Her Sister's Keeper. Julia Penney

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СКАЧАТЬ clients who were victims of Hollywood; it was a shallow world by most counts, juicy by others, yet immensely profitable to those in a position to help them. Without that extra income he’d have lost Chimeya long ago.

      Too, he derived an ironic satisfaction from an increasingly healthy bank account bolstered by these movie industry casualties. It was these very same stars and starlets moving into the valley who had sent property taxes soaring and jeopardized the long-term survival of the historic ranch that had been in his family for three generations.

      He glanced down at the latest file his receptionist had placed on his desk. Melanie Harris. The name was vaguely familiar, though he couldn’t place it. He scanned through the file but his mind kept returning to the morning’s murder.

      A soft rustle of movement interrupted his thoughts and he glanced up to see a woman standing in the doorway. She seemed uneasy, which wasn’t unusual for a client’s first visit. He rose to greet her.

      “Ms. Harris. Please, come in. I’m Kent Mattson,” he said, crossing the room.

      Melanie Harris was a tall, attractive young woman in her late twenties or early thirties. Her clothing was predictably fashionable, her hair a deep, lustrous shade of mahogany and swept back. She wore no makeup, which was highly unusual in this part of town, but the best makeup artist couldn’t have hidden the dark smudges beneath those tragic green eyes, nor mask the fact that she was at least ten pounds underweight.

      Kent gestured to the chair across from his desk. “I was just reviewing your file,” he said, waiting for her to sit, but she remained standing just inside the door. “I see you were referred by your regular physician, Patricia Phillips. Won’t you have a seat?”

      She hesitated, and he sensed that she was very near to bolting. Her eyes held his for a moment, like a startled doe caught in the headlights of a car, and he was struck by her expression. He turned away and moved toward the side table, and poured himself a cup of coffee. “I have several bad habits,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “One of which is drinking too much coffee. Could I fix you a cup, or would you prefer tea? I have black, green or herbal.” He noted that some of the initial anxiety had left her eyes, but the wariness remained, and he doubted very much that the sadness would ever leave.

      “I’m fine, thank you,” she said in a quiet voice.

      Good. At least she could talk. Be a tough job for him if she couldn’t. He carried his mug to the window and stared out at a skyline smudged with brown haze. “I see from your file that Dr. Phillips was concerned about your weight loss and chronic insomnia.” He took a sip of coffee, wondering why her physician hadn’t just prescribed Prozac or Valium. The movie industry was hooked on those pills. Still no response from Ms. Harris, who remained standing just inside the door, poised to flee. “So,” he said, turning to face her, “we know why Dr. Phillips thinks you should be here. I guess what I need to know is why you think you should be here.”

      He felt another jolt as his eyes locked with hers. If she wasn’t a big-name movie star yet, she would be. Those eyes alone would guarantee that, even if she couldn’t act worth a damn.

      “I’m here because I’ve been told I need your help,” she replied.

      He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. “That’s something you’re not going to get from me until you’re ready for it. When you’re here because you want to be here, you’ll be ready. Until then, you’re just wasting your time and mine.”

      Her face betrayed no emotion whatsoever, but he noticed a quick flash of pain in her eyes. “In that case, Dr. Mattson, I’ll be going,” she said, and turned toward the door.

      Kent might have let her walk out except for that flicker of anguish. She was in trouble, real or imagined, and needed help. That was, after all, why he was there, despite his current preoccupation, which he did his best to shake off. “Once you start running from your past, Ms. Harris, it becomes very hard to stop,” he said. “How much longer do you want to live like this?”

      His words made her pause, her hand closed around the doorknob. He saw the determined set of her shoulders as she stood motionless, and then she leaned forward until her forehead touched the door, her body rigid. After several long moments she straightened, turned and looked at him.

      “I’m tired of running.”

      “Good,” Kent said, relieved that he hadn’t driven her away. “You’ve just taken the first step. If you choose to stay, we can begin.”

      FOR MELANIE, remaining in Dr. Mattson’s office meant returning to a place in time that she never wanted to revisit again, yet she knew instinctively that to silence the demons, she had to confront them. She also realized that alone, she was incapable of fighting that battle. As much as she wanted to walk out, she knew it would be a mistake. For six months she’d suffered.

      Ever since her wedding day.

      She remembered every detail as if it were yesterday. The original DiSanto gown, a slim, strapless shiver of satin and pearls. Stephanie helping her with the tiny buttons up the back. The sweet-spicy scent of the old-fashioned pink roses that made up her bridal bouquet. The deep, rhythmic rumble of the Pacific Ocean and the golden afternoon sunshine spilling through the tall Palladian windows while Ariel wove pearls into her hair….

      It was perfect, until the tap came on the door and Janet, the wedding director, peered into the room. “It’s almost time. Two minutes until they start the wedding march. Victor’s waiting to walk you to the rose arbor. You look just beautiful, Melanie.”

      Would she ever forget that moment? Stephanie had finished fastening the last button and had gone to gather up the bridesmaids, leaving her alone with Ariel, who had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the endless preparations. Ariel, her hands full of pearl hairpins, her face as pale as Melanie’s gown, her fingers trembling so badly that Melanie, noticing all of this for the first time, reached her own hand to close on her sister’s.

      “Ari, for heaven’s sake, what is it? What’s wrong?”

      Ariel pulled away from her, shaking her head, denying that anything was amiss, but something very definitely was. Melanie rose to her feet, concerned. “Are you ill? Please, Ari, tell me. What is it?”

      Her sister’s blue eyes had filled with tears. “It’s nothing,” she said with such dramatic pathos that Melanie knew her sister thought her world was coming to an end.

      “Ari, this isn’t the time for theatrics.” Melanie put her hands on her sister’s shoulders. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

      The tears spilled over. “Oh, Mel, I’m pregnant,” Ariel blurted out around a choked sob. “I wasn’t going to tell you. I didn’t want to tell you!”

      This was hardly the moment for Ariel to be breaking this news. In five minutes Melanie was supposed to be walking down the petal-strewn path to her wedding ceremony.

      “I’m happy for you, Ari,” Melanie managed, hugging her sister. “Now stop crying. This isn’t the end of the world. You’re not the first unmarried woman on the planet to get pregnant.” Ariel began to weep in earnest and Melanie’s patience grew thin. The minutes were ticking down, and Mitch was waiting. “Ari, who’s the father? Does he know about this?”

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