The Scent of Shadows

4

The first thing I do every morning is make coffee, put on sunscreen, and take my birth control…the goal, of course, to be alert and protected at all times. Today I added a couple of aspirins to my caffeine cocktail, showered away the stiffness from last night’s train wreck of a date, and readied myself for a last minute meeting with the infamous Xavier Archer. His secretary had called just after eight to say he wished to meet with my sister and me, and though she asked my availability, I knew it wasn’t a request.

I agreed to the afternoon appointment, then searched my closet for something Xavier might find appropriate, knowing, in truth, he didn’t think it appropriate to be seen with me at all. I was a gross embarrassment to him, for things I both could and could not control, and it was laughable to even try appeasing him, though long ago I had tried. By now it was just about keeping up appearances and playing the game.

As one might imagine for a gambling maverick, my father was big on games.

Comfort won out over making a good impression, and Isettled on a fitted T-shirt with three-quarter sleeves, stretch jeans, and my favorite leather boots—I’d already had them resoled twice—all in black. Throwing on a scarf and peacoat, I then drove the five miles from my modest tract home to my father’s custom-built compound. You couldn’t miss it. It took up an entire city block on the far west end of town. I was admitted by a guard with sideburns, large jowls, and a bodybuilder’s physique—Elvis on steroids—and moments later pulled into the circular drive of a home more suited to the Côte d’Azur than the Las Vegas valley. On the way in I met up with Olivia.

Physically, my sister and I were opposites in all ways that counted. I sported a straight, uncomplicated chin-length bob, while she seemed to walk around in a perpetual shampoo commercial. My face, though unlined and fine-boned, was rarely made up, while Olivia regularly held court at the Chanel counter. Today she was also dressed in Prada pink—obscenely cheerful for the month of November—and flanked by her favorite accessory, her best friend, Cher. I sighed as I looked at the two of them standing together beneath the dome of the marble portico. They were like pastry figurines atop a wedding cake; just looking at them gave me a sugar high.

I lifted my hand to shield my eyes as I approached. “I think I just burned my retinas.”

“Ha ha,” Olivia said to me before turning to Cher, dimples flashing. “Joanna thinks being caustic makes her appear intelligent, not to mention morally superior to those of us with a Neiman’s card.”

Damn, that was a good one for a woman who’d once worn bunny ears and a fluffy tail.

“You know, it could just be the sun, Joanna, dear.” Taking in my black-on-black ensemble, Cher snapped her gum loudly, also pink. “Olivia tells me you only come out at night.”

“Only if there’s a full moon,” I replied, trying not to let it bother me that Olivia would speak of me to Cher at all. She and I had a long-standing enmity, born on the day we met, half a dozen years earlier. She was a southern version of Olivia, a sharp-tongued shrew in the guise of a belle, with a manipulative nature that would make Scarlett herself blush. She didn’t take herself too seriously, which I rather thought a good thing, but she didn’t take anything else seriously either, and that I just found irresponsible. She also had the ear of the woman I considered my best friend.

“Well, that explains your color, darlin’.” Cher pressed a cool, bejeweled finger to my skin. When she lifted it, the color didn’t change. She repeated the test on herself with more satisfying results.

“Touch me again and you’ll lose your finger.”

She lifted that finger to her lips and blew me a kiss.

I barely contained a snarl. “Flirting won’t work on me, Cher. I don’t have a penis.”

“Are you sure?” She smiled, lashes opening and closing like butterfly wings, and before I could answer, turned away. “I’ll be waiting for you in the drawing room, Livvy-girl. Don’t forget, we have a date for high tea at four.”

“It’s a fucking family room,” I muttered, watching until she disappeared from sight. I turned to find Olivia regarding me with sad eyes. “What?”

“Why do you have to take shots at her?” At us, said her expression.

“Easy target.”

“She’s my best friend.”

“I know.” The words settled uneasily between us. Finally, I cleared my throat. “Come on, let’s get this Daddy Dearest moment over with. I wouldn’t want you to miss high tea.”

“You could come with us,” she said as we entered the wraparound hallway leading to the office wing.

And maybe after that I could stick burning pokers beneath my fingernails. “I don’t think so.”

“What about tonight?” she persisted. “Want to come over?”

“What’s wrong? Malibu Ken already have a date?”

“No, but my sister is having a birthday. I thought we might have a party, just the two of us.”

The need in her voice both softened and hurt me. It had been a long time since we’d done anything together, just for fun. Then, remembering the way she’d stared, I also wondered how much of our alone time was reported back to Cher. I love you, Olivia, but…“I already have plans.”

And I was desperate to tell her about them, about Ben. I just couldn’t with Cher’s face and voice so fresh in my mind.

Olivia’s lower lip popped out. “But aren’t you curious to know what I got you?”

“Does it involve the color pink, or a grossly overvalued designer initial stamped on it?”

“No. It doesn’t involve crosses or holy water either. You’re perfectly safe.”

“Ha ha.”

But Olivia linked her arm in mine as we continued walking, making it hard to cross my arms over my chest, and utterly defeating my snarl. Damn it, she was like PMS kryptonite. She instinctively knew how to sap a bad mood of all its energy.

“Stubborn,” she muttered, singsonging it, as if to herself. “Too stubborn to admit any weakness—”

“Don’t start this again.”

“And too in love with life to just shut down completely.”

In love with life? I raised a brow. “Olivia, I sleep all day—when I’m not training—and wander the dirtiest, grittiest morasses of this city’s butt crack at night.”

She only smiled. “You volunteer at the soup kitchen once a week. You take portraits of the homeless to raise awareness, and as a tribute, marking that they’re here. You let them know that you, at least, see them. And you’ve helped dozens of teen runaways return home, and if they couldn’t do that, found them a new one.”

I stopped dead. “How do you know all that?”

She shot me that secretive smile over her shoulder and kept walking. I had to rush to catch up. “Because I don’t just chair the events that cater to the rich who feel better about themselves for eating a five-hundred-dollar dinner that they can write off at the end of the year. I talk to the people who talk to the people you help. Those who pay for plates might call me Ms. Archer, but those who are given a free meal call you ‘friend.’”

“I’m going to puke now,” I said, embarrassed…and secretly pleased.

“Mind the carpet.”

But by this time we were making our way across a room of marble, one markedly different from that of any other in the house. The floors were bare, the three windows unadorned, and its core was shaped like something called a “stupa.” That, Xavier had once explained, was a mound the old Tibetan lamas built to house the remains of great meditation masters when they died.

Now, I don’t know what a Tibetan stupa was supposed to look like, but other than the white marble adorning every surface, ceiling included, this looked just like the inside of a crypt.

Xavier had jazzed it up a bit, of course. There was a glass case in the center of the room, spotlit from above, holding the first full English translation of a thirteen-hundred-year-old manuscript—The Tibetan Book of the Dead. Nice and cheery. There was also a dais at one end of the room, large enough for a throne, which was what Xavier eventually planned on putting there. Right now there was just a large gold-framed oil painting, featuring snowcapped mountains hovering over gently sloping grassland, and wildflowers combed over by gentle winds while mountain yaks grazed between them.

Now, leading up to the dais things got a little less pastoral and a little more interesting. A phalanx of vertical prayer wheels sat aligned like wooden soldiers, though I’d never seen anyone spinning them and I didn’t know what they were for. What did an overbearing, self-centered, egotistical gaming mogul pray for anyway?

But none of this was as weirdly perplexing as the masks. Xavier claimed they came from a Sherpa village, high up in the Himalayas, and while there was no reason to doubt him, I had no idea what connection Xavier Archer thought he had with the Himalayans. He was from the Bronx. Exotic in its own way, but slightly different.

The first mask was made of copper, an elongated devil’s face that leered at us as we entered the room. That one never failed to make me shiver. Halfway into the room some round-faced god of corroded burlwood blew visitors a wispy kiss through pursed lips. Yet another god attended the office door, this one wearing a pointed crown, crimson mouth open in a silent painted scream. If these weren’t enough to ward off all ill intent, the security camera staring from the corner with its cycloptic red eye would certainly finish the job.

A buzzer sounded next to the door. “Come in, ladies.” Then a clicking sound as the oak doors unlocked.

Xavier’s office was more in line with what you might expect from a gaming mogul. Gone were the spiritual hoohahs and totems. This room was all dark wood, oversized furniture, and chocolate walls. The coffered ceiling soared with smoked mirrors and crown molding, and hand-painted cabinetry held an impressive collection of dusty hardbound books, spines uncracked. The man himself was no less grand and imposing.

Xavier Archer has the sort of presence that rocks lesser humans back on their heels. He often waves his hand through the air like some European monarch, indicating that his subjects should sit. He did this with us, his daughters, and the only sign that this appointment was different from an acquisition merger or a meeting on quarterly earnings was his refusal to look up from the notes he was scribbling at his desk.

We sat in a pair of uncomfortable mahogany chairs. He’d changed little in the months since I’d last seen him; still built like a field ox beneath his custom Armani. His jaw was squarely defined, and he had one bushy brow that arched singularly across his forehead, which I knew he was sensitive about but refused to change. If you didn’t know any better you could mistake him for an aging linebacker. But everyone knew better. Xavier Archer made sure of that.

“Hello, Daddy,” my sister said when he finally looked up.

“Hello, Olivia darling.” A smile flashed as he set down his pen, then disappeared as he glanced at me. “Joanna.”

“Xavier,” I replied. He stared at me with his muddy eyes. I focused on his brow.

Clearing his throat, he leaned back in his chair. “You girls are probably wondering why I summoned you today.”

“Not at all.”

“First, Olivia,” he said, ignoring me. “I heard about your attempt to garner a position at Valhalla. How many times have I told you? I don’t want any daughter of mine working. What would people think?”

“What do they think now?” I muttered. They both pretended not to hear.

“I expect you to grow up, get married, have kids, get divorced, and live happily ever after.” He drummed his index fingers together. They looked like two sausages fighting. “Understand?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Olivia said softly.

“What if she wants a job?” He looked at me and blinked, as if wondering why I was there. “What if she wants a job?” I repeated, louder.

“You mean like taking people’s pictures for free?” Xavier had never hidden his derision for what he considered my “wasteful” hobby. He scoffed. “I don’t think so.”

I couldn’t help myself—the defenses that automatically sprung up when I was around Xavier surrounded my sister as well. “I’m just saying maybe it’s not enough to expect her to be mere decoration for you or some future husband to wear upon his arm.”

Olivia put a hand on my arm. “Jo—”

“Olivia has a job. She’s my daughter.”

Yeah, and the benefits are lousy. I held my tongue, though, because Olivia was looking pained beside me.

“Now. If that’s all cleared up?” Which meant, in his mind, it was, but I made a mental note to speak with Olivia about it later. “I heard there was a ruckus at Valhalla last night, Joanna. Care to explain?”

A ruckus? Is that what he called being attacked by a madman wielding a serrated poker? I smiled tightly. “Sure. I’ll explain. I saved a few dozen of your precious high rollers from being hacked to pieces by a homicidal maniac. A good thing too. It would have been hell on the carpet.”

“Don’t be facetious.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

We glared at one another over the polished glasstop desk, each daring the other to say another word. We’d been this route before, and more than once. Xavier thought my sarcasm and sharp tongue were unbecoming, and that I should be more like Olivia; demure when his associates’ eyes lingered too long on her figure, sweet when an insult about her intelligence was flung over her head. Quiet even if she disagreed with anything he said.

I thought these expectations were asinine at the very least, bordering on deranged, so naturally I saved a great deal of my pent-up sarcasm for him.

Olivia gently cleared her throat beside me, causing me to break my stare.

“I understand the police had to be called in?” Of course that would be his greatest concern. Image, I thought, must be maintained at all times.

“The police were already there. They’d been tracking the guy for months.” I didn’t mention my reunion with Ben.

“Because he’s killed before?”

“And he cheats at craps.”

His eyes narrowed dangerously at that. “Perhaps you should be more selective about whom you date in the future.”

Yeah, I’d kinda figured that one out for myself.

“You had something to tell us, Xavier?” I said, loving the way his teeth ground together when I used his first name.

“I do. Something of grave importance.” He looked at us expectantly, almost pleasantly. Odd, I thought, if speaking of something truly grave. “It affects you, Joanna, more than Olivia.”

Also odd that he would concern himself with me at all.

“I am not your real father.”

My breath left me in a rush. “Thank God.”

Olivia squeaked next to me.

“Excuse me?”

I cleared my throat. “I said, how odd.”

“Yes, I know it must come as a shock. I only recently found out myself.” He waved, indicating an open envelope on the corner of his desk. I picked it up, studied the type on the front, noted the lack of a return address or, indeed, any identifying mark, then removed the single sheet of paper enclosed within. Sure as shit, it said I wasn’t his daughter. It wasn’t signed.

“Got more proof than this?” I asked, waving the paper in his direction.

“I think there’s proof enough.” And he wasn’t talking about the letter, which meant he wanted it to be true.

I leaned back and let the note fall to the floor.

“But, Daddy—”

“Don’t worry, Olivia, dear. I had tests done this week. You and I share the same blood.”

I wanted to say she hadn’t looked terribly worried, nor did she appear all that relieved now, but Olivia was wringing her hands and suddenly speaking fast. “But—But we’re really sisters, right?” I looked at her. “Even if only…half sisters?”

Bless her. Sweet, sensitive Olivia. She was better than the rest of us put together. I put a hand on her arm, to let her know it didn’t matter either way.

“You share the same mother, yes.”

“She has a name,” I snapped, and his head jerked, reminding me again of a bull. “Zoe.”

In the nine years since she’d disappeared, without a note or a trace, Xavier had never, to my knowledge, spoken of my mother. I imagined it would be the same with me. Ten years from now, or ten minutes, he’d have blotted my existence from his memory. I too would be a ghost, wandering the hallways of this house; another name not to be spoken by the servants, though I doubted my memory would haunt anyone.

“I know her name.” He pushed away from his desk and stood. His standard power stance. “Olivia, if you’ll excuse us now, I have some things to discuss with Joanna alone.”

She didn’t move, but bit her lower lip uncertainly and glanced again at me. I patted her hand again. Xavier’s face reddened, his nostrils widened, and that solitary brow lifted high. I waited for the snort and hoof stomp. “Olivia!”

“Yes, Daddy.” She rose.

I shot her a reassuring smile. “I’ll talk to you later.”

The door shut with a soft click behind her. It sounded like the report of a gunshot in the ensuing silence.

“So who is he?” I said without preamble. There was no need for pretense now.

“Who is whom?” he said, flipping open the humidor next to his desk.

“The man who fathered me,” I said. “My real father?”

He waited until his Cohiba was cut and lit, and puffed twice before his eyes found mine. “I neither know nor care.”

No, he wouldn’t. He never had. “So you’ve done it, then. Finally washed your hands of me. Gotten rid of the great embarrassment of the Archer family dynasty.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Joanna. And, remember, this was your mother’s doing, not mine.”

“But you must be so relieved,” I continued, honeyed sarcasm dripping from my voice. “No more pretense. No more stilted introductions, or uncomfortable silences at Thanksgiving. Why, you never even have to see me again.”

“That’s right,” he said, and in spite of myself I flinched, immediately hating myself for it. “Your inheritance is disavowed, obviously. I had the papers changed yesterday. I won’t support another man’s child. Olivia will receive everything.” He looked at me, the smoke rising between us, beautifully symbolic. “You are not my daughter.”

“But Xavier.” I stood too, and leaned forward on his desk, passing through the smoke. “How will it look?”

He’d already thought of that. “As far as the world is concerned you will remain my daughter. Estranged, but still mine. Understand?”

Just another possession, I thought, carelessly cast aside.

“You’ll keep your house, your car, and a small monthly allowance since my daughter seems to care for you, but the family business, the homes and investments, they all belong to Olivia, and rightfully so.”

“And the name?” I said, my voice going dead soft. “Do I get to keep the name?”

He hesitated. “It was your mother’s too.”

“One she obviously cherished.”

He stiffened. “You may leave now.”

I almost laughed at that. I had left long ago. He’d just never noticed.

“Oh, and Joanna?” His voice stopped my hand on the doorknob, and I turned. He was already seated again, angling a stream of smoke upward. He spoke from the corner of his mouth. “Stay out of Valhalla. If I hear of one more incident compromising the reputation of my property, I’ll throw you out myself.”

I used the only weapon I had left. “No wonder she left you.”

He picked up his pen and began writing again, never looking up. “She left you too.”

Well, that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? My mother had left me. Sure, she’d left Xavier and Olivia too, but they hadn’t been recovering from a life-threatening attack. They hadn’t felt it as yet one more in a string of devastating losses. They hadn’t needed her like I had.

But there was no point rehashing all that now, I told myself. My mother had walked away from her family—simple as that—and like the rest of my joyful past—not—it was behind me. So as I left Xavier’s office I imagined stomping down on the memories that voicing my mother’s name had evoked, grinding them back down with the heel of my boot into the mental grave where all my old pains rested. I was no longer that fragile-minded teen with a damaged body and a weary soul. I didn’t need or want my mother in my life anymore.

I’d just reached the foyer and was shooting imaginary bullets at Xavier’s giant portrait when I heard the snuffling. It was a faintly strangled sound, and as easily recognizable as the beating of my heart. I found Olivia standing at the large leaded windows overlooking the side lawns, her body in silhouette, her curves and curls and color mocking the severe lines of the cold glass panes. Her arms were wrapped around her core like she was holding herself together…and had been, I thought, for a long while. My heart dipped at the fragile, if stunning, picture she made, and I descended quickly into the sunken living room. I knew she heard me; her head tilted, but she didn’t turn.

“Hey,” I said softly, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Where’s the One Name Wonder?”

“Outside,” Olivia sniffled, and I knew it was bad when she didn’t insist I call Cher by her proper name. “Waiting in the car.”

“You’re going to be late for high tea,” I said, turning her toward me and wrapping my arms around her. All the latent maternal instincts I’d never wanted scuttled forward whenever I saw my sister with tears in her eyes. Sure, I teased her about things we both knew didn’t matter, but if anything truly touched her heart, my hackles went up like a she-wolf protecting her cub.

“Are you sure we can’t get together tonight?” she asked, looking down into my eyes with her own imploring ones. We were usually the same height, but she was teetering on four-inch Manolos. “I really want to spend some time with you.”

“I have a date,” I said quietly, and watched her face fall. “With Ben.”

She clasped her hands together with a surprised cry of delight, and her teary eyes suddenly shone with something more. “Oh, Joanna!”

“Don’t make too much of it,” I said, but even I was having a hard time keeping the excitement from my voice. “It’s just a date.”

“But it’s Ben. Benjamin Traina,” she sighed heavily, and crossed her hands over her heart. “I always knew you two were meant for one another. Oh, you have to tell me everything!”

“I will,” I promised. “Tomorrow.”

“Tonight,” she insisted, squeezing me.

“Olivia…” I tried to make my voice firm, but her excitement was contagious. Besides, she was the only one who knew, who could know, what this meant to me. “All right. I’ll stop by your place around eleven-thirty or so. We should be finished by then.”

“I’ll give you your gift then too, though it can’t compete with Ben Traina!”

What could? I thought, pulling from her grasp. I smoothed her hair from her face and smiled. “You should go clean up. You’ll be a mess for tea time.”

She nodded but didn’t move. “Are you okay?”

I shrugged. “I’m used to it.” And then, because I knew she needed to believe it, I forced a bright smile. “Really. I’m fine.”

Another nod, then she squeezed my hand before we both turned toward the door. We couldn’t talk in Xavier’s house. Nothing happened within these walls that he didn’t somehow find out about. Yet Olivia surprised me. As we exited the foyer into a bright winter day and I turned in the opposite direction of Cher’s waiting Corvette, Olivia grasped my forearm, her grip unusually strong.

“You’re the only family I truly have left,” she said, looking me hard in the eye. “Without you, I’d probably believe all the things they say.”

I didn’t have to ask who she meant. People who wrote magazine articles about her but never dreamed of conversing with her. People who looked her in the chest rather than the eye. People who forgot there was a person beneath all the beauty and gloss, and, yes, that included Xavier.

“Olivia Archer,” I said, taking her hands in mine, “you are all the things they say, and more. You’re beautiful, kind, intelligent, and strong. You’re true and you’re loyal, and even though you possess a baffling penchant for mud baths”—she choked out a strangled laugh at that—“you are also my sister. Beneath the high sheen of your society face lies a solid core of strength, and a spirit stronger than I’ll ever possess. Touch that in your mind when you begin to forget, okay?”

She nodded, teary, and I let her go before we both started blubbering on Xavier’s palatial steps. I wouldn’t give him the pleasure. Still, halfway down the steps I turned. “And Olivia?”

She paused, and I raised my voice so it would carry to her, Cher, and whatever listening devices might be lying in the shrubbery. “Blood sister or not, I’ll never, ever leave you.”

And I wouldn’t. She was all I had left now too.