Janice Johnson - Lost Cause

Suzanne came to let him in and exclaimed, “You don’t need to ring! Pretend you live here.”

“Thanks.” He stepped in with a wary glance. “You have company?”

“Carrie’s in the kitchen.” She gave him an apprehensive look. “I hope you don’t mind that I called her.”

What could he say? “No, that’s fine.”

“Why don’t you go put your bag in your room, and then come meet her. Have you eaten?”

“Yeah. I hope you hadn’t planned dinner,” he said awkwardly.

She flapped a hand. “Don’t worry. I know all of this feels strange.”

Strange? That was one way of putting it, he decided, depositing his bag on the bed in the guest room, then starting back to the kitchen.

At first glance, the two women sitting at the table looked so much alike he couldn’t have guessed which was Suzanne if he hadn’t just seen her and known what she was wearing. Two dark heads were bent toward each other, two fine-boned hands fingered wineglasses. Dinner plates were pushed to one side. From the smell, he guessed they’d had spaghetti.

He must have made a sound, because both heads lifted in unison and he found himself being inspected critically by his little sister Carrie.

Yeah, he could tell them apart after all. Her hair was curly, he saw, but more important was the challenge in her brown eyes, the tilt to her chin. Little Carrie was feistier than her sister, less inclined to trust. And to weep, thank God.

“Carrie,” he said, trying out the sound of her name.

She stood. “That’s me.”

Her gaze seemed to take in the scuffs on his boots, the deliberately relaxed way he held his hands at his sides to hide his tension, the set of his shoulders, the length of his hair. He doubted she missed a thing.

“So, you decided it wasn’t too late, after all.”

He recognized her reference to the phone call she’d made to try to persuade him to make contact with Suzanne. Far as he’d been concerned, the overture had come too late to mean jack.

But it would seem he’d been wrong.

“Getting chewed out makes a man think.”

If he’d expected her to blush, he’d miscalculated.

“Good,” she said with satisfaction.

“So you’re the baby.”

She planted one fist on her hip. “If by that you mean your baby sister, yes, I am.”

“Linette.” He sampled the taste of that name, too.

“Lucien,” she fired back.

“Let’s go with Gary.”

His leg ached today, but he tried to disguise his limp as he crossed the kitchen.

“Wine?” Suzanne asked, lifting the bottle. An empty wineglass sat at the third place set at the table.

He nodded. “Thanks.”

All seated, the three looked at each other. Damn, he thought, with a feeling of unreality.

As if she’d read his mind, Suzanne said, “We haven’t been together like this in twenty-six years. And then, you were in a booster seat and Carrie in a high chair.”

“Probably rubbing peas in my hair,” his little sister agreed, unruffled.

He had absolutely no idea what he would have been doing. Flicking whole peas at his bossy big sister? Hanging on her every word? Kicking his heels in boredom? Funny thing, not to know what you were like as a small child. Seemed like a natural memory to retain, a part of your sense of self.

“You’d have been squirming,” Suzanne told him, her gaze perceptive. “Nowadays, a doctor would probably have labeled you as hyperactive. You couldn’t sit still to save your life.”

“I’m still not much good at sitting,” he admitted.

“You’re doing just fine right now,” Carrie said.

“You haven’t bored me yet.”

“Well, don’t I feel special to hear that.”

A laugh in her voice, Suzanne said, “Listen to you two, squabbling as if you’d been doing it all your life.”

With shock, Gary realized she was right. And it wasn’t as if he’d ever had any practice. She’d just been a baby the last time he saw her. She wouldn’t have even said her first word yet. And he hadn’t had an adopted brother or sister.

“I’m just testing you.” His little sister grinned, then held out a hand. “Truce?”

“Truce.” He shook.

Sipping wine, they asked questions about his life, which he gave sketchy answers to. They seemed to notice how much he wasn’t saying, but didn’t comment, which he appreciated. He told them briefly about Holly Lynn, a city health department official of all damn things.

“I guess I’m not made for marriage.”

“Carrie seems to be the only one of us who is,” Suzanne commented.

His little sister’s face softened. “I wasn’t so sure I was, either, until I met Mark. You’ve talked to him,” she said to Gary. “The P.I.? Did Suzanne tell you I married him? He’s a good guy.”

“He seemed decent when he called.”

If she was underwhelmed by this accolade, she ignored that, too. “Mark has a son, Michael. He’s six, in first grade this year. He’s accepted me wholeheartedly, for which I feel blessed.”

“His mother?”

“Died when he was two. He barely remembers her.” She paused a beat. “Mark and his wife adopted him.”

A lot of that going around.

“Tell us about your adoptive parents,” Suzanne suggested. “Mark said you grew up in the central valley in California?”

“Outside Bakersfield. Harold is a farmer. I was driving a tractor by the time I was ten.”

“Really?” She looked appalled.

He shrugged. “Farming families need their kids. He and…” Mom. He’d almost said Mom. “…Judith couldn’t have their own little worker, so they went out to find one.”

Both sisters stared at him. “You think they adopted you just to provide labor for the farm?”

Voice devoid of emotion, Gary said, “Harold told me he wanted to get an older boy. He was indulging his wife to bring home one as young as I was.”

“That’s awful!” Carrie breathed.

He shrugged again. “Some people take home a kitten so they can cuddle it and have something to coo at. Some just want a mouser.”

“And you were the mouser. Oh, God.” Suzanne pressed a hand to her breast, her eyes huge.

He hoped like hell she didn’t start to cry again.

“My adoptive mother was nice enough, until she got fed up with Harold and just upped and left one day. It wasn’t so bad.” Until then. A part of him had died that day.

“I thought adoption agencies were supposed to be picky! How could they have let those people take you?” Carrie demanded.

“Maybe Suzanne should ask Ms. Wilson,” he suggested. “My guess is, she’d use a bunch of statistics to claim that most adoptive homes are happy.”

“I would give anything…” Suzanne began.

He shifted in alarm. There she went again, ready to fling her body onto the tracks to stop the train.

Too bad the train had derailed twenty-six years ago.

“It’s over and done,” he said flatly. “That’s what I tried to tell you when your P.I. contacted me.”

“We can’t change the past,” Suzanne argued, “but we can make the future better. We can be a family again.”

Since he had only a distant acquaintance with the whole concept, he wasn’t all that sure what she had in mind, except he guessed holiday get-togethers figured in it somewhere. He’d probably better find out just what she did envision, before he found himself sucked in.

When he didn’t comment, she said, “Do you want to see pictures now?”

He gave a clipped nod, less than sure he really did.

She fetched a big photo album bound in green leather and wordlessly set it in front of him at the table. Then she sat again and both sisters gazed expectantly at him.

Throat constricted, he opened it.

On the first page was a wedding photo. God almighty, Gary thought in shock. He could have been the groom. Dark, lean, a dent in the cheek because the man was smiling at his bride. She looked like Suzanne and Carrie, startlingly so. Pretty, brunette, delicate to the point of being ethereal.