Closer Home (8 page)

“He’s a preacher.” Ariel’s voice drips acid.

“Kel?” I can’t tear my eyes away from the screen.

“You know him?”

“Everybody knew him. Captain of the football team. He was smoking-hot and he drove this GTO that could peel rubber in third gear. All the girls drooled over him.”

She looks at the picture again, and then at me. She deflates a little. “You don’t think much of him.”

That is putting it mildly. Back then, I was blinded by his good looks and popularity, but unless he’s done a full about-face, he is definitely not father material.

“People change,” I say, as much to myself as to her. “He could have legitimately found Jesus and have a calling. But I can’t imagine he’s going to be ecstatic to have an illegitimate daughter come crashing into his world.”

Her eyes light up and she grins. “I know, right? Like a bomb in the middle of his pretentious, hypocritical life.”

“You don’t know that he’s a hypocrite. Like I said, people change.”

“He looks like a hypocrite.”

She has a point. Kelvin looks more like a seedy used-car salesman than a man of God.

“He lives in Portland. How are you going to get there?”

“There are these flying things called planes.”

Only a teenager can produce this level of sarcasm. I take a breath and keep my voice level. “Where do you plan on staying? How are you going to afford all this?”

She shrugs. “I have money.”

“So, what’s the plan? You’re just going to talk to him? A meet-the-candidate sort of thing?”

“No, I want to actually know. I can get a paternity testing kit at Walmart.”

“Oh, come on. Walmart offers pretty near everything, I know, but—”

She clicks a bookmark on the laptop and brings up a product description screen.

Identi-Match. Paternity DNA testing from the comfort of your home. 100 percent reliable.

“You’ve been a busy girl.” Apparently, all it takes is a DNA swab and the United States Postal Service to determine the father of your baby. I read through the fine print, partly because I can’t believe it’s that easy. Partly just to buy time.

“It won’t stand up in court.”

“I’m not doing this so I can get child support.”

“Suppose you tell me why you are doing it, then. Really. Because if you’re searching for another parent to love and look out for you, you’re probably better off hanging out with me.”

Her lips thin into a hard line, and she slams the laptop closed. “You’re not a parent. You’re barely even an aunt.”

Touché. Whoever her father is, I didn’t do any better than he did. I locked Callie out of my world, and shut Ariel out right along with her.

“Just forget it,” she says. “Forget I said anything, okay? It’s not like I need your help.” Tears underlie the words, even though her eyes are dry.

God, I suck at this. But I’m not running away again, not letting her shove me out the door. I inherited the same stubborn gene as Callie has apparently passed on to her daughter.

“I don’t want to forget it. But you need to think this through. What do you think is going to happen when you show up—at a preacher’s house, no less—and announce that maybe he’s your father? He’s not likely to welcome you with open arms.”

“I don’t care. It’s not like I want to live with him or anything. I just want to know if it’s him. Okay?”

It’s not that I have any empathy for Kelvin. He deserves to have his world torn apart. In fact, if that’s what Ariel’s little visit is going to do, then I’d love to be a part of it. I try to summon up the strength to do what I’m sure is the right thing. I’m the responsible one. It’s my job to stop her.

Studying her profile as she adds a T-shirt to her suitcase, the idea of managing her strikes me as ludicrous. I’d have to lock her in a room. Probably with handcuffs on. That face is not built for acquiescence. I catch myself trying to puzzle out the ancestry of her bone structure, the jaw that would be square in a man but is rounded just enough to be feminine, the sculpted planes of her cheekbones and forehead. She didn’t get those features from Callie or either of my parents. Wherever they came from, there is nothing fragile about this girl. She’ll be a very strong woman, if the bitterness doesn’t destroy her.

“The paparazzi will eat you alive. There was a reporter here today.”

“In the house?”

“In the pool.”

Ariel gives me another look, as if reconsidering something, and then laughs and holds her hand up for a high five.

“Ricken put her up to it,” I tell her. “So don’t you believe for a minute he wouldn’t give them an inside scoop on you if he thinks it will fuel the fire.”

She shrugs, and I think of another problem.

“What about Shadow? Is he going with you?”

“Yes, he’s going with me. And before you even ask, Mom put me on the pill when I was fourteen. Just in case, she said.”

Responsibility again. How am I supposed to have a sex talk with a teenager who has more world experience than I do? Feeling my face heat, unable to look her in the eye, I dredge up some words that are probably from high school sex ed.

“A pill won’t protect you from . . . from . . . look, if he’s been with any other girls, then . . .”

Ariel digs under the pile of clothes in her suitcase and holds up a box of condoms. Opened. “And I made him get tested. Okay?”

It’s not okay.

“Do you love him?”

She shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t think he’s after the money, and he thinks fame is stupid. So.” She shrugs again.

I want her to have some illusions and some dreams and a little magic. I want to tell her she shouldn’t settle, that love is the most important thing and she should wait for the right guy and then . . . that’s where I run into trouble. Then, what? Give him her heart and watch him stomp on it? At least she’s honest with herself and knows what she’s doing. So I focus on more practical matters.

“Can you trust him?”

“Depends what you mean by that. He’s not a stalker or anything creepy.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do, okay?”

“What about his parents?”

“What about them?”

“Do they know the two of you are running off on a wild goose chase?”

“What do they care? He’s eighteen. Besides, they left on a business trip this morning, and they won’t even know he’s gone.”

She’s too young to be so jaded. My anger at my sister for the song she took from me suddenly seems a small thing compared to what she’s taken from Ariel.

Innocence. Stability. A childhood.

There were years of touring with different bands before Callie made the big time. She lived in Seattle, LA, New York, moving in and out of relationships with one man after another. This residency at Caesars in Vegas has kept her in one place for three years, long enough for Ariel to put down roots and make some friends. Now that Callie’s dead, she’ll lose that, too.

It doesn’t matter what she says, I know she’s hoping to find a father who will love her, accept her, or at least give her a clearer sense of where she fits into the scheme of things. Trouble is, I know enough of Kelvin to believe that, minister or not, this will be one more dream shattered.

“Let me help you.” The words are out of my mouth before I even know I’m going to say them.

Ariel zips up her suitcase and turns to look at me. “How can you help?”

“I know Kelvin. I can set up a meeting.”

“You’d do that?”

My head nods. Surely I’m possessed. “Give me a little time. You could leave tomorrow.”

She turns away from me and sets the suitcase on its wheels. “You’re just trying to put me off. Thinking I’ll change my mind.”

“What does it hurt to wait a day?”

“Do you know what they’re planning for tonight? You don’t. Of course not. They haven’t told you yet. A full-scale soirée, right here at the house. Media people, so-called friends of my mother. Celebs. A charity fund-raiser for Ebola orphans in Africa or some shit. Like Mom ever cared about orphans.”

I stare at her with dawning horror. Of course it’s good to feed the orphans, but even I can see that a gathering like this has nothing to do with charity.

“Ricken just said we had people coming for dinner.”

“Right. He’s afraid you’ll say no. Just watch. Hairdresser will show up any minute now. And a makeup artist. They’ll have a whole wardrobe planned for you.” She tilts her head to one side. “Something elegant but with hints of country. Anything that will make you look like Mom only increases the human-interest angle. Seen stuff like this a thousand times. House will be full of paparazzi.”

She’s got her window open, the suitcase balanced on the ledge.

Again my mouth opens and words come out. “Let me go with you.”

She freezes, then turns to look at me.

“What?”

“I want to go with you. I can help.”

“You’re running away. Admit it.”

“Like you’re not? All right. Yes. I’m running away.”

She hesitates. “Shadow’s still coming.”

I sigh. “All right. You and me and Shadow. All good?”

“After you.” She gestures toward the window.

My throat feels dry, my pulse thunders in my ears. I was five the first time Mom left me in charge of my two-year-old sister. I never had a chance to do something crazy and irresponsible. I’m terrified and excited in equal measure.

“Don’t I get to pack a bag?”

“Now or never. If you leave the room, maybe you’ll send the cops after me.”

“Then come with me. We’ll walk out the door together like civilized people.”

“And when Ricken sees us? Or the maid, or anybody? Now you’re forgetting the camera people. Either you’re in or you’re out.”

This isn’t sane,
I tell myself. I’ve got a credit card wallet in the pocket of my jeans. I’ve left my purse in my room. My phone is on the nightstand.

Dale will be calling.

At first that thought pulls at me, and then, my heart plummeting into my belly, I remember the tabloids. I don’t want to talk to Dale. Not now, not yet. And I sure as hell don’t want to attend Ricken’s little soirée. Or make a decision about the contracts.

Before reason has time to catch up with me, I’m sitting on the window ledge, poised between fates. A deep breath, and I swing my legs through the window and take the leap, old enough to know that for every such act of rebellion, there must always be consequences.

For once, I’ve decided I don’t care.

CHAPTER FOUR

One thing is sure and certain. Never before in all my born days have I traipsed directly up to the ticket counter in an airport and asked for tickets for the first flight out.

I stand beside Ariel, my stomach doing queasy flip-flops, my left hand fisted to try to stop the electricity that persists in zapping through it. Traveling light is one thing. What in hell was I thinking, running off without so much as a suitcase or even my phone? Something could happen with my mom. Dale could be trying to reach me.

Breathe, Lise. Focus on something else.

Shadow lounges against the counter beside me, watching not the proceedings but the constant stream of people dragging their luggage in through the doors. Some of them form into a line behind us or go to other counters. Some head straight for the TSA.

“I’ve got a flight to Portland at two o’clock,” the woman behind the counter tells us, her fingers tapping the keyboard as she speaks. “How many?”

It’s noon now. I figure two is about perfect.

Ariel has other ideas. “Anything sooner?”

A furrow appears between the perfectly penciled brows. Tap, tap, tap. “Well, there is a one o’clock, but it’s booked. You could try standby.”

“What about first class?”

The woman glances up from the monitor for the first time, really looking at Ariel, then me, and finally Shadow. “I can check.” Her voice sounds doubtful.

“Do that,” Ariel says.

“I can get you on flight 879 at 1:00 p.m.,” the woman says. “If you can get through TSA in time.”

“We’ll take it.”

“Hang on just a second,” I hear myself saying. “Don’t you think first class is a little extravagant?”

Ariel slaps a bank card on the counter along with her ID. “I said we’ll take it.” The woman picks up the card. Debit, not credit, I note, and yet it covers three first-class tickets without a glitch. A moment later and the three of us are heading down the terminal and into the maelstrom of the TSA.

Ariel calls for a limo as soon as our plane jolts to a landing. Once again, I have the sensation that I’m just a passenger in the journey of my life, and I let the courteous driver help me into the car without asking questions. But when we pull up in front of a high-rise in downtown Portland, I realize we have a problem. The hotel, a place called the Nines, occupies the top floors and is obviously a luxury stop. There’s a stretch limo parked up ahead of us. I watch the driver open the passenger door while a bellboy hovers at a respectful distance. As the passenger gets out of the car and tips the driver, my eyes widen. I’ve seen that face in a dozen big-screen movies.

“Isn’t that . . .”

Ariel shrugs. “Who cares?”

A car pulls up behind ours, a nondescript black sedan. The man who steps out of it has a camera.

Our driver comes around to my door and opens it, but I shake my head at him. “This is not our hotel.”

His eyebrows go up, the brim of his cap rising visibly.

“Ma’am?”

“There’s been an error. This is not our hotel.”

The man is well schooled in dealing with whims. He closes the door without further expression and gets back into the car.

“What are you doing?” Ariel demands. “I’ve always wanted to stay here.”

“You and every other rich person traveling to Portland.”

“So?”

I count to ten, giving myself a chance to get both my heart rate and my irritation under control. “Rich and famous people attract attention. Use your head. Do you want the press to know we’re here and what we’re doing?” I gesture out the window, where the man with the camera is snapping pictures of the celebrity.

“Oh,” she says, deflating.

“So what if the media find us?” Shadow says. “Public opinion is irrelevant.”

I ignore him and address the driver. “Straight ahead, please.”

“I need a destination,” he says, looking back at us in the rearview. His eyes are keen and close set, and his stare is a little too curious for my comfort.

“Would a Hilton be okay?” Ariel asks.

“Maybe.” I watch the street go by for a few blocks. The driver is still too intent on his rearview.

“Ma’am?” he asks, his eyes flicking from me to Ariel and back again.

“Tell you what. Pull over and let us out right here.”

“Aunt Lise, what the hell—”

“Just do it.”

“Don’t you dare!” Ariel yells.

The driver eyes us both again and pulls over. Age has its benefits. A moment later, all three of us are standing on the sidewalk watching the car drive away. Color burns in Ariel’s cheeks, and if looks could kill, I’d be drawn and quartered. “I had a plan! You’re ruining everything!”

“You want to see ruined,” I retort, “you let those people sink their teeth into the story of you searching for your father.”

“I don’t know if I’m up for sleeping on the street,” Shadow drawls.

We both ignore him. I soften my voice and try to be reasonable. “You saw the photographer back there. You know how they’ve been about your mom.”

“They don’t even know who we are.”

“Seriously,” Shadow says, “I didn’t sign up for this.”

“Shut up!” Ariel and I snap in unison.

“Honey, trust me. They know who we are. And that driver was memorizing our faces.”

“He was a little shifty,” she concedes. She gives me a long, considering look. “All right, fine then. You have a better plan?”

I do, in fact, have a plan. I can only hope it’s better.

Shadow is not impressed with the Best Western accommodations.

He lounges on the sofa, one black-jeaned leg flung up over the back, the other bent and resting on the cream-colored fabric despite the fact that his shoes are on. His eyes are half-closed, the expression on his face bored.

Ariel and I are eating Chinese food out of paper cartons with chopsticks, not talking, but not fighting, either. We seem to have arrived at an uneasy truce. She only picks at her food, while I sit and stare out the window, wondering what in hell I was thinking.

The laptop dings with the universal sound of mail hitting the in-box, and Ariel gasps. I glance up to see her staring at the screen, white-faced and rigid.

“Honey, what is it?”

“The Reverend Kelvin has answered my e-mail.” Her jaw is so tight she can barely get the words out.

Shadow rolls off the couch and slouches across the room to look over her shoulder. He whistles between his teeth. “Dude. He’s got some balls.”

I’m miles behind and scrambling to catch up. “But how? When did you e-mail him?”

“Last night. He isn’t very encouraging.”

“And you’re surprised by this?” The instant the words leave my mouth, I regret them. She’s miserable already; no point rubbing salt in her wounds.

“I thought since he claimed to be all holy and shit, he might at least be honest.”

I sigh, setting down my chow mein and stabbing the chopsticks into it. I’m not hungry anymore.

“What exactly did you tell him? That you think he’s your father and you want to test his DNA?”

“I’m not entirely stupid. Just that I’m Callie’s daughter and I want to meet with him.”

I get up and cross the room to look over her other shoulder.

Dear Ariel,

I was deeply saddened to hear of your mother’s death. She was very young and it must be difficult for you to have lost her. God’s ways are mysterious and often beyond our understanding, but you must trust that He has your best interests in his plans, always. If you let Him, He will comfort your grief and help you to find your way to a life that is useful in the service of others. We can see very little with our human eyes, and perhaps, even though your mother was not on a righteous path, she was able to make peace with Him and you will still see her in the next life. We can always hope.

As for coming out to see me, as you’ve suggested, I do believe you would be better served to seek counseling with a local pastor. I can recommend somebody if you wish.

May you find comfort in Christ,

Reverend Kelvin Marcus

“Bastard.”

“Right?” Ariel says.

I’m not sure if I’m more bothered by the empty platitudes or the fact that he dared to tell a sixteen-year-old girl that her mother probably isn’t headed for the pearly gates. Not that I haven’t had these thoughts on my own, but I’m not going to say them out loud.

Ariel shoves the computer away from her and leans her face in her hands, the picture of disappointment. I pace the room until an idea hits me, like light from above.

“I feel a sudden need to go to church,” I declare.

Ariel looks up, bewildered. Her eyes are red and her cheeks are wet. Understanding crosses her face like a sunrise. Her eyes brighten. A little smile turns up the corners of her lips.

“Church is for the plebes,” Shadow says, unwrapping a fortune cookie.

“Call me a plebe, then,” Ariel says. “I think church sounds brilliant.”

It has not been a good night.

Ariel and I shared a bed, with Shadow relegated to the couch. As bitterly as he complained about the arrangements, I suspect he’s the only one who had a decent sleep. Ariel is very quiet as we get ready for church.

She’s wearing a knee-length skirt and button-up blouse. Her hair is braided in one long rope. As usual, she wears little makeup. She looks like the poster child for how a preacher’s kid is supposed to look, and I dare to hope that Kelvin will be softened enough to be kind to her.

I confront my own haggard face in the harsh light of the bathroom mirror. The hotel shampoo has left my curly hair tangled and unruly, no matter how many times I run a comb through it. The makeup essentials I picked up at the nearest Rite Aid are not up to repairing the damage done to my face by grief and a sleepless night. The JCPenney dress now seems to show way too much cleavage and be all wrong for church.

All in all, I would be much happier staying right here, barricaded in this hotel room.

“You sure you want to do this?”

She nods. Her face is pale under the fluorescent lights, with dark circles under her eyes. Her cheekbones look sharper, and I realize she hasn’t eaten this morning and did little more than poke at her food last night. Still, she appears anything but fragile.

Shadow has made no special preparations, other than taking a thirty-minute shower. “It’s not that I don’t believe in God,” he says now, lounging on the couch again. “It’s churches and the hypocrites who run them that bother me.”

“Nobody’s making you come.” Ariel opens the Identi-Match box and selects a swab and a small envelope, dropping both into a quart-size sealable bag, and then tucks the whole thing into her purse.

I’d argued for something a little higher quality than what you can get at Walmart, but for reasons of her own, she’d been adamant. So we took a taxi to the nearest car rental company, and then went shopping. Walmart for Ariel’s father-catching supplies, then off to JCPenney and Rite Aid for me. Ariel pointed out that we could afford a different level of shopping experience, to which I countered that I hadn’t come into any money yet and was running up my credit card at a pretty good clip already.

Shadow stretches and yawns. “You know it’s all a power trip, running a church. Saving souls. Like humans can actually do that. Christians act like they’re all self-effacing and humble and shit, but they’re really self-centered narcissists.”