Читать книгу What Should Have Been - Helen R. Myers - Страница 8

M ead didn’t break any speed records returning home. He knew what awaited him there and slowed his pace to prepare for the inquisition, one that would be particularly grueling if the police had beat him there. He wasn’t ungrateful for his mother’s attention toward his recovery and understood she’d called in some serious IOUs to get him the best medical help beyond what the military had provided, which had been pretty damned fine from what he could tell. But what he craved was space in all of its ramifications. Since it was increasingly clear that he wasn’t going to remember who he had been, he’d like to decide for himself who he wanted to be from here on. If he didn’t grasp that before, that episode in the park with the little girl and her mother convinced him.

No doubt the poor kid had been scared. And her mother…Devan Anderson…who was that woman? It was nuts, but the moment she’d arrived, he’d felt as if the stream in the park had shifted ninety degrees and was suddenly carrying her energy straight to…no, through him. Whether she wanted to discuss it or not, he was convinced they had more of a history than she had admitted. Getting truthful answers would be the tricky part. It would happen, though, because until a few minutes ago, he hadn’t been convinced that he belonged here, let alone figured out whom he wanted to gamble on trusting.

Spotting Pamela’s majordomo at the back gate of the mansion, he steeled himself for the next step through his foggy maze. “Evening, Philo,” he said to the compact man in the tailored gray suit. Pryce Philo’s burr haircut was a duplicate of his except that it was completely silver and had him increasingly wondering if they didn’t have more in common than easy-to-manage hair.

“Are you all right, sir?” the manservant asked in his polite, mid-Atlantic voice that gave away little of his background.

“You ask that a lot.”

“Because Mrs. Regan expects regular and full reports, sir.”

Mead paused outside the wrought-iron gate to study the man with the winter-cold eyes who had yet to release the lock. What did anyone know about Philo other than that he took as much pride in his appearance as he did his work, making him integral in keeping the estate running smoothly and its owner on schedule, if not out of trouble? Only Pamela and her CPA knew how valuable that was—and only she knew the full realm of his responsibilities.

“How long have you known me now, Philo?” It was a question he asked whenever he was totally frustrated with the puzzle and his environment and willing to push buttons, even if that meant shooting into the dark.

“I don’t know you at all, sir,” the manservant replied as usual. “But I’ve been privileged to be serving you on your mother’s behalf for two weeks, two days…and almost a pair of shoes ago, Mr. Regan. It looks like you’ll need a new pair yourself.”

It was more than he and Philo usually had to say to each other, and Mead glanced down at his soggy athletic shoes and damp jeans to hide his smirk. Philo didn’t like babysitting him any more than Mead cared for his salaried shadow. “Look at that.”

“You might also like to know the police are here,” Philo added. “They came to inquire about your whereabouts this afternoon.”

“Did you sell me out?”

“You wound me, sir.”

Mead didn’t believe it for a minute. “I went for a walk beyond the sacred walls. Big deal.”

“But there’s the matter of a 911 call in the area. A child living on the other side of the park was feared—” Philo coughed discreetly “—attacked.”

Tightening his fisted hands in his pockets, Mead replied coldly, “She wasn’t. We ran into each other down there.” He nodded in the direction of the park. “One look at me and she wanted her mommy or the marines—whichever she could find faster—and hightailed it home.”

“Excellent. Allow me.” Philo punched the security code into the keypad built into the wall and the gate lock opened with a subtle click. “Would now be a good time to ask how you managed to leave in the first place, since you don’t have the code?”

“No.” Mead stepped into the yard and waited for the sound of Philo closing up behind him.

“Have mercy, sir. Mrs. Regan is already in a state. In case you’ve forgotten, she’s hosting another of her fundraiser dinners this evening, and I think she and Mr. Walsh had something of a row earlier.”

Mead had only observed Riley Walsh of Walsh Development and Construction, Inc.—his mother’s choice as the next mayor of Mount Vance—from a distance, but even with his diminished abilities, his gut told him Pamela would be better off if the guy was dispatched to build ice condos in Antarctica.

“Sir?”

“If I tell you, will you let me slip upstairs and avoid your boss and the law?”

Pryce Philo laid his hand over his heart. “‘A man cannot serve two masters.’”

“I bet you’ve tested that theory,” Mead muttered. Shrugging, he gestured, “Lead on, faithful Philo.”

One thing he couldn’t deny as he returned to the house was that Regan Mansion, and its remaining twenty acres, was an impressive accomplishment. Having achieved centennial status, the three-story, Grecian-style mansion stood on what had been a massive pine and peach tree farm. Today it was a shutterbug’s fantasy: acres of dogwood, red bud and azaleas in the spring, and magnolia mixed into the various pines in the summer. Was his mother’s decision to sell off the land a good thing? Heaven knows, from the looks of things, she didn’t need the money, but it was how the town had gotten the park. He’d gleaned that much information from one of the yard workers. Was it what the father he couldn’t remember would have wanted? He suspected that was another question he would never get answered.

Mead followed Philo inside through the living room French doors and immediately heard his mother’s second soprano voice resonating with anger all the way from the foyer.

“Really, Officer Brighton, I expect a formal apology from Chief Marrow. My son is a medaled war hero, was honorably discharged, and yet this is the manner with which he’s welcomed home? Accusing him of such vile behavior?”

Cursing under his breath that his mother would use a messenger to vent her frustrations with Walsh—and him, too—Mead stepped into the foyer. “If you’d give the man a chance to hear his radio, I think you’ll both learn that the situation is resolved.”

In front of him he saw Pamela Niles Regan—his mother if documentation was to be believed—resplendent in a red, white and blue sequined jacket and an ankle-length, navy-blue skirt. The massive chandelier over her head accented the honey-gold highlights in her short, brunette coif, and her five-foot-three ripe body teetered on three-inch heels.

With a grateful glance, the flustered policeman keyed his shoulder mike. After a bit more static and some vague jargon Mead didn’t understand, he heard the officer reply, “Copy.”

To them the young man said with some chagrin, “It’s confirmed. False alarm. Just doing my job, sir. Ma’am. Good evening to you.”

As soon as the front door closed behind him, Pamela seethed, “Incompetent man. I’ll have his badge.”

“Don’t.” Mead slipped off his bandana, wearier from listening to those few moments of his mother’s railing than from what happened earlier. “It was a misunderstanding. Let it go.”

“Excuse me? Insult a national hero?”

“Stop it,” Mead replied more tersely. “You don’t know that.”

Pamela lifted her chin. “Of course I do. They presented me with your ribbons and medals on your behalf. It’s not my fault that you refuse to look at them.”

Mead wrestled with a dark emotion he couldn’t quite name. “The mission failed. People are dead. There’s nothing to honor.”

Once he’d gotten a fraction of his wits about him, he’d demanded someone tell him the truth. He couldn’t confirm or deny anything said, but he didn’t believe that he should have been rewarded for such pitiful results. Right now he wasn’t sure he should believe he really was Mead Regan, or someone cosmetically altered to take his place. In the privacy of his bedroom, he’d looked for the telltale scars indicating plastic surgery and was almost disappointed to note that while he had scars, none were from that.

“The point is that you’ve repeatedly risked your life for your country, and this time almost lost everything. I nearly lost you.” Pamela crossed to him and gripped his arm until perfectly manicured nails bit into the sleeve of his jacket. “You deserve respect and since you’re too modest and noble to ask for it yourself, it’s my job to see you get it.”

Her saccharine smile turned into a grimace as she finally took notice of his appearance. “Good grief, Mead. I hope you haven’t left a trail of mud on the carpet. Never mind, I’ll have Philo look into that as soon as we finish. Now, I want you to go upstairs and shower. You can make up for giving me a fright by accompanying me at dinner tonight. Check the closet for your dress uniform. It might still be a bit loose on you, but it’s been cleaned and you’ll see I have all the medals on it.”

Mead almost admired her. From day one after arriving here he’d noticed Pamela’s steely determination. Her problem was that she directed it toward all the wrong things. Carefully disengaging himself, he replied, “No.”

“No? Tonight is important to me.”

“I thought this event was all about your buddy Walsh?”

Pamela’s aging porcelain features hardened a second before she pressed her hands together and shifted her gaze over his shoulder. “Ah, Philo. Check the living room carpet for dirt, will you? And have the car ready at six.”

“Very well, madam.”

As the butler withdrew, Pamela refocused on Mead. “Darling…the fact of the matter is that I hate having to leave you yet again. I’ve had commitments so many times since your return, and we could use this as an opportunity to catch up. Besides, it’s not good for you to be alone so much.”

She was only now concluding that? “Last time I checked,” Mead replied, “my birth certificate says I turn thirty-five in November. The head doctors wouldn’t have authorized my release if I weren’t relatively safe to be left on my own. For that matter, don’t you think it’s time to tell your watchdog that around-the-clock monitoring isn’t necessary?”

“Philo has only made sure you didn’t have an episode and had everything you need.”

“The doctors told you I haven’t since they changed my medication, and I’ve been off of all of it except aspirin for several days.”

“That’s wonderful. Then we can use tonight to celebrate.” Pamela attempted a pout and coaxed, “I’d love to show you off to my friends.”

He couldn’t think of anything less appealing. “Did I ever enjoy performing for crowds?”

Stiffening, Pamela brushed past him and headed for the study. “I’m going to make myself a drink. Would you care for something?”

Mead’s first impulse was to decline and seek refuge in his room, but on second thought he followed. He had more questions and, like it or not, she probably knew many if not all of the answers. “Beer sounds okay.”

The tap of her high heels grew louder on the Italian tile. At the ornate antique huntboard that served as a bar, she filled two crystal glasses with ice from an open crystal bowl, then added a healthy splash of bourbon. “If I succeed at anything regarding your return,” she said, handing him a glass, “it’ll be to cure you of your pedestrian tastes.”

Had his hunch that he’d always preferred beer to the expensive stuff been correct? Mead inspected the amber liquid. Contact with the person he’d been…

Pamela eyed him over her glass. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’s bourbon not tea leaves. Drink…and then tell me where you were to get in that condition.”

He did sip…and with a frown put the glass back onto the huntboard. “Walking. Down by that creek behind this place. Who is Devan Anderson?” he added.

His mother stopped her glass inches from her lips. Her eyes narrowed, but not as though she was trying to remember.

“Who did you say?”

Mead recognized that he had made a mistake, and worried how bad. “The mother of the child who ran off. Surely Officer Brighton told you the little girl’s name? Mrs. Anderson came into the park, too. She knew me.”

Pamela took a second sip. “Everyone knows us.”

There was no missing her pride, but that didn’t help him one iota. His memory remained as void as his soul was troubled. Thinking became especially difficult in this museum of a house with its cathedral ceilings, furniture no one of size dared sit on without concern for their safety, and limited memorabilia to offer hints of any immediate family past. There wasn’t so much as a photograph around, and the paintings were all of people in white wigs or breastplates.

“That doesn’t answer my question.” Mead knew his reluctance to address her as “Mother” irked Pamela, but in his opinion people earned titles as much as they did endearments. “Who is she?”

“Just a local.” Pamela’s sequined jacket glistened as she gestured with dismissal. “Dreamscapes Floral and Landscape Design. I use them on occasion. When their quotes are competitive.”

“They? Is this a family business?”

“A partnership.” Pamela rolled her eyes. “I suspect there were financial reasons to compel her to do it. Her husband Jay died over a year ago, and, no, I barely knew him except to figure out he wasn’t exactly a rocket scientist. Anyway, by partnership, I mean Devan and that awful Lavender Smart. Lovechild of the sixties,” she intoned with a look of distaste. “Devan must have a self-destructive streak in her as bad as yours.”

Mead filed away the information—and Pamela’s reaction—but decided not to push his luck by asking more. It was his inner reactions that intrigued him anyway. He didn’t understand his strong curiosity…or was that attraction?

“I think I’ll go lie down,” he murmured, all but lost in his thoughts.

Pamela immediately transitioned into concerned mother. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling ill?”

“No. I just want to—” He’d almost said “think.” His mother would have pounced on that like she did new tidbits of gossip. “I must have overdone it walking.”

“Are you sure? You do look drawn, now that you mention it. And I so wanted your company tonight.” Pamela smiled bravely. “All right, darling, I’ll manage on my own. You go rest. I’ll give everyone your regrets.”

Wondering who would care since he wasn’t meant to attend in the first place, Mead climbed the stairs two at a time.