A Family Kind of Gal (16 page)

Another set of headlights approached. She tried not to stare at the intense beams, but she experienced a strange sensation, one that reminded her of a doe transfixed by the glare.
Relax.
The sound of a truck's engine rumbled, and its tire chains buzzed over the muffled music.

It's just a truck. Big deal. There are dozens of them on this stretch of road, no matter what the conditions.

She tapped the brakes. They slid just a bit, then grabbed. Good.

To be safe, she eased as far to the right as she dared, but the guardrail was low in spots, and the black canyon that gaped beyond her viewpoint worried her.

Honk!

She jumped, her foot slipping on the brake.

The truck's horn blasted again.

Her fingers tightened on the wheel. She pumped the brakes lightly.

Nothing.

Don't panic!
But the truck was roaring toward them on the left, and to the right was the gaping darkness of the edge of the cliff.

Honk!

“Philip,” she said as the truck's horn blared again. “Philip!”

“Wh-what?” he said around a yawn.

“The truck, oh, God!” At that moment the semi seemed to swerve and come right at them.

“Jesus!” Philip was instantly awake. He grabbed for the wheel.

“Wait!”

She hit the brakes. They locked. The car shimmied.

“Holy Mother Mary!” Philip was wide awake and swearing, yanking at the steering wheel.

“Don't! Philip!”

The car slid sideways as the truck, only feet away, loomed like the very specter of death. “Tiffany! Crank the wheel! Pump the damned brakes! Get us out of here!”

“I'm trying!”

“Mom?” Stephen's voice cracked with fear.

She managed to turn just enough, but the truck, rolling past and out of control, clipped the rear end of the sedan. It spun wildly. She tried to stop but hit a patch of ice, and suddenly the car slammed through the guardrail and into the abyss.

“Oh my God!” Philip cried.

Tiffany screamed, and Christina let out a wail.

“Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no,” Stephen muttered as the car, with a bone-jarring thud, scraped down the side of the mountain and skidded downward. Faster, faster, the wheels spinning, the brakes useless.

“Stop! For God's sake—”

Bam! They smashed into something. Hard. The windshield shattered. Glass sprayed. The car spun around.

“Mommy!”

“I'm here, sweetie.”

“For the love of Christ!”

Again they were rolling rapidly forward. Faster and faster.

“Damn it, stop the car!”

“I can't!”

She saw the creek. Silver water slicing through the canyon, “Oh, my God—”

The wheels hit water. Bam! Every bone in Tiffany's body jarred. Ice-cold water ripped through the shattered windshield.

“Get out!” Tiffany yelled.

She scrambled for her seat-belt buckle.

“Mom! Dad!” Stephen's voice was strangled by terror. He was flailing in the back seat. Christina cried. Philip was cursing. Wild, raging water flooded the interior.

“Get out. Everyone get out!” Philip yelled.

Christina was crying, and Stephen, too, was screaming.

“Tiffany, for God's sake, get to the shore.” Philip was opening his door as she fumbled with her seat belt. The latch refused to give. “I'll get the kids.”

“I can't get out!” Stephen's voice was filled with panic. It was black and dark and so damned cold. Water gurgled and swirled, splashing and rushing around them in an icy current.

Tiffany's fingers fumbled with the safety-belt latch.

“Get out! Get out!” Philip was outside the car, attempting to open the back door. “Christina, hang in there! Stephen, try to get out of the car!”

Tiffany was shaking, her fingers numb, but the latch finally gave way, and she shouldered open the door only to fall into waist-deep water. Her feet slipped on the rocks, but she clung to the car, fighting the current, praying that they would all get out of this alive. So cold she could barely move, she found the back door and tried to pull it open. It wouldn't budge.

“I can't get out!” Stephen yelled.

“The safety locks!” Philip shouted. Tiffany couldn't see him but heard him splashing in the icy water. Christina was crying weakly.

“Get out the front!” she yelled to her son as the car filled with water. “Hurry!” She felt, rather than saw, Stephen crawl over the front seat to hurtle through the open door. Miraculously she caught his arm.

Sputtering and shivering, he clung to her.

“Christina!” she cried.

“Got her.” Philip's voice sounded so far away.

“Okay, hang on to me. Let's try to get to shore,” she yelled into Stephen's ear, though she had no idea how wide or deep the creek was. It could be a river, for all she knew.

“This way.” Stephen stepped around the car only to be half dragged underwater.

“Philip!” she cried, but there wasn't an answer. “Philip!” Oh, God, had he drowned? Did he have the baby? “Philip!” Where was he? She strained to listen but heard only the wild rush of the river. “Philip!”

“Dad!”

Her heart stopped. “He's got Christina, don't worry,” she said to her son though she was dying inside. Her husband. Her baby. Where were they? Dear God, keep them safe! Oh, please!

“Mom?” Stephen's voice was faint, his teeth chattering, and she realized that she was numb all over. Not a good sign.

“Try to get to the shore,” she managed.

“Where?”

If she only knew. Frantically she looked around. Blackness everywhere. Only inky, cold, terrifying blackness. They could be in the middle of the creek or close to one bank. Who knew? But they couldn't stay in the freezing water. They'd both die from hypothermia.

Which way?

“M-m-mom, I'm so cold.”

“Hang on, Stephen.” How long had they been in the water? “Philip!” she cried and strained to hear. Far away there were voices. “Listen!”

She looked up and saw a bobbing light. The freezing water whirled and danced madly around her.

“Hey!” a male voice boomed. “Anyone there?”

“Help! Oh, God, help us!”

“Hang on, we're comin',” the voice assured her, and she clung to Stephen and the car, trying to stay conscious, praying that her husband and daughter were safe.

She didn't remember the rescue. It had taken over an hour, and both she and Stephen, suffering from hypothermia, had passed out. She awoke in a hospital in Portland to the news that she and both children had survived, but Philip, as a result of his efforts to save Christina, had died on the way to the hospital. No attempts at reviving him had been effective.

Tiffany was barely out of the hospital, hardly able to function from grief and despair, when she had to arrange a funeral. All of Philip's family was at the long, mind-numbing service. She was a widow. Alone with her children.

J.D. sat between his parents and sister-in-law, not so much as touching her or offering any sign of condolence during the funeral. White-faced, drawn and tense, he'd partially shielded Tiffany from the rest of the family.

But it hadn't worked. Philip's father, Carlo, had been grim and forbidding, his black eyes boring into Tiffany throughout the eulogy. Frances, seated at her husband's side, wouldn't even look in Tiffany's direction, but shunned her and pretended that her daughter-in-law didn't exist.

Philip's ex-wife, Karen, a short blond woman with huge blue eyes, clung to her ex-mother-in-law and sobbed loudly, blowing her nose and sliding furtive glances at the woman who had, eventually, replaced her in her ex-husband's heart. She wailed loudly, while her children, Robert and Thea, were stoic and grim. Philip's older children were both in college, both acting as if they'd rather be anywhere in the world but at the funeral home, both seeming more bored than grief-stricken.

Throughout the service Tiffany held on to both of her children. Christina sat on her lap, and Stephen, pale and wan, was beside her in the pew.

Even without the harsh glares cast in her direction or the cold shoulders meant to shut her away from the rest of the family, Tiffany didn't have to be told that the entire Santini clan blamed her for Philip's death. She'd been the one who'd insisted upon going skiing that day. Philip had only indulged her. And she'd been behind the wheel at the time of the accident

There had been a gathering of family and friends at the Santini winery in McMinnville after the funeral and grave-site service. Tiffany had never felt so alone in her life. Everyone was coldly polite, and the hours went by at an excruciatingly slow pace. She just wanted to be alone, to hide and lick her wounds, to mourn her husband and plan her future, her children's futures.

The words of sympathy echoed in her heart

“Sorry about your loss.”

“A tragedy. Such a tragedy.”

“I don't know what Carlo will do without him. And Frances... My, how this has aged her.”

“Good luck to you and the children.”

But after a few kind words—a courtesy to the Santini family—the mourners let her be, each finding his or her small group at the gathering, each whispering and talking about the accident, sending her looks that bordered on pity but oftentimes were tinged with hate.

She'd put on a brave face for nearly two hours, sipping too much wine and fighting back tears of desperation, when a voice behind her said, “Let's get out of here. I think you've done your time for today.”

She whirled to find J.D. with her coat and the kids' jackets. Somehow she managed a thin smile and shook her head. “Thanks, but I have my own car.”

“I know.” Carefully, he removed an empty wineglass from her hand. “I think I should drive.” For once he seemed sincere. Almost kind. “This has been a rough day.”

“Amen,” she agreed, and didn't bother to argue. She gathered up Christina and Stephen and handed J.D. the car keys. On the ride home, she closed her eyes, grateful for someone's thoughtfulness—even her irreverent brother-in-law's.

At the home she'd shared with Philip in northwest Portland, she managed to get the kids into bed before she felt herself coming undone. “I don't know how to thank you,” she said as J.D. lingered in the kitchen.

“Brotherly duty.”

“Above and beyond the call, if you ask me.” She poured herself another glass of wine, though she was already light-headed. She was a widow. A widow, for goodness' sake. The future, once so certain, seemed suddenly bleak as it stretched endlessly before her. “Join me?”

“I think I've had enough.”

“Me, too.” But she took a long swallow of last year's Santini Brothers premium pinot noir. Feeling dead tired, she kicked off her high heels and leaned over to rub her arch.

“I'll help you to bed.”

“You don't have to.”

“I know. But don't fight it.” He eyed the wine bottle and scowled. “Didn't the doctor prescribe some tranquillizers for you?”

“Haven't taken any.”

“Don't. Not until you're sober.”

“I am sober,” she argued, and defiantly drained her glass.

“Come on, I'll help you upstairs.”

“I don't need any help,” she lied, determined to appear independent. She'd fall apart when she was alone.

“Fine.”

She started for the staircase and nearly stumbled. J.D. caught her and sighed. “Come on, Tiff. I know it's been hard.”

His gentle words, so unexpected and sincere, caught her off guard. With a tender smile, he managed to pierce the emotional armor she'd worn since the accident. Tears gathered in her eyes for the first time since the funeral service. “I'm…I'm okay.”

“So you've been trying to convince everyone.”

“But I am.”

“Sure.”

She swayed again, and he picked her up, swinging her off her feet as deftly as if she weighed nothing. “Come on, Tiff, let's put it to rest.” He carried her upstairs and down a long hallway to the bedroom she'd shared with Philip. Once there, he placed her carefully on top of the bed and brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “It's all right to break down, you know.”

Her chin wobbled and tears drizzled from her eyes.

“You were married to the guy.”

“I'll miss him.”

His jaw hardened. “It's only natural.”

She dabbed at her eyes and sighed. “Oh, God,” she admitted, “I'm so scared.”

He stared down at her for a long moment, then shrugged out of his jacket, tossed it over the back of a chair and lowered himself on to the bed beside her. The old mattress squeaked as if in disapproval. “You'll be all right,” he said, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close. His breath whispered across her hair, and she let go of the storm of tears that had been building for days. Sobs racked her body as he held her, keeping her safe, whispering soft words of encouragement. She didn't fight him but let him hold her, and by the time she fell asleep, emotionally and physically exhausted, the front of his shirt was wet with her tears and smudged by her makeup.

During the night, he'd pulled the covers around them, and when she awoke sometime before dawn, her head aching, she turned and found him staring at her with eyes a deep, smoky gray. She didn't say a word. Didn't have to. He kissed her gently. Once. Twice. A third time.

Something inside her stirred. They kissed again—longer this time—and his lips were warm and gentle; his hands, when they touched her, were loving.

He didn't ask.

And she didn't say no.

Yet they took comfort in each other. Loving, kissing, stroking and finding solace in their shared grief.

In the morning, it was over. All the quiet comfort of the night was gone, and guilt, her companion ever since, lodged deep into a very private place in her soul...

J.D. had left and never once called her. Nor had he written or stopped by. She'd moved to Bittersweet, and, until that day just last week when he'd shown up and rented the upstairs room, she hadn't seen him again.