Was he ready for whatever had happened to Josephine? Had he changed sufficiently to cope with what it might mean? Put enough safety nets in place to make sure he never slipped back into the darkness from which he’d so painstakingly climbed? “What’s wrong with her?”
“She’s dead, Keith.”
The blood began to roar in his ears. “What’d you say?”
“It’s true. She’s gone. I’m so sorry. I know...I know how difficult this is going to be for you, how complicated your feelings about her have always been. Mine aren’t any simpler. I hate that I had to wake you in the middle of the night, but I couldn’t wait. I wanted you to know before...before you could see it on the news or...or someone else called.”
LA could get cold in January. Feeling a sudden chill, Keith straightened and stepped away from the window. Most deaths, even of someone as wealthy and powerful as Josephine Lazarow, weren’t reported on the national news—not unless foul play was involved. Was that what his sister was about to tell him?
“What happened?” he asked as he made his way to the desk and perched on the edge of the expensive leather chair his interior designer had claimed he’d love.
“When Pippa arrived an hour ago—”
“Wait,” he broke in. “That’d be six your time.”
“Yes...”
“Why was she coming so early? Mom’s housekeepers have always arrived at eight.” Even when his mother was running her flower shop instead of letting Nancy Dellinger do it, she didn’t get out of bed until later. The shop didn’t open until ten; she generally prepared the night before.
“Mom needed to be at the airport. She was planning a trip to see Hugh Pointer—a new love interest.”
Of course. Since their father died, when he was twelve and Maisey was ten, Josephine had been through three marriages (after which she’d always gone back to the Lazarow name), and a long list of other relationships. Considering she could have just about anyone she wanted, there was nothing to stop her. Not only was she rich, she was beautiful.
Had been rich. Had been beautiful.
God, could he really be thinking of his strong, determined and often acerbic mother in the past tense?
“Hugh owns a pharmaceutical company, a ranch and a few other assets in Australia,” Maisey was saying. “They’ve been dating, mostly online, for the past few months. She met him in first class the last time she flew to New York and she’s been planning to go down under to see him ever since.”
They’d been dating for months? Keith would know about Hugh if he and his sisters ever discussed his mother, but she was the one subject that was off-limits. They’d grown accustomed to pretending she didn’t exist. Keith had insisted on it. She could trigger a relapse quicker than anyone or anything. “So Pippa was supposed to show up at the house before she’d usually appear to drive Mom to the airport.”
“That’s right.” When Maisey paused, overcome by emotion, a lump rose in his own throat. But no tears followed. Something seemed to be jammed up; he couldn’t cry. Where Josephine was concerned, he’d cut out his emotions almost as precisely as a surgeon might use a scalpel to remove a malignant tumor. He’d had to. Anything less was too painful.
“But...” he prompted when his sister couldn’t continue.
He heard her gulp for breath, heard Rafe in the background speaking soft, soothing words.
“Mom wasn’t waiting for her in the entry like she’d said she’d be. And when Pippa went upstairs to see about the hold-up, she...she found her in the tub.”
His mother often took long baths. They were part of her beauty regimen. She’d even had a TV installed in the bathroom. But why would she take a bath first thing in the morning, before heading to the airport? Why not use the shower, like she usually did to get ready for work? “She drowned?”
Another sniffle. “Apparently. There was a wine bottle and a...a glass that’d been knocked over, as well as s-some candles—”
“Then it must’ve happened last night,” he said. “She wouldn’t light candles first thing in the morning. She doesn’t like getting up early. She was always in too much of a hurry.”
“The coroner hasn’t determined the time of death. He...he just arrived a little while ago. But I agree. Seems that way to me, too.”
“So...they think it was an accident?”
She sniffed again. “They’re not saying, Keith. They won’t even let me in the house, won’t let me see her. I don’t understand what’s going on. I only know that she’s dead.”
His sister ended with a sob—and still his eyes remained dry. “I’m sorry, Maisey.”
That sounded so mechanical, but he was glad to feel numb. Numb beat the hell out of the devastation he could be feeling. He’d worked hard to overcome anything that made him weak or vulnerable.
“I don’t want this to set you back,” she said. “You’ve been doing so well. I—”
“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.” He hoped that was true. He didn’t have the best track record...
Maisey continued to cry. “This is terrible. Mom would not have liked going out this way.”
She must’ve been drunk, he thought. But how? She considered it gauche to have more than a single glass of wine in the evening. Unless things had changed more than he realized since he’d been gone, he couldn’t see her imbibing too much, even when she was alone.
“Were her bags packed?” he asked.
“How am I supposed to know? I told you. The police won’t let me in the house. All I can tell you is what they’ve told me.”
Dropping his head into his free hand, he tried to imagine that the strong-willed, demanding person who’d been their mother was gone. For good. That she was completely out of his life, whether or not he wanted her to be.
What did that mean? And did it help or hurt his quest to remain whole and healthy and to keep moving forward with his life?
“Are you all right?” Maisey asked.
“Yeah. I just... I’m trying to come to terms with the news, that’s all.”
“It’s a lot to take in. Don’t let it...don’t let it throw you, Keith.”
Even after five years, she felt she had to worry about him. He was screwed up, had always been screwed up. He suspected that if he ever visited a psychologist he’d be diagnosed as bipolar. That term had been thrown around a great deal back when he was acting out. But he didn’t want to hear a professional say those words, didn’t want to be pumped full of medication—not as long as he could manage on his own. With cross-fit, his business and his sisters, he’d developed some coping skills. And they were working for him. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to backslide.” He was still taking it one day at a time, though, and this was a hurdle he hadn’t expected—maybe in twenty years, but not this soon.
“Okay,” she said. “I—I’d better go. I have to call Roxanne.”
How would Roxanne react to the death of their mother? he wondered. She’d been kidnapped and raised by a former nanny. Roxanne had a dim recollection of what a tyrant Josephine could be, but she didn’t have the memories and stories he and Maisey did. Since Roxanne had reconnected with Josephine, the two had built some semblance of a relationship. Roxanne probably got along with Josephine best, because she didn’t feel the same resentment. Neither did she live close by. Staying a considerable distance away definitely helped.
Considering all of that, would Rocki be heartbroken by the news? Would at least one of Josephine’s children be able to sincerely mourn her passing?
Or would even Roxanne be left