Beneath the Patchwork Moon (Hope Springs, #2) (23 page)

I’m sorry my music has taken so much away from you. And from Isi and ’Milio and Teresa and Felix. I owe all of you such a big apology. I don’t have it in me to make right now (mostly because there’s no room with all this baby, ha), but soon I will. Somehow. I’ll make it up to all of you. Please don’t beat yourself up, because I know that’s what you’re doing. Let Luna convince you. She may not know it, but she loves you, too.

And that was it. His sister’s last words meant to be read once she was living the life she wanted. But she’d never made it back to Hope Springs, and her words had been stored away for ten years, no one knowing of her plans, the sacrifice
she
had made to see her dreams come true. He leaned against the tree house wall, broken, hollow. Gutted.

“What now?” he asked, because he had no idea.

Luna looked over at him, her damp eyes solemn, the gears in her mind obviously whirring to an inevitable conclusion. “Now I show these things to Oscar’s family. And then we should show them to yours.”

I
show them to Oscar’s family, she’d said. Then
we
show them to yours. He wondered if she realized she’d made the distinction. “Why? What good will it do now?”

“They have to know. They deserve to know. We can’t…” She paused, shivering where she still sat close, then reaching for one of his hands and bringing it to her cheek. “This is bigger than my vow to keep Sierra’s secrets. And I know how you feel about what you said to her when she called—”

“You’re right,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s time.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

O
rville and Merrilee Gatlin lived on the far east side of Hope Springs, where the neighborhoods were gated, the lots professionally landscaped, the houses the size of small mansions. And then there were the cars. The cars always got to Luna. Oscar’s high school ride had cost as much as the sporty number she drove now, courtesy of Patchwork Moon. In high school, she’d had a ten-year-old Toyota Corolla, and that only because she’d saved four years of babysitting money and her father had gone in halves.

Still, her nonprofit would not be where it was today without the donations and support of the area’s inhabitants. These were the homes of doctors and lawyers and technology moguls, many whose offices were in Austin, an hour away. They had the best of both worlds, really. The small-town peace and quiet offered a respite from the hustle and bustle of the state capital, while Austin’s proximity provided Hope Springs’s residents easy access to good food, good drink, top-notch entertainment, and college football.

Orville Gatlin was one of the few on the east side who wasn’t a doctor or a lawyer or a mogul. He was a renowned metal sculptor, his work shown in galleries nationwide. He worked in a warehouse in Hope Springs’s old textile district,
the same area where Luna had bought her loft. He didn’t try to hide his celebrity as Luna did hers, but then, having Jay Z, Kate Hudson, and Robert Downey Jr. wear her scarves meant she didn’t have to be the face of her art.

Today the three doors to the Gatlins’ garage were closed, only Oliver’s BMW parked in the driveway. Of course, he
would
have to be here when dealing with his mother was going to tax every bit of Luna’s nerves. She pulled her Audi far enough forward to reach the paved walkway to the front door. With her hands gripping the steering wheel and her forehead pressed against it, she gathered her thoughts and tried to remember to breathe.

This day had been a decade coming. Now that it was here, she ached for it to be over, her whole body trembling, regrets tumbling down and piling at her feet like anchors to moor her. She’d promised to keep Sierra and Oscar’s secrets until they were ready to tell all. She’d just never thought those truths would be told posthumously, or that she’d be the one to reveal them. And even then, she hadn’t known all of what they’d kept to themselves.

What would’ve happened had she found the letters sooner? If, once her hip had healed, she’d climbed the tree to cry for Sierra? If she’d braved facing the Caffeys to feel the spirit of her friend? If she’d done that, returned to the place where they’d hoped and imagined and dreamed, and not lost herself in Angelo instead, how much heartache might she have saved?

Wishes aren’t horses, Luna. They’re really, really not
. Exiting her car, she pressed Sierra’s box to her chest, the weight of it growing with each step she took toward the Gatlins’ front door. Once there, she lifted her chin and reached for the
big brass knocker. The door opened two minutes later. Luna spoke to the well-dressed young man who answered it with a polite, “May I help you?”

“I’d like to see Mrs. Gatlin, please.”

“Is she expecting you?”

“No, she’s not. But if you’d tell her Luna Meadows is here—”

“I’m surprised you’d think giving me your name would get you an audience, Ms. Meadows,” Merrilee Gatlin said, stepping from her sitting room into the foyer, her heels striking the marble sharply. With a wave of her hand, she dismissed the man who had responded to Luna’s knock. “We’ll finish going over my calendar this afternoon, Tod.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and he very nearly bowed. “I’ll be in my office.”

Luna watched Tod retreat down the hallway, wondering whether it was part of his job to keep the riffraff away. “I’m surprised you’d think I’d try to see you under false pretenses.”

“The way you got in to see my son?” The older woman’s arched brow lifted almost into her hairline. “Without so much as a courtesy call to let me know of your intention to visit?”

This was where Luna wanted to point out the lack of courtesy she was being given here on the front porch, but on that she kept her silence. “What I had to say to Oscar was for his ears alone. And I understand that he most likely didn’t hear me. That doesn’t mean I didn’t need to say it to him.”

Oscar’s mother considered her for a long moment, her gaze dropping to the box Luna held. No doubt it was curiosity over the worn leather case embossed with the St. Thomas Preparatory School logo that finally gained her entrance into the Gatlin home. She stepped inside. Mrs. Gatlin closed the door, gesturing for her to move into the sitting room. It was
the closest room to the front of the house. And that was fine. Luna wasn’t here for a tour.

Oliver was sitting in one of the two wingback chairs, legs crossed, a tablet PC on his lap. As if he’d been reading the news or a book, or checking his stocks, and just happened to be doing so in what was surely the most uncomfortable room in the house. Chilly while at the same time cloying, all white floral chintz, the furniture, the walls, the paintings, with navy and green the only accents.

Luna promised herself never to weave anything in just those three colors.

Oliver swiped a finger over the gadget’s screen, minimizing whatever he’d been viewing before setting it on the table at his side. He got to his feet when his mother entered. “Miss Meadows. Are you here about our last conversation?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” she said, and couldn’t deny the sense of satisfaction she felt when Oliver frowned and fell speechless, dropping back to his chair once his mother had arranged her skirt to sit.

Merrilee looked from her son to Luna, indicating she should use the settee. It was stiff and uncomfortable, and very likely stuffed with horsehair. Luna didn’t care. She didn’t plan to stay long, and she would never be comfortable here. “I’ve been going through the things the Caffeys left when they moved, and earlier today I found this box. The things inside will answer a lot of your questions.”

“And what questions would those be?” Merrilee asked.

“About the weekend of the accident. Why Oscar was where he was when it happened. Why he and Sierra were together when they shouldn’t have been.” Luna dropped her gaze from Merrilee’s to the box with Sierra’s initials, squeezing
her hands into fists before flipping the latch to open it. She set the music CD on the table, along with the letter Oscar had addressed to his parents.

Then, just as she heard Merrilee’s sharp intake of breath, she added the sonogram photo and the orange booties. “Sierra was almost nine months pregnant at the beginning of our senior year. The weekend of the accident, she delivered the baby.”

Beneath two bright circles of rouge, Merrilee’s face blanched to the color of bone. “What do you mean, she delivered the baby?”

“Oscar and Sierra had a child. Together. They gave it up for adoption.”

“Just a moment.” Merrilee pressed her fingertips to her throat as she swallowed. “Are you telling me I have a grandchild? A Gatlin child, who is living with someone else?”

Oh, the arrogance
. “She’s not a Gatlin child any longer. She has a family of her own. A life of her own. She’s ten years old.” Luna faltered, then stumbled beneath the building waves of emotion as they swept over her. “And if you hadn’t been more insistent on Oscar doing things the Gatlin way instead of allowing him to live the life he wanted, your granddaughter might be here with you now.”

“If I have a granddaughter,” Merrilee said, anger like ice shards in her voice, “she will be with me. I’ll have my attorney—”

“Mother, no,” Oliver said, rubbing at his forehead, as if the puzzle pieces he’d found in the ravine were clicking into place. “This isn’t a matter for attorneys.”

“What are you saying, Oliver? Of course it is.” She turned in her chair, her hands gripping the arms. “This child needs us. She’s your niece. Your father’s granddaughter.
My
granddaughter. Your only brother’s little girl.”

“No.” He shook his head, his expression pained and sorrowful, and nearly breaking Luna’s heart. “She belongs to, belongs
with
the family who adopted her.”

“She’s a Gatlin,” Merrilee said, nearly spitting out the name.

“She’s a Smith. Or a Jones. Or maybe even a Caffey. And we’ll never know,” Oliver said, clearing his throat, blinking the moisture from his eyes.

Merrilee turned on Luna then. “Why? Why would you do this to me?”

Why, indeed. Did giving this woman such devastating news make her happy? Did it make up for all the pain she and her husband had caused the Caffey family? “Because it’s the truth. You’ve painted Sierra as a slut and ruined both Mike’s and Carlita’s reputations. You ran the Caffey family out of town, and why? Because you didn’t know the truth. You couldn’t bring yourself to believe that your son was in this relationship because it was where he wanted to be. He loved Sierra. She was his life. Not you. Not whatever you think it means to be a Gatlin.”

“How dare you—”

“Mother, enough,” Oliver said, rising. “I think Ms. Meadows deserves the floor.”

But his mother was shaking her head. “I refuse to believe any of what she says.”

“You don’t have to believe it,” Luna reminded her. “You have Oscar’s letter, which I’m certain will tell you the same thing.”

“I’m sure these were a joke,” Merrilee said, waving a dismissive hand over the items Oscar and Sierra had so carefully, so lovingly put away. “A prank. I know Oscar wasn’t always happy with the restrictions we placed on him, and on you, Oliver. I’m sure he did this to strike back.”

Luna could not believe the woman’s gall. “He did this to show you what he couldn’t tell you with words. He was a musician. An artist. This is as much a part of him as his child. As much a part of him as he is a part of you.”

She got to her feet. “I want you to leave.”

“Mother—”

“No, Oliver. I want her to go.”

“That’s fine,” Luna said, carefully repacking the box.

“You leave all of that,” Merrilee ordered.

There wasn’t enough money in the world
. “The letter is yours. The rest of these things belong to me. I bought the property as well as the buildings and their contents.”

“I’m sure Luna wouldn’t mind making copies,” Oliver said, and Luna nodded, silently thanking Oliver for being so unexpectedly kind.

“I want the originals,” Merrilee said, demanded. “They are mine,” she added, then collapsed into her chair, and while Oliver tended to her, ringing for tea, lifting her legs onto an ottoman and sitting beside her, holding her hand, Luna quietly made her escape.

Angelo wanted to kick himself. He should’ve gone with Luna to begin with. He should’ve ignored her when she told him she needed to see the Gatlins alone. He shouldn’t have let that happen. He didn’t know who was inside, if it was just Oliver and his mother, or if Luna was having to tell their son’s story to Orville Gatlin, too. Or if Merrilee had an entourage, a half circle of pinched faces disapproving behind her, shoring her up, damning Luna for being alive.

Sierra had been right about one thing: Angelo had never known a braver woman in his life than Luna Meadows. He couldn’t say with any certainty that in her shoes, he would’ve made this decision—to pull into the open this festering wound that desperately needed to heal. He’d had ten years to come clean, but he’d been eaten up with guilt, and feared his parents learning about Sierra’s pregnancy would hurt them more than living with her death. What good could come of their knowing?

Luna had made him see things differently. His family not knowing the whole story wasn’t fair to her. She’d taken the brunt of so much anger… from his parents, from the Gatlins. And he hadn’t been innocent, the way he’d treated her, the things he’d thought—and all because he hadn’t known the truth. Telling his family was no guarantee of forgiveness, and not for a minute did he think he could ever get back what he’d lost, but Luna was right: the air had to be cleared for the healing to begin.