Crimson Rain

Victoria had picked up the plate and was putting it on the file cabinet. She swung back and laughed. “Sure. Maybe it’ll sweeten your mood.”

Rachel stood and gathered up her coat, slipping it on with the cookie between her teeth. Then, taking it in her hand, she said, “Vicky…I know we’re making light of this right now. And to tell the truth, I’m kind of relieved that we are. But I still feel, down deep, that something bad is going to happen.”

Victoria got up and came around the desk, wrapping an arm around Rachel’s shoulders and walking her to the door. “You could be right, of course. But let’s not jump the gun. Let’s look at all sides of it first. Okay?”

Rachel nodded, drawing her pink scarf tighter as Victoria opened the door into the hallway. “God, it’s raining again,” she said, looking back toward the office window. “Now that I’m living in California most of the time, I get so depressed up here when it rains.”

“Espresso,” Victoria said, patting her shoulder. “Get yourself some espresso. Better yet, a mocha. The chocolate will do you good.”

“I don’t know,” Rachel said. “Maybe I need some Prozac or something.”

Victoria studied her, meeting her eyes. “Maybe you do. But let’s start slowly. We can talk about that later, after we meet some more.”

Rachel sighed. “Okay. See you in a few days, then.”

“Right.” Victoria touched her cheek lightly with a pale, slender hand. “Rachel…try to have a happy Christmas.”

“You, too,” Rachel said, stepping away.

Going down the long, carpeted hallway to the elevator, she felt awkward, as if she were stumbling. As if the hallway had shrunk, and there wasn’t room now to put her feet anywhere. Or the way it felt during the occasional California earthquakes, even when they were only small tremors. It seemed for days afterward that the ground kept moving—but only slightly, so that it was hard to know whether what she felt was real or not.

She hadn’t told Vicky about these “spells,” which had come and gone several times over the past few weeks. She didn’t want anyone to know. It was probably irrational, but the old fear was back: If I tell them too much, they might send me away, too.

4

Sacred Heart, the Queen Anne Hill church that Paul and Gina had been married in, was wall-to-wall with parishioners. Seats were always in demand for Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, and ten minutes after they’d arrived it was standing room only. Gina had insisted on arriving early to assure their getting a seat, hurrying everyone along. They had made it with half an hour to spare before Mass began, and had landed a pew two rows from the front.

It was hot in the crowded church, and Gina fanned her face with the printed pamphlet containing words to the carols they would sing throughout the service. The beads of perspiration on her forehead reminded her of her wedding day and the heat wave that had come tearing through Seattle that July. She had been sure her gown would melt before the long ceremony was over. As it was, the white satin stuck to her skin when she tried to peel it off that night.

The heat hadn’t dimmed her passion or Paul’s, however. Gina almost blushed now, just thinking of how wanton they were on that honeymoon night.

She sighed. Where had it all gone, that passion? Had it simply dissipated with so many years of familiarity? Was that the natural order of things? Perhaps. Paul’s mother and father didn’t seem all that passionate about each other any longer, yet after some rocky years when Paul was a child, they seemed contented enough. Right now they were on a cruise through the Caribbean, and after that they were flying to Paris, then Rome—an anniversary gift from her and Paul.

As for Roberta, her own mother, who knew? At times, Gina thought Roberta might still be dating. Certainly that wouldn’t be unusual at her age. She was only sixty, and there had been mysterious evenings lately when Roberta wasn’t at home and wouldn’t tell anyone the next day where she’d been. Why she’d be shy about telling anyone she was dating, Gina didn’t know.

For that matter, as she looked around, Gina didn’t see her mother in any of the front pews. Roberta had never, so far as she knew, missed Midnight Mass. Of course, she might have arrived late and had to settle for sitting somewhere in the back. That wasn’t like her, but sometimes the traffic coming over from Gig Harbor was unusually heavy.

Roberta and Gina’s father, Tony, had grown up in this Seattle parish. They had lived their lives in the old-world Catholic way, following the exhortations of the priests in those days to sacrifice and suffer. There would be stars in their crowns in heaven, they were told. Tony had suffered, all right, living for several months through a siege of cancer when he was fifty. Gina wondered if he were somewhere “up there,” and if the stars in his crown were worth it.

She knew that what had happened with the twins had taken its toll on Paul’s parents as well as her own. She was glad all three remaining parents were thinking of themselves now, rather than focusing on that time when nothing made much sense and everything around them seemed to be falling apart.

When Gina met Paul, who was raised Baptist but no longer attended church, he had agreed to marry her in the Catholic church. They were both very young then, in their early twenties. Following a particular faith didn’t seem to matter as much as the fact that they believed in each other. It mattered to Gina’s parents, however, who insisted that being married outside the church was no marriage at all. Paul, to keep the peace, had gone along with their request.

Even so, Gina’s mother had spoken of misgivings. “A man who will leave his faith behind will one day leave his wife,” she had warned Gina. But that was Roberta Evans; she saw the darker side of things, always. If something could go wrong, it would—at least in Roberta’s mind.

Unfortunately, in the case of the twins, she had turned out to be right. Roberta had warned Gina that adopting a child without knowing its background, both medical and familial, could be trouble. Angela and Rachel had been placed at Saint Sympatica’s shortly after birth, and little was known about the woman who had given birth to them. The note she left with them in the cardboard box, on the steps of the orphanage, had said nothing that would give anyone a clue as to her whereabouts. She never went back to Saint Sympatica’s to reclaim them, and the twins ended up being there several months before Paul and Gina adopted them.

“Why weren’t they adopted right away?” Roberta had wanted to know. “Babies have always been in demand.”

Gina had asked this question of Anita and Rodney Ewing, the couple who owned and directed the orphanage. Mrs. Ewing had seemed uneasy at the question, but had given them a perfectly good explanation. “We wanted to keep them together, and not everyone wants the responsibility of twins. Also, we’ve been very particular. Because the girls have been without a mother or father so long, they may need special care.”

That special care was a watchful eye as the girls grew older, to ensure that they hadn’t suffered from being abandoned by their mother at such a young age. For that matter, they might have been abused or neglected while in the care of their mother. If they had indeed suffered damage, they would need the best possible psychiatric treatment. This could end up costing quite a bit over the years, Paul and Gina were told, and they had assured Mrs. Ewing that they were able and willing to provide the twins with that.

Finally, they themselves went through several interviews with the Ewings and Saint Sympatica’s child psychiatrist, interviews that had included psychological tests to assess their level of maturity and ability to carry through with raising the girls. They were young to be adopting, and had been married less than a year.

“Who will take care of the girls if you both work?” Mrs. Ewing had asked.

“I will,” Gina had replied. “I plan to work from our house, and only part-time until they’re both in school. After that, I may work longer hours, but I’ll still be at home most of the time. I’ll be working for myself, and I’ll be able to plan my schedule to accommodate the girls.”

The day they brought the twins home had been the happiest one of their lives. They did everything possible to give the girls tons of love and make them feel secure in their new home. Paul and Gina both thought they had been extremely lucky—at least for the first four years. The girls played like other children, and they seemed loving, both to each other and to their friends. It appeared that, miraculously, they had gotten through their first year of life without emotional damage. Paul and Gina attributed that to the excellent psychiatric care the orphanage afforded to the children in its care.

Then all hell had broken loose.

Gina sighed. Her thoughts had a way of drifting in church, when she should be praying. Sometimes, when making the sign of the cross she would say to herself “one, two, three, four,” instead of “in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” It was odd how her spirit seemed to have become a matter of rote over the years. Odd how her marriage had become that, too.

Here in this church that was so familiar to her, however, Gina sat between Paul and Rachel and felt protected with them on either side. The church was warm, and the familiar statues, poinsettias and votive candles lent a cozy air. In the crowded pew they were squeezed together, and with Paul’s and Rachel’s bodies touching hers, it felt as if they were truly bonded together, and that nothing bad could ever happen again.

It was therefore all the more strange when thoughts of something threatening them crossed her mind. It was a thought that had been nagging at her, actually, the past few days—ever since Rachel had come home.

Gina mentally shook herself and turned her attention to the swelling sounds of the pipe organ. Everyone rose as the altar boys came down the aisle, the lead one carrying a cross. The priest came behind them, and the choir began to sing “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” their voices swelling to a crescendo at the end.

The Mass began, and Gina whispered to Paul, “Do you see Mom anywhere?”

He turned and scanned the crowds. “Can’t tell. It’s hard to see, it’s so packed—”

He broke off and his face paled as he saw the blond woman in an aisle seat, five rows behind and across from theirs. Lacey? My God, what is she doing here?

His eyes met hers, and he thought he saw the beginnings of a mischievous grin. Confusion and a feeling of disaster flooded him. He couldn’t let Gina and Lacey meet. Gina would know right away the place that Lacey held in his life.

Would his mistress force a meeting? Did she just want to see his wife and daughter, find out what they looked like?

As if hearing the question, Lacey gave a shrug and looked away. The procession in the middle aisle came between them as it neared the altar. Paul turned back to Gina as she tugged at his arm. “Do you see her?”

“No,” Paul said, his mouth dry. “I don’t see her.”

From that point on he barely noticed the Mass going on in front of him. Instead, he worried about what Lacey would do.

During Communion, as parishioners filled the aisles and walked to the altar railing, Paul risked a look back again. If she met his eyes, he would try to indicate to her in some way that she shouldn’t speak to him after the Mass. Perhaps just a small shake of the head would do it. Surely she’d understand.

But Lacey was gone, her seat taken by an elderly man.

Paul felt his entire body sag with relief. Then, quickly, his eyes scanned the pews in case she had simply moved to another seat. He didn’t see her anywhere. Thank God.

But why would she leave in the middle of Mass? To avoid having to see him with his family any longer?

That could be it.

It was several minutes before he was able to breathe normally again. He would have to talk to Lacey, though. In the three months that she had been his mistress, they had never discussed what they would do if they were seen together by Gina or anyone else who knew him. Now he would have to make sure that Lacey knew what to say if such an occasion arose: that they knew each other through Soleil. She was a client; nothing more.