A White Rose Page 11

  ***

  Jason stared at Dakota curiously. Her beautiful, Hollywood smile had fallen, her entire demeanor crumpled. He could almost see the color draining from her face as her hands dropped to her sides and her eyes went blank.

  “Dakota? Is—something wrong?”

  She blinked, averting her gaze and lifting a shaky hand to her face. “I… um”—she blinked again. “I'm… oh.” Her eyes registered confusion as she glanced toward the front door and then to the living room. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Right. The mural.”

  She shook her head and opened her eyes again, intently focusing on his as though trying to read them. “I'm sorry—forgive me, I'm—I'm kinda out of it this morning—”

  Pressing her fingertips to her temples, she took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. Smile returning, she slipped her fingertips into her front pockets and let out a small laugh. “You must think I'm nuts.” He didn't respond and she jerked her gaze in the direction of the kitchen. “Can I pour you a coffee? Just made a pot.”

  He nodded a slow yes and put on a polite smile. She hurried off to the kitchen and he turned and went into the living room. He'd never seen her behave that way before. He hadn't said or done anything to set her off—that he knew of—but something had definitely thrown her for a loop.

  As he set up his paint, he glanced toward the kitchen. Though only half her profile was visible from here, it looked like she was leaning over the island counter. The way her shoulders were slumped immediately reminded him of the way his mother had leaned over the counter a few weeks prior when she'd begun to cry. Should he do anything? Would it be inappropriate to approach the kitchen and see if she was all right? She certainly wasn't pouring him a coffee.

  He took dubious steps toward the kitchen, concern overriding his reserve. Dakota's back stiffened at the sound of his footfall. He changed his mind and was about to retreat to the living room when she spun around and met his eyes with a teary gaze. He took three more strides forward, and hesitated when he reached the kitchen.

  She dabbed the corner of her eyes with a Kleenex and sniffed, blinking twice. “I'm so sorry,” she said, “I'll get that coffee for you now.”

  He reached out and touched her shoulder, letting his palm linger. No words came—he had no idea what to say or do—but he couldn't ignore the fact that something was greatly troubling her.

  She held his gaze and leaned back against the counter, folding her arms across her chest in what seemed a self-conscious gesture. He dropped his hand to his side.

  “It's okay,” she said. “Really. It's nothing. I didn't mean to concern you.”

  She smiled then but he wasn't convinced.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  She seemed to consider this offer with surprise; giving him a long, analyzing look in return.

  “How do you take your coffee?” he asked, deciding to go ahead and take action. He stepped around the island and reached for the carafe next to the sink. He glanced over his shoulder. She was watching him with unveiled curiosity.

  “Cream, please,” she said. “It's in the fridge.”

  He nodded. “Would you like to sit outside?” he asked, having poured the cream. “I can spare a few minutes.”

  She moistened her lips, broke eye contact. “Sure.”

  They stood in place.

  A beat passed.

  Dakota unfolded her arms and walked to the patio door, sliding it open. He followed her outside and set the mugs down on the glass table. Bits of dirt and twigs littered the tabletop from the windy rain of the previous night. The parasol was folded up but the morning sun was welcome and warm in the cool September air.

  They each pulled out a chair on opposite sides of the table, sat down and stared at one another. Dakota nursed her coffee. He did the same. It was unlike her to be reticent. If she wanted to talk, he was sure she would. In the meantime, his only plan was to sip his coffee and wait.

  “I had a—rough night,” she said finally, words tumbling out with a gush of breath. She closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. “My mother—killed herself yesterday—And I… I was the one who found the body.”

  He groped for words, taking a moment to study her face. He'd half-expected a tale of woe about some jerk of a guy who'd slighted her somehow—Not anything like this.

  Her eyes remained closed as he watched her, a faint trail of mascara smudging her high cheekbone. Her lips were a delicate line, narrow chin smooth and porcelain. In this moment of vulnerability, she appeared childlike; a young, innocent girl in need of embrace. Instinctively, his arms twitched with the urge to hold her, but he refrained.

  “That must've been… horrible,” he said lamely.

  She opened her eyes and nodded, a line across her brow. “Yes. It was—awful. Like stepping into a horror movie.” Her eyes flashed with anger. “I'm furious with her for doing this to me!” She lifted her mug with both hands, took several gulps and set it down roughly; its base scraping against the glass tabletop.

  “Were you… close to your mother?”

  She shook her head, looking away. “No. But she was my only family.”

  “I'm so sorry… ” He frowned, hesitating. “I'm guessing the funeral arrangements fall on your shoulders—?”

  “Yes.” She glared at her coffee mug. “I just feel turned upside down, you know?” She met his gaze, eyes pleading with him—sending him an unspoken message he could not discern. “I don't know how to cope with this. I wish I could get these images out of my head.” She pinched the bridge of her nose.

  “I'd like to tell you that time will lessen the pain,” he said, trying to be sensitive with his wording, “but it's been three years since I lost my father and it still feels like only yesterday.”

  “But you loved your father, I'm sure. I'm more disturbed by what I saw than by what I've lost.”

  He nodded.

  She scowled. “Why'd she have to be so dramatic anyway?” Without warning, Dakota went on to describe her mother's demise in more detail than he wished to know. “Why couldn't she have done it in a more considerate and tidy way?” she raved. “Like downing a bottle of pills… That I could've handled.”

  He offered some gentle condolences. She seemed to appreciate this and was soon unloading everything that was on her mind. He let her speak without interruption. He was used to being a therapeutic ear to Jaelynn and knew it was helpful.

  Over the hour that followed, she shared details from her childhood and teenage years. She told him about her parents' dysfunctional relationship, about Clarice Beaumont, and about her mother's life at the trailer park. And the more she shared, the less of an object she became; the more he began to view her as a person with hopes and dreams, heartaches and sorrows. It wasn't that he intended to view her as an object, but she had always presented herself in that way. Now it was becoming clear to him that her licentious front was just that—a front. Inside was a woman—a girl—who longed to be loved, but didn't know what real love was.

  “Look at me—” she said, shaking her head, “I've wasted your whole morning. Don't worry though. I'll still pay you for your time.” A half smile. “Really, I will.” Her eyes were glossy with unshed tears.

  “That's all right,” he said with a smile. “I'll accept a penny for your thoughts and that'll be quite enough.” A chuckle. “I can come back next Saturday to finish.” He stood up and was about to reach for his empty mug when she was already on her feet, around the table, and throwing her arms about his waist.

  She pressed her cheek against his chest and let out a wavering sigh. “Thanks for letting me gab on and on, Jason,” she murmured. “It's so nice to have someone to talk to.”

  He stood stiffly, arms outstretched like robot joints in need of oil. Not knowing what else to do, he placed his palms against her warm back. She did not pull away; making the hug last longer than it should have. Instead, she tilted backward and ran her satiny index finger down his cheek, meeting his gaze with limpid green eyes. “Spend
the afternoon with me, Jason.” Her tone was soft and pleading.

  He broke the embrace and stepped backward. Couldn't she read his eyes? He was not that kind of man.

  Dakota's coy smile faded and disappointment filled her eyes, darkening them.

  “That's not the kind of comfort you need,” he said delicately, stepping around her toward the open patio door. She followed him inside and down the hallway and stood outside the living room; watching with a sulky expression as he gathered up his things.

  On the front porch he paused and set down his tote bag. She was standing on the threshold, hugging her arms across her chest; eyes cold and lips pursed. Though she seemed to be trying to hide it now, he could tell she was crushed by his rejection. He held back a frown. But what could he do? His only intention was to be a listening ear, but such things were tricky with women. It was too easy for the wrong impression to be made.

  He took a step forward and paused in front of her.

  Standing a couple inches taller than she, he lowered his face and kissed her temple in the same way he often kissed his sister, Jaelynn.

  “For what it's worth,” he said, stepping back, “I'll be praying for you.”

  She made no response to this and he stooped to retrieve his bag. As he turned toward the driveway, she moved back inside the house and closed the door without a word or a wave good-bye.

  ***

  Dakota sat down on the carpeted bottom step of the stairs and lifted a hand to her temple, still feeling the warm brush of Jason's smooth lips against her skin.

  A supple tear escaped and dropped down her cheek. The kiss had not been intimate. Nor was it a gesture of friendship. Instead it was like a squeeze of the shoulder or a soft palm against her cheek.

  She began to sob, having never experienced such a tender act of compassion before. In that one, simple gesture, Jason had broken her spirit yet offered a hope she could not fully understand. A budding sense that things would somehow get better, be better in the days, months to come.

  Unable to stop the tears, she curled up in a ball on the cold tile at the base of the stairs and cried until no more tears came. Then she lay still, unaware of the time, and felt deeply the ache of her heart. She didn't try to analyze or patch up the wound, but simply allowed herself to feel it.

  After a while, when the pumping ache in her heart had calmed down and a certain numbness had settled in its place, she pushed herself up and climbed the stairs to her bedroom. She freshened up in the bathroom, checked the time and decided to give Clarice a call.

  When Clarice answered, Dakota made arrangements to go pick her up and drive back into Barrie to a local funeral home where Mona's body was to be released. She didn't want to make the funeral arrangements alone and didn't have any clue what was involved either; making her all the more grateful for Clarice's willingness to be her guiding hand.

  Her only objective was to get the next few days over and done with as quickly as possible.

  Chapter 18

  By the time Dakota and Clarice had finished with funeral arrangements, eaten dinner, and driven back to Shanty Bay, it was late and both were exhausted.

  Dakota drove back to Barrie in silence, letting the darkness and quiet of the vehicle's interior engulf her like a balm. The next day was going to be a long day of viewing at the funeral home. The funeral itself was scheduled for Monday afternoon, and then it would all be over.

  Dakota was not prepared for the sight of her unlit house when she returned to her subdivision and pulled into the driveway. The house stood drab in the early evening twilight; unwelcoming and cold with its gray brickwork. Inwardly, she recoiled at the thought of the emptiness and deafening silence awaiting her inside.

  She cut the engine, flipped open her cell phone and called Tiffany.

  “Hey, gurl, what's up?” Tiffany's voice was chipper and detached. “Where've you been these past few weeks?”

  Dakota had no intention of telling Tiffany what had happened, so she made a trivial excuse for the past two weekends and made plans to meet up in an hour at their favorite club. She then ventured inside the house only long enough to change into a sexy ensemble.

  ***

  Desperate for male attention, Dakota was quick to ditch Tiffany when she spotted Michel socializing with a group of friends. Yeah, she'd left him in the dust more than a month ago, but he would be an easy catch tonight; they'd already been together before. Why waste time trying to cozy up to a “stranger” who may not guarantee her anything?

  Michel seemed pleased to see her and was quick to warm up to a night of drinking and dancing at her side. She pushed all thoughts of her mother from her mind and was her most charming, most engaging self—the life of the party. By the time midnight rolled around, she was drunk out of her mind: breaking her own rules for control.

  To her vague disappointment, however, she was so drunk she could barely concentrate when she brought Michel home; letting him have his way with her. It was all she could do just to keep herself from passing out. Michel was quick to jump out of bed afterwards and pull on his boxer shorts and pants.

  Dakota dragged herself over the edge of the bed and stood to her feet, gripping a cotton sheet around her body. Hanging onto sobriety by a mere thread, she moaned and reached after him; begging him to stay the night. “I need you to hold me,” she cried as he stepped farther away from her and tugged his shirt down over his head. “Please don't leave!” She clutched the sheet to her neck.

  “I'm sorry,” he said, grimacing, avoiding eye contact. “But I really gotta go.” He paused at her bedroom doorway and gave her a long look. In her half-out-of-it state, she supposed she must be a scary sight with disheveled hair and wild eyes, tears soaking her cheeks.

  “Are you—are you okay?” he asked, shifting his eyes like he was eager to bolt but felt obligated to ask.

  She slid down to the floor, tucking the sheet around her body so that none of her bare skin was exposed. “Just go,” she said, no longer wanting him to stay. What possible comfort could his empty, unloving arms provide? He cared nothing for her; he didn't even know her.

  When she glanced up only seconds later, he was already gone. The soft click of the front door confirmed his departure.

  The let-down had sobered her slightly; enough that she decided to pour a bath and find something to eat rather than wallow in tears on the floor.

  She pulled on her jade housecoat and went downstairs, but when she reached the kitchen, she changed her mind; dreading the thought of clarity. She didn't want to come back to reality yet. Instead of finding a snack, she reached for a bottle of Bacardi and rummaged through the fridge for something to mix with it. Losing patience, she ditched that plan and poured the rum straight into a tumbler of ice, filling it halfway; and carried it back upstairs. She plunked it down on the bathroom counter, spilling some, lit the pillar candles, and dimmed the overhead light.

  Though she was still off-balance, the alcohol was wearing off too fast for her liking. After starting the water and adding the bubble bath liquid, she retrieved the glass of rum from the counter and sat down on the closed toilet seat. She took several pulls the drink, blinking her eyes rapidly as her belly grew warm and arms and legs tingled.

  By the time the deep clawfoot tub was filled, she'd already finished half the drink and was considering pouring another.

  She stumbled to the tub and switched off the faucets; not noticing that the water level beneath the foam was flush with the top of the tub. Dropping her robe to the floor, she then climbed into the tub as foamy water poured out over the sides—dousing the bathroom floor below.

  She didn't care.

  Vaguely, she imagined herself passing out and drowning. Someone would find her dead body just as she'd found her mother's. But who might come looking for her? No one would. Jason certainly wouldn't. Nor any of her friends; they only called on weekends. By the time anyone found her she'd be dead a week already—a far worse sight than Mona's body had been. But then she remembered Mond
ay was to be her mother's funeral and Clarice would be worried right away if she didn't show up at the funeral home in the morning. Even if no one else cared, Clarice did.

  Despite the alcohol-induced fogginess overwhelming her body and mind, the words from her mother's letter continued to trail through her head like a newsreel. She clutched her stomach as though in physical pain and leaned forward, moaning and splashing more water onto the floor.

  Find yourself a good man, Rose. Marry someone for love and be a faithful wife… Be all the things I never was!

  She covered her ears with her hands, rocking back and forth. A wave of nausea filled her throat and she gasped for breath. She struggled to stand, gripping the sides of the tub. Moving slowly, she stepped out backward onto the soaked floor and held the tub's edge with both hands. Rivulets of water plummeted down her skin, adding to the large puddle at her feet.

  Her bathrobe lay in a saturated heap, black instead of green. Groaning, she let go of the tub and slipped on the wet floor as she stepped toward the robe. She fell forward, cracking the side of her knee against the tub.

  Dakota sat back against the cold cast iron tub, yanking at the tangled hair covering her face until it was out of the way. Blood trickled from a cut across her knee, smearing her arm, but her mind didn't register the pain.

  Jason's gold-brown eyes came to mind like the steady gaze of a majestic lion. When she'd asked him to spend the afternoon with her, he'd given her a look which she'd taken for pity. Now she wondered if it may have been compassion. That's not the kind of comfort you need, he'd said. And he was right. The time she'd spent with Michel tonight, especially the time in her bed, had not eased her pain in the slightest. If anything, she was worse off than before. Of course, she'd always told herself such relations weren't supposed to mean anything: it was just for fun. But today she needed more than pleasure—she needed comfort.