Really Something (14 page)

Allie laughed. “So you do have a funny bone.”

“I used to.” Katie sighed. “I used to have a lot of things.”

Allie's hand covered Katie's. “And you can again. You have a lot of gifts, Katie Henry, but they're going to waste in this room.” Allie swiped at her eyes and saw Katie do the same, then the two of them shared a laugh that erased the emotional moment. “Come on, let's brush your hair. Put on some lip gloss.”

“That's not much of a beauty day,” Katie said, brightening finally, a smile curving across her lips, her eyes glistening as they met Allie's, the sadness giving way to a tiny sparkle of hope. “A true beauty day is when you paint your nails some ungodly bright color and pluck your eyebrows and try on really bad eye shadow.”

“Then that's what we'll do.” Allie retrieved her purse from downstairs, then dumped the contents onto Katie's bed. Three bottles of nail polish tumbled onto the comforter. “Pick a color.”

A grin curved over Katie's face. “Red, of course. Because I'm a bad girl.”

Allie laughed. “Red it is.” She slid down to the end of the bed and moved the blanket aside. “Okay. Toes first.”

Katie shook her head so hard, her hair whipped across her cheeks. “No.”

“I can't do your hands first,” Allie explained. “You won't be able to brush your hair or do your makeup.”

“Don't waste your time on those,” Katie said, indicating her feet with an angry flick of her wrist. “They're useless and ugly.”

Allie put a hand on Katie's bare, pale foot, not because she thought the girl might feel the touch, but to show her that her paralysis didn't disgust or repel her. “You're still a girl, Katie, regardless of what happened to you. And a girl paints her toenails.” Before Katie could protest, Allie had twisted the top off the bottle of OPI and began applying the vibrant cranberry color.

Katie got busy brushing her hair, at first with quick, angry strokes, then with shorter, slower ones, her face turned away as though she didn't care what color her toes were.

But out of the corner of her eye, Allie saw a tear slip down Katie's cheek, puddling in the dimple of her smile.

 

Duncan stood outside his house, battling a lump in his throat. Shock rooted him to the spot as surely as the hundred-year-old elm beside him. “Katie?”

His sister turned in her wheelchair and flashed a smile at him. “I'm not a painting, Duncan, so stop staring at me.”

But he couldn't help himself. His little sister looked radiant, with the kiss of sun on her face, the muted floral fabric of her dress. An afghan was draped over her lap, keeping her legs warm and hidden, but the rest of her was out in the sun, pushing her chair along the garden path as adeptly as Jimmie Johnson.

Allie came striding up and slipped her hand into his. “She was being a brat so I made her go outside and play.”

“I heard that,” Katie said, laughter in her voice. “And I am
not
a brat.”

Allie arched a brow. “That's right, you've been an angel all day. I must have you confused with your brother.”

Katie threw back her head and laughed, the same teasing light in her eyes Duncan remembered from years ago, and had thought was gone forever. He had to remember to take a breath.

“He
is
a brat,” Katie said. “Ask him about what he did to my Barbies. Forced them all into the army. For your information, Duncan, Barbie does
not
look good in camouflage.”

Duncan chuckled. He remembered when he'd done that, back when he was eight, maybe nine. “Hey, I didn't have enough GI Joes for my war.”

Katie laughed again, then shook her head at him. She pushed off with her hands, sending the chair sailing down the brick path. On the opposite side, Duncan glimpsed a large, golden ball of fur trotting alongside her. “What the hell is that?”

“Incentive,” Allie said. “His name is Ranger. He's a Helping Hands dog.”

Duncan turned toward Allie. “How did you do that?” A year ago, he'd put in an application for a dog to help his sister, a canine assistant to get the phone, open doors, keep her company. And been put on a waiting list.

“Katie told me you'd applied for a dog and had been waiting for a long time. I happened to have a connection,” Allie said. “Someone owed me a favor.”

“That's a pretty big favor.”

“It was a pretty big debt.” Allie's face squinted up and she turned away. “My ex.”

“Ex-boyfriend or husband?”

“Husband. Divorce was final this week.”

“Sorry to hear that.” But he wasn't sorry at all. It meant Allie was a hundred percent available. Already, his interest had gone from merely piqued to completely intrigued. This woman had done more than open a window—

She'd blown open every door and window that he'd thought he'd sealed shut.

Duncan and Allie began walking the perimeter of the yard, a space that had once been tended by a full-time landscaper. Now the plants were overgrown, the weeds creeping in amongst the stone steps. “Were you married long?”

“Almost two years. But Geoff was gone long before that.”

“Gone?”

“Emotionally, physically, take your pick.” Allie toed at a dandelion, then smushed the yellow head into the ground. “I wasn't what he wanted.”

She didn't elaborate. What kind of man would divorce Allie Dean? She was smart, witty, sexy as hell, and one of those honest, forthright people who didn't take anything from anyone.

He wanted to ask Allie what she'd meant, but his priority right now was rolling across the wide brick patio, the dog's leash dangling from her thin, pale wrist. When he knew Katie was okay, and well on the path to sobriety and recovery,
then
could he think about his own life.

For now, he had Allie, the gardens, and the waning sunlight.

“Anyway,” Allie said, clearly done with the subject of her divorce, “my ex, once a Hollywood lawyer, owns a company that trains animals for a living. They do both the Hollywood kind and he has a partner who runs a division training Helping Hands dogs. When I called him about Katie, he had a dog sent out here from his partner's place.”

“Thank you,” Duncan said, watching his sister's face light up with delight as she took a stick and threw it across the yard, laughing as the dog snagged it, jogged it back, and waited while she did it again. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing.” She waved off the idea of money. “It's a gift. For Katie.”

“And a hell of a lot better one than the jam the ladies from the Presbyterian church keep sending to the house.”

She laughed. “They've got good intentions but terrible cooking skills.”

“You're personally acquainted with the baked goods of the ladies of the Presbyterian church?”

Allie paled, then let out a little laugh. Duncan's radar picked up on the nervous gestures. Once again, the feeling that Allie wasn't who she seemed nagged at him. He glanced at her face, and something within him said he knew her.

Crazy thought. But yet…

She seemed familiar somehow. How could that be?

“I tried the cookies at the dance,” she said with a grimace. “The Ten Commandments ones were the worst.”

“I think that's their eleventh commandment: Thou shalt not want sugar,” Duncan said, brushing off his doubts. A couple bites of those cookies would warn anyone off the church ladies' recipes.

Duncan looked over at the dog and then at his sister. She'd stopped her wheelchair beside the fountain. Long ago, the stone decoration had gone silent, moss now covering the urn in the concrete girl's hand. Ranger sat three feet away from Katie, as still as the statue, watching and waiting for his name to be called.

Of all things. A dog.

When he and Katie had been little, how many times had they begged their father for a pet? A dog, a cat, hell, a lizard or a fish? And always, the answer had been no.

Too much mess. Too much work. Too much distraction. From their grades. Their chores. But most of all, from their perfect house, their perfect clothes, their perfect image.

The decades-old rage boiled again inside of Duncan's chest but he pushed it down, quieting that beast. His father was dead and his sister had already paid the price for that too-tight leash.

“Look at this dog, Duncan. He totally loves me.” Katie now had Ranger half on her lap and had buried her face in his neck, laughing and petting him.

Clearly, Katie was going to spoil that dog rotten and make him no good for helping at anything. But he was already helping her be happy. For Duncan, that was miracle enough.

Duncan gestured toward the stone bench that fronted the lilacs. They took a seat, Allie turning her face up to greet the sun, a contented smile on her face.

He hated to interrupt the moment, but he'd put off asking her long enough. “I wanted to ask you something. A favor of sorts.”

“Sure.”

“I want to do a piece for WTMT-TV about the movie. And I'd like to interview you.”

“Interview?” The contented smile disappeared, replaced by something closer to panic. “On television?”

“Sure. I thought all Hollywood-types loved free PR.”

“We do. Just, ah, closer to shooting and the ad that's going to run tomorrow in the
Tempest Weekly
. That way, I can time it with the search for extras.” Her face quirked up into something approaching a smile again. “Wouldn't want a bunch of wannabe Johnny Depps flooding me with resumes.”

“Yeah.” That nagging feeling of familiarity returned, edged around her smile. Duncan brushed it off. He'd spent too much time dwelling on his own problems, rather than having a life.

Still…

She reminded him of someone, that was all. Someone he'd known in high school. The easy way she had with Katie, with him, putting them at ease.

Once again, Duncan shook off the feeling.

For a moment, the two of them watched Katie, circling the yard, Ranger at her side, the girl and her dog falling into an easy pattern already. Beside him, Duncan could sense a question on Allie's lips, in the tension around her mouth, the reservation in her manner, holding back just as Katie restrained the dog with the leash. “Go ahead, ask.”

“Ask what?”

“You're curious about something, so ask the question. Ask me, ask Katie. We have nothing to hide.” His gaze swept over the gardens, the dying plants that had once been tended so meticulously by a payrolled staff. Landscapers paid to keep the roses, the trees, and most of all, keep their silence. “Not anymore.”

She glanced at him sharply, then returned her attention to the ground at her feet. “Okay. Where is everything?”

“In the house you mean. The furniture? The dishes?”

She nodded.

“I sold it all. To pay for Katie, for the hospital bills, the follow-up care.”

“But I thought—” She caught her words, redoubled on the sentence. “I heard around town…”

“That the Henrys were wealthy. The Rockefellers of Indiana. Well, what you see isn't always what you get. In an old house, the wallpaper covers a lot of sins. And in this house, everything was a cover.”

“For what?” she asked, her voice soft, not just curious, but caring.

“My father was…” He paused, searching for the right word. “An illusionist.”

Katie had made it to the far side of the yard and was now bent over in her chair to pick a few daisies that managed to make their way through the weeds and built-up detritus from past seasons. Stubborn, hopeful plants returning to poke up their yellow heads and wave hello.

“And you and Katie were part of the magic show,” Allie said, her voice so full of understanding, Duncan swiveled his head toward hers, sure then that he
did
know her. The words struck a chord of memory and this time, he heard it, caught it before it slipped away.

“Grace,” he said, and smiled at the memory, a quiet moment shared before school, after a particularly awful morning with his father, one of the worst fights. But every day, he had a thirty-minute oasis, ostensibly to study his math.

“
What?
” Allie asked.

“There was this girl in my high school. I called her Grace, nicknamed her really. She was the only one I could talk to.” He chuckled. “Supposedly, I was there to learn Trig, but Grace was more listening ear than tutor.”

Beside him, Allie had gone still, her arms around herself, as if she'd caught a sudden chill. “But weren't you Mr. Popular? I mean, that's what I heard.”

He let out a gust. “All part of the magic show. I was the football team captain. But I hated it. Hated football, hated sports, in fact. I did it because that's what a Henry does.” He did a rah-rah fist, imitating his father. “A Henry doesn't just make the team, a Henry becomes captain, scores the winning touchdown, makes the town shine, by God. And because if I didn't, my father made my life a living hell.”