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Oh, Faiza had been jealous then, envious of this house, the boat, the cars, the trips, the mountain “cabin” on Mount Hood—even that house had been a mansion—Zelda’s “second home.” And most of all Faiza had been envious of the fact that her sister had been a mother, not just once but three times, not counting the stepchildren, which Faiza definitely did not.
But then . . . well, fortunes had changed, hadn’t they? She rolled down the driver’s side window of her sleek car, then lit a cigarette, her last Parliament, she silently swore, as she’d given up the habit three years earlier and picked at the pack she kept in her glove box only when she was particularly stressed.
Like now.
Taking a deep drag, she stared at the house, festooned as it was in Christmas lights that illuminated the peaks and valleys of the roof line. Cedar garlands sparkling with fairy lights framed the double doors where matching wreaths hung, red bows and sprigs of holly visible. Lights glowed from within, and even the curved walkway was glowing with the soft illumination from the landscaping lamps reflecting on the snow.
Picture-perfect.
And soon to be gone, wrested from her as Jonas was released from prison and Kara’s birthday was about two weeks away, that special day that had seemed eons away when Faiza had first become her guardian.
What a joyous day that had been.
Soon after the court gave her custody, Faiza and Roger and their menagerie of pets had claimed this home as their own with Kara as their would-be child and, of course, source of all their income. And it had been wonderful, she thought, smoking and fighting tears at the thought of everything she’d worked so hard for disappearing, like snowflakes melting on her palm. It just wasn’t fair.
She thought of what she would lose, including her beloved red 450. She blew a stream of smoke out the window and wished she’d listened to that nagging voice in her head reminding her that she was running out of time, that everything she loved so dearly would be wrenched away.
If only she hadn’t let Roger influence her, but then, didn’t he always?
His mantra of “Don’t worry. It’ll all work out,” had eased her mind, but, of course, hadn’t changed things.
“Crap,” she said, taking another puff before jettisoning the butt through the open window. She watched as the red tip arced in the night before dropping the snow-covered azaleas to sizzle and die. Scrounging in the console, she found a box of Altoids, shook two into her hand and popped them. As she did, she caught sight of her reflection in the rearview mirror. Her blond hair had been lightened to platinum, and her complexion was still flawless, she worked hard to maintain it, but her blue eyes were shadowed, worry evident in their depths.
“Pull yourself together,” she told herself. “You’ve been in tighter spots.” And that was true. She didn’t want to think of her younger years, the ones in which she struggled so hard while Zelda seemed to live a charmed life. Zelda had married young, had two kids with Walter Robinson, then got involved with Samuel McIntyre and found herself pregnant. Zelda had always claimed it was a mistake, that she hadn’t planned on her third pregnancy, but Faiza had never bought it. Faiza still believed the conception had been planned, that Zelda, still married to Walter, wanted a way out and the new baby was her avenue.
Smart move.
Faiza hadn’t blamed her sister one bit.
Besides, Walter Robinson was a prick, someone who saw everything in black and white, when everyone knew the world revolved in shades of gray. Walter and Faiza had never gotten along, and she was thankful he was out of her life.
But things hadn’t turned out as anyone had expected.
“Deal with it,” she told herself as she turned on the engine and hit the electronic garage door opener. Her car purred into the garage where she parked in her usual spot, next to Roger’s huge black pickup, a Dodge RAM TRX that barely fit into its bay.
Once inside the house, she heard guitar music and smelled the musky scent of marijuana, both of which were emanating from Roger’s studio, a room near the back of the house that had once been Samuel McIntyre’s den.
Faiza found him seated on the old olive-green couch, the one piece of furniture she hadn’t replaced. The heel of one booted foot rested on a coffee table where notepads and sheets of music that had been scribbled upon were scattered around a glass bong. He looked up and the music stopped. “Hey, lady,” he said around a smile as she stood in the wide hallway, just outside the open French doors. “I wondered when you’d come back.”
“Traffic,” she lied, not going into the fact that she’d sat for half an hour outside the house just staring at it and already grieving for its loss.
Satisfied, he turned his attention to his guitar again and she noticed, not for the first time, that his once-lush brown hair was now graying, his narrow face starting to show lines that went beyond crow’s-feet, his pale eyes beginning to peer from behind the deep folds of his eyelids. Once a charmer, a little rough around the edges and tough as nails, he’d weathered as he’d aged.
He strummed, then looked up again. “Come sit.” He patted the lumpy cushion next to him. “I’m working on a new song.”
Nothing new there, but she took her spot and listened as he plucked the strings and hummed an easily forgotten tune. “Don’t have the lyrics yet,” he said. “Maybe you could be my inspiration.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But we have to talk. We’ve got a problem.”
“Such as?”
“You know Jonas was released.”
“Mmm, yeah. Bummer.”
“It’s more than that. Because Kara’s turning of age,” she reminded him, slightly irritated that he wasn’t taking this monumental change seriously. “Pretty damned soon.”
He plucked another note. “So?”
