The Street Where She Lives. Jill ShalvisЧитать онлайн книгу.
be stupid enough to show his face here in Southern California. After all, just the week before, he’d been featured on the television show America’s Most Wanted. Unless Asada had a death wish, he was deep in hiding. Still, they’d promised to do drive-bys to surveil at Rachel and Emily’s place. And they’d promised to take a look into Rachel’s accident, to see if maybe it hadn’t been an accident at all.
A thought that made his blood run cold.
He had a meeting tonight with one of the FBI agents he’d spoken to, Agent Brewer, and hopefully would learn something more. Something like they’d caught Asada.
Riding the airport escalator to the ground floor, Ben took a long, critical look at his own reflection in the mirrors that lined the walls. A grim stranger stared back. He’d have thought he’d had enough grimness in his life, that he didn’t need to borrow more, but just being back “home” seemed to have uncovered some vast store of it deep within him.
He hadn’t told Emily about Asada. No way was he going to be the one to introduce her to the truth about the cold, cruel, dangerous world he lived in.
And Rachel…well, he’d wait and see on that one. For all she knew, he was coming to help her. Though why on earth she’d agreed to such a thing was beyond him. He figured desperation must have played a huge role, but for the life of him he couldn’t imagine the only woman who’d ever brought him to equal heights of ecstasy and depths of misery being that desperate.
Of course, he no longer knew her every thought and whim as he once had. Right now, she was injured, hurting…he wouldn’t put more stress on her shoulders by bringing up Asada.
No, Asada was his cross alone to bear.
He stepped outside, and the heat sapped his energy. Or maybe it was the reality of being here.
Your own fault.
With a sigh, Ben slung his backpack over his shoulder and headed toward the rental cars, resigned to his fate.
TO RACHEL, South Village was home sweet home. Beyond being the busiest and most energetic pedestrian neighborhood in California, South Village was her life. The casual elegance of the charming town was no faux city walk like Universal City, but authentic, steeped with the blend of history and early California legend that came from being one of the original mining towns in the late 1800s. Since then, the place had been subjected to face-lifts, decline, then more face-lifts, and was now enjoying an upswing.
In a few square miles one could eat at a restaurant owned by a famous celebrity, check out the best and latest in live theater, grab a drink from a sidewalk café, buy a present from a funky bookstore or an original boutique, or simply wander the streets drinking fancy iced coffees, taking in the sights.
But that’s not why she loved it so much. Here she could surround herself with people. Here she could lose herself in the crowd. Here she could just be.
Here she’d granted herself the luxury of learning a place inside out for the first time.
She lived on North Union Street, right in the heart of downtown. On her left sat One North Union, an old hotel remodeled into an array of art galleries. On her right stood what had once been the sheriff’s office in the great Old West, and was now her neighbor’s house. On the other side of that was Tanner Market, nearly hidden from view on the street by a brick courtyard filled with flowers, fountains and wrought iron.
In her opinion, what made the block of beautiful buildings was her house. Thanks to the syndicated success of Gracie, she’d purchased the old firehouse five years ago. The three-story brick structure had already been shined up, gutted and restored for modern use, but Rachel and Emily had customized it further, turning it into the home of their hearts. Every wall, every floor, every piece of furniture, had been lovingly agonized over and decided upon based on comfort.
This was her first real home—already she’d lived here longer than anywhere else—and if she had her way, her last. She sat in the wheelchair she was determined not to need by the end of the day and looked around. It’d been nearly a week since she’d been promised release from the hospital, and finally, finally, after more physical therapy, after long discussions with her doctor, here she was.
Already, amazingly, she could feel the improvement in her bones. Just being home did that, she mused sitting in the big, open living room that had once housed fire-fighters. A month and a half ago, she’d stood in this very spot every single day, staring down at the street below, watching people stroll by, smiling, laughing, living. She loved it here, right smack in the middle of organized chaos. Here she was home. Safe. Just her and Emily.
Now, fresh from the hospital, with her head still spinning from her doctor’s orders to take it easy, she was waiting for the new nurse, telling herself she’d be out from under the nurse’s care as soon as possible.
“Here, Mom.” Emily came up behind her and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders.
She hadn’t even realized she was cold, but now she could feel her limbs shiver. Her brain still fooled her like that sometimes, and it disturbed her, this horrifying lack of control. But the bone-melting exhaustion frustrated her most of all. Her good hand trembled where it rested on her thigh. Her shoulders slumped, making her bad arm ache all the more, and she’d only been sitting five minutes.
For a woman used to running five miles before breakfast, then working a full day, then chasing Emily around on a racquetball court, the lack of energy was demoralizing.
She felt used and abused. Washed up. And so discouraged she could hardly stand it. She wanted to jump up, wanted to run through her house, wanted to see each and every room she’d made theirs. She wanted to go into her lovely studio upstairs and touch her easel, her colored pencils, fresh clean paper. She wanted to draw, paint, scream…anything other than sit here helpless. Helpless made her feel like a child again.
As that child, she’d had money, privilege, material things…everything but stability, security and safety; the three Ss which meant so much to her. Her father had spent his entire adult life taking over troubled corporations and turning them around, gathering millions as he did. He gathered the money to himself in a way he never had his own family. There’d been no laughter, no shared family dinners, no affection and certainly no love in their household.
Melanie, the oldest by two years, had usually commanded the fleeting attention of their parents. Given Mel’s penchant for trouble, most of that attention had been negative. Still, she’d thrived on their nomadic existence, making friends with ease—especially male friends.
Not Rachel. As the years passed, she’d promised herself that someday, she was going to find her own home and never leave it. In her senior year, her father moved them to South Village, and by the time Rachel had graduated, it was time for her parents to move on.
Mesmerized by the place, Rachel stayed. She utilized family contacts to get her sketchings purchased by the local paper, she’d gone to college at night studying art and the rest was history.
Home sweet home.
“Mom?” Emily moved in front of her and kneeled. “It’s only natural to be this tired, right? Didn’t the doctor say so? I mean, coming home took a lot out of you.”
“Yeah.” Rachel felt the burning need to throw something or have a good cry. Even her daughter had changed, as now suddenly Emily didn’t want to do anything to upset her. Rachel wondered how long that would last, how long before they went back to being two circling, snarling tigresses. “Lying in that hospital bed for five weeks was hard work all right.”
“The way you stress it was. Do you want to lie down?”
“I’d like to never lie down again.”
Emily laughed. “Don’t worry, in no time you’ll be yelling at me to go out and play instead of doing homework.”
Rachel sighed, it was all she could do. “I’m proud of your grades, Emily. So proud. But you’re too young to work so hard.”
“I like working hard.”