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  She had regretted it since.

  Barely breathing, Jessica now looked into the ornate coffin at Mac’s still form. She tried desperately to relate the words she had heard the others utter, those euphemistic, useless adjectives people always use to describe the departed.

  But Mac looked neither serene nor peaceful. He did not look "good", or "at rest." The man in the casket was possibly not Mac at all. An imposter maybe, lying very still, with make-up on his face and Mac’s blue silk shirt on his body.

  Slowly, Jessica drew her hand up from where it dangled at her side, moving it inch by inch toward the man before her, her fingers almost steady in their quest. They hovered an eternity over his chest, moving even more slowly now until her fingertips finally touched the fine silk fabric above his breast pocket. Gently she rested her hand there.

  Waiting for a beat.

  Waiting for a movement.

  Waiting for his eyes to flutter open and adore her one more time.

  Sensing someone beside her, Jessica withdrew her hand and turned. The minister was taking her by the elbow. She paused, gazing over the empty pews, the nearly spent, dripping candles and the stained glass windows. Someone was sitting in the very back, someone sitting very still and unrecognizable in the shadows. Jessica had barely noticed his presence when she forgot it and glanced back to the casket.

  "It’s not him," she murmured, allowing the minister to gently steer her out the side door and toward the black limousine at the curb.

  Henry was waiting, sweating in the late morning sun. Perhaps it wasn’t perspiration, Jessica decided. No, those were tears wetting the big man’s cheeks as he opened the rear door for his longtime employer’s widow.

  Tears. They were everywhere. The paper was sure to read that there was not a dry eye in the place. None, except for hers.

  She paused before climbing into the backseat, now aware that her friends were watching from beside the limo ahead of hers. She could not see their faces in the bright sunlight. They were probably crying, too, behind their dark sunglasses.

  In the cemetery, she stood alone, away from the others. Again Jessica ignored the sermon, lost in her own thoughts, caught between the web of the past and the dark emptiness of the future.

  He had cried at his mother’s funeral. It was not the first time Jessica had seen her husband cry, but certainly the first time she had witnessed such grief.

  "I can’t believe she is gone," he said, swiping at the tears that plummeted down his cheeks. "She was always so strong."

  Jessica watched, dry-eyed, as they lowered Mac’s casket into the ground. "He was always so strong," she murmured. And then she was back in the limousine.

  "Mr. Jarrick’s house, Mrs. MacKendall?"

  "No, Henry. Take me home, please."

  She pushed her key into the bolt, only remotely realizing she had left the front door unlocked.

  "I’ll wait," Henry said from somewhere behind her.

  "No need, you go ahead. You were part of Mac’s family, you go on over."

  "But Mrs. MacKendall, I think--"

  "Don’t worry about me, Henry. I’ll be okay."

  With a regretful tilt of his head, Henry got back into the car and maneuvered the long vehicle around the circle driveway. Jessica did not look back.

  Easels bearing wreathes lined the entryway of the house, the frame of one catching the delicate ecru gauze of her skirt. She paused, half-heartedly attempting to disengage the material from the stand but not succeeding before finally giving the arrangement a hearty kick. Gardenia petals rained over the foyer.

  Walking straight to the bar, Jessica perused the rack for something to drink. Something that would be fast. Scotch.

  She slipped out of her pumps and started to sit on the couch, but instead stood staring at it from the middle of the room. She sat down on the floor, took a sip and grimaced, still focused on the massive sectional sofa she and Mac bought on their first wedding anniversary.

  It was comfortable.

  "Remember when I got so mad at you for flying to San Diego without telling me?" she asked aloud. She smiled and took another slug of scotch, then leaned forward to stroke the heavy tweed upholstery.

  "Pretty cushy, huh?" The salesman hovered nearby. "You folks want to talk it over?"

  "Naw. We’ll take it," Mac said, folding his arms behind his neck and stretching his long legs to the end of the couch. "If she likes it, I’m happy."

  "I didn’t like it that much, Mac," Jessica whispered. "It wasn’t quite wide enough for both of us."

  Looking around the room, her eyes trailed along the bookcases, the fireplace mantel, the corner shelves. Every surface held him, displayed him, identified him. His awards, his trophies, his photos--his model cars, his toys. And more, they identified her. For everything he was, so was she.

  And without him, she was--

  She was nothing.

  The burning in her stomach was nothing compared to the searing pain that now seeped into her eyes. Setting the glass beside her on the floor, she drew her knees up to her chest and lowered her face against them. The floodgate was finally open.

  "You should have taken me with you," she cried, her voice a desperate whisper. "I can’t be here without you."

  She got up and went to the fireplace, still weeping, and reached for the Emmy statuette. It was cold and heavy in her hands. She carried it back to where she had been sitting and resumed her position, taking another sip of the scotch and cradling the trophy in her arms.

  "Oh, God, he can’t be gone…" she wailed, rocking back and forth on the floor. "You promised! You promised you would never leave me again!"

  The sobbing escalated. Jessica could no longer control the deep spasms originating from within, the heart-rending cries of terror borne of the ultimate loneliness. Oblivious to her surroundings, she relinquished all hold on time and space. Reality faded away, was lost to her… lost until she was temporarily delivered from grief.

  Startled, she struggled to glimpse the face of the man who held her so tightly, who cooed into her ear with assurances and love. But even before her swollen eyes could focus in the ebbing afternoon light, she knew the name of her savior.

  There was distinction in the way he embraced her; a scent that was entirely his own, right now a comforting potion of tequila and expensive cologne. There was familiarity in his tone, a voice not deep, but deceivingly youthful.

  "Shh… it’s okay, Sweetie. It’s okay. He didn’t want to leave you, baby."

  He gathered her into his arms and lifted her to the couch, where she immediately curled against him, her face dampening his chest. Ever so gently he stroked her back, his lips brushing across the top of her hair as still she wept. It was some time before her breathing returned to normal; the room was nearly dark.

  "Dane, is it true what they say about your hair still growing even after you die?" she asked softly.

  "I don’t know, Jess." Dane closed his eyes tightly and turned them slightly away. "It probably is."

  ~ * ~

  Every head in the room turned when Dane Pierce ushered Jessica MacKendall through the doorway into Tom and Roxanne’s home; the reception was nearly over.

  A band of mourners immediately surrounded her, many of whom she did not recognize.

  "He was one helluva guy, Jessica."

  He never liked you, Fred.

  "He was always so kind and generous."

  Not as generous as you were, with his money.

  "I’m just devastated by what happened."

  Of course you are. Now, please move on.

  "I’ll never forget working with him in The Senator."

  Funny, he had already forgotten you. What was your name again?

  "He was so cute in Dr. Jim!"

  Get away from me!

  Roxanne hovered nearby, taking the opportunity to pull her aside when Jessica was momentarily alone.

  "Honey, are you okay? I’ve been so worried."

  "You got some coffee, Rox?"
r />   "Sure."

  Roxanne herded a wobbly Jessica into the kitchen while Dane parked himself in the corner of the living room, allowing Tom to fill him a glass.

  "When did he show up?" Roxanne wanted to know, handing Jessica a steaming mug of fresh coffee.

  "He was there, at the… chapel, he was sitting in the back, he said. He came by the house after I went home."

  "Why didn’t you come over here after?"

  "I wasn’t ready to face all these awful… people."

  "They are your friends, Jess. And Mac’s friends. They are grieving."

  Jessica put her cup down. "And I’m not?"

  Roxanne turned an incredulous face her way. "I sure didn’t mean that, Jessica. I only meant…"

  "That as the widow of the hour, I should be hugging strangers and shaking hands and smiling and saying how I’m going to be okay?"

  "Are you drunk?"

  Roxanne’s question, aimed right between the eyes, hit its mark.

  "I’m not so very drunk, Mac, just hurting."

  "I know, baby. I know."

  It was the premiere of Bellerive, her film debut. Dane had snubbed her. Mac had rescued her. A lifetime ago.

  "I’m sorry, Rox." Jessica lowered herself slowly into a kitchen chair. Looking up, she forced a dim smile. "It’s a role I’ve never played. I’ll get better at it, I promise." She held up the mug in salute, and Roxanne gave her a pitying look.

  "You don’t have to get better at it. You just have to get through today. And then tomorrow. One day at a time."

  ~ * ~

  Jessica collapsed on the sofa beside Tom. In the corner recliner, Dane lay back with his eyes closed. Roxanne joined them after seeing the last guest to the door.

  "Nice of you to join us," she said in Dane’s direction as she bent to pick up a collection of empty glasses from the coffee table.

  "Don’t bother with that stuff. We have people to do that. You sit down," Tom directed his wife. Without another word, Roxanne dropped onto the couch between Jessica and Tom.

  Jessica fell over to the side cushion, throwing an arm across her eyes in exhaustion and despair.

  "How you holding up?" Tom asked, his usual sincerity even more evident tonight. Reaching across his wife, Tom grasped Jessica’s free hand and squeezed it.

  "Barely."

  "You want to stay here tonight?"

  Jessica had not had time to answer when Christine emerged from the hallway. "The kids are asleep."

  Jessica frowned, looking around dizzily. "Where’s Mom?"

  "Nick took her back to the hotel. She’s a wreck."

  She’s a wreck! That her mother had recently come to love Mac was irrelevant; Jessica had never forgiven her for the days when Wesley Elliot, her psychopathic ex-husband, had meant more to Janet Taylor than her own daughter.

  "Don’t be so critical, Jess. Everybody has their cross to bear. People don’t always say what they really mean."

  "I know… it’s just that…"

  He looked up from where he squatted, inspecting the rear tire of his motorcycle, and flashed that dazzling smile.

  "Just what?"

  Just that you’re not supposed to be dead.

  Four

  Changing Gears

  Jessica stared out the first class window of the wide-bodied jet at what she supposed was the Rocky Mountains. It was impossible to look at them with anything but painful despair, for although it was not the same terrain that claimed her husband’s life, it represented the same. She slid the window shade down and eclipsed her view.

  Taking a deep breath, she reached up and opened the nozzle on the air conditioner blower, and then turned to her companion. "How long a flight is it again?"

  "A couple more hours," Dane said, squeezing her hand briefly. "Why don’t you just take a nap?"

  Jessica smiled and retrieved his hand for a return gesture. "Thanks. Maybe I will."

  But she was unable to sleep. Indeed, the only sleep she was getting these days was involuntary, and fraught with horrendous nightmares. She couldn’t even keep her eyes closed.

  "I really appreciate your going with me," she said at last.

  "I had to go anyway. Have to check things out at the House. Char did such a good job running it, I never had to do anything. I won’t know where to begin."

  "Surely your business manager could handle this for you?"

  "Woody? Probably. But I want to see for myself what’s going on there. When Charlene told me about her dream of a halfway house for potheads and junkies, I was skeptical. It was a touchy subject for me, after what happened to my folks. But she just kept on about it, saying things like, maybe someone else can be saved if we do this."

  Jessica remembered well Dane’s tormented retelling of his parents’ deaths due to a drugged out train engineer. The Marian Pierce House was a dream-come-true for both him and Charlene. Without her, the House’s future was uncertain. It made perfect sense that Dane would want to see it through personally.

  "You shaved your mustache."

  Dane nodded. "I’ve been told it doesn’t do anything for me."

  "I told you that, didn’t I?"

  "It might have been you."

  Jessica smiled briefly. She had complained to him… once upon a time. "I’ve been meaning to ask, how’s your son? Is he still away at camp?"

  "At his own request, yes. I’m bringing him home at the end of summer to live with me on the ranch. Alex is a cool kid--he’s got his own agenda. We’re getting along pretty well these days."

  "Devon’s been asking to visit your place ever since you sent us that postcard."

  "Bring him up. It would be good for him. Good to get away from all that shit going on in L.A."

  "Well, I don’t want to bounce him around too much. He’s already in Utah."

  "It’s a short hop to Wyoming."

  "Maybe."

  Seeming satisfied with her answer, Dane leaned back in his seat.

  ~ * ~

  Jessica’s breath caught in her throat at the site of her sister-in-law. Abrasions covered one side of her face, and a myriad of tubes snaked in and out of her body. Her swollen belly seemed unbelievably oversized.

  "She’s in a coma," the doctor was saying. "And we need to take the baby. Today."

  Jessica nodded dumbly, a barely audible sob escaping her lungs. Dane slipped a comforting arm around her shoulders.

  "Do whatever you have to do," Jessica murmured. "I’ll sign the papers."

  Later, Jessica was too mournful to eat her lunch in the hotel suite. "I can’t get her face out of my mind," she said. "At least Mac died instantly, his neck… you know… but she looked so banged up."

  "Maybe it was a trade off, her being thrown from the plane. It may have saved the baby’s life."

  "There’s no such thing as a trade off." Angrily she stabbed at her sandwich with a toothpick. "Mac’s dead and I’m not pregnant."

  Dane looked up in confusion.

  "It doesn’t matter," Jessica said softly. "Never mind."

  ~ * ~

  The baby was delivered that afternoon. Chester Cory MacKendall weighed in at eight pounds and was guardedly assessed as healthy; his mother remained on life support. Dane and Jessica returned to the hospital that evening.

  "We have a chapel on the third floor," the nurse told them. Dane led Jessica into the elevator and then into the small, non-denominational chapel. They sat down in the back of the empty room.

  After a time, Jessica turned to Dane, tears brimming in her eyes. "I don’t know what to do," she confessed, her voice breaking.

  "Neither do I. I quit praying when my mother died. Just… just close your eyes and say you love her."

  "I haven’t been very nice to her."

  "Nonsense. She thinks you’re the best." And she did, he reminded himself. As tough as she was, Charlene had a soft side not many had seen. He counted himself lucky to have known her.

  Jessica squeezed her eyes tightly closed and stifled her sobs. "I’m sor
ry," she offered quietly.

  He kept his arm around her as they approached the nursery window.

  "You up to this?"

  "Yes. I want to see him. He’s family, you know?"

  Dane nodded, keeping his own thoughts well buried. Focus on the miracle, not the tragedy.

  Chester was sleeping.

  "He’s beautiful," Jessica breathed, admiring the tiny boy with the whisper of almost colorless hair. The nursery attendant smiled and adjusted the blanket around the infant. Jessica’s chin quivered slightly. "It’s awful that he won’t be nursed."

  "A lot of babies have grown up fine without being breast fed, Jess. He’s lucky to be alive."

  "Lucky? With no father, almost no mother? I’m not so sure."

  "Something tells me he’ll do fine. Comes from good stock, right? At least half of him," Dane mused.

  "I hope you’re right."

  ~ * ~

  The following morning Jessica accompanied Dane on a tour of the Marian Pierce facility. He took careful notes as they walked, asking several questions of the young woman who had been appointed manager in Charlene’s absence.

  "I never thought it would be any more than a couple of weeks. Until she had the baby," Paula Reed said. "We’re all pretty shaken up.

  "Anyway, we have six bedrooms on this side. Three are private, three are shared. As you saw, the middle is the community room, and the dining room, and the office in the front. And in the back is barracks."

  "Barracks?"

  "We call it that. A big sleeping room for over-nighters. A place to crash. There are seventeen cots in there."

  Dane nodded. "So you can keep nine people in residence at any one time?"

  "Well, nine or more if they squeeze. But each person can only stay up to ninety days at a time. There’re just so many people who need a place to stay while they clean up. That’s why we’re getting the new wing."

  They walked to the far side of the building where construction was underway.

  "This side will add ten shared bedrooms. It’s a major deal," Paula explained. "She was so excited about it."

  "She mentioned it to me, but this is bigger than I thought."