What Should Have Been

Spotting Pamela’s majordomo at the back gate of the mansion, he steeled himself for the next step through his foggy maze. “Evening, Philo,” he said to the compact man in the tailored gray suit. Pryce Philo’s burr haircut was a duplicate of his except that it was completely silver and had him increasingly wondering if they didn’t have more in common than easy-to-manage hair.

“Are you all right, sir?” the manservant asked in his polite, mid-Atlantic voice that gave away little of his background.

“You ask that a lot.”

“Because Mrs. Regan expects regular and full reports, sir.”

Mead paused outside the wrought-iron gate to study the man with the winter-cold eyes who had yet to release the lock. What did anyone know about Philo other than that he took as much pride in his appearance as he did his work, making him integral in keeping the estate running smoothly and its owner on schedule, if not out of trouble? Only Pamela and her CPA knew how valuable that was—and only she knew the full realm of his responsibilities.

“How long have you known me now, Philo?” It was a question he asked whenever he was totally frustrated with the puzzle and his environment and willing to push buttons, even if that meant shooting into the dark.

“I don’t know you at all, sir,” the manservant replied as usual. “But I’ve been privileged to be serving you on your mother’s behalf for two weeks, two days…and almost a pair of shoes ago, Mr. Regan. It looks like you’ll need a new pair yourself.”

It was more than he and Philo usually had to say to each other, and Mead glanced down at his soggy athletic shoes and damp jeans to hide his smirk. Philo didn’t like babysitting him any more than Mead cared for his salaried shadow. “Look at that.”

“You might also like to know the police are here,” Philo added. “They came to inquire about your whereabouts this afternoon.”

“Did you sell me out?”

“You wound me, sir.”

Mead didn’t believe it for a minute. “I went for a walk beyond the sacred walls. Big deal.”

“But there’s the matter of a 911 call in the area. A child living on the other side of the park was feared—” Philo coughed discreetly “—attacked.”

Tightening his fisted hands in his pockets, Mead replied coldly, “She wasn’t. We ran into each other down there.” He nodded in the direction of the park. “One look at me and she wanted her mommy or the marines—whichever she could find faster—and hightailed it home.”

“Excellent. Allow me.” Philo punched the security code into the keypad built into the wall and the gate lock opened with a subtle click. “Would now be a good time to ask how you managed to leave in the first place, since you don’t have the code?”

“No.” Mead stepped into the yard and waited for the sound of Philo closing up behind him.

“Have mercy, sir. Mrs. Regan is already in a state. In case you’ve forgotten, she’s hosting another of her fundraiser dinners this evening, and I think she and Mr. Walsh had something of a row earlier.”

Mead had only observed Riley Walsh of Walsh Development and Construction, Inc.—his mother’s choice as the next mayor of Mount Vance—from a distance, but even with his diminished abilities, his gut told him Pamela would be better off if the guy was dispatched to build ice condos in Antarctica.

“Sir?”

“If I tell you, will you let me slip upstairs and avoid your boss and the law?”

Pryce Philo laid his hand over his heart. “‘A man cannot serve two masters.’”

“I bet you’ve tested that theory,” Mead muttered. Shrugging, he gestured, “Lead on, faithful Philo.”

One thing he couldn’t deny as he returned to the house was that Regan Mansion, and its remaining twenty acres, was an impressive accomplishment. Having achieved centennial status, the three-story, Grecian-style mansion stood on what had been a massive pine and peach tree farm. Today it was a shutterbug’s fantasy: acres of dogwood, red bud and azaleas in the spring, and magnolia mixed into the various pines in the summer. Was his mother’s decision to sell off the land a good thing? Heaven knows, from the looks of things, she didn’t need the money, but it was how the town had gotten the park. He’d gleaned that much information from one of the yard workers. Was it what the father he couldn’t remember would have wanted? He suspected that was another question he would never get answered.

Mead followed Philo inside through the living room French doors and immediately heard his mother’s second soprano voice resonating with anger all the way from the foyer.

“Really, Officer Brighton, I expect a formal apology from Chief Marrow. My son is a medaled war hero, was honorably discharged, and yet this is the manner with which he’s welcomed home? Accusing him of such vile behavior?”

Cursing under his breath that his mother would use a messenger to vent her frustrations with Walsh—and him, too—Mead stepped into the foyer. “If you’d give the man a chance to hear his radio, I think you’ll both learn that the situation is resolved.”

In front of him he saw Pamela Niles Regan—his mother if documentation was to be believed—resplendent in a red, white and blue sequined jacket and an ankle-length, navy-blue skirt. The massive chandelier over her head accented the honey-gold highlights in her short, brunette coif, and her five-foot-three ripe body teetered on three-inch heels.

With a grateful glance, the flustered policeman keyed his shoulder mike. After a bit more static and some vague jargon Mead didn’t understand, he heard the officer reply, “Copy.”

To them the young man said with some chagrin, “It’s confirmed. False alarm. Just doing my job, sir. Ma’am. Good evening to you.”

As soon as the front door closed behind him, Pamela seethed, “Incompetent man. I’ll have his badge.”

“Don’t.” Mead slipped off his bandana, wearier from listening to those few moments of his mother’s railing than from what happened earlier. “It was a misunderstanding. Let it go.”

“Excuse me? Insult a national hero?”

“Stop it,” Mead replied more tersely. “You don’t know that.”

Pamela lifted her chin. “Of course I do. They presented me with your ribbons and medals on your behalf. It’s not my fault that you refuse to look at them.”

Mead wrestled with a dark emotion he couldn’t quite name. “The mission failed. People are dead. There’s nothing to honor.”

Once he’d gotten a fraction of his wits about him, he’d demanded someone tell him the truth. He couldn’t confirm or deny anything said, but he didn’t believe that he should have been rewarded for such pitiful results. Right now he wasn’t sure he should believe he really was Mead Regan, or someone cosmetically altered to take his place. In the privacy of his bedroom, he’d looked for the telltale scars indicating plastic surgery and was almost disappointed to note that while he had scars, none were from that.

“The point is that you’ve repeatedly risked your life for your country, and this time almost lost everything. I nearly lost you.” Pamela crossed to him and gripped his arm until perfectly manicured nails bit into the sleeve of his jacket. “You deserve respect and since you’re too modest and noble to ask for it yourself, it’s my job to see you get it.”

Her saccharine smile turned into a grimace as she finally took notice of his appearance. “Good grief, Mead. I hope you haven’t left a trail of mud on the carpet. Never mind, I’ll have Philo look into that as soon as we finish. Now, I want you to go upstairs and shower. You can make up for giving me a fright by accompanying me at dinner tonight. Check the closet for your dress uniform. It might still be a bit loose on you, but it’s been cleaned and you’ll see I have all the medals on it.”

Mead almost admired her. From day one after arriving here he’d noticed Pamela’s steely determination. Her problem was that she directed it toward all the wrong things. Carefully disengaging himself, he replied, “No.”

“No? Tonight is important to me.”

“I thought this event was all about your buddy Walsh?”

Pamela’s aging porcelain features hardened a second before she pressed her hands together and shifted her gaze over his shoulder. “Ah, Philo. Check the living room carpet for dirt, will you? And have the car ready at six.”

“Very well, madam.”

As the butler withdrew, Pamela refocused on Mead. “Darling…the fact of the matter is that I hate having to leave you yet again. I’ve had commitments so many times since your return, and we could use this as an opportunity to catch up. Besides, it’s not good for you to be alone so much.”

She was only now concluding that? “Last time I checked,” Mead replied, “my birth certificate says I turn thirty-five in November. The head doctors wouldn’t have authorized my release if I weren’t relatively safe to be left on my own. For that matter, don’t you think it’s time to tell your watchdog that around-the-clock monitoring isn’t necessary?”

“Philo has only made sure you didn’t have an episode and had everything you need.”

“The doctors told you I haven’t since they changed my medication, and I’ve been off of all of it except aspirin for several days.”

“That’s wonderful. Then we can use tonight to celebrate.” Pamela attempted a pout and coaxed, “I’d love to show you off to my friends.”

He couldn’t think of anything less appealing. “Did I ever enjoy performing for crowds?”

Stiffening, Pamela brushed past him and headed for the study. “I’m going to make myself a drink. Would you care for something?”

Mead’s first impulse was to decline and seek refuge in his room, but on second thought he followed. He had more questions and, like it or not, she probably knew many if not all of the answers. “Beer sounds okay.”

The tap of her high heels grew louder on the Italian tile. At the ornate antique huntboard that served as a bar, she filled two crystal glasses with ice from an open crystal bowl, then added a healthy splash of bourbon. “If I succeed at anything regarding your return,” she said, handing him a glass, “it’ll be to cure you of your pedestrian tastes.”

Had his hunch that he’d always preferred beer to the expensive stuff been correct? Mead inspected the amber liquid. Contact with the person he’d been…

Pamela eyed him over her glass. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’s bourbon not tea leaves. Drink…and then tell me where you were to get in that condition.”

He did sip…and with a frown put the glass back onto the huntboard. “Walking. Down by that creek behind this place. Who is Devan Anderson?” he added.

His mother stopped her glass inches from her lips. Her eyes narrowed, but not as though she was trying to remember.

“Who did you say?”

Mead recognized that he had made a mistake, and worried how bad. “The mother of the child who ran off. Surely Officer Brighton told you the little girl’s name? Mrs. Anderson came into the park, too. She knew me.”

Pamela took a second sip. “Everyone knows us.”

There was no missing her pride, but that didn’t help him one iota. His memory remained as void as his soul was troubled. Thinking became especially difficult in this museum of a house with its cathedral ceilings, furniture no one of size dared sit on without concern for their safety, and limited memorabilia to offer hints of any immediate family past. There wasn’t so much as a photograph around, and the paintings were all of people in white wigs or breastplates.

“That doesn’t answer my question.” Mead knew his reluctance to address her as “Mother” irked Pamela, but in his opinion people earned titles as much as they did endearments. “Who is she?”

“Just a local.” Pamela’s sequined jacket glistened as she gestured with dismissal. “Dreamscapes Floral and Landscape Design. I use them on occasion. When their quotes are competitive.”

“They? Is this a family business?”

“A partnership.” Pamela rolled her eyes. “I suspect there were financial reasons to compel her to do it. Her husband Jay died over a year ago, and, no, I barely knew him except to figure out he wasn’t exactly a rocket scientist. Anyway, by partnership, I mean Devan and that awful Lavender Smart. Lovechild of the sixties,” she intoned with a look of distaste. “Devan must have a self-destructive streak in her as bad as yours.”

Mead filed away the information—and Pamela’s reaction—but decided not to push his luck by asking more. It was his inner reactions that intrigued him anyway. He didn’t understand his strong curiosity…or was that attraction?

“I think I’ll go lie down,” he murmured, all but lost in his thoughts.

Pamela immediately transitioned into concerned mother. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling ill?”

“No. I just want to—” He’d almost said “think.” His mother would have pounced on that like she did new tidbits of gossip. “I must have overdone it walking.”

“Are you sure? You do look drawn, now that you mention it. And I so wanted your company tonight.” Pamela smiled bravely. “All right, darling, I’ll manage on my own. You go rest. I’ll give everyone your regrets.”

Wondering who would care since he wasn’t meant to attend in the first place, Mead climbed the stairs two at a time.

Chapter Three

“G ood night, dear. Be sure to bring Blakeley to our house for Halloween.” Connie Anderson hugged Devan, planting an air kiss near her ear. “I’m making caramel apples.”

Devan hoped her chuckle sounded sincere. “It’s what she’s been talking about since she recognized the date on the calendar. You keep spoiling her and I’ll send you her dentist bills. Call you tomorrow. ’Night, Dad!”

With a wave to her pipe-smoking father-in-law standing in the background, Devan followed her daughter to the SUV and checked to make sure she got buckled in. Then she climbed behind the wheel, fastened her own belt and pulled away from her in-laws’ home.

Although they’d just seen Connie yesterday, Devan did her best to have dinner with her and Jerrold at least once a week to keep the relationship between them and Jay’s child alive and close. They were sweet—if rather staid—people and it had been reassuring to be surrounded by their kindness and concern in the first months after Jay’s death. She felt more blessed than she deserved to be. So why didn’t the pressure in her chest ease until she was a block away from their house?

“Mom?”

“Blakeley?” They enjoyed that little tease to get each other’s attention.

Grinning, Blakeley continued, “You think it would be okay to tell Nana that I like candied apples more than the caramel ones? D’you think she knows how to make them?”

“Ah, darlin’, your daddy loved everything caramel. That’s why she keeps up the tradition.”

“What’s tradition?”

For a moment Devan had the impulse to burst into song, namely the one from Fiddler on the Roof. She’d seen it at the Dallas Summer Musicals when she was a teenager. “Things people from one culture and era do that’s unique to them. Like having turkey at Thanksgiving. Like having roast beast in Dr. Seuss’s Whosville.”

“Ooooh.” After a considerable pause, Blakeley asked, “Then she must still love Daddy more than me.”

Checking for nonexistent traffic, Devan eased the white Navigator through an intersection and passed the cemetery where her husband was buried. Mount Vance had a population under six thousand, and yet the cemetery was getting crowded. The balance of populations would get narrower if they didn’t do more to keep people here and woo their young, educated people back to raise families. “Not getting your way isn’t a sign of rejection, Blakeley,” she said at last. “Daddy was her baby, the way you’re mine. Her only one.”

“Maybe I could remind her ’bout my favorite things?”

Devan ran her teeth over her lower lip, recognizing shadows of her own youthful self-focus in her child. “No, sweetie, that’s not a polite way to think. As we grow up, it’s important to consider the feelings of others.”

A sound of panic burst from Blakeley. “I could end up eating a lot of yucky stuff for a long time!”

The minx was going to make her burst out laughing yet. “Aw, c’mon. Doesn’t it make you feel good when you see Nana’s eyes sparkle down at you with pleasure when you say ‘thank you’ for something she worked on a long time? More than once I’ve surprised myself and tasted something I ended up really liking.”

“Like what?”

“Oh…blue cheese dressing.”

When all her daughter did was cover her face and moan, Devan did chuckle and added, “Okay. How about we share Nana’s treat and get a candy apple for you from the bakery? I happen to have told them to reserve you one.”

“Wow! Thanks, Mommy!”

Hoping that she wasn’t setting herself up for an unexpected dentist visit, Devan made another turn, bringing them to Redbud Lane. But she delighted in her daughter’s glee, for tonight had drained her more than family dinners generally did. Lately, as much as she respected her in-laws, they left her feeling increasingly stifled—as if she needed more of that in her life.

Since Jay’s death sixteen months ago, people seemed to have narrowed down her existence to being Blakeley’s mother and Jay’s widow, and not much else. Even devoted and respectful customers of Dreamscapes often overlooked what it took to be a reliable entrepreneur in a town where two-thirds of the businesses were proprietorships or partnerships fighting to stay afloat, let alone out of bankruptcy court. How had this happened? And what was it doing to her personality? She used to be so independent and fearless. When everyone was sporting the Valley Girl look complete with big hair, she was into Flashdance fashion and cut her waist-length locks pixie short. When the uppity clique in school shunned a pregnant senior, Devan didn’t just ruin her cheerleader chances by befriending her, she dumped her Jell-O into the squad captain’s chicken noodle soup. Insignificant fluff compared to what was going on in the world today, but patterns were patterns.

Mead… All of this analysis was about seeing him again. Granted, she was grateful that he was alive, but she hadn’t been happy to find herself face-to-face with her past. To realize that her child had been exposed to the unknown commodity he’d become had almost caused her an internal meltdown. Why hadn’t he remained where she’d hidden him—deeply suppressed in her memories?

Odds are he should be dead. Would that be better?

Almost hiccuping as she pushed away those thoughts, Devan glanced into the rearview mirror. “Sweetie, are you sure there isn’t anything we need to do before tomorrow?”

“No…the permission slip for the trip to the Christmas tree farm is in my backpack.”

“Good. Then we can—” Blakeley’s gasp silenced her.

“Who’s that, Mommy?”

Beginning to turn into her driveway, Devan was slower than her daughter to see the person sitting on the front stoop; the porch light only gave her the benefit of identifying the person as male, an adult male, and yet fear never came into play. A sense of fatalism did. Somehow she knew from the first who it was. He had owned part of her mind since the instant she’d recognized him yesterday. That didn’t mean her heart didn’t start pounding harder as adrenaline surged through her veins.

Knowing it would be only moments before Blakeley recognized him as the man from the park, Devan said quickly, “He’s an old friend, sweetheart. The man in the woods? He’s a soldier come home.”

Blakeley said nothing.

A glance in the rearview mirror told Devan that her daughter was confused and apprehensive. Parking and shutting down the engine, she said gently, “Let’s get you inside and you can watch a little TV, while I talk to Mr. Regan, okay?”

“Should I call 911?”

Devan swept her shoulder-length hair back as she realized this was no lightweight decision. “No, ma’am. When you get inside, change into your pj’s, wash up and brush your teeth, and then you can see if there’s something on your TV channels in my room. Okay?”

“No. But I guess.”

Heaven help her, Devan didn’t know what else to say to reassure her. Exiting the truck and slipping her purse strap over her shoulder, she circled around to Blakeley’s door. Opening it, she stroked her daughter’s cheek. “It will be fine. Fine. This man has never, ever, been unkind to me or to children, sweetie. Ever.”

“Okay. Hurry, though.”

Mead stood as they approached. He waited down on the lawn as she ushered her daughter inside. Blakeley kept her head down all the while, then ran to the back of the house as Devan shut off the alarm system and set down her purse. Then Devan stepped outside again and closed the door behind her.

When she joined Mead on the lawn, her confidence wavered slightly. “Do you realize what it was like for her to see you sitting here?”

“I can’t say I did before,” he began, glancing at the door. “I do now. Sorry.”

He was wearing the denim jacket and jeans again, but tonight the weather was milder and the jacket was open. She could see he had on a white T-shirt and noted that while she was right about him being thinner than she remembered, his body appeared toned. The lack of a bandana was the only other difference. Instead a clear Band-Aid covered his scar. Devan wondered about it. Was covering it for her or Blakeley’s benefit? It had been a long time since he’d been hurt, so surely he didn’t need a bandage anymore.

“What are you doing here?” she asked more kindly. “I’m surprised my neighbors haven’t already notified the police that a stranger is lurking about.”

Exhaling, he rubbed the back of his neck. “At the risk of upsetting you more, they’re, um, not home.”

She could have seen that if she had been more alert. Everyone on their block had full lives with most families including several children who were heavily involved in extracurricular activities. She bit her lower lip.

“I only came to apologize,” Mead said wearily.

The simple, humble remark drew her focus back on him. But for Blakeley’s sake if not her own, she had to remain cautious. “At this hour?”

“It’s barely—” he glanced at his watch “—eight.”

His confusion reminded her that even without his injury, he probably would know little to nothing of the kind of concerns and routines of young families. “Mead. As unfair as this may sound, these are difficult times, crime happens everywhere, even in small towns, and people can’t be too careful. Especially not when children are involved.”

“Yeah, I’ve been watching the news a lot. I don’t know what it was like before, but it’s sure a mess now. I should have realized how this would look.” He grimaced and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I really am sorry, Devan. Everything is a learning experience for me these days.”

That remark slipped straight through her defenses and touched her heart.

She couldn’t begin to imagine what his ordeal was like. “How are you doing with that?” she asked slowly.

He uttered a brief, mirthless laugh. “I don’t know. Compared to what?”

Devan saw a flash of vulnerability in him, and barely restrained frustration. Unwise as it was, the urge to reassure was instinctive and strong. “At least you’re alive. Physically—” she gestured to encompass his tall form “—you’re all there.”

“Yeah, two hands, two feet, two eyes that work…if only we could locate my mind.”

He sounded so sad Devan ached to go to him, to slip her arms around his waist and rest her head against his chest. She didn’t dare, though, for so many reasons. Dear God, he could just have warned her that he wasn’t to be trusted. “Do the doctors say, um, that you’ll regain your memory someday? Any of it?” she added as his expression went from serious to grim.

“I’ve heard ‘the brain is the least understood part of the body’ so many times, I’ve stopped asking the doctors. Or keeping therapist appointments,” he replied. “They’re about as clueless as I am because I didn’t just experience psychological trauma, I survived a head injury. As one surgeon put it without mincing words, my brain is going to let me know what and who it wants me to be. I can either go along for the ride, or opt out.”