The House on Sugar Plum Lane Page 5

  Footsteps crunched on the dried leaves and twigs that littered the side of the house, and they all turned to the sound and watched the landscaper approach.

  The dark-haired man aimed a friendly smile her way. “Have you got a minute, Amy?”

  Brandon’s stance stiffened. “Is this your friend?”

  What was he asking her? Did he think she was dating, and that she had something to hide?

  Amy crossed her arms. “No, this is…the gardener.” She felt a little guilty referring to the man by his occupation, but to be honest, he might have remembered her name, but she’d forgotten his.

  The man in question reached out to greet Brandon. “I’m Eddie Gonzales. Are you Mr. Davila?”

  “No.” Brandon paused for a moment, then gripped the man’s hand, yet his body remained tense. “Brandon Masterson.”

  Eddie turned his attention back to Amy. “Is this a bad time?”

  Apparently it was. And it seemed to be getting worse by the minute. “No, what’s up?”

  “Do you mind coming to the side of the house so I can show you something?”

  “Not at all.” She turned to her soon-to-be ex. “Excuse me for a moment, Brandon. I’ll be right back.”

  A part of her enjoyed toying with him, especially since she didn’t appreciate the surprise visit. But she wasn’t the kind to resort to games, especially in front of their child.

  She followed the gardener to the side yard, where a tree limb from the house next door hung over the wood fence. Or maybe leaned on it was more accurate.

  “This branch needs to be cut back. As you can see, it’s creating a problem. If we don’t do something about it, the fence will need to be repaired or replaced. But we can’t cut it without the neighbor’s permission. Do you know the people who live there?”

  “I just met her,” Amy said. “Her name is Maria. And I don’t think she’ll mind. Do you want me to talk to her about it?”

  “I’ll do it. We’ve got a release form I’d like for her to sign.” Eddie stepped closer to the fence and peered into Maria’s yard, checking out the tree that was causing the problem.

  Amy couldn’t imagine Maria having a problem with Eddie trimming her tree. After all, the fence was already starting to bow from the weight.

  “By the way,” Eddie added, “the sprinkling system is shot. I’m not sure if Mr. Davila will want to go to the expense of tearing it out and replacing it. If not, you’ll have to water the old-fashioned way.”

  It’s not that Amy didn’t like yard work, but she’d committed to a lot more than she’d planned already. And while she’d defend her actions to Brandon, she was getting drawn deeper and deeper into something she hadn’t thought completely through when she’d leased the house.

  “Well, I guess that’s it for now.” Eddie stepped away from the fence and turned, ready to head back to the front yard. “I don’t want to keep you from your work or your company.”

  “He’s not exactly company,” she said as they walked. “But while you’re here, can I ask you something?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Do you know anything about rosebushes?”

  “Quite a bit. Why?”

  “Like I mentioned earlier, the woman who lived here had a rose garden in back. It’s a scraggly mess now, but she clearly used to love it and care for it.”

  “I’d planned to trim and weed around it.”

  That wasn’t exactly what she meant. “I’m not sure how much work the Davilas want you to do, but I’d be happy to pay you extra to get those bushes healthy once more. It just seems that…” What? she asked herself. That she somehow owed it to Ellie Rucker to put things back to rights? “…well, let’s just say I’d like to see the roses bloom the way they should.”

  “You got it,” Eddie said as they returned to the front yard, where Brandon and Callie waited. “I’ll get some numbers to the Davilas, and we’ll take it from there.”

  Amy nodded as Eddie headed toward his pickup.

  When she returned her attention to Brandon, she said, “Why don’t I give you a call on your cell? I think it’s better if we talk privately about this.”

  “I don’t like not knowing what you’re up to,” Brandon said as he placed a hand on Callie’s shoulder.

  “I’m not ‘up to’ anything. There’s a perfectly good explanation.” Well, he might not consider it a good one. But Amy wasn’t moving to Fairbrook. And she wasn’t dating anyone.

  “Aren’t you going with us?” Callie asked.

  “Not today, honey. I’m afraid I can’t. But have fun.”

  “Should I bring her back here?” Brandon asked.

  “No.” Amy would have to figure out a Plan B, whatever that might be. “Tell me what time you’ll have her home, and I’ll be there.”

  “How about two?” he asked.

  She nodded, thinking she’d better get busy if she wanted to get any work—or any snooping—done.

  Brandon drove his black late-model Mercedes through the traffic on his way to Chuck E. Cheese’s, a place he’d only been to once and hadn’t appreciated as much as everyone else seemed to. He preferred to eat at restaurants that didn’t cater to kids.

  As he stopped at the intersection of Canyon and Main, he noticed a man in blue coveralls sweeping the sidewalk in front of a café. He didn’t give it much thought until he caught sight of the guy’s profile. From the side, he looked familiar.

  Brandon tried to check him out, but he pushed his broom around the corner, disappearing from view.

  His dad?

  No, it couldn’t be. His old man had probably drunk himself to death by now. Besides, what would he be doing in Fairbrook? He didn’t have any family or friends here.

  “Daddy?”

  Brandon glanced in the rearview mirror at Callie, who sat in her car seat in back. “Yes, honey?”

  “How come the light is green and you’re not going?”

  Oh, for Pete’s sake. Brandon glanced at the traffic light, saw that it wasn’t going to get any greener, and started across the street.

  “I can’t wait to go to Chuck E. Cheese’s,” Callie said. “It’s the funnest place in the world.”

  Ever since leaving Sugar Plum Lane, the little girl had been chattering up a storm. But it wasn’t the child he wanted to talk to right now; it was her mother, who was clearly up to something.

  The divorce had been an unexpected blow, but he’d gone along with it, thinking that a fight wasn’t in anyone’s best interest. Then Amy had insisted upon moving back to the townhome in Del Mar, which left him living alone in a sprawling four-bedroom executive house in La Jolla with a killer view, where he only returned at night to sleep.

  Of course, he’d been sleeping like crap ever since Amy and Callie moved out. What had gotten into the woman who’d once been so levelheaded and predictable? She’d morphed into a woman he no longer knew.

  “I’ll call and explain,” she’d told him.

  But when? Next week?

  He slipped on the Bluetooth, then called her cell instead. The phone rang several times before Amy finally answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Did you lose your phone? You were supposed to call me.”

  “No, I…”

  Brandon meant to be patient. He really did. But he couldn’t help pressing for an answer. “What’s going on, Amy?”

  She blew out a sigh, as though that simple explanation wasn’t so simple after all. “Remember how I told you that my mother had been searching for her biological family?”

  Vaguely, but he’d been pretty busy and hadn’t paid a lot of attention to things that hadn’t concerned him. He couldn’t admit that, though, so he said, “Yes, I remember.”

  “Well, I decided to pick up the search where she left off as a tribute to her.”

  Brandon furrowed his brow. “I still don’t get it, Amy. What are you doing? Looking for ghosts in a haunted house?”

  She laughed, the lilt of her voice more of a balm on his raw and rag
ged emotions than anything else had been since she’d moved out, which included having more than his share of stiff drinks, slamming a fist through the wall once, and burying himself in more work.

  “In a way,” she admitted, “that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

  Okay, she’d really gone off the deep end. He again glanced in the rearview mirror, making eye contact with the little girl they’d created, a beautiful child with her mommy’s blond hair and expressive blue eyes.

  A daughter that still bound them together, whether Amy liked it or not.

  So he said, “I’m still waiting for that simple explanation you promised.”

  She inhaled, then let out a slow and steady breath. “I followed the trail to a woman named Barbara Rucker, who grew up in the house where you found me today.”

  “What’d you do? Break in?”

  “No, I’m there legally.”

  That was a relief, although his wife was so honest that her mom used to say she wouldn’t take a shortcut home. But after all they’d been through the past few months? Who knew what she’d do next.

  “Who lives in the house now?” he asked.

  “Actually, the neighbors think that I do.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I leased the place,” she explained. “It’s furnished and still holds Mrs. Rucker’s personal belongings, so it gives me an opportunity to…look around.”

  What happened to the sensible woman he’d married, the loving mother who was a gourmet cook and had an eye for décor?

  Brandon slowly shook his head. His wife—no way was he ready to throw in the towel and refer to her as his ex yet—had surely flipped. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “You signed a lease?” he asked. Of course she had; she’d just told him that. But for some reason, he’d thought he’d missed something. “For how long?”

  “Six months. It’s the least amount of time they’d agree to.”

  It wasn’t about the money, but it still seemed like a big waste to him. “How much did that cost?”

  “I can afford it.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

  Quite frankly, once upon a time, right after a fairy-tale courtship and wedding, he’d thought Amy had been the easiest woman in the world to understand, to love and trust, to come home to. But she’d thrown him for a loop about six months ago, right about the time her mother passed away.

  He’d told himself it was grief messing with her mind. But now? He didn’t know what to think.

  “Are you planning to move again?” he asked.

  “No. I wouldn’t do that to Callie.”

  He was glad to hear that. She’d done enough to the poor kid already—moved out of the only home she’d ever known, filed for divorce from her father. A man who’d do anything to provide for his family, by the way, but she’d thrown it all in his face.

  He again glanced in the mirror, saw his daughter smiling at him, oblivious to the grown-up problems around her. “I realize you miss your mom, Amy. But to take on a search like that—”

  “I didn’t expect you to understand. You hardly even knew my mother. In fact, I think you were still calling her Mrs. Barnes when she died.”

  He wasn’t sure what she meant by that, so he spoke up in his own defense. “I used to call her Susan.”

  For some reason, he could imagine Amy rolling her eyes about now. She’d been doing that a lot in the past few months.

  Where had they gone wrong? When had they gotten off track?

  “For Pete’s sake, Brandon. You even arrived late to the funeral.”

  He’d had to work that morning, and an important call had come in. He hadn’t meant to be late. And then he’d run into traffic on Interstate 5—a fatal accident that had blocked all four lanes.

  “I can’t explain why this matters,” Amy said. “Not so you would understand. But I have to do it. I’ve got this big, huge hole in my heart now that my mom’s gone.”

  Brandon understood about holes in one’s heart, gaps in one’s life. He’d been dealing with that ever since Amy had dropped the bomb on him and moved out.

  “What about me?” he asked. “What about us?”

  “I’m sorry that our marriage wasn’t strong enough, that we don’t love each other like we once did. If it had been, if we did, we might have made it through anything.”

  She was probably right, but the trouble was, Brandon still loved Amy. And he feared he always would.

  “What’s done is done,” she said.

  Was it?

  “Besides, I’ve always been in this alone.”

  Not by his choice, he wanted to say. But he kept his mouth shut. Things had changed; Amy had changed.

  And even though he’d give anything to go back to the way things once were, she’d made it clear that she wasn’t up for the trek.

  Chapter 4

  Barbara Davila walked along the tree-shaded sidewalk to Pacifica General Hospital with slow, deliberate steps. She’d hoped that the trips to visit her son would get easier, but they hadn’t. Each day was still a struggle, and she suspected they would be until his discharge.

  For almost two weeks now, Joey had been in the cardiac unit, and each time she pushed through the revolving doors into the lobby, she was swept back to a time in her life she’d tried to forget.

  But maybe today would be different. There was talk of a heart bypass once his blood sugar level was acceptable, and she hoped that one day soon they’d announce he’d been stabilized, surgery had been scheduled, and he was finally on the road to recovery.

  She was eager to get him home, where she could oversee his care and help him get back on his feet again.

  She hadn’t told him or his wife yet, although she was sure they’d be delighted, but she’d decided it would be best if he recovered at her house in Rancho Santa Fe. It was so much more spacious and comfortable than the small condo in Fairbrook where he and his wife lived. Barbara could also afford round-the-clock help and would spare no expense at making him comfortable. She just needed to get him home.

  Who would have believed that something like this could have happened?

  At forty-eight, Joseph Davila Jr. had appeared to be the picture of health, with a ready smile, a booming laugh, and a robust complexion. He ran every day—and worked out, too—but on the inside, where no one could see, he was a mess. And to make matters worse, his pancreas had been acting up and his heart had been a ticking bomb.

  She entered the lobby, walked past the pink-frocked volunteers, made her way to the elevator, and rode it up to the third floor. While awaiting the doors to open, she wondered if she should have chosen to use the stairway for the exercise. After all, she had no idea what shape her own heart was in. But she’d worry about that later. She’d never liked hospitals and had managed to avoid them ever since her husband’s recuperation at the military hospital in Honolulu, so she was in a hurry to get in and out.

  Had it been anyone else, she’d have sent an expensive floral arrangement and come up with some plausible reason why she couldn’t stop by for a visit. But this was Joseph Jr., her only son.

  Her only child. She wouldn’t—she couldn’t—be anywhere other than here. So she pressed on and continued the forward momentum.

  Whenever she found herself stressed, she’d learned to inhale deeply and blow it out, but she couldn’t do that here. The medicinal smell was enough to send her running and gagging.

  Besides the odor, everything about the hospital—the irritating squeak of rubber-soled shoes upon the polished linoleum, the hollow clunk of a plastic lunch tray on a cart, the blips and beeps of the machines keeping people alive—seemed to send her back in time to the mid-sixties. But she’d fought the mental spiral by forcing her thoughts on the present.

  When she reached the nurses’ desk, she waited for the woman on duty to glance up. When she did, Barbara said, “Good morning, Simone. How’s Joey doing today?”

 
; The dark-haired Florence Nightingale managed a smile. “About the same. His minister is with him now.”

  Barbara nodded, then proceeded to her son’s private room. She’d never understood how Joey had come to be so religious, since he hadn’t been raised in the church. Her mother had carted her off to Sunday school for as long as she could remember, and she’d refused to do that to her son.

  So needless to say, Joey’s faith had surprised her.

  She could understand why it would flare up now, when his health and recovery were questionable, when he was facing his own mortality. But he’d held those same beliefs for years.

  It probably had something to do with his grandmother’s influence, which was one reason Barbara hadn’t encouraged much of a relationship between her mother and her son while he was growing up. But once Joey had gotten a driver’s license, there’d been no stopping him. He’d visited his grandma regularly, a practice that had continued even after he married.

  In fact, as her mother slipped deeper into a fog of dementia, Joey had volunteered to take her in and let her live with him and his wife, rather than place her in a home.

  Barbara had tried to talk him out of it, insisting that there were plenty of quality convalescent hospitals that were better equipped, better trained to handle Alzheimer’s patients.

  “If we put her there,” Joey had said, “you’d never visit her.”

  Barbara hadn’t argued that point. Everyone knew she hated medical facilities, even if they didn’t have any idea why. But her mother didn’t even recognize her these days anyway, so what would it hurt?

  As Barbara entered Joey’s private room, she spotted Craig Houston, the associate pastor of Joey’s church, seated in the blue vinyl chair next to the hospital bed. When the fair-haired young man in his mid-twenties looked her way, she returned his smile.

  There wasn’t even the slightest resemblance between the men, since Joey had inherited his brown hair—now silver-laced at the temples—and olive complexion from his father’s side of the family. Yet for a moment, seeing the two together, Barbara couldn’t help wondering what her son’s children might have grown up to look like had Cynthia, Joey’s wife, been able to carry a pregnancy to term.