The Still of Night (36 page)

“Then you know what’s involved for Kelsey. You know her battle. Please don’t do anything to make it harder.”

“Do you think I would?” His eyes chilled. “But up to now every decision’s been made without me. I want you to know that’s over.”

Her hand shook on the rail. What would he do? What could he do? Jill’s voice shook. “This isn’t a merger or, or whatever you do. It’s a little girl—”

“My little girl.”

“No, Morgan. She’s not yours. Or mine.”

He turned his back to the rail and stared into the house.

“Roger and Cinda are her parents.” She had to make it real for him. “They’ve raised her from the day she was born.”

“I only want to see her.”

“I wouldn’t have seen her either if—”

“But you did.”

Jill swallowed the tightening in her throat. He was right. Roger and Cinda had given her more than they were willing to offer Morgan. In their minds she had carried the child, given them their daughter, and Morgan had not been part of the decision. She hadn’t given him the chance.

Jill dropped her forehead to her fingertips. “Please leave it alone. At least until she’s recovered.”

He didn’t answer.

“Morgan?”

“I’ll be a little busy the next few days anyway.”

She sighed. “We all appreciate what you’re doing.”

“It’s not about gratitude.” His voice was rough.

She knew that. She reached a hand to his forearm. “Be patient and let God work.”

He slid her a sideways glance. “You have to subscribe to receive benefits.”

“So subscribe.”

He stretched a half smile. “My membership ran out.”

“There’s no expiration date. It just rolls over into eternity.”

He stroked her fingers on his forearm. “I believed that once about other things.”

Her throat tightened. “I know. God’s the only sure thing.”

He cupped his palm over her hand. “Ah. Here’s Consuela with heaven.”

She came out with a large platter of tamales wrapped in cornhusks, what looked like charbroiled chicken fajita strips with wedges of avocado in soft homemade tortillas, chips and hand-chopped salsa. She set it on the galvanized circular table on the left side of the balcony. Morgan held Jill’s chair, then took his own.

Jill closed her eyes and whispered her thanks, then dug in with gusto. It was authentic Mexican food that made Taco Bell a thin pretender. Especially the tamales. “These are wonderful.”

Consuela smiled as she filled Jill’s glass with water and a wedge of lemon. “It is my grandmother’s recipe.” She moved to Morgan’s glass. “And Señor Morgan’s favorite.”

“I have lots of favorites, Consuela. You spoil me.” He filled his mouth with tamale and dabbed a drip of the rich red sauce from his lips.

“Sí, it is true.”

Jill turned to him after Consuela left. “How long has she worked for you?”

“Four years. Juan only came a few months ago. I haven’t arranged his green card yet. Wish I knew where he was working.”

“Are they legal?”

“I made sure Consuela was. Her husband and two sons died five years ago from some wicked intestinal disease. Probably cholera or dysentery. He lost his job and they were living off the dumps south of the border.”

“How did you find her?”

He leaned back in his chair. “One of the neighbors asked if I needed domestic help. They knew her situation.”

“And Juan?”

“He was hit by a car trying to cross the border illegally by way of the interstate. He got word to Consuela, and she asked to bring him here.” Morgan shrugged. “Unlike Consuela, he doesn’t speak English and isn’t awfully motivated to earn his way.” His eyes narrowed. “That’s what puzzles me about his being at work now.”

“Can’t you ask Consuela?”

He finished his bite. “I let them be as autonomous as they choose. With Consuela, it’s not an issue. She’s family. With Juan …” He wiped a dab of avocado from his finger and raised his eyebrows. “We’ll see.”

Jill savored a bite of the chicken fajita. “This is so good. It’s amazing you’re not immense with this kind of food every day.”

“I skip more meals than I eat. And I’m away a lot. My job is mostly travel.”

“It must be hard to leave all this.”

“It’s just a place.” Again the tone that expressed so much emptiness.

He straightened. “And speaking of work, if I don’t catch Denise now, it will get ugly.” He stood up. “Take your time. Make yourself at home.”

“May I use your phone? I’ll reimburse the—”

“Jill. Just use the phone.” He walked away, obviously annoyed by any reference to her paying her part. Maybe that was his soft underbelly, or maybe just his generosity. He could afford her phone calls. Voted most likely to succeed, he’d done just that. So why did she sense a silent desperation underneath it all?

She stood to clear her plate.

Consuela was upon her instantly. “No, no. I will do it.”

Jill didn’t argue, just thanked her for the wonderful meal. In another situation she would insist on helping. But this was so foreign, she didn’t know what was polite or appropriate. She wandered into the large room off the kitchen. Most of this level was open, one room flowing into the next. She picked up a fine German woodcarving, a Greek vase.

Two paintings were French, or at least the artist was French and the scenes. No surprise that Morgan was widely traveled. He’d just said his work kept him moving. And his tastes had always been eclectic. It did surprise her that he worked out of his home. She had imagined a large office in a posh high-rise, not a downstairs room with a single assistant.

She ran her hand over a marble statuette on a side table. Roman or Greek, no doubt. She looked over her shoulder at the vast tasteful room. Morgan’s home. A less aesthetic man wouldn’t bother to create such a complex environment in a home he scarcely lived in. But Morgan had always been attuned to that sort of thing.

She wandered down the hall to the guest room Consuela had prepared for her. The walls were a muted mustard that she would never in a million years have chosen from a paint chip, but were surprisingly pleasant and perfectly complemented the Thomasville bedding and window treatment. Beside the bed a profuse bouquet of fresh-cut red lilies and yellow freesia scented the room. She lowered her face and breathed the sweetness.

The bathroom was papered in dulled green with a floral border that matched the bedroom tones. It had been stocked with everything she might receive in a fancy hotel: a basket of shampoo, lotions, and mouthwash, a coarse-textured handmade soap, a beautiful glycerin shell. In a wire basket were a selection of Bath and Body Works prodaucts, body gel, bubble bath, and vanilla lotion. Had Consuela purchased all of that for her? At Morgan’s request?

Jill washed her face and hands, flipped her damp fingers through her hair, and went back into the bedroom. She made a space in the collection of decorative throw pillows on the bed and took up the phone. She had promised Shelly a call.

“This has to be you, Jill, calling from Santa Barbara, California.”

“How’s Rascal?”

“He and Dan are pining.”

Jill pouted. “Are you cuddling him?”

“Rascal, yes. Brett draws the line at Dan.”

She didn’t want to talk about Dan. “Am I getting you from dinner?”

“Nope. You forgot the time zones.”

Jill glanced at the clock. It would be 8:50 in Iowa. “I am a little off-kilter.”

“I bet.” A tone rife with meaning.

“Well, we got in just after four and had an early dinner and—”

“Is he wonderful?”

She stared around the room, everything prepared for her comfort, no expense spared on any leg of the journey, no request denied. And Morgan himself …

“I know that sigh. Start from the beginning. I want it all.”

“Shelly …”

In Shelly’s best mad-hypnotist voice, “You will tell me everything, ev’rything.”

“He let me drive his car.”

Shelly laughed. “Go on.”

Jill described their night at the Bellagio, perfectly aware that Shelly would read more into it than there could be. “It was incredible— dinner, the show, even the fountains. I always thought Vegas was just trashy. But then you have to be in a different echelon to experience it as we did.”

“No quarter slots?”

Jill smiled. “I don’t really know. We walked through the gaming floor but didn’t play anything.”

“Did he kiss you?”

Something large and winged fluttered inside. “No.”

“No?” Shelly was clearly shocked.

Confession time. “I asked him not to.”

Shelly’s moan could be heard over the ocean.

“That’s not why I’m here. Morgan is helping Kelsey. He’s allowed me to be part of that.”

“I’m calling the tribal headshrinker. Your brain has departed your skull.”

Maybe so. How else could she explain this total escape from reality? “Shelly, I’m a midwestern schoolteacher. That’s what I do. My kids need me, and I need them.”

“They give you meaning and purpose?”

She didn’t like Shelly’s tone.

“Because you have none outside of that? Hello? It’s a job.”

Defensive anger rose up. “It’s more than a job. They matter to me.”

“News flash. They’re not yours.”

Jill’s chest constricted. “I know.” And if things continued the way Ed Fogarty planned, they’d be less and less so.

“Let me propose an outrageous thought. What if Morgan wanted you there for more than Kelsey’s transplant?”

“Morgan wants to see Kelsey.” Enough to take drastic action. “He knows I have contact with her and the family. I’m another card in his hand.”

“Oh, how foolish of me. I hadn’t realized he, too, was devoid of human emotion.”

There it was again. Ice queen in another form. Fine. Let Shelly believe that. “Anyway, I wanted to let you know where to reach me if—”

“Rascal needs you?”

“Yes. Anything. You made me promise to call.”

“That was when I considered you sane.”

“Even crazy people need friends.”

Shelly laughed. “You’re right. But I’ll be tossing pillows tonight.”

“Don’t hit Brett.”

Again Shelly’s laugh. It was definitely her finest feature.

“Bye, Shell.” Jill hung up and dialed Cinda’s cell phone. She got the voice mail option and left Morgan’s phone number as her contact point with a brief explanation that she was assisting him during the bone marrow harvest. They would know where to reach her for any reason. As she hung up, it settled even deeper inside, the difference between her connection and Morgan’s. She didn’t deserve it. He was the one whose marrow worked. She was superfluous.

She got up and looked out the window. Her bedroom faced the front with a view of the other homes in the small gated cluster, cloaked now in long shadows. Who were Morgan’s neighbors? Other rich professionals? People accustomed to this graciousness, the creature comforts that required a post-office box address. This was not her world.

She sighed and went outside. The breeze was surprisingly cool. Wasn’t California supposed to be beach-combing paradise? Surfing babes with Coppertone tans? Morgan didn’t even do California the normal way. She wandered his yard, beyond the pool to the winding path through locust, Chinese elm, palm, and mimosa trees, tasteful patterns of color from blooming things throughout.

She reached the guesthouse and peeked into the front window. It was decorated in seascape tones of blue, beige, and aqua, the furniture contemporary, the pictures stylized seascapes, and a white painted staircase to the loft. Why hadn’t Morgan housed her there?

She turned at steps behind her and saw Morgan’s assistant, Denise.

“Hi.”

Denise smiled crisply. “Hi.” She stepped past and inserted her key in the door.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you lived here.”

“Yes. I do.” She went inside, brittle and cold.

Now that she thought of it, Morgan could have meant Denise lived there, as well, though she’d only assumed the woman worked there. Jill followed the path away from Denise’s space and found Morgan just past the pool.

“Your yard is beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t know the guesthouse was Denise’s.”

He glanced that way. “She’s been there awhile.” At her curious look, he said, “It’s a long story. Hold on a minute.” He strode into the house and came back with a soft fleecy sweatshirt and handed it to her. “Let’s walk down.”

She pulled the sweatshirt over her head and rolled the sleeves. In his Birkenstocks, loose cotton pants, and lightweight gray sweatshirt, Morgan looked very California. She followed him onto a steep path, cutting down a crevice in the cliffs thick with a low ground cover with brilliant multicolored blooms. She caught the scent of the sea as they descended single file to the shore. There was only a narrow strip of sand beyond reach of the waves, and even it looked like it was submerged at times.

“High tide.” He took off his sandals and walked in the damp sand, giving her the dry.

They walked a short way and the beach broadened out somewhat, but Morgan stayed just beyond the creep of the thin foam that rushed in, then sighed back out, chased by sandpipers on skinny legs.

“You were going to tell me about Denise.”

He nodded. “She moved in eight months ago. I guess you can say it’s sort of a safe house.”

Jill looked up, surprised.

“We did have office space in town, and she lived ten minutes inland with her boyfriend. I honestly do not get what it is with women and jerks.” The depth of his frustration brought her eyes to his face. “I told her two years ago the guy was trouble. Not that it should have been a great mystery—he was already beating her. Just not so that it showed.”

No wonder she’d seemed so brittle. “I’m surprised he let her work for you.”

Morgan’s brow drew tight. “Well, that was a rub for sure. The problem was I paid her well, and he liked to snort.” He reached down for a small stone and tossed it into the waves.

“Cocaine?”

“I didn’t know that until the night I found her bloody with a cracked skull.”

Jill stopped and stared. “You found her?”

“She called me. Lying on the floor, barely able to lift her finger, she speed dialed my number and I went over.”