Where Rivers Part (23 page)

 34 

M
arquis DeAndre Mosely died at 8:32 p.m. on Thanksgiving Day.

Within only minutes of the machines alerting there was a problem, his little body reacted to a recent increase in platelet dysfunction, and MD started seizing.

By the time Tavina rushed back into his room, pushing through the crowd of white coats with her elbows to get at his bedside, he'd slipped into a coma, a result of acute and sudden cardiovascular collapse. After that, there was very little anyone could do to reverse the situation.

Within days, Mrs. Mosely packed up her broken daughter and moved her to New Orleans to be near family. There would be no funeral. “I can't,” Tavina muttered between sobs. “I—I just can't do it.”

Juliet helped her brothers hire a moving company and put her landlord on notice that Tavina would be terminating her apartment lease.

With the outbreak winding down, and Alexa's decision to place production on hold until after the first of the year, the quality control activities at Larimar Springs were on pause, allowing Juliet to take some much-needed vacation time.

The first week, she ended up wandering her house in pajamas, unable to clear her mind of the look in Tavina's eyes or stop hearing her animal-like moan when she learned her baby was gone.

She didn't eat. Didn't sleep.

Milk soured in the refrigerator.

The bed didn't get made.

Emails and phone calls went unanswered—even those from Cyril Montavan.

She'd spend her mornings watching hosts tout purses and kitchen mixers on QVC while thumbing through old
People
magazines her mother had given her last spring, thinking she might enjoy them. Her afternoons were filled with old movies on cable or network talk shows—the ones where real people openly revealed all their problems in front of a studio audience, something she'd never in a million years do.

She didn't need Dr. Oz or Oprah to know why she was an emotional wreck.

The combined loss of her mother, the stress of the outbreak, and now the overwhelming sadness and guilt over MD's early demise had pulled her legs out from under her. She'd lost her ability to cope.

Over and over, she tried to tell herself that there hadn't been anything she could've done to prevent this outbreak, that the ship had set sail before she ever got on board. Without the understanding of what Robin Ford knew back in those critical months, what could she have done, really?

She could have followed up on that envelope. That's what.

Maybe the answers wouldn't have saved little MD, but she'd easily shifted the unanswered questions aside, relishing the promises of promotion Alexa made.

She'd even let herself consider a new friendship with Cyril Montavan, thinking of her own personal happiness, never realizing that in days Tavina's precious little son would take his last worn-out breath.

All these thoughts were threatening to take her under, so to speak. She was floating the Comal River in a leaky tub and would sink if she didn't start paddling—
but how?

By the beginning of the second week, the walls of her place started to close in and she decided to take a drive, just to get out for a while. Maybe stop at the store, since the hall closet had only one roll of toilet paper left on the shelf.

Without bothering with makeup, she pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater and headed for her car in the dim light of late afternoon.

Leaving her neighborhood, she became aware that brightly colored holiday lights lined the eaves of nearby houses and blanketed shrubs and trees.

Christmas was only a few weeks away, and she'd almost forgotten. Subconsciously, she must've realized she couldn't deal with the painful thought of a Christmas morning without her mom. Not added to everything else.

While driving toward downtown, she tried to conjure her mother's voice saying how pretty everything was this time of year—especially the blue lights. Her favorites.

For the first time, Juliet struggled to catch the cadence of her mother's sound in her head, how she drawled her vowels like a true Texan, as if she'd grown up here and not in the Pacific Northwest.

She couldn't hear her mother's voice.

Juliet's fingers tightened on the steering wheel. She needed to get a grip. Clear her head.

With that thought in mind, she exited the freeway onto Commerce and turned north at the light in the direction of the Alamo, drawn to the Menger Hotel, where her father used to take her when she was little for her own personal history lesson.

She remembered standing at the entrance of the bar as a child, peeking inside while holding her father's hand. He'd let go and knelt beside her, pointing through the door. “That is the very room, JuJu, where Theodore Roosevelt organized the first US volunteer
cavalry known as the Rough Riders, which valiantly fought the San Juan Hill battle in Cuba during the Spanish-American War.”

Later at home, he'd helped her look up more information in their Encyclopedia Britannica set so she could write a report for extra credit at school. He'd even grabbed one of her Crayolas and joined her in coloring a crudely drawn picture of Teddy Roosevelt in his blue uniform.

Even in recent years, the bar was one of her father's favorite places to meet his professor chums. Which made the strange fact she'd ended up here now even more odd.

She walked through the nearly empty establishment, past dark wood-paneled walls to a stool perched at the bar counter. A massive tavern mirror mounted behind the bar reflected her image, and a taxidermy moose head hung on a nearby wall.

For the first time in over a week, her mouth turned up at the corners. She couldn't help but smile, considering the fascination her father had for this place.

“Evening.” A gentleman with wide sideburns compensating for a balding head greeted her while wiping the counter. “What can I get you?”

Not a frequent drinker, she wasn't sure. Her eyes roamed the collection of liquor bottles. A small voice inside her head warned she might want to order a safe glass of chardonnay, but after this past week she decided to throw caution to the wind.

No matter what Alexa and Cyril had tried to tell her, she struggled with the feeling that she should have been able to do something—that Tavina's little boy was gone because of an outbreak under her watch. Even given the former QA director's issues, what good had all those increased safety protocols been if little boys like Marquis DeAndre Mosely would never grow up because of what had happened at her company?

“I'll, uh . . . let's see, let's try a bourbon on the rocks.” She wedged her purse on the floor at the base of the stool.

“Any particular label?”

She looked up. “No . . . uh, on second thought, I'll have a beer. That one.” She pointed to a bottle with a long neck.

The bartender nodded and folded his bar rag. “We have that on tap as well. Which would you prefer?”

She scowled. “Do people drink beer in frosted mugs?”

He grinned. “Some do.”

Juliet smiled back. “Yeah, then. I'll have that. A bottle and the mug. Thank you.”

The beer tasted harsh and slightly acrid. Despite how the amber liquid tasted every time she took a swallow, she grimaced and took another. In between long, carefully measured breaths to catch her air.

Unsure exactly how long she'd been sitting there, only that her mug had been refilled a lot of times, she summoned the bartender by wiggling her fingers. “Excuse me? Do you sell cigarettes? I'm dying for a smoke.” She smirked and lightly jiggled her mug, sending the tiny bit of beer in the bottom sloshing over the top. “I quit. Awhile ago, actually. Oh, except for that one night.” Lifting an unsteady arm, she waved off her comment. “But that shouldn't really count.”

He pulled his attention from the television mounted on the wall. “Sorry, we don't. I think there's a vending machine out by the gift shop.”

She let out a heavy sigh. “Yeah, okay.”

He leaned back against the counter holding the cash register and folded his arms. “You look like you're having a bad night.”

Her finger slid around the rim of the glass. “Do you know that nursery rhyme ‘Itsy Bitsy Spider'?”

“You mean the one about the spider that climbs up the waterspout but keeps getting washed out every time?”

She nodded, her head suddenly feeling heavy. “Yeah, that one. I'm that spider.”

An older guy in a button-down with the collar open who'd been sitting at the opposite end of the bar stood and picked up his beer bottle. He sauntered over. “Whatcha drinking there, sister?”

Before she could answer, he leaned over the bar. “Hey there, Hank, fix the lady up and put it on my tab.” He slid onto the barstool next to her and extended his hand. “I'm Stanley.”

She shook his hand, noting a heavy gold-link bracelet at his wrist. “Hi . . . I'm Juliet.”

“Yeah? What do you do?”

She took a deep breath and looked him straight in the eyes. “I'm a professional killer.”

She could tell from his expression her comment took him back a bit. He gave her an odd smirk. “Like your work?”

She squinted. “Yes and no. Long hours and a lot of stress—but when your head hits the pillow at night, you're blessed with a warm feeling knowing you tore someone's heart out.” Her eyes pooled with tears and she gave a loud sniff.

The bartender stood, wiping his hands on a bar towel. “Maybe you've had enough.”

She looked at him in misery. “Ha, that's where you're wrong. There's never enough.”

“Juliet?”

Startled, she turned to face the familiar voice. “Oh great!” Juliet waved her arm in that direction. “See what I mean? That waterspout thing again.”

Her father bent and grabbed her purse. “C'mon, let's get you home.”

She pulled away. “No.”

His face grew sympathetic. He turned to the bartender. “Could you call us a cab?” He gently placed his hand on her back. “Look, I know you're going through a rough time.”

“Oh, don't give me that smug look. I've survived worse, you know.” Juliet nodded sloppily. “Yes, you do know.”

He leaned close and whispered, “Yeah, I made mistakes, including too much of that.” He pointed to her mug. “I'm different now.”

“Ha, says who?”

Her father winced. “In so many ways, you're still that same little girl in class wearing her white lab coat, trying to hide her feelings.”

“I am not,” she argued. “How would you know anyway? You were never around enough to know.” She narrowed her eyes. “You were too busy with
Naaancy
. And all the others.”

She hated seeing the hurt in his eyes, hearing the miserably mean sound of her own voice. Her mother would be ashamed.

He stepped back and sighed. “JuJu, you have many admirable qualities. But remember this very important thing.” He brushed a damp strand of hair off her forehead. “Without a heart and soul, you have nothing.”

Her father retrieved her keys and handed them to the bartender. “Make sure she gets in that cab.” To the guy hitting on her, he said, “No offense, but this one's off-limits tonight.”

She frowned. The guy nodded and downed his drink. “No problem. I was just going anyway.” He nodded in Juliet's direction. “Good luck to you, Miss Spider.” The guy sauntered into the hotel lobby.

Her father moved for the street entrance. He stopped at the door and looked back. “I'm here, Juliet, if you ever need me.”

Then he turned and walked out.

 35 

L
arimar Springs' legal situation ramped up when Leo Paternoster filed seven more cases the week of Christmas. Trolling for victims via standard advertising was considered crass in most legal circles, but a well-connected friend working for the
Express
-
News
had proven very helpful to the ambitious plaintiffs' attorney. Especially when a well-timed feature article with an extensive interview appeared on the front page.

Mr. Lucier proved to be quite the taskmaster, and never more than when the process of collecting documents began.

“I'm fairly old school,” he warned. “I don't use paralegals. I learn the intricacies of my case by poring over the documentary evidence myself.”

In a document-heavy case like this, he used the services of a discovery vendor who would forensically scour all the relevant servers and extract responsive emails and files. In addition, they would create digital images of any paper files, and load disks would be provided to opposing counsel. “After I've completed a thorough privilege review,” he explained.

The effort to respond to what seemed like mountains of requests for production felt overwhelming and left Juliet's head spinning. Unfortunately, there was no way out of the task.

Boxes of files retrieved from off-site storage were stacked nearly ceiling high in a room temporarily dubbed the War Room. Long folding tables lined the walls where she and Malcolm Stanford spent long hours sifting through the contents and creating an inventory, carefully following Mr. Lucier's written instructions.

When she expressed appreciation, Malcolm simply said, “I'm as anxious as anyone to get to the bottom of all this.”

Another person who hadn't changed his colors was Greer. He showed up at her condo on Christmas Eve, his voice thick and smelling of alcohol. He carried a bottle of champagne and a grin. “Hey, truce?” he said when she opened the door. “Neither of us should be alone at Christmas.”

Even the sight of an alcohol bottle caused an involuntary shudder. After that night at the Menger, she'd been so sick she'd spent the next morning with her face resting on the bathroom floor.

She shook her head. “Look, Greer, this isn't a good idea.” Despite her former beau's pitiful face, she stood firm. “Go home.”

She waited for his flash of anger. Instead, he simply slumped against the door frame. “Okay,” he said, his voice slightly slurred. “I suppose it was stupid of me to just show up like this.” He held out the champagne. “Regardless, this is for you.”

She took the bottle from his hand, more to hasten his departure than anything.

Greer leaned and stroked her cheek. “Well, merry Christmas.”

She pulled away. “Maybe you'd better let me call you a cab.”

Greer grinned. “Don't need to.” He pointed down the hallway. “Already got one waiting downstairs.”

As soon as he turned for the elevator, Juliet shut the door and leaned against it, knowing if the cad had shown up several hours earlier, she might have been tempted to be stupid and invite him in, just to turn off the painful memories playing in her head. Memories of her mother's salt-crusted prime rib roast and her crème brûlée—served every year. Or the traditional gift opened on
Christmas Eve—flannel pajamas always decorated with reindeers or snowflakes.

She'd protested the ritual, but the antics made her father grin, especially last year when he'd taken her mother in his arms and teased, “Want Rudolph's red nose to guide your sleigh?” She laughed and slapped him away. “Not on Frosty's corn cob pipe.”

There was no question Juliet had made a complete fool of herself in front of him at the Menger. No doubt he was glad to spend Christmas alone this year, happy not to have to put up with his hostile offspring.

And she didn't have to put up with Greer Latham just because he found himself all alone on Christmas Eve.

The doorbell rang. She sighed and moved to answer it, bracing herself for a second encounter with Greer. If the guy was anything, he was a salesman—never taking no for an answer.

But instead, she pulled the knob to find a guy in a FedEx uniform and a Santa cap. He grinned and pointed to a large box loaded on his hand truck. “Looks like someone's been a good girl this year.”

Puzzled, she took the box from his hand and thanked him. After wishing him a merry Christmas, she shut the door and set the package on her kitchen counter, took a kitchen knife and sliced the strapping tape, then carefully lifted the flaps and peeked inside.

The box was filled with green Styrofoam peanuts surrounding a white container made of thermal material meant to refrigerate during transport.

She lifted her brows, now very curious.

Her fingers carefully lifted the lid, freeing it from the bottom portion of the container. Immediately, her face broke into a huge smile.

He didn't.

Inside, the container held layers of large strips of fried pastry dough, drizzled with rich dark chocolate and smothered in white powdered sugar. Grinning, she inhaled the faint vanilla scent.

Cyril had sent her bugies—all the way from Italy.

In the hours following, she enjoyed nearly all of them, nibbling on the messy treats and drinking cups of French roast. The perfect accompaniment to hours of the televised musical
White Christmas
.

The thoughtful gesture got her through the holidays.

That, and attending Christmas Eve service at her mother's church.

She hadn't been back to Talavera Community Church since her mother's memorial service, despite many emails from Pastor Roper inviting her to services. She almost had a panic attack walking from the crowded parking lot to the sidewalk lined with luminarias. Perhaps she'd made a mistake in believing she could do this, she told herself. But once she was inside, the overwhelming masses of potted poinsettias and lights, mixed with the smell of real pine, caused a certain peace, as if her mother, who adored Christmas, walked alongside her.

Hoping to remain inconspicuous, she slipped into a pew at the back of the sanctuary several minutes after the service started, positioning herself behind a geriatric couple with white hair and matching hearing aids. As the choir sang “Away in a Manger,” the woman leaned her head against the man's stooped shoulder. The sight warmed Juliet's heart, and she couldn't help but wonder if that might've been her own parents if things had turned out differently.

If her father hadn't strayed.

If she hadn't held so tightly to her anger that day.

Pastor Roper stepped to the podium and read the account of Mary and Joseph and the birth of baby Jesus from the Gospel of Luke. When he'd finished, candles were passed and the room dimmed.

Across the aisle, a young boy about nine or so, dressed in slacks and a white button-down with a tie, helped his little sister light her candle. Their mother smiled her approval as the choir sang and the orchestra played “O Holy Night.”

The words rang out in the hushed room.
Till he appeared and the soul felt
its worth.

That was when she saw him. Second pew from the front. Holding a lit candle with his head bowed.

Her father.