Finding Home (6 page)

Stacey
covertly scanned the open field.

There appeared to be about thirty-five people in all. Thirty-five people standing in the inhospitable rain, listening to the rhythmic recitation in a tongue they couldn't begin to comprehend. The words were said over a sky-blue urn, uttered by a Cheyenne shaman who had been flown in for the service.

The chanting seemed to go on forever, just as the rain did.

Titus had opted to be cremated, and after the funeral services, he had requested that his ashes be scattered to the winds.

Plenty of that today, Stacey thought. A little too much, actually.

As the shaman continued, Stacey leaned in toward Ian. The lawyer had taken the position beside her just before the ceremony had begun.

“Maybe we should wait with the scattering,” she suggested. When he made no comment, she added, “It's raining,” feeling foolish even as she said the words. Any idiot could see that it was raining. Her point was that the rain would hinder the scattering of the ashes.

After a beat, his eyes focused on the ancient, white-suede-
clad shaman, Ian shook his head. “This was your uncle's favorite kind of weather.”

Was it her imagination, or did a fond note enter the man's voice? She liked the thought of Titus not being alone, of having a friend to share things with while he lived here. Someone who wasn't just traveling through the old man's life.

She nodded in response. It wasn't her place to go against her uncle's wishes, and Ian would have known him better than she did. The man had always gotten his way when he was alive. Death shouldn't change anything.

Stacey felt a pang that she hadn't made more of an effort to keep in touch. Now it was too late. Would her children have these very same thoughts someday about her? Oh, God, she hoped not. She hoped they would miss her because they had been in such close contact all the time and now she wouldn't be part of their lives anymore.

And Brad, how would he feel if he were standing here and those were her ashes in the urn? Knowing Brad, he'd be applauding her for being so efficient, for not taking up space in the ground, or requiring him to shell out a great deal of money on a casket.

Last night, when she'd called him to let him know that she'd landed safely, she'd gotten his voice mail on his cell. She'd fallen asleep, waiting for him to call back. He probably decided that two Hawaii-Southern California calls were too costly. Why waste money when he would be talking to her soon enough as it was?

She shook the thought off.

All around her, Stacey heard gentle sobbing. She looked
around again. The people attending Titus's service were almost all female. From what she had picked up last night at dinner and again this morning, they were the former and not-so-former lovers of her uncle.

Except for the man in the business suit, at the back of the gathering, Ian and herself, Stacey doubted that anyone in attendance was over forty. Or perhaps thirty. Uncle Titus liked them young, willing and pretty. Their spirit, he liked to say, matched his own. He never thought of himself as old, even when he turned ninety. Like George Burns, he had espoused the philosophy that everyone had to grow older but they didn't have to grow old. He lived by that philosophy.

Finally, the shaman, who looked to be about ninety himself, concluded the ceremony. The moment he did, Stacey found herself being shepherded along with everyone else into waiting vehicles. Once inside, they were driven en masse to the only cliff the island possessed.

There, they disembarked and gathered around the shaman as the ancient man concluded his part of the ritual, more chanting.

The winds had picked up and, along with them, the rain. The shaman appeared to be oblivious to both as they lashed along his face and body, soaking him. What he was about transcended such earthly things as wet clothing.

Stacey was grateful that Ian held the big umbrella for both of them. She had visions of taking off like Mary Poppins had she been given her own large umbrella.

The chanting ceased.

Stacey held her breath, watching.

With remarkably strong-looking hands, the shaman took the sky-blue urn from Ian. Removing the lid, the shaman said a few more words, then tilted the urn so that its contents could be swept over the cliff, down to the sea below or wherever it was that the winds would take the ashes, sowing Titus's essence now that he was no longer able to sow his seed.

Titus, as far as Stacey knew, had produced no children, not even one. Titus was sterile, her mother had once told her in whispered tones. It was a direct result of being exposed to some chemical at the plant he'd worked in as a teen. The same incident that was to render him heirless had also set the course of his life. It caused him to become a nonconformist, ever thumbing his nose at the establishment, except when it came to making money.

The winds shifted just as the shaman finished shaking out the contents of the urn. Stacey suddenly felt something in her eye.

The mourners began to retreat from the cliff, moving quickly to the shelter of the waiting vehicles.

Ian was about to take her elbow, then noted the way she was blinking her eye. “Anything wrong?”

Because she hated a fuss, Stacey was about to say no. But to do so was dumb. There
was
something obviously wrong. Whatever she'd gotten in her eye was stinging now. Her eye was tearing up.

“I'm not sure, but I think I just got some of Uncle Titus in my eye.”

She glanced with her good eye to see the lawyer's reaction. It was the first time she saw the sober man smile.

“Tug on your eyelid,” he advised, ushering her down to the limousine, his lips twitching. “It'll pass.”

Stacey tugged, but the strange feeling in her eye persisted. She and Uncle Titus had apparently melded. At least for the time being.

 

She wasn't comfortable.

Sitting there in the study a hour later, Uncle Titus now safely out of her eye, she just wasn't comfortable. It wasn't just the straight-back chair that Ian had guided her to, a chair that she just couldn't make herself believe that Titus would have even wanted in his house had he found it in a Dumpster, much less paid good money for. She just felt as if she didn't belong in this gathering.

She supposed that was because she felt that there was a lot about her uncle she didn't know. In the final analysis, she was a stranger and strangers didn't belong at funerals.

Covertly, she looked around the packed room. The array of faces gathered in the study told her that her uncle must have had a great deal of fun over the past years of his life. And, apparently, was willing to pay for it. Why else would he have left all these women something in his will?

She didn't belong here. Aside from the man in the suit, a Geoffrey Daniels from some institute she had never heard of—the Institute for Cryogenics—the room was filled with Titus's lovers, past and present, and his household staff.

One by one, the endowments bequeathed to faithful servants and to the women who had brightened his life for a space of time were read. It seemed to go on endlessly. Stacey shifted in the chair, trying to find a comfortable position.

Had there been some mistake, requesting her presence here?

And then she heard her name, announced in Ian's clear, crisp voice. “And to Stacey Radkin Sommers, my only living relative, I leave my faithful companion for these past few years—”

Stacey tightened her grip on the chair. Uncle Titus was nothing if not unpredictable. He couldn't be leaving her his last mistress, could he?

She said a very fast prayer the nuns at St. Catherine's had drummed into her head.

“—Dog,” Ian said as he continued reading the will. “‘I know, because of her loving heart, she will give him as good a home as I have and take care of him in his declining years.”

Stunned, Stacey blinked. Ian's voice echoed back in her head.

A dog.

Dog.

Oh, God, Brad was going to be furious, she thought. He wasn't going to accept having another animal in the house. When the kids were a lot younger, they had both gone through the usual begging-for-a-pet stage. Brad had turned a deaf ear, then finally, feeling guilty, he had compromised and told her to get goldfish.

Julie had seen that as a stepping-stone to bigger, better pets, pets with a discernible pulse. She'd cajoled him into agreeing to let her have a hamster.

“Howard” had been part of their household for less than a month, when he'd cleverly escaped his cage after Jim had left the top off. It took six days to locate the wayward hamster,
who finally turned himself in by showing up on Brad's pillow. Brad was sleeping on it at the time.

But not for long.

That abruptly drew a close to their foray into the land of pets. Until two years later when Julie prevailed on her father to get Rosie. After much pleading and tears on Julie's part, Brad had relented. Eventually, he'd been grudgingly won over by the Labrador, but had made no bones about the fact that Rosie was never going to have “friends,” nor would she be succeeded once she passed on to her reward. Brad stood firm by his decision.

Stacey raised her hand, attempting to stop Ian before he could get any further. “Um, I really don't think it would be in the dog's best interest to—”

She got no further as Ian raised his cool blue eyes to hers.

“I'm not finished, Mrs. Sommers,” he informed her crisply.

She lowered her hand. “Sorry.”

They could talk about the dog later. But there was absolutely no way she was going to return home with a dog. Besides, how was she going to transport the animal? In a crate in the bottom of an airplane? Depending on how old the dog was, the experience could kill him.

Ian raised his voice, enunciating each syllable clearly. “And, in gratitude for taking care of Dog, I also leave her the sum of $250,000.”

Stacey's jaw dropped as if the temporal mandibular joint had disintegrated.

There had to be some mistake.

The other bequests had all been around the same amount of money: ten thousand dollars. It appeared that Uncle Titus
loved all his women equally. But, be that as it may, he was awarding these sums to women who had obviously given him pleasure. She and Titus had hardly connected once she was in her teens and even less than that after he had bought his island.

“She is to use the money as she, and only she, sees fit,” Ian continued reading. He paused for a second, pushing his slipping glasses back up his nose. “‘Those are my terms, Stacey,'” he quoted. “‘I want you to use the money the way
you
want, not for anything that your husband or children tell you they want. I know you have a warm, giving heart, but if that happens, you are to forfeit the money and it will go to the institute, along with my island and the rest of my worldly possessions, which, according to my lawyer, is equal to the sum of—'”

Stacey wasn't listening. She was too busy trying to absorb the sound bite that had been intended solely for her. And to remember how to breathe.

Twenty-four
hours later, as she disembarked from the private airplane that had brought both her and Dog from Titus's island back to the mainland and Southern California, Stacey still struggled to get her bearings. Still tried to get used to the idea that she had a quarter of a million dollars at her disposal.

And still tried to figure out how to tell Brad about the money and the dog.

She had attempted to get in touch with him twice since the reading of the will. Both times she'd gotten his voice mail. He hadn't answered either message.

Lucky for me I don't need him as a surgeon,
she'd thought as she hung up the second time, just before takeoff.

A warm breeze swept over her now as she wrapped Dog's leash around her hand. The pilot had gotten permission to land the small aircraft at John Wayne Airport, which meant that she didn't have to suffer through the famously huge L.A. traffic snarls in order to get back to her home in Newport Beach.

However, there was still the matter of making the ten-mile trip with a dog. Cab drivers frowned on anything with four feet entering their vehicles. She tried to think who to call to
come get her. Jim was in L.A., or so she surmised, and there was no way she could reach Brad. Even if she could, he wouldn't be able to get away.

As if reading her mind, the pilot smiled as he placed her only piece of luggage on the ground beside her. “Mr. Bryanne hired a private car to take you home.”

One less problem to deal with, she thought, relieved. She wondered if the lanky lawyer had worked out a way to spring the dog on her husband. But even fairy godmothers were known to have their limits. Transportation home was enough magic to hope for.

Dog was intently sniffing at her luggage, acting as if she'd packed away a giant-size treat dipped in bacon. “Mr. Bryanne thinks of everything, doesn't he?”

The pilot nodded, pausing to pet the lively animal. “Pretty much.”

“Make someone a wonderful husband someday,” she murmured to herself, or so she thought. And realized otherwise as she looked at the pilot.

The smile on the man's rugged face had turned into a grin. “Yes'm.” And then he looked past her shoulder at something in the distance. “Looks as if your ride might be here.”

Turning, Stacey shielded her eyes as she tried to peer in the distance. A large, burly man came toward them. He seemed to know his destination, or maybe that was just his commanding aura. He raised his hand and waved at her.

Stacey waved back as Dog barked a greeting. Or a warning. She wasn't sure which, since she hadn't gotten in tune to the animal's behavior and sounds yet.

“Mrs. Sommers.”

Stacey couldn't tell if the man was asking, or greeting her. She acted as if it was a question and replied, “Yes.”

The driver grinned, stooping to pet Dog. “I'm Jake. I'll be driving you home whenever you're ready.”

She took a breath. “I'm ready,” she told him. But even as she said it, she knew she wasn't. Not in the full meaning of the word. She was ready to go home, but not to take on Brad, which was what it was going to amount to. At least she had a few more hours to prepare. With luck, Brad would be called in for some emergency surgery, the way he had on almost every single important occasion in their lives.

“Lead on,” she said.

To her surprise, Jake took the leash from her and picked up the suitcase with his other hand. “This way,” he told her.

After thanking the pilot, Stacey fell into step beside Jake.

“Lot's crowded this morning,” he commented. “I had to park the limousine a distance from the building.”

“Limousine?” Didn't these people believe in economy cars? Everyone was supposed to be acutely aware of the price of gasoline these days.

“Yes'm. Mr. Ian likes nothing but the best for his guests.”

As she slid into the dark, spacious, air-conditioned vehicle, she had to admit that this was nice. Very nice, she thought as Jake closed the door behind her. Dog began to explore the almost bowling-alley distance between the rear seat and the front of the limousine. She could get used to this.

Originally, she'd made arrangements with Brad before she'd left. He was to come pick her up at the airport and drive her home. That was when she'd assumed she was coming back on a commercial flight and landing in LAX. The
change of plans made no difference, at least not to Brad at any rate.

Just before the reading of the will, she'd discovered that her husband had left a message for her on her cell phone, saying that he wasn't going to be able to make it and to call up one of those airport transport services when she landed. It was a cool, distant message, devoid of any of the personal touches and endearments she placed in hers. With Brad, life had become very businesslike. She could hardly get him to unwind in private, much less communicate a private message on something he considered as public as an answering machine device.

Not able to make it.

The phrase echoed back in her brain, even now. For the past few years, for one reason or another, Brad had been unable to “make” most of his life. Only in this limousine was his absence working in her favor. At least it allowed her to put off explaining why she'd returned with a four-footed companion.

All she had to do right now was brace herself for Rosie's reaction to this newest member of the family.

 

Rosie was not a typical Labrador. While most Labradors were created exceedingly friendly, eager to please and more apt to hand a burglar his tools than to guard the house against invasion, Rosie had been born with that rarest of entities for a Labrador: a suspicious nature. It did not dissipate as she grew older. If anything, it became more intensified. Everything new had to be closely scrutinized until she was satisfied that there was no threat to her from this quarter.

So the second Stacey opened the door and entered the
foyer with Dog, Rosie came bounding over, barking as if she meant to set off all the burglar alarms within a fifty-mile radius. The onslaught of teeth-jarring noise lasted all of three minutes, but to no avail. Dog was not intimidated. He didn't even move, not even when Rosie finished circling him and barked right into his muzzle.

Stacey would have said that the animal was deaf if it wasn't for the fact that he obeyed the slightest command that Ian had issued in his low, calm voice. She held on tightly to the leash, in case Dog had second thoughts about his pacifistic approach, but the animal continued with his peaceful resistance.

“Uncle Titus would have been proud of you,” Stacey told him, finally dropping her suitcase next to the door.

The posturing and barking having failed, Rosie obviously decided that it wasn't worth the effort. She opted for investigation next. Circling again, she began sniffing loudly. Sniffing every inch of the mongrel statue. Stacey watched uneasily, still holding on to the leash, wondering what it took to get Dog to react.

Dog remained oblivious to Rosie's intense investigation.

Stacey could only shake her head and laugh. “Either you're older than you look, or you've been married and learned how to tune things out.”

Finally, Rosie tired of her aggressive posturing and made a funny noise that Stacey could only interpret as a greeting.

“So, you're accepting him?” she asked the Labrador.

In response, Rosie trotted out of the room, leading the way to the kitchen. Both her food bowl and her water dish were there.

Following behind the animals, Stacey went to make sure that the Lab hadn't suddenly turned devious on her. She stopped at the kitchen's threshold and smiled to herself. The two dogs were at the water dish. Rosie was inviting Dog to lunch.

At least this had gone better than she'd anticipated. After picking up her suitcase in the foyer, she went straight to the staircase. She absolutely hated unpacking. The sooner she got it over with, the better.

Rosie had been won over with little fanfare. Now if only Brad could react in a similar manner. She could hope. After all, Brad did surprise her once in a while.

 

When the land line rang nearly ninety minutes later, Stacey stopped grooming the new addition to their family and got up off her knees. Reaching the closest telephone, she picked up the receiver and glanced at the LCD screen. It registered “private,” which could have meant anything from an unlisted number, to Julie's cell phone, to a crafty telemarketer or a charity. The latter two groups had gotten clever when it came to getting their calls through. More than once she'd found herself listening to either a pitch for some indispensable object she couldn't live without, or a plea for a donation. She could handle the latter. Especially now.

“Hello?”

“Stace?”

The sound of the deep male voice had her both smiling and stiffening in anticipation as she glanced at the dog who'd lain down docilely at her feet.

“Brad? What are you doing calling home?” He never
called home, not since his early residency days. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes.” His tone told her he didn't understand her concern. “I had a few minutes between patients and I thought I'd check in to see if you'd gotten home yet.”

The rare display of thoughtfulness stunned her. It also made her feel guilty about what she was going to spring on him.

“I'm home,” she answered, sounding so cheerful she hurt her own teeth.

“I picked up on that.” She heard the rustle of papers. That was more like it. She knew the man couldn't take a complete break. “I wasn't sure if you'd be there yet. Traffic must be light.”

She decided to work backward, telling him about the ride first, then about the private plane, which would lead her directly to the dog. “Actually, I came home by private car—” She got no further.

“A taxi?” Brad cried, annoyed. “That must have cost much more than an airport shuttle. Stacey, you know how I feel about wasting money.”

Stacey closed her eyes. God, if she knew nothing else, she knew every single one of his policies about money. The man resisted turning on the air-conditioning unless the temperature hit over eighty-four degrees outside.

“You didn't waste any,” she answered tersely. “Uncle Titus paid for it. Or rather, his estate did.”

There was a slight perplexed pause on the other end. “Oh, well then, that's okay, I guess. That was nice of him.” The silence was awkward. “How was it?”

“All right,” she replied, her voice struggling to rise through a throat that was tightening. “For a funeral.”

“Yeah, well…”

His voice drifted off. Stacey took the opportunity to jump in. Now or never. “Brad, there's something I have to tell you.”

“'Fraid it's going to have to wait, Stace. I've got to get to my next patient.”

She wanted to get this over with. The anticipation was wreaking havoc on her stomach. “They won't bolt if you talk to me for a minute longer.”

“No,” he replied in that patient voice she had grown to hate, “but that'll put me one minute behind, which will lengthen my day and make me come home late. You know how you hate my coming home late—”

“One minute late.” When had he ever been one minute late? With Brad, it was always a matter of hours, not minutes. “That'll be a record,” she murmured under her breath.

“What?”

She shrugged to herself. She had no desire to get into a heated discussion with him. God knew there was time enough for that when he got home. “Nothing. I'll see you at home tonight.”

“Count on it,” he said before hanging up.

“I do,” she said to the empty receiver before she replaced it back in the cradle. “I always do.” The man was nothing if not faithful.

She looked down at the dog, who was still contentedly parked at her feet. “Looks like the execution's been postponed for a few hours, Dog.”

But not indefinitely.