Hush (21 page)

―But if you had the money, you‘d try, right?‖

―Jesus, Mom. Yes!‖

Kathy nodded and wisely walked away before Gen could bite her head off further. She felt a small pang of guilt. Her mom just wanted to help, but there was no helping this situation.

If only her father had lived . . . if only Jarrod had a decent-paying job . . . if only there were a pot of gold delivered to her front door. . . .

She thought about Annette again and felt a pang of grief mixed with envy. Her husband had given her that sapphire pendant necklace for her birthday. What had Jarrod gotten her when she turned twenty-nine? He‘d taken her to a special restaurant on her special night. It was sweet, she could admit it, and they‘d made passionate love later that night, giddy with the hundred-dollar bottle of Dom Perignon he‘d splurged on. But then they‘d got in a big fight where she‘d begged him to grow his hair out again and he‘d accused her of trying to turn him into Lucas Moore.

Well . . . that had certainly stopped the breath in her throat.

Lucas Moore . . .

Now Genevieve tilted her head back, closing her eyes, remembering. Lucas . . . lovely, lovely Lucas. She‘d lain right down on the sand with him atop her that night. They‘d made out furiously earlier, standing up, and had been seen by the likes of Coby Rendell. Lucas had made out with some of the other girls, too. It was kind of his way. Like he liked having a Lothario rep. But he‘d met Genevieve later and she‘d let him lie atop her on the sand. It was cold as hell but she wanted him. In fact, she begged him to hurry in case Rhiannon or someone else came looking for them. He‘d been almost reluctant, which had surprised her because he was the kind of lazy, sexy guy who took whatever came his way. But called to task, at the moment of true desire, he‘d paused, poised above her, unwilling to enter her completely though she was raking her hands along his back, grabbing his buttocks and squirming like a bitch in heat beneath him.

―Come on,‖ she‘d urged in his ear, biting delicately.

She‘d done
it
before, once, with that college guy who‘d so impressed her dad, a law student with a huge ego and roving hands. He‘d pressed Gen up against the door to her father‘s den, then held his hand over her mouth as he pushed inside her hard, groaning like a wild man while she was half-smothered. Her dad and mom had been out to dinner, briefly, and he‘d practically slammed her up against the wall as soon as their car turned out of the driveway. Gen had thought about using it as her secret the night of the campout but she‘d been a little embarrassed. She‘d just
hated
it, the way his tongue nearly strangled her and he flopped around on her and shoved himself inside too fast, hurting her. But it wasn‘t cool to hate sex. No self-respecting high school girl hated sex.

And anyway, she knew she wouldn‘t hate sex with Lucas. She wanted him. Wanted him with that kind of hot, wet desire they talked about in the male magazines she‘d purchased from the Plaid Pantry down the street in a desperate attempt to connect with her inner slut.

But Lucas Moore made her feel that way by just looking at him. That chest . . . those abs . . .

that back . . . that hair! That night she ran her hands through it, reveling in the long, silky strands.

When she kept thrusting her hips up at him, arching her back, and moaning like she was going to die, he couldn‘t hold back and finally drove into her, gasping her name, and Genevieve finally got what the big deal about sex was. She felt thrilled, thrilled to her core, that he was inside her.

But it was over way too soon. He suddenly stiffened, groaned, ―God . . . no,‖ and spilled his seed inside her. As cold as it was outside on the beach, as uncomfortable as the sand was that crept around her own clothes, which she‘d thrown down for a blanket, she was warm inside. Glowing.

Hot.

Afterward, she was afraid she might be pregnant. Kinda hoping, too. But that night she brushed back his hair and soothed, ―It‘s all right. It‘s all right. All right . . .‖

They were both kinda drunk, but not that drunk. ―Jesus, it‘s not all right,‖ Lucas muttered.

He pulled out of her quickly and she gasped with the cold, groping for her underwear, dragging them on and feeling sand. But she didn‘t care. She really just wanted him to make love to her again, and she tried to hold on to him but he was on his feet, pulling on his jeans, which he ‘d worn commando style, something she found wildly sexy, something she still tried to get Jarrod to do upon occasion, though he seldom did.

But then the next school year it was Yvette who was pregnant, not Genevieve. Yvette who declared she and Lucas Moore were in love! The lying slut. Lucas wasn‘t with her that night, unless he left Genevieve on the sand and went straight into her arms, which he didn‘t, because Gen talked him into having a second go after he‘d gone back to the camp and scored them each a couple more vodka and Sprites. The second time took longer and wasn‘t quite as good, but Genevieve didn‘t care. Then Lucas told her to go back and get in her sleeping bag and he would be back in a few minutes, but no one could know.

So she did. And Jarrod Lockwood was asleep in a bag next to hers, which she thought was totally terrific. Great cover. He‘d moved from being near Coby Rendell to being near Genevieve and she was all about it. She hadn‘t known at the time that Coby had already picked up her bag and hightailed it back to the beach house.

So she lay on her back and stared up at the stars, shivering with the cold that had seeped in, but she was smiling.

Lucas is mine!
she thought before falling into a hard sleep that was really more like a half-drunken coma.

Then the next morning when she woke up there was no Lucas. And no Yvette. And no Coby. And Theo and Ellen had moved outside their circle because they‘d obviously been doing it all night, which kinda half pissed Genevieve off.
She
was the one who‘d fucked her brains out.
She
was the one who‘d been with Lucas Moore! She was the one who‘d finally figured out what the big deal was about sex, sex, sex! She didn‘t want Ellen to have that crown. The slut. Hadn‘t she learned anything from her
abortion?

But then Lucas was dead.

Even now Genevieve felt an internal quiver of dread and disbelief, remembering how she ‘d felt when she‘d learned. What had happened? How could he possibly be dead?

And now Annette.

And Rhiannon, in between.

Rhee, Gen thought guiltily. She‘d tried to become Rhee‘s friend, for a while. Rhiannon was Lucas‘s accepted girlfriend and though it was kind of a lie, Gen gravitated to her. Wanted to be near her. Like it made Lucas seem still a little bit more alive. ‘Cause Rhiannon didn‘t want to give up his memory one little bit. Uh-uh. Anytime you saw her, she relived the whole Lucas Moore part of her life, like it was the absolute epitome, and maybe it was. Her alcoholic mom just got worse and worse and even Rhee‘s brothers gave up on her. Rhiannon stayed with her, always trying to find a cure, but it never happened. She died shortly after Rhee‘s accident and it seemed to Gen like everybody left in the family, Mr. Gallworth and his three sons, breathed a collective sigh of relief.

But without Rhiannon, Lucas faded away. Genevieve had married Jarrod by that time and she bullishly focused on developing a new life with him. She tried. She really, really did, especially in the beginning, but God help her, Lucas‘s image kept intruding. It wasn‘t that she constantly wanted to remember him; far from it. But she did wish Jarrod would indulge her fantasies just a teensy little bit and try to be more like him. Why couldn‘t he grow his hair out again? Was it really too much to ask? And couldn‘t he act just a little less willing to screw his wife, like he was having second thoughts? A little role-playing when she ran her fingers through his hair and dragged his mouth to her hungry one, instead of the gentle lovemaking he thought she liked?

What she wanted was to wrap her legs around him, tangle her fingers in his hair, and throw back her head and grunt with desire.

Except his hair was short. Fucking short.

And he was sweet and self-deprecating and a tender lover, which should have made everything better but didn‘t. Didn‘t!

But a baby—that would make her feel better. She could forget Lucas, forget everything if she just had a baby. Annette had felt the same way, but she probably didn‘t have the same female problems as Gen. She just couldn‘t get Daddy Dave to go for it.

Gen looked out at the embattled rhododendrons and scowled.

It just wasn‘t fair.

Lovejoy‘s was an apartment building that rambled over half a block of prime real estate, erected at the turn of the last century when the Victorian style was all the rage. It had been converted to a hotel in the early 1980s with the original house rearranged into an office, reception desk, and small tearoom during the day, wine bar at night, and there were several rooms in the back reconfigured as hotel rooms with handicap access. There were no elevators. Guests found their way to the adjoining apartments via covered outdoor stairways and walkways. The room decor was straight out of the Victorian era with ornate filigree, heavy maroon velvet curtains held back by gold ropes, lots of delicate china tchotchkes and crystal chandeliers. The plumbing and electricity had been completely overhauled throughout the sixties, seventies, and eighties, and by the time Lawrence Knapp brought the property to the attention of Jean-Claude Deneuve and Dave Rendell, all that really remained to do was find financing, easy enough during the time the sale was made.

Lovejoy‘s was also one of the only hotels available in the coveted Alphabet District of Portland; the more modern chain hotels were north, toward Thurman, where you could find your Hiltons and Holiday Inns.

When her father was buying into Lovejoy‘s, Coby was finishing college and trying to get over the fact he was marrying Annette Deneuve. She paid little attention to the negotiations. Faith, too, had practically clapped her hands over her ears and run screaming from the idea of anything their father was doing. He‘d always been involved in finance, at some level, and as far as Coby knew, had been nothing less than brilliant in his job. When the bottom fell out of the real estate market in late 2007, he and Jean-Claude were already well-established in Lovejoy‘s and Dave had long moved from the financial sector. Jean-Claude had been in the hotel business all his life, working for some of the large chains. Lovejoy‘s was the first foray on his own, but he brought valuable experience to the partnership. With Dave‘s money and financial acumen and Jean-Claude‘s on-the-job experience, they formed an enterprising partnership. Annette as general manager was a no-brainer.

The hotel had a deal with a small parking structure across the street; they were all small in Portland‘s Nob Hill. For an exorbitant fee you could park your car there, exorbitant being the going rate in the area. Coby pulled in, checked the hourly fee, and shuddered. But it was either the lot or driving around forever trying to secure a parking spot, like San Francisco‘s Nob Hill in more ways than one.

From the street, Lovejoy‘s presented a large three-story home complete with two flanking Victorian turrets and a huge, double front door thick with beveled glass windows that ran from another beveled-glass transom above to a brass kick plate below. Coby climbed the five-step stoop, looked through those windows, and was rewarded with a watery view of a hotel lobby complete with mahogany desk and paneling and a dark red carpet with a gold fleur-de-lis pattern.

Inside, a young man stood at the reception desk. He wore a black jacket and slacks and a white shirt with a maroon tie. His near-black hair was slicked down and wet-looking, on purpose, Coby felt. The look made his pale skin seem downright ashen. He had large gray eyes, a mouth with pressed lips, and a harried expression on his face.

―May I help you?‖ he asked in a tone that suggested he really didn‘t have the time. Coby read the dull brass tag on his jacket lapel that read ―William Johnson, Assistant Manager,‖ the one whose name Nicholette could not remember.

―I‘m Coby Rendell. My father is expecting me?‖

He blinked several times, processing. ―Oh. Oh, okay. Yes, yes. Mr. Rendell is in the back office. I‘ll go get him.‖

He left the front desk and hurried through a carved door that led to a back room. Coby leaned an arm on the counter and gazed around with new eyes. She didn‘t know what Lovejoy‘s was worth, but she could hazard a guess. And it must be doing a healthy business, as her father had bought his wife a sapphire pendant necklace that looked, and undoubtedly was, expensive.

His wife—whose death had been ruled a homicide.

And where was that necklace now?

Dave came out from the back room and met his daughter with another bear hug. ―Bug,‖ he said brokenly.

―Dad, I—‖ She cut herself off when she recognized the woman who‘d followed him, a few steps behind, from the inner sanctum. ―Mom?‖ she questioned, not hiding her surprise.

―Hi, honey.‖ Leta Rendell smiled at her daughter. She was fifty-four, newly trim, as if working out was a daily routine—Barry‘s influence?—and her hair, always short, was now shoulder length and tucked in at her chin. She looked ten years younger than the last time Coby had seen her, which was . . . well, a few months ago now.

―What are you doing here?‖ Coby asked her.

―Well, your dad needed someone,‖ she said, as if Coby were truly dense.

―I know, but . . . how did you learn . . .‖ She turned to her father. ―Did you tell her?‖

He spread his hands. ―I‘m a wreck. I can‘t believe any of this! Leta came by and I told her when she got here.‖

―It‘s shocking,‖ Leta responded, pulling in her shoulders and shivering. ―Murder. Really? It feels so . . . melodramatic.‖

Coby was just staring at her mother. As far as she knew, they didn‘t have anything to do with each other, but here they were, acting as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her to

―be there‖ for him.

―She comes by a lot,‖ Dave added, seeing Coby‘s face.

―Really?‖ Coby questioned.

―She heard about what happened to Annette from Faith,‖ Dave said.