Rachel From the Edge

Rachel From the Edge Pt. 08

by G. Lawrence

Rachel's frustrations finally boil over

As the family gathers to hear Daniel Benson's will, old animosities leave Rachel at the center of their conflicts. Having grown up without a family, Rachel often doesn't know what to make of it. All characters are over 18 years old.

* * * * * *

Chapter Nine

UNFORGIVEN

"Home at last. Wake up, Rachy," Rory said, huddled in the limo's backseat.

It was getting close to eleven o'clock. The parking circle at Canby Place was shrouded in fog.

"I can carry her," John offered.

"This was a long day, wasn't it?" Rory said.

"For all of us. Let's not have any more funerals for a while."

"Staying over again?"

"I still haven't talked to Miss Montgomery about the will."

"You should call her Rachel. She'll be uncomfortable if you don't."

They carried Rachel toward Daniel's room before remembering she liked the butler's quarters instead. Or claimed to.

Rory chased John away to put Rachel in pajamas. As she unbuttoned the black dress and removed Rachel's underwear, it inspired feelings Rory sought to suppress, for Rachel wasn't gay. As far as she knew. But her young friend was achingly sexy, with soft skin and wonderful proportions. She wanted to give her a passionate kiss but knew that would be wrong. Finally, she wrapped her patient in blankets and quietly slipped out, only kissing her on the cheek. Rachel hardly stirred.

"The poor kid is exhausted," Rory said, going back to the kitchen. "Coffee or a drink?"

"A beer would be great. Rachel was really going there for a while. Right up until she crashed. What was that she was muttering in the car?"

"Archimedean equations," Rory said. "In Greek.

"Those numbers never leave her alone, do they?"

"When Rachel is excited about something, or when she's afraid, her adrenalin kicks in and the numbers go away. I think that's why she wanted to keep the evening going as long as she could."

"Is it schizophrenia?" John asked.

"Not according to Dr. Bellows."

"There must be some sort of treatment. Or a specialist."

"In the past, Rach was too poor. Even now, she says she doesn't have the money."

"Dad left her close to a million dollars."

"Which isn't really hers until it's probated, and Rachel thinks that will never happen. She's living day-to-day, expecting this to all go away."

"Not if I have anything to say about it. She's a sweet kid, and if she'd gotten the compensation from Dad that she deserved, she wouldn't be begging for scraps off a dead man's table."

"That's been bothering me, too. Did you hear what Sheba said? Rach could be making big money with a larger company."

"Is that why Mom changed her tune? Keeping Rachel on the farm?"

"It wouldn't surprise me. She's up to something. Just like Dad was."

"Listen, Ro, Dad didn't expect to die. I think he loved Rachel, in his own way. And he expected to take care of her. But now she needs our help. Every time I looked at her today, I thought a stiff wind might blow her away."

"She's stronger than she looks, in the ways that matter. The investors liked her, and they don't like anybody."

"Yes, she charmed everybody."

"Except Billy," Rory warned.

"No one charms Billy, unless they're giving him something."

"Yeah. That's sad. Think Mom will get him under control?"

"If she can't, nobody will."

They talked about their father, the funeral, and their mother's ambitions. To the extent they knew them. It was the first long talk they'd had in years.

"It's almost two o'clock. I should turn in," Rory said with a yawn. "I need to check on Rachel first. I'll bring her some tea."

"She was out like a light," John said.

"She doesn't sleep much. When I began taking care of her, she'd cry for three hours, sleep for three hours, and then cry for three more hours. Dad's death really hit her hard."

"I'm glad you were there for her."

"I almost wasn't. Not with what Mom was saying, and all those stories that were coming out."

"I'm ashamed of believing them, too. When I saw the bloggers piling on a defenseless woman, I should have known something was wrong."

Rory stretched and went to the kitchen. The kettle on the stove was always warm. John followed. She made a cup of herbal tea.

"Would it be okay if I take it to her?" John asked.

"Don't mention the legal stuff. Not tonight."

"Not a problem."

Rory stopped him. The wavy auburn hair was shaggier now. The eyes more thoughtful. Suddenly she needed to hug him.

"I'm so glad you came home. I've missed you so much," she said.

"Everything's going to be okay, Ro," he promised.

John knocked on the door to the butler's quarters, still wondering why Rachel wasn't staying in the master suite.

"Miss Montgomery?" he whispered.

"Come in," a drowsy voice answered.

John crept in as Rachel was sitting up. She was wearing pink cotton pajamas, lying under a heavy quilt. As John turned on the light, she took off the engagement ring and put it under the pillow. She tried to be subtle, but John noticed.

"I didn't know you were asleep. I can come back."

"I wasn't really sleeping," she said, rubbing her eyes.

John looked for a chair, but the room wasn't big enough. No wonder Martha complains, he thought.

"Sit on the bed," Rachel said, pulling her legs up to make room. She accepted the tea, sipping slowly as she tested the temperature.

John still couldn't get over how frail she looked. He'd seen photos of Rachel with his father playing tennis, and heard she was a strong swimmer. Seeing her in this condition made him angry.

"I just wanted to see how you are. This was a hard day," John said.

Rachel smiled and lowered her head. John sensed the attraction his father had felt, and was not immune. There was something about her big brown eyes that drew him in. And even in her weakened state, her body had a quiet sensuality that she seemed unaware of. He needed to remember that he had a girlfriend.

"This was not a hard day, Mr. Benson. Someday, maybe, I can tell you about hard days," Rachel replied.

"Thank you for helping us. Dad's death, and everything else ... It's been difficult. You made it easier."

"I wanted to help Rory. I owe her so much. And I don't want your mother mad at me again."

John couldn't help laughing.

"She can be quite the taskmaster."

"I don't mind that. My mind wanders. Too much, lately. Your mother brings me into focus."

"Can I ask what that's all about?"

"Another time. Maybe. But it's not a disease. Lots of people deal with worse problems."

"Are you dealing with it?"

"Wanting to die wasn't a good choice, but Rory straightened me out. And your mom paid my mother's medical bills. I can't tell you how much that means to me. It's given my life back. Now I just need to get better and start looking for a job. Hopefully something that doesn't involve a stripper pole."

"Money isn't going to be a problem for you."

"You don't need to go there."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Are we speaking confidentially?"

"Lawyer-client privilege. Nothing goes beyond this room."

Rachel sipped more tea, trying to find the right words.

"I don't know what this will is all about, but we both know I won't be getting any money. I never expected any."

"Mom opened a brokerage account for you."

"It's not money from the will, even I know that. It's her money."

"You could write a book?" John said, testing her.

"Would you want to be remembered as Danny Benson's sex toy? Have someone turn it into a movie?"

"No, that wouldn't appeal to me. What about your job at M & B? And those things you were telling the investors."

"Your mother needed the investors reassured, so I reassured them."

"It wasn't true?"

"Oh, it was all true. MFI will do amazing things."

"I don't understand."

"My concentration isn't what it was," she confessed. "The numbers ... I can't ... Don't worry, the company has a bright future. I'm not the only mathematician investigating fractal engineering anymore."

"What does Rory say about this?"

"Rory needs to go back to school. She's sacrificed enough for me already," Rachel replied. She finished her tea, putting the cup on the nightstand before settling back.

"You're tired. I should go," John said. Rachel stopped him.

"Do you have a normal life in Boston?" she asked.

"Yeah, I guess so. You could call it normal."

"You went to Stanford, and then Harvard Law?"

"Dad wanted me to go to Yale, but I needed to get out from under his shadow. It's one of the reasons I haven't been home much the last few years."

"One?"

"It's personal."

"Your family has no problem asking me all sorts of personal questions."

"Dad slept with a girl I liked. Cynthia and I weren't a couple at the time, but I needed some distance after that."

"I attended Harvard. Not the law school."

"And you applied for the graduate program at Stanford. We almost crossed paths," John said. "Maybe you can go back to school?"

"No, that's over. Who would give someone like me a scholarship?"

"Why wouldn't they?"

"I'm still a national joke. That's not going away."

"I know it's been rough, but you're wrong to think Dad's will won't be respected. Even if it's not, Rory and I would help you. We're inheriting an awful lot of money."

"Thank you, Mr. Benson, but I don't take charity. I learned a long time ago that nothing comes for free. Are you still dating that girl?"

"Alicia. She plays shortstop for Boston College. We're thinking of getting an apartment in Brookline."

"During my last year at Harvard, I rented a loft in Little Italy. It had lace curtains, and I could see the river. It was nice."

John noticed how sad she sounded. As if the best part of her life was over.

"Do you know what I think? I think you're so accustomed to being hurt, you're afraid of everything. And everyone. I see that now. And I promise, it's going to get better. Just give it time."

"I'm trying," Rachel said, starting to tear up.

"What can I do to help?" he asked.

"Please tell me stories until I fall asleep."

"About what?"

"Your life in Boston. Having a job. Going to work," she said, rolling over. "Tell me what it's like dating a normal girl."

* * * * * *

The house slept late Monday morning, quiet with Martha off visiting her grandchildren. When Pamela arrived, Rachel was in the kitchen making hominy grits, eggs-over-easy, pork sausages and wheat toast. Sliced oranges and bananas were on the sideboard. John was assigned the job of keeping her calm, which had its challenges. When he offered to stir the grits, Rachel threatened to chop off his fingers. He assumed she was joking.

"Morning, Mom," Rory said, answering the front door.

"A wonderful morning. How is our superstar?" Pamela said, dropping her jacket over a chair.

"John is watching her," Rory assured her. "What's this about a superstar?"

"The investors are happy. Very, very happy. The press is off our necks. The top news of the day has you shoving Bobby Marbury into the marina. And Ruth Sparrow's column is glowing. She is in love with Rachel. It couldn't have gone any better."

"Billy didn't think so."

"Billy and Oliver will be here soon. We'll talk this out."

"Here?" Rory said.

"I'll have Killer watching him. If Billy gets out of line, he has orders to beat the holy crap out of him."

"Does Mr. McLane like being called Killer? Don't most people call him Big Bob?"

"When I want people to be afraid, I call him Killer."

"I'd rather not let Billy within ten miles of Rachel, Killer or no Killer."

"It's her choice."

"No, Mom, it's your choice. Rachel will do whatever you say."

"That does make things easier," Pamela agreed.

"Are you really going to let her keep the house? And the money? There was a lot of talk last night. Everyone thinks you're just biding your time, waiting to pounce."

"It's not really up to me."

"The hell it isn't."

"If you must know, I'm giving it serious thought. It's not that much money, and I have no use for the house. M & B is a tougher sell. No one can tell me what the damn thing is worth. But since Rachel has been wise enough to let me run it, I'll probably let her keep that, too. It's not important enough to fight over."

"It was a week ago."

"No, dear, a week ago it was about principle."

"If you're lying to Rachel, it will break her heart. You know that, don't you? Not about the money. That doesn't matter to her. But pretending you care? That will hurt."

Rory was pressing her mother hard. Pamela didn't care to be pressed.

"Do I hear someone making breakfast? I'm famished," Pamela said, heading up the ramp toward the kitchen.

Pamela was less pleased when she entered. Rachel looked unusually fixated, and much too weak for so much effort. John was trying to make her ease off, but Rachel was in one of her moods. She had managed to splash grits on her cheek. Adorable, Pamela thought, but unacceptable.

"We're going to reorganize the labor force," Pamela announced, rolling up her sleeves.

"Thank God," John said.

Rachel didn't take notice, standing over the skillet.

"John, pull the heavy stool into the middle of the kitchen. Rory, strap that young lady down like Martha did," Pamela ordered. "I'll finish the cooking."

"Leave my eggs alone," Rachel snapped with an angry glare.

John dragged the stool over, lifted Rachel on it, and Rory tightened a wide belt across her lap. Rachel resisted, but not much. She didn't have the strength. Then Pamela stood directly before her, took Rachel's hands, and made eye contact.

"Rachel, dear. It's me, Pamela. Do you recognize me?"

"Mrs. Benson? Did I just yell at you? I am so sorry," Rachel said, tearing up.

"No tears this morning. Were you seeing the numbers again?" Pamela asked.

"Yes. But I never see the numbers while cooking. They are supposed to go away."

"It's the stress, sweetheart. The next time you make breakfast, the numbers will be gone. I promise. Now I know how to make a family breakfast. I did it for twenty years. Just relax and watch."

To Rory's amazement, that is what Rachel did. She sat quietly and watched, wiping the tears with her sleeve.

Pamela had not forgotten her kitchen skills, moving efficiently between the stove, refrigerator and microwave.

"There, food is served," Pamela said. "John, please help Rachel into the dining room. Pour the orange juice."

John helped Rachel down, then decided it was easier to carry her. The waif weighed all of nothing.

"Mom, that was amazing," Rory whispered, helping with the plates. "How did you know to do that?"

"I had a video conference this morning with Dr. Brandon Keller of the Swiss Institute. He's the world's leading expert on dissociative disorders."

"Dissociative?"

"According to my $3,000 lecture, Rachel has a condition that causes a disconnection between her thoughts, surroundings, and people. Probably the result of a traumatic childhood experience. These escapes she makes from reality are involuntary. And potentially dangerous."

"Listen to you. You've become quite the expert."

"Dr. Keller is preparing a regimen for her. It's unlikely there's a cure, but psychotherapy and medication should help. I've found the therapist you wanted, Dr. Susanne Belcher. She's the best there is."

"The world's leading specialist? A therapist? That's a lot of effort."

"Rachel came through for me yesterday. It's the least I owe her."

Breakfast was pleasant, the patio door left open for fresh air. Most of the discussion was about the funeral and reception. Rory noticed that Rachel stayed engaged, not saying much but listening.

"Are you sure it's okay for Billy to visit?" Pamela asked.

"It must be difficult to have your children fighting over me," Rachel replied.

"This isn't about you, honey," Pamela said. "Take a look. John likes you. He wants to be your lawyer. Rory wants to be your best friend."

"Rory is my best friend," Rachel said, taking her hand.

"So, you see? My children are not fighting over you, only Billy is making a squawk. His issues are his own."

"Mom's right. Regardless of what Billy says, don't let it bother you," Rory agreed.

Two cars came up the steep driveway from the security gate, a midnight blue Mercedes Benz with Oliver and Big Bob McLane, and a rented red Porsche driven by Billy Benson. Pamela went out to meet them in the parking circle.

"Is Billy minding his manners?" Pamela asked.

"Don't get your hopes up," Oliver answered.

Oliver wore a navy-blue business suit, having a law firm to go to. Next to him stood a tall middle-aged black man wearing a beige trench coat and a gray fedora. He looked like a professional wrestler. William looked like he was fresh off the yacht, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, scruffy jeans and white tennis shoes. He had his father's wavy auburn hair and hazel eyes.

"I'll be right out here, ma'am," McLane said in a gruff voice. "Mind if I check the security systems? Make sure everything is up to date."

"Thank you, Killer. Anything you can do to help," Pamela said.

As the party entered, Rory and John went to confront William in the atrium where the morning sun glistened off the naked Greek statues. Rory was ready to light into him when she noticed Rachel retreating to the living room, sitting on the floor before the fireplace.

"We can't do this here. Not in front of Rach," Rory said.

"You're very lucky, little brother. No family ruckus today," John said.

"Mendelson has been lecturing me all morning," William replied. "Let's just get this over with. Can I get a drink?"

"It's not even noon yet," John said.

"I've been working on my boat since sunrise," William answered, following them into the house.

"Working? Isn't that a new word for you?" Rory said.

"Children, we're not here to discuss life choices," Pamela lectured. "We're here to keep our family business out of the gossip columns. I'm tired of dealing with bad publicity."

"Miss Bad Publicity is sitting right over there. Why don't you deal with her?" William said, thrusting a finger in Rachel's direction.

"I have," Pamela said. "She's worked hard to earn my trust. You'd be surprised how many problems that solves."

"Come on, Mom. I know it's a trick. Everybody says so. No way are you giving all that money to Dad's whore. What's the real deal?"

It was hard to blame him for asking. Rory had asked the same question. John made his suspicions clear by offering to be Rachel's lawyer. Even Oliver had expressed doubts about Pamela's motives.

"It's disturbing to have my own family thinking me such a creature," Pamela said.

She went to the hearth and sat down next to Rachel, now subdued from the energetic woman making breakfast hours before. She was curled up in blankets, looking anxious.

"I'll have the room," Pamela said.

Her family went out on the patio, closing the sliding glass door. William picked up a bottle of Johnny Walker on the way.

"I'm sorry this is hard for you," Pamela said, tucking the blanket around Rachel's shoulders. "Do you trust me?"

Rachel looked down into her lap, clutching her fingers. She wasn't wearing the ring.

"You really don't have a choice, do you? I'm sorry about that, too. Sweetheart, Daniel didn't love you just because you're pretty. Daniel could have any pretty girl he wanted. But I won't say being pretty didn't help." She gave her a poke with her elbow. Rachel smiled.

"My own family doesn't trust me. Oliver doesn't. But you and I, we've moved past the hard feelings. The harsh words. Haven't we?"

"They are the past," Rachel agreed. She started to lay down on the carpet. Pamela pulled her into her lap, stroking the long brown hair.

"I know you're sad, and that you miss him. And I know you're afraid. I know you're afraid all the time, and why. I spoke to Dr. Brandon Keller this morning. Do you know him?"