CHAPTER 10
For Pescoli, Thanksgiving was the usual nightmare. This year the kids were supposed to spend the day with Luke and his Barbie doll of a wife, Michelle. Not quite thirty, the woman wore her long blond hair straight so that it brushed the middle of her back, and she preferred clothes that accentuated her hourglass figure. Michelle was as “girlie” as they came and pretended to be much more naive than humanly possible. Pescoli figured beneath the pale lips, thick black mascara, and perpetually surprised, sexy expression was a smart woman who for some unknown reason had set her sights on Lucky, who was handsome and, if not strongly educated, smart enough, just lacking in any kind of ambition. He drove his truck when he wanted to, and when he didn’t and the weather allowed, he either fished or golfed. Otherwise he planted himself in front of his big screen.
“Made for each other,” she said beneath her breath as her children dragged themselves out of their rooms. Pescoli had insisted they spend the holiday with their father, even though Bianca feigned sickness again and Jeremy grouched that Luke wasn’t his “real” dad.
“Too bad,” had been her unsympathetic response.
For the sake of the children and because she’d nearly died last year, Pescoli and Luke had made a stab at burying the hatchet. Their divorce had been less than amicable, and now, in retrospect Pescoli realized their animosity had been a mistake. However, old habits died hard, especially with all their past history. Trying to be civil was difficult, and trying to become friends had proved impossible, considering the circumstances. However, Pescoli was a firm believer in the old grin-and-bear-it motto, the reason being that she also trusted in the what-goes-around-comes-around adage. Luke Pescoli was handsome, charming, and a smooth talker. He was also a womanizer, gambler, and was pretty damned convinced that he was the center of the universe.
Michelle had gotten herself no prize.
She pushed open the door of her daughter’s room just as Bianca, miffed, swept into the hallway. “You’re doing this ’cuz you’re mad at me,” Bianca accused, her lower lip protruding, her eyes dark with accusation.
“I’m doing it because I have an agreement with your father.”
“No one asked me,” Bianca said as she stomped into the living room.
“With that attitude, you’re just lucky you still have a door.”
Jeremy, just coming up the stairs from his basement room, said, “Nobody asked me, either.”
“So you two can bond over the injustice all the way over to your dad’s. Oh, wait, I said I’d contribute to the festivities.” She reached into the pantry, found an old can of cranberry sauce, the kind Luke detested. She slapped the can into Jeremy’s outstretched hand and imagined the congealed sauce slithering onto a serving plate, still showing the ribs of the can. “Here it is.”
Jeremy caught her gaze. “You’re wicked, Mom.”
“Just doing what I said I would.”
Jeremy tucked the can into his backpack.
“We could just stay here,” Bianca complained, though she was looking at the screen of her phone, reading a text.
“No. I’ve gotta work. This way I’ll get the time off at Christmas so I can torture you both then.”
“Funny,” Bianca said, then, moping, put on her down jacket and wool hat, smashing down her curly hair, the tie strings dangling past her pointed chin. “But four days . . .” She was really whining now. “I’ll die.”
“Three nights. You come back Sunday morning. Think of it as a vacation from me.”
Bianca managed to roll her eyes for what had to be the twentieth time since dragging herself out of bed. She let out a disgusted puff of air that caused her newly cut bangs to float up and down.
“Drive carefully,” she advised her son.
Jeremy said, “I always do!”
“That’s what I love to hear.” Pescoli didn’t believe it for a second and, spying Cisco dancing near the front door, ready to go anywhere Jeremy would take him, scooped up the feisty little dog. She was rewarded with a slopping doggy kiss, Cisco’s tongue washing her cheek while his tail thumped against her side and he wriggled in her arms. “Tell your dad and Michelle, ‘Happy Thanksgiving.’”
“Yeah, like you mean it,” Jeremy grumbled.
“I do. I hope you have a great time.” Holding the squirming dog, she stood at the door and watched as the two of them made their way along the snowy path to Jeremy’s truck. In her mind’s eye she saw them as they once had been, Jer, the older, lanky brother with missing teeth and socks that never stayed up, Bianca, all springy reddish curls, chubby legs, and rosy cheeks, tagging after her adored older sibling.
Where had the time gone? Her heart twisted a little as she saw Jeremy help Bianca into the cab, slam the door, then trot around the front of his truck to climb behind the wheel.
Within seconds the pickup rumbled to life, a steady throb of bass reverberating from inside the cab as Jeremy pulled away. She stood for a while, watching the truck rumble through the trees guarding the lane, then slammed the front door shut.
“What do you think of that?” she asked, setting Cisco on the floor. “Alone at last, just you and me. Think of all the trouble we can get into.”
As if he understood, the little dog went crazy at her feet, wiggling and prancing toward the cupboard where she kept his leash and a few doggy treats. “Okay, okay, it is Thanksgiving.” She tossed him a bacon-flavored biscuit. “But we are not making a habit of this.”
She did need to run into the office; that wasn’t a lie. Alvarez seemed hell-bent to prove that Jocelyn Wallis’s death was a homicide. They planned to go over the autopsy, as it should have come in late last night.
Afterward, Pescoli was going over to Santana’s place. A small smile played upon her lips at that thought. If there was one thing about the man, it was that he was always interesting.
And that wasn’t a bad thing.
Definitely not bad at all.
Trace was halfway down the stairs when he called over his shoulder to his son, “Hey, Eli, let’s get a move on!”
No response.
He paused on the landing. “Eli?”
Trace drew a breath and headed up the stairs to the second floor of his farmhouse. Eli had been exceptionally quiet after Trace, trying his hardest not to stumble and pause and struggle for words, had told him that Miss Wallis had met with a terrible accident and was now in heaven. Eli hadn’t said anything in response, so Trace had asked if he knew what heaven was. Then Eli answered promptly, “That’s where you go when you’re dead. If you’re good.”
“Uh . . . yeah,” Trace responded, uncertain where to go after that. Eli had taken matters into his own hands by saying he wanted to watch TV. The subject had been dropped ever since.
Now Trace wondered if he was about to get into a deeper discussion about death with his seven-year-old. He mentally cursed Leanna for running out on them. He might not miss her, but he could’ve really used some help raising their son about now.
“Hey, bud,” Trace said, entering Eli’s room. “We gotta get over to the Zukovs for Turkey Day. Gobble, gobble. Let’s get a move on.” Eli’s room was one of two that faced the front of the house, and as Trace moved into the room, he saw that his son was seated on the floor, some of his Lego blocks scattered around him, cradling his blue cast. “Are you in pain?”
“Do we have to go?” Eli asked, looking up. Trace saw the shimmer of tears in his son’s eyes.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” As Trace crouched to comfort him, Eli shook his head. His little chin trembled, and he swiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his good arm. “Is this about your teacher? Miss Wallis is in good hands, son.”
Swallowing hard, Eli stared at Trace with serious, worried eyes. “Where’s Mommy?”
Trace tried hard not to react. It felt as if his heart were being ripped from his chest. What a fool he’d been to think that Leanna’s leaving had been forgotten. He totally got it that Eli losing his teacher had brought these feelings to the surface, but it still threw him for a loop. “I, uh, I don’t really know where she is right now,” Trace admitted.
“She should be here. I want to talk to her.”
Of course he did. “I don’t know how we can do that.” Reaching for the down jacket tossed on the foot of the unmade bed, Trace tried to reassure his boy. “At least not today. But I can try to find her if you want.”
“You don’t know where she is?”
“Not at this exact moment.” His guts twisted. Truth be known, he hoped Leanna never showed her face around here again. He prayed she’d leave her son to grow up without her intervention, because she was certain to screw the boy up.
Or was that his own selfishness talking? Maybe the boy would be better off knowing his mother, despite the fact that she was a liar and had left him without a word.
“Sometimes, I’d like to talk to her, too,” Trace said to Eli, still crouching, though it was a bald-faced lie.
“I want to talk to her now.”
“I’ll try to find her. That’s the best I can do. C’mon, now. Tilly and Ed are waiting for us.”
“Promise?” Eli demanded. He wasn’t going to let Trace off the hook.
“Promise.” Knowing this would lead to no good, he agreed nonetheless and tried to help the boy struggle into his damned jacket. The bulky sleeve fit over his good arm; the other side had to flop over his cast. Since Eli was already wearing a thermal undershirt, a long-sleeved sweatshirt, and a down vest, he’d be warm enough for the short span of time he was outside. Trace tried to force the zipper of the jacket, then gave up fighting with the stubborn tab. The Zukovs were right next door. Usually, on Thanksgiving, Trace spent the day alone with Eli. They played games, watched sports or cartoons, and ate a turkey dinner he bought as takeout from Wild Will’s, his favorite restaurant, but this year he’d decided to take the Zukovs up on their invitation. He’d figured Eli was probably tired of being cooped up and needed a change of scenery, and there was also the sadness and shock over losing Miss Wallis.
Now, as he and Eli clambered down the stairs, he wondered if he’d made a mistake. He shook his head. Today wasn’t the first time his son had asked about his mother, nor would it be the last, but every time the subject of Leanna came up, the questions were always unexpected and difficult to answer truthfully.
Get used to it. They’re not going to get any easier as time goes on.
They walked through the kitchen, where Sarge had taken up his favorite spot under the kitchen table. He thumped his tail as they grabbed gloves and hats from the hooks near the back door.
“She should call.” Eli’s little face was drawn into a frown of concentration. “She should call me.”
“Yeah, that she should.” Trace had tried to be honest with his boy from the get-go, but it hadn’t always been easy, especially with the trickier queries.
“Can you call her? Right now?”
That one stopped him cold. He snagged his jacket from a hook and shoved his arms down its sleeves. “I don’t know,” he said, holding his son’s gaze. “I think it would be best if she found us. She knows where we are.”
“You need to call her. Maybe she’s hurt! Maybe she’s dead like Miss Wallis!”
“She’s not dead,” Trace assured him.
“How do you know!”
“If anything happened to your mom, someone would phone us.” He jammed his Stetson onto his head.
“Not if they don’t know our number!”
Trace placed his hands on his son’s shoulders. Even with the padding of his quilted vest and down jacket, Eli’s body felt thin and small. “After Thanksgiving, I’ll call her.”
“Tell her to come back.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
“Tell her to come back!”
“Eli, it’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
Trace sighed. “Because . . . grown-ups always make things complicated.”
Eli’s jaw jutted out. “Then they should stop.”
“Probably.” He opened the door to the porch and felt the chill of winter seep into the house.
“She should be here.”
“She should be here, but she’s not.” He managed a thin smile. “But you and I, we’re solid.” With a gloved finger, he forced Eli to look into his eyes. “Right?”
“Yeah,” his son said without a lot of conviction, and one more time Trace found himself mentally berating his ex-wife for how callously she’d left her son.
“Are you gonna be okay?” he asked, knowing damned well the boy wasn’t.
Eli lifted one shoulder.
Trace took his kid’s hand and helped Eli down the back steps. “Okay, let’s go see Tilly and Ed.” They trudged through the broken path of snow to the truck. “I think Tilly mentioned something about taking you on at checkers again.”
“She’ll lose,” Eli predicted.
“Big talk.”
“I’ll show you.” For the first time that day, Eli almost flashed his smile.
“Don’t show me. Show her.” Feeling that this latest emotional storm had been weathered, Trace bustled his kid into the truck. The boy really did need a mother, but he’d be damned if he’d go out looking for some woman for the sole purpose of helping him raise his son.
No reason for that.
For a second he thought of Eli’s doctor, Acacia Lambert. She, like Leanna, had auburn hair and a wide mouth, but that was where the resemblance faded. Where Leanna had blue eyes, the doc’s were closer to green and sparked with intelligence.
He wondered about her, what she was doing on Thanksgiving and, as he drove the quarter mile to the Zukovs’ place, had the unlikely pang that he wanted to spend more time with her.
“Ridiculous,” he muttered, turning off the plowed road and onto the rutted lane, where several cars had already parked around the Zukovs’ garage and pump house.
“What?” Eli asked.
“Oh, I was just thinking,” he covered up, nosing the truck into a space beneath a winter apple tree where clusters of red fruit were visible as they dangled on leafless, snow-covered branches.
“About what?”
“About what you’re gonna want for Christmas this year.”
“You said ‘Ridiculous,’ ” his son charged.
Trace cut the engine. “That I did, because I imagined you wanted a mountain bike.”
“Sweet!” Eli said, then paused and skewered his father with his concerned gaze. “Why would that be ridiculous?”
“Because you’re wearing a cast, kiddo!” He rumpled his son’s already unruly hair. “How dumb would that be to put you on a bike when you already have a broken arm?”
“I’ll be fixed by then!” Eli said, unbuckling his seat belt and reaching for the handle of the door. He hopped down to the snowy ground and was racing to the front porch before Trace could climb out of the truck.
The boy’s exuberance was infectious, and Trace felt only a smidgen of guilt for lying to his son. But he didn’t want to admit the cold, hard truth to Eli. Nor did he really want to think it himself.
But the fact was, he’d been having trouble pushing Acacia Lambert out of his mind.
And that spelled trouble, plain and simple.
The kind of trouble he didn’t need.