He led them past the bathroom, toward the rear of the house. Jase recognized the layout as a standard reversal of his old homestead in Bosque Bend, with the bedrooms and bath on the right instead of the left.
Laurel seemed to hang back as they entered Marguerite’s room, deferring to him and Lolly, but Girl Child grabbed her arm and urged her forward. “You promised you’d stay with me.”
In contrast to the rest of the house, Marguerite’s bedroom was well lit and airy. Big, old-fashioned windows opened onto the backyard and driveway, and a mat of vines draped over the chain-link fence next to the house filled the air with the scent of honeysuckle.
This room—bright, cheerful, and immaculately clean—was obviously where all of Bert Nyquist’s attention was concentrated. Prints of paintings by van Gogh and Renoir—rented from the public library according to the discreet gold tags affixed to their frames—hung on the walls, and an arrangement of glads and daisies had been placed on the bureau. In the center of the far wall, a motionless figure lay on an adjustable hospital bed.
Nyquist walked over to the bed and, despite the warning thump in his chest, Jase followed.
He studied the woman in the bed for some resemblance to the sexy siren he remembered from sixteen years ago, but if Bert Nyquist looked eighty, Marguerite looked at least a hundred. Her frail head, propped up on two plump pillows, seemed transparent to the skull, her hair was white and wispy, and the sockets around her eyes were deep as death.
Nyquist scurried to his wife’s side and leaned across the folding table laden with pill bottles and medical supplies.
“Margo, honey. Margo, she’s here. Just like you wanted, Lolly is here. Your daughter came back.”
He motioned for Lolly to come forward. “Take her hand and tell her who you are.”
Lolly walked to the bed step-by-step, obviously ready to bolt at the least provocation.
“Her hand, her hand,” Nyquist prompted.
Lolly lifted the frail hand on top of the bedsheet.
“Tell her who you are.”
“I’m Lolly, Lolly Redlander.”
The sherry-colored eyes opened. A slight frown creased Marguerite’s forehead. She wet her lips in slow motion and tried to speak.
Jase tensed. If a single foul word comes out of that woman’s mouth…
Marguerite finally found her voice, and, in the silence of the room, her hoarse, labored words were audible to everyone. “I’m sorry…” Her sunken eyes seemed to be trying to memorize Lolly’s face. “Forgive me.”
Jase relaxed. Marguerite was trying to make amends.
Lolly’s voice was barely audible. “It’s—it’s okay.”
Marguerite nodded and released Lolly’s hand, but those beautiful, horrible eyes were searching the room now.
“Jase,” she whispered, fastening him in her gaze.
He moved forward like an automaton.
Nyquist gave him a look of appeal. “Take her hand. Remember to take her hand.”
Jase looked at the flesh-covered talon, clenching and unclenching in agitation.
“Please, Jase…,” Marguerite forced out, struggling to articulate. “Forgive…”
A knot inside his chest dissolved and he warmed her cold, skeletal hand between both of his. “You gave me a wonderful daughter. That’s all that matters now.”
Marguerite attempted a smile, and her eyelids closed. Lolly started forward, but Bert Nyquist was in front of her. He adjusted the sheet around his wife’s shoulders and caressed her cheek.
Lolly raised a hand to her mouth. “Is she—?”
Nyquist shook his head. “No, just very tired. She needs to rest now.”
He led them back to the living room and shook Jase’s hand.
“Thank you, Jason. And thank you for bringing Lolly. Marguerite didn’t know what she was saying when Lolly came before, and she wanted to set things right.” Nyquist’s chin trembled. “Margo and I—we wronged you, Jason. You’ve been better to us than we deserved.”
“Is it cancer?” Laurel asked quietly.
Nyquist nodded. “Marguerite taught until two years ago, when she started going downhill fast. She’s been through it all—chemo, radiation, surgery, acupuncture—everything. There’s nothing for her now but painkillers. The doctor said she’ll probably go within the next twenty-four hours.”
Jase frowned, trying to understand. “And you’ve taken care of her all this time?”
Nyquist looked at him in surprise. “What else could I do? I love her.”
Jase’s his mouth opened, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. Marguerite Shelton must have led Bert Nyquist on a merry chase. Apparently he’d quit his job and deserted his family for her, but Jase doubted she’d ever given up a thing for him, least of all her string of young lovers. Yet none of that mattered to Nyquist.
He loved Marguerite whether she was faithful or not, in sickness and in health, till death did them part. There was no getting around it. For all his sins, Bert Nyquist was a better man than he.
Grabbing a card out of his billfold, he scribbled his cell phone number on the back of it, and handed it to Nyquist.
“Call me if you need anything. Anything. I mean it.”
*