Part 21 (2/2)
To Jayne, Genna whispered, ”Was it necessary to sedate her?”
”Sorry, but yes. We need to get her out, and get her out fast. She'll be fine, Genna. Won't even have a headache when she wakes up. But I couldn't run the risk that she'd be kicking and screaming all the way across the parking lot. We just don't have time for that. There really wasn't any option.”
Genna slipped into her coat, then helped the sleepy Julianne ease her arms into the sleeves of her jacket. With a nod to Jayne, the two women and the girl left the diner.
”This is my car,” Jayne said, pointing to a black Jeep with tinted windows.
”It looks just like the reverend's car,” Julianne said as the two women helped her into the backseat and fastened her seat belt.
”You strap in, too, Genna,” Jayne told her as she hopped into the driver's side and slammed the door. ”We really have to fly now.”
”Why are we flying?” a sleepy voice asked from the back.
”Because we have to get you home, little girl.” Genna turned around to see Julianne's chin rest upon her chest, her eyes closed. ”You've been gone a long, long time, and now it's time to go home. . . .”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
The storm had pa.s.sed within the hour, and by three-fifteen, after a minor delay, the plane took off. Miranda gazed out the window as the plane rose into the clouds, which had just started to lift, then closed her eyes. She hated takeoffs and landings. It wasn't so much that she knew the statistics, that most planes that crashed did so either while headed up or headed down. It was more the change in direction. She liked being on an even keel. Too much up or too much down disturbed her equilibrium and made her feel out of control somehow. And if there was one thing Miranda could not tolerate, it was the sense of not being in control.
She leaned back against the seat and feigned sleep. She didn't want to talk to anyone right now, particularly Will, who sat in the seat next to her, flipping through the latest GQ GQ that he'd picked up at the airport's newsstand. She fully understood the similarities between her relations.h.i.+p with Will and her mother's relations.h.i.+p with her father. That on-again, off-again thing-no strings, no commitment-may have been fine for Nancy Cahill, back in the day, but it wasn't fine for her daughter. Not this day, not any day. Lucky for Miranda she'd figured it out in time. She could work with Will; she could socialize with Will; but they'd never be lovers again, because as far as she could see, they'd never be anything more than that. that he'd picked up at the airport's newsstand. She fully understood the similarities between her relations.h.i.+p with Will and her mother's relations.h.i.+p with her father. That on-again, off-again thing-no strings, no commitment-may have been fine for Nancy Cahill, back in the day, but it wasn't fine for her daughter. Not this day, not any day. Lucky for Miranda she'd figured it out in time. She could work with Will; she could socialize with Will; but they'd never be lovers again, because as far as she could see, they'd never be anything more than that.
But when she asked herself what more she wanted from him, she had no answer. None that she felt like dealing with, anyway.
She s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably in her seat, annoyed that she'd let Will draw her into a conversation about Jack. She refused to call him anything but that. Just Jack. As if by refusing to acknowledge him by anything other than his first name, she could disavow their blood relations.h.i.+p.
She'd always been better at that than Portia. She wondered if Jack had sent Portia a separate packet of photos. If he'd sent them to the house she and her sister shared, Miranda would have seen them. Maybe he'd intended for them to share the photos, though wouldn't he have addressed the envelope to both of them? Unless he knew that Portia wasn't there.
Of course Jack knew Portia wasn't there; Miranda mentally slapped herself on the forehead with an open palm. She'd been in London last month on a short leave. She must have called him.
I'll bet every dime I have that she called him.
The thought was so jarring that she sat straight up in her seat. Will looked over at her, one eyebrow raised in question.
”Just . . . dreaming, I guess.” She muttered the first thing that came into her mind.
”You weren't sleeping,” he noted, and went back to the article he was reading.
”I was almost asleep,” she lied, and settled herself back into her seat again.
The more she thought about it, the more she knew that her sister had met with the enemy. Over the years, Portia had brought up contacting Jack many times, and Miranda had always blown her off. Well, Portia must have tired of waiting for her twin to come around, and had contacted him on her own. How else to explain the photos, the chatty letter, arriving out of the blue after all this time? To the best of her knowledge, he'd never shown much interest in either of his firstborns. Why now, unless Portia had pushed him?
She tried to move past the growing anger, but she found she could not. It was mixed too tightly with a lifetime of bad feelings and a sense of betrayal. She tried not to think about the photographs Jack had sent, but the scenes kept playing over and over in her mind. She'd lied to Will when she'd said she didn't remember. Of course she remembered.
They'd spent the day on the beach, she and Portia and their mother and Jack, whom Miranda remembered as being impossibly tall, to her eye, the tallest man in the world. And he was strong, strong enough to carry Miranda on one shoulder and Portia on the other. Nancy had stayed on the blanket and snapped that little camera of hers just about every time one of them moved, so that if you placed the pictures in order and fanned them slowly, it was almost like watching a film. Portia used to do that, stack them in order and then flip them, so that she could watch Jack pick her up and plunk her down on his shoulder, then lean over to pick up Miranda and do the same with her. Then he walked for what seemed like forever down the beach, his daughters on his shoulders, all the time talking to them in that deep Brit voice about a beach in England he used to go to as a child, and how he'd take them there sometime.
Of course, he never had. It was all just a game to Jack.
Miranda remembered, too, how her mother had cried herself to sleep the next night, after Jack left. How her face went pale a week later when a photo of him with another of his celebrity girlfriends appeared on the cover of a magazine. There was always someone new for Jack, some beautiful model or singer-or, yes, even a princess. In the magazines, there was always someone young and beautiful on his arm, but never Nancy, who was not beautiful nor particularly talented nor clever-nor was she royal. She was the daughter of two science teachers from a tiny town outside Omaha. Every time Nancy saw one of those photographs, she'd crumble, and she'd stay crumbled for days, leaving her daughters pretty much to fend for themselves until she snapped out of it.
When Miranda was old enough to understand the situation, she'd yelled at her mother for having gone into one of her funks after seeing Jack on some award show.
”Mom, would you look at yourself?” Miranda had lectured. ”You're wasting your life waiting for a man whose greatest love is himself. He thinks he's done just swell by you. He's given you two kids and a steady income until we turn twenty-five, isn't that what you said the deal was? Why do you keep pining for him, for a man who doesn't love you? Every once in a while he drifts back into your life, and you let him.”
”But he does love me,” her mother had responded quietly, ”and that's why he keeps coming back. That's why I let him.”
Miranda had been so shocked that she hadn't known how to reply. So she'd simply left the room, and she never brought up the subject again. It had been years before she'd even repeated the conversation to Portia, who had her own ideas about the relations.h.i.+p between their mother and Jack.
”I do believe he loves her,” Portia had told her. ”I think she's probably the only bit of sanity in his entire life. She's his rock, and he keeps coming back to her to get the rest of it out of his system.”
”Then he's just plain selfish,” Miranda had snapped. ”If he's just using her to make himself feel good, he doesn't care about her, and he certainly doesn't care about us.”
”I don't know.” Portia had been surprisingly kind in her judgment. ”I don't know what he thinks or what he feels or what motivates him. But I do know that he must care about Mum, or he'd just forget about us.”
”Don't say 'mum,' ” Miranda had exploded. ”It's too . . . English. English.”
Portia had flounced off in a huff, and it had been a while before they'd talked about the relations.h.i.+p between Jack and their mother again.
She's seen him, Miranda told herself. Miranda told herself. Portia has been to see Jack. Portia has been to see Jack.
”d.a.m.n her.” She spoke aloud without realizing it.
”d.a.m.n who?” Will asked.
”No one,” she grumbled.
”Hey, Cahill, you want to talk about anything, you know-”
”Yeah, yeah. I know. You're there if I need you.”
He laughed.
”I'm sorry,” she said. ”That was rude. I know you're trying to be a friend, and I appreciate it.”
”Sure,” he said. ”Buckle up. We're getting ready to land. Or did you miss the announcement while you were busy cursing out whoever it was who incurred your wrath?”
”I missed the announcement.” She searched for her seat belt. ”I must have dozed off.”
”Uh-huh.”
”Shut up and strap yourself in like a good boy.”
Twenty-five minutes later they were picking up their rental car and heading toward Wynnefield on the Ohio-Kentucky border. Will drove while Miranda called the Wynnefield police and spoke with the sergeant, who gave her the good news. They'd located Ronald Johnson; he was working in a restaurant in Gilbert just ten miles away.
”We have a live one,” Miranda told Will when she ended the call. ”The sergeant said to take a left onto Essington Road just before we get into Wynnefield. It should be coming up in about a mile or so.”
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