Lauren was very aware of the women’s center housed in these buildings now for the last decade or so. The woman who had founded the center had spoken to several of Lauren’s women’s groups in Santa Barbara over the years. She knew Jane Thomas well enough to recognize her and exchange pleasantries, and she admired her tireless hard work for the center.
The Thomas Center was a place for disadvantaged and abused women to reinvent themselves. A place for healing and rehabilitating, a place of hope. Women from all walks of life were welcomed.
Lauren parked in the lot on the side of the main building and sat there for a moment. She felt abused—by life and by herself. No doubt she needed healing.
Hope, at this point, looked like a lovely white bird just out of reach. She had held on to it once, held it too tightly, and it had escaped her grasp. Now she kept snatching at it, pulling the feathers from its tail, but never quite getting hold of it.
She dug a couple of Tylenol out of her purse and washed them down with Evian water. Eleven o’clock and her head was still pounding from crying and drinking and not sleeping the night before. She had taken the care to put makeup on, but knew it couldn’t do much to hide her exhaustion or the fact that she was hungover, or that she had spent most of the night beating herself up for being weak and stupid.
She didn’t bother to look in the mirror to confirm what she knew she would see. She put her sunglasses on and got out of the car.
Anne Leone kept an office here in the Thomas Center. Lauren asked for directions at the front desk and kept her head down as she walked past Jane Thomas’s office to the far end of the hall. It seemed a long walk. The heels of her shoes clacked against the polished Mexican tile, and the sound floated all the way to the top of the barrel vaulted ceiling.
She paused at the office door. It opened from the inside before she could change her mind and leave.
Anne greeted her with an easy smile, as if they had been friends for a long time.
“Hi, Lauren, come on in. The desk called and told me you were here.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to chat with you on the phone when you called,” she went on as she led the way back from a small reception area to her private office. “I had someone waiting for me.”
“No problem,” Lauren said. “I had errands to run anyway. Not a problem stopping by.”
She didn’t say that she had a suspicion this was a setup. Not a great idea to show paranoia in front of a mental health professional.
“Have a seat,” Anne said, waving toward a cushy gold chenille sofa and two matching oversized chairs as she went around behind her French antique writing desk. A coffee station was set up on the credenza beneath the bookcases. “Would you like something to drink? I’m having peppermint tea. A little morning sickness today.”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
Even with morning sickness, she looked the picture of glowing health. Especially by comparison, Lauren thought.
“I hope you’re all right with having Leah come stay tonight,” Anne said. “Wendy is all excited.”
“Her mother is going out of town?” Lauren asked, settling into one of the chairs.
“Yes. Sara has been making a name for herself as a sculptor. She just found out she’s won the commission to do a piece for a municipal building in the Monterey area. She needs to go up there for a meeting.”
“Is Wendy’s father around?”
Anne set a pair of Italian pottery mugs of tea on the coffee table and settled into the near corner of the sofa.
“That’s complicated,” she said on a sigh. “Wendy’s parents divorced a few years ago. Wendy hasn’t forgiven her dad for that. She doesn’t want to have anything to do with him—beyond punishing him, that is. Steve pays handsomely for those riding lessons, and the tennis lessons, and the clothes . . .”
She reached for her mug and took a sip of the tea. “She’ll work her way through it eventually. Her father is a man with some issues of his own, but he loves his daughter. And she loves him. She’s just hurt.”
“It’s not easy being a kid these days,” Lauren said.
“I’m sure it’s been difficult for Leah—losing her sister and her father so close together.”
“It’s been a nightmare.”
“How old was she when her sister went missing?”
“Twelve. Leslie had just turned sixteen. Their relationship was a little difficult at the time. Leah worshipped her older sister, but Leslie was at that age. She wanted to be independent. She didn’t want to be bothered by a little sister. And Leslie and her dad were butting heads a lot. Leah didn’t like it.
“Leah likes things neat and tidy, everything and everyone in their proper place,” she said, picking at a dark stain on the thigh of her jeans.
“And suddenly nothing was in order,” Anne said.
“And then her evil mother uprooted her and made her move to a new town.”
“There’s a lot to be said for fresh starts,” Anne said. “And it seems like Leah has some structure to give her security now. She has her job at the ranch. She has Wendy for a friend. I’m happy to be a part of the equation. She doesn’t need to feel at loose ends. That should help.”
“Yeah,” Lauren said.
She wanted to get up and leave. She knew what was coming next. Next would be the How about you? How are you feeling? Have you dealt with your emotions? The usual therapist bullshit. And she would get annoyed and lose her temper and be a bitch and offend Anne Leone.
“You’re welcome to come too, if you like,” Anne said easily. “An evening full of children probably isn’t high on your to-do list, but if you don’t want to stay home alone . . .”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, staring down at the steaming mug of tea.
“I still can’t stay alone.”
Anne’s admission brought Lauren’s head up.
Anne shrugged. “It’s been five years. I still can’t go to my own front door if I don’t know who’s on the other side of it. When Vince goes out of town, a deputy comes and parks a cruiser in front of the house, or one of the off-duty guys comes by.”
“What happened?”
“I was abducted from my home by a serial killer,” she said matter-of-factly, like this was something that happened to every third person. “He would have happily added me to his list of victims, but his ten-year-old son distracted him at a crucial moment and I hit him in the head with a tire iron.”
Lauren practically had to pick her jaw up off the floor to say, “Oh my God.”
“See?” Anne said. “I wasn’t patronizing you when I said I know what it is to be a victim of a violent crime. I lived it. I live it every day. And every night.”
“I’m so sorry,” Lauren said, the words tumbling out of her mouth. “I didn’t realize. I feel so stupid.”
Anne frowned and made a motion with her hand. “Don’t. I didn’t mean for that—”
“No,” Lauren said. “I’m always irritated when people tell me they’re sorry. What do they have to be sorry for? And now I’m saying it, and I’m realizing that people say it because they feel stupid that they have no better words.”
“What else could they say?” Anne asked.
“I don’t know. How about, I hope the bastard rots in hell for what he did to you?”
Anne laughed out loud. “Now I like that! That’s what a real friend would say!”
Lauren found herself chuckling. “I’m such a lady! You must be so impressed with me!”
“I am,” Anne said, her dark eyes full of genuine kindness. “I am. Maybe we can collaborate on an etiquette handbook for crime victims and their friends and families.”