Marry Me (12 page)

"We'll see about that, Miss Benjamin. We'll definitely see."

He stormed out.

CHAPTER SEVEN

"Jacquelyn! Where are you?"

Lucas marched through the mansion, shouting his mother's name, but he received no reply. His footsteps echoed off the high ceilings, and the drafty place was so quiet that he wondered if it was empty. Maybe they'd all left town, and he was the only one who'd remained in Denver to bicker with Faith.

Since his father's death, they'd all been eager to dump their problems on him. They automatically assumed he'd carry their burdens, that he didn't mind becoming the family patriarch.

  But why should he bow to their whims? What had any of them ever done for him? When had they ever been close?

His mother was a stranger, and his siblings the mutual catastrophe survivors. His relationship with them was based on their having endured the same calamity. Disaster was the thread that linked them, but it wouldn't keep them bound much longer. Not after what he'd learned in Boulder.

He'd give Jacquelyn a chance to deny Faith's allegations. He'd give her a chance to defend herself, but if she couldn't, then what?    

"Jacquelyn!"

Climbing the stairs, he searched the second floor, then the third. He found her in a sitting room at the top of the house where there were big windows and lots of natural lighting.

She was leaned over a worktable, sketching on a large piece of paper. Even though her talent wasn't particularly remarkable, she viewed herself as a failed artist. She often complained that she could have had a career if she hadn't married Lucas's father and wasted her life raising children.

Hers was an old lament, and he was weary of listening to it. Her husband was deceased, so she wasn't tied down—she'd never been tied down—by the barriers he'd purportedly put in her path. She was rich and independent and could do whatever she liked, but she didn't have the courage to move ahead.

She was a closet drinker and most likely an alcoholic, though she hid it well. There was a bottle of wine at her elbow, a glass poured. As she glanced up and saw him, she reached for the wine to furtively slide it onto a chair so it would be concealed by the table.

"You don't need to hide your wine, Jackie. I don't give a shit if you're up here drinking all alone."

"Don't call me Jackie. It sounds common, and you know I detest nicknames."

"Oh pardon me, Jacquelyn."

"I could hear you bellowing from the moment you walked in the door."

"You couldn't be bothered to answer?"

"What do you want?"

He approached the table and slapped down his palms, leaning into her space.

"A little bird told me the most interesting story today."

She wrinkled up her nose. "How nice."

"You remember Katie, don't you, Mother?"

A glimpse of panic flashed in her eyes, but it vanished quickly.

"No, should I?"

"Probably not." He shrugged. "She wasn't anyone important. I was just married to her when I was nineteen."

"It's been eleven years, Lucas. I assume there's a reason you mentioned her?"

Lucas pushed away and went over to the windows to stare out at the Front Range. Afternoon was waning to evening, and the sky was orange, the mountains purple.

From his vantage point, he couldn't see the town of Boulder, but he imagined he could. The family secrets hovered on the horizon like a black cloud. They were raining down on Faith's house where she resided with the people who should have belonged to Lucas.

What to do? What do to?

All the way back to Denver, he'd asked himself the same question, and answers were beginning to form. But there were other issues to be addressed first. Starting with Jacquelyn.

She was bent over her artwork again, drawing as if he hadn't come into the room, as if he was invisible.

He shouldn't have been surprised—he'd always been invisible to her—but in his current mood, her indifference galled him as nothing else ever had.

"Where do you suppose she's living now?" he asked just to hear what she'd say.

"Why would I know? Why would I care?"

"Aren't you the least bit curious?"

"No."

She was humming to herself, ignoring him, and thirty years of rage boiled up. He stormed over, seized her sheet of paper, and ripped it to shreds.

"What is wrong with you?" she hissed.

"I want to look at the agreement Katie signed with Father."

That flash of panic was back. "It's in his private documents somewhere."

"So if I contact his attorney, he'll be able to show it to me?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't he?"

"You tell me. How much did Father pay her to go away? It had to be a huge settlement."

"Yes, the dollar amount was quite large."

They engaged in a visual standoff she couldn't win. Not this time.

"There must be a point you're trying to make," she blandly chided. "I suggest you get on with it."

"She's dead."

"Well…"

"What happened to her baby?"

A lengthy pause ensued, her mind whirring as she juggled her lies, and a wave of sadness flooded him. He hadn't wanted to believe Faith, hadn't wanted her to be correct, but it was obvious that—the more Jacquelyn talked—the more she would verify Faith's every word.

"Her…baby?" Jacquelyn said. "Did she have a baby? I don't
recall."

"You understand, don't you, Mother, that if she had a boy, it would be my son."

"You're so naïve." She chuckled, the sound brittle and cruel. "Yes, it would be your son
if
you were the only man who had slept with her. With a girl like that, one can never be sure."

"Is that your story? She was a whore so we didn't need to worry about her? What if the child was mine? Wouldn't it have been worth checking to find out?"

"Really, Lucas," she scoffed, "what if it was yours? Why would we claim such a mistake? The girl didn't bump into you by accident. She deliberately sought you out and glommed onto you like a leech on a thigh. If you'd had a baby with her, and we'd admitted it, we'd never have been rid of her."

Hatred washed through him, and he gave the powerful emotion free rein. His loathing for her had always simmered below the surface, and previously, he'd tamped it down. But no longer.

She wanted to be a bitch? She wanted to hurt and wound? Well, two could play at that game.

"Tell me about Father's mistresses."

"He had no mistresses," she coldly replied.

"How many children does he have besides us? Am I about to have half-siblings crawling out of the woodwork?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Your father was the most faithful man on earth."

  "I've met his daughter—she's called Peanut; I don't know her real name—but how many others are there?"

"I don't have to put up with this from you. Get out of here."

She pulled out another sheet of paper and laid it on the table, then she grabbed her wine and took a sip that became a long gulp. She was trying to appear calm and unaffected, but her hands were shaking.

"What's it been like," he taunted, "to deny my son—your grandson—all these years?"

"I have no idea what you mean," she insisted.

"I have a son!"

"No, you don't, and whoever filled your head with these lies, they ought to be taken out and shot."

"You hid him from me."

"Shut up."

"I won't be silent. I've had it with you."

"Get out. I won't tell you again."

"No."

"Dustin!" she shouted. "Dustin! I need you."

"He can't protect you."

"He can toss you out. That's good enough for now."

"Don't you wonder what he looks like? Don't you wonder what kind of boy he's growing up to be?"

"Get out! Get out!"

She was shrieking—it was the only genuine burst of emotion he'd ever seen her display—and she flung her wine at him. She missed, but wine spewed everywhere, and the glass smacked on the floor and smashed to pieces.

Dustin ran in.

"What the hell is going on?"

"Get him out of here!" Jacquelyn wheezed.

Lucas frowned at his brother. "Did you know?"

"Know what?"

"About my son?"

"Your…son? You have a kid?"

"Did you help Jacquelyn hide him from me?"

"Hide…your kid? Me? You actually think I would? You think I'd side with her"—he made a derogatory gesture toward Jacquelyn—"against you?"

"I'm not sure. I'm figuring it out as I go along."

"You don't have a kid," Dustin said. "We'd have found out. Whoever told you is a liar."

Lucas studied his brother, and he seemed perplexed, so maybe he was telling the truth. With Dustin, it was hard to guess.

"We're done with Faith Benjamin," Lucas advised them. "We’re not suing her, we're not harassing her, and she's keeping the money Harold gave her."

"No way!" Dustin fumed.

"Yes, she is, and we're not arguing about it."

"The hell we're not."

"Don't mention her to me ever again. I won't listen."

Lucas headed for the door, and Dustin blocked his path.

"Would you stop for one damn minute?" Dustin pleaded.

"I'm leaving for a bit," Lucas said. "While I'm gone, pack Mother's things and take her to the airport. I want her on the next plane to Santa Fe."

"I'm not ready to return to New Mexico," she huffed.

Lucas spoke to Dustin. "She better not be here when I get back. If she is, I can't predict what I might do."

"Calm your ass down," Dustin demanded, "and tell me what's happening."

"Jacquelyn can tell you—on your ride to the airport." Lucas glared at her. "By the way,
Jackie,
my son's name is Bryce. Not that you ever cared to know. But it's Bryce."

He left without another word.

* * *

"Come to bed, Faith. It's so late."

"You go on, Gracie."

It was nearly two o'clock, and Faith was on the front steps, staring out at the quiet, dark street.

Gracie had been in bed for hours, but unable to sleep. After Faith's scene with Lucas earlier in the day, the energy in the house was all mixed up. There were too many ghosts, too many lies swirling. Who could rest?

"He's not coming back," Gracie said.

"I'm not waiting for him."

"Of course you're not." Gracie snorted and handed Faith a sweater. "Put this on."

"Thanks."

Faith stuffed her arms in the sleeves as Gracie patted her head. "Don't let me catch you still sitting here in the morning."

"You won't."

"It will all work out just as it's supposed to. There's no use regretting what could have been."

"I know."

Gracie trudged inside, muttering, "Men! Can't live with them, can't kill them. It's against the law."

Faith chuckled, listening as she climbed the stairs to her room. Her door closed, then it was quiet again, and Faith was alone with her miserable thoughts.

Harold had urged her to tell Lucas about Bryce and Peanut someday. Faith had promised she would, but she'd been nervous about complying, mostly because she wasn't sure what sort of person Lucas was. Harold had claimed that—deep down—Lucas was decent and honorable, but he was a Merriweather. How could she be certain?

One of the reasons she'd spent the weekend with him, besides that he was hot and she couldn't resist, was to get better acquainted, to determine if Harold's assessment was correct.

Crafty old Harold had proved himself right. Lucas
was
a good guy—his familial genes notwithstanding. He had to be told about Bryce and Peanut, but she'd assumed the disclosure would occur in the hazy, distant future.

She'd envisioned a sensible, calm discussion where she'd divulge the facts. She hadn't expected him to actually notice Bryce or figure it out on his own.

She hated that they'd fought, and he hadn't meant the horrid things he'd said—he'd been hurt and lashing out—but still, she felt awful.

Where was he? What was he doing? What was he thinking?

She'd been the messenger, sharing information that his parents should have provided. He'd eventually come to understand that, wouldn't he? He'd eventually forgive her?

He had to. She couldn't bear to imagine any other ending. They had to remain friends and able to communicate. Bryce and Peanut deserved that much.

She heard his car long before she saw it. The muffler purred softly as he drove down her street. He pulled to the curb and parked.