Back Where She Belongs(38)

“No, Mom,” she snapped back. “My trouble is that you wish I’d never been born. I was a mistake. We both know that.”

Her mother stared at her. “No child is a mistake,” she said in a low voice. “You’ll see when you have your own.”

“What makes you think I want any?” She did, though. In her heart of hearts, once she proved to herself that she was capable of that level of love.

“You’ll do what you’re called upon to do. One step and then the next.” She thrust the folder at Tara. “These calls won’t make themselves. Call Raven’s Dry Cleaning right away. They close early. It’s the Jewish Sabbath.” She turned on her heels and walked away.

Tara stood there, reeling. She should probably be angry, but she realized she wasn’t. No child is a mistake. Somehow that soothed her—balm to the sting—and eased the lonely hollow she’d always felt inside knowing that she was not wanted.

For the first time, it occurred to her that her mother might have doubted herself, worried she wasn’t up to motherhood, that she’d done the best she could with what she had, who she was.

Her mother had assumed Tara would have children. She had more faith in Tara than Tara did in herself. That touched Tara.

Something bloomed in her, a new sturdiness, a new confidence. All from the smallest hint of honesty from her mother. Coming from her mother, she realized, that was big. Very big.

Buoyed by the feeling, she decided her first call would be to the insurance adjuster. She was determined to reach him this time. When she told the secretary she needed to touch base with the adjuster before she took any legal action, he was suddenly on the phone.

“I understand you have some concerns, Ms. Wharton,” he said, cutting her off before she could say more than hello, his voice icy, “but I have been in contact with your family’s attorney, and I assumed he would answer your questions. Since that seems not to be the case, I’ll repeat what I told him. I’ve examined and rated the car and taken statements from the law enforcement officer who first responded to the scene, a Mr. Bill Fallon, chief of the Wharton P.D. There were no witnesses. As the case proceeds we’ll work with your attorney regarding the settlement of the bodily injury claims. That’s all I can tell you at this time.”

“Did you take photos at the accident site? Did you examine the engine?”

“I determined the level of damage and coverage pertinence. This is a run-of-the-mill, single-car loss. There was no need for more.”

“Run-of-the-mill? My father is dead, my sister in a coma.”

There was a pause while he inhaled. “I simply meant that the circumstances are clear. We’re not disputing coverage, as there are no SLIs—Suspicious Loss Indicators—signs that the driver, policyholder or car owner committed fraud related to the policy.”

“There is plenty that’s suspicious about this accident. We believe there’s evidence the car was struck from behind and possibly that the engine was tampered with. The emergency brake was engaged, but there were no skid marks. Something malfunctioned.”

“There was a collision? Chief Fallon did not mention this.”

“No, because he’s actively covering up some aspects of the accident.”

“We haven’t yet received his report.”

“Which won’t tell you a thing. What we need is for you to release the car to us so we can have the engine fully examined.”

“Hmm,” he said. “With a settlement of this size, we, of course, are interested in correctly assessing responsibility...”

“So you’ll release the car to our mechanic?”

“No, but I will submit the case to our SIU—Special Investigation Unit. You’ll need to email me a narrative description of the evidence, along with any photographs. If there was malfeasance, we’ll want to subrogate the perpetrator.”

“What does that mean?”

“Seek to recover our settlement costs from the person who committed the fraud. If the SIU deems it worthy, an investigator will do in-person interviews, compare statements, take pictures, contract with a collision reconstructionist and anything else we need to resolve the case.”

This was exactly what she was after. Excited, she said, “How soon before we see the investigator?”

“That depends on backlog, the significance of the settlement, the cost of the investigation compared with the likelihood that we’ll prove our case.”

Tara did her best to convince him that urgent action was needed and when she hung up, she sent him the narrative and photos. Just in case, Tara Google-searched collision reconstructionist, then called a company in L.A. she found online. The Wharton name, famous in engineering circles, snagged the expert’s interest, and once he’d charged $500 to her credit card, he promised he’d get back to her in a day or two with his Level I analysis, which wouldn’t hold up in court, but might impress the insurance company’s investigators.

After that, adrenalized from the conversations, she did more online research, finding no reports of acceleration errors or brake failures for the Tesla, which also had great safety ratings. Finished, she shut the lid of her laptop. As far as the car went, all she could do now was wait.

She called Dylan to fill him in, trying to ignore the way her heart lifted when he answered, how his voice in her ear sent goose bumps of pleasure down her arms, how they both seemed to scramble for any topic to prolong the conversation, the intimacy of their laughter, the pauses when they just breathed at each other, how good it felt to be connected to him, how smart he was, how kind, how supportive, and how delighted he seemed by every word she spoke.

They were friends. They’d decided. They’d been certain. But they were talking to each other like a couple just falling in love. And she couldn’t wait to see him Monday night when she would talk to Candee.

After that, Tara got busy with her mother’s calls. She would double the donations from the previous year easily. It was almost laughable, the fact that CEOs trusted Tara to help them with decisions controlling the lives of thousands of employees, yet her mother didn’t believe her capable of asking for a few measly donations from small-town businesses. It boggled the mind. She refused to let it get to her. She was bigger than that.

Tara sighed. It wore her out how much she had to be bigger than since she’d returned to her family, Dylan and this town.

No child is a mistake. There had been a flash of fire in her mother’s eyes, a set of her jaw that still moved Tara.

One step and then the next.

Absolutely right.

* * *

“SHE’S NOT HERE yet, is she?” Candee said when Dylan opened the door to her Monday evening.

“Not yet. You look nice.” She’d dressed for a date in a short, sexy dress and heels, with her hair up. She’d fussed for Tara, which gave him a pang.

She beamed. “When I ran into her at Wharton I looked like crap. I don’t want her to think you married some loser.”

“You’re not a loser, Candee, and you never look like crap.” Maybe when she got to know Tara, Candee would stop seeing her as this impossible ideal. Or maybe she’d sense his growing feelings for her and it would be so much worse. Dread tightened his muscles.

Duster came over to greet her and she patted him absently. “Now, what are you serving?” She looked toward the kitchen. “Wait. No food?”

“This is a meeting, not a party. There’s beer.” He intended to stay stone-cold sober to keep the conversation on track and away from awkward topics.

“That’s no way to host.” She looked him over. “Not a T-shirt. Please put on something more respectful.”

He rolled his eyes, but he went to change if it made Candee more comfortable. The doorbell rang as he was buttoning a blue oxford shirt and when he came out, Candee had let Tara in. She wore jeans and a short-sleeved yellow shirt that shimmered in the light. Silk or satin. Something that looked liquid.

Tara crouched down for Duster to put his paws on her shoulder and do the kiss trick.

“That’s cool,” Candee said, but she looked a little startled. Duster never did tricks for Candee, as much as he loved her.

“I taught him that in high school,” Tara said with a shrug, catching Candee’s tone and clearly trying to minimize the damage. “Old dog, old trick.”

“I put out snacks,” Candee said. She motioned at the cocktail table, which held the German chocolate cupcakes on a plate, the vinegar chips in a bowl. Great.

Tara gave a surprised laugh.

“It’s all he had,” Candee said, puzzled by the reaction. “To drink there’s beer...”

“No, no. The snacks are fine.” She shot a look at Dylan, who smiled sheepishly.

“What’s the joke?” Candee demanded, clearly feeling left out.

“It’s not a joke,” Tara said. “It’s—”