Bond, Stephanie - Body Movers 06.5 (2 page)

She opened the door and slid into the cool seat, comforted by the familiar hug of the caramel-colored leather. She closed the door and glanced around the interior, still in great shape. The console compartment revealed a hodgepodge of CDs and lip balm and ink pens. She removed a folded piece of yellow paper—the quote from the repair shop, she remembered as she opened it. The rather ominous-sounding engine parts needed had been itemized, with the caveat that the cooling system was perhaps “half” salvageable since one of the two fans worked.

She sighed. Six and a half body parts to get this baby running again… at a gut-clutching price she couldn’t afford any time in the near future.

She dropped the quote back into the console and closed the lid. Impulsively, she placed her hands on the steering wheel for a squeeze. Like a time machine, the car took her back to a place when she was young and carefree, when her entire life extended before her, yet was pointed in a direction of happiness and success. She leaned her head back against the headrest and allowed the good memories to flood over her. Back then, her most pressing problems had been finding the right shade of nail polish, juggling social commitments, and making plans to join her fiancé Peter at Vanderbilt University when she graduated.

She smiled and her eyes fluttered shut as the images of her life as it was supposed to be spooled through her head—an unbroken family… college educated… married to Peter Ashford… rich and happy… it was an intoxicating dream.

When she started awake, daylight streamed into the garage through the open door. How long had she slept? She lifted her head and winced as stiff muscles protested. She had to get moving—today was an important day. She and Wesley needed to talk about Randolph and perhaps arrange to see him. She expected the press to descend at some point, and she’d rather not be found sitting in her crippled car, daydreaming.

She opened the door and climbed out, then did a double-take to see the silver rental that had been parked next to her had been replaced with a silver four-door Mercedes. She frowned in confusion, then reasoned Peter might have arrived early to check on her, had probably arranged to return the rental car, and perhaps the Mercedes was his. Or maybe that piranha Liz Fischer was here. Of course she would’ve heard of Randolph’s return by now, and of course, she’d come running.

Carlotta emerged from the garage and blinked at surroundings that were different… yet familiar. She stared at the

Buckhead home she and Wesley had grown up in, then shook her head in confusion.

Had she somehow driven in a painkiller-induced haze to her childhood home? She walked closer, up the curved flagstone walkway, noting the details of the lush landscaping, the elaborate covered entryway leading to regal double-doors flanked by shining stained glass insets. She’d forgotten how truly beautiful the house was. She wondered with a pang who lived there now.

The thought still lingered in her mind when the front door opened and an elegantly-dressed woman emerged to scoop up the folded newspaper lying in front of the door.

Carlotta panicked, a lie already forming on her lips for when the woman demanded to know why she was standing in her yard. Instead, when the woman glanced up, a smile spread across her face.

“Carlotta? This is a nice surprise.”

Carlotta’s heart stopped. Her lungs froze. Her brain refused to register what her eyes were seeing. At last, her tongue loosened.
“Mother?”

Chapter 2

Carlotta stared at the woman she hadn’t seen in more than ten years. Valerie Randolph had aged gracefully, her jet hair still convincingly dark, but cropped to her chin, her cheekbones still high and perhaps more chiseled, her brown eyes framed with enough lines to hint at experience. She remained tall and slender as ever. She wore a long black silky robe and matching mules, her taste as impeccable as Carlotta remembered.

Her mother gave a little laugh. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Where… where have you been?” Carlotta asked carefully.

A little wrinkle marred Valerie’s brow. “It’s been a busy week—I was at the club yesterday, and at the chiropractor the day before. Did I miss your call?”

Carlotta’s mind raced. Valerie acted as if she had seen Carlotta mere days ago. At the time of her parents’ disappearance, her mother had been a high-functioning alcoholic… perhaps she was living in her own reality.

“Yes,” Carlotta murmured. “I was worried.”

Valerie looked contrite. “I’m sorry. Do you need to tell me something?”

How about a million somethings?
Maybe their old home was currently vacant. Maybe Valerie had returned to Atlanta with Randolph, and had taken up residence in the unoccupied home—hadn’t she seen a news segment about evicted residents returning to their empty homes? Her mother’s history with alcohol would explain such aberrant behavior.

Although it didn’t explain how she herself had gotten here.

Valerie walked toward her, her expression one of concern. Carlotta stood rooted to the spot, fear rising in her chest as Valerie reached out to her, half expecting her mother’s hand to pass through her. When her mother’s fingers touched her arm, she marveled over the contact.

“Why don’t you come inside, sweetheart.” Valerie’s voice sounded gentle, as if Carlotta was the unstable one.

Carlotta followed her into the house, steeled to see a vacant interior, fallen into disrepair. But when she walked over the threshold into the grand foyer that opened into rooms leading off in every direction, she was plunged headlong into her mother’s decadent decorating style—Old World European. Heavy antiques, plush rugs, and luxurious fabrics furnished the rooms of the home she remembered. It was the same as when she’d lived here, only different. More… modern?

Valerie walked ahead toward the kitchen, as if nothing were amiss. Carlotta trailed after her, glancing around, noting objects she’d forgotten—the oil painting her parents had brought back from Italy, the Steuben glass dolphin her father’s company Mashburn, Tully & Wren Investments, had given them for an anniversary. Carlotta reeled from sensory overload—

none of this could be real.

So how could her nose be tickling from the cinnamon-orange scent that Valerie stocked in oil diffusers in every room?

Still, she’d bet the downstairs had been staged to sell the house—the rooms on the upper floors were probably bare.

Carlotta wanted to say something—to scream at the top of her lungs—and confront her mother about her unforgivable act of abandoning her children, but she was afraid to break the spell, afraid to trigger an episode if her mother was operating within the boundaries of a mental illness. And the compulsion to see how this bizarre encounter would play out was overwhelming.

“Cappuccino?” Valerie asked, breezing up to a state-of-the-art beverage machine installed into one of the solid cherry cabinets. The kitchen had been updated to rival a commercial food preparation center.

“When did you start making morning coffee?” Carlotta asked, unable to keep the suspicious tone from her voice.

Perpetually hung over, Valerie typically didn’t put in an appearance until afternoon.

“Henny has the day off,” Valerie said without missing a beat.

Henny, their former maid, Carlotta recalled. It was the first chink in her mother’s story—she could pretend she’d never left Atlanta, but when it came to other people who had once occupied the house, of course she would have to manufacture stories to explain their absence.

“Cappuccino, yes?” Valerie prompted.

“Just black coffee is fine.”

“How was yoga, dear?”

“What?”

Valerie gestured to Carlotta’s outfit. “I assume you went to an early yoga class.”

“Oh… right. It was… fine.”

“Did you and Peter have a fight?”

Carlotta frowned—her mother assumed she and Peter were still a couple? Her gaze darted to her left hand, but her finger was bare. Then she bit down on the inside of her cheek—she and Peter
were
still a couple… weren’t they? “No, we didn’t have a fight.”

“Is your car acting up again?”

Carlotta pressed her lips together. “Yes. I need to put it in the shop.”

Valerie shook her head, poured them both a cup of black coffee, and extended a mug to Carlotta. “I don’t know why you insist on hanging on to that toy car.”

“Because Daddy bought it for me,” Carlotta said rather sharply. “It’s special.”

Valerie lifted her hand. “Far be it for me to get in the middle of you and your father.” She turned her back to position herself between Carlotta and something she removed from a drawer, but Carlotta saw the bottle as Valerie poured a glug of vodka into her coffee. Her mother was still drinking, but had found new ways to incorporate it into her schedule.

Carlotta opened her mouth to ask if Valerie happened to know that Randolph had been taken into custody, when the sound of someone jogging down the stairs made her turn her head. To her astonishment, Randolph himself burst into the kitchen in full stride. He wore a flawless gray suit, white shirt, and striped tie. He was a handsome ball of energy, fit and tanned. The gray at his temples lent a distinguished air to his boyish good looks. His grin took Carlotta’s breath away. She was starting to think she’d stepped into the Twilight Zone.

“Hey, Sweetheart,” he said, stopping long enough to drop a kiss on her cheek. “What brings you around so early? Did you and Peter have a fight?”

She frowned. “No.”

“Good.” Satisfied, he turned his attention to Valerie and her spiked java. “Starting the day off right, my dear?” His voice was laced with sarcasm.

She gave him a tight smile. “Just getting a head start on the celebration,
my dear
.”

Even with her mind racing a hundred miles an hour to figure out what was going on, Carlotta couldn’t miss the

undercurrent of hostility between her parents. Whatever alternate reality she’d entered,
that
hadn’t changed.

“What celebration?” she asked.

“Peter didn’t tell you?” Valerie said.

“Peter doesn’t know,” Randolph said.

“Know what?” Carlotta asked.

“Your father is going to be named president of the firm today.” Valerie’s voice was a mixture of pride and something else

—resignation?

“That’s wonderful, D-Daddy,” Carlotta said, stumbling over the word that was rusty on her tongue.

He smiled, obviously pleased himself. “Thanks, Sweetheart. The office is having a little cocktail party after five—stop by if you like.”

She could only nod.

“Gotta run,” Randolph said, lifting his coffee cup toward Valerie in lieu of a kiss.

“Say hi to Liz Fischer for me,” she said sweetly.

Under his tan, Randolph blanched. “Liz?”

Valerie picked up his phone from the counter. “It beeped with a reminder that you’re seeing her at noon.”

“Right,” he said smoothly, reaching for his phone. “To go over the new employment contract the firm drew up.” As if to punctuate his fidelity, he stepped forward to kiss her mother, but Carlotta didn’t miss Valerie’s last minute head turn that resulted in the kiss landing on her chin.

“Okay, then,” Randolph said cheerfully. “I’ll see you both later.”

Carlotta opened her mouth to say something—anything—to her father, to demand to know what the heck was going on and why he and her mother were both acting as if nothing was wrong, but she was confused. Her father was under arrest—she’d seen Jack handcuff him and haul him away with her own eyes… so how could he and Valerie be standing here in the kitchen of the home she’d grown up in, as if they’d never left?

As if they’d never left.

She’d wondered and wished to know and experience what her life would’ve been like if her father hadn’t been accused of investment fraud, if he and her mother hadn’t abandoned her and Wesley… was this her wish being answered?

While her mind whirled in bewildered revelation, her father walked out the door whistling. Valerie took a hefty drink of her coffee, then gave Carlotta a shaky smile. “Don’t you miss this happy family morning ritual?”

“Actually,” Carlotta murmured, “I do.”

Valerie angled her head. “What’s wrong, dear?”

Only everything.
“I guess I’m just feeling out of sorts today.”

Her mother made a rueful noise. She reached out to stroke Carlotta’s hair back from her face, resurrecting memories of when she was a little girl. “You do look different—tanned. You know the sun is bad for your skin.”

“I just feel flushed,” Carlotta said, conceding she hadn’t been diligent about applying sunscreen as her mother had drilled into her head since she was a preteen.

“And your hair looks longer—did you get extensions?”

“No.”

Valerie shook her head as if to clear the cobwebs. “I could’ve sworn… well, never mind, it suits you.” She took another drink from her mug, then brightened. “How about some breakfast?”

Carlotta had never seen her mother turn on the stove, but she was hungry, and she wanted to prolong her visit. “Maybe a bagel?”

“You’re eating carbs again?” Valerie squinted. “Are you pregnant?”

Carlotta’s eyes flew wide. “What? No!”

“Just checking,” Valerie said in a sing-songy voice. She opened six cabinets before she found a bag of bagels, emerging triumphant. She pulled one out and dropped the halves into a toaster.

“Aren’t you going to have one?” Carlotta prodded, thinking the bread would help to soak up the alcohol.

Valerie waved her hand. “You know I only eat one meal a day.”

Yes, she remembered… and the meal usually consisted of a sparse green salad. Valerie enjoyed her reputation for being famously thin among her circle of friends at the club.

From the counter, the cordless phone trilled. Valerie glanced at the caller ID screen. “Oh, that’s Bette calling about our bridge game, I should take this. I’ll keep an eye on your bagel. Do you mind running upstairs to try to get your brother out of bed?”

Carlotta couldn’t contain her surprise. “Wesley is upstairs?”

Valerie gave a dry laugh as she reached for the handset. “Of course. And he needs to be somewhere in thirty minutes.”