Retribution: The Second Chances Trilogy Book Three (22 page)

“Might! There, you see?
Another
qualifier. He was just tryin’ to cushion the blow. His was just another example of tryin’ to protect me from the ugly truth. That’s all he was about.”

“Stop it! I mean it. You stop this now or . . . or . . .”

“Or what?”

“Or I won’t go home with you.”

“Guess I should’ve seen that coming. Only stands to reason, doesn’t it, then. Only figures you’d have a change of heart and a mountain of regrets after all the shit I’ve put you through.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake. Don’t be silly. Don’t be
ridiculous
. I’ve had no change of heart. I have no regrets. I continue to love you beyond all reason, and because I do, I’m prepared to remain here in this hospital until you regain your senses.”

“Regain? Who says they’re lost? What’s senseless about being sorry and wanting to make up for all the—”

“There’s nothing to make up for.”

“Bleedin’ hell, Laurel, I walked out on you. I wasn’t there when you needed me. You can’t just ignore—”

“No, I can’t, but I can remind you that when you walked out the need hadn’t yet occurred. And I can forgive you, just as you’ve forgiven me every hour on the hour for not telling you about Rayce the minute I knew. I can also restore some balance to the situation by letting my selfishness for wanting to protect you serve as the tradeoff for your exaggerated sense of . . . of—”

The ringing of the bedside phone prevents her citing him for self-importance, conceit, vanity, arrogance, and any other rock star characteristic that might come to mind.

“Saved by the bell,” she says without indicating who was saved.

Colin takes the call they were waiting for, listens for a minute or two and replaces the receiver. “That was the all-clear. They’re ready for us now.”

“Then the hospital staff is still cooperating, the ruse is still working.”

“Apparently so. With one exception. They’re telling me the majority of the paparazzi that gave chase to the decoy ambulance yesterday are now milling round outside the London clinic where you supposedly were transferred, but there was one lone latecomer here in Middlestone. Bold as brass, this straggler was. Waltzed up to reception earlier today and asked for you by name. They said he called himself a former client of yours, but the oversize camera bag he was lugging got him hustled out the door straightaway.”

“I see,” she says to keep from saying how much that bothers her, how apprehensive she’s been ever since word leaked out that she was a patient at Middlestone Hospital and the media buzzards flocked as though to a roadkill. She bows her head, pretends interest in the condition of her manicure until she’s sure her face won’t give her away, as did the bold imposter’s camera bag. When she’s ready to resume, she picks up the least disturbing thread of the parent discussion.

“You never said whose idea it was to use a decoy,” she says as if she couldn’t guess.

“That’s got Nate’s touch. He used to resort to decoys and staged distractions in the old days, but I don’t recall an ambulance ever being involved.”

“Is that how he kept the press at bay when you were hospitalized?”

“You’d have to ask him about that.” Colin gathers up her few belongings that include a sealed plastic bag containing the bloodstained nightgown she arrived in. “I only recall the times he relied on subterfuge when . . . she was playing the prankster, when she was tipping the press to our whereabouts, then carrying on about invasion of privacy in a dramatic fashion that brought the front page exposure she craved. Had his hands full in those days, Nate did. Had to foil both her
and
the press, actually.”

“You don’t have to avoid saying her name on my account. In fact,
I
was about to say her name in conjunction with something I forgot to tell you earlier—about how Aurora fit into the context in which Nate figured out how Rayce happened to—”

This time it’s a soft knock on the door that forestalls a potentially inflammatory remark.

“Save it, love. Save the talk till later when I’ll be wanting to hear more about this loving me beyond all reason.” He smirks at her, the first positive expression he’s displayed in two days; he puts on the billed cap that’s been dangling from the back pocket of his jeans, tugs it low on his brow and allows an aide to push her wheelchair as part of the ongoing effort to appear as ordinary as possible.

They go out through the ambulance bay, where they’re met by a drab Volkswagen van manned by a uniformed driver and bodyguard. She’s a little surprised that they are the only security personnel in evidence, but that too must be part of maintaining a low profile.

Colin helps her from the wheelchair and into the van, settles beside her and confides that the adjacent parking areas are virtually crawling with low profile security enlisted on their behalf. “At Nate’s insistence,” he says. “Even though the primary leak was plugged, he still had some concerns. You know how he feels about any amount of media presence bein’ the next best thing to a homing device.”

“Who doesn’t?” she says, remembering how strongly this was emphasized during the media frenzy surrounding David’s funeral, where she couldn’t have felt more exposed if she’d been wearing a target on her back. “Who doesn’t?” she echoes herself absently and closes her mind to the possibility of feeling that way now.

They exit the hospital parking lot without any followers that she can detect—hired or otherwise. Colin slips his arm around her, whispers reassurances that become subordinate to the filler that’s seeping into her mind in place of conscious fear. It’s one of Rayce’s selections that’s crowding out other thoughts, one of Shakespeare’s most memorable, one of her father’s favorites; one that she makes fit the occasion, as she has so many other of Rayce’s finds.

“This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,” she begins just audibly, trailing off into something less than a whisper.

“What?” Colin looks at her askance. “What’s that you’re saying? You do know your lips are moving, don’t you?”

“King Richard’s thoughts on England . . . ‘This fortress built by nature . . . against infection . . . set in the silver sea which serves it as a wall . . . as a moat defensive to a house . . . against the envy of less happier lands.’”

“Got it. I know that one. It’s the ‘sceptred isle’ one. And it ends with ‘this blessed plot . . . this earth . . . this realm . . . this England.’ Am I right? Am I right thinking you’ve gone quite mad with love of adopted country? What’re we in for next? Rousing chorus of ‘Jerusalem’ will it be, or just a simple straightforward rendition of ‘God Save the Queen?’”

At home, the porte-cochère is otherwise vacant when they enter its shelter. No welcoming committee, for which Laurel is grateful. No dogs bound out to greet them and even Cyril, the rooster, a regular fixture within this graveled precinct, is nowhere in sight. The subdued atmosphere prevails inside the house as well. Rachel can easily be imagined instructing good-intentioned neighbors and household staff to keep their distance—to avoid any overwrought displays pointing up this latest loss.

On the long walk through the central corridor, the two household staff members they do encounter are both determined in their effort to carry on as usual, offering only polite nods before scurrying away. At the main staircase, Colin is all for carrying her to the bedroom floor. She resists.

“Don’t push your luck,” Laurel says not unpleasantly. “I think my agreement to go to bed—to at least rest in the bedroom—is enough of a concession, don’t you?”

He can’t argue with that, but he does succeed in slowing their progress up the double flight of stairs to one hesitant step at a time.

“That’s two,” she says at the top. “That makes
two
concessions you’ve squeezed out of me,” she responds to his puzzled look. “I could have taken the stairs at my regular pace, you know, and I really don’t feel the need to rest.”

“But you will,” Colin says in a whisper as they pass the boys’ rooms, where Simon is presumably napping.

“Where is Anthony?” She says at the entrance to their own sleeping quarters. “He should be home from school by now, shouldn’t he?”

“I’m in here,” Anthony answers from within the bedroom. “I’m supposed to mind you whilst Dad meets with this bloke that’s waiting for him in the snug,” he says from a spot near the small sofa, where he’s holding a ragtag bouquet of late summer blooms. The boy is as ill at ease as she’s ever seen him, almost as though he had done something wrong. Like father, like son?

“Come here, darling.” She holds out her arms and swallows hard. “You can hug me, I won’t break,” she says when he sets the flowers aside, takes a few faltering steps then hurries to her. “I’m all right, Anthony. Everything’s going to be all right. I promise.” She kisses the top of his head, tousles his hair and has to bite her bottom lip when his sharp intake of breath sounds for all the world like one of her sob-suppressing hiccoughs.

“Who’s waiting for you in the snug?” she says to Colin after composures are regained and she’s settled with Anthony on the sofa.

“Emmet. Something he didn’t want to discuss on the phone.”

“I see.” Laurel contemplates the sheer number of issues Emmet Hollingsworth could be reluctant to discuss on the phone, the dominant one being her current status regarding the withheld information about Rayce’s probable cause of death.

“I’ll try not be long,” Colin says, targeting Anthony. “Don’t let her slide on the banisters or swing on the drapery cords. No pitched water battles in the bath, either. And don’t forget to ring the kitchen for a proper tea whether she wants it or not,” he cautions the boy and leaves.

Without his father’s watchful eye on him, Anthony sinks into a stony silence that’s difficult to read. Plunged again into contemplation, this time with several issues competing for prominence, Laurel makes an educated guess. “I bet I know one of the reasons you’re so quiet,” she says. “I bet you’re wondering if you’re still going to get the room of your own you were promised when we thought a new baby would be crowding you out of the nursery suite.”

Anthony nods warily.

“It’s okay to want to know, sweetie. You’re not out of line to ask and the answer is yes. It’s time you had your own room, new baby or not, so we will go forward with the plan. And we’ll furnish it the way you want—within reason, of course—and you’ll get to pick out which room, as long as it’s not in the north wing. That’s too far away from Dad and me.”

“Aw, no fair.”

“Very fair, Anthony. When you’re old enough to move to the north wing you’ll be old enough to leave home.”

“But I’m old enough
nowwwww
,” Anthony whines, putting some real howl into it. “I’m old enough to be
way
far away from you and Dad, I’m even old enough to live in-in-in the attic,” he sputters. “That’s it! I could live in the attic, actually, and Simon could
never
follow me because I know secret ways of—”

“Not going to happen, Anthony, so you may as well get used to being stuck with us here in the main part of the house.” Laurel smiles and gathers up the flowers scattered between them on the sofa. “You know what? I’m rather glad to hear your grousing. It’s the first sure sign we’re getting back to normal.”

Anthony must agree because the grousing leads to a spate of wide-ranging questions, standard operating procedure for as long as she’s known the boy.

She’s called on to assure him that work will indeed resume on the oast-house conversion any day now, and that his grandmother will eventually move there, and yes, Gran probably will invite him to sleep there on special occasions.

“You know what else, Anthony? That gives me an idea. Maybe we could borrow a workman or two from the oast project to customize your new room. What would you think of that?”

He shrugs as expected. What eight-year-old has the faintest interest in practicality and economy? Besides, he’s already moved on to another set of questions, these concerning overheard talk of buying property in London, New York, and perhaps at a resort area somewhere in Europe. He deflates, but only slightly, when she dismisses those possibilities as what they are—just talk.

Next he seeks and receives a guarantee that she intends to follow through with the job of organizing and editing the Jeremiah Barely-There stories into a book with him as chief consultant. He further disarms her with a series of innocent-seeming questions about school, his schoolmates, and the massive amount of homework they’re made to suffer, so she’s ill-prepared for the segue to the not-so-innocent questions when they come.

She somehow manages to answer without gagging: “Yes, Anthony, I was there when Mr. Sebastian was murdered, and yes, I did see him die—with my very own eyes, as you put it. I was not there, however, when his body was removed from the garage, but you can be very sure—dead sure, as you would say—that his head did
not
fall off and roll around on the ground.”

She somehow manages to answer his next question without gasping or laughing. “No, sweetheart, my father is not going to turn into a zombie because he hasn’t been buried in the ground yet. There’s no such thing as zombies—you know that—and even if they did exist, my father would be the least likely candidate.”