations in areas of his brain that hadn’t seen action in months.

“Uh-huh. She and hubby number two bought a five-bedroom house across town in that development that nearly went bust when the economy tanked. Mom’s early passing helped her out a lot. Oops. That sounded mean. Bing’s always been toughest on me and Jess. I put it down to birth order. Jessie calls her a greedy bitch.”

He laughed at that.

“So,” Remy said between bites. “Tell me about Birdie.”

Jonas had no idea where to begin. As corny as it sounded, she was the light, breath, color and joy of his life. “There was a big storm the night she was born. The hospital was using a backup generator. The very second Birdie slid into the doctor’s hands, she let out this huge howl and the power came on.” He grinned, remembering the moment. “The staff and doctors all called her Wonder Baby.”

“Wonder Baby,” she repeated. “I like that.”

He watched her nibble a golden-brown onion ring. Normally, he could take down a couple of orders by himself, but he hadn’t had an appetite since returning stateside. In Iraq, everyone made long lists of the things they were going to eat or drink or do when they got home. He had one thing only on his list: hug Birdie.

“How long were you married?”

“Too long.” Despite all that had happened, he’d felt no rancor toward Cheryl and his marriage until this latest stunt occurred. He’d always told people the situation between them was so complex and overloaded with so many nuances that they both were responsible for how things had ended up. “We had a turbulent relationship that ended in divorce in 2007.”

“But you shared custody.”

“In theory. I was the one with the stable job and steady income. Birdie lived with me most of the time, but I tried to fit Cheryl into her life as much as possible.” He always felt like a failure when he talked about the choices he made where his love life was concerned.

He made himself eat—exactly the way he had in the mess hall in Iraq. Over there, he’d needed his brain functioning, his reaction time hair-trigger and enough energy to sustain him no matter what. He needed to stay sharp for Birdie’s sake, too.

In between bites, he tried to describe his daughter in a way that would make her real. “We used to have a cat named Marzipan.”

“What kind of name is that for a cat?”

“We read it in a book. Birdie liked the sound of it and she made me read that book over and over. When we went to the SPCA to get a cat, she spotted this older, golden tabby with a white tip on his tail and she said, ‘There’s Marzipan, Daddy. We have to take him home.’”

Remy’s smile made him feel like a good father. He didn’t want to tell her the rest of the story, because it would burst that particular bubble.

“Is Marzipan waiting at home for you?”

He shook his head. “Cheryl decided she was allergic. She gave the cat to some friends a week after I left. I heard about it a month or so after the fact. I haven’t beenable to talk to Birdie about it, so I don’t know how she feels.”

Remy frowned and pushed her plate away. “That sucks. I’m thinking I don’t like this woman very much.”

Neither did he, although logically he knew a lot of her bad behavior was driven by her illness, and how could he hate her for that? Also, she was his daughter’s mother and there wasn’t anything he could do about that. See, complex and nuanced.

“What else can I tell you about my daughter? She likes the number six and told me six was going to marry seven, even though Birdie felt eight was a better choice.” He pictured her curled up beside him on the couch, explaining her rationale.

“Why?”

“Because six and eight have more in common. They’re rounder. Seven is very upright.” He thought a moment. “Or uptight. I can’t remember.”

“She has a wonderful imagination.”

“True, but she’s very earthy. She likes to tell you when she farts. And hiccups. Oh, my God, she has the loudest hiccups I’ve ever heard. It’s like they’re amplified with a microphone.”

Her laugh made the tightness in his chest ease a tiny bit. It also made him remember things he had no business remembering. “Is she close to your mother?”

“She was. Birdie loved to come to Grandma’s house. But as the Alzheimer’s progressed, it became hard for Birdie to understand. It’s frustrating and sad.”

“I suppose it would be,” she said with a sympathetic look. “Did Birdie have a chance to visit her in Shadybrook?”

“No. There wasn’t time, but I knew I was going to be gone for a long time and I wanted Mom to remember Birdie, if possible, so I filmed a bunch of vide—” A thought hit him. “Good grief, why didn’t I think of this before? You’re a visual person. Dreams are movies in your head, right?”

“I guess that’s one way of describing it.”

“Well, I have Birdie’s whole life on my computer. Including the videos I made before I left for Iraq. They’re at the house.”

Her body language shifted subtly, broadcasting a less-than-enthused vibe. “Do you have somewhere you need to be?” Or someone she needed to see?

Jessie had claimed that Remy was single, but maybe Jess didn’t have all the facts.

Remy pulled her oversize purse onto her lap and extracted a small case containing a tube of lipstick. She used the built-in mirror to touch-up her shiny pink lips. She puckered just so, then looked at him and sighed, but said nothing.

Why the sudden reluctance? Had he said something that offended her? Was she worried about the time commitment? Maybe this was about money. He recalled that she wasn’t working and had intended to start looking for a new job. “I’ll hire you.” The offer was out of his mouth before he could consider it, but it made sense. She could be his personal P.I.

“What?”

“I need your help. I don’t expect you to do this for nothing. I’ll pay you double what you might earn at Shadybrook.” The idea was taking shape in his mind. “Say, two weeks, no matter what happens?”

“You think this is going to take that long?” She frowned. “From what you said, I thought the situation was more urgent than that.”

“I’m praying it won’t take that long to find Birdie. With your help and a little luck, we might find a new lead in the next day or two. But if you agree to help me, I want your complete focus. Not worrying about your next job. If, God forbid, this takes longer than two weeks, we’ll renegotiate then.”

“What exactly do you expect me to do to earn this money?”

“Help me figure out where my daughter is. Go over the information I’ve gathered so far. I’m too close to the case. I need fresh eyes. Someone who isn’t emotionally tied to Birdie or Cheryl to tell me what I’m missing.”

She nodded as though that made sense.

“And, dreams or no dreams, Rem, you’ve always been a free-form thinker. That’s exactly what I need, someone who doesn’t adhere so strictly to linear logic. Two weeks. Will you give me that?”

She swallowed. “I—”

“I promise to write you a glowing recommendation. No matter what happens.” He held out his hand to shake. “And I’ll throw in a bonus if we find her within a week.”

He was giving her a hard sell. Before he went into insurance investigation, he’d sold policies from cold calls. He knew all the tricks and not giving her time to deliberate might be high pressure but it also usually resulted in a sale.

“Okay,” she said. “But I’m not doing this for the money. You can pay me what I would have earned at Shadybrook, but no bonus. That’s simply too avaricious sounding, okay?”

She started to offer her hand but pulled back a moment. “And no more talk about dreams. If I see something that has bearing on Birdie, I’ll tell you, but I don’t want you to count on that, okay?”

“Okay,” he lied. She might not believe in her abilities—her gift—but he did.

He shook her hand. Short and sweet. Businesslike. And despite the memories that tugged on his heartstrings—and a few body parts at points lower—he was going to keep their relationship aboveboard. He had no choice. Because no matter what the damn DNA test said, he and Remy Bouchard could never be together.

“Two pieces to go,” Jonas said before Remy could respond. “Whatever’s best today. You pick. We trust your judgment, Suzie.”

The waitress seemed pleased by the compliment. “Back in a few. And I’ll bring your bill.” She dashed away in the opposite direction.

“Dessert police,” he said with a bemused smile. “Who knew?”

Remy loved pie, but she suddenly felt hyper, eager to leave. Once Jonas backed away from demanding access to her dreams, she realized she could be of help. If not as a true investigator then as a sounding board. Her mother often said that was her main role in life. That the ladies who came to her beauty parlor wanted someone to listen, as much as they wanted a new hairdo.

“You don’t have to know all the answers, Remy,” Mama once said. “You only have to know how to listen. I truly believe people know what’s right for themselves but they’ve forgotten how to hear their own voices. That’s where bartenders and hairdressers come in.”

“Before we go, Jonas, can I ask you a personal question?” The more personal, the better, had been her mother’s motto. “Why did you marry Cheryl?”

He crossed his arms and dropped his chin toward his chest. His expression turned so dark she regretted asking.

“Someone once told me that people with certain types of mental illness radiate a light that can be almost blindingly beautiful. Especially to people who are predisposed to be caretakers.”

“You consider yourself a caretaker?” She had never thought of him in that way, but she supposed it fit.

“Yes. I was fifteen when Dad committed suicide. Even though he and Mom had been divorced for a couple of years, Mom was devastated. She blamed herself. She couldn’t even get out of bed for a month.”

Remy had heard bits and pieces of that difficult time when they were together, but he’d never spoken with quite this candor. Of course, a teenage boy probably didn’t have the same perspective as a thirty-three-year-old man.

“Despite Dad’s philandering, he was a good provider. He made sure Mom’s house was paid off and she had stocks and a retirement portfolio. I was lucky I didn’t have to drop out of school and get a job. But, Mom relied on me a lot.”

“So, you’re saying you were drawn to Cheryl by her neediness and vulnerability?”

“Direct and to the point—you’ve learned from your sister.” He sighed. “I would say yes. But in my defense, Cheryl’s emotional issues have changed over the years. Worsened. Every doctor she saw had a different diagnosis and treatment. One claimed it was a hormonal imbalance. Another prescribed light therapy. And don’t get me started on the pharmacological aspect. She’s tried all kinds.” He rattled off a dozen or so names of prescription medicines. Some she’d heard of, some that didn’t sound like something that would benefit an emotionally ill person.

“Did she ever do drugs? The recreational kind, I mean.”

“Probably. It’s hard to say. She’d go for months, holding down a job, behaving normally, convincing everyone that she had her act together. Then, suddenly, everything would change.

“One time she was working as a flower arranger—she did all their funeral sprays—and she simply walked out. She disappeared without a word for ten days. She came home with no purse, no phone, no ID. I can’t tell you how many times I had to cancel all our credit cards and put our banks accounts on hold. She’d apologize up and down and sideways, promise to see a doctor, take any meds he prescribed.”

Remy looked over her shoulder to see how their pie order was coming. Suddenly, this felt like much too personal information for such a public venue.

Jonas must have felt the same because he sat forward and added in a low voice, “The last psychiatrist I took her to see used regression therapy to uncover that Cheryl was raped by a family member when she was thirteen. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but she changed after that. I became part of the problem. Another man in a long string of men who only wanted to control her, use her. She was convinced I never loved her. That I wouldn’t have remained with her if not for our daughter.” He blew out a breath and added, “And the sad part is, she’s probably right.”

She heard regret and something else—guilt?—in his tone. “People who already feel disenfranchised are particularly drawn to cults, aren’t they? What do you know about this group she’s joined?”

Before he could answer, Suzie returned with a white paper bag and their bill. “Thanks for coming,” she said. “Hope you enjoy your pie. One piece is your favorite,” she told Remy with a broad grin.

“Thanks,” Remy said, picking up her purse and pushing her chair back. “It was good to see you.”

“You, too. Are going to the picnic next Sunday?”

The all-class reunion. She’d completely forgotten about it. “Doubtful. I’ve got to update my résumé and get it out there so I can start working again. But thanks for asking, Suzie. Give my best to Bobby and the kids.”

Jonas tossed two twenties on the table. A nice, healthy tip for Suzie, a hardworking gal with an unemployed husband and two adorable little boys.

“What sort of picnic?” Jonas asked as he escorted her to the car.

“The Baylorville all-class homecoming. Haven’t you gotten any of the flyers?”

“Maybe.” He unlocked the car. “I’ve barely looked at the regular mail. Mostly, I’ve been focusing on trying to find out everything I can about the GoodFriends. There’s a file in the backseat. You can look it over on our way back into town.”

He opened her door. Always the gentleman. From her vantage point and the bright midday light, she could see a fleck or two of gray in his sideburns. And a faint sag of his broad shoulders. He was a little thin, too, she decided. Back in high school when his mother had been cooking for him, he’d had to diet to make weight for the wrestling team. No more. He was all muscle, nerves and bone.

He handed her their carryout bag then walked around the car and slid behind the wheel.

She glanced in the backseat and decided to hold off looking at his file until later. It deserved her full attention.