Chapter 24: Discoveries
Laura and Remington sat on the bed, their backs leaning against the headboard, the strongbox between them, going through its contents.
"Stock certificates," she announced, thumbing through the papers in her hand. "Are they worth anything?" He relieved her of the papers and glanced through them while she reached for the next folded grouping of papers.
"I'd invested a bit in this company, got out fairly early as the company didn't perform as expected," he mulled, "But, given the number of shares, when she bought in and the value today, we can likely get two, three thousand out of it. I'd reinvest in something safe, a fifteen-year bond, perhaps, that would provide Sophie with a nice little rainy day fund when she comes of age."
"'We' can?" she questioned. "The guardianship gives us the right to act on Sophie's behalf, but I'd think those stocks would be part of Clarissa's estate." She turned the papers in her hand in his direction.
"Last Will and Testament? Anything of interest?" Laura gave her head a slow shake.
"It was executed five years ago, so needless to say, there's no provisions for her guardianship or care." She thumbed through a couple more pages. "Bernard is named as executor."
"Good, good. He'll do right by the girl. What else have we got?" he asked, fishing in the box and taking out the next paper. A smile lifted his lips. "Well, this should be of some assistance to us." She turned and looked at him questioningly. "Sophie's birth certificate. Sophia Alexa Jensen. Date of birth March nineteenth, nineteen-eighty-seven. Mother Clarissa Faith Jensen. Father…" he turned his head and raised a brow at her, "… left blank."
"Thank God for that," she commented, then smiled at whatever was held in her hand, as he reached into the box again.
"What have you got there?" he asked, curious as to what had seemed to capture her fancy. Her fingers traced something on the paper.
"The commemorative birth certificate." He looked over her shoulder at the announcement which featured ink imprints of the then newborn's hands and feet. They'd had Olivia's framed and hung over her crib, and it, along with a collection of Remington's sketches, now hung above the headboard of her bed.
"Clarissa had a fair amount of life insurance," he shared. "Should be enough to pay her final expenses and still add a bit to that nest egg for Sophie." She removed a stack of photos from bottom of the box, then handed him the only item remaining: a small envelope.
She browsed through the photos, with him looking over her shoulder. Clarissa, hair matted with sweat, without makeup, holding a newly born Sophie; Sophie's nursery picture… all-in-all, almost two dozen pictures, a third of those of Clarissa and Sophie together. The pictures were, without a doubt, a treasure trove of artifacts for a child who'd lost her mother at such a young age. Placing the pictures along with all the paperwork, except the small envelope Remington still held in his hand, back in the box, she leaned her head back and sighed, while caressing her stomach as Baby Steele made its presence known.
"What's in the envelope?" she asked, as he opened the flap and dropped the contents into his hand. He held up a key between two fingers. The key was imprinted with '304'.
"Safe deposit box I'd wager." Sliding it back into the envelope, he set it on his bedside table then closed the strong box and set it aside. "We'll have Mildred try to track it down tomorrow." He sidled closer to her, and eased her shirt up to bare her rounded stomach. With a sign and a smile, she closed her eyes, as his fingers brushed whisper soft patterns over her flesh, soothing both mother and child.
"Tired?" he questioned. She hummed in answer.
"I haven't slept well the past couple of nights," she offered.
"Perhaps we should delay listening to the—"
"No, no," she interrupted. "I'd like to know what's on that tape before we meet with Abernathy tomorrow." He knew there was no point in arguing, stubborn woman that she was. He landed a kiss on her belly, then pulled down her shirt, before sitting up and grabbing the microcassette player off his bedside table and loading the tape.
"Let's see what we've got here then, eh?" He repositioned himself to recline next to her, then hit the play button.
"Gabe, we need to talk."
"The only thing that needs to happen involves you, me and that bed right there."
"Gabe, stop it… I said stop!" Struggling could be heard. "You need to listen to me. I don't want you coming around here anymore. I'm-"
"How many times do I have to tell you, I don't care what a whore like you wants? I've bought and paid for you a dozen times over. You're mine until I tell you otherwise. Now, get your ass in that bed, Clarissa."
"No! I mean it, this is done. We're done." Flesh contacting flesh could be heard, before what sounded like material ripping. "Gabe, stop… stop… No… No!" A man howled, and more rustling could be heard, then a woman panting.
"You'll pay for that, bitch," the man's voice warned menacingly.
"I swear to you, if you touch me again I'll—"
"Call the cops?" The man laughed. "I am the cops. Who do you think will be believed? The hooker with a rap sheet as long as my arm or the Deputy Chief of the LAPD. I think we both know the answer to that question, don't we?"
"I don't believe every cop is crooked. I'll keep trying until someone listens! I'll go to the press! I do know people, well-respected people, that—" Her words were cut off and an ominous thud was heard, followed by the sounds of a struggle and a series of gasps, accompanied by deep throated grunts.
"Mommy?" a small, frightened voice entered the fray. Laura's hand lifted to lay at her throat upon hearing Sophie's voice. A series of coughs ensued, then a sharply drawn in breath.
"It's alright, baby," a hoarse voice assured. "Go back to bed."
"I'm scared," a tear-tinged voice answered.
"Sophia, go to your room and don't let me see you again tonight," a callous voice boomed, "Or, I'll—"
"Don't!" Clarissa cut him off, sharply, then softened her voice. "Come on, baby, I'll take you back to bed."
A child's crying could be heard, moving further and further away, then the room fell into virtual silence, save for some vague rustling indicating a presence still in the room. Picking up recorder, Remington fast forwarded several times before conversation resumed.
"I want you out of my house!" Clarissa ordered, when she returned to the room.
"Haven't we already been through this?"
"Sophie is nearly four-years-old now. It was hard enough on her when she began understanding you treat her as though she doesn't exist, but yelling at her, threatening her? She's a good kid, Gabe. A really good kid. I won't have her feeling unwanted or frightened in her own home."
"Any more talk about walking out, and the little bastard will find herself in the system. One phone call from me, and you'll never see the brat again," he threatened.
"She's your child, Gabe! You wouldn't put your own child—"
"She's not my fucking kid! She could be the kid of any man her whore mother spread her—"
"I'm a good mother," Clarissa cut him off, desperately. "There are no grounds for her to be taken from me! I'm not going to let your threats—"
"Oh, it's not a threat, Clarissa, it's a promise. I own this damned town. I'll have a half dozen people lined up like that," the snapping of fingers could be heard, "Ready to testify that you neglect the well-being of that kid, and conduct… 'business'… at home, around your very impressionable child."
"I know things," her voice hardened, "Things that, if I talk, could send you to prison for a long time, so don't you dare threaten to have Sophie taken—" Her words ended on a sharp intake of breath.
As did the tape. Turning it over, as Remington suspected, the other side was blank. He rubbed at his mouth with a hand, then turned to look at Laura, whose face reflected his own disbelief and shock. She was first to speak.
"After listening to this, I don't see how any court could award him custody of Sophie, daughter or not."
"I'd always feared Clarissa's choice of profession would one day see her turning to drugs, as I'd seen happen so often to lasses on the streets of Brixton," he ruminated. "I've seen the toll, the cost, of selling one's body in order to survive. But I never imagined this." Nor my part in it, he added silently to himself. She picked up the tape recorder and set it on her bedside table, then lay down on her side. Reaching for his hand she waited until he spooned behind her, then slid a hand under her nightshirt to rest his hand against the flesh of her rounded belly.
"I know I've… struggled… with the part she played in your attempts to avoid deportation," Laura admitted, quietly, "But I wish she'd come to you… us. Neither she nor Sophie should have been subjected to this man's… tyranny. I can't even imagine the… sense of betrayal… she must have lived with every day. To love someone, believe they love you, only to have them reject your child, to hold you… hostage. We could have helped her." She shook her head.
"I can't help but think had it not been for my…" he swallowed hard, "…hiring her… That she'd never have met the man, might well still be alive." It had taken a great deal of courage to make such an admission, understanding he was risking reviving the harm he'd subjected Laura to at the time. She rolled to her back and looked up at him, a hand stroking his shoulder.
"You can't think like that," she advised, quietly. "Yes, it's true, she may have never met the man absent her arrest that day, but then she wouldn't have had Sophie either." Her fingers strayed into his hair. "And I think if Clarissa were here right now, she'd tell you the nearly four years she had with Sophie was worth all the rest. I know there's not a single event from my past I wouldn't willingly repeat if it meant having Olivia. Whatever I've gone through to get here, she… this child…" she lay her hand over his where it still rested against her stomach "… you… make it all worth it." As had been the case from nearly the beginning, she'd found a way to soothe his heart. Pressing up on an arm, he leaned down and claimed her lips with his.
"Laura," he murmured against her lips, before settling in more fully, tasting and teasing her lips with his. She drew a hand through his hair, then over a shoulder and down his back, before skimming it around his waist, and, with a flat palm, pressed against his stomach, urged him to his back. He laughed softly, and pushed upwards to lean his back against the headboard, stretching his long legs out in front of him, then offered her a hand getting up and steadying her as she straddled his lap. Her lips lifted in a knowing smile, and she drew her fingers around his ears, down his neck then over his shoulders before burying her finger tips in the thick hair of his chest.
"Have something in mind, sweetheart?" she asked, cupping the side of his neck with one hand and peppering a trail of kisses along the opposite jaw. Closing his eyes at the feel of her lips against his skin, his fingers efficiently released the buttons of her shirt, before clasping her face in his hands and drawing her lips to his. He kissed her with that tender fervor that still never failed to make goosebumps scatter across her skin and her toes curl. With two final brushes of his lips over hers, he ended the kiss. White hot blue eyes met dazed brown eyes.
"That depends on if you're still tired." She laughed quietly. The truth of the matter was her body had flared to life as soon as he'd kissed her the first time. It had been three nights since they'd made love, still a rarity for them, and that was normally during times of strife. Combine that with her raging hormones and the intoxicating man beneath her?
"Oh," she tilted her head and drew her fingers tips from his shoulders to waist, "I think I could be roused." He lifted his brows, as he drew her shirt down her arms then tossed it away.
"A…roused?" he questioned, drawing his thumbs over the tips of already hardened nipples. Instinctively, in reaction to his touch, she ground her hips against his.
"That too…" she agreed breathily. He palmed her face and drew her back to him.
"This is going to take a while, love," he murmured before his lips brushed hers, and he traced her lips with a string of small kisses. She'd known the moment he'd reclined against the headboard that this would be the case. That particular position always indicated his need to rediscover her body and would be filled with long, languid, whisper soft touches of his fingers to her skin as he sought make her nerve endings sing.
"I thought it might," she hummed, tipping back her head to give him access to her neck. It was an invitation he had no desire to refuse.