She’d known it couldn’t last. Nothing good ever seemed to last in Sheila Miller’s life. One minute she was in the bedroom in which she’d spent her loneliest hours, filling the space with sex and excitement and cries of love, finding a fulfillment beyond anything she’d ever imagined possible. And the next, she was walking out to her kitchen to discover the man she’d just done wild and crazy things with standing there, holding a letter in his hand that would ruin it all. She’d forgotten she’d left it lying there. Forgotten because she hadn’t thought she’d be seeing him tonight. They’d both been on the late shift, had decided earlier that they’d have to wait until the next day to be together again.
And then he’d surprised her, showing up at her table just as she was closing, insisting that while he didn’t know about her, he couldn’t wait another six hours to see her again.
They’d had a couple of drinks, talked about ordering breakfast, but had been too eager to get back to her house, her bed, to bother with anything as mundane as food.
And this from the woman who used to think eating was the only reason to get up in the morning.
“You make a habit of reading other people’s mail?”
“I came out to get us each a bottle of water. It was on the counter. And kind of hard to ignore. Who is this guy?”
He flung out the letter with the big bold damning words typed across the top. Final Notice. How fitting.
“Somebody I met a while back. He used to be a regular at my table.”
“And you borrowed money from him.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Kind of odd, having this conversation with them both stark naked. She wished she’d grabbed her robe.
So why not? What did it matter now? Turning, Sheila went back to her room, not looking for the negligee she usually wore when he was around, but for the worn cotton robe she’d had since her thirtieth birthday. It had been a present to herself. A homecoming of sorts. To know that she was thirty and alone and okay all by herself. To know she’d always be there for herself. That she didn’t need anyone else to feel happy or complete.
A bunch of hogwash if she’d ever heard it.
“He’s suing you for misrepresentation.” Arnold had followed her and was sitting on the edge of her rumpled bed, the letter still in his hand.
“Yep.” Picking his pants up off the floor, she tossed them in his direction.
“Why?”
“What can I say? I was stupid.” It was far too late to pull this together. I’m losing my home, my life and now him. There was no way a man as virtuous and honorable as Arnold Jackson would see any value in the likes of her. Her supposed values, contrary to those of most of their peers, was what had attracted him in the first place.
“How stupid?”
When it became clear that he wasn’t going to put his pants on until she told him the whole damn story, she did so. The building contract that had taken all her life savings and then escalated in price every time she needed a window or floor tile, light fixture or faucet. The second mortgage on her condo. And when that hadn’t been enough, she’d taken out a loan at nineteen percent interest, using the already fully mortgaged condo as collateral. She’d thought the house would be done by the time payment was due. That she could sell the condo, get out from under the double mortgages, and take out a second mortgage on the house. She’d had it all planned.
But costs continued to escalate and her builder continued to stall. She had to live in the condo, so she couldn’t sell it. There was no house to mortgage.
Arnold sat there a long time. Probably wondering how to extricate himself from her house. Sheila didn’t have a lot of experience with this type of situation. In fact, she had none. So she sat beside him. And waited. He’d figure out how to do this, and she’d graciously accept whatever excuse he came up with. He’d go. And then she could hit the cupboard above her stove, take the cap off the new bottle of Scotch she kept there for emergencies and finish the thing off before morning.
It might not solve her problems, but it would alleviate the immediate one. The sense of hopelessness that was stripping her of every shred of the dignity she’d fought so hard to win.
“I think I can help.”
Lost in her visions of Scotch and oblivion, she almost missed his words. He had to be kidding.
“You do?”
He nodded, his eyes serious but not grave.
“I heard who’s scamming the Bonaparte.”
“You know who’s behind the wins?”
He nodded.
And when he’d elaborated, telling her exactly what he, a man with values and an inspired sense of what mattered most, could do, Sheila dared to hope that her ship really had come in.
All the gold she’d ever wanted rested within this man’s heart.
Carl was a good friend—if only Francesca could feel sure he’d be satisfied with that. At dinner Monday night, Francesca came clean with him, telling him that her “friend” was her runaway little sister. He wasn’t noticeably hurt by her deception. If anything, his admiration of her seemed to grow. Which allowed her to open up and tell him about many of the things scrambling around inside her—mostly to do with Autumn.
Even though finding her sister meant she wouldn’t be in his town much longer—destroying any hopes he might’ve had that they’d explore a more intimate relationship—he ordered champagne to celebrate. And listened, attentive as always, as she answered all his questions.
“So you’ve seen her every day since you found her?” he asked as they enjoyed fresh-baked bread, warm from the oven, with their champagne while waiting for the pasta they’d ordered at a little out-of-the-way Italian diner not far from his home.
“Not usually for very long, but yes.” She’d worn her only dress—a spaghetti-strap black shift that had enough cotton to make it thin and cool and enough Lycra to make it comfortable. At the appreciation in Carl’s eyes, she wished she’d worn jeans.
“So you’ve seen where Autumn lives? Where she works?” Carl asked as she enjoyed the melt-in-her-mouth ravioli she’d just been served.
“I’ve seen where she lives once, and she won’t tell me where she works.” That conversation had left Francesca very unsettled. “As a matter of fact,” she said, looking at him over the candlelit table for two, “when I pushed her this afternoon, she said she wasn’t working at all at the moment.”
“But she lives alone?”
“Apparently.”
“So who’s paying her bills?” He frowned, his forearms on the table giving her a sense of his quiet strength.
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
Carl poured more champagne for each of them. Asked how she was enjoying her meal so far. Talked about the dishes yet to come, describing the chicken marsala and the tiramisu. She was never going to be able to eat it all. She hadn’t eaten more than one meal a day in months, had lost more than twenty pounds in that period, and the thought of so much food at one time made her stomach roil.
Their plates were cleared away, the table between them empty except for the champagne while they awaited their next course. “So what explanation do you have for all of Autumn’s secrecy?” Carl asked. “Her struggle for independence?”
She shook her head. “She’s hiding something.” There was absolutely no doubt about that. “I’m just not sure what.”
“Maybe she’s living with someone.”
“Maybe.” The thought had certainly occurred to her. “But I don’t think so. I didn’t see much of her apartment, but it was small. She wasn’t expecting us and there was absolutely no sign of a man’s presence there.”
“So what do you think it is?”
She had no idea. Or perhaps she didn’t want to have one. She’d just found her little sister, was still in the process of reconnecting. “I don’t know, but whatever it is, it’s making her sick.”
His brows drew together, concern shining from those compassionate brown eyes. “What do you mean, sick?”
“She’s thrown up twice in the four times I’ve seen her. And now that I think about it, that first day, when she answered the door, she cut herself off mid-sentence, but I’m pretty sure she was saying she’d just puked.”
Certainly not dinnertime conversation. Carl didn’t seem to mind.
“She’s nervous, tense, high-strung in a completely negative way,” she continued. “And scared to the point of nausea.” She was going to have to face this. Much sooner than she wanted to.
“She’s always had a weak stomach when it comes to emotional stress,” she told him. “For a while there, she’d throw up on the walk to school every morning.”
That crease was still marking his forehead.
“What?” she asked, when he remained silent.
“Nothing.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“Tell me.”
He did look up then, his expression flat—and completely sober. “Are you sure you’re ready to hear it?”
“No.” She took another sip of champagne, appreciating the warmth of the liquid as it slid down her throat. “But tell me, anyway.”
“She’s a runaway.”
“Yeah.”
“In Las Vegas.”
“Uh-huh.” She took another sip. As though the warmth would spread from her stomach to her heart where she was suddenly very cold.
“The pressure she’s feeling…”
“Yeah?” She didn’t want to hear this. Didn’t want to be in Autumn’s shoes and know he was right.
“Is probably from a pimp.”
While Luke was waiting for Francesca on Wednesday, the phone in his office rang. Expecting to hear from his employer, a follow-up to the unsatisfactory call over the weekend, he considered ignoring it. The thought was tempting. But of course Amadeo had the numbers for Luke’s cell and home phones, and he had the determination to keep trying until he reached his godson. He also had the orneriness to speak with Luke’s mother and get her to come nagging to his aid if all else failed. Luke had spoken to Amadeo on Sunday. Listened to his tirade of dissatisfaction and orders regarding the unsolved thefts, his demands that Luke resolve the damn thing and before they suffered another hit. As if Luke wasn’t already doing everything humanly possible, contacting every expert, reading every report, studying every tape, speaking to every possibly involved party.
Worse, though, had been the string of expletives he’d had to suffer through after the old man heard about the loss of Luke’s potential son. It was hard enough to live with his own disappointment, let alone deal with someone else’s. This was one of the reasons he hadn’t told his mother the bad news yet. She wasn’t expecting anything to happen for another six months. By then Francesca would be long gone and he’d be the only one around to cope with the episodes that were sure to follow his announcement.
On the fourth ring, he glanced at the caller ID. A local number. Not one he recognized.
Francesca had said she’d meet him at his office as soon as she dropped off her sister. They were going out to dinner and then to a show. Francesca had never seen any of the Cirque du Soleil performances and he’d felt it his duty to ensure she didn’t leave town without the experience.
A fifth ring. It was after five. He’d expected her before now.
On the sixth ring he picked up.
He didn’t recognize the female voice, nor did he appreciate the bored tone of his caller as she asked to speak with him and proceeded to verify his identity when he told her she was.
A reaction that changed completely when she stated the reason for her call.
She was from the Colter Adoption Agency. They had a son for Luke. He would be born exactly six months from that date and at seven o’clock on the evening of his birth, Luke could come to the hospital to take him home.
Six rings. One phone call. And just like that, Luke had a son.
“Carl thinks Autumn’s prostituting to support herself.” They were walking along the Strip, something Francesca liked to do at night. She liked feeling the energy of newly arriving vacationers as they approached the slots, liked seeing the lights and watching the free outdoor shows many of the upscale resorts had spent millions to produce for viewers’ hourly pleasure.
Hands in the pockets of his dress slacks, Luke didn’t say anything for a few minutes. He’d shed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, but said he hadn’t wanted to take time to go home and change.
His arm brushed hers, and as her stomach reacted to his warmth she moved farther away. What was it with her all of a sudden? Carl the other night, Luke today. She’d never had a thing about forearms.
“What do you think?” She was still wearing what she’d put on to have lunch with her sister that afternoon. A short denim skirt, white T-shirt and white sandals, her black leather bag over her shoulder. She’d retired the homeless-person denim version.
“I’ve suspected as much.”
Francesca crossed her arms, warding off a chill that couldn’t be coming from the early-August temperatures. “But you’ve met her. What do you think now?”
“I think she’s in some kind of trouble.” The crowds weren’t too thick that night. They had to slow for a group in front of them, but were soon able to pass and continue on their own.
“Drugs?”
“Maybe. But I doubt it. The signs aren’t there.”
She didn’t think so, either. Autumn’s color was good. Her eyes weren’t bloodshot. There was no bruising or other evidence of shooting up on her arms. Her behavior, while stilted and tense, wasn’t erratic.
“What, then?”
“Sounds like your friend Carl could be right.”
Waiting at one of the Strip’s many streetlights, Francesca wondered if Autumn had ever done any of the kid things in town—like go to the M&M’s store across the street. Or ride the New York New York roller coaster a block or two down. Had she ever played in any of the casinos’ circus-game rooms? Won a stuffed toy? Or had someone win a toy for her?
As they crossed, she glanced down a side street and saw several people walking alone, walking as though they had somewhere to be. Almost as though they were immune to the frenetic world of chance just a few yards away—where the illusion of opulence and success and luxury enveloped the lucky and eluded everyone else. Looking around her at the glittering lights that made the Strip appear as bright as midday, at the wedding chapels and tourist shops, the slot machines ringing through open casino doors, the liquor stores and signs offering everything from hot dogs to prime rib for almost the same price, she knew that the people who lived in this town, who were residents, didn’t live like this. They had lives completely apart from all of it. Normal lives.
So why couldn’t Autumn?
“This Carl guy, you like him a lot?”
The question gave her pause. Because she was feeling so guilty about her lack of interest, considering Carl’s obvious attraction? Or because Luke was the one asking? “He’s a very nice man.”
“Has he become more than a friend?”
“Of course not.”
He waved aside a man trying to hand him a baseball-card-size pornographic photo. The man and woman beside them each took one.
An older couple, in their seventies at least, walked slowly in front of them, hand in hand. She was laughing at something the man was saying.
“You’re the first woman I’ve known who actually enjoyed walking the Strip,” Luke said half an hour later. The Bonaparte’s sign many blocks behind them looked like a prop from a miniature car track.
“As crazy as it is, there’s something mesmerizing about it, too.”
“If nothing else, there’s enough to look at that you can’t possibly get bored.”
She nodded. They’d slowed their pace again. “I think that’s what I like about it. There’s so much stimulation it distracts my brain for a while.”
“When I was a kid, I used to come out here sometimes when my dad was working late and just walk. Ironic as it might sound, those were some of the most peaceful times.”
“You said I’m the first woman who enjoyed being out here with you. Have there been a lot of them? Women, I mean?”
“Some.”
“Care to elaborate?” They’d reached a less expensive area, the signs now more about massages and adult bookstores than prime rib dinners. Someone was giving away free chips and salsa with every drink. A red-and-white blinking sign proclaimed yet another wedding chapel. And there was a billboard advertising sightseeing tours to the Grand Canyon.
And somehow, she and Luke were talking about things neither of them normally spoke about—even to themselves. He told her about his resentments of his mother, about the shame. About his quest in his younger years to escape himself and that life by finding a woman with whom he could start a family of his own.
“You thought that would free you from the family you already had? Like you’d just trade them in for a new model?”
He chuckled. “I think it’s pretty obvious I wasn’t thinking,” he said. “In any case, it didn’t work.”
“You got married and it didn’t work?”
“No.” He shook his head, met her gaze for a sideways smile that held more nostalgic sadness for the young man he’d been than it did humor. “As soon as I acknowledged to myself that I might be close—to love, to marriage—I’d suddenly feel trapped by the relationship.”
“Leaving lots of broken hearts behind, huh?” she asked, feeling a moment’s empathy with the nameless women. Had she been in a position to allow herself a romantic relationship, she’d probably have been one of them herself. For all his standoffishness, Luke Everson was a compelling man.
“It’s the major reason I gave up the search,” he told her. “I couldn’t stand to look into one more set of beautiful eyes and see the pain I’d inflicted there.”
Francesca understood as though she were walking in his shoes.