“Oh, God, Sue, don’t listen to him.”
Sue jumped as Belle spoke just behind her. Her cousin put a hand on her arm, resting her chin on Sue’s shoulder. “He’s an ass. It means nothing…”
“He’s right,” Sue said. “He is the only Carson by blood.”
“So?”
“I never realized he resented my mother so much.”
“He resents the world because he’s not God,” Belle said, mimicking her father’s tone.
Turning, Sue met her cousin’s caring gaze. “Did you ever resent me, growing up?” she asked. “I was two years older, and so close to Grandma. And your dad’s right, you had blood ties. I didn’t.”
“As if it mattered,” Belle said, flipping Sue’s ponytail affectionately, “to anyone but him. And I was as close to Grandpa as you were to Grandma.” They walked toward the kitchen—and relative peace. “The only thing I resented about you, my dear, was that you had parents who really loved each other. And you.”
Sue could have placated Belle with meaningless words, but they both knew the truth. Emily Carson loved Belle with all her heart. At one point, she’d probably loved Sam that way, too.
But somewhere along the way Sam Carson, the heir apparent and new head of the family, had become one very difficult man to love.
Chapter Two
THIRTY-ONE-YEAR-OLD Assistant Superintendent of Schools Rick Kraynick was slowly getting used to eating alone. Living alone.
Thinking alone.
What he didn’t usually do was drink alone. Or drink, period. He’d seen firsthand what substance abuse could do to a person. And while there were days, too many of them if he was honest with himself, when he didn’t much care about his health and well-being, he wasn’t going to be a burden to society.
So he should have felt right at home at the Castro Country Club Friday night. On 18th Street, the club wasn’t far from Twin Peaks, one of Rick’s favorite jogging spots in his younger days. And a favorite picnic place for him and Hannah…
Look out there, Daddy. You can see the whole world from here!
Nodding to the folks—mostly men of varying ages—hanging out on the faux marble steps leading into the old white Victorian mansion whose first floor housed the Castro Country Club, Rick tried not to let
his mind wander. To think beyond the moment. The current goal.
He’d spent the afternoon trying to find the woman who’d given birth to him. She wasn’t at the address he had for her. No one had been home in the place where she supposedly rented rooms. Her phone service had been shut off—again.
He had no idea where she was working. If she still was. Just because Nancy Kraynick had had a job last week didn’t mean she’d still be employed today.
The older woman who’d been hanging clothes out at the house next door had eventually suggested he check “the club” for his mother. After some prompting, and a five-dollar bill, she’d remembered the name of the place.
Turned out Castro House was a coffeehouse that held substance abuse recovery meetings. And offered former addicts a place to hang out and talk, to bond with others fighting the same battles.
What she hadn’t told him was that it was largely a gay men’s establishment. Which might be fine for his female mother. Rick, on the other hand, was pretty certain, by the glances he was receiving, that he was raising false hopes. His instincts telling him to get the hell out, he approached the espresso counter and ordered a mocha he didn’t want.
Luck would have it that this Friday, because he’d taken the day off and was on a mission, he was sporting a pair of worn, close-fitting jeans. With a long-sleeved cotton baseball shirt that had seen too many washings.
He’d been going for comfort. And no flash.
In this place, tight-fitting clothes—no matter how old, were flash.
Paying for his coffee, pretending not to see the smile the volunteer barista bestowed upon him, Rick turned, taking in as much of the room as he could without making eye contact.
As far as he could tell, his mother wasn’t here.
But then, it’d been years since he’d seen her. Would he even recognize her?
“Have a seat…” A man about Rick’s age pulled out the second chair at a table for two.
“Uh, thanks, but…I’m looking for someone,” he said, sipping too quickly. He burned his tongue.
“Who?” the casually dressed man asked. “I might know him. We’re all pretty friendly around here.”
“Nancy Kraynick. You know her?” Not that she was probably going by that name now. After all, it was only her legal designation, which didn’t seem to compel her to actually introduce herself that way. Growing up, he’d heard her called many different things. Some not so nice labels.
“Yeah,” the guy said, surprising Rick. “She’s been a regular around here, on and off, for the past couple of years.” Rick had to wonder, was Lothario telling the truth or just looking for an opening?
“Have you seen her today?” Rick asked.
“No. But then I just got here. You a friend of hers?”
He couldn’t bring himself to claim even that close an association. “No.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t some john, are you? Because I have to tell you, she’s through with that. Has been for some time. So if you’re looking to get something from her, you’d best try looking someplace else.”
Protectiveness? From a man…toward Rick’s mother?
This guy must not know her well. He hadn’t had time to see that her lies were only skin-deep.
His mother always had been able to spin the most believable yarns. Especially believable to a young man who’d adored her and needed badly to believe she would straighten herself out and make a home for him. With her.
Problem was, Nancy Kraynick’s yarns had always become tangled in the knots of drug abuse, and in alcohol stupors that went on for months.
“No, I’m not a john,” he said now, biting back his disgust at the woman his mother was—a woman who’d had johns to ask about.
The pretty man frowned. “She’s not in trouble, is she?”
“Probably, but that’s not why I’m here.”
The guy studied him and then pulled out the empty chair. “You look troubled,” he said. “Have a seat. Maybe Nancy will show.”
“No thanks.” Rick couldn’t even pretend he had an appointment, pretend he’d stay if he could. Five
