Ryan's Return, page 19
"Don't you 'Aunt Josephine' me. I know what I'm doing. I'm getting a divorce."
Kara put a hand to her heart. "You can't do that."
"Why can't I?"
"You never have. Ike Kelly is your fourth husband."
"I should have stopped with three. Three's the charm, they say. Four is just one more." She walked across the kitchen and proceeded to fill the empty teapot with water. "Do you still have some of that herbal tea I gave you for Christmas?"
"Second shelf," Kara said.
Josephine helped herself while Kara exchanged a pleading look with Ryan.
"What exactly did Ike do?" Ryan asked, responding to Kara's silent query.
Josephine's mouth turned down into a frown. "He said my tea tasted like castor oil. And when I read his tea leaves, he refused to listen to me. I told him there was danger on the horizon, that someone we both love was heading straight into danger. But what did he do? He turned on the television set to that show he always watches with the women. 'Baywatch,' I think they call it. As if an old goat like him could get some sexy thing in a bikini. Who does he think he is?"
"A man," Kara said darkly.
Ryan cleared his throat. "Uh, do you think you're jumping the gun here? Maybe you should talk to Ike."
"As if I didn't try. I packed my suitcases right in front of him. You know what he said? 'If you want to be an old fool, go right ahead.' Now, I may be a fool, but I am not old." Josephine turned on the gas under the teapot and tapped her long, pale-pink fingernails against the kitchen tiles.
"Aunt Josephine, you can't get a divorce," Kara said, trying desperately to come up with the right words.
"Why not? You did. Your mother did. Ryan's father did." Josephine tilted her head to one side. "Why, come to think of it, I may be the only woman in this town who hasn't gotten a divorce."
"That's not true. Think about the Grubners. Hans and jillian have been happily married for forty-eight years."
"Only because she makes him that damn apple strudel."
"What does apple strudel have to do with it?" Ryan asked.
"I have no idea," Kara said as her aunt took a cup and saucer out of the cabinet.
"Do you want some tea, dear?" Josephine asked. 'What about you, Ryan?"
Kara ignored her. "Dirk and Susan," she said, snapping her fingers. "They're going on thirty-nine years, I think. And the Applebornes have been together a long time and the Woodriches, too."
"Only because no one would else would have Beverly and Margaret," Josephine said.
"She might be right about that," Ryan added.
Kara shot him an irritated look. "You're not helping."
He grinned at her without any sign of being sorry. "You said you came here to create more of a sense of family. Looks like your family is moving right in."
"That's right," Josephine said, sending Ryan a look of approval. "I'm moving in with you, Kara. I'm going to help you run this place, and I can watch Angel for you, too. It will be perfect."
"Aunt Josephine, I have a full house tonight. I don't have any empty rooms." Kara could not even contemplate having Josephine under the same roof. Not that she didn't love her aunt, but Josephine was forever causing problems with her tea leaves and crystal ball readings and occasional stances. The Gatehouse had once been the favorite haunt of many a supernaturalist. It was not the image nor the clientele Kara wanted.
"I'll sleep with Angel," Josephine said. "She has a trundle bed. We'll be cozy as two peas in a pod. Unless -- you don't want me here?" Josephine gave Kara a sharp look.
"Of course I want you. I just hate to see you make a mistake. Ike loves you. And I think you love him."
"Love! Piffle! Who needs it anyway? Now, where is my great-niece?"
"I sent her to her room."
"What did she do now? Tell more stories?"
"Yes."
Josephine shook her head. "Sending her to her room won't solve anything."
"It will give her time to think about what she's doing," Kara replied.
Ryan leaned against the counter, resting his chin on his hand. "More likely give her time to come up with some better stories. Why, she's probably in there telling her dolls that her evil mother has locked her in the tower without bread or water."
Kara put her hands on her hips and glared at him. "You're as bad as she is, encouraging her all the time."
"Me?"
"Yes, you. I heard you telling her about China and Africa and all the places she's not likely to see."
"And why shouldn't she see them?" Ryan challenged.
"Because those places are a long way from Serenity Springs. Angel is going to stay right here and help me run the Gatehouse. One day she'll get married and have a family and live down the road or right here if she wants."
"That's exactly the kind of thinking that will drive her away," Ryan said, straightening up. "God, you sound just like Jonas."
"I do not."
"You do, too."
Kara turned to her aunt. "I don't sound like Jonas, do I?"
"A bit, dear," Josephine said.
"I just want her to have a good life," Kara protested.
"Then let her live it her way," Ryan said.
"She's eleven years old. She doesn't know what her way is."
"She needs space to grow, Kara. Don't lock her into your dreams. Let her have her own. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about."
Ryan looked too earnest to argue with. Kara sighed. "I can't think about this right now. I have a million things to do. I have to make dinner and get it on the table before six so I can get down to the rec center for the show tonight. I don't have time to talk about anything else right now. And I mean anything," she said to Ryan, remembering his earlier comment about her father.
Ryan threw out his hands. "Fine, bury your head in the sand. Be like everyone else in this town."
"I'm not doing that. I'm just busy."
"I'll talk to Josephine then."
Josephine beamed. "Good idea. We have lots to catch up on." She led Ryan toward the door, then glanced back at Kara. "Can you bring us a cup of tea when it's ready?"
Kara threw her dish towel at the door as it closed behind Ryan and Josephine. Bring them a cup of tea. Jeez. As if she didn't have enough to do.
And she was not going to think about what Ryan had said. He didn't know anything about her father. He was just trying to startle her, to make her uncomfortable so she would tell Angel the truth about Michael.
There was no deep, dark secret about her father. At least -- she hoped there wasn't.
Chapter Fourteen
Angel opened her window and leaned her head out. The branches from the oak tree brushed against the side of the house. They were big, thick, sturdy branches, strong enough for climbing on. If she climbed out on the ledge and scooted over to the side, she could do it. She could use the branch to escape.
Pulling her head back inside her window, she picked up her backpack and checked the contents. She had her wallet, an extra shirt, another pair of jeans, her Raggedy Ann doll, her diary, and a slip of paper with her father's address. Taking a deep breath, she tried not to think about her mother downstairs.
Angel could smell the beef stew that had been simmering on the stove since morning. She could almost taste the tender chunks of beef, the soft carrots, the potatoes. Her stomach rumbled at the thought. She was a little hungry. But she had her stash of candy, she told herself, digging into her bottom drawer for a bag of Skittles and a box of Junior Mints. They would have to do.
She couldn't risk a trip to the kitchen. Her mother would be setting the table and welcoming the guests downstairs. She could already hear the shower going in the next room. Someone down the hall laughed. And in the distance the puppies barked at something or someone.
Angel looked toward the door, torn by the sound of the puppies, the welcoming smells of home, and the desire to run away to find her dad. He hadn't answered any of her letters, and he never returned her phone calls. It was driving her absolutely crazy. She felt so frustrated she wanted to scream. She wanted another chance with him to tell him she was sorry and that she loved him.
Angel pulled her sweatshirt over her T-shirt. Then she scribbled a note for her mom.
I'm not hungry. I'm taking a nap. I'll come down later and get something to eat.
She stuck it on her door with a piece of tape, then locked her door.
Next, she threw her backpack out the window, watching it land on the long, soft grass below. At least it wasn't raining. But the window ledge was wet, and when she crawled out onto the branch, drops of water sprayed in her face. She blinked back the moisture and clung to the tree. Carefully she descended, not really afraid, not even when the wind blew the branch she was on back against the house.
When Angel reached the ground, she turned on her flashlight. It was almost six. With any luck, her mom would go ahead with dinner and not notice she was gone till the morning. She would follow the river south, and sooner or later she would find a bus to take her the rest of the way to San Francisco.
Angel took off running. She wanted to get away from the Gatehouse before anyone caught up with her -- before she had second thoughts.
* * *
Kara looked over at Angel's empty seat and lost track of the conversation around the dinner table. She was tempted to go upstairs and drag Angel out of her room, but what purpose would that serve? Maybe it was better to let her sulk for a while. Angel had to realize that she couldn't live her life by telling lies all the time.
As the grandfather clock in the hall struck six, Kara drummed her fingers restlessly against the tabletop. Her stew sat uneaten before her. The conversation became a gentle hum of background noise. Her thoughts were with Angel and -- Michael.
She thought about the dinners they had shared together as a family. She thought about the times she and Angel had eaten alone. Now she didn't have her husband or her daughter. Just a bunch of strangers.
Not that Aunt Josephine was a stranger. She was family, and it was nice to have her at the other end of the table entertaining the guests.
Ryan was talking to Aunt Josephine. His green eyes sparkled in the candlelight. He was so vibrant, so passionate. She saw it in the way he threw his hands out when he spoke and heard it in the laughter that edged his voice.
Earlier that day she had watched him working the crafts fair and had been captivated by the way he chose small, seemingly insignificant things to catch on film: a child holding an ice cream that tilted dangerously off the cone, a painter washing his brushes rather than putting paint on canvas, a vendor packing his crafts into big brown boxes to move on to the next fair.
Real people. Real life. Ryan had a knack for seeing beyond the obvious. At least he had the knack with his camera. Without it he sometimes seemed blind to what was right in front of his face.
Not that she wanted him to look at her, she thought worriedly as his gaze came to rest on her face. She didn't want his attention, didn't want his careful scrutiny, didn't want to hear his secrets or to tell him hers. He was getting under her skin, sneaking past her defenses when she least expected it. She had to put a stop to it.
"Would anyone like more stew?" Kara asked, forcing herself to concentrate on the mundane details of her life. The guests shook their heads as Josephine stood up to clear the table.
"I'll get this, Kara. Why don't you relax for a few minutes?" Josephine said.
"What about coffee or dessert?" Kara asked.
"There will be dessert after the show," Josephine said.
"That's true." Kara set her napkin down on the table. "If nobody needs me, I think I will take a break." She walked out of the dining room and into the living room. It was quiet here, and quiet was exactly what she wanted -- a few minutes of peace before she had to change her clothes and deal with Angel.
One of the photos on top of the piano had fallen on its side. Kara straightened it, then impulsively sat down at the piano. She hadn't practiced in a few days. Maybe she could do it now. Maybe the music would suddenly flow from her fingers.
She placed her hands above the keys and began to play. The first two notes weren't bad, but the third and the fourth collided. The fifth shrieked like a banshee and the sixth sounded like a cow in labor. Kara sighed as a hand came down on her shoulder. She couldn't have failed in private? She had to do it in front of him?
"Did you say you took piano lessons?" Ryan asked.
Kara nodded. "Yep. For the past three months."
"You're terrible."
Kara tilted her head to look at him. "You're supposed to say it wasn't that bad."
"It was worse. Speaking strictly from one musician to another."
"Gee, thanks."
"Frankly I'm relieved there is at least one thing you're not good at. I was beginning to wonder." Ryan sat down on the bench next to her.
"One thing? Stick around a while. I fall on my face about three times a day." Her casual comment caused the light in his eyes to fade.
"I can't," he said. "Stick around, I mean."
She tossed off his comment with a shrug of her shoulders. "Why not? You work for yourself, don't you?"
"It's not that. I can't stay in one place for very long. I get itchy feet."
"One place or this place?"
"I don't really have a home anywhere. My apartment in L.A. is pretty much empty these days. I don't even own any furniture."
"What do you sleep on?"
He sent her a wry smile. "It's a long story."
"Oh." She looked away, focusing on the vase of dried silk flowers on top of the piano. "You probably have someone waiting for you back in L.A."
"No. She got tired of waiting." Ryan played a couple of notes on the piano, his long, thin fingers making a mockery of Kara's clumsy efforts. "They all get tired of waiting," he added. "You would, too."
She met his gaze, knowing that he was only reinforcing what she had told herself. Conversely she hated someone else making decisions for her. If she wanted to wait for a man, any man, it would be her choice, not his.
"Maybe you just never had a good enough reason to come home," she said.
"Maybe." He paused, giving her a long, intense look. "I'd like to photograph you."
"Oh, please." Kara tried to turn her head, but he caught her chin with his hand, holding her in profile.
"You have great bone structure."
She uttered a somewhat nervous laugh. "I've never heard that compliment before."
"Your skin is so clear, I can almost see through it. But it's your eyes that would take over the whole shot. Even if I photographed you from twenty yards away without zooming in on your face, your eyes would still be the central point. Big, beautiful blue eyes that show every emotion, every desire."
"Don't," she whispered.
His fingers traced the line of her lips. "Soft," he muttered. "I can't resist."
"Don't," she said again, but this time she meant something entirely different. She wanted him to kiss her, wanted to feel his mouth on hers, to get lost in his light and his fire and his passion.
