Scent of Roses (2 page)

“Well, we're here.” She smiled at Raul, who was staring out the window toward the group of young men working in the fields. A distant tractor threw up a plume of dust while a cluster of dairy cows stood on a hill waiting for the evening round of milking to begin.

Looking nervous and younger than his seventeen years, Raul cracked the door on his side of the car and climbed out into the afternoon heat. In the area between the parking lot and the house, the director of Teen Vision, Sam Marston, walked toward them.

Sam was average in height and build, a man in his early forties rapidly going bald who had shaved the sparse hair off, giving him a modern, stylish appearance. He was a soft-spoken man, yet there was a sense of authority about him. He waved a greeting as he walked up to where they stood.

“Welcome to Teen Vision.”

“Thank you.” She had met Sam Marston when she first moved back to town, knew his remarkable work with delinquent boys. “I know your time is limited. I thought I could come back for an official tour later on.”

He understood what she was saying. That she wanted him to spend this time with Raul. “You're welcome anytime,” he said with a smile, then his attention shifted to the boy. “You must be Raul Perez.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'm Sam Marston. Let me show you around, and while we're at it, I'll tell you a little about Teen Vision.” Ignoring Raul's look of alarm, Sam slapped a hand on the youth's wide back and nudged him forward, forcing Raul into step beside him.

Elizabeth watched them walk away and found herself smiling. She prayed Raul would give the place a chance, that the farm would be his salvation, as it had been for a number of other boys.

Walking over to stand in the shade of a fruit tree to watch the boys in the fields and wait for Sam, she saw another car, a dark brown Jeep Cherokee, drive through the gate and pull into the space next to hers.

A tall, lean man in faded jeans and a navy blue T-shirt climbed out from behind the wheel. He had very dark hair and darkly tanned skin, a nice wide set of shoulders, narrow hips and a flat stomach. As he walked toward her, she saw that the shirt carried the Teen Vision slogan, Only You Can Make Your Dreams Come True, printed in white letters on the front. A pair of solid-looking biceps bulged below the short sleeves of his T-shirt.

Still, somehow she couldn't imagine him working as a counselor on the farm. His haircut looked too expensive, his long strides too purposeful, almost aggressive. Even the fit of his jeans spoke of style and money. Elizabeth studied him from beneath the tree and though he wore wraparound shades and she couldn't make out his face, there was something familiar about him.

She wondered where she might have seen him and thought that if she had, surely she would remember. He moved past her as if she weren't there, his gaze focused ahead, striding with purpose in the direction of the new barn under construction where several older boys were busily hammering nails. The dark-haired man walked up to them and started talking. A few minutes later, he strapped on a carpenter's belt and set to work.

Elizabeth watched him for a while, enjoying the efficiency of his movements, his obvious skill at what he was doing, and continued to wonder who he was. When Sam and Raul returned, she intended to ask, but when they arrived, the boy's face was glowing and his smile so radiant the moment slipped past.

“You're going to do it?” she said, beaming up at him.

He nodded. “Sam says he and one of the counselors will help me figure out what I am most suited to learn. He says I can do whatever I am most interested in.”

“Oh, Raul, that's wonderful!” She wanted to reach over and hug him, but she needed to remain professional and that would probably just embarrass him. “I can't tell you how pleased I am.”

“He can check in on Saturday,” Sam said. “We'll help him fill out the forms and sign whatever paperwork is necessary.” Technically he would still be in the foster care system until next year and the paperwork would have to pass through proper channels.

“That sounds great.” Elizabeth turned to Raul. “I can bring you out here, if you like.”

“
Sí,
that would be good.” Raul rarely slipped into his native language, only when he was angry or nervous. Still, he was smiling. Sometimes nervous could be good.

“Your sister will be so pleased.”

His smile broadened. “Maria will be happy for me. Miguel, I think, too.”

“Yes, I think they will both be very happy you made this decision.”

They said their farewells to Sam, who promised to give her a personal tour of the farm whenever she had time, and they started back to the car.

She was feeling extremely pleased with the way the afternoon had gone when she glanced at Raul and saw that his smile had faded.

“What is it, Raul?”

“I am nervous. I want to do this right.”

“You will. You've got lots of people to help you.”

Still, he didn't relax. She knew he was worried that he would somehow fail. It was the failures, she had learned, that most of these young Hispanics remembered and those failures shaped their lives. But Raul had a number of accomplishments as well. He had stayed drug-free for a year and now he had pledged a year of his life to Teen Vision.

“Will you be seeing your sister tonight? I know how excited she'll be.”

Instead of a smile, Raul frowned. “I will stop by and tell her the news.” He glanced in her direction. “I am worried about her.”

“Why? She isn't having trouble with her pregnancy, I hope?” Though Maria was just nineteen, this was her second pregnancy. Last year, she had suffered a miscarriage. Elizabeth knew how much this baby meant to her and Miguel.

“It isn't the baby. It is something else. Maria won't say what.” His black eyes came to rest on her face. “Maybe you could talk to her. If you did, maybe she would tell you what is wrong.”

She didn't like the sound of that. Though Maria's husband was a stereotypical macho Hispanic, convinced the man was the undisputed head of the family, the couple seemed happy. She hoped they weren't having marital problems.

“I'd be glad to talk to her, Raul. Tell her to call me at the office and we'll set up a time.”

“I will tell her. But I do not think she will call.” Raul said no more.

As Elizabeth slid behind the wheel of the car, hissing at the heat of the red leather seat against her skin, she cast a last glance at the barn under construction. Only two sides of the building had been framed, but they were making good progress. She studied the group still hammering away, but the dark-haired man was gone.

Sitting in the passenger side, Raul snapped his seat belt in place and Elizabeth started the engine. As they drove back to town, the boy seemed miles away and she wondered if his thoughts were on the very different future he was about to undertake, or if he was worried about his sister.

Elizabeth made a mental note to stop by the little yellow house occupied by Miguel Santiago and his pretty young wife. She would speak to Maria, see what was wrong, find out if there was something she could do.

T
he hour was late. The night black as ink, just a fingernail moon casting a thin ray of white into the darkness. The smell of newly mown hay hung in the air, along with the rich musk of freshly tilled soil. Inside the house, Maria Santiago snapped off the small TV that sat on a little wooden table against the wall of her sparsely furnished living room.

Though the house wasn't large, just two bedrooms and a bath, it was only four years old and solidly built, with yellow plaster walls outside and a simple asphalt tile roof. The house had been freshly painted just before they moved in and the beige carpet looked almost new.

Maria had loved the house from the moment she and Miguel had seen it. With its grassy backyard and zinnia-filled flower beds next to the porch out in front, it was the nicest place she had ever lived. Miguel loved it, too, and he was proud of being able to provide such a home for his wife and the baby that was soon to come.

Miguel wanted a child even more than Maria. Aside from Maria and Raul, he didn't have much family, at least not nearby. Most of Miguel's family lived in the San Joaquin Valley farther north, near Modesto. Maria's mother had died when she was fourteen, and she had never known her father. Her mother once told her he had left when Raul was born and no one had seen him since.

With her parents gone and no one to care for them, Maria and Raul had moved in with a couple named Hernandez, migratory workers who traveled the agricultural circuit. One of the jobs they had worked had been in the orchards, harvesting almonds for Harcourt Farms, and that was where Maria had met Miguel. She had been not quite fifteen, her brother only thirteen, and Miguel Santiago had been their salvation.

They had married the day of her fifteenth birthday and when the workers left for their next job, both she and Raul had stayed with Miguel on the farm. Though he earned barely enough to get by, there was plenty to eat, and Raul could go to school. He had attended faithfully for the entire first year, but being so far behind the other kids, in a short time he had rebelled and refused to go.

He had begun to stay out late, to hang around with a bad element. Eventually, he had gotten into trouble and been sent to a foster home. Finally, he'd wound up in juvenile hall. Recently, he had been released into a halfway house and soon would be living at Teen Vision.

It seemed a miracle had occurred.

Another had happened two months ago, when her husband had received a promotion to overseer—one of four on the farm. He had been given a raise and a house to live in as part of his higher salary.

It was a very nice house, Maria thought again as she untied the sash on her bathrobe and tossed it over a chair. Dressed in a short white nylon nightgown that fanned out over her growing belly, she walked toward the bed, wishing Miguel would get home. But he often worked late in the fields and she had mostly gotten used to it.

Except that lately, when he didn't get home and the hour grew late, Maria was afraid.

She flicked a glance at the bed, her gaze lighting on the comfortable queen-size mattress, bigger than any she had ever slept in before.

She ached to slide beneath the covers, to rest her head on one of the pillows and drift off to sleep. She was so very tired. Her back ached and her feet hurt. Surely tonight she would sleep and not wake up until Miguel came home. Surely, what had happened to her last week and the week before would not happen again tonight.

It was after midnight, the house completely quiet as she pulled back the pretty yellow quilt on top of the bed and lay down on the mattress, pulling the sheet up beneath her chin.

She could hear the crickets in the field and the gentle, rhythmic sound gave her comfort. The pillow felt soft beneath her head. Her long black hair, left unbound the way Miguel liked it, teased her cheek as she shifted on the mattress, and her eyes drifted closed.

For a while, she dozed peacefully, unaware of the eerie creaks and moans, of the subtle shift in the atmosphere. Then the air grew thicker, denser, and the soothing chirp of the crickets abruptly halted.

Maria's eyes snapped open. She was staring up at the ceiling and a heavy weight seemed to be pressing down on her chest. She could hear the eerie moaning, the creaking that wasn't the wind. In the darkness of the bedroom, the sickening, suffocating smell of roses drifted into her nostrils and the bile rose in her throat.

The putrid smell enveloped her, seemed to force her down in the mattress, to suck the air from her lungs. She tried to sit up, but she couldn't move. She tried to cry out, but no sound came from her throat.

Oh, Madre de Dios!
Mother of God, protect me!

Silently she began to pray, to beg the Virgin Mary to save her, to send the evil away.

She was so frightened! She didn't understand what was happening. She didn't know if what she felt was real or if she was losing her mind. Her mother had suffered a tumor that eventually killed her. Toward the end, she had raved and ranted and imagined things.

Was that what was happening to her?

She twisted on the bed and tried to sit up, but her body remained completely frozen, rigid on the sheet. Something shifted, seemed to invade her mind, to fill her thoughts until she could think of nothing but the words spinning round in her head.

They want your baby,
a small voice whispered through her terror-filled brain.
They'll take your baby if you don't leave.

Maria choked on a sob. Fresh horror filled her. She wanted Miguel, prayed he would come home and save her. Silently, she cried out for God to bring him home to her before it was too late.

But Miguel did not come.

Instead, the small voice began to fade into the silence as if it were never there and the heavy smell of roses drifted away in the darkness. For long moments, she lay there, afraid to move, afraid of what would happen if she did.

Maria swallowed, managed to drag in a shaky breath of air. She tried to lift her arms and found that her limbs responded, allowing her to shift on the bed. She lay there staring at the ceiling, inhaling sharp, deep breaths, her hands trembling. She was shaking all over, she realized, her heart pounding as if she had run a thousand miles.

Tentatively, she extended her legs. She moved her arms, crossed them over her chest to control the trembling, then shakily pushed herself upright in the bed. Long black hair fell over her shoulder, reaching nearly to her waist. She drew her legs up beneath her chin, pulled the nightgown down to cover them, and rested her chin on her knees.

It was a nightmare,
she told herself.
The same dream you had before.

Maria's eyes welled with tears. She pressed a hand against her mouth to muffle a sob and tried to convince herself it was true.

 

Zachary Harcourt opened the front door of the house that was once his home at Harcourt Farms. It was a big, white, two-story wood-framed house with porches both front and rear, an impressive house that had been built in the forties and remodeled and improved over the years.

The molded ceilings were high, to help with the heat, and expensive damask draperies hung at the windows. The floors were oak and always polished to a glossy sheen. Zach ignored the sharp ring of his work boots as he walked down the hall into the room that had been his father's study, a man's room, paneled in dark wood, with shelves lining the walls filled with gold-edged leather-bound books.

The big oak, rolltop desk where his father used to sit still dominated the study, but now his older brother, Carson, sat in an expensive leather chair.

“I see you still don't believe in knocking.” Carson turned toward him, one hand still resting on the paperwork on his desk. The enmity on his face was unmistakable. The same dislike was reflected in Zach's eyes as well.

The men were about the same height, almost six foot two, though Carson, two years older, was heavier through the chest and shoulders, built more like their father. He was blond and blue-eyed like his mother, while Zach, a half brother born on the wrong side of the blanket, was more leanly built, with the nearly black, slightly wavy hair that had belonged to Teresa Burgess, his father's long-time mistress.

It was said that Teresa carried a trace of Hispanic blood from a distant grandmother, but she had always denied it, and though Zach's skin was darker than Carson's, his cheekbones high and more sharply defined, he had no idea whether or not it was true.

One thing was certain. Zach had the same distinct gold-flecked brown eyes that stared back at him when he looked at his father, marking him clearly as Fletcher Harcourt's son and Carson's brother—much to Carson's chagrin.

“I don't need to knock,” Zach said. “In case you've forgotten, which you usually do, this house still belongs to our father, which means it is mine as much as it is yours.”

Carson made no reply. After the fall that had left Fletcher Harcourt's motor functions impaired and his memory distorted, Carson, the eldest son, had been made conservator of the farm and all of their father's affairs, including his health care. It had been an easy decision for the judge, since Zach was younger and had a prison record.

At twenty-one, Zach had spent two years in the California State Penitentiary at Avenal for manslaughter, convicted of a drunk-driving offense that had resulted in a man's death.

“What is it you want?” Carson asked.

“I want to know what's happening with the benefit. Knowing your penchant for getting things done, I assume everything is in order.”

“Everything's under control, just like I said it would be. I told you I'd help raise money for this little project of yours and that's what I'm doing.”

Two years ago, Zach had set aside his pride and come to Carson with the idea of establishing a boy's camp for teens with drug and alcohol problems. As a youth, he'd been one of those kids, always in trouble, always butting heads with his family and the law.

But the two years he'd spent in prison had changed his life and he wanted that to happen for other boys who weren't as lucky as he had been.

Not that he'd thought himself lucky at the time.

Back then, he'd been sullen and resentful, blaming everyone but himself for what had happened to him and what his life had become. Out of boredom and hoping to find a way of shortening his sentence, he had started to study law and discovered he seemed to have a knack for it. He had gotten his GED, taken the SAT's and passed with extremely high marks, then gone to Berkley and enrolled in Hastings Law School.

Impressed by the changes he was trying to make in his life, his father had helped him with the tuition, and combined with the money from his part-time job, Zach had managed to get through school, graduating in the top percentiles of his class. He had passed the bar exam with flying colors and Fletcher Harcourt had used his influence to get Zach's felony record expunged so that he could practice law.

Zach was now a successful lawyer with an office in Westwood, an apartment overlooking the ocean in Pacific Palisades, a slick new 645 Ci BMW convertible and the Jeep he drove whenever he came up to the valley.

He was living the good life and he wanted to give something back for the success he had found. Until that day two years ago, he had never asked his brother for anything—had sworn he never would. Carson and his mother had made Zach's life miserable from the day his father had brought him home and announced plans to adopt him.

There was bad blood between them that would never go away, but Harcourt Farms belonged to Zach as much as Carson and though his brother had complete control, there was plenty of available land, and the location he had chosen for the site was exactly the perfect spot.

Zach remembered the day he had approached his brother, the amazement he had felt when Carson had so readily agreed to his proposal.

“Well, for once you've actually come up with a good idea,” Carson had said from his chair at the rolltop desk.

“Then you're saying Harcourt Farms will donate the land?”

“That's right. I'll even help you raise the money to get the project off the ground.”

It had taken Zack several months before he realized his brother had once again neatly turned the tables. The project became Carson's—though it was mostly Zach's money that provided the funding—and the entire town was now in Carson's debt.

Zach no longer cared. With Carson as spokesman, the money continued pouring in, enough to keep the farm running and even enough to expand. The more boys who could be helped, the better, as far as Zach was concerned. Zach would gladly stay out of the picture if it meant helping those kids, and with Carson's name attached instead of his own, the upcoming benefit on Saturday night would likely be another success.

“I just wanted to check,” Zach said, thinking of the black tie affair he wouldn't be attending. “Let me know if there's anything you need me to do.” Instead, he would spend the weekend building the barn, working with the Teen Vision boys, something he had discovered he loved to do.

“You sure you don't want to come?” Carson asked, though Zach figured having the black sheep of the family in attendance was the last thing Carson wanted.