“It’s a little older than that….”
“Don’t condescend to me, either, with your Ivy League education,” she interrupted him, glaring at her nails. She filed them every day, searching out little imperfections, and each day she found new ones. There was one major glory in that, though. She never aged. She missed seeing her reflection in the mirrors that filled every room of La Casa, but she knew from the look in Ted’s eyes that she was still just as beautiful as she’d ever been. It was all she needed.
“They’re not going to tear it down,” he said patiently. “It survived the sixties and those repulsive creatures who camped out here. It’s survived years of neglect, and at least now we have someone who loves it as much as we do. She’ll take care of the place. And of us.”
“But what if she doesn’t?” Brenda cried. “What if they tear it down to make office buildings? We’ll be left wandering the earth, lost….”
“Honeybunch,” he said, his voice warm and comforting, and she slid into his arms so naturally, finding the peace that was always there. “We’ll make it through. Don’t we always, you and me together?”
She looked at him, so dear, so sweet, so maddening, so eternal. “Always,” she said in a tremulous voice. She leaned down to press her carmine lips against his firm mouth, and slowly they began their inevitable fade-out.
1
Jilly Meyer never approached her father’s office without some sort of absurd fantasy playing through her mind. The last time she’d come she hadn’t been able to shake the image of a French aristocrat riding in a tumbrel to her untimely doom. The reality of that unpleasant meeting with her father had been about as grim, and she hadn’t exchanged more than a handful of civil words to him in the eighteen months since.
And yet here she was again, only this time she wasn’t the proud but noble martyr heading toward her fate. This time she was a warrior at the gates, ready to do battle with the forces of evil. She just had to persuade Charon to let her cross the river Styx so she could confront Satan himself.
Terrible of her to think of her father as the devil, she thought absently. And steely eyed Mrs. Afton didn’t deserve to be called Charon, even if she guarded her employer with a diligence that was downright supernatural.
“Your father is a very busy man, Jilly,” Mrs. Afton said in her clipped, icy tones that had terrified Jilly when she was a child. “You should know better than to simply show up unannounced and expect he’ll be able to drop everything to make time for you. Let me check his appointment book and see when I can work you in….”
“I’m not leaving until I see him.” Her voice didn’t waver, a small blessing. Mrs. Afton demoralized her, and always had, but her father had ceased to wield any power over her, whatsoever. Jilly just simply hated confrontations, and she was anticipating a major one.
Mrs. Afton’s thin lips compressed into a tight line of disapproval, but Jilly didn’t move. She was still three doors away from the inner sanctum, the holy of holies, and those doors were electronically locked. If she tried to force her way in she’d only wind up looking foolish.
“You can wait in the gray reception room,” Mrs. Afton said finally, in no way a capitulation. “I’ll see if he can spare a moment for you, but I’m not holding out much hope.”
Abandon all hope, ye who enter, Jilly thought absently. “I don’t mind waiting.” After all, it was past three. Ever since her father had married Melba he’d been less of a workaholic. Jilly didn’t know whether it was jealousy or lust that kept Jackson Dean Meyer from abandoning his third wife as he’d done his first two, and she didn’t want to think about it. Suffice it to say, Melba might have mellowed the old bastard a bit. Enough to get him to do what Jilly desperately needed him to do.
The gray sitting room had a tasteful array of magazines, most of them about cigar smoking, something that failed to captivate Jilly. The leather furniture was comfortable enough, and the windows looked out over the city of Los Angeles. On a clear day she could see the Hollywood Hills, perhaps even the spires of the house on Sunset. La Casa de Sombras, the House of Shadows. The decaying mausoleum of a mansion that was her unlikely home.
But today the air was thick with smog from the Valley, and the autumn haze enveloped Century City. She was trapped in a glass cocoon, air-conditioned, lifeless.
She’d dressed appropriately for a paternal confrontation, in black linen with beige accents. Her father was a stickler for neatly dressed women, and for once she’d been willing to play his games. Since the prize would be worth the effort.
However, if he was going to keep her waiting she was going to end up wrinkled. So be it. He’d have to listen to her, wrinkles and all.
She kicked off her shoes and curled up in the corner of the gray leather sofa, tugging her short skirt as far down her thighs as she could manage. She rummaged in her bag for a compact, but it was the Coach bag Melba had given her for Christmas last year, not the usual one she used, and she’d transferred only her wallet and identification. No compact, no makeup, only a rat-tail comb which would be useless with her thick hair. She closed the purse again, leaned back against the sofa and sighed, trying to get rid of some of the tension that was swamping her body.
It was ridiculous. She was almost thirty years old, a strong, independent, well-educated woman, and she was still afraid of her father. Over the last two decades she’d tried everything, from meditation to tranquilizers to psychotherapy to assertiveness training. Every time she thought she’d finally conquered her fear, Jackson Dean Meyer returned it to her on a silver platter. And here she was again, ready for another serving.
Codependency was a bitch. It was relatively easy to break free from her father’s influence. He had little interest or affection for her—he probably didn’t notice when years went by without seeing her. Her father had made his choices and lived life the way he chose. She couldn’t save him, even if he wanted to be saved.
But when it came to her sister and brother things were different. Although Rachel-Ann was probably beyond redemption. All Jilly could do was love her.
And Dean. It was for him that she’d come here, walked into the lion’s den, ready to fight. For her brother or sister she’d do anything, including facing the tyrant who fathered them, though in Rachel-Ann’s case the parenting was adoptive, not biological.
Dean was sitting home sulking, alone in the darkness of his room with his precious computer. Once more Jackson had managed to crush and belittle him; once more Dean had taken it, refusing to fight.
Jackson had removed Dean from his position in charge of legal affairs, replacing him with his new golden boy, a man by the name of Coltrane. Apparently Jackson trusted a stranger more than he trusted his own son. Dean had been given a token raise and no work, a complete humiliation by their ruthless father.
Jilly was ready to do battle in Dean’s place. She couldn’t sit back and watch her brother crawl into a computer, surrendering everything, in particular Jackson’s trust, to an interloper.
To be fair, Dean allowed himself to be victimized by his father. He’d never made any attempt to find other work—the moment he’d passed the bar exam he’d taken a high-paying job with his father’s multimillion-dollar development firm, and he’d been ensconced there ever since, taking Jackson’s abuse, doing his bidding, a perfect yes-man still looking for a father’s approval and love. Jilly had given up on Jackson years
