Her Mother's Shadow (6 page)

L
acey stood next to the examining table at the animal hospital, her hands buried in the thick, black shoulder fur of a Bernese mountain dog, while her father snipped the stitches from several shaved areas on the dog's side.

“You're being such a good boy,” Lacey cooed to the dog. He was huge, a hundred and ten pounds, and panting up a storm. His heavy coat was not designed for a North Carolina summer.

“He's healing very well,” her father said.

From where she stood, she could see how the gray was rapidly invading her father's once dark hair, and for some reason, that distressed her.

“Don't you try to escape again,” Lacey said to the dog, who appeared to be ignoring her. He stared straight ahead at the wall, stoically tolerating the procedure until he could return to the waiting room and his beloved owner. The dog belonged to a family staying in a beachfront house, and he'd run straight through a flimsy wooden fence on the day of their arrival, anxious to cool off in the ocean.

Suzy, the receptionist, suddenly opened the door to the examining room and poked her head inside.

“There's a gorgeous vase full of yellow roses out here for you, Lacey,” she said. “They were just delivered.”

“You're kidding.” Lacey looked at Suzy. “Who are they from?” She knew there could only be one answer to that question.

Suzy held up a small envelope. “You've got your hands full,” she said. “Want me to open it for you?”

Lacey nodded, and Suzy pulled out the card and held it toward her. One hand still deep in the dog's fur, Lacey took the card and read the handwritten message to herself.
You are the best thing about this summer. With affection, Rick.

“Well?” Suzy asked with a grin, her curiosity clearly piqued.

“A friend.” Lacey slipped the card into the pocket of her lab coat. “Thanks for letting me know.”

Suzy left the room, and Lacey did not need to look at her father to know his eyes were on her.

“Roses, huh?” he asked. Two little words, but she knew all that was behind them.
What are you doing, Lacey? Are you being careful? Are you falling into your old ways?

“Not from anyone special, Dad,” she said.

He returned his attention to the stitches without another word, but she knew he wasn't finished. He wouldn't be able to help himself. She wasn't surprised when he spoke again. “None of them were ever special to you, though,” he said. “That was the problem, wasn't it? That you were indiscriminate? That caring about a person wasn't really what mattered to—”

“Dad,”
she said. She loved him immensely, but he could be such a pain in the neck. “I don't want to talk about this, okay? The roses are from a nice guy I've been seeing re
cently.
Platonically.
They're
yellow
roses, not red. Please have a little faith in me.” She was quiet a moment, then added, “Gina and Clay have met him, and they like him.”

She and Rick had been out three times so far, and she'd finally allowed him to pick her up at the keeper's house the night before. She'd been nervous about introducing him to her brother and sister-in-law, but they'd instantly been able to tell that Rick was different from the other men she'd dated. The house had been full of people when he arrived, and she'd worried that Rick would be overwhelmed. Henry, the grandfather of Clay's first wife, and Walter, Gina's grandfather, were both there. The two elderly men were frequent visitors to the house, especially now that Rani had arrived. The men had lost their dear, longtime friend, Brian Cass, over the winter and some of the joy had gone out of them. Rani, though, had brought it back.

Rick had handled all the introductions easily, and this morning at breakfast, Clay and Gina had given him their stamp of approval.

Her father snipped the final stitch and straightened up. “I'm sorry, hon,” he said, reaching for a dog treat from the bowl on the counter.

“I feel like a kid who gets an A-minus on a test and you yell at her for not getting an A,” Lacey said, still wounded.

He smiled at that. “I know you've tried hard to change, Lace,” he said. “I've admired that. And I do trust you. I just flipped out there for a sec.”

He was backpedaling so fast she felt sorry for him. “It's okay,” she said. She helped him lift the dog from the table and set him on the floor. The dog instantly ran to the door of the room, pawing to be let out. She reattached his leash to his collar.

“I'll take him out,” Alec said, taking the leash from her hand. “Your shift's nearly over.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

The roses, resting in a glass vase on the reception counter, were beautiful and just about to open fully. Ordinarily, she would stop at a restaurant, usually Sam and Omie's, for lunch between her morning at the animal hospital and her afternoon in her studio, but she wanted to take the roses home with her and they would bake in the car while she was eating. So, instead, she bought a sandwich from the Subway around the corner and settled into the small kitchen at the animal hospital to eat and read.

The book she was reading was titled
Making Good Choices: A Woman's Guide to Relationships,
and was one of a half dozen her therapist had recommended to her. Most of the books, filled with psychobabble, had not spoken to her, but this one did. She could see herself in the anecdotes the author used to illustrate her points. And this author was forward-looking rather than focusing on the past. Lacey appreciated that. She did not want to be analyzed. She didn't want to look at how, in some bizarre way, she had followed her mother's promiscuous footsteps without even knowing about them. She just wanted to stop. This author made sense.
It's so much easier to stop an old behavior when you have a new behavior to take its place,
she suggested. The author was big on relationships that started as friendships, that did not rush toward physical intimacy, that involved deep and open communication. The person selected for that relationship should be someone different from the type of person the reader was ordinarily drawn to, the author advised. Someone who would not trigger those old behaviors. Someone, Lacey knew, like Rick.

He had kissed her for the first time last night. She doubted she had ever been on three dates before without kissing. In truth, she had not been on three dates before without going
to bed with the guy. Last night's kiss had been chaste, closed-mouthed, and that had been fine with her. She'd wanted nothing more than that. She was a bit worried she had permanently frightened the libido out of herself, but maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. She knew she should be thrilled that Rick had come along at this point in her life. Someone decent, who listened to her when she said she needed to move slowly, who made no demands on her. It felt like a gift, like some greater power was telling her, “You've been a good girl for a whole year, Lacey. Now you have earned this truly decent man.” And yet, something was missing.

She was now reading a chapter she desperately needed: Discovering Attraction Where There Is None.
“Often,”
the author wrote,
“women are attracted to ‘bad boys,' those men who are a challenge or who are in need of ‘fixing.' The ‘good boys' are uninteresting and unattractive to these women. But feelings follow behavior. If the man seems right, but the chemistry is lacking, stop focusing on that point. Instead, talk to yourself about his good qualities. I promise, if it was meant to be, loving feelings will follow.”

This was perfect timing, Lacey thought. She had the man. The good boy. And he was even attractive.
Feelings follow behavior.
Standing up from the table, she reached for the phone on the wall. She would call to thank him for the roses.

E
ven as he pulled into the parking lot in front of Lacey's studio, Rick could see the roses through the broad front windows. She had brought them with her from the animal hospital. They meant something to her, and that could either be good or bad.

He was not exactly sure how to proceed with Lacey. All he knew was that he needed to move carefully. It was unusual for a woman not to fawn all over him. He was undeniably handsome. He was an attorney. He drove a BMW. But it was clear that superficial trappings didn't matter to Lacey, and that frankly intrigued him. She couldn't handle too much of him at once, though. Of that he was certain.

He turned off the ignition and picked up a book from the passenger seat, resting it on his lap. He wondered if stopping in to see her after sending her roses and after speaking to her on the phone only an hour before—and now bringing her yet another gift—would qualify as too much. He was willing to take the risk, though. The roses in the window gave him courage.

He'd learned to time his visits to the studio when Tom Nestor wasn't present. He'd actually been relieved to learn that Tom was Lacey's biological father, because it explained the extreme interest the man seemed to take in her affairs. Still, he would just as soon visit with her alone.

He walked into the studio, the book in his hand, and was surprised when Lacey stood up, walked over to him, and gave him a quick hug.

“It's good to see you,” she said.

“You, too.”

This was a rare welcome from Lacey. He must have turned a corner with her with those flowers. The vase rested on the table next to the kaleidoscopes, and the afternoon light shone through the fragile petals.

“What a perfect spot for the roses,” he said. “They nearly look like they're made of stained glass sitting there.”

“That's exactly what I was thinking,” she said, taking her seat behind her worktable again. She was so pretty in her pale, freckled way. So delicate looking. He hoped he would not hurt her. “They're inspiring me, actually,” she continued. “I think my next piece will be yellow roses.”

He sat down on the chair adjacent to the table. “Glad I could tweak your artistic sense a bit,” he said, then added, “You act like you don't receive flowers very often.”

“I don't think I ever have,” she admitted. “At least not from a man. Well, other than my father or Tom.”

“Hard to believe,” he said. “A woman like you deserves flowers.”

She shrugged off the compliment, and he thought he might have taken things a bit too far with it.

Two customers, a man and a woman, walked into the studio and began wandering among the glass and photographs. Rick lowered his voice to avoid being heard by them.

“Listen,” he said. “I wanted to tell you that I spoke with a friend of mine who's more familiar with criminal law than I am. He had some suggestions for you on how to protest that guy's parole.”

She was suddenly all ears. “What did he say?”

“You'll need to contact the members of the parole commission,” he said. “They're the people who decide whether this guy…what's his name again?”

“Zachary Pointer.”

“Whether he should be paroled or not. They'll take into account his previous criminal record and his behavior in prison. Do you know anything about that?”

Lacey glanced over at the man and woman, who were standing in front of a glass panel, talking about its colors.

“I don't think he had a criminal record,” she said, looking as though that fact disappointed her. “And I have no idea what he's been like in prison.”

“Well, here's where you have some input,” he said. “The commission has to take into account any information they get from you or from other people who knew your mother and were impacted by her death. You'll need to write what they call a victim impact statement. How his crime has impacted your life. Everyone in your family can submit one. You're in the best position to write one, though, since you were impacted both by the loss of your mother and by witnessing her…what happened.”

She nodded slowly, her gaze somewhere in space as she thought over what he'd said. “Okay,” she said. “I can do that.”

The man and woman headed for the door, and the woman turned to Lacey, waving with a smile. “We'll be back later,” she said. “I want to get my sister to see that stained glass rooster.”

“Okay,” Lacey said. “See you then.”

Rick waited for Lacey's attention to return to him. “You—or your attorney, at least—will want to look back at any statements the guy made after the arrest and during the trial,” he continued. “Look for a lack of remorse, or that he's still protesting his innocence. Anything that shows he needs continued incarceration.”

“All right,” Lacey said.

He hesitated, a little nervous about the next item on his agenda. “On another note, though,” he said, “I have something for you.” He handed the book to her. She looked at the title.
Forgiveness.
Then she raised her eyes to him, her expression quizzical.

“Are you very religious or something?” she asked.

He smiled. “Nope. Just a run-of-the-mill, hardly-ever-goes-to-church Presbyterian. But I've just…Well, I've worked hard at figuring out my priorities,” he said. “You know, what's most important in life. What's worth my effort and energy and time and—”

“He killed my mother, Rick,” she said, a flash of fire in her deep blue eyes.

He nodded. “I understand. Or rather, I guess I
don't
understand what that must feel like. I'm sorry.”

The jingling sound of glass against glass caught their attention, and Rick turned to see a woman push the studio door open with such force that the small, stained glass sun-catchers hanging on it were in danger of breaking. The woman was very tanned, her white-blond hair pinned up at the back of her head. She wore a navy blue suit with a small gold pin on the lapel, and she was not a customer, that much was clear. Her eyes were red and smudged with mascara.

“Nola!” Lacey was instantly on her feet, rushing toward the woman. “What's wrong?”

“Oh, Lacey, I'm beside myself!” The woman stood in the middle of the floor, looking as though she might burst into tears. Her hands were pressed to her cheeks and the heavy gold bracelets on her wrists clanged together. Her fingers sparkled with rings.

“I can see that.” Lacey took her arm and drew her toward Tom Nestor's worktable. “Here, sit in Tom's chair. Are Jessica and Mackenzie all right?”

“I think so,” the woman said. “I mean, I think they'll be all right. But I'm on my way to Arizona and wanted to stop in to let you know what was going on before I left.” She looked at Lacey, her eyes wide and filled with pain. “Jessica and Mackenzie were in a car wreck,” she said.

“Oh, my God.” Lacey's hand flew to her mouth. She lowered herself to her haunches in front of the woman, her long skirt billowing around her on the floor, and rested one of her hands on Nola's. “How bad?”

“Mackenzie's fine, or at least that's what they're telling me. But Jessica has broken ribs and a collapsed lung and a broken pelvis—” the woman ticked the injuries off on her fingers “—and who knows what else.”

“Oh, Nola, how awful.” Lacey looked over at Rick. “Jessica—Nola's daughter—is an old friend of mine,” she explained. “How did it happen?”

“A drunk driver,” Nola said. “That's all I know. I'm going out there to take care of Mackenzie while Jessica is in the hospital. Right now, she's with a neighbor.”

“You'll feel better once you see Jess and know she's in good hands,” Lacey said, and Rick could see tears forming in her eyes as well. He felt intrusive.

Nola nodded, but she looked unconvinced. “My poor little girl.”

Lacey stood up and leaned over to hug her. The woman
was unresponsive, stiff as a stick. He wondered how old she was. There was not a wrinkle on her tanned face, and it was obvious she'd visited a plastic surgeon more than once.

“She's tried so hard to make it, Lacey,” Nola said, a mix of anger and sorrow in her voice. “You know that. Raising Mackenzie by herself, holding down a stressful job, going to school at night.”

“I know,” Lacey agreed. “Maybe I should go with you.”

“No, no.” Nola opened her large brown leather purse and pulled a tissue from inside it. She stood up, dabbing at her eyes. “I'll call you when I see how she is.”

“Please do,” Lacey said, embracing the woman once again. “Please call me right away.”

With a nod, Nola turned and walked out the door, the sun-catchers clanking against the glass once again.

Lacey sank into her chair behind the worktable. “I can't believe it,” she said. “Poor Jessica.”

“You're very close to her?” he asked.

“We grew up together.” She was staring at the door, but he could tell she was not really seeing it. “She was my best friend from the time we were in kindergarten through junior high. She got pregnant when she was fifteen, though, and Nola shipped her off to Arizona to live with her cousins and she ended up staying out there. We've lost touch a bit since then, but we still have these long, wonderful phone conversations a few times a year. I haven't seen Mackenzie—her daughter—since the last time they visited the Outer Banks, which must have been three years ago.” She stood up abruptly. “I've got to go home,” she said. “I want to call her. I need to hear for myself how she is.”

“Of course,” he said, standing up.

Lacey looked at her watch. “I'll call Tom to come back to the studio to keep it open, but would you mind staying
until he gets here? In case that couple comes back? Or I could just lock up and put a sign on the—”

“I'll stay,” he said. “It'll make me feel like I'm helping somehow.”

She smiled at him, a quick, distracted sort of smile. “Thanks,” she said, gathering up her purse and day planner. “I'll talk to you later.”

He watched her leave. She was gentle with the door; the sun-catchers barely clinked against the glass. Looking over at her worktable, he noticed she had left behind the book on forgiveness. He wanted to run after her, press it into her hands, but he didn't dare. She already thought him strange in that regard, a religious zealot, perhaps. And the last thing he wanted to do was to scare her away.