The Cinderella Hour (26 page)

“I’ll be at the flight arrival screen making sure your flight
from Boston is on time. If it’s not—”

“Here’s how you’ll recognize me, Ellen. I’ll look like the
cop who is fully prepared to arrest you for obstruction of justice if you so
much as think about seeing Blaine alone.”

Before awakening Wendy, Thomas made two calls. The first, to
the operating room, was answered by a nurse who knew Thomas well. She was also
up-to-date on Mira’s status, having just provided the same information to
Vivian and Blaine.

The news was good. Mira’s shattered ribs hadn’t resulted in
deeper injuries to her lungs. The thoracic surgeons would hold off on a chest
tube for now. The trauma surgeons were similarly positive about her abdomen.
Copious lavage had cleansed her peritoneal cavity of all visible blood, and a
subtotal splenectomy had been as feasible as they had hoped. A Penrose drain
would remain in place for a day or two. And, like the chest surgeons, they
would follow her progress closely.

Mira’s most critical injury was the one to her head. But
there was even cautious optimism about that. Thanks to early, accurate
diagnosis in the field, she made it to neurosurgery so quickly that the
expanding hematoma probably had very little opportunity to cause damage. They
wouldn’t know, of course, until Mira was awake.

When that would happen was uncertain. But she should be out
of surgery and en route to the ICU by three.

It wasn’t simply good news. It was sensational news.

Thomas shared it with a greatly relieved Bea.

There was a private worry Thomas didn’t share. Although he
suspected he would have felt comforted if he did. Bea was hope personified.
And, as a nurse, she was knowledgeable about retrograde amnesia—the tendency
for an injured brain to forever lose memories made prior to the trauma.

Sometimes only the most proximate memories were gone, the
ones surrounding the injury itself. But it was possible to lose hours, days,
months, or even years.

Thomas had cared for enough head injury patients to be
reasonably sure that thanks to the promptness with which the clot was evacuated,
Mira’s amnesia would be measured in hours—at most. Such a loss would be trivial
when viewed on the canvas of her life and inconsequential compared to the loss
that might have been.

The two of you will just have to fall in love all over again,
Bea would tell him,
comfort
him, if he shared his worry that Mira might
have lost all remembrance of their afternoon. And you
will
, she would insist,
even though she knew it wasn’t necessarily true. At times, following trauma,
the heart also forgot.

And if he was forgotten by Mira, lost to her?

So be it. Mira was alive. That was what mattered. He alone
would know the loss. She would find someone new to love.

Thomas’s second call was to the intensivist who let him know that
Daniel Hart hadn’t—quite—drowned and was being transferred to Grace Memorial’s
ICU.

Daniel had yet to arrive. A mechanical problem with the
Flight for Life helicopter caused a delay. His revised ETA was the same as Mira’s.

3
:
00
a.m.

Thomas’s intensivist colleague knew Daniel was the presumed
dead father of the girl for whom Thomas had suspended his career. That was why
she, Dr. Sandra Davis, had notified Thomas hours before.

Since their previous conversation, Sandra had reviewed the
lab data that had been faxed from the other hospital. Based on that review, her
impression remained unchanged. From the standpoint of Daniel’s orphaned
daughter—and her guardian—Daniel should continue to be presumed dead.

The shock to his system had been massive. Deprived of the
oxygen that had been triaged to more critical tissue, his muscles were the
first to die. Their death, in turn, caused his kidneys to fail. His liver, too,
became overwhelmed.

The community hospital wasn’t equipped to deal with a patient
as precarious as the man found thirty miles downstream from his farm. Grace
Memorial was. Both Thomas and Sandra had ample experience with such referrals.

Typically, in the eagerness to get the patient transferred,
the referring physician downplayed the gravity of the situation. Yes, the
patient was ill. But he was stable enough to make the trip. Patients were often
far sicker than advertised.

Daniel’s doctor hadn’t minimized his condition. At least,
that was the hope. It was hard to imagine Daniel could get any closer to death
without actually falling over the edge.

Thomas would see for himself. Soon. By the time he was off
the phone, it was two-fifteen. He would awaken Wendy, and she and Bea would
meet, and before he left—assuming he could leave—they would give Eileen her
two-thirty shot.

As he and Bea approached the open door to Wendy’s bedroom,
Thomas whispered, “She may be startled when I wake her up. I’ve been letting
her sleep until she awakens on her own.”

“You’re taking it one nap at a time.” Bea smiled. “That’s
Mira quoting you.”

Mira, Thomas thought, when her memory was intact.

“It’s a good way to take it,” Bea added.

“Thank—” Thomas stared at the bed. It was empty. Wendy and Eileen
were gone. And in the shadows . . . nothing. “Wendy?
Wendy
?”

“Thomas!” The voice came from the curtained window.

She was behind the curtain. He knelt beside her and stared,
as she did, at the sleeping city. “Are you all right?”

Wendy shrugged and stroked the kitten clutched beneath her
chin.

“What is it, sweetheart? Has something happened with Eileen?”

His second question momentarily pierced through her worry. “She
purred
.”

“That’s wonderful, Wendy. You’ve taken such good care of her.
She’s
so lucky
to have you.” When Wendy shrugged again, Thomas asked, “Can
you tell me what’s wrong?”

“I’m worried about Daddy.”

Had she overheard his conversations with Sandra? If so, he
was no better than whoever had talked about Daniel’s drowning in her presence.
But he hadn’t mentioned Daniel’s name.

“Why, honey? Why are you worried about Daddy?”

“I can’t see the stars, so how can he see me? What if he
doesn’t know where I am? What if he hasn’t even found Mommy?”

“Oh, Wendy. The stars are there.
Every
star. It’s just
that the city lights are so bright it’s a little hard for us to see them. But
you know the good thing about these lights? When you’re looking down from the
stars, it makes us easy to see.”

“So Daddy can see me?”

“Of course he can.” Daddy might even be within effortless
seeing distance, Thomas thought. There was a helicopter flying overhead. If
Daniel was on board, and if the toxins in his bloodstream hadn’t submerged him
into coma, one of his white plaster wings might have waved at his worried
little girl.

“Do you think he’s found Mommy?”

“I’ll bet Mommy’s found him. She’s been in heaven for a
while. She knows her way around. Don’t you think?”

Wendy didn’t reply right away. Her cocoon of emotional
grogginess was gone. She was newly awake, newly aware.

“Probably,” she conceded.

But like the stars, Thomas knew, it was an issue he and Wendy
would revisit countless times.

“Wendy? There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Thomas guided her away from the window. Bea was all smiles,
and hope. But Wendy’s wariness returned. It made no sense to her that Mira’s
friend would be checking on Eileen.

“Where’s Mira?”

Thomas discarded the fiction he had planned. “Mira’s in the
hospital. She’s okay, sweetheart. She’s going to be just fine. But since she
couldn’t be here for Eileen’s next shot, she wanted Bea to take her place.”

“She also wanted me to meet you, Wendy. She was so impressed
by how good you are with Eileen. I can see she’s right. And I can hear it. Eileen’s
purring up a storm.”

“What’s wrong with Mira?”

“She hurt her head,” Thomas replied. “But she’s doing great.
She’ll have to be in the hospital for a while, though. If it’s all right with
you, I thought I’d visit her while Bea’s here with you. I’d like to tell Mira
how well Eileen’s doing, and that you and I hope she gets well very soon. How
does that sound?”

“I’ll go with you.”

“You can’t, honey.”

“Why not?”

“There’s a rule where she’s staying. No visitors under age
twelve are allowed. And no kittens, either.”

The kitten rule was etched in stone. No felines—or canines—in
the ICU. But there had been numerous occasions when Dr. Thomas Vail bent the
age-limit rule until it snapped. If a visit from a child, or a grandchild, was
in a patient’s best interests, Thomas was happy to make the arrangements—and
take the administrative heat.

A visit from Wendy would make Mira smile whether she
remembered her or not. But there was Thomas’s other reason for going to the
ICU. It wasn’t in Wendy’s best interests to be anywhere near the dying corpse
who was her father. Yes, the ICU staff could prevent the unthinkable from
happening. Wendy wouldn’t glimpse a gurney transporting her daddy while
physicians pumped frantically on his chest.

But she might sense Daniel’s presence. She had, after all,
chosen the precise moment when a helicopter was flying overhead to wonder if he
could see her.

“I’ve been in a hospital before.”

“I know you have, sweetheart. But you can’t come with me,
Wendy. Not tonight.”

“Don’t go, Thomas! Please?”

“I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

“You won’t?”

“No. I’ll stay right here with you and Eileen. Bea can visit
Mira and tell us how she’s doing. Okay?”

Wendy’s enthusiastic nod roused the kitten. Then, with
uncertainty, Wendy looked at Bea. “Okay?”

“Absolutely.” Bea smiled. “But if it’s all right with you, I’d
like to watch you and Thomas give Eileen her shot. I know Mira will want to
hear how that went.”

“It’s all right.”

“Thank you.”

Eileen, who was vastly improved since her previous injection,
protested the odd position in which she was being held. But she remained
blessedly unperturbed by the pinprick. After it was through, however, she took
a few indignant strides followed by another sign of feline health—the urgent
need to give herself a bath.

“Mira’s going to be very pleased,” Bea said to Wendy. “I can’t
wait to tell her.” Then, to Thomas, she added, “I guess I’ll need a cab. I
imagine the doorman can call one for me.”

“We can call one from here.” Thomas retrieved a phone book
from a bottom drawer in the desk in Wendy’s bedroom. “Do you have a preference?”

“I wouldn’t even know the choices. Surprise me.”

Thomas was perusing the Yellow Pages when he felt a gentle
pressure against his leg, a leaning against him. He rested a welcoming hand on
her small shoulder. “Hello there, Wendy.”

“You could tell her,” she murmured.

“Tell Mira?”

Wendy’s nod wasn’t as enthusiastic as when he had agreed not
to leave. But it was as determined.

“Do you mean go to the hospital while you and Bea take care
of Eileen?” Her head bobbed again. “You’re sure?”

“Will we know where you are?”

“Every second. The hospital’s twelve minutes away. I’ll give
you and Bea my cell phone number if you want to reach me while I’m driving. And
I’ll give you a better number for when I’m there. If you want to talk to me,
Wendy, or want me to come home, it will be very easy to do . . .”

They would love each other forever, as they always had. And
sometime later—today, tomorrow, forever—they would make love.

But for what remained of the night when fire had once again consumed
a house on Meadow View Drive, Luke would uncover what could be uncovered about
the crime. Snow would be with him on his quest. With him always.

Before leaving for Quail Ridge, they learned that Mira’s
prognosis had been upgraded from grave to good.

During the drive Luke told Snow about Mira herself.

“She really cares about you,” Snow said on hearing Mira’s
original purpose for her lunch invitation. “I like her.”

“So do I.”

“I can tell.”

“I’ve had three friends in my life. You. Noah. Mira. Three
friends . . . but only one love.”

“Mira’s not in love with you?”

“No, she isn’t, and never has been.”

“Unlike the other Larken sister.”

“You sound sorry for Vivian.”

“I guess I am.”

“Explain that to me. Please. How can you feel anything but
hatred toward someone who stole so much from you?”

“What did she steal?”

“Your baby, Snow. Our baby. Our Wendy.”

“Vivian had nothing to do with my losing Wendy. Maybe you
didn’t hear the part of the show tonight when I talked about the fluttering I
felt being the onset of the miscarriage.”

“I heard.”

“Then you know it most likely happened hours before Vivian
called me.”

“Most likely.”

“More than most likely.
Certainly
. I’ve spoken to
several obstetricians, Luke. They all agree. And the onset of my depression
confirms it.”

“Vivian told you lies, then left you standing in the cold.”

“I got out of the car on my own. And she didn’t cause my
miscarriage.”

“She never needs to know that,” Luke said. “She doesn’t
deserve to know.”

“Meaning she believes she’s responsible?”

“I think so. She even feels pretty guilty about it.”

“
Luke
.”

“What?”

“You can’t permit Vivian to feel guilty for something you
know she didn’t do.”

“Sure I can. I don’t have any sympathy for Vivian. None. I
can’t believe you do.” He drew a breath and gave a slight shake of his head. “I
take that back. I can believe it. It’s who you are.”

“It’s who you are, too.”

“No, Snow. Not me.”

She touched the taut muscles of his jaw. “You’re going to
tell her. I know you are. You’re too kind not to.”

“
Hell
.”

“You swore,” she whispered.

“Damn right I did.” What sounded like a growl was exposed as
the utter fraud it was when oncoming headlights illuminated his smile. “What
makes you so nice?”

“You.”

Luke caught her hand and pressed it to his lips. He kept it
there until her silence made him speak. “What are you thinking about?”

“My mother. Don’t ask me why.”

“Snow,” he said softly. “Why?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Are you in touch with her?”

“No. We went our separate ways sixteen years ago.”

“But you’ve thought about her.”

“Yes. At various times, I’ve thought about her a lot—and
about our life from her perspective.”

“She wasn’t a terrific mother.”

“She wasn’t a
motherly
mother. The kind for whom greeting
cards are made. But she was a mother.
My
mother. She didn’t run from
what that meant. I was her responsibility, her cub. She fed me, clothed me,
sheltered me, protected me. Even when I told her I’d be fine on my own, she
gave me more money than I’d ever need. She insisted on giving it to me,
insisted on making sure I’d never have to fend for myself the way she had to.”

“It doesn’t seem surprising you’d be thinking about her now, does
it? When you’re returning to Quail Ridge?”

“No. It doesn’t. But that doesn’t feel like the reason. It must
be, though. What else could it be? I was probably thinking about how old she
was, how
young
she was—twenty-seven—when she leased the house on Dogwood
Lane and went into business for herself. It was such a risky thing for her to
do. But if she was afraid, she never let it show.”

“Her daughter’s mother.”

“No. She was fearless, Luke. Scarlett O’Hara through and
through. And so confident. Although . . .” Snow let the memory come, and then
shook it away. “That can’t be right.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“I’ve told you some of this before. You may not remember.”

Did she really imagine he wouldn’t remember
something—everything—she had ever told him? “Try me.”

“She wanted me to call her Mother for our new life in Quail
Ridge.”

“You were thrilled,” Luke said, using the word she had used
years ago.

“I really was. And—here’s the memory that has to be wrong—she
seemed relieved by my reaction, as if she wasn’t confident I’d be happy about
it . . . as if I wouldn’t think she
deserved
such a name.”

“You didn’t tell me that before.”

“I didn’t remember it until now.”

“Maybe she thought you would have preferred Mom to Mother.
Maybe that’s what you’re remembering.”

“That wouldn’t have worried her. She was Scarlett, and her
mother, Ellen O’Hara, was Mother. Ellen O’Hara,” Snow murmured softly. “
Ellen
O’Neil
. Oh, Luke.”

“What is it?”

“She’s my mother. Ellen O’Neil, from Atlanta, is my mother.”

Before she spoke again, Luke pulled his truck to the side of
the road. “Tell me.”

Snow nodded. “She—why are my teeth chattering?”

“It’s adrenaline.” Luke touched her icy cheeks and smiled
into her dilated eyes. “An adrenaline rush. It will pass in a minute or two.”

And, for that minute or two, his gentle hands and tender gaze
remained right where they were.

Eventually, inhaling deeply, she said, “Ellen O’Neil, from Atlanta, sent me an email during tonight’s show. I had a strange feeling the moment I read
it. It felt familiar to me, but I didn’t know why. It was the style that struck
me first. It was terse and direct, as she could be, and it was also informal, as
if we knew each other.
Snow
, it began, not
Dear Snow
or
Dear
Ms. Gable
. I’ve received thousands of
Cinderella Hour
emails. I’m almost
always addressed as one of the two. But notes from my mother were always just
Snow
.
And her messages were no-nonsense, like tonight’s email. It was actually an instruction,
and that’s very her, too. And then there’s the name.”

“Ellen O’Neil.”

“Yes. Like all of her
Gone With the Wind
names, Ellen
O’Neil is a hybrid of a fictional character from the movie and a real-life
person who played one of the roles. The actress cast as Ellen O’Hara was
Barbara O’Neil, with one
L
. Her name was misspelled though—two
L
s—in
the credits. My mother went with the single
L
to be sure I’d know it was
her.”

“What was the instruction?”

“She wanted me to ask Blaine why he has dedicated his career
to women’s mental health.”

“Did you ask him?”

“Yes.”

“What was his answer?”

“His sister was psychotic. She poisoned a Mother’s Day meal.
She died, as did their mother. Blaine became ill, but survived. He blames
himself for not seeing the symptoms of his sister’s mental illness.”

“I wonder how your mother knew that.”

“I doubt she did. It’s a logical question to ask anyone as
passionate about his career as Blaine is.”

“Was his passion obvious from your interview?”

“Yes.” Snow paused. Frowned.

Shivered.

“Better tell me that thought,” Luke said.

“It’s pretty farfetched. But it would explain why she sent
the email . . . and why she wrote
Get Blaine to tell you
instead of
Get Dr.
Prescott
to tell you
.”

“You didn’t call him Blaine during the interview.”

“No. I didn’t. I introduced him as Dr. Blaine Prescott, but
after that he was addressed as Dr. Prescott by both the callers and me.”

“So your mother knows him.”

“Yes. And wanted me to know who he is. The trouble is there’s
only one man in Chicago that could be.”

“Who?”

She shook her head. “My father.”

“Your father. When I called you from L.A. you told me he was
alive, and violent. I thought it was your grief talking, that you were
confusing my violent father with your heroic one. He’s really alive?”

“Really alive,” Snow echoed. “And really violent. My mother
ran into him at a party the night before she left Quail Ridge. He wanted to
resume their relationship. When she said no, he became enraged. She had
bruises, Luke. And she was desperate to get away.”

“And leave you to deal with him?”

“No. Absolutely not. She wanted me to go with her. I refused.
I didn’t know I’d already lost the baby and . . .”

“You were waiting to talk to me about Vivian’s lies.”

“Yes.”

“But your mother didn’t wait with you. She left.”

“She didn’t know I was pregnant, Luke, much less that I would
miscarry and have postpartum depression. And from the standpoint of the violent
man who was my father, the danger was to her, not to me. Her leaving made it
safer for me to stay. She let him know she was leaving, to make it safer for me
still, and he undoubtedly assumed I left Chicago with her anyway. My meeting
him ever
was unlikely, and it wasn’t a great worry even if it happened. He
believed my father was the hero cop she met in Atlanta. And, she said, I didn’t
look anything like him.”

“I met Blaine tonight,” Luke said. “I’d never guess the two
of you were related.”

“Because we’re
not
. He can’t be the monster my mother
described. He’s dedicated his career to women’s mental health, and it’s not a
token dedication, either. He’s helped his own patients, of course. You should
have heard all the grateful calls we got tonight. But he has also helped
countless women he’s never met. When I was doing my online research, his name
was everywhere.”

“You’re saying there’s no way a man like that could ever be
violent.”

Because she knew him so well, and loved him so much, Snow
heard in Luke’s quiet voice what no one else would have—his own remembrance of
a man about whom almost an entire town had said the same thing. There was no
way, the townspeople of Quail Ridge had insisted, that a man like Jared
Kilcannon could have abused his son, tortured his son, tried to murder his son.

“I’m not saying that, Luke.” She looked at his beloved face. “I’m
not sure what I should do.”

“What we should do, you mean. For starters, how about sending
a reply to Ellen O’Neil?”

“The emails aren’t saved.”

“We’ll find her online and give her a call.”

“And we’ll discover that the Ellen O’Neil who sent the email
isn’t my mother, and never heard of Blaine Prescott before tonight, and always
writes terse, instructional, informal emails.”

“Is that what you believe?”

“No.”

And, Luke thought, it isn’t what you want. You want to have
heard from your mother—regardless of the message.

Snow’s quiet admission confirmed his thoughts. “The email was
from her, Luke. And there’s only one reason she would have sent it. Blaine is my father. Blaine is the man who beat her up.”

“No harm in being sure,” Luke said, hoping it was true. Ellen
had obviously known where Snow was, and had chosen not to reach out until it
was necessary to do so. Tonight’s email might be all the reaching out she
intended to do. That would further hurt the woman he loved. But, he knew, it
was a risk Snow was willing to take. “Shall we go to my place and start the
search?”

“In the morning,” Snow said. “After you’ve done everything
you need to do at the site of the fire. We should go there now.”

“Soon,” Luke said. “First tell me how you left the house on Meadow View Drive. The condition it was in.”

“Good condition. The way it always was. Why?”

“Someone ransacked it.”

“Oh, no.”

“The leasing agent and I reached the house about the same
time. The door was wide open.”

“I’d left it unlocked. I thought I should leave my house
keys. My mother had left hers. I wasn’t thinking clearly enough to realize the
leasing agent would have her own set to let herself in. I suppose the vandals
would have broken in if they couldn’t walk in. But I made it easier for them.”