None had morphed into anything other than sex and secrecy.
Yet Tori would have none of that. She played to win. As Laura saw her, Tori was one of those women who knew that the power in their beauty was a commodity that was never to be given away without something in return.
“Don’t worry, Laura,” Tori had said over the phone, when Laura had called to discuss Parker’s declining grades. “I don’t want to take your place.”
“Really? That seems to be exactly what you’ve done.”
“I mean with Parker. I don’t want to be his mother and I won’t even try. I want him to think of me as a friend.”
“He doesn’t need another mother, and to be frank, he doesn’t need a friend, either. He has plenty.”
“That’s good to know,” she said. “He seems a little lonely. He shares so much with me that I just want to be helpful. It isn’t easy being a child of divorce. I want to be there for him.”
Laura held her tongue, which was the only thing a decent person could do. Tori was Alex’s problem. Certainly she wanted to blast the bitch and say something about the fact that she had caused the divorce, but there was no point in that.
“Thanks for your concern,” she said before hanging up. She seethed a moment and went for a vodka tonic.
Absolut vodka today, Brand X tomorrow.
All of that had felt so foolish now. All of her worries about how she was going to survive after her son’s birthday were an embarrassment now. She’d never say a word to anyone what her hopes had been.
No one would understand.
CHAPTER TEN
Port Orchard, Washington
The Landing at Port Orchard was the newest assisted-living residence for seniors “who need a little extra care” in the small city on Puget Sound. The first floor was beautifully if predictably appointed: leather couches, wingback chairs with brass nailhead detailing, and a gas fireplace that was perpetually on. The river rock–faced hearth was outfitted with a raffia-bound bundle of birch twigs and an old-fashioned popcorn popper, the kind that would be used over a campfire. Above the fireplace, illuminated by a trio of halogen lights, was a three-foot model of a red canoe. Most of the design—from the colors of the fabrics and walls to the nostalgic artifacts placed around the entire first floor—was in what the center’s director called “memory chic.” None of it was real, but all of it was designed to help residents and visitors recall a time when they could remember. When they didn’t need a schedule or a prompt to remind them what to do next.
In reality, the ambiance of the Landing was that of a slightly overdone theme restaurant in which artifacts were used to suggest, rather than to recall, specific memories.
Bettina Maguire had been at the Landing for more than three years, having survived a car accident on an icy road in northern Kitsap County that killed her husband and Kendall’s father, Ben. A retired high school shop teacher, Ben had been driving when a deer stepped out of the shadows; he did what he told his daughter and wife never to do: he swerved, his own advice of “hitting the animal will kill it, but hitting a tree will kill you” unheeded.
Bettina’s brain had been damaged in the accident, as had her once indomitable spirit. She’d also taught school for decades, specializing in art. Before the accident, she often talked about the lovely mosaic that she helped the children create; it had been featured in the Seattle Times. Bettina’s depiction of Port Orchard’s history was told through the tiny shards of broken pottery, glassware, and one very upset student’s mother’s prized wedding platter.
Kendall arrived at the Landing feeling tired from a sleepless night full of thoughts about a criminal case in which she had no stake.
Tacoma PD can deal with the likes of Tori, she thought.
She had parked her SUV and headed inside to sign in when her cell rang. She looked down at the display. The incoming call was from Adam Canfield. She pushed the button to send it immediately to voice mail, then she reached for one of the pens embellished with roses that were stuck in a flower pot on the reception desk.
“How’s my mom?” she asked Samantha, the young woman whose name tag suggested she was a “Landing hostess” and not a desk clerk.
“You know the way it is around here. Good days, bad days. Your mom’s having a bad one.”
Samantha’s voice was chirpy and relentlessly upbeat.
“I’m sure.”
“One thing I’m sure about is that she will be so very happy to see you!”
So very happy.
Kendall made her way to Room 14, on the first floor of south side of the building. She passed by a group of old women moving puzzle pieces on a tabletop and smiled at the one who looked at her. The building’s three floors told the story of an occupant’s status. Those on the upper floors were, generally, in better health. Mobile. Put together. Cognizant. Those attributes dwindled closer to the first floor. Bettina Maguire had stayed on the second floor for only two months before they moved her to the first floor, close to the medical staff. Her health had been failing, and failing fast.
“It’s better for everyone,” the director had said. “Easier, you know, if she needs help.”
The steel door that was more hospital than residential was open, and Kendall went into her mother’s room.
Bettina was in bed, her face turned away from the window. Her right hand held the steel tube of the bed rail. Her fingers no longer looked like the mother’s hands that had once caressed her daughter. They were gnarled sticks, dipped in a milky blue. Her once-marmalade hair was now white.
“Mom?”
Bettina’s head turned, her eyes flickering with recognition.
“Kendall, you’re here.”
Kendall bent down and kissed her mother’s rice-paper skin.
“You warm enough?” she asked, fussing with the pale yellow coverlet that had been her mother’s favorite.
“I’m fine, dear. Daddy and I were talking about you last night.”
A nurse had told Kendall that correcting her mother was not necessary and, if it didn’t bother Kendall too much, to play along.
“You can’t change what a person knows, even if it is wrong,” the nurse had said.
Kendall patted her mother’s feet.
“What were you two conspiring about?”
Bettina smiled. “Just how proud we are of you.”
Kendall shook her head and poured some water from a white plastic pitcher on a stainless-steel tray that the staff had brought in. She glanced around the room, noticing that her mother’s collection of miniature porcelain shoes had been boxed up. The room was looking more and more institutional.
Bettina lifted her head and sucked
