Vulnerable (39 page)

D'Becca dared not reveal any explicit emotion. “You need to leave!”

“I could be pregnant, too. And it could be Rawn's.”

D'Becca chuckled, but Tamara's look was somber. Contemptuously, she remarked, “In your dreams!”

“Whose is it? Rawn's or Michaels's? Did you know that the woman you met at my boutique today is Ingrid Michaels, Sebastian Michaels's wife? That's why she looked familiar to you.”

D'Becca flinched.

“She hates you with a passion. The very idea that some uneducated bitch that got by because of her looks…That he would fall for someone like that.
Love
someone like that? Humiliate her like that! That he would buy a place—what did she call it? ‘A back-street paramour cottage,' so he could sneak off and be with her. Yes. You had better pack your bags, luv. When Ingrid discovers that you're pregnant and that Sebastian has the potential to be the father…When a woman wants revenge, she can be so cold. You know what they say? You'll never do lunch in this town again. Ingrid, you must realize, knows
people
. And if she learns about the”—she whispered sarcastically—“baby, wow! She can be one evil bitch, trust me!”

Her scorn and her ridiculous smirk made D'Becca very angry. “Get out!” she screamed.

“I'm going to tell Rawn. We've become quite close, the two of us. And I think he'd like to know about Sebastian Michaels. And I'm going to tell him you're pregnant with Sebastian Michaels's baby!”

Not aware of what she was capable of, D'Becca slapped Tamara hard enough for her to stumble. Tamara managed to sustain her equilibrium by gripping the doorknob. When she turned to look at D'Becca, she looked so proud of herself, standing there with her hands on her hips.

Tamara grabbed a vase on a glass stand overstuffed with lilies and slammed it against D'Becca's face with all her will. Blood flung across the bathroom and landed on a wall in a splattered line like an artist took a paint brush and splashed a canvas with deep red paint.

She heard it so clearly: D'Becca's skull hitting the edge of the claw-footed bathtub; Tamara watched it happen in slow motion. D'Becca's sleek body dropped to the floor with a discernible thud. Blood spread quickly, and a solid line trailed methodically toward Tamara. She stepped away so it would not ruin her suede bootie. She was not sure how long she stood there holding the cracked vase in her amazingly balanced hand. The flowers were still intact, except for one crushed lily resting limply against the thick hairline-fractured glass. With her mouth agape, Tamara stared at her reflection in the mirror. How long had she been standing there? Her eyes darted to D'Becca trying to get up, her body losing strength every moment that slipped by. Tamara snapped; all of a sudden she was back in the present and she was calm. She stepped over the trail of blood, and bent over and reached out but did not touch her. “D'Becca? D'Becca? Are you okay?” She made a strange gurgling sound. She tried to reach out to Tamara, but Tamara stepped back, witnessing in her mind's eye her entire life flash before her.

Tamara looked around, studying every detail—small or overt—of the bathroom. She stepped over D'Becca's leg and headed for the door. With the vase still in her hand, she took one last look at D'Becca trying desperately to crawl toward her, but her life was giving up.

Chai tagged behind Tamara through the long hallway that led to the airy, dark kitchen, and along the way leaving bloody paw prints on the spotless floor. Much too calm, she looked around for the back door, which led to D'Becca's garage. Chai sat on her hind legs for a brief moment, making a depressing meow sound, but then turned and dashed away. Tamara closed the door and moved swiftly around the Z3 and to a side door which led out into a small patio. Luckily, she would not need to raise the garage door to alert a neighbor. To her chagrin the side door required a
security code. Despite the darkness, Tamara managed to find a button and the garage door lifted. When the door opened, she pressed the same button so that it would close behind her.

She tossed the lilies in the trunk of her car, and while pouring out the water from the vase along the curb, she caught sight of headlights coming her way. She jumped in her car and ducked. The car pulled to the curb, feet away from Tamara. There was the sound of a car door being shut and immediately after the noise a remote control key made when a car door was being locked. Footsteps began to recede. Tamara slowly pressed herself up with her hands. She saw a man—it looked like Sebastian Michaels because of the distinguished coat she had seen him in earlier—enter D'Becca's with a key.
Why did he come back?

Her first instinct was to call Ingrid Michaels. At the stop sign, she pressed Ingrid's name and immediately there was a ring. “Answer, you bitch!” But Ingrid's voicemail answered instead, and Tamara was too impatient to leave a message. Sicily? No, she liked Sicily enough not to involve her.

It took an hour to get home because only one lane was opened on the westbound floating bridge due to a minor accident involving several cars. When Tamara made it back to Seattle, at a stoplight she prayed that D'Becca was dead.

W
hen he returned from North Dakota, Rawn had exactly eighteen messages on his machine. To go through them would take time, and he was not in the mood to hear anything related to the death of D'Becca. He grabbed his mail and began going through it methodically. Hirsch's assistant had sent him a box, and inside was mail from all over the country. He chose to deal with it later. He relaxed in the sofa. Rawn took a long gulp of his beer. Perusing each piece of personal mail, he started placing them in piles of three. They included bills, junk, and letters from students at the Academy. Getting letters from students was something Rawn had not anticipated. Unconsciously, his frame lifted when he caught sight of a letter formally addressed to him, which was from the Academy. There had been half a dozen meetings, both with Hirsch and without him, in regards to Rawn being able to return to Gumble-Wesley to teach. Some part of him feared opening the letter, primarily because no matter what it entailed, it would unquestionably have Sicily's signature.

His heart racing, he slit it open and unfolded it in haste. Rawn's eyes fell to the bottom of the letter to identify Sicily's signature, but the trustee's president's name was typed out, which struck him immediately. The letter went on to say how pleased the board was that the charges against him were dropped. They were excited for his future. His students were steadfast on his behalf, singing his praises. He was, without question, an asset to the Academy. The final paragraph was polite, well thought out and yet quite formal.
They regretted to inform Rawn that it was best that he seek a teaching position at another school. He would, however, be generously compensated.

Rawn was not the type of person who looked, or ever prepared himself, for surprises. This revelation blindsided him. Not solely because he lost his position; in some tiny way he understood that his presence would place unsolicited interest toward the Academy. While he could fight to get his position back, Rawn knew that would only cause more problems for Sicily, and he already felt awkward that this whole thing put her in such a compromised position. Besides, Hirsch counseled him that there was the strong possibility this would be the outcome. And because Sicily failed to speak with him, he saw nothing good coming out of returning to the Academy. Rawn trusted, even when he understood that Sicily felt brutally betrayed, that the friendship they had built over the years would withstand any test. He was confident that in time they would rise above Tamara's—and more importantly his own—duplicity. When he hugged Tera goodbye at Sea-Tac, she whispered in his ear, “Give Sicily
time.”

Rawn folded the letter and leaned back into the sofa. He gripped the bottle of beer in one hand and took the remote control with the other. He flipped through channels until he came upon CNN. A female reporter was talking, but Rawn could not hear her. He turned up the volume. “Portofino is the pearl of the Italian Riviera,” the reporter was saying. “It's a uniquely exquisite fishing village with unspoiled charm and romantic seascapes, and one of the most picturesque inlets along the coast. Surrounded by hilltop villas and a castle hanging on its summit, the breathtaking Mediterranean ambience was the place where award-winning fashion designer Tamara had been in hiding…” And in the corner of the screen they were showing footage of Tamara being escorted to a police car, handcuffed. “…Staying here at a villa owned by Henderson
Payne since the murder of D'Becca Ross and her unborn child—” Rawn switched the television off.

Later in the day, he began listening to his messages. The very last message was from Sicily. “Hi, Rawn. First I want you to know that I championed for you to return to the Academy. But I didn't prevail. I can't even begin to tell you how sorry I am that I brought Tamara into our lives. I'm still working through what happened last year. One day we should talk. You know, when someone deceives you, whether it's conscious or unconscious, forgiveness seems so difficult. It feels like your forgiveness in some way absolves the person of what they did to you. I won't lie: I wanted you out of my life forever. I even had the nerve to think it was easier than forgiving you. If this had happened to you, I'd tell you that holding on to bitterness and withholding forgiveness would only make you the victim. When it's not happening to us, we see it so impartially. Intellectually, we understand human flaws. But when there's emotional investment, it's like we lose sight of everything.” There was a brief silence, and Rawn was about to delete the message until he heard Sicily resume. “There's a colleague of mine I think you should reach out to. I know you won't see this as a great opportunity…at least not yet. But I really think this is something you should consider. And I urge you to make the call, Rawn.” After she gave him the name and number, the sound of her tender voice when she said
“bientôt”
made him strain to even hear it. He replayed the message twice and then saved it for reasons that were not clear to him at the time. And it was not until he needed a teaching job did Rawn revisit the message.

•  •  •

Several months later, in the midst of Rawn attempting to recreate his routine, he found that he could not go back to the things he did before. He was not that person anymore and thus had developed
different interests, different desires. Not aware of what those interests and desires were yet, he had always been naturally curious. He knew, even if he was not in touch with whatever it was yet, he would welcome the challenge and be open to whatever was coming his way.

He was at the door, keys in hand, when his telephone rang. Although he did not receive as many calls regarding interviews and book deals and hate calls, Rawn still hesitated before answering his phone.

“Hello!”

A familiar, long-awaited voice said, “Hello, Rawn.”

T
he intense fog, combined with steady drizzle, made it nearly impossible for Rawn to go any faster. He could hardly see a foot in front of him; and although he could chance it, was it really worth it? Especially after everything he had been through over the past year. Moving beyond all the emotional wear and tear on his spirit had not been swift. Perhaps another man would have moved through it with finesse, or pride.

Not going quite 50 miles per hour, he was confident he would make his flight to Los Angeles. It was Khalil's thirty-fifth, and his girlfriend Moon was going all out and throwing him an extravagant party, which was his best friend's style. Of course Rawn would not miss it for anything; absolutely no way would he miss this celebration!

The exit came into view; he would make it, no doubt!

Once he parked in short-term and made it to the airport entrance, Rawn was taken aback at the crowd. Sea-Tac was swarming with airline passengers, and he had never seen such masses of people in the airport, even during the height of tourist season. With his e-ticket, he bypassed the chaos of frustrated travelers seeking assistance, amid tired and testy children. He was lucky not to be in the middle of all that stress. He headed straight for his gate.

No sooner than Rawn arrived, he was greeted with an announce-ment that all flights were delayed due to heavy fog and there were no inbound or outbound flights until further notification. The level of anxiety within the gate went way up upon the broadcast
of that message, and people were dangerously close to being out-raged by the inconvenience. Rawn contemplated whether he should go back to Crescent Island or hang out for a while. Since the party was not until the following evening, he could take an early-morning flight into LAX.

Another announcement was made, informing the passengers to stand by for updated instructions. Rawn decided to hold off leaving. He took a seat nearest to the window, and it was so dark he could not see anything—not the evening sky, certainly not a twinkling star, the crescent moon, and not one tiny drop of rain. His eyes met with a woman coming directly toward him; her strides were optimistic and determined. “Hi, excuse me,” she said. On the spot, her face rang a bell; Rawn, however, would not have been able to place her even if he put in the effort to try.

“Yes?” he said.

“You are Rawn Poussaint, right?”

He pondered over whether he should lie, but then it was apparent she knew who he was. “Yes,” he did not hesitate.

“My name's Siobhan Frasier.” She extended her arm.

Courteous, Rawn shook hands with Siobhan Frasier.

“I'm not going to play this thing down, okay? I saw you over here and I swear I couldn't believe my luck. First of all, I saw you this morning, at Café Neuf on the island? You probably don't remember. Anyway, I wanted to say something this morning, but I really, really didn't want to intrude. But here you are. It has to be fate. It
has
to be. I've contacted you at least a dozen times and your attorney at least half that. His assistant tells me you aren't doing interviews and I get that, I swear, I do. But…”