An Accidental Family (13 page)

Frank picked up a strip of bacon and was about to snap off a bite when Lamont said, “You still a prayin’ man, Frank?”

“Bum knee, remember?”

“It’s been
my
experience that a man can pray standing, sitting or flat on his face.”

He speared a potato and popped it into his mouth. “We go too far back to spar over religion, m’friend. How I pray,
if
I pray, is my business, and let’s just leave it at that.”

Lamont nodded. “Fair enough. But by the same token, how I live my life—and who I share it with—is
my
business.”

Frank downed his glass of tomato juice, blotted his lips on a paper napkin then shoved the file to Lamont’s side of the table. “I don’t think you’re gonna like paying me for the dirt I dug up.”

“On Nadine?”

Shaking his head, Frank said, “On that daughter-in-law of hers. Seems she’s gone missing before. Couple of times, matter of fact.”

“Where’d you get this information?”

“It’s better for you if you don’t know the details. Let’s just say I have friends in high places, friends who helped me turn over a rock or two, and helped me unlock a few top-secret file drawers.” He leaned back, stretched both arms across the back of his seat. “Remember when I asked you if you thought sweet little Julie might have had anything to do with your girlfriend’s house burning down?”

Lamont nodded, and let the “girlfriend” reference slide.

“Well, if she
isn’t
responsible, I’ll eat my hat.”

Not good news, for anybody involved. “You’re not wearing a hat.”

“So I’ll buy one.” He winked. “And add it to your bill.”

Lamont had only locked his office door on one other occasion—the night Rose died. He’d come home from the hospital feeling lost and spent and heartbroken and, after making sure his motherless girls were sound asleep in their rooms, sequestered himself behind the soundproof walls, because the last thing they needed was to hear his anguished sobs.

This time, he’d entered the room feeling angry, agitated and confused. He snapped the blinds shut and flipped the bolt, then flicked on his desk lamp and sat down to study Julie’s file.

For starters, her name
wasn’t
Julie Greene.

Born Carla Cassidy in Detroit, she’d entered the Michigan foster care system when her parents were killed in a head-on crash. By the time the girl turned twelve, she’d lived with seven families. At thirteen, her counselors finally found a good match, and Carla settled in with a mom and dad who, in addition to three other kids, raised carrier pigeons. She loved tending the birds, Carla told one therapist, especially the hatchlings. Enjoyed it so much, in fact, that she didn’t even mind the odious chore of cleaning the coop floors.

The girl’s happy life ended abruptly when illness put her in the hospital. Diagnosed with cryptococcal meningitis, she spiked a fever of 106.5, and it took days for doctors to get the infection under control. Upon returning home, Carla could no longer perform routine tasks.
Over the next months, she withdrew from friends and family. One day might find her huddled in a corner, barely able to utter two words. And the next, verbal outbursts and physical attacks on her siblings were her norm.

Pushed to the limits of their parenting skills, her foster parents sought out a child specialist who blamed the high fever for Carla’s paranoid schizophrenia. Thorazine was prescribed, but when her behavior turned violent, institutionalization was required. Through the haze of medication, she overheard the escape plans of fellow patients and, determined to join them, Carla hid her meds in the heating vent. Then late one night, she slid aside a manhole cover on the hospital grounds and followed the storm drain to the city streets.

Her photo made the evening news, inspiring 911 reports of a young girl stealing clothes from a sidewalk sale. Before long, she found herself on the wrong side of wire-and-glass windows, telling her story to a white-coated therapist who administered tried-and-true therapies, and a few that were brand new. The scenario repeated itself in Chicago and Buffalo, New York and Baltimore, yet no matter which drug or confinement methods the so-called experts tried, the innovative young woman managed to escape.

Lamont closed the file, remembering what Frank had said in the diner that morning. “She must’ve gone into remission. Happens sometimes with schizophrenics. I expect that’s why Nadine’s boy didn’t realize anything was wrong with her when they met. Can’t imagine any other reason the kid would’ve married a nutjob like that.”

At the time, Frank’s choice of words had made him cringe. Now—though still uncomfortable with the term nutjob—he had to admit that the detective’s theory made about as much sense as anything else.

Something nagged at him, though—something worrisome and terrifying. While most schizophrenics prefer being alone and rarely act out in aggressive or violent ways, the psychiatrist’s last entry made it clear that Julie’s particular brand of paranoia could manifest itself in suicidal or homicidal behaviors.

Shaking his head, Lamont tucked the file between two volumes of the encyclopedia and prayed that no one would find it there, because he needed time and Heavenly guidance to figure out when to share the information with Adam and Nadine.

Lamont pitied Julie—no question about it. And he’d do everything he could to help her…if only he could. But as the psychiatrist had written at least three times in Julie’s file, “…there is no known cure for paranoid schizophrenia.”

He didn’t know whether or not Julie—or Carla or
whatever
her name was—had slipped from remission. Didn’t know what she might be capable of, either. But he did know this: If she aimed to hurt Nadine or her son and granddaughter, he’d do whatever it took to stop her.

“Marcy Miller, with KAMR-TV 4,” the familiar voice on the phone said, “calling to speak with Mr. London about Julie Greene.”

When Julie didn’t come home the night he’d found the note, Adam called the police. Following a cursory investigation, they apologized for the lack of
information and leads, and said that they’d exhausted their resources. Desperate to find his troubled young wife, he decided to get the media involved, hoping an alert TV viewer would call in a “Julie sighting.” So why had the pretty reporter asked for Lamont, and not Adam?

“I’m Julie’s mother-in-law. Do you have information about her?”

“Couple of hours ago,” she said, “I got a call from this guy, said he was a salesman in Abilene on business when he saw Julie’s picture on the noon news. Said that, later, he saw her sitting on a bus stop bench. At least, he’s thinks it was the same girl.”

Abilene? If the salesman had seen Julie, how had she ended up more than 250 miles from home? Thoughts of everything that could happen to a confused young hitchhiker turned her blood to ice. “Did he say how she looked? Is she all right? Was she alone?”

“I know you’re worried sick about her, and I’m sure your son and granddaughter are, too. That’s why I called Sheriff Wallace, there in Amarillo, first thing. The minute I told him that Mr. London had hired a private detective he hit the roof because—in his words— ‘Those guys just muddy up the works!’ So I suggested that maybe Mr. London had hired the man out of frustration with what the police were doing unfortunately, that didn’t improve the sheriff’s mood.”

A private detective? Nadine couldn’t think of a single reason why Lamont would keep such a thing from her. “Did you get the name of the man who saw Julie? Because if his information leads us to Julie, we’ll want to thank him, of course.”

“No…when he put me on hold to take another call, we were cut off. Just between you and me, the station manager is too cheap to spring for caller ID, so when the guy didn’t call back, I had no way of finding him. I know the information seems sketchy, at best, and it might lead us nowhere but to a dead end. But sometimes, it takes us where we need to go. I hope that’s the case here, because Julie looks like a sweet kid.” She
is
a sweet kid, Nadine thought, fighting tears. “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate your involvement. I’ll be sure to pass the message along to Mr. London when he gets home.”

“You two married?” Marcy asked.

Nadine gave the reporter a quick rundown of the situation, being careful not to insert too many of the details as to why she and her kids had moved into Lamont’s house.

“Sorry to hear all that, but I’m sure once the fire marshal completes his investigation, things will straighten out.”

So much for keeping those facts under wraps. “How do you know I’m under investigation?”

“Police scanners,” she said. “We don’t miss much. Can’t afford to.”

Evidently not, Nadine thought. “Is there a number where Mr. London can reach you, in case his
detective
has any questions?”

Marcy rattled off the digits, then asked Nadine if she thought Adam might consent to an on-air interview. “Maybe Julie will see it, if she’s still here, and make her way home on her own.”

That hopeful notion made Nadine’s heart soar. “I’m afraid that’s a decision he’ll have to make. I’ll have him call you.”

“And if Julie turns up?”

Not
when,
Nadine noted, heart sinking, but
if.

As the call ended, Nadine wasn’t sure which troubled her more—hearing that Julie had been spotted all the way down in Abilene or what Lamont’s detective had uncovered. Her heart hammered, because only something dreadful could explain Lamont’s secrecy.

“I
wanted
to tell you,” he admitted, “but I know you—too proud for your own good. You’d have seen it as a handout.” He stopped pacing and shrugged. “You know what they say, it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission.”

“It’s not my forgiveness or permission you need. Julie is
Adam
’s wife. He’s been a wreck since she disappeared, and Amy’s a mess, too. Don’t you think you should have talked it over with him, at least?”

“Talking with him is what gave me the idea in the first place.”

She turned slightly at the top of the stepladder, dust-rag in one hand, spray can of furniture polish in the other. “So let me get this straight—now you’ve got my
son
keeping secrets from me, too?”

Under normal circumstances, the question might not have sounded so angry and accusatory. But these were far from normal circumstances. “Adam isn’t keeping anything from you, because he doesn’t know anything. I hired Frank on my own. To help him out. Because it drove me nuts to see how frustrated he was with the
cops. Not that I blame him. I mean, those idiots have pretty much closed the case and don’t have any qualms about admitting it.”

Though he’d seen her dusting that same shelf not a week ago, she went at it again. Vigorously. “Every TV station in a five-state area—even the cable stations—are airing family photos.” She spritzed the next shelf. “I can’t believe this guy in Abilene is the only one who’s seen her.”

Lamont had no doubt that others had seen Julie. But just as he’d made the decision not to get involved in Nadine and Ernest’s troubled marriage, those folks had opted to mind their own business, too.

One by one, Nadine replaced the books and framed photos she’d just dusted. “So tell me, when did you hire this
Frank
person?”

He couldn’t very well tell her the truth. At least, not without admitting that what he’d
really
been looking for at the outset involved her weird friend Jim, not Julie. “A while ago.”

“And why keep it from Adam?”

“Didn’t know what Frank might find out, for one thing.” That much, at least, was true. “I didn’t see any point in getting the boy’s hopes up unless…
until
we had some credible information.”

She moved a step higher on the ladder, and began cleaning the knickknacks on the top shelf.

“Nadine, come down from there, will you please? You could fall.”

“I’m very sure-footed,” she said. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Then how ’bout if you worry about
me?
You’re making me a nervous wreck, watching you up there, acting like a trapeze artist.”

“Tightrope walker, you mean,” she said.

But at least she’d climbed down from her high perch.

She sat on the arm of the sofa, crossed her legs and rested the spray can on her knee. “So has your
Frank
come up with anything so far?”

Lamont put both hands in his pockets and rested his chin on his chest. Which was the right thing to do…tell Nadine about Julie’s file now, or bring the girl’s husband up to speed first? “How about if I spell it all out for you and Adam at the same time. This evening, maybe, after Amy’s tucked in for the night.”

Nadine’s trembling voice betrayed her brave expression. “Is…is the news that bad?”

“I’ll tell you this much, Julie has a very troubling background.”

Now, in addition to dark circles under her eyes, worry lines drew a number eleven between her delicate brows.

“My heart just aches for Adam.” Shoulders slumped, she added, “Guess he’s in for a real eye-opener tonight, isn’t he?”

“Don’t worry about him, Nadine. That boy of yours is stronger than you think. Stronger, even, than
he
thinks he is.” Smiling, Lamont said, “Let’s not forget who his model at ‘being brave and toughing things out’ example has been his whole life.”

“A month ago, if I’d gotten a compliment like that, I probably would have gone all bigheaded with pride, you know? But now?” She exhaled a long shaky breath. “All I can say is, if Adam inherited
my
backbone, he’s in trouble. Big trouble. Because I’ve never felt more weak and spineless in my entire life.”

“I can’t name a soul who would’ve handled things
as well as you have. You’ve got the constitution of a Clydesdale.”

Raising one eyebrow, Nadine grinned a little. “I’m flattered. I think.”

“Say, you haven’t started supper yet, have you?” Maybe a night on the town would lift her spirits.

“There’s a big pot of spaghetti sauce simmering on the back burner.”

“I thought I smelled something fantastic when I came in.”

“With your favorite…”

“Meatballs?”

She nodded.

“Reminds me of that church social, a couple years ago, when you brought your special recipe. I went back so many times for refills, I thought for sure Miz Higgins was gonna rap my knuckles with her wooden spoon.”

She laughed softly. “And I remember something you probably don’t even know. Mrs. Higgins said if she were ten years younger, she’d give you a run for your money.”

Lamont laughed. “Then I guess I’m lucky she wasn’t ten years younger, because I don’t know if I would’ve had what it took to outrun her.” Then, “I’ll tell you something I
know
you don’t know.”

“What?”

“Rose had been gone a couple years by then, and I ended up spending half that night on my knees, begging God’s forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness?” She snickered. “Oh, now you’re just making fun of me. There was plenty of spaghetti for everybody, even with your repeated visits to the buffet table.”

“I’m not making fun of you, and that’s the honest truth. I wasn’t asking forgiveness for my gluttony.”

“Then what?”

“I asked forgiveness because, all night long, every time I saw you clearing tables, filling plates, talking and laughing…the main thought that kept bouncing around in my head was…” Now that he’d gone this far, Lamont regretted opening this rusty old can. But, seeing no way to worm his way out of admitting the truth, he said, “I kept wishing you were
my
wife, not Ernest’s.”

“Just when I think there’s no way you could embarrass me again, you say something like that.”

“What, that you were responsible for my sinful thoughts?”

Gasping, Nadine clucked her tongue. “
You’re
the one who should be embarrassed, saying such a thing!”

Lamont only grinned. “How much longer ’til supper’s ready?”

She glanced at the mantel clock. “Couple of hours.”

“I’ll be in my office, if you need me for anything.” He folded the stepladder and hoisted it onto one shoulder. “Take it easy for the rest of the day, will ya?”

He pretended not to have seen her “I’ll do what needs doing” expression and headed for the utility room. With the ladder back where it belonged, at least he wouldn’t have to worry about her teetering on the highest step while he got cleaned up for supper.

Behind closed doors, he went to his bureau for a clean shirt, and caught himself staring at the family photos, all lined up in a tidy row on top of it. Rose in her wedding gown and him in a tux, Rose on their honeymoon on a beach in Cancun, Rose rocking Cammi in the chair that still sat in his oldest daughter’s old room, Rose pregnant with the twins.

Across the room, on the dresser where she’d kept nightgowns and panty hose and the single strand of pearls he’d bought her on their first anniversary, more pictures. Rose with rollers in her hair, snapped on Christmas morning, and Rose sprawled on a blanket, feeding peanuts to a squirrel.

On the rolltop desk she’d found and refinished, Rose posing with half a dozen leading men she’d starred with, before giving up her glamorous Hollywood life to become a lowly rancher’s wife.

The pictures had been here and there and everywhere for so long that he barely noticed them anymore. Especially since Nadine had become such an important part of his life.

Nadine…

It hit him like a sucker punch to the gut, and for the first time in recent memory, Lamont struggled with uncertainty. In his world, things were black or white, right or wrong. There were things that had to be done now, and things that could wait. But for the life of him, he couldn’t make heads or tails of his feelings for Nadine. Not while he still felt such overpowering love for his sweet, beautiful Rose.

He picked up the last picture of her, taken at Violet and Ivy’s sixth birthday party. He’d caught her by surprise, startling her as she tried to light the candles on the twins’ cake, and she’d come at him with a fingerful of frosting, green eyes alight with mischief…and full-blown love. That memory brought him back to Lily’s birth, when things went completely haywire in the delivery room, and he and the doctors—and especially Rose—thought she might not make it. “You’ll need help with the girls,” she’d said, clamping his hand in a grip so tight that his knuckles ached. “Not somebody
who gets
paid
to cook and clean, either. They’ll need a woman around, full time, to help them tie hair bows, and teach them how to talk and walk and sit like proper ladies.”

When she rallied—God bless her spunky soul—he’d teased her about the morose speech, and she’d doubled up her little fist. “Don’t you
dare
make fun of me, you big goof, you.” And then she’d pretended to sock him on the jaw.

If only he’d known that that just a few short years later, they’d bicker about a dress he thought she’d paid way too much for, especially considering she had one just like it—with the sales tags still on it—in her closet. Furious because he’d pointed out,
again,
that if she kept it up, she’d land the lot of them in the poorhouse, she’d stormed out into the dark rainy night, shopping bag over one shoulder, designer purse over the other.

And run a red light.

Right into the path of a pickup truck that T-boned her car.

Killing her instantly.

He beat himself up for a long, long time, thinking that if he’d just let her keep the silly frock or, at the very least, if she’d waited until morning to return it, maybe she wouldn’t have died. It took his eldest daughter to point out, years later, that Rose had a stubborn streak as wide as Texas itself. “If she had it in her head to go out,” Cammi said, “you would have had to bind and gag her to keep her in.”

The words were like healing balm, because they allowed him to let go of the guilt and the self-blame. But they didn’t stop him from missing his Rose. “Missing you like crazy,” he whispered, stroking the funny face in the photograph.

A quiet knock at his door brought him back to the present. “Hey,” he said, opening it to Nadine.

She stood in the hall, a tidy stack of thick white towels in her arms. “Just thought I’d get these put away while I’m waiting to set the table.”

It seemed as if she was afraid to come in, which made no sense to him, since she’d been doing it several times a week, to vacuum or dust or change his bed linens.

“I thought you were in your office.”

“I was. Figured I’d catch a quick shower before we eat.”

He stepped aside and, as she crossed to the master bathroom, Nadine glanced at the picture he held and looked away quickly. Her voice echoed in the big marble-and-glass space. “She was a striking woman, your Rose.”

Lamont gawked at the photo, at the gaudy silver frame that held it. Suddenly, he felt like an idiot, standing there. Pivoting in a slow circle, he acknowledged that every week, as she tidied his room, Nadine had been forced to touch
and
see this shrine he’d built to his dead wife.

When she walked out of the bathroom, she was smiling, and it made his heart skip a beat. He should be used to that by now, as often as it happened. But he wasn’t. Then he remembered his stubborn habit of deciding on some things right away. He’d been looking for a signal. Praying for a sign. The way she stood, backlit by the big overhead light, she reminded him—not for the first time—of an angel. If that wasn’t it, then he didn’t know
what
to look for!

“I’d better get the water boiling for the pasta,” she announced, marching toward the hall.

As he closed the door behind her, one thought gonged
in his head: Why wait? And Lamont read the question as the Lord’s answer to his prayer.

Tonight, once the nasty business of Julie’s file was behind them, he’d get on his knees. Again. This time to propose. If her answer was yes—and he hoped with everything in him that it would be—he’d slip a very special ring onto the third finger of her left hand.

In his top drawer, he found the wide gold band that had belonged to his paternal grandmother. A simple woman of deep faith, she’d given it to him, months before joining Rose in Paradise. “You’ll fall in love again,” she’d said, pressing it into his palm, “and when you do, I want you to give this to your bride.”

He removed it from its minuscule black velvet pouch to look at the three small diamonds that symbolized faith, hope and love, and the fanciful inscription inside that quoted Ecclesiastes: “Two are better than one.” And if Nadine would do him the honor of becoming his wife, he’d wear the matching band that his grandpa had designed for his grandmother.

“It’s all in Your hands now, Lord,” he whispered, pocketing the ring. “If she says no, bless me with the strength to hold it all together.”

Because as God was his witness, Lamont didn’t know how he’d get through the rest of his days without her.

Adam sat in stunned silence, shaking his head and running both hands through his hair. “I can’t believe it,” he said finally. “How could I have been so
wrong
about her?”

Nadine crossed the room and sat beside him, slid an arm across his shoulders. “You weren’t wrong, honey. When you two met, Julie was—”

“Julie or Carla or Kristie—only God knows how
many other aliases she’s racked up over the years—seemed normal enough. I have to admit, there were signs. Plenty of them. But I wanted to be her hero so, like a fool, I ignored them.”

“Whatever she did or didn’t do, Julie couldn’t help herself. It wasn’t her fault that she got sick, that her fever spiked so high it did permanent damage to her brain.”