Читать книгу Lakeview Protector - Shirlee McCoy - Страница 10

Like everything in Jazz’s life, the rancher seemed to have faded since she’d lost her husband and daughters. She couldn’t decide if her pain-shadowed perception was to blame or if the once-cheerful living room really had grown dim and dreary. Bright blues and crisp whites seemed muted and dingy, the once-pristine area now cluttered with magazines and books.

Jazz picked up a few as she stepped through the room, sliding them back into place on the bookshelves that lined one wall, barely glancing at titles or photographs. She knew what they were. Celebrity rags, romance novels, nothing academic. None of the autobiographies or biographies Sarah had once loved reading. Jazz couldn’t blame her mother-in-law for burying herself in romanticized tales. If she could have, she would have done the same. But for Jazz there was no comfort in fantasy and fairy tale, only the grim reality of life lived without those she loved.

“Is that you, Jasmine?” Sarah called out, a hint of anxiety coloring her words. Jazz wanted to ignore it, but ignoring the paranoia that her mother-in-law seemed to suffer from was nearly impossible. Over the past three days, Jazz had waged constant battle against Sarah’s fears.

“Who else would it be?” She hurried into the kitchen, a smile firmly in place.

“You never know, dear. You just never know.” Sarah’s answering smile was exactly as Jazz had known it would be—John, Maddie, Megan, all rolled into one, squeezing Jazz’s lungs and stealing her breath.

“Well, this time, you do. It’s me. Back to make you breakfast.”

“Coffee will be fine.”

“You need more than that, Sarah. How about some eggs? Bacon? Pan-fried potatoes?”

“Coffee.” Sarah’s tone brooked no argument, her fingers tapping against the paperback book that sat in front of her on the table, her shoulders hunched and bowed. Too thin, too frail.

This time it was Jazz’s heart that clenched. “You have to eat, Sarah.”

“Do I?” Sarah smiled again, but the look in her eyes was flat and dead, as if modern medicine had trapped a soul that should have already departed.

Jazz reached for her hand, squeezing. “You can’t heal if you don’t eat. How about just a piece of toast?”

It looked as if Sarah would refuse, the tilt to her chin, the tightness of her pale lips reminding Jazz of other times—John and Sarah equally matched in stubborn determination and standing on opposite sides of an issue, staring each other down, neither willing to concede. In the end they’d always come together again, laughing about their stubbornness, teasing each other in the timeless mother-son dance of affection.

Without John as a foil, it seemed Sarah’s stubbornness had faded. She shrugged. “Toast then.”

“And a banana?”

“Don’t push your luck, dear.” The response was more Sarah-like than any other in the few days Jazz had been there. She hoped it was a good sign.

“Toast. Coffee. And later I’m going out for a dozen of Doris’s éclairs.”

“In this weather? Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

“I’m used to this kind of weather. Besides, I’ve been craving éclairs since I got here.”

“You’re hoping to tempt more calories into me, is more likely the case.”

“That’s true, too.”

“Then feel free to bring a dozen éclairs home. I may just have it in me to eat one. While you’re at it, maybe you could stop by Kitty’s Little Book Shoppe. I’m almost out of reading material.”

“I can definitely do that. Or we can go together tomorrow.” Jazz set coffee and toast on the table in front of her mother-in-law, then took the chair across from her. “After the doctor’s appointment you’ve got in the morning.”

“Don’t remind me about the appointment. More poking and prodding. It would have been better if the person trying to murder me had been successful. No doubt, he’s enjoying my slow torture.”

“Don’t talk like that, Sarah. Of course it wouldn’t have been better if you’d died.” Jazz shifted in her seat, wishing she could turn the conversation to a safer subject. Sarah claimed she’d been shoved down a flight of stairs during the grand opening of a Civil War museum housed in a restored mansion. The local sheriff disagreed. He had witnesses who had seen Sarah’s fall. Jasmine was inclined to believe his version, the fact that she doubted her mother-in-law’s account proving just how much their relationship had changed.

She covered Sarah’s hand with her own, trying to convey a calm she didn’t feel. “You seem down, Sarah. Maybe I should call the doctor. Have him come over and make sure you’re okay.”

“Down as in loony and paranoid, right?” Sarah scowled, her eyes flashing, slashes of pink coloring her pale cheeks.

“No. Down as in depressed. The doctor said trauma can cause that sometimes.”

“Well, not in me. I’m about as far from depressed as a person can get. What I am is angry. Angry that the sheriff doesn’t believe I’m in danger and angry that you don’t. Angry that everyone would rather believe I’m paranoid than believe the truth.”

“Sarah—”

“Don’t, Jasmine. I know what the doctors have told you. They think I’m losing it. They’ll be proven wrong eventually. Of course, by that time it might be too late.” Sarah lifted her book, pretending to turn her attention back to the story, but Jasmine could tell from her frown that the conversation wasn’t over.

“I know you’re frustrated, but a half a dozen people saw you fall down those stairs. No one saw you being pushed.” The words slipped out before Jazz thought them through, and she regretted them immediately.

“There were hundreds of people at the grand opening of the museum. No one was watching one old lady walking down the stairs, so how could anyone know for sure what happened? Anyone but me, that is.” Sarah’s gaze speared into Jazz’s, flecks of gold and green standing out against the dark blue. John’s eyes looking into Jazz’s, accusing, pleading.

She lowered her gaze, fiddling with a napkin, searching for just the right words, but knowing she wouldn’t find them. Words used to come easily. Not anymore. She struggled and searched and still came up wanting. “I believe you.”

Simple. Direct. Not quite the truth.

Wanting to believe didn’t mean a person actually did believe.

She’d learned that the hard way over the past years as she’d fought to hold onto what little faith she’d had.

“No. You don’t, but it’s all right. I love you anyway. I’m going to rest for a while. Tell me before you go out, okay?”

“Okay.”

The house fell silent as Sarah shuffled away, leaning on her walker—bent, older than her years, faded in some indefinable way.

That was what grief did—it aged the body, stole from the mind, made every hour into a hundred, every day into an eternity.

Jasmine grabbed the empty toast plate and the still-full coffee mug from the table, forcing somber thoughts away. She’d come here to help. Her sadness could only make things worse, her doubts feeding rather than assuaging Sarah’s paranoia.

If it was paranoia.

The doctors seemed to think so. Jazz was…undecided. Exactly the way she was about everything in her life.

She lifted Sarah’s book from the table, the cover’s pastel colors highlighting a man, a woman and a little girl who danced between them. Jazz’s life had been like that once—sunlight and shadows, laughter and tears, balanced out by love, affection, companionship.

Now it was different.

Not bad.

Not particularly good.

Just different.

Many of her friends thought she should get back into the dating game, start seeing people. Others suggested she adopt, bring children into her home, let laughter chase away the sorrow.

Jazz knew she could do both, but she couldn’t replace what was lost and had no desire to try. Instead, she lived life on her own terms, ignoring her friends’ suggestions. Even though that meant facing her life alone.

The business line rang, and she grabbed it, thankful for the distraction. “Lakeview Retreat, can I help you?”

“May I speak to Mrs. Jasmine Hart?”

“This is she.”

“My name is Keith Sherman. I’ve heard that your mother-in-law is having some financial difficulties.”

“Heard from whom?”

“Friend of a friend. I’m a real-estate investor, and I’d be very interested in purchasing her property. I’m sure you can see what a good idea that would be. Medical expenses for the elderly can be quite high.”

“Sarah isn’t elderly, and she’s not interested in selling.”

“Whether she’s interested in it or not isn’t the point. She’s probably got an emotional attachment to the place, but I’m sure you could help her see past that.”

“I’m not going to talk her into something she doesn’t want, if that’s what you’re hinting at.”

“So, you’d rather see her lose the property to the bank?”

“She’s not going to lose the property to the bank.”

“That’s not what I’m hearing.”

“It is now. Thanks for your query, Mr. Sherman.” She hung up before he could say more, her heart hammering a quick, hard beat.

Lose the property to the bank?

Were things really that bad?

Jazz had looked through the past year’s books when she’d arrived, had realized how little revenue had come in, but she hadn’t bothered opening the mail piled up on Sarah’s desk, or checking her mother-in-law’s bank statements. Sarah was a private person. She didn’t believe in sharing burdens or responsibilities, and would never allow others to look into her finances. She had a strict code of ethics. Honesty, hard work, repaying debts; those were principles Sarah lived by. Jasmine couldn’t believe that had changed.

She hurried into the office, sat down at the desk, grabbing the pile of mail and sorting through it. Bills were piled to her left, correspondences to the right, junk mail in the trash can. It took three hours, but she finally finished, her heart sinking as she reread the letter threatening foreclosure.

The caller had been right. Sarah was about to lose her property. Jazz reached for the phone, hesitated, knowing her mother-in-law wouldn’t be happy with what she was about to do. If John were alive, he’d have prayed, approached his mother with a plan of action, then followed through in whatever way he felt led while Jazz watched in awe, wishing her own prayers could be answered as quickly and decisively. She’d thought that once she matured as a Christian they would be, that she’d hear God’s voice more clearly, understand more easily the direction she was supposed to take.

Somehow, though, spiritual growth had never happened. While John’s faith had flourished, hers had stayed in infancy. Even as she’d prayed with Megan and Maddie, rejoiced as they’d taken their own fledgling steps of faith, she’d wondered and doubted and worried and questioned and asked herself if what lived in her soul was less real than what lived in John’s and her daughters’.

At the time of their deaths, she still hadn’t found an answer. Now, she didn’t care to try. Being part of their faith experience wasn’t necessary anymore. What was necessary was action. She’d let Sarah down too many times in the past few years. That was obvious. Whether her mother-in-law would thank her or not, Jazz intended to make up for that in the only way she could. She lifted the phone and dialed the number of the bank.