Discovering You (9 page)

She hesitated as if maybe she'd revealed too much. “I've been suffering from insomnia.”

He figured having someone break in while she was sleeping and shoot her husband, then threaten her daughter's life as well as her own, could easily have that effect. “So what do you do? Take a sedative?”

“No, I don't take anything.”

“Why not?”

“The thought of being drugged or too sluggish scares me.”

Because of Sebastian? “All you have to do is sleep it off,” he said.

“True. But who knows how long that would take? I'd rather not be impaired.”

In case she was ever threatened again. That was what she meant; he was sure of it. He wondered if it was what Sebastian had done or what he might do that frightened her most—but didn't ask. That could wait.

“Anyway, I got a lot of work done today,” she said as they headed down the walk. “So that's good.”

When they reached the truck, he opened the door so she could get in. He assumed Charlie had driven a luxury car. Rod had never even considered purchasing one of those. He couldn't take it off-road or pull a trailer behind it. But a sedan would've been nice for tonight. She looked like the kind of woman who'd feel most comfortable in a Mercedes. “Did you ever finish that piece you were working on yesterday?”

“The vase? I did. I also finished a new set of wind chimes and a cute butter crock.”

He'd been about to shut her door, but he held off. “What's a butter crock?”

“It keeps butter cold and fresh when it's not in the fridge.”

“Never heard of it. Do most people have one?”

She chuckled. “No. They were sort of a...pioneer item.”

He wasn't sure butter crocks would sell, since refrigerators seemed to work quite well. But saying that might seem negative, so he didn't volunteer his opinion. He closed her door. Then he walked around to the other side. “How long before you're ready to open your studio?” he asked as he started the engine.

“Hard to say.” She buckled her seat belt. “I'll need enough variety to make the shop interesting, with pieces that'll appeal to all budgets. It's tough to make a living at what I do, because it takes so long to create handmade things, and machine-made stuff is so cheap by comparison. I have to charge enough to cover my time and overhead and yet, no matter how good my work is, I can't charge more than the market will bear.”

“Sounds like you're looking at it very practically.”

“I'm trying to go into it with my eyes open. I have a daughter to support. I have to be careful to build a future for us and not lose what Charlie left us.”

He backed out and shifted into Drive. “Maybe you should limit the months you run the shop to summer, when the tourists come through. Then you could work at home to restock during the winter.”

“That's an idea.” She adjusted the air-conditioning vent. “Is your business steady all year?”

“It is, but it's not a retail shop.”

“Car repair is usually more of a need than a want,” she said.

“I'm not saving lives, but...what I do pays the bills.”

He regretted the reference to her late husband's profession as soon as it came out of his mouth. Quickly changing the subject, he gave the truck more gas. “I hope you like prime rib,” he said. “We could always do Italian or something else if you prefer.”

“I can't remember the last time I had prime rib. It's not something you typically make for yourself. And I haven't been out in...forever.”

“The past year has sucked for you. But things are going to get better. I'm glad you agreed to come tonight.”

The uncertainty and concern she'd been hugging about her like a cloak began to dissipate. “So am I,” she said, and she sounded completely convinced.

That was when he knew they were going to have a good time—and he relaxed, too.

8

R
od was easy to talk to and he could be funny, which came as a surprise to India. His wit was more sarcastic than Charlie's, but she liked it. As they sat across from each other in the dimly lit restaurant, drinking a glass of wine while waiting for their food, she hid a smile at the fact that he'd dressed up tonight. He'd gone to the trouble of getting a haircut since she'd seen him last, but the changes didn't really suit him. She preferred him in faded jeans and a simple T-shirt—even missed the wild, untamed curls he'd had lopped off—but she got the impression he'd made an effort to look nice for her. That felt so good she wouldn't let herself think of all the reasons she shouldn't be spending time with him.

“So what did you tell Dylan?” she asked, returning to the conversation that had started outside.

They'd passed a sports car when they were parking on the street, and that had triggered a story about a wealthy vineyard owner who'd brought his red Ferrari into Amos Auto Body when Rod was barely fifteen. It'd had a small scratch on the front bumper, which the owner wanted fixed. But Rod had been so excited to see such a fast and expensive car, he took it for a joyride—and totaled it. “I didn't tell him anything. I couldn't. I'd been arrested for driving without a license,” he said with a laugh.

“I can't believe you weren't hurt!” she cried.

“I had a few bumps and bruises, but nothing like it could've been. If I hadn't hit that tree, if I'd hit another car instead, it could've turned into one of those stupid things you do as a kid that you regret for the rest of your life.”

“You were lucky.”

“I don't think Dylan's ever been so mad at me.”

She cradled her glass as she watched the candlelight flicker across his face. “Did you have to pay for it?”

“It was a hundred-thousand-dollar car. There was no way I could. Dylan couldn't, either. We had so little back then. Fortunately, our insurance took care of it. But there was a huge deductible, of course, and the wreck made the premiums go up.” He shook his head. “For the next six months, we ate nothing but bean burritos for dinner. I don't know why Dyl didn't kick my ass out right then and there.”

She chuckled as she imagined Rod so young and unruly, making life even harder for his beleaguered older brother. “He must love you a great deal.”

“He does,” he said unabashedly. “But I had to work two years of overtime to make up for what I cost the company that day.”

She took a sip of her wine. “Did you resent Dylan for that?”

“How could I? I was the one who screwed up. I deserved worse.”

The fact that he took responsibility for his mistakes showed more maturity than her first impression of him had suggested. She liked that. She also liked the way he made her feel every time he looked at her. In the six years she'd dated before marrying Charlie, she couldn't remember a man being quite so transparent in his appreciation and found it surprising that Rod would be the first, since he was possibly the prettier one between the two of them. He was willing to build
her
ego instead of waiting for her to build his, and that made him seem more like Charlie than she would've expected. Her husband had been so generous with his compliments, always saw the best in others.

“You speak with such reverence when you talk about Dylan,” she said.

Rod grew silent, contemplative. Then he said, “I owe him a lot.”

She'd figured out from the way he talked about his older brother that Dylan had raised him, but he hadn't told her why. “Was your father ill or something? Is that why Dylan took over?” If so, he must've recovered, because he seemed perfectly fine these days.

The waitress was hurrying over with their food. When Rod saw her, he leaned back to allow her to deliver their plates and waited for her to walk away before answering. “My father was in prison.”

India had picked up her fork. At this, she put it back down. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

He shrugged, but she could tell it wasn't the careless gesture he intended it to be.

“How long was he...gone?” she asked.

“Sixteen years.”

Almost two decades! Whatever his father had done must've been serious, but she didn't ask for details. She understood how invasive those questions could be and assumed Rod would volunteer the information if he cared to discuss it. “When did he get out?”

“Two years ago. It still seems strange to have him back.”

“Do you get along with him?”

He gestured at her food. “Go ahead and eat. This is old news. I'm fine. And he and I do get along, for the most part. Probably because he has no control over my life. Sometimes our relationship feels odd—that's all. What I've experienced is so different from what other people have experienced. My dad's more like a...a roommate than a parent.”

Now she was beginning to understand the unusual bond he had with his oldest brother. “How old was Dylan when he...when he had to step up?”

“Eighteen. A senior in high school.”

“Wow. It's impressive that he kept you all out of trouble.”

His grin slanted to one side. “He
tried
to keep us out of trouble. Didn't always succeed.”

Her meat, so salty and tender, nearly melted in her mouth. “What about his wife?”

“Cheyenne? She's great. I'm glad Dylan found her. They couldn't be happier.”

“I meant your father's wife.” India didn't want to judge someone she didn't know, but the clothes his stepmother wore were often dirty or wrinkled and were usually too revealing. She certainly wasn't the typical mother. The woman rarely even bothered to put on shoes.

“I can't stand her,” he admitted. “I try to be cordial, but that basically amounts to ignoring her whenever I can. There's just nothing to admire.”

She took a bite of mashed potatoes, savoring the garlic and cheese that'd been added. “So why do you allow her to stay?”

“When we made the decision to let them move in, her daughter was still in high school. We did it for Natasha's sake, so Anya wouldn't keep dragging her around and she could get her diploma.” He speared a carrot. “Now that Natasha's graduated and will be attending an out-of-state college in the fall, I'd like to reconsider. But if we kick them out, where will they go? We can't leave them homeless. Whether we like it or not, they're family.”

Rod sounded tough, but he obviously had a soft heart. “Your father can't afford a place of his own?”

“No. With his record? Where would he find work? And he's too young for social security.”

“There must be
something
he can do.”

“If so, he hasn't found it. It'd be different if he'd been put away for some white-collar crime. But he shot a man in a bar.”

She stopped chewing. Rod's father had
killed
someone?

“Does that shock you?” he asked evenly.

“It's not the kind of thing you hear every day,” she said after she'd managed to swallow. “What made him go that far?”

He turned his wineglass around and around. “There was this guy, Fenley Tolson, who was convinced my father hadn't fixed his car right. My father insisted Fenley had been warned that it would be impossible to match the paint exactly, so he refused to refund the money. That caused a feud between them that went on for some time. Then, somehow, one night they wound up in the same bar. We think Fenley must've seen my dad leaving town and followed him just to get under his skin.”

He sipped his wine. “The bar has since gone out of business,” he went on, “which is no surprise. But it wasn't even in Whiskey Creek. It was here in Jackson. My father liked to drink outside of town because he didn't have to see too many familiar faces.” He lifted his glass, only this time he merely stared at the wine. “Anyway, after they were both wasted, Fenley started getting in my dad's face. It might've been okay even then if he hadn't mentioned my mom. But he did.”

India gripped the napkin in her lap. She could tell his story was reaching its gruesome climax, which made her feel ill. She understood what it was like to witness such a violent act—to be one of the heartbroken people who could appear on the latest true crime show.
Dateline
had contacted her to get her story, not that she'd been in any frame of mind to talk to them. For one thing, she was afraid someone would see her on TV and decide she wasn't as broken up about her husband's death as she should be. Then all the suspicion and accusations would begin again, and she couldn't live with that. It'd been one of the tougher aspects of what she'd been through, particularly since she
had
made some concessions that night, done things she'd rather not remember, let alone talk about. She was already prone to blaming herself.

“What did Tolson have to say about your mother?” she asked.

A muscle moved in Rod's cheek. She sensed that what he was about to say wasn't easy for him, but, after setting down his glass, he answered. “That he could see why she'd kill herself rather than live with him.”

India's stomach tensed. Apparently, Rod's family had been through a tragedy even worse than she'd first thought. “Your mother committed suicide?”

His chest rose as he drew a deep breath. “A year and a half before the shooting. She suffered from depression, couldn't seem to get on top of it. Anyway, that's when my father started drinking heavily. He couldn't deal with losing her, especially in that way. So when Tolson said what he did—” his eyes took on a far-off look “—my dad went off. He rushed out to his truck, got his gun, and...that was it.”

He shot Tolson in cold blood? India didn't want to say the words. Apparently, neither did Rod, because he left the story there.

“I'm afraid this isn't very light dinner conversation,” he added.

It wasn't light at all. She was seeing visions of Sebastian looming over her with that gun, would never forget the dark shadow he'd cast over her and Charlie's bed. “I'm really sorry,” she murmured. “About everything.”

“It's in the past.”

She shifted in her seat. “Now that your father's out, what does he do all day if he doesn't work?”

“
He
thinks he works—and I guess he sort of does. Dylan gave him an old car to restore. Maybe, once he's finished, he'll be able to sell it, and he and Anya will have enough to get an apartment. That's what we're hoping.”

She took another bite of her prime rib. “But...how will they keep the apartment if he can't get a job and she doesn't work? Or does she have some kind of disability or other income?”

“Anya?”
He laughed without mirth. “She has nothing. She's an addict. I don't think California doles out money for that quite yet—although, if she didn't have what she needed, she'd figure out some way to get it. She always has.”

“Your father loves her, though?”

“Let's just say he's desperate enough to put up with her. It's worth it to him to have a warm body in his bed every night, and he feels a certain amount of loyalty to her, since she married him while he was behind bars.”

India had cut her prime rib into small, bite-size pieces, but she was pushing them around her plate more than she was eating. Seeing that he'd finish his meal long before she did, she lifted her fork to her mouth. “If he spent so much time...out of circulation, how did they meet? Did she know him from before?”

“No. She found his picture on a matchmaking website for convicts.”

“Sites like that really exist?”

“Oh, yeah. They're set up as if they're arranging pen pals, but you can imagine how it typically goes. Anya was writing quite a few inmates, sending them naked pictures and explicit letters.” He frowned. “That should tell you something about her. I bet she only agreed to marry my dad and drop the others because he was getting out soon and promised to take care of her, which wasn't exactly realistic. He believed he'd come home and take over the business we'd built, even though Amos Auto Body hadn't been worth much when he went away. Dylan was the one who turned it around.”

“You didn't let him take it back?”

“No. We came up with an amount we felt it would've been worth, although he would've lost it without us, and we've been paying him that in monthly installments. Gives him money for gas, what few groceries he buys, clothes and stuff. Still, it's not enough to live on, and it'll only last for another five years. But he should be eligible for social security at that point.”

“Why not let him work for you until then? Pay him a wage?”

“We tried that, for a short time. It created too much animosity. He won't take orders from us, and we won't let him run the place. So we had to make a few changes. Honestly? Most of us—except maybe Mack—don't want him there at all.”

She was too full to continue eating, so she put her napkin beside her plate. “Who came up with the idea of buying him out?”

“Dylan, of course.”

“I can see why you admire your big brother. He seems to be quite the businessman.”

Rod finished the bite he'd taken. “He's good at everything. I don't know how he managed.
We
certainly didn't make life any easier for him.”

“I bet you've worked hard over the years, though—like he has.”

“It was that or get split up and put into foster care.”

For a new acquaintance, he'd shared a lot of personal information with her. At first she was so surprised by what she'd learned, she didn't think about that, but then she realized he wouldn't reveal such things to just anyone. She got the feeling he didn't focus too deeply on anything that wasn't directly relevant, and that meant he had a reason for sharing what he had. Once she considered that, she was fairly confident she could guess what the reason was. “So...you know what it's like to be intimately connected to someone who...who's killed a man.”