Читать книгу: «Mr. Elliott Finds A Family»

CHAPTER ONE

Two years later

IN HER TWO-PIECE, yellow ducky pj’s, Bernie scuttled past Beth Ann with a toddler’s gleeful scream. The plastic no-slip on her feet slapped against the hardwood floor as she sought her ultimate destination—the out-of-doors, where the fog, thick with late spring chill, socked in the tiny one-story Victorian bungalow so badly Beth Ann couldn’t see the large gnarly oak tree twenty yards from the back door. Smothering the California Central Valley in a silent blanket of thick wet mist, the low ground Tule fog was almost comforting, protecting their home in blessed anonymity—anonymity that would be gone in one short hour, when Christian Elliott was supposed to arrive.

“Bernie.” Beth Ann tried to make her voice sound stern, but Bernie’s infectious laughter caused her lips to twitch, as the toddler, on her tiptoes, successfully turned the knob on the back door only to be stopped by the locked screen. Beth Ann thought she could actually see the heat of the house along with the precious pennies needed to provide it being sucked out by the fog. However, in a scant two weeks, when the temperatures soared into the nineties, they’d be wishing for the chill the fog brought in.

Since Carrie’s death eighteen months ago, Beth Ann had talked with Carrie’s husband twice. Once at the funeral and once last week. She had only met him a single time before Carrie’s death, the day after she had flown down to San Diego nearly nine years ago with two purposes in mind—to meet the man Carrie had eloped with and to discuss their grandmother’s long-term care.

Surrounded by paperwork, barking terse orders into the phone, as his large hand swiftly signed documents, Christian Elliott gave her a rather obscure gray stare and a quick, surprised nod from his executive teak desk, before answering yet another phone line. Dressed in her comfy jeans and a San Jose Sharks T-shirt, Beth Ann felt like the dowdy country cousin in his opulent penthouse office, especially in relation to Carrie—called Caroline by everyone in her new life—who was carefully coiffed from her professional makeup to the precision cut of her raven dark hair. Her coordinated linen pant-suit merely acted as an elegant backdrop to her breathtaking, almost untouchable, beauty.

Rather than giving her new brother-in-law a hearty welcome to the family as she intended, Beth Ann was rendered speechless as she gawked at the spectacular floor-to-ceiling panoramic view of the San Diego harbor.

At lunch, Carrie seemed anxious for Beth Ann to be on her way, declaring halfway through Beth Ann’s pastrami sandwich at the corner deli that she absolutely could not miss her tennis lesson with Pierre. She promised they would get together later. After three days of touring San Diego by herself, Beth Ann took the hint and left.

At Carrie’s funeral, even though Christian had arranged for her, Grans and Bernie, who was just six months old at the time, a suite at his family’s five-star hotel as well as unlimited limousine service, he did not recognize Beth Ann until she introduced herself. Even then, with over five hundred mourners at the funeral patting him on the arm, it was easy for her and her small family to fade into the background. They didn’t blame him for his inattention. After all he had just lost his wife. She’d felt a tug of pity for the man, his too handsome face somber. He had everything the world could offer, but even that couldn’t shield him from the most tragic of losses.

Bernie squealed again, her intentions obvious, momentarily distracting Beth Ann from the oppressive thoughts of Christian’s terse phone call, where he more or less commanded her to be home because he would be in the area briefly on his way to Napa for an important business engagement. He needed to talk to her. Thank goodness, he didn’t plan on staying long. Bernie, her face pressed against the screen door, oblivious to the damp chill, contented herself with several loud flat-palmed pounds on the screen, laughing as her hand bounced back at her.

“Go garden,” Bernie declared with extraordinary enunciation and another big pat and squeal.

Beth Ann grimaced as a small rip in the side of the screen got larger. She quickly got up and closed the door, steering Bernie back into the kitchen.

“We can’t even see the garden. Maybe when the sun says hello, we’ll go. Besides it’s time for you to visit Mrs. Potty.”

“No!” Bernie protested automatically and then looked to Beth Ann as if her reaction would tell Bernie whether or not she, in her nearly two-year-old mind, really objected.

“Bernie.”

“No!” Bernie reinforced her position with a shout. “No want potty! No like Mrs. Potty.”

“You love Mrs. Potty,” Beth Ann reminded her gently. “Mrs. Potty is your friend. Remember every day you need to give Mrs. Potty your poop and pee.”

The phone rang.

With no warning and a playful growl, Beth Ann picked up the two-year-old, smothering Bernie’s fat cheeks and squirming neck rolls with kisses. Bernie screamed, giggled, but didn’t renew her objection as Beth Ann pulled down her pajama bottoms, stripped off the still clean diaper and plopped her on the potty before answering the phone on its fourth ring with a breathless, “Hello?”

Bernie made a move to get up, but Beth Ann gave her the evil eye and Bernie settled back down.

“Bethy.” A familiar, deep voice chuckled.

“Read me that,” Bernie commanded loudly, pointing like a queen to her pile of books next to the potty.

“Why don’t you read the book?” Beth Ann suggested. “You sit on the potty and read to Fluff while I talk to Pop-pop.” Beth Ann pushed Bernie’s favorite stuffed bear and a book into her outstretched arms.

“Fuffy!”

“Glenn.” Beth Ann breathed a sigh of relief as Bernie babbled behind her, instructing the ragged brown bear to listen carefully. “Am I glad to hear from you. You were supposed to be here by now.”

“Is he there yet?”

Beth Ann looked out the window, searching for an unfamiliar car, but the fog obliterated any view she could have of the driveway. “No. Not yet. Where are you?”

“Stuck on 101 by Morgan Hill. A big rig spilled something and they’re taking their sweet time cleaning it up.”

“Morgan Hill?” She tried not to sound disappointed. “It’ll take you at least an hour to get here.”

“At least,” Glenn agreed. “You going to be okay?”

“I suppose. I just have nothing to say to him.” Beth Ann tried to make her voice neutral, but noticed that her hands shook as she cleared away the breakfast dishes. She wiped a hot dishcloth over Bernie’s high chair and sighed as she stepped on a soggy Oatie-O. And then another. Cereal everywhere. It was a wonder Bernie got any sustenance at all. Beth Ann used her thumbnail to scrape a mashed oat round off the well-worn hardwood floor. “I’m just nuts. I can’t wait until he says his piece and then moves on. What could he want anyway? He didn’t even ask about Bernie. I don’t want to see him—”

“He’s your sister’s husband.”

“Was,” Beth Ann corrected, blinking back her tears. “And we know what kind of husband he was.”

“Actually, we don’t,” Glenn said reasonably. “We know only what Carrie wanted us to know. You have no idea whatsoever what kind of husband or what kind of man he is.”

“I’m not listening.” Beth Ann began to hum loudly.

“So are you about eleven now?” Glenn asked with exasperation. “Carrie wasn’t perfect.”

“But she shouldn’t be dead,” blurted out of her mouth before she could stop it.

She had waited a long time for Carrie to come back and get Bernie. After two weeks, she had called and was told by the maid that Carrie hadn’t yet returned home but was expected back in six weeks. Just six weeks, Beth Ann had told herself. During that turbulent time of adjustment, Beth Ann tried the best she could to meet her art obligations so her first show would open on time, strapping Bernie to her chest as she painted. To Bernie’s credit, she slept most of the time, seemingly comforted by the close proximity to Beth Ann. By the end of the six weeks, even though Beth Ann had not carried Bernie in her womb, she carried her in her heart. So much so, that Beth Ann secretly hoped Carrie would never return. Then, more weeks slipped by and they received the phone call from the Elliott’s family attorney.

There was a long silence. Glenn cleared his throat, his voice subdued. “Yes. You’re right. She shouldn’t be dead.”

“I know we weren’t close anymore, but I miss her—”

“I done,” Bernie announced, threw Fluff and the book onto the floor and stood up.

“Wait,” Beth Ann said more sharply than she intended, putting a restraining hand on Bernie’s shoulder and peering into the potty-chair bowl. “Just a minute, Glenn. Bernie, you’re done when there’s poop or pee in the potty.”

“I done,” Bernie repeated, her voice a hairs-breadth trigger from a tantrum.

“When there’s poop in the potty,” Beth Ann said firmly.

“No poop,” Bernie insisted in a plaintive whine.

“I think you do. You always have poop after breakfast. Can you make a poop for Mommy?” she cajoled, willing Bernie’s bowels to move in the potty rather than the diaper.

“Poop, poop, poop, poop, poop,” Bernie chanted.

Beth Ann could hear Glenn hold back a laugh. The sound of a bedroom door creaking made Beth Ann turn quickly. The bright ruffle of a pink petticoat caught the corner of her eye as it whizzed past the open entryway to the kitchen and down the hall. The front door opened and then banged shut.

“Oh, jeez! Grans! Stop!” Beth Ann called futilely and then spoke hurriedly to Glenn, “Iris just took off. Be careful when you get on this side of Pacheco Pass. We’re socked in.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Glenn assured her, his voice patient. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

Beth Ann wished she could believe him. She poked her head out the front door and craned her neck to see if she could spot Iris but the only thing she saw was opaque fog. For a woman a year from ninety, Iris could travel alarmingly fast, even in a pink petticoat with ruffles. It was no small consolation that their bungalow was surrounded on three sides by vast parcels of farmland belonging to the family dairy behind her. There were a thousand places for Iris to hide. The fog only created more of a problem.

“Come on, Bernie. Let’s go get Nana,” she said hurriedly. She peeked into the potty, relieved to find a small tinkle if no poop. “Good girl, Bernie. You tinkled in the potty.”

Beth Ann grabbed a wipe and attended to Bernie, refastening the disposable diaper around the toddler’s chubby legs, pulling up her pj’s, stuffing her arms into her winter coat with practiced speed. Setting the toddler on a hip, Beth Ann raced out of the house desperate to find some sign of Iris. She could be lost for hours in this fog, wearing only a petticoat. It was insane. Not insane, Beth Ann corrected herself, feeling a muscle strain in her right shoulder from Bernie’s weight. Touched.

Beth Ann took a deep breath willing herself not to panic. Iris had good days and bad days. On good days, she was an older version of the same woman who had single-handedly raised two unruly, prepubescent girls during a time when her peers were enjoying their retirement. On Iris’s bad days, Beth Ann could only mourn the woman Iris had been, a small part of Beth Ann dying with every subsequent episode Iris experienced. At those times, Beth Ann was partly grateful Carrie wasn’t present to see Iris’s decline and partly resentful that she now bore the burden alone. She bore many of Carrie’s burdens, the least of which wriggled impatiently on her hip.

After having surveyed the boundaries of the acre parcel, looking up in all the fruit trees, checking the storage sheds—all of Iris’s favorite hiding places—Beth Ann realized with a sinking heart that Iris must have left the property to hit the high road. The isolated country road was a long one, nearly three miles, but at the end was a major east-west freeway that connected Highway 5 with 99. With a rapid walk, she hauled Bernie to the street at a half trot, hoping to get a glimpse of the direction Iris would take. With a leaping heart, Beth Ann thought she saw a flash of pink, but wondered if it were simply the play of light off the fog.

Trying not to become disoriented, Beth Ann gingerly made her way in the direction of the truck and breathed a sigh of relief when it came into focus. With practiced hands, she stuffed Bernie into the car seat, digging the car keys out of her jeans pocket and willing her heart to stop beating so fast so her throat could open up. Beth Ann held her breath as she turned on the low beams and carefully backed out onto the road. She couldn’t see more than ten feet in front or behind her and the last thing she wanted to do was unwittingly knock Iris over. It was ludicrous to drive in this stuff. But it was even more ludicrous to try to chase Iris down on foot.

She cranked the steering wheel left and had no visibility as she shifted from reverse to drive. She slowly, slowly pulled onto the road, driving as far right as she could, creeping at five miles an hour, praying Iris would come into sight. The muted screech of tires and a blunted scream sent shivers down Beth Ann’s back and she resisted the urge to accelerate, her heart pounding in her ears and dread shooting up her neck. She didn’t want to become a victim or, worse, add to any injuries.

Bernie sat unusually silent as if she knew something was wrong, terribly, terribly wrong.

“Nana?” she whispered.

“We’re going to get Nana,” Beth Ann said reassuringly, hoping it wasn’t nearly as bad as it sounded.

“Nana, okay?”

“I hope so.”

“Nana, careful?”

“Maybe not so careful this time.”

“Careful, careful,” Bernie told her, her large blue eyes solemn.

“I know, Bernie-Bern-Bern, careful, careful.”

It seemed to take forever to get to the accident, the headlight beams of a car were angled awkwardly off the side of the road. Miraculously, Iris was still standing when they arrived at the scene, the right side of a chrome bumper just inches from her bony legs. Beth Ann pulled over, unhooked Bernie, her back and shoulders feeling the strain of Bernie’s weight. She shifted the toddler onto her hip, snagged an old zip-front housecoat that she’d learned to keep in the truck for just these episodes and hurried to Iris.

“I wet myself,” Iris said, looking down at her soaked bunny slippers.

Beth Ann nodded sympathetically. “If I were almost hit by a car, I’d wet myself, too. Here, sweetie, put this on. It’s freezing out here.”

“I want to wear my pearls.”

“You can wear your pearls when we get home. But put this on now,” Beth Ann repeated, deliberately keeping her voice low and soothing.

“Nana, put on,” Bernie echoed insistently, as Beth Ann pulled the housecoat over the frail woman with one hand and then shifted Bernie further up her hip. Thank goodness, Iris was being cooperative today. She obediently put one arm in the blue sleeve and then the other, then looked down to find the zipper. With shocked horror, suddenly aware of her state of undress, she pulled the zipper all the way up to her chin. Her thin, pale cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Beth Ann, what am I doing out here?” she asked, anxiety crowding her voice. She looked around, searching for something familiar in the landscape but the fog obliterated any view at all.

“Going for a walk, I imagine,” Beth Ann said equably, her heart rate finally slowing. At this point, she couldn’t even look at the driver who had reversed and straightened the car, a Jaguar no less, and had gotten out. Now that the crisis was over, Beth Ann felt absolutely drained, not inclined to explain anything to anyone, her mind only focused on holding down the fort until Glenn got there.

“Is she okay?” the tall stranger called, the deep timbre unfamiliar, the annoyed tinge in his voice belying how shaken he was.

Beth Ann nodded with a casual wave and a quick glance over her shoulder, and said with a dismissive nod, forcing her voice to be cheerful, “She’s fine, thanks. Sorry about that.”

“She shouldn’t be wandering about by herself.”

Beth Ann could hear his condemnation mixed with agitation but said nothing as she led Iris to the passenger side of the truck.

He continued walking closer, his voice now with a sharp edge of authority to it. Beth Ann took a deep breath, bracing herself for the onslaught of words. “I could’ve killed her. Are you sure she’s all right? Maybe you should get her checked out by a doctor.”

Beth Ann sighed and nodded, impatient to have him on his way. Then she opened the passenger side of the truck and helped Iris clamber in. When she had safely belted the older woman in, closed and locked the truck door, Beth Ann called as brightly as she could, “She’s fine. Not a scratch on her. I’ll get her home, clean her up and she’ll be as good as new.”

“Bethany Ann Bellamy?”

Her head snapped up in surprise at the formal use of her name, her eyes narrowing with dread as he came closer out of the fog. She was startled by his bearing and presence. She shouldn’t have been. Carrie always favored the austere type.

“Yes?” Beth Ann deliberately made her voice clipped, masking her recognition.

“Do you know me?” he asked.

With long easy strides, the man walked toward her, looking her over from head to toe. She returned his assessment with cool detachment. He was dressed impeccably. Buff-colored casual linen slacks, well-fit to his long legs, a button-down light green cotton shirt and fine brown leather jacket accentuated his lean, powerful frame. She looked down at his feet, not surprised by the expensive shoes. They matched the look of the vintage Jaguar. She could smell a rich, spicy cologne and swallowed hard as she met his compelling gray eyes, eyes the color of fog and just as chilly. She glanced at his left hand. He still wore his wedding band.

The best defense was a good offense.

“No,” she lied, badly at that, her voice trembling. “I have no idea who you are.”

Christian immediately stopped in his tracks when the woman glanced at him nervously, tightened her hold on the child and then looked furtively at the truck, ready to disappear into the fog. He studied the angles of her pixie face, her narrow chin, the damp brown, almost red, curls made unruly by the wet of the fog, searching for a resemblance to Caroline.

He found none.

While Caroline had been tall, nearly five-ten, with model-like proportions, the top of this woman’s curls would probably just brush the bottom of his chin. Maybe, if he stared at her hard enough, he could see some likeness around the nose and forehead. Her eyes were unfathomably dark, so dark that he couldn’t tell where her pupils ended and her irises began. So unlike Caroline’s sky-blue eyes. Maybe they shared the same nose. But, then again, maybe that was just the fog, his nerves or wishful thinking.

“Who are you?” Beth Ann repeated, her tone tough and uncompromising, even a shade rude for a woman so petite.

Christian cleared his throat. “Christian. Christian Elliott. Caroline’s husband.”

Beth Ann stared at Carrie’s husband, scanning his face. Her pulse thudded at the base of her throat. Even though she’d had a week to prepare for this meeting, she felt as if she were being choked and the shock made the back of her eyes water. For the briefest of seconds, she believed if she looked around this tall, remote man, she would see Carrie hiding in the car, laughing and saying her death was all just a big joke and Beth Ann shouldn’t take her so seriously and these past two years had only been a terrible dream. Her heart thumped against her chest in anticipation, as she shifted around, trying to peer through the fog at his car. But the Jag was empty.

She glanced up at the man, her bottom teeth plucking at her top lip, biting down hard to keep the tears back.

“You’re early,” she said, wincing at the roughness of her tone. Beth Ann put Bernie down, keeping a firm grip on a wiggling wrist as the toddler immediately tried to break free. Then Bernie looked up, way up, into the face of the handsome stranger and with a fit of shyness, turned away to clasp her arms tightly, very tightly, around Beth Ann’s knee almost buckling her leg as she buried her face in Beth Ann’s thigh. Beth Ann straightened herself and loosened Bernie’s squeeze as she smoothed back the little girl’s brown curls.

Christian stared at both of them, then surprisingly retreated two steps to put a more comfortable distance between them. He stared hard at Bernie, who ventured a peek and then dug her chubby cheeks deeper between Beth Ann’s legs.

“I didn’t know how long it would take to get here,” he said by way of explanation, then added, awkwardly, “Your directions were good. But the fog and all.”

Beth Ann blinked.

“Oh,” she said abruptly. “Well, come on. I have coffee ready.” She picked up Bernie again, who remained uncharacteristically silent, as if she sensed Beth Ann’s rising panic. Beth Ann turned to get into the truck.

A firm voice added behind her, “Carrie’s husband is always welcome at our house.”

Iris, the real Iris, had returned, her gray head poking out of the truck window, the confusion gone from her face, the authority back in her voice. She gave Beth Ann a matriarchal look of reproach. Beth Ann breathed a sigh of relief with Iris’s return to reality. Perhaps it wasn’t going to be that bad a visit.

“Yes,” she agreed quietly, finally remembering her manners as she shifted Bernie higher up her hip and opened the driver’s side door. She glanced at him, noting how out of place he looked standing in the middle of the road, the fog just beginning to clear around him. He belonged behind a teak desk in a penthouse office in San Diego, not on a dirt road in Mercy Springs with newly plowed fields surrounding him. “Carrie’s husband is always welcome at our home. Follow me. It’s just down the road.”

With Bernie strapped into her car seat, Beth Ann noticed her hand shook so badly she could barely put the key into the ignition. She felt a reassuring pat on her shoulder.

“All is well,” Iris said, her voice soothing and clear. “This is just what is supposed to be happening.”

Beth Ann gave her a watery glance and a half smile, wondering how many times Iris had said that to her, until it had almost become Beth Ann’s personal mantra. All is well. All is well. Beth Ann took a deep breath and tried to remember what peace felt like. All was well. But it wasn’t well. If it were, Bernie’s adoption would be signed and sealed and Christian Elliott wouldn’t be sitting twenty feet behind them in a car that cost twice her annual salary.

“He can’t have Bernie,” Beth Ann said tightly, as she started the engine.

“He doesn’t want Bernie. He wants Carrie,” Iris responded, her voice clear and unperturbed. And then she said, the focus in her eyes drifting away again, “I want to wear my diamond tiara today. I want you to put my hair up.”