The Way Home (2 page)

Parker’s Ridge, Alabama

I
F YOU’RE SLEEPING
on the couch, so am I.

James Parker paused in the act of forming a perfect Windsor knot in his tasteful tie, remembering the wild black curls of the woman who’d turned his life upside down over thirty-five years ago. The woman who never did the expected, just like that night when they’d had their first big fight. He’d stormed off to sleep on the couch.

She’d chased him down.

Oh, Bella. How did we get from there to here?

And when are you coming back?

His shoulders sagged as he stared at himself in the mirror. He wasn’t twenty-five anymore, as he’d been when they’d had that ridiculous argument, the subject of which he couldn’t even recall.

But he could still remember the make-up sex, the laughter…the night they’d spent camping out on the living-room floor, surrounded by candles. Because Bella had feared she and he would get stuffy and rigid if they forgot the passion and magic that had brought them together.

Promise me we’ll always play, James. My serious James,
she’d said fondly, trailing one slender finger over his jaw, studying him with stars in the green eyes that had bewitched him the first second he’d met her.
I’ll make sure you take time. We’ll be crazy ol’ coots when we’re old, and we’ll always have fun. Life doesn’t have to be so serious, you know.

She’d blown into his practical, ordered existence like a cyclone, and he’d barely kept his feet. A gypsy, a free spirit, his hippie chick had scandalized his family, horrified and fascinated his friends.

He’d never looked back. Never needed more than her.

But the fifty-eight-year-old businessman he saw in the mirror, though fit and trim and still in possession of a good head of hair, blond going silver, had not only lost the art of playing long ago.

Somehow, his wild and crazy Isabella Rosaline had lost it, too.

The ring of the phone jolted him. “Hello?”

“Daddy, why isn’t Mama home yet?” His daughter, Cele, seldom bothered with small talk. “Does she sound okay when she calls you?”

He paused. How did he answer that?
I don’t know because she hasn’t phoned? Because she’s trying to decide if she’s leaving me?

What level of honesty did you owe your children when they were grown?

“She wanted some quiet time, honey. I don’t expect to hear from her until she’s ready to come home.”
If
she comes home.
How long are you going to leave me hanging, Bella? I screwed up, all right? But what about—

“She’s been gone two weeks. What about her real-estate business? She had a couple of big deals in the works. How can she afford to be away?”

“Her assistant is competent, Cele. Kara handled things fine when your mother and I went to Aspen.”

“That was five days, and Kara said Mama called a dozen times.” He heard her intake of breath. “Is everything all right, Daddy?”

Cele might move through life double time, but she was also very intuitive.

Just like her mother.

“Everything’s fine, honey. Your mom has been working too hard, that’s all. She’s overdue for a break.” That, at least, was God’s honest truth. Bella the homemaker, the earth mother, had morphed into a sleek and formidable real-estate broker, and a very successful one at that.

But he missed his hippie chick, however often her unconventional approach to life had caused lifted eyebrows in his world. When had the change begun exactly? When Cele and Cameron left the nest?

And why hadn’t he recognized what was happening sooner?

“It’s not like her, Daddy. I’m afraid something’s wrong.”

His daughter’s words crystallized the uneasiness that had been dogging him, and he went stock-still, his fingers tightening on the phone.

Was it possible? Had he been so caught up in his guilt, in his own emotional whirlwind, that he hadn’t stopped to realize there might be another explanation for Bella’s absence besides how upset she’d been?

“I’m sure she’s fine,” he said in that parental instinct to soothe and protect. Bella was a strong, resourceful woman.

Who didn’t seem to need him anymore.

“She’s not answering her cell.”

True, but he’d thought she was simply ignoring him. He’d almost been relieved when she hadn’t answered, because he still had no idea what to say after the way they’d parted.

Urgency roared to life within him. “She hasn’t called Kara, either?” And why hadn’t he checked with Kara, except that he’d feared her assistant understood why Bella had left.

“Not once. I’m getting scared.” At twenty-three, Cele was small in stature, barely five foot two, her stature belying her strength of will. But now his exceptionally capable and driven daughter suddenly sounded eight years old.

He pictured the gamine features, so delicate beneath the cap of short blond hair, caramel eyes worried. “I’m sure everything’s all right, sweetheart, but I’ll keep trying your mother.” He didn’t want to allow even a hint of the sudden cramping in his gut to creep into his voice. The mere thought of Bella hurt or—

“Will you go to the police?”

He wanted to say no, to dismiss the notion as foolish. “If I don’t make contact this morning, yes. But only as a precaution. She’s probably reading a good book and forgot to turn on her phone. You know how she can be when she’s engrossed in a story.” And for a moment, he could picture her just that way, long legs curled beneath her.

Except that she hadn’t taken time for anything but work in months.

A huge fist of fear clenched his heart. What if she wasn’t simply angry but injured or—

Bella. Oh God, Bella. Where on earth are you?

“I’ll call you later, honey.”

“I’ll talk to Cam.” Cele’s voice quavered just a little, then she firmed it. “I bet you’re right. We’ll have a good laugh about it later. Add it to our share of Mama stories.”

“Yeah.” Bella’s unconventional behavior and unique view of the world had been a never-ending source of colorful anecdotes, providing hours of teasing when the four of them gathered.

But she hadn’t been spontaneous in a very long time.

A boulder-size lump jammed his throat, and it was all he could do to remind himself that there was every reason to hope Bella was simply off somewhere, sulking.

The Bella he’d loved didn’t sulk, though; she raged. Swore in two languages and threw dishes at the wall. Then cleaned them up cheerfully, with a toss of that wealth of ringlets, singing as she swept.

But the Bella of the past few years hadn’t lost her temper. Hadn’t sung.

And he hadn’t noticed. “I have to go. I’ll catch you later.” James clicked off the receiver, waited a few seconds, then dialed.

Her phone went straight to voice mail. Again.

“Bella…baby…” His voice caught, and he nearly disconnected but didn’t. “I’m sorry. So sorry. If you won’t talk to me, call the kids, please.” He paused and squeezed his eyes shut.

“I love—” The tone sounded, cutting off whatever else he would have said. Even if he’d known what that should be. Receiver gripped in one white-knuckled hand, James Parker bowed his head and murmured the only words he could think to utter.

Please. Let her be safe. Let her be mad as hell if she wants—that’s okay. Just please…keep her from harm.

Then, with a deep inhalation, he gathered himself and punched numbers into the phone.

“I have to talk to someone. I think my wife might be missing.”

F
RESH FROM THE BATH
,
Jane began rolling her hair into a severe French twist before she realized she had no pins to secure it. Her arms fell to her sides, and she peered into the mirror, frowning at the mass of curls she saw there. How could anyone ever expect to tame it?

And why, she thought as she lifted her hair by the handful, then let it fall, would you want to? She shook her head experimentally and watched the ringlets bounce. What a mess.

I love that mess. It’s your glory.

Her eyes widened. She whirled to see the man who had spoken.

But she was still alone. So very alone. She shivered and clutched at her upper arms. Who was he, that voice? Was he a memory, or had her mind begun playing new tricks?

I need my life. Need to know if anyone’s there, missing me. Loving me. Does anyone know I’m gone?

Why aren’t you searching for me?

Please, someone look for me. I don’t want to be Jane Doe.

She halted her pacing. Shrank into her crossed arms while she felt around in her head, as if for a sore tooth. Shouldn’t a name be so essential that you would sense when it was right?

She closed her eyes, focused hard.
Who am I? What’s my name?

Who is that man who loves my messy hair?

Don’t try so hard,
Sam kept saying.

With effort, she let her mind slip into Neutral, to relax and glide, to dance and skim—

She began to twirl in soft, slow circles, to sway from side to side, to hum first faintly, then gathering in strength. Her arms unfolded, reached out. She bared her chest and opened her heart, letting music and motion swell within her. The melody grew faster. She sang louder and twirled and twirled, out into the sunlight, off the porch and into the tangle of green until the warm glow eased her grief, helped her remember that she was alive, if lost. Awake in a new day that smelled fresh and crisp and clean—

“Bella—”

She halted in midtwirl. “What did you say?”

A woman, tiny and ancient, peered at her from the porch of Sam’s house. “
Bella.
Italian for beauty. You make a picture in the morning light, signora.” She stepped off the porch, smiling. “I am Luisa Ruggino. You must be Jane.”

The housekeeper. Her heart thumped in her ears. Must be the unaccustomed exertion making her feel light-headed. “No.”

“But Dr. Sam—”

“I mean, yes, that’s what they call me, but that’s not who I am.”

“I agree. Jane Doe is too pale for a colorful creature such as yourself. You should be wearing bold hues.”

Colorful creature? She glanced down at her castoff dress, courtesy of the Methodist Church disaster supplies. A washed-out blue, nearly ankle length, too tight in the bust and far from stylish, but the clothes she’d been wearing when they’d found her had had to be cut off, she was told.

Where were they? Did they hold clues?

“I’d rather have a name. My own.”

“Until you remember it, pick one. Ignorance can be an advantage, you see—you may become whoever you wish.”

She was struck by the notion. She could mourn the loss of an identity, a life, a home…or she could seize an opportunity few were granted. Who would you be if you had no ties to a past, a family…

Her knees went weak. Maybe she’d had no children, but was there no one waiting for her?

I love that mess. It’s your glory.

“I want to know who I was. Who I am.”

The old woman clucked her tongue. “You will,
bella,
probably too soon. And then you will have wasted this precious interlude when you are free as few are.” She gestured toward the house. “Follow me. We will find out if you can cook, and meanwhile, you will be too busy to be sad. We shall discover the answer to one piece of the puzzle, and while we work, we will discuss suitable names.” She turned away as if assuming Jane would follow. Then she glanced over her shoulder and winked. “Unless, of course, you would prefer to dance in the sunshine a little longer.”

“No,” she said hastily. “I’d rather be busy.”

“A good answer.” The old woman walked off without waiting for her.

T
HE SMOOTH RED GLOBE
felt wonderful against her palm. She held it to her nose and sniffed, then turned. “This tomato is fresh picked.”

“You know food. Do you also like to garden?”

“I think so.” She frowned at her hesitation. It was time to begin building. “Yes. Did you grow this?”

“My house is not far away. See for yourself.”

“I’d like that.”

“
Buon.
I have produce yet to put up.”

“But…” She paused.
Why can’t I? What else do I have to do with myself?
She smiled. “I’d love to.”

A nod. “Good for you,
bella.
Better to keep the hands busy. It soothes the mind. Now—we will make marinara sauce. How do you remove the skins?” Like a little bird, Luisa cocked her head, dark eyes bright and curious.

Jane frowned.

“No matter. Here—” Luisa handed her a large pot. “Fill this with water and bring to a boil. You drop them in for a minute or two, then—”

“Then put them into cold water,” Jane interrupted. “The skin will slide right off.” She felt like celebrating.

Luisa was smiling right back at her. “Ah. You are indeed a cook.”

“Am I?” Abruptly, her joy receded. “But what does that matter? It gets me no closer to learning whether someone misses me.”

“The young are always in such a hurry.”

“Young?” Jane held out her hands, examined the backs of them. “I’m hardly that.” She let them fall at her sides. “Why did this happen, Luisa? Am I a bad person? Is this a punishment?”

“You are indeed young if you do not understand that there are no tidy answers in life.”

“But…” The protest died on her lips. This woman had shown her kindness, yet she was rewarding Luisa with impatience and frustration and impossible questions.

Begin as you mean to go on.
She had no idea where that sentiment originated, but she appreciated the innate logic of it. Perhaps her memory would return—God, she hoped so—but if it didn’t, was this who she wanted to become—a malcontent, an ingrate?

The people of Lucky Draw had been good to her, had sheltered her when others might have shuffled her off to some social-service agency and washed their hands of her. She’d drawn at least one lucky card in Sam, another in Luisa. There was a world of things she didn’t know, but she was fairly certain many people had far less than two friends and several kind acquaintances, a roof over her head and clothes, however few, on her back.

Luisa had a point. She could become—for a time, at least—whoever she wished. She was free of much that others would give a lot to shed—maybe no ties but also no burdens; perhaps no past, but no bad memories, either.

She straightened her shoulders, lifted her head high and proud. “I apologize. You’ve been nothing but kind, and I’ve been petulant. Maybe we could start over.” She held out a hand. “Hi, there. I’m not Jane Doe.”

Luisa grinned. “No, you are not.” She shook hands. “So who would you like to be?”

“That’s a very big decision.” She tilted her head. “What name would you choose if you weren’t Luisa?”

For the first time, the old woman seemed uncertain. “Now, there you have me at a disadvantage. It is very difficult to imagine oneself as different.” She tapped one finger on her chin. “When I was a little girl, though, I wanted to be called Sophia.”

“Why?”

“Pah. Who can say what is in the mind of a child? I hadn’t thought of that in years.”

“It’s a lovely name.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You have a world of choices,
bella,
but Sophia would suit you.” She winked. “Think of Sophia Loren. You are voluptuous, too.”

“Oddly enough, I do know who she is.” Refusing to give in to self-pity about that fact, Jane instead glanced down. “I wouldn’t make a fashion model, that’s for sure.”

“Pah—” Luisa waved off the notion. “Stick figures. Real women have hips.” She slapped her own. “A true man wants a woman he can get a grip on, my Romeo always told me.” Mischief twinkled.

“Your husband?”

“Yes, my beloved Romeo Cesare Ruggino, God rest his soul.” She crossed herself.

“Sounds like a film star.”

“Oh, he was a handsome devil, that is certain. When you pay me a visit, I will show you a picture.”

“I’d like that.”

“So you will make a list of possible names, not—Jane?”

She shook her head. “Nope.” She was intrigued by the possibilities. “I think I’ll audition them. Beginning with Sophia.”

A wide smile spread over Luisa’s round face. “Auditioning names.” She giggled. “Why not?” She winked. “Very well, then, Sophia. But you will be no pampered film star. You will work for your supper.”

“Okay.” The notion of being useful and not merely lost felt very good. She began filling the big pot with water, and as she did, a vision of smooth green leaves appeared. “Basil.”

“What,
bella
—er, Sophia?”

“We need basil. Do you have it?”

Luisa smiled and nodded. “And what else?”

Jane who was now Sophia stared out the window. “Garlic and onions…oregano. Salt, but I prefer kosher.” Her heart thumped once. “Fresh-ground peppercorns. And…extra virgin olive oil. Cold-pressed.” She faced Luisa. “Am I right?” she whispered.

“Perfectly.”

She peered over the edge of a precipice from which she could either retreat or fly…or fall.

Sophia swallowed hard. And walked to the stove to begin whatever life this would become.