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Shocked, I backpedaled until I hit the counter, frightened. I didn't know what to do. My mother stood with her arms wrapped around herself and her head down, sobbing, and I was afraid to touch her.
Takata never looked at me. Jaw clenched and eyes bright with unshed tears, he crossed the room and, without hesitation, wrapped his long, wiry arms around her.
"Go away," she sobbed, but he had pi
"Shhhh," he crooned as my mother melted in his embrace, putting her head to his chest and sobbing. "It's okay, Allie. It's going to be okay. Robbie and Rachel belong to Monty. They aren't mine. He's their dad, not me. It's going to be fine."
I stared at his height, measuring it against my own, seeing my tangled curls in his dreadlocks, seeing my lean strength in his limbs. My gaze dropped to his feet in a pair of flip-flops—my feet on someone else's body.
Leaning against the counter, I put a hand to my stomach. I was going to be sick.
"I want you to go," my mom cried, more softly now, and Takata rocked her where they stood.
"You're fine," he soothed, his arms around her but his eyes on me. "It's all going to pass over and nothing will change. Nothing's going to change."
"But he's dead," she wailed. "How could he be here when he was dead?"
Takata's eyes met mine, and I mouthed, "Al." Stark fear melted his expression to one of horror, his attention going to the amulet on the table and then to me. I felt a surge of bitterness. He knew all about me. I knew nothing of him. Son of a bitch.
"Did he touch you?" Takata said, pushing her from him enough so he could see her face. "Alice, did he touch you!"
His voice was high and frightened, and my mom shook her head, looking where their bodies met. "No," she said, her tone flat. "It wasn't him, and I played along with it until I could get him in a circle. But we talked…all night. I had to keep him here so he couldn't hurt Rachel. He wants to use her like a blow-up doll and then give her to someone to pay off a debt."
Oh, this is just what I need.
Tears streaked her face, and Takata pulled her to him again. He loved her. I could see it in his long, expressive face, laced between the heartache. "It's late," he said, his voice starting to crack. "Let me get you to your bed."
"Rachel…," she said, trying to pull from him.
"The sun is up," he said, keeping her from seeing me in the corner. "She's fine. She's probably asleep. You should get some winks, too."
"I don't want to go to bed," she said petulantly, sounding nothing like my mom. "You have to leave. Monty will be home soon, and it hurts him when you come over. He won't admit it, but it does. Robbie is too old for you to see him anymore. He's going to remember you."
"Alice," he whispered, his eyes closed. "Monty is dead. Robbie is in Portland."
"I know." It was a faint, resigned whisper, and I felt ill.
"Come on," he coaxed. "Let me get you in bed. Do it for me. I'll sing you to sleep."
She protested, and he swung her up and into his arms as easily as if she were one of his bass guitars. My mom let her head fall against him, and he turned to me, still plastered into the corner. "Please don't leave," he said softly, then turned and carried her out.
My heart pounded as I stood where I was and listened to their progress through the house, my mom's soft inquiries and his rumbling responses. It grew quiet, and when I heard him singing softly, I staggered to the table, reaching blindly. Numb, I sank into the chair my mother had been sitting in, my head dropping into my hand as my elbow found the table.
I felt sick.
Twenty-three
The acidic scent of tomato soup was comforting, helping to mask the fading smell of hot metal and burnt amber. My stomach rumbled, and I thought it pathetic that I could be hungry when I was so strung out. Course, I hadn't eaten anything last night other than a handful of tiny wieners on sticks and six little squares of cream-topped pumpkin cheesecake.
The soft sound of a wooden spoon thumping the top of a saucepan brought my gaze up from the faded linoleum table, and I watched Takata awkwardly pour the steaming soup into a pair of thin-walled white bowls. He looked fu
My face twisted, and I forced the bitter emotion away. I was sure he had an explanation. The only reason I was sitting here was because I wanted to hear it. That, and because the I.S. was probably looking for Trent's car. And I was exhausted. And he was making food.
Takata's expression was weary as he set a bowl of soup before me, then slid a plate with two pieces of toast beside it. He looked at the amulet I wore to warn me about surprise demon attacks. I thought he was going to say something, but he didn't. Angry, I took a napkin from the holder on the table. "You know how I like my soup," I said. "With toast." My chin quivered. "You come over here a lot?"
He turned from the stove with his own bowl. "Once a year, maybe. More than that, and she starts leaning on the past too much. She likes to talk about you. She's very proud."
I watched him set his bowl down across from me and sink into the chair, shifting to find a comfortable position on the thin padding. I spared a thought that I could probably chart his visits by his tour dates and her doctor visits.
"Sorry," he said, hesitantly taking a napkin for himself. "I know this isn't much of a di
Ignoring the toast, I tried the soup, and my tension eased as the rich warmth slipped down. He'd mixed it with milk. Just the way I liked it. I glanced up when his pocket started to hum. The tall witch looked discomforted as he pulled a cell phone out and checked the number.
"You have to go?" I said bitingly. I should have just pi
"No. It's Ripley. My drummer." A wan smile curved up his thin lips, making his long face look longer. "She's calling to give me an excuse to leave if I need it."
I took another sip of soup, angry at myself that I was hungry when my life was falling apart. "Must be nice," I muttered.
Giving up on ignoring the toast as a matter of principle, I picked it up and dunked it. So he knew I liked toast with my tomato soup. That didn't mean I shouldn't eat it. Elbows on the table, I looked at him as I chewed. I felt drained, and this was just too weird.
Takata's gaze fell away. "I wanted to tell you," he said, and my heart gave a hard thump. "For a long time. But Robbie left when he found out, and it just about killed your mother. I couldn't dare risk it."
But you could risk having coffee with me ages ago? And you could risk hiring me to work your security last year? Burying my unreasonable feelings of jealousy, I said, "Robbie knows?"
He looked old all of a sudden, his blue eyes pinched. I wondered whether, if I had kids, they would have green eyes or blue.
"He recognized me at your dad's funeral." Takata grimaced with his attention on his soup. "Our hands are exactly the same. He noticed." Spoon shaking, he took another sip of soup. I silently dunked a corner of my toast.
I felt like such an idiot. God, Takata had asked my opinion of the lyrics of "Red Ribbons" last year, and I hadn't gotten it. He had been trying to tell me, and I had been too dense to see it. But how could I have even guessed? "Who else knows?" I asked somewhat fearfully.
He smiled without showing his teeth, looking almost shy. "I told Ripley. But she has her own past to deal with and she will keep her mouth shut."