Stunner (31 page)

I dial Frank’s cell. He picks up, and before he can say anything, I blurt out, “I have something to tell you about when we were kids…you won’t believe—”

He clicks off without saying a word. I redial, but he’s turned off his phone, and my call goes straight to voicemail. I glance at my watch and groan—it’s five in the morning. Of course he hung up; he was fast asleep in Manhattan. I blew it. I’m such a jerk.

“Morning, everybody!” It’s later—a respectable nine o’clock—and Warrior and I enter the kitchen at Meadow Farm to find Rita filling my niece’s mug with steaming coffee. The wonderful smell of caffeine jolts through me after a sleep-deprived night.

“Oooh. I’ll take one of those, too, please,” I say to Rita.

Warrior nuzzles his wet face in Laura’s lap. She’s home from her overnight in Manhattan, and my dog drools over the prospect of breakfast tidbits. “Enough, Warrior,” I say. “Now, sit.” He does, but his eyes shift from me, the boss lady, up to my niece, hoping for a tiny piece of her toast.

“Breakfast, Ronnie?” Rita asks, pouring my coffee. She’s the one who invited me over, wanting complete details about the attempted break-in last night. Plus I’m determined to speak to my brother as soon as he gets home, to tell him what I’ve remembered about Maria Teresa Gonzalez many years before.

“What are you serving this fine morning, Rita?” I ask.

“Veggie omelets.”

“I’d love one. Thank you.” I take the steaming mug from her. “So, Laura, when does your father come home from the city?”

Our housekeeper jumps in. “Frank called a half-hour ago,” Rita says. “He’s at an early meeting and will be back soon, in an hour or so.”

“And Juliana with him?” I ask.

“She’s already back,” Laura says. “The driver delivered her an hour ago. She’s upstairs—”

“That’s good—” I say.

“Aunt Ronnie, a lot of noise is coming from her room, like maybe she’s packing?” Laura puts her cup on the table. “Right before I came down I thought I heard her cell ring, and then it sounded as if she was crying.” She looks at me helplessly. “It feels like a repeat of last time when she and Daddy had that fight. Please do something. I’m not sure what to say to her.”

I get up from the table with my mug. “How does Juliana take her coffee, Rita?”

“Black.” She’s already pouring another cup and hands it to me. “I’ll wait to make your omelet,” Rita says as I head out of the kitchen.

I walk up the stairs and down the hall carefully with the two filled mugs. The door to Juliana’s room is ajar, and I peek in. I see her pulling clothes off hangers and tossing them into a gigantic suitcase.

“Knock knock,” I say, and she freezes with her back to me. “How about a hot cup of coffee to clear away the cobwebs?” She turns and stares at me, as if caught doing something wrong.

I walk in and extend the mug toward her, but she doesn’t take it. I put it on her nightstand, next to her books and Kindle. “Juliana, are you OK?”

“Yes.” She stands completely still for the longest moment and then wrings her hands.

“I see you’re packing,” I offer, giving her a chance to talk. She glances nervously at her belongings strewn across the bed. “Are you and Frank going somewhere?” She still says nothing. “Does Frank know you’re leaving?” I ask. She seems anxious. “Rita says he’ll probably be here soon. Shouldn’t you wait until you’ve talked with him in person?” Does this lady run away whenever a problem arises? I wonder what kind of lovers’ quarrel they had this time.

She sits down on the bed, looking defeated. “I don’t have enough time,” she says. What does that mean?

I take the mug on the nightstand and try again to hand it over. Now, she accepts it and drinks. Feeling a little relieved at this minor thaw, I sit in a chair opposite her. “How can I help?”

She appears surprised and begins to speak, but a half-choked sob comes out instead. Then she starts to cry. I walk over, sit next to her. She scoots away keeping her distance from me.

“Look, I know we haven’t gotten off to a great start—” Her huge sob interrupts me. “Just let it out, Juliana. It’ll all be OK.” She has a long cry and finally breathes deeply as if it’s coming to an end. I hand her the tissue box from the bureau.

“You and Frank are close, and my brother is happy when he’s with you. I’m sure he wouldn’t want you to leave.”

She takes a tissue, looking at me as if she’s never seen me before. “It’s not about Frank.”

I try to use a gentle tone. “What’s the matter, Juliana?”

“I’d rather not say.” She blows her nose and speaks through her sniffles. “I, I can’t talk about it…don’t know what to do. I have to wait…for the phone call.”

My attention is drawn to the old silver locket now lying on the bedside table instead of inside the red leather box where I first saw it. I walk over, pick it up, and read out loud. “
To MTG, with love, FEB
…that’s what it looks like.” Then I say, “But it isn’t
FEB
, is it? It’s
FLR
, Frances Livingston Rutherfurd, my mother.”

Juliana says nothing. She glances at her phone as if she’s willing it to ring.

“OK, while you wait for your call—it’s time for true confessions,” I continue, and a veil of suspicion drops over her eyes. “Juliana, we knew each other a long, long time ago, didn’t we?”

She sits without moving a muscle, not even breathing. The room is so quiet, you really could hear a pin drop. I go on. “It’s been bothering me and bothering me, and I finally figured out who you are—how it is that I already know you.” I open the locket and then snap it shut again.

“I remember my mother adored you—when you were little, she’d look you straight in the eye and tell you that you could grow up to be anything you wanted. Little Maria Teresa Gonzalez.” I pause because my heart is beating so fast I think it will burst.

“It was
you
who ran through the dining room after Glory.” I let out a sigh. “And my mother fell, breaking one of her favorite black heels and spilling the sauce. That’s why you were rubbing that old spot on the carpet the day I found you in the dining room. Remember?”

Juliana still says nothing, but her eyes are huge.

“My mother gave you this locket not long before you left Meadow Farm.” I put it down on the table. “I looked through some old family albums last night and found pictures of you and your mother. Right up to 1985. That was when you both left, because of my horrible behavior toward you when I caught you trying on my clothes—which my daughters did, too, at your age years later, by the way.” I’m running off at the mouth but I can’t stop.

“And then my terrible, terrible accusation that you stole my ring. Juliana, what I did was unforgivable.” I want to wipe away the pain of what I’ve done.

She starts pacing the room. I continue, “When Frank and I got home from driving you and Rosa to the bus station, Mother presented me with the missing ring. She’d found it with my dirty clothes in the hamper. I was so ashamed for being such a bitch to you. Of course you hate me, but please don’t hurt Frank. Don’t seek revenge against him. He’s so good—”

She stops pacing and declares, “I couldn’t hurt Frank. I love him—”

I bite my lip. “But I remember you pounding on him at the bus station telling him how much you hated him—”

“I was eleven years old, Ronnie, and I took it out on him. Somehow I knew he wouldn’t hit back. You, I was scared of.”

“Me?” I ask, shocked. “I was that terrible, huh?”

“Yes, you were, Ronnie. And ever since I arrived at Meadow Farm, starting with that cocktail party when Frank wanted you and me to meet—god I was so nervous getting ready—anyway, I’ve been terrified that you would remember me and try to keep Frank and me apart.” Juliana’s posture droops even more. Hmmm. Maybe that’s why her room looked like a hurricane hit it when I snooped for numbers on her cell phone the evening I first met her—or met her again.

She shakes her head in disbelief. “You think I still want revenge against Frank and your family, for what you did to my mother—may she rest in peace—who was just sticking up for me all those years back?”

“Oh, Juliana, I’m so sorry about your mother.” I pause. “How long ago did Rosa die?”

“It’s been fifteen years,” Juliana says. “It was a heart attack. She didn’t suffer.” She pauses as if collecting her thoughts, and then I see a hardness in her eyes. “Revenge? Sure I wanted to get back at all of you Rutherfurds—thought of little else all through my teens. It’s what drove me forward in life.”

Juliana pauses again, and I watch resignation replace the memory of her fury. “Then one day the anger stopped, thank god, because that took a huge weight off my shoulders.”

Thank god
, I think, too. “If the anger and desire for revenge were gone,” I say, “what kept pushing you to go for a better life?”

“Plain and simple,” Juliana answers, “it was how your mother inspired me with her kindness, always telling me I could make anything of my life. Her words came back to me many times over the years.” Recalling my conversation with Carmela Suarez during my Disney World visit when she told me a mystery person had inspired Teresa/Juliana, it makes my heart melt to learn that the mystery person was my mother. Still…

“So, when you met my brother in California, you weren’t even a little bit tempted to seek revenge?” I ask. Juliana emphatically shakes her head no, and I go on. “What was that like? Meeting Frank again? Did you know right away who he was?”

She doesn’t answer, but I see a slow, sad smile play across Juliana’s face, and then she speaks. “I met friends for golf, and as I walked over to the course, I saw them talking to a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair. I could only see his back,” she says. “Then he turned around and looked at me with the kindest eyes—it took my breath away, because I was sure I knew him, but I couldn’t place him. Then my friends introduced us and said his name, and I couldn’t believe it.”

Juliana looks off, and I guess she’s reliving the moment. She continues, “Frank Rutherfurd from Meadow Farm. And even more amazing was the instant connection between us…” Her voice drifts off, and she looks back at me. “…The rest is history. So, no, I had no thoughts of revenge. But enough of this, Ronnie, I have more urgent matters to deal with.”

“Wait. What about that
revenge
rock that came flying through the living room window when Frank was attacked? Spelled r-A-v-e-n-g-e, by the way. Who spells revenge like that?”

She hesitates, then frowns. “I wasn’t the one who threw the rock. But I can’t talk to you about this now.” She goes on, “I have a bigger problem.” Her bottom lip quivers. “I’m waiting for news, a phone call—” A choked sob breaks loose from her throat as tears fill her eyes again. “A family member has, uh, gone m-m-missing.” The crying resumes, and she stands up and walks her worry into the rug, back and forth, back and forth.

Her disturbance can only be over one possible person, and I ask, “Is Francesca missing?”

That stops Juliana in her tracks, and she stares at me and says in a shaky voice, “The market where she has her summer job called our
Tía
Connie to ask if Frankie was sick, since she wasn’t there for her early shift this morning. Connie is out looking for her, and I was waiting to hear if Connie had found Frankie.” She grabs another tissue and dabs the tears from her eyes. “Then this awful cou-, uh, person called to say he’s got her…that he grabbed her on her way to work. I don’t know what to believe.” She glances at her watch. “Enough of this waiting—”

“Francesca isn’t just a niece or cousin, is she, Juliana?”

“I don’t want to talk about this.” Her voice once again has that suspicious tone to it. I back off.

“Is
Tía
Connie your aunt or is she your great-aunt?” I ask, but Juliana says nothing in response. “Remember, I did see you with her, so what’s the big secret?”

“Connie’s my great-aunt.” Juliana sighs and goes back to tossing a few more things into the suitcase. “She has problems because of a nephew who’s back in her life.”

“So what’s the problem with the, uh, nephew? I guess he’s your cousin?” I return to my chair, where I can face her and better observe her body language and facial expressions.

“He’s an awful man, no shame. Yes, unfortunately he’s a cousin…” Juliana glances around the room and then at the huge suitcase on the bed. “…And most of the time I try to stay as far away from him as I can.” She stuffs her books and Kindle into the suitcase and then slams it shut. “From what I know of him, I’m sure he’s mean to Connie, maybe threatens her, but she won’t say.” She sits down next to the oversized case.

“Can’t you talk to the nephew?” I watch her face closely.

“I tried just yesterday to reason with him, and it didn’t do any good.” Was that the scene I witnessed at the cemetery? “He’s bad news,” Juliana says, and her body stiffens. “I don’t want to go anywhere near him.” Hmmm, I wonder what the truth actually is. She folds her arms across her chest. “I really don’t want to discuss this any further.”

I switch gears. “Maybe Frank can help you find a solution?”

Juliana stands up, and her voice is sharp. “I don’t want Frank dragged into this.”

I’m careful what I say next. “You can’t run away.” The way you did with Mr. Dot-Com, John Palmer, I feel like saying, but resist the urge.

Her cell phone rings, and she looks at the number with relief. “It’s Francesca.” She quickly answers, “Francesca, are you OK? Where are—”

The voice on the other end interrupts her, and I can make out that it’s a
he
, but can’t understand what he says. It’s certainly not Francesca or
Tía
Connie. Juliana’s body tenses; she seems unnerved.

“Don’t hurt her, Bobby—” Juliana gasps. “Bobby, wait. I’ll do anything you say.” She starts to cry again.

The proverbial light bulb goes on. Of course that’s what Bobby Taylor meant when he yelled out
I’ve got a better idea
as he left Meadow Farm last night—he grabbed Francesca. Does he think he’s Francesca’s father, or is he doing this purely for monetary gain? He said last night that he needs money.

“Where do I bring it?” she asks. “What time?” She glances at her watch. “Noon, OK. I think it’s enough time.” She hangs up and goes to her big leather satchel that sits on a luggage rack. Rummaging around, Juliana does her best to block my view, but I see a flash of cash.