Inheritance Tax by InitialLuv

Chapter Eight (In which Mark learns more about Olivia, and Mark and Martina review their chemistry notes.)

True to McCormick's conjecture, Charlie Friedman was not available when Hardcastle called, and the judge had to settle for leaving a call-back message with the nurse. The next phone call was to the cab company, so Martina could get a ride back to her hotel. McCormick had offered to drive her and save her the cab fare, but was immediately shot down by both Martina ("it's too far, way out by the airport") and by Hardcastle ("you're not going anywhere, sport, so just forget it!").

"Well, can I at least go outside?" Mark shot back defiantly, as if daring the older man to confine him to the den. "I need some air."

"Just don't go too far," Hardcastle ordered, knowing of McCormick's habit of wandering the beach. "When Charlie calls back, he's gonna want to talk to you."

Mark turned away with a low exhale. He saw Martina gazing at him, and returning her look, jerked his head at the judge.

"I think you'd better come with me. Keep me 'in line'." He didn't bother to hide the irritation in his voice.

Milt watched as McCormick left the den, turning right at the double doors. Martina wavered, and Mark paused to look back at her.

Hardcastle gave the woman a shooing gesture. "It's gonna be at least twenty minutes before a taxi gets out here. And I'm sure they'll beep."

After the couple left, Milt remained behind his desk, tapping his fingers impatiently, for approximately two minutes. Then he was up and quickly following the same path he'd deduced McCormick and Martina had taken. Only when he was able to look out the kitchen window to see them safely sitting by the pool did he begin to relax.

Mark had been brooding and staring at the glass-like surface of the pool when Martina spoke.

"Who's Charlie?" she asked.

Mark shifted slightly in his patio chair. "Uh, he's actually Hardcastle's doctor – well, they've known each other so long they're more like friends. I'm kind of an unofficial patient of his."

"So he's not a specialist," Martina gathered. "I hope he'll take this seriously." She wasn't sure if she liked the "unofficial patient" status.

Mark shook his head with a resigned expression. "Marty, I don't think you're going to have to worry about that. If this is out of Charlie's wheelhouse, the judge will make sure I see who I need to see." He took a deep breath. "After the show I just put on in the den, I think Hardcastle's ready to commit me. "

Martina reached out to touch his arm, and was gratified when he didn't pull away. But what he said next caused her to draw back her hand.

"And I can't even blame him. You know, seeing you. . . I don't like where my head is at right now."

She was slightly bothered by his admission, and felt the need to explain herself. "This wasn't something I could do over the phone, Mark. I had to do this in person. I needed to see you. To see how you were. And I'm not just talking about your health."

He nodded, remembering her earlier statement. "You wanted to see if I'd changed. After being in prison. I'll save you the trouble." He leaned forward a little, rubbing his hands on his knees in a repetitive, almost obsessive motion. "Hell yes, I changed. No one does hard time without coming out a different person. What you have to do, to just survive inside – You lose. . . a part of yourself. I think the longer you're inside, the less you recognize yourself when you get out." He paused to take a fortifying breath. His hands stilled, clenching into fists.

"And even if you try to. . . You know, things are great for me now. The judge has helped me more than he'll ever know. I've got a future, a good shot at being a successful, decent person. But then there are times when I worry there's not enough of me left to actually reach that future. Because that part of myself I left inside? I'm never gonna get it back. And I don't like what replaced it."

Martina sat quietly, not sure if he was done. And even if he is, what do I say? How do I respond to that?

Mark was still struggling to make some kind of sense of a topic he generally avoided.

"And San Quentin wasn't my first rodeo. I'd been 'around'." He tried to grin, but it came out as more of a grimace. "I kinda knew the drill. I thought I'd come out okay. Well, not 'okay,' exactly. . . Intact. But I'd never done that long a stretch, and maximum security is whole different animal." He snorted. "Animal. You know that phrase, when it's the perfect word?"

"Le mot juste," Martina supplied. "It's French."

McCormick stared at her. "How'd you just come up with that?" he asked, impressed.

She shrugged modestly. "Teacher, remember?"

"I don't remember learning French when I was in elementary school," Mark scoffed. "Some Latin, maybe, from the year I was in Catholic school. And from church." He paused, thinking. "It's nice to have that background, actually, when it comes to some of my classes. There's a lot of Latin used in law."

The subject had been subtly changed. Mark hoped Martina would understand and respect the shift in topic.

He adjusted his position in the chair again, trying to find a comfortable angle, and winced slightly. Martina saw the pained expression, and moved closer, resting her hand on his.

"Are you all right? What's wrong?"

"I landed on my butt – you know, when I fell? It's just kinda sensitive right now." This time he was able to produce a true grin. He was pleased – and a little surprised – when she returned the smile. But her next statement startled him into momentary silence.

"Olivia reminds me so much of you. That grin. In a way, I never really lost you. I've had you, a part of you, in her." She smiled to herself. "And it's not just her looks. There's so many other things."

Mark looked down, saw that at some point his and Martina's hands had become intertwined. He took a few deep breaths, then lifted his head.

"Does – does she know about me?"

Martina lowered her gaze, also looking at their joined hands. She shook her head slowly. "No. I – I didn't know what your reaction would be. I didn't want to raise her hopes." She looked up earnestly, and saw a sincere understanding on Mark's face. He neglected to explain the expression, and instead asked another question.

"What's she like?"

A glowing smile lit up Martina's face, momentarily erasing her troubles. For a few moments, she could forget Olivia's – and perhaps Mark's – illness. She could forget about her mother meddling in her and Mark's relationship so many years ago. Right now, she was a proud mother with a receptive audience.

"Oh. . . She's generous. She's always willing to do something for – or give something to – someone she thinks isn't getting a fair shake. She has this innate sense of fairness, of 'justice.'

"She's funny. The things she comes up with! She can make my mother laugh out loud, if you can believe that.

"And she's so smart. She's had to miss some school since she got sick. I was bringing her assignments home; I had taken a leave of absence, too, but I still came in to do lesson plans for the substitute." Martina's smile faded somewhat as the current situation reared its ugly head. "Well, she kept right up with her class, even came in to take a science test a few days before she. . . Well, before this last hospital stay, when she was finally diagnosed."

Martina paused, suddenly lost. She blinked rapidly, trying to ward off the unwelcome emotion.

Mark squeezed her hand lightly. "Marty?" he said softly. "How'd she do on the test?"

The tears were momentarily held at bay. Martina was able to smile gratefully at Mark, swipe one hand across her face, and continue with the praise of her daughter.

"She got a 99 percent. Highest grade in her class. Of course, she acts like it's not a big deal." Martina shook her head affectionately. "She says it's because she's a teacher's kid. But she is smart.

"Sometimes she's too smart for her own good. She can get a little mouthy. Especially when she gets impatient or frustrated, and her temper gets the better of her. That's been happening a little more lately, with everything that's been going on. I haven't been calling her on it as much as I should," she admitted guiltily.

Mark frowned at a similarity he finally recognized. He was about to mention it when Martina suddenly clapped a hand to her forehead. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "And the music!"

"Music?" Mark repeated, feeling a little lost.

Another broad smile. "She has this uncanny knack to remember practically every song she hears. The melody, the lyrics. . . And she can pick them out by ear on the piano. She never even needed lessons. My mom likes to use the word 'prodigy.' I think it's more like an obsession. Not a bad one," she was quick to defend, "but it's definitely unique." Martina looked at Mark thoughtfully. "It's a little like you with cars. I remember thinking how. . . odd it was that you knew so much about cars when you couldn't even drive, yet."

McCormick looked away in annoyance. "I couldn't get a license yet. That doesn't mean I couldn't drive." He'd been working at the car wash for a couple months before he'd met Martina. And sometimes O'Malley, his boss, had dangled the carrot of letting his eager new employee test out some of the vehicles that remained overnight for detailing – as long as Mark had also agreed to run a few 'errands.' And as how the extra errands also came with a much-needed monetary reward, Mark had not been difficult to persuade.

Mark's grim reflections faded as he noticed Martina was speaking again.

"This obsession of hers . . . I don't know where she gets it. We got her a new stereo with one of those compact disc players for her birthday last year, and now every scrap of money she has, from babysitting or allowance, she spends it on cassettes or compact discs. Of course, my mother spoils her and buys them for her, too. It's so we practically need another room for her music library." Martina laughed lightly. "It's a little ridiculous – I mean, she's never going to be able to listen to them all –"

The smile disappeared. Martina put a dismayed hand over her mouth, and a ragged sob escaped.

"I hate this! Little clichés like that, sayings - I can't even think them now without thinking –"

Mark rested his hands on her shoulders. "Don't think, don't dwell on it, not right now. Just tell me more." When Martina didn't respond, still fighting to hold back tears, he prodded further. "So this music thing – you said you don't know who she got it from? What about your father?"

Martina managed a small smile. "God, no. He couldn't even sing. No, I don't think it comes from. . ." She looked at Mark as a dawning came across her face. ". . . from me or my parents."

Mark pulled away abruptly. "Well it sure as hell isn't from me." And I'm not bringing up Sonny. "In fact, I don't think a lot of what you've described sounds anything like me," he said glumly. "Except for the smart mouth."

Martina stared at him, puzzled.

"Mark, no – it's everything. It's all you. You have to see that." Mark shook his head stubbornly, refusing to look at her. Martina reached up to touch his face, letting her hand linger until he met her gaze.

"You can't stand to see someone hurt without trying to help. You've got that way of finding humor in almost everything; you could always ease a tense situation with a joke. And are you trying to tell me you're not smart, the guy who's been in law school for two years?"

Her hand had moved to the back of his neck, and she was rubbing it lightly, almost unconsciously.

"I'll bet there's a connection there with the music, too. She's the best parts of you, Mark. The parts I've always loved."

Mark reached up, covering her hand with his own. He became acutely aware of how little space there was between them. His heart seemed to be beating in triple-time, so that he could feel it pounding in his ears, his eyes, the tips of his fingers. He had to fight to control his breathing.

He hesitated for a half a second before leaning in, and in that small space of time she was pulling him toward her. When their lips met, Mark felt nineteen years race backwards, and his head swam with the emotions and memories.

Martina unknowingly caressed his sore arm as they kissed. Mark thought dimly to himself that he'd gladly endure the pain to enjoy this pleasure.

When they finally parted, Martina seemed as breathless as he felt. She was blushing, and he realized with a start that he'd been a little remiss in telling her she looked great. She looked damn great. The slightly tousled dark hair. The high color of her face, the way her eyes sparkled so he could see the flecks of green in the hazel. He couldn't stop staring at her.

"Mark."

"Mmm?"

"Mark." This time she grasped his arm and gave it a little shake. He blinked, then slowly smiled.

"Marty, that was - Wow. I didn't realize how much I'd missed you."

She laughed softly. "I think the feeling's mutual."

His smile dissolved. "And now you're gonna go, just when things are getting good." He sat back in his chair, dejected. "When is your flight back to New York?"

"I've got an open-ended ticket. . . I didn't know how long it would take to find you, and talk to you. But I think I'll go back tomorrow, on the soonest flight I can." She gave him an apologetic look. "I don't want to be away from Olivia too long. You understand, don't you?"

"Yeah. I've been away from her her whole life. So you need to understand: I'm coming out there."

"Mark, you need to see the doctor, you have to find out – "

"And I will. I told you already, Hardcase'll make sure of that," he muttered, with a grudging acceptance.

Martina studied him. "At some point you're going to have to explain to me about this friend of yours."

He laughed. "It's a long story. I'll tell you when I come to New York." Martina seemed ready to voice another disapproval, but he forged ahead. "So, maybe you should give me your phone number or address or something, so I don't have to use a private eye to find you."

"McCormick!"

Mark jumped at the judge's yell, the intonation of which made it seem like it hadn't been the first. It was followed by several distant beeps of a horn that could only be from the requested taxi cab.

And then they were both rising to reenter the house. Mark trailed Martina as she retrieved her purse from the den and then went where Hardcastle was indicating, out the front door to the waiting taxi. McCormick inwardly cursed the timing. Just a minute more, and he could have wormed some information out of her. Of course, it wasn't like he wouldn't be able to find her, and he doubted she'd come all this way to tell him he had a kid and then suddenly disappear on him, but it would have been so much easier if she would have met him halfway. He idly wondered if he had given her second thoughts, either with the talk about prison, or the sudden passionate kiss. But she had practically initiated that kiss, when she saw you were hesitating.

He accompanied Martina to the taxi, reaching out to open the rear door. His hand grasped the handle, but he suddenly found it hard to actually put her in this car that would take her away from him again. He held onto the handle but didn't lever it open. He regarded her with quiet sorrow.

"Oh, look at you. . . " Martina shook her head. "Just like Olivia. Those damn puppy-dog eyes." She fumbled in her purse, finally withdrawing a checkbook. She tore off a blank deposit slip and handed it to Mark.

"There. Phone number and address."

He stared down at the unexpected gift. While he was distracted, Martina reached past him to open the door of the taxi, stepping inside.

"Mark."

He looked up from the piece of paper, unable to speak. She reached through the lowered window of the cab, to grasp his hand.

"Please. Take care of yourself. Find out what's going on. Promise me you will."

He leaned down, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and bent forward to give her a quick kiss.

The sudden blare of the cab's horn made him realize the quick kiss had been anything but. Mark threw a dirty look at the driver, and then was once again lost in the hazel eyes. He backed away slowly, not wanting to break the gaze.

"I promise," he said.

And as he watched the taxi leaving Gulls' Way, a part of him actually believed the promise.