Stay (Dunham series #2) (20 page)

“No. The man in the casket is my father, the one who
kinda sorta loved me with whatever he had left after you and Simone
sucked his soul dry. And that ‘barely legal redheaded whore’ is the
sister I never had, the one Simone should have been but wasn’t, and
I
love
her.”

Eric watched, listened.

“Knox Hilliard kept me from going hungry when you
didn’t feed me. He kept me in decent clothes and shoes and coats in
the winter—without
stealing
them. He paid for my
cheerleading just because he knew that was something I wanted to
do. He made sure I got to the doctor when I was sick. He put braces
on my teeth and took me to get glasses and then you
never
noticed
that I had braces and glasses.

“He pushed me to get through high school early. He
taught me how to drive. He got me emancipated the minute I got my
driver’s license. He gave me his car and sent me off to get an
education, and you
never noticed
I was gone. He paid my
tuition, my room and board, and gave me a credit card so I wouldn’t
go without anything I needed or wanted. Now, today, right this very
minute, he’s at my inn doing my job for me. He’s my business
partner and he dropped everything on short notice to get on a plane
and cover my job so I could come here today and pay my respects to
my
father
—but make no mistake: Knox Hilliard is my
dad
. He took care of me the way you and
Pops
should’ve taken care of me but didn’t. He loves me and I love
him.”

Eric’s mind churned and burned through those
details. She was five years younger than he, the same age as
Justice; Knox’s support of Eric and Vanessa would have overlapped
by two years at least—and that wouldn’t account for whatever he’d
paid toward Dirk’s mission and tuition.

I’ve never been so humbled by an act of courage in
my life—and by a child. That girl saved your life, Eric . . . and
at great personal cost.

Was this what Vanessa had braved at home after she’d
gone to Knox on his behalf? He closed his eyes. “Thank you” just
wasn’t enough; it wasn’t ever going to be enough, but it was the
only thing he had to offer her.

LaVon trembled in rage, her nostrils flaring and her
eyes narrowing, her chest heaving. “Knox Hilliard murdered my Tom
and you’re here singin’ his praises?”

“That’s what you get for fucking around on your
husband with a serial killer, who, in case you never made the
connection, raped and killed every woman he was involved with. You
brought a man into the house who tried to get me alone more than a
few times and he
terrified
me.”

Eric swallowed his tongue and he was pretty sure
everyone else had, too.

“Knox’s only real problem was that he was the only
man in this county who had the balls to hunt him down and pull the
trigger—so the next time you see Knox, you better thank him for
saving
your
miserable little life. I told the truth, Ma. I
was rewarded for that by a man who values truth and courage and
justice. I wish—” Vanessa stopped, her lips tight, her eyes
sparkling with tears. “I wish you could understand what that
means.” She looked up at Eric then, and he offered her his arm.
“Let’s go,” she murmured. “I don’t ever want to come back again,
all this, this
trailer trash
drama.”

Eric led Vanessa and Vachel out of the funeral
parlor. Soberly, he handed her into her car while Vachel took the
other seat.

“May I meet you back at your motel?” he murmured. “I
think you and I need to talk.”

She looked at him for a long moment, then
nodded.

Eric heard the roar of her engine as he jogged
across the funeral home’s parking lot to his car, got in, and
zipped home to get his truck. Just in case. He couldn’t have
planned this any worse if he’d tried. He was sure, by the time he
pulled into the motel lot, their tenuous connection would have
dissipated, and Vanessa would again tell him to get lost.

But no.

Vanessa and Vachel stood leaning against her car,
waiting. Vanessa stared off into the distance while Vachel looked
down at an iPhone and his thumbs moved over the screen.

Eric parked and walked toward them, catching
Vanessa’s eye, but Vachel moved off a bit as Eric approached, still
texting or gaming or . . . avoiding Eric.

“Vachel told me you had a vintage Corvette,” Vanessa
murmured.

“Seventy-three Stingray.” He shrugged. “Two seats.
Three people. Doesn’t work very well.”

She clasped her hands in front of her and stared at
the ground.

“Thank you,” he said again softly. “Knox told me you
had sacrificed to clear my name, but I had no idea how much. I’m
sorry, Vanessa.”

She said nothing for a moment, then murmured, “My
life is far, far better than it ever would have been had I not done
it. I didn’t need anything from you but a thank you, which you’ve
given me, so we’re square.” She turned to leave him there, but he
laid a hand on her arm.

“Please have dinner with me, you and Vachel.”

She stopped and glanced over her shoulder at Vachel,
who must have been paying attention to the conversation. Some
silent communication passed between them, which he couldn’t see and
had no wish to.

“Okay,” she said. “Thank you.”

* * * * *

19: Broken Road

Eric held the passenger door open and offered his
hand to Vanessa while Vachel reluctantly climbed in the back.
“Thank you,” she murmured again, but her voice was distant, and he
sighed as he went around to get in the driver’s side.

This wasn’t going to turn out well.

The clock read 9:36 p.m. when he started the engine
and began to back out of the parking space. He glanced over at
Vanessa, but it seemed she still didn’t want to look at him.

“Annie and I broke up the night before I came to ask
you to breakfast,” he finally said as he navigated the streets,
pulled out onto the highway, and headed south. He saw her
reflection in the side mirror and he watched her swallow. He looked
in his rearview mirror at Vachel, who was equally taciturn, his
arms crossed over his chest as he, too, watched the world go by,
though his lids began to droop and his head bob downward.

“Why didn’t you tell me that then?” she asked after
another long moment.

“Would it have made any difference?”

“I would have accepted had you told me that before
you said anything else. And thanked me. That’s all I ever wanted
from you, Eric.”

Bullshit. He knew she wanted more, and he was only
too willing to give it to her if he could slowly chip his way
through the wall he’d made her build.

“I looked up to Annie,” Vanessa murmured abruptly,
startling Eric. “She was nice to me even though she had every
reason in the world to resent me because of her mother. She would
talk about her goals for the future—” She smiled a bit. “She talked
in bullet-point lists and I’d sit there and absorb every word of
what she said. I wanted to be just like her.”

That gave him a jolt. “Really?”

“She never pulled that catty-girl bullshit and she
wouldn’t tolerate it in the cheer squad.”

“I don’t think she knows you see her that way. She
really admires what you’ve accomplished.”

Vanessa blinked. “Oh.”

Well, that and . . .

“I was lucky,” she said. “I had a lot of good,
strong women around me to teach me what LaVon should’ve.”

“Oh? Annie and who else?”

“Giselle. Sister Jelarde.”

“Dirk’s mother?”

“Yes. She was the Young Women’s president at the
time.”

Eric chuckled. “So you didn’t escape indoctrination,
either.”

“Oh, no. But I needed it, that stability and
perspective.”

“Did you get baptized?”

“No. Giselle wouldn’t let me.” She flashed him a sly
grin. “She and Knox got into more than a few fights over that, but
she won out. She said I wasn’t old enough to make that decision and
that I was confusing gratitude and comfort with true faith. And,
well, she was right. I didn’t understand much of it, much less
believe, but Sister Jelarde made up for whatever holes Knox,
Giselle, and Annie didn’t get quite filled. I’m very grateful and I
try to pay them back down the line.” She took a breath. “So, since
I didn’t get baptized, I make sure the missionaries in my area get
taken care of and the church members have jobs, if they’re willing
to work. Church members helped me when I needed it and so I do what
I can to help them.”

Eric said nothing for a moment as he tried to
formulate his most pressing question . . .

“Are you— Uh, well, I mean—” He stopped and took a
deep breath. “I’m not seeing anybody,” he blurted.

“That’s nice.”

Shit.
He’d made her retreat back into
herself, but he didn’t know how far.

“Um . . . ?”

“Yes,” she said shortly. “Later,” she murmured
tightly, casting a glance toward the back seat.

Eric released a frustrated breath. They weren’t
getting anywhere like this and he didn’t want to spend the evening
trying to ward off her chill.

“Okay, which part of this whole evening has you
freaked out the most right now?”

She looked at him suddenly, then her beautiful mouth
slowly curved up in a smile and the corners of her eyes crinkled.
“All of it. It’s— My watches are melting.”

Eric blinked, confused, but then he began to
chuckle. “Surrealism. Salvador Dalí.”

Her smile deepened, but faded fast on a sigh. “It’s
just— I didn’t know— I mean, you and me, we’ve barely spoken, but
our lives are so—”

“Entwined.”

She nodded. “I don’t . . . even
know
you, but
you’re so much a part of my life. I mean, everything I have is
because of you.”

Eric’s throat went dry when he realized how
wonderful that sounded, how much more he wanted to be part of her
life.

“Likewise you,” he murmured.

But he needed to get
it
all out there, get
it
out of the way, because
it
hung over his head like
a—

“I’ve seen your painting,” he said bluntly. “And
your magazine covers.”

Her body stiffened slightly. “Oh?” she asked
quietly, in that gracious tone of voice he now realized was a
complete front.

“You and . . . Sebastian?”

She held up a hand and she turned to the back seat,
laid a hand on Vachel’s knee, then murmured, “He’s out.”

Then she looked back at him, and said tightly, “I
don’t owe you any explanations for how I have or haven’t lived my
life, and you have no right to ask.”

He looked at her sharply.

“Yes,” she snapped, her nostrils flaring. “He was my
first. And just so you know, I can count
my
sexual history
on two fingers. I doubt you can even
remember
three-quarters
of yours, so don’t look down on me because I go for high-profile
quality and not low-class quantity.”

Half angry, he opened his mouth, but—

“Don’t. You’re mad because you’re comparing yourself
to Ford-slash-King Midas and feeling like you’re coming up second
best.”

“Okay, so what? It’s not like I don’t talk to the
guy regularly. He manages my money. And so, yeah, maybe I’m a
little insecure.”

“Then let’s make you a lot insecure. My lover? Nash
Piper.”

Eric felt like his chest had exploded. Two famous
men, one of whom had gone completely missing years before.

“Turn around,” she said, her voice hard. “I’m not
going to bandage your ego or coddle your pride, especially since
I’m
not the slut in this car.”

Suddenly deeply ashamed, he said, “Please, Vanessa.
I’m sorry. Again. I— I just want to have dinner with you,
please.”

“Who are you having dinner with tonight, Eric?” she
demanded. “Ford’s muse? Chef Granny? The little girl? ’Cause you
sure as hell aren’t having dinner with
me
.”

“
None
of them.” He wiped his hand over his
mouth. “I knew nothing about you last year. When I met you at the
elementary school, saw your eyes, understood what you wanted to do
for Junior, I—” He sighed. “I wanted to say thank you. I wanted to
apologize. I wanted to talk to you. That’s all. It’s why I asked
you to have breakfast with me, so we could talk in neutral
territory. I didn’t know anything about what you had done with your
life until after you sent me packing.”

“Oh,” she said again, this time with some
surprise.

“I want to have dinner with that nice, pretty lady I
met at Chouteau Elementary last year.” He shoved his hand through
his hair, so frustrated with himself he couldn’t stand it.
When
had he not been able to talk to a woman?
When
had he not been comfortable with a woman he wanted in bed? “Shit.
Nothing’s coming out right.”

“So . . . you don’t know who this woman is, in the
car beside you.”

“No,” he breathed, relieved that she now understood.
“And I want to find out.”

“That’s not all you want.”

He looked at her sharply. “No, it’s not,” he
affirmed immediately, “and we wouldn’t be having this conversation
if you didn’t want the same.”

She shrugged, then one corner of her mouth lifted up
with some reluctance. “You do get straight to the point, don’t
you?”

“I don’t know how to talk to you,” he muttered.
“It’s the damnedest thing. I’ve never been so tongue-tied in my
life, like my foot’s halfway down my throat. I end up just . . .
telling you exactly what I think and feel.”

She said nothing to that, and he glanced at her to
see her reaction. But she sat, her head bowed, her finger picking
at one of the many tiny bumps in the fabric of her skirt. “I had a
crush on you,” she said low, without looking at him. “You knew
that, right?”

“Yes.”

“I, um, never really . . . Uh, I didn’t—” She
stopped. Took a deep breath. “I never got over it,” she said in a
rush. “That’s why I’ve been so angry with you. You were getting
married and you looked at me like— Like I’ve always wanted you to
look at me. And now you’re upset because of Sebastian . . . I don’t
know what to do, what to think. You were always larger than life— I
have cooked for and served—been propositioned by—some of the most
famous, powerful men in the world, but you— To me, you’re . . .
apart. Separate.” She paused, then whispered, “Unattainable.”