“Wee!” Amy exclaimed as she stepped out of the plane. “I feel like an LA girl already—unforgettable, undeniable, popsicle-melting kind of bombshell heat-bringer.”
“That’s a mouthful for just one person,” I replied, amused. “And you’ve only spent about a second in the sun.”
She grinned and held out her arms. “One second is more than enough.”
“Come on,” I said, laughing at her exuberance. We made our way over to where a sun-bronzed surfer-dude type with long sandy blond hair was waiting by a black SUV close to the plane.
“Hi, I’m Roscoe.” He held out his hand to me and then to Amy. “I’m going to be your driver.”
“Hi, Roscoe.” I smiled. “Did Leonard tell you our plans?”
“He did.”
I smiled again and entered the cool luxury of the car’s interior while Roscoe arranged for our things to be placed in the trunk. When he had finished, he climbed into the driver’s seat then turned back to look at us.
“Would you like to go to the hotel first or…?”
Or to see Jason’s mother? I looked at Amy. I was curious to know what Sarah Wild would tell us. She’d asked me to walk away from Jason, so I knew there was a huge chance that whatever she had to say, I wouldn’t like it.
If that was the case, I didn’t want to ruin our trip from the get-go.
“Why don’t you take us to the hotel?” I said. “We’ll go to…to the other place tomorrow.”
Our hotel was a five-star palace in Beverly Hills, Jason’s treat. As soon as we arrived, we threw on our bikinis and headed for the pool, hoping to spy a few celebrities.
Later, we went shopping and had dinner in a hilltop restaurant with a beautiful view, where we pretended to be very blasé about the fact that an A-list heartthrob was having dinner at the table right next to us.
The next day was spa day. Since Amy didn’t actually have a shoot, there was really nothing to do other than enjoy the pampering, the shopping, and the food.
The feeling of enjoyment lasted till late afternoon when Roscoe was waiting to take us to Jason’s mother’s home. We went down to the car, and as he drove through the streets, I stared out the window, wondering if it was too late to turn back and let this sleeping dog lie.
“Are you nervous?” Amy asked, her eyes wide with concern.
I nodded.
“Me too.” She sighed. “You know, I still don’t believe you need to do this. Who knows what will happen with time? Jason might forgive her on his own without you pushing it.”
“I know, but…” I trailed off. She was right—I was pushing it. I had asked myself why, had wondered if I was projecting my own need for a mother onto Jason.
Whatever it was, it was too late to turn back now.
It was quite a distance. Roscoe drove quietly through the unfamiliar freeways and overpasses until we arrived in a quiet middle-class neighborhood with well-maintained houses and neat yards. He parked in front of a small home at the end of the street, and then we followed him to the front door and waited as he knocked.
“What if she isn’t home?” Amy whispered.
A part of me hoped she wouldn’t be. Why did I have this irrational urge to run after coming so far? It was almost as if a sixth sense was warning me now at this last moment that I shouldn’t have come at all.
“I don’t know,” I told Amy.
There was some movement inside the house, and after a few moments, the door opened.
Jason’s mother looked almost the same as I remembered, a little more tired, but not much. Her dark hair showed a bit more gray, and it looked as if it hadn’t been brushed in a day at least. She stared at Roscoe, then her eyes slid to me, then to Amy. There was no hint of recognition in their depths.
“Can I help you?” Her voice was hoarse, and she cleared her throat then coughed. “Can I help you?” she repeated.
Roscoe stepped back, leaving me facing her directly. “Mrs. Wild,” I started, and she flinched.
“Sarah,” she corrected.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “Sarah…” I frowned, confused by her apparent lack of any memory of me. “I’m Daphne, Jason’s girlfriend. We met about two weeks ago.”
Her eyes focused at the sound of Jason’s name and she peered at me for a very long, very uncomfortable moment. “Oh, I remember now,” she said, her voice turning a bit frosty. “Why don’t you come inside.”
“I’ll wait out here,” Roscoe said.
I smiled at him. “I’m sure we’ll be fine. You can wait in the car.”
Inside, the living room was separated from the kitchen by a tall counter. Paintings hung over every surface, and more were stacked on the floor. There was one leather couch, a matching armchair, and an end table. There was no TV, but several black speakers indicated the presence of a sound system.
She gestured to the couch, and we went to sit. I peered at the paintings on the walls. They were all the same style, and the signature was familiar, though I couldn’t remember where I’d seen it before.
“These are your works?” I asked politely.
“Yes.” She waved a hand dismissively. “I spent years painting and painting but not selling much. These days, I just do it out of habit.”
She gave me a wry smile, and I suddenly remembered where I had seen her signature before. It was the same signature in the painting I’d seen in Jason’s office of a little boy playing in a pond.
It had to mean something. It had to mean that maybe, just maybe I was doing the right thing.
“You’re the sister.” Sarah was speaking to Amy.
Amy nodded politely. “Yes, I’m Jason’s sister.”
“You don’t look much like Grant,” Sarah said. “More like your mother, then? My replacement.”
I felt Amy bristle, but she kept silent. Sarah waited for a reaction and, not getting one, she turned to me. “Why are you here? I didn’t think I would ever see you again. Did Jason send you?”
“He didn’t.”
Her lips twisted. “Then why are you here?”
“I need to understand what you meant by the things you said to me. I don’t want to believe you’re crazy, but I need to know if Jason is in danger from you.”
She stared at me for a moment then burst into laughter. I gave Amy a quick glance.
“Crazy,” she mouthed silently.
Sarah stopped laughing and gave me a pitying smile. “You’re so in love with him,” she cooed. “I told you he was going to kill your children and break your heart, but you’re more concerned about him.”
“I don’t have any children,” I retorted.
“Yet.” She gave me a serious look. “Don’t have any, not with him, anyway.”
“Well, it’s not something we’ve discussed, but you have to be a little more forthcoming than these abstract hints of future horror.”
“Abstract hints of future horror,” she repeated. “That’s a good one. Are you a writer?”
I shook my head, losing patience. “Look, maybe if you tell me something that makes sense, I can get Jason to change his mind about talking to you.”
“So, you haven’t told him what I said to you?”
“Of course not.” I snorted. “It didn’t make any sense.”
“It does make sense,” she said slowly. She went to sit on the armchair, still facing me. “My dad was a mean drunk—violent, too. He would drink until he didn’t remember who I was, or even who he was, and sometimes, he just didn’t remember. He died young. I didn’t miss him.”
“I had a sister too. We weren’t close, and she left me behind as soon as she saved enough to buy a bus ticket. After my father died, I went to art school, met a handsome, sexy man, had a son, and then learned that my sister had killed herself. She was a couple of years older than me, had a good career cutting trailers for movies here in LA. I found out she’d been sick, just like my father had been.”
“You said he was a drunk,” I reminded her.
“But that’s not what killed him—or maybe it was, I don’t know—but he was so drunk most of the time that when he wasn’t, it was easy to ignore the signs, like when he got lost in a town so small you could walk all the streets in an hour or two, or when he couldn’t remember my name. He left enough of his poisoned genes to make my sister start showing symptoms at the peak of her life, and now, he’s gotten me, too. One day, in a decade or so if he’s lucky, it will be Jason.”
“What…?” I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to hear or believe what she was saying. “Symptoms of what?” I asked, the words bitter on my tongue.
“You’re saying he has a genetic disease?’ Amy choked.
“Early-onset Alzheimer’s.” Sarah shrugged. “Sometimes very early, like in my sister’s case, sometimes a little later, like mine.”
She got up and walked to a window that looked out onto the street. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I stared at her, wishing I could un-hear what she’d just told me.
“When I found out, Jason was four years old. I knew he was going to watch me turn into a raving lunatic mess like my father and I’d have to tell him the same fate awaited him, so I left.”
I got up, trembling. “I don’t believe you,” I said. “You’re just saying this to inveigle your way back into his life.” I cast a despairing glance toward Amy, and she looked as confused as I felt. “Why didn’t you tell him all this when he came to see you? Why did you send him away instead?”
“Would you have told him?” She turned back to hold my gaze. “Would you have told him there was a chance he would never get to enjoy the future he had planned for himself?”
“So you broke his heart instead,” Amy said.
“I did what I thought was right at the time.”
“And now?” I said, my voice shaking. “What makes you think this is the right time to tell him?”
She didn’t reply.
My eyes stung. “This is so wrong. You don’t even know if he…”
“Carries it?” She stared at me, her eyes so like Jason’s it hurt to look at her. “You can bet on that if you like.”
Amy took my hand. “Daphne…”
“Is that all?” I asked Sarah, feeling broken inside. “Is that all you wanted to say to him?”
She didn’t reply.
“Daphne,” Amy said. “Let’s get out of here.”
“You’ll tell him?” Sarah asked.
I stared at her, not sure what to say, then I let Amy lead me to the door, wishing more than anything that I’d never come in the first place.