Chapter 6

Two days later Luke slouched against the rail on his front porch, contemplating a brilliant Oklahoma sunrise. Pinks and oranges streaked across a bluish-purple sky, reminiscent of Malia’s artwork. No doubt she would have some other label for “bluish-purple.” Like cosmic cobalt or Prussian blue. A warm breeze teased the atmosphere to a mere eighty-two, promising an afternoon temperature that would reach past the hundred-degree mark by day’s end.

But early morning seemed the best option for catching his neighbors about. He eyed Ockwell’s corner house. Well kept, Victorian in style, one could see the old man was a stickler for details, in the fresh paint and well maintained siding. The real prize that captured one’s attention, however, was the manicured landscape. His gardens landed on the city’s Horticulture Society tour every year.

Ten minutes later, as sure as tornados in spring, a hunched, balding Ockwell appeared, water hose in hand.

“Bingo,” Luke said softly, and made a path for the old man.

****

Malia breezed through the automated sliding doors of her grandmother’s assisted living center into the blissfully cool air supplied by a working air-conditioning system. Perspiration saturated the back of her shirt. Not only was the air conditioner in her tiny efficiency apartment dying, but the one in her twenty-year-old Civic had long since coughed its last unheated breath. Other than the lack of decent AC, though, the dependable little car ran like a well-spun top.

The center was bustling with summer Friday morning activity. As she darted passed the information desk, Malia spotted a group of Girl Scouts, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, singing an off-tune version of “Kumbaya” in the main commons area. Dodging a cart full of books, Malia hung a right at the first hallway, where she knew Gramma was more than likely watching her favorite soap before its scheduled cancellation in early September.

Malia glanced at her watch. She’d timed it perfectly, of course. Five minutes gave her just enough time to stop by the kitchen for a couple of refreshing iced teas.

“Knock, knock, Gramma. It’s me.”

“Oh, Malia. You just missed our favorite show.”

“Oh, darn. Here,” she said, thrusting out a Styrofoam cup. “I brought you something to drink.” She ensconced herself on the comfy pink-and-green sofa, reminiscent of Malia’s gifted afghan but without the bright red accent. The room reflected Gramma’s previous home in other ways, too, with carefully placed knickknacks on a shelf fitted for the corner, and garish red-flowered drapes with a matching spread covering the oversized twin bed. Gramma sat in a rocker facing her newly purchased flat-screen television.

“Thank you, dear. I must say, you handled Mr. Ockwell brilliantly.”

Malia choked on the sip she’d just taken. “I…uh—”

“Why, the old rascal called me to apologize not even an hour ago. Still, best make sure to place the doll in a safe place.”

The doll. Malia winced. She supposed she’d have to go about finding her at some point. But not until this first-ever exhibition ended. Locating the doll might amount to a full-time job. She sipped her tea. “How did my mother end up with that doll, Gramma? We’ve really never discussed it, have we?”

Gramma muted a commercial on laundry detergent. “No.” This came out on a sigh that heightened Malia’s sixth sense. She waited, strangely tense, for Gramma to continue.

The intense stare through silver-framed glasses made Malia feel sixteen again. “What are you trying to say, dear?”

Malia ran to her side. Dropping to her knees, she laid a cheek against the comfort of her grandmother’s wrinkled hand. “Someone stole her, Gramma. I don’t know how or when or who. But I woke up and she was gone.”

Gramma’s comforting pats on her head made her feel like a child again, making her loathe to move. “I don’t think it’s as dire as all that, dear.”

Malia looked up, swiped the back of her hand across her eyes, and sniffed. “But, Gramma, she was…was taken…”

“I heard you, dear. Now, blow your nose,” Gramma commanded. She held a tissue in her outstretched hand and sounded completely un-Gramma-like.

“Thank you,” Malia mumbled, burying her face in it before she pulled herself off her knees and moved back to the sofa. “Gramma?”

“Yes, dear?” Much more familiar.

“What happened—” Malia took a measured breath, then blurted, “What happened to my father?”

Gramma froze, except for the slight tremble in her hands. Malia swallowed. Maybe she shouldn’t have asked. It was too late; the words hung between them for several long moments.

“What do you remember of him?”

Malia started, surprised by the return question. “Most especially his voice, I think.” She could hardly manage a tone above a whisper. But she knew Gramma heard.

“Yes,” Gramma sighed, her eyes focused on a distant past. “He had a most distinctive voice.”

Malia waited, not daring to move.

Gramma shifted quickly, pinning Malia with those owl-eyes made wide by the wire-framed spectacles reflecting the sunlight from the window. Her pained expression tore at Malia’s heart. “Gramma, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“Your mother, my own daughter…” She sighed again. “Well, needless to say, she was her own worst enemy.”

“Gramma, it’s okay…”

“She sent your father away. She never believed him when he told her he loved her. That he hadn’t stepped out on her.”

Stepped out on her? “You mean she accused him—”

“She thought he was having…er…relations with another woman.” Gramma’s hand fluttered the air in a “you-know” gesture.

“Oh.” Malia had cause to regret her impulse. Now the floodgates had opened, she could only sit and listen.

“I never believed it, of course. He was deeply in love with your mother. The doll came through him, you know.”

“It did?” That was a surprise. “But her last words to me were, ‘Your father failed.’ What do you suppose she meant?”

“Unfortunately, she set up test after test after test for the poor man. My guess is he failed to come back. The failure came from your mother, I’m afraid.”

“Wh-what happened to him?” Malia’s choked words stumbled out.

“He died. Not long after your sixth birthday. Your mother never really recovered. Her mental health truly affected her physical health. In the end, I suppose, it didn’t matter. Cancer had eaten her body, and guilt, her soul. She kept him from you.”

Tears welled up in Malia’s eyes at the sadness and waste of it all. She pressed the tissue tight against them before they spilled over. In her heart of hearts, she knew her mother had done her possible best.

“The doll is your father’s legacy to protect you, not your mother.”

Her father’s? Malia swallowed. Whoever betrays you shall suffer; as you cannot realize the power within the artifact you hold. Doubting is a grave mistake… The words were ingrained. She had no need to read the note found on the doll. She thought of Luke. The attraction that threatened his life.

Attraction. Such a mild, bland, unassuming word. A word that made her feelings sound like a schoolgirl crush. Ha! She only took those stupid freelance assignments to feed her need to see him. There she would sit, before his desk, listening to his ideas, drinking in his presence, practically salivating.

Who knew his kiss would cause the blood to pulsate through her veins with the force of Niagara Falls? Or that his touch could melt her insides like butter on a sidewalk in the heat of an Oklahoma summer? When he engulfed her with shoulders so broad and arms so strong, weaving that shell of protection around her, it was a wonder she didn’t collapse at his feet.

Captivation—a much more apt description. He’d captivated her. Charmed her. Fascinated her. She wanted to jump up and dance circles about the room. So unyielding, so vital, so handsome…him and his fabulous nose.

And just like that, her shoulders—like her hopes—slumped forward.

“Look, dear, another of our favorite shows is just starting.”

Malia glanced up quickly, in time to see the thrown-back head of Erica Cane flash across the screen, the theme from All My Children filling the room.

She had to get out. Now.