Chapter Fifteen

Jazz wandered into the family room. Collin sat at the desk studying some papers—trial, or new client? She wasn’t interested enough to ask. There was a magazine on the coffee table. She grasped it and flipped the pages that showcased homes and more homes, each more extravagant than the last. The glossy photos didn’t pique her interest either, so she let it fall back to the table.

“Collin, we have to talk about the party Madison wants to go to.” There! That ought to liven up the evening.

“Nothing to talk about. She’s not going to a party with boys until she’s twenty.” He stuck a paper in the shredder.

“I think you should let her go. All her friends are going. It’s more of a class party.”

Collin glared at her. “You think so? Have you called the mom of the party giver? Who’s throwing this party, anyway?”

“Hannah. It’s her birthday, and she’ll be an official teenager.” Jazz wanted to win this battle for Madison. It would cement their relationship. She was sure of it. “I helped her buy a cute outfit at the mall to wear.”

Collin began to protest. “So you told—”

She held up her hand to stop Collin from talking. “I didn’t promise her she could go. I said you had to approve.”

“I don’t approve.”

Pulling out her best “woman moves,” Jazz walked her slinky walk and stopped inches away from Collin. “It’s important for a woman to feel in control of social situations. And the best way to learn how to accomplish that feeling—” she leaned over and stroked his cheek—“is in a safe environment at a young age to learn how to keep from falling into the wrong arms.”

Collin’s breath seemed to quicken at her touch, and his expression held that dangerous let-me-love-you-tonight look. She took a few steps back. “Do you understand what I’m saying? If she doesn’t learn how to interact with boys now, she won’t know how to handle men later when it’s dangerous.”

“Understood.” Collin gave her a head-to-toe look that revved her heart rate like a finely tuned race car.

Jazz blinked and tried to distance herself from what she was feeling because she knew how to handle men. Didn’t she? “Good, then I can tell her she can go?”

“After you call Hannah’s mom and find out if they are personally going to be chaperoning this loathsome affair instead of their teenage son.”

“I already called.” She waited, hoping he would tell her she’d done the right thing as a parent. Though he didn’t say anything about her skills, she still decided she must be doing a better job at this mom stuff. “Both parents will be there. Madison will be ecstatic when I tell her she can go.”

“Tell her I said she can go if she doesn’t get into any trouble before then. I’ll be looking for reasons to ground her.” He went back to his papers, muttering, “Think my little girl is going to learn how to be a woman at twelve? I don’t think so.”

“I heard that, Collin, and you can’t stop her from growing up.”

“I can try.” He started sorting through envelopes on the desk.

“Yes, you can try.” She grinned at him and started to walk away when she felt his hand on her arm.

“This one is for you. You’ll have to decide what to do about it.” Collin slid a thick white envelope into her hand.

“It has Louisa’s name on it, not mine.” She tried giving it back.

“No, it is for you. It’s the invitation to your family reunion. It would be a great time for you to collect information about yourself. Might even trigger some memories.”

“I’m not interested in going. I don’t want to be a one-woman family-reunion freak show.” She tossed the envelope onto the desk; it skidded across the pile of papers and landed on the floor.

Collin retrieved it, ripped open the edge of the envelope, and slid out the contents. “They’re having it in Forest Park this year.”

“This year? This is an annual event?” Jazz frowned at the thought of meeting people who knew more about her than she did.

“Unfortunately.” He opened a folded piece of paper from the envelope and gave a loud laugh.

“What are you laughing at?”

“They want you to fill out this questionnaire about what you’ve done this past year. That should be interesting. What will you write? ‘Tried out a new personality’?” He laughed harder.

Collin’s laughter hurt. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ll figure it out before then.” She walked to the bookshelf and began loading her arms with scrapbooks and photo albums like she’d done several times before. She dropped them on the floor and plopped down, resting her back against the couch.

Jazz pulled out the album that looked older than the others—it had an eighties feel to it, with its mauve and blue design. She began flipping through the pages again. This empty past of hers was bothersome. What she’d discovered inside this album hadn’t brought answers, only more questions. Louisa looked about Madison’s age in a few of these photos, but she didn’t smile in many of them. Jazz still couldn’t figure out why. Maybe she had grown bored with the camera, or maybe she had been in an ugly-duckling stage.

In contrast, the albums with photos of Madison and the boys were delightful, each child hamming in front of the camera, trying to outdo the others.

And Louisa? No personality. Lifeless even came to mind as she examined the monotone clothing. If Louisa were trying to blend in, she had managed as well as any American soldier in the desert.

* * *

Collin tapped another date on his BlackBerry calendar, then another. Every day seemed to have a court date or a deposition that needed to be done. He would have to find a way to clear his calendar.

Maybe he could turn over the Esmonde deposition on Friday to Robert. He felt sure it would be a simple one and wouldn’t take long. If Robert would do it, then Collin could leave the office early. He’d be able to get home about the time the kids arrived from school. He clicked the New Message icon in his e-mail account and wrote a short note to Robert. Satisfied with his request, he clicked Send.

Within seconds Robert e-mailed back, and the deal was made. They had traded work, leaving Collin free for the entire weekend. Now all he had to do was pick up a few supplies and a tent. His family would be bonding this weekend in the great outdoors at Rend Lake. He’d show Jazz how exciting he could be. This would give them a chance to get to know each other as a family. He could picture it now. A hot, blazing fire; the kids asleep in the tent; and he and Jazz sitting outside in chairs, gazing at stars and getting reacquainted.

Feeling pleased at taking action to pull his family together, he called Jazz, anticipating her response.

“We’re going to sleep in a tent? Outside?” Jazz didn’t say anything else for a moment. He let her digest the information, hoping she’d warm up to the idea. “Outside? Do I like that?”

“I don’t know if you like it, Jazz.” Her confusion amused him.

“Did Louisa?”

“I don’t know. We never went camping. It will be fun. Think marshmallows, graham crackers, and chocolate, like when you were a kid.”

“That sounds like an interesting combination.” Her voice hesitated. “Am I supposed to know about this kind of food?”

“S’mores. That’s what they’re called. Trust me. I’ve seen you eat, and you’ll like this.”

“The boys will like the idea, but I’m not sure about Madison,” Jazz said.

“She’ll be fine once she gets over the shock that there won’t be any instant messaging for an entire weekend.”

“Maybe we can let her take a friend along?”

“No. I want this weekend to be about the kids and being a family.” Collin paused. He wanted to add, “and about you falling in love with me again,” but he didn’t. He knew she still held on to the belief that Louisa would return soon. But he hoped if and when she did return, she would keep Jazz alive. When he looked at her, he saw Louisa’s face, but the smile, warmth, energy, and enthusiasm for life belonged to Jazz.

“Collin? Are you still there?” Jazz interrupted his thoughts.

“Yeah, just thinking about what we might need to take along.”

“A Scrabble board, I hope.”

“Good idea. Can you get the games together? I’ll take care of the equipment. I have a friend who might loan me his camping gear.” He suddenly remembered Jazz’s inability to cook, even in their fifty-thousand-dollar kitchen. “I’ll get the food, too.”

* * *

Collin plopped three pizza boxes onto the table. “Let’s eat,” he yelled. “Pizza’s here.” Tim and Joey were the first to climb into their chairs. Madison took her time to get settled. Jazz brought liter bottles of soda over and set them on the table. Collin couldn’t wait any longer. He had finally come up with a family activity, and he knew the kids were going to love it. “Guess what?”

“You won’t be home next week because you’ll be involved in a trial,” Madison guessed. “That’s nothing new, Dad. You’re gone all the time.” She pulled a slice of cheese pizza from one of the boxes.

“That’s not it.” Collin grinned. This was going to be good. He could almost hear the whoops of joy when he told them. He looked at Jazz and winked to let her know he appreciated her letting him tell the kids.

“What is it, Dad?” Joey stuffed a hunk of pepperoni in his mouth.

“We’re going camping this weekend!” Collin almost shouted the words. He sat back and waited for the information to sink in.

“Camping? Dad, I am not sleeping in a tent!” Madison tossed her napkin onto the table. She shoved her chair back and stood. “You can’t make me go!” She burst into tears and ran upstairs. Just in case he might mistake her tears for joy, she slammed her door hard enough to correct his erroneous thinking.

Joey scowled at him. “Dad, I have soccer practice.”

“Do we have to eat outside with the bugs? I don’t want to eat with bugs.” Tim grabbed another slice of pizza. “I’d better eat a lot now so I don’t have to eat with dirty, disgusting flies.”

Collin was truly surprised at the reaction from his kids. He thought they would be delighted at the prospect of a weekend family camping trip. Maybe not Madison, but the boys should have been eager to camp. Nope, this hadn’t gone the way he had planned at all. Not one happy face beamed at him from across the table. Not even Jazz looked happy, and she was always ready for adventure.

Collin sought cover in his workshop. He looked at the unfinished picture frame on the workbench. He picked up the cordless drill, pressed the on switch, and let it run in the air for a minute before setting it back down. He didn’t feel like working on the frame right now.

Unable to stay away from Louisa’s journals, he lifted the box onto the bench and pulled out a stack of papers that had been stapled at the corner. A title splashed across the first page: The Model and the Taxi Driver, by Jazz Sweet. Startled, he wondered how Jazz had found a way into his workshop. Then he realized it was Louisa’s handwriting, and the air thickened in his throat. He had found it! The connection to Louisa—she really had written a book. He sat down to read.

Annette Richmond yanked the door handle of the yellow cab. She tossed her leather backpack onto the floor of the taxi and slid onto the worn cloth seat.

“Twelfth and Oak,” she said to the back of the driver’s head as she slammed the door. Exhausted from hunger, she lay back in the seat. Her stomach growled. She patted it gently as a pregnant woman might to reassure an unsettled child. But no amount of rubbing seemed to calm the stabbing hunger pangs. She made good money, but none of it went for food. She couldn’t afford to eat much, only what would keep her alive and walking down the runway. Some days she came close to spending her money on drugs to curb her appetite. Many of her friends urged her to try some new designer pill. Even Kate, her best friend, had folded, and now she swore she never needed to eat.

“Miss?”

She looked into the rearview mirror, where brown eyes reflected back at her. “What?”

“There isn’t a Twelfth and Oak.” His Southern accent brought her into the world she had given up—no, the world she had fled—twelve months ago.

“You’re right,” she stuttered, her own accent creeping past her lips. “Ah meant Twelfth and Pine.”

Collin adjusted the papers in his hand and leaned against the wall. He continued to read. As he flipped the pages, he realized his wife had a gift. One that she’d kept hidden for a long time. He wanted to run upstairs and tell her how well she wrote; he wanted to tell everyone his wife was Jazz. That Louisa was a figment of the world’s imagination, a star peg trying to fit into a square hole. But he couldn’t let her know about the journals because she didn’t remember them. If he told her he had them and hadn’t shown them to her, well, it was just too complicated. For a little longer he would keep the evidence of her previous life to himself.

Collin looked around his workshop. His getaway-from-the-world place. Jazz needed someplace like this, he thought. And then he had an idea. It would take some time to implement, but it could be done. He sat up straighter, proud that he had thought of something he could do to encourage his wife. He would start today. Collin tossed the stack of papers back into the box and covered it.

He surveyed the room. He would hire someone while they were gone this weekend to clean out his tools and paint the room. That brought the first problem to mind: what to do with his tools? He couldn’t put them in the garage because that would mess up the surprise. And he wanted this to shock his wife to the core. Maybe he could build a workshop next to the garage. He’d wanted to do that for a long time. Focus, Copeland. This is about Louisa, not you. For now, to keep this project a surprise, he could rent a storage place. After he gave the room to Jazz, he could put his tools in the garage.

Walking past the MP3 player, he flipped the off switch before closing the door behind him. He was on a mission, one that would bring a smile to Jazz’s face.

* * *

The evenings were getting cooler, and the breeze off the lake chilled Jazz. She zipped her red plaid jacket and plopped down on the deck steps while waiting for Cleo to finish her business so they could go back inside. Her mind was restless. Laurie had tweaked something when she asked about the stories Jazz had written as a child. If she had written stories, wouldn’t Beth—her mother—have brought it up? It seemed logical to Jazz. If Madison had lost her memory and thought she was a writer, at least Jazz could say, “No, you like to draw things, not write.” And she could show her all the sketches she’d piled in a box. Why didn’t Beth say it made sense that Jazz thought she was a writer because she’d written stories as a child? She didn’t know but intended to find out.

She called Cleo, and the dog bounded across the lawn, her tongue swinging freely from her mouth. “Let’s go inside, girl. You probably need a cool drink of water, and I need to make a phone call.”

Inside the house, she took off her jacket and placed it on the hook by the others. It felt good to see it there as part of a coat family, like she was now—part of something bigger than she remembered. She grasped the phone and dialed. Beth answered on the first ring, and after a few minutes of niceties, Jazz went to the subject that was bothering her.

“Can you tell me about the stories I wrote as a kid?” Her throat tightened as anxiety rippled through her.

“Stories? Oh, those little make-believe things you wrote?” Beth asked.

“Do you have them stored somewhere?” A flow of excitement knocked out the anxious feelings as she pictured boxes of short stories that only she would probably appreciate. She wondered if she wrote animal stories or stories about people, maybe about her best friends.

“No, I didn’t keep those. If I remember right, it seemed you were always bothering us with some kind of outlandish problem or idea.”

Her joyful spirit fizzled. No record of her early work, no books currently in bookstores, and only two chapters written of her new book.

Maybe she could still get some of the blanks of her life filled in, at least. “When did I write them? How old was I?”

“You were writing cute little stories before we went to Mexico, but when we came back, you were . . .” Beth stopped.

“What? What was I writing when you came back?” Jazz pounced through the phone line with her words.

“You started writing dark stories about people being killed and children being kidnapped. It was upsetting to your father and me, and we asked you to stop writing them.”

“Who did I write about? What did I say?” Her curiosity increased her heart rate.

“I don’t remember now.” Beth sighed.

“Do you remember if I stopped writing when you asked?” Puzzled, Jazz tried to glean some meaning from this information.

“Of course you did, dear. You were always a good girl.” She could hear the pride in Beth’s voice.

Jazz hung up the phone, and her stomach churned. Something felt wrong. She didn’t know what, but the cramps in her stomach insisted she needed to figure it out, and she didn’t think they were from the dinner she’d eaten.