Inheritance Tax by InitialLuv

Chapter Twenty-Four (In which a vegetable lasagna leads to a discussion on loyalty.)

Sandra Rivera had placed the prepped pan of vegetable lasagna in the refrigerator, not wanting to put it in the oven until Martina and Olivia returned from the hospital. She now shot a quick glance at the phone, pursing her lips in displeasure. Would it be so hard for her to call? She didn't have any problem calling when she wanted Olivia back at the hospital to be Mark's therapist. Sandra had told her daughter that she wanted them both home at a reasonable hour for supper, that her granddaughter needed the routine. After Martina's curious trip to California, Mark's unannounced arrival and identity reveal, and everything that had happened since, it was crucial that Olivia have some normalcy. Even if all "normal" meant was a home-cooked dinner to be eaten quietly with her family. Her real family, Sandra thought to herself.

Sandra had been paging through an American Dietetic Association cookbook when she heard her daughter's car pull up in the driveway. Placing a recipe card in the book to hold her page, she rose to set the oven on pre-heat, and then turned to welcome her little family home. She heard the strange voice even before the back door opened. Sandra took a deep breath, trying to quell her growing apprehension.

Martina came in the door first, the look on her face a mixture of apology and amusement. "Your granddaughter's idea," she said, and then Olivia appeared, pulling along the unexpected company. "Come on," the girl was saying. "Come meet her."

Sandra found herself facing a man of advanced years (Well, you're not exactly a blooming schoolgirl yourself) dressed in casual clothes and wearing a Yankees baseball cap. Underneath the cap she could see slightly worried eyes and an uncertain smile.

"Grandma?" Olivia was standing between the man and her grandmother. "This is Mark's friend Milt. I invited him to come for supper."

The man held out a hand, and tried a larger smile. "Milt Hardcastle."

Sandra looked down at the offered hand. "I know who you are. You're the judge."

Milt's smile weakened, and his hand dropped a little. Yeah, I know who you are too, lady.

"And you're the mother." Hardcastle tipped his head in Martina's direction.

Sandra took another deep breath. "I am. Sandra Rivera." She took the judge's hand, shaking it firmly. "It's nice to meet you."

After the hesitant pleasantries were exchanged, Sandra retrieved the lasagna from the refrigerator and carried it to the oven. "It'll be a while before this is done," she said, and then addressed her granddaughter. "Olivia, why don't you show Milt around, maybe show him where he can wash up."

Olivia pulled at Hardcastle's sleeve. "Come on. I think they want to talk about me."

Or about me. Milt nodded at the two women, then followed the girl out of the room.

ooOoo

Olivia didn't go far. The kitchen merged with a dining room, and across the hallway from that was the family room. This is where Olivia led Milt. He gazed around the L-shaped room, taking in the comfortable, attractive furnishings in the longer portion of the room. In the shorter section of the "L" was a small upright piano with a walnut finish. Hardcastle glanced over at the piano briefly. He next noticed a grouping of framed photos on a nearby wall, centered above a long, plush couch. Olivia saw what had caught his attention. She came over to kneel on the couch, and made a weak gesture at the photographs. "The 'me' wall," she said, and when Milt turned to look at the girl, he saw she was blushing in embarrassment.

The photographs appeared to be in chronological order, from Olivia as a baby up to her current age. The main point of the selected photos seemed to be that they were solitary shots of a smiling Olivia; neither Martina nor Sandra appeared in any of them. A few of the photos were duplicates of the ones Martina had brought to California for Mark.

"Did your dad see these?" Hardcastle turned from the wall to the subject of the photographs.

Olivia thought for a moment and then shrugged. "I don't know. I wasn't here when he got here – I don't know how long he'd already been here. I don't think he saw them." She rose from the couch, crossing to the piano. Grabbing a small pile of sheet music off of the piano bench, she lifted the lid to place the papers inside. Olivia sat on the bench with her back to the piano, leaning forward slightly to study the floor. She kicked her feet back and forth restlessly.

Milt looked down at the young figure, and crooked a grin. How did I not notice that before?

"What, did you get dressed in the dark?"

Olivia stopped kicking her feet, and hooked one foot behind the other in a vain attempt to hide the mismatched shoes. She didn't answer, instead sending a sulky look in the judge's direction. He grinned at her reaction as he sat himself in a nearby loveseat. "You gotta stop doing that," he said, chuckling.

"What?" she asked sullenly.

"The looks you give me. You probably don't realize how much you look like him, how you even have the same facial expressions." Milt cocked his head toward the pictures on the wall. "I don't know what he looked like as a kid, but I'll bet he had that same smile."

"Haven't you seen any pictures of him as a kid? I've seen a lot of my mom when she was little."

Milt shook his head, frowning slightly. "No, I don't think he's got any. Well, maybe one or two, but not like a photo album or anything. And nothing that's he shown me. He's a little private when it comes to his childhood. Doesn't talk about it much."

"Really?" Olivia straightened on the bench, looking at the judge with a growing curiosity. "Why?"

Hardcastle was still frowning, trying to think. "Well, he has talked about a few things," he backtracked. "He's told me how he and his friends used to get into all sorts of trouble. And he's shared a few school stories, from back when he was your age. But he doesn't talk a whole lot about his family. At least, not until recently. Your mom showing up like she did brought a heap of stuff to the surface."

"Is that what she meant when she said he'd had a bad couple of days?" Olivia guessed.

Hardcastle raised his eyebrows. "You know, you're a pretty smart kid." Olivia blushed again, running her hands over the piano bench. Milt smiled at the girl's modesty. He cleared his throat, and abruptly changed the subject.

"Who plays?" he asked, indicating the piano.

"Oh!" Olivia seemed to suddenly realize she was sitting on a piano bench. "I do, I guess."

"You guess?"

"Well, Grandma and Mom can play some, but just kind of little things. They got the piano more for me. Mom got a good deal from the school district when they updated one of the music rooms." Olivia twisted around on the bench to face the piano. She lifted the fallboard, then rubbed her hands together, stretching out her fingers. "You wanna hear something? Got any requests?"

Milt shrugged. "I don't know – just play me something you know." He rose from the small sofa, coming to stand near the piano.

Olivia bent her head, thinking, and then smiled. She placed her fingers lightly on the keyboard, and then began to play.

It took a few moments before Hardcastle could recognize the song. But it wasn't because Olivia's playing was rough or inept; in fact, it was the effortless skill of her playing that threw Milt off. He stared at the girl, his mouth hanging open, for several bars of the song before he realized what he was listening to was "California Dreamin'."

After about a minute of playing, Olivia stilled her hands and peered up at Hardcastle with a smile. "I thought that one was appropriate."

Milt let out an amazed breath. "You did that from memory," he said, looking at the empty music shelf. "You didn't even use any sheet music."

Olivia squinted ahead, as if she was looking at something far away. "I think I did the first time I played it. But I'm pretty good at remembering. My grandma says I have a 'prodigious inclination for musical ability.' Or something like that." She looked back at the judge hopefully. "What about my dad? Can he sing or play an instrument or anything?"

"He can play the tambourine," Hardcastle laughed. "He is always singing, but it's usually just dopey stuff meant to drive me crazy." About the only time Hardcastle was aware of McCormick singing without acting like a goof was when the kid sang along to the radio.

Olivia's face fell. She dropped her hands limply into her lap. "Oh. Shoot. I thought I might take after him. You know, in more than just looks. My mom said I maybe inherited the musical talent from him."

Milt, swayed by the plaintive words, found himself reassuring the girl. "Maybe you did inherit it. I guess the music thing could've skipped – I mean, you could've indirectly inherited it. Your dad's got a relative who's 'musically inclined.'" The judge had to rein himself in before he let out too much information.

"A relative?" Olivia pressed. "I have another relative out there? What, someone like an uncle or an aunt?"

Hardcastle understood the girl's sudden interest, but he refused to confirm or deny. "I'd better not say. Your dad got a little ticked at me this morning when I was talking out of turn."

Olivia was looking down at the piano keys, not exactly listening. She appeared lost in thought, still analyzing the possibilities of this new revelation. "No," she murmured to herself, "you said 'skipped.' And his mom's dead, but you didn't say he had a relative, you said he has a relative." After several quiet seconds Olivia's face lit up, and she grinned up at the judge.

"I have a grandfather!"

"Shoot," Hardcastle muttered.

Hardcastle pushed away his plate after finishing his second serving of lasagna, and leaned back comfortably in his chair. "That was terrific," he admitted. "Olivia told me it would be, but I wasn't sure what I was in for." He smiled candidly at Sandra. "If I can find some good healthy recipes like this one, maybe the kid won't be so worked up about changing his diet."

"Dr. Shire will refer him to a dietitian," Martina said. "It helps to have someone to talk to, a place to start. My mother has this cookbook – "

Sandra interrupted her daughter. "Why would you need the recipes? He's a grown man, he does know how to cook, doesn't he?" The older woman had risen to clear the plates from the table. She stood still now, looking expectantly at the judge.

"We take turns cooking," Hardcastle answered mildly.

Sandra didn't respond, but the upward roll of her eyes made her disapproval obvious. She placed the dishes in the sink. When she turned back to the table, Milt was staring hard at her.

"What was that for?"

"What do you mean?" Sandra asked, feigning innocence.

"That look. You know." Hardcastle straightened in his chair. "If you have a problem, spit it out."

A tense shroud fell over the table. Martina looked pointedly at her daughter. "Olivia, you can be excused."

The girl gaped at her mother. "Why? I thought there was Jell-O. And I'm supposed to do the dishes."

Sandra scoffed. "And you always complain about doing the dishes. The only reason you're volunteering now is because you want to eavesdrop. Listen to your mother. You may leave the table."

Olivia stood, angrily pushing back her chair. She glanced once at Milt, then started to leave the dining area.

"And don't blare your music! You're going to end up with hearing loss!" Sandra called out at the departing form. Olivia paused briefly, gave a short exhale, and then left the room.

When Olivia had been given an appropriate amount of time to reach her room, Sandra sat down again at the table. She addressed Milt.

"What exactly is Mark's arrangement with you? Martina was under the impression his parole was up."

"It is," Milt answered. "Has been for two years."

"But he still lives with you."

Hardcastle shrugged. "He's going to law school. It's hard work and long hours. We have an arrangement. He's staying at the estate at least until he graduates."

"And maybe longer?"

"What does this have to do with anything, Mom?" Martina broke in.

Sandra turned to her daughter. "He doesn't have a job. He doesn't have his own place. He ignored the fact that he was ill, flying cross-country and risking his health. He wouldn't have even gone to the hospital if I hadn't taken him. Does that sound like a responsible father-figure?"

"He doesn't need to be a 'father-figure.' He's her father, period." Hardcastle's voice burned with hostility.

Sandra looked at the judge, surprised by the man's intensity. "Fine," she allowed. "But the rest of what I said is true – "

"He has a job. He works for me. But right now law school is his job. And he has a place to live for as long as he needs." Milt paused, frowning. "I'm not thrilled with how he's been handling his diagnosis, but you can hardly fault him for coming out here." He turned to Martina. "You act like you know him pretty well. You had to know when you showed up in L.A., shoving those pictures under his nose, that he'd follow you back here, sick or not. I know at least you understand what having a family means to him."

"And I don't?" Sandra asked.

"No, I don't think you do." Milt glared at the older woman. "If you had any idea, any inkling how important a family is to him, you wouldn't have kept his kid away from him for almost ten years. Or you would have given him some kind of support when his mother died, instead of casting him aside."

Sandra met the glare with one of her own. "Support? He was hardly helpless."

"He was a fifteen-year-old kid!"

"And I suppose you think he was my responsibility?"

Hardcastle spread his hands in an affirmative gesture. "Why the hell not? Who else was there? His uncle? The state? Because I'll tell you, neither of them did him any good."

Sandra lowered her head, and massaged her forehead. "You have to understand. . . He was too unpredictable, too uncontrollable. He didn't belong in our – in Martina's life." She lifted her head to look at her daughter. "You were so love-struck you couldn't see the future for what it was. I wanted you to go to college, have a career, marry a competent, well-rounded person. I didn't want you to be held back playing nursemaid to a lost cause."

"He's not a lost cause!" Hardcastle was out of his chair before he even realized it. The words echoed in the room as both women looked up at him in alarm. No one spoke, and Milt was vaguely aware that he was breathing hard. He concentrated on calming his nerves, quietly returning to his chair.

The silence was broken unexpectedly by piano music. Three heads turned in the direction of the family room.

"I should've known she hadn't gone to her room," Martina said. "Not when she could listen in on us instead."

The piano music was soon accompanied by a charmingly delicate voice.

"Hush, hush.
Keep it down, now.
Voices carry."

A gradual smile appeared on Martina's face, and she began to snicker. "Unbelievable," she said, shaking her head. She pushed her chair back, beginning to rise.

"No, I'll go." Sandra was out of her seat before Martina had the chance to stand. The older woman pushed her chair in, and then looked directly at Hardcastle. "I'm done talking, anyway."

Milt watched as Sandra left the dining area, then turned back to Martina with a troubled frown.

"I'm sorry for getting worked up. I used to be able to handle my anger better than that." He smiled wryly. "Before I met McCormick, at least."

"You're very protective of him."

"Someone has to be. Especially with all of this going on. He needs someone on his side." Hardcastle studied Martina. "I notice you didn't defend him much just now. You'd think you'd be a little more loyal, considering he's your kid's father."

"And she's my mother." Martina sighed. "Don't ask me to choose." She paused, looking in the direction her mother had gone. "Don't judge her too harshly, Milt. You don't know her. You barely know me."

Hardcastle flapped a dismissive hand. "McCormick seems okay with you. That's all I need to know."

"When he doesn't hate me," Martina muttered to herself. Louder, she said, "And I'm sure you know how Mark feels about my mother. That wouldn't be coloring your perception of her a little, would it?"

Hardcastle didn't respond. He glanced away from the penetrating eyes.

"Milt." Martina waited until the man had turned back to face her. "You don't understand. When we realized Mark might have PKD, my mother was just as concerned as I was. I was still reeling from Olivia's diagnosis, so my mother took charge of finding him. She paid for the private investigator we used to track Mark down. She paid for half of my plane ticket to California. She was the one that took Mark to the emergency room yesterday, and she stayed with him for four hours, until he was finally admitted. She said she was worried about leaving him when he was confused and sick and alone."

Hardcastle shook his head, briefly closing his eyes. "You're right. I don't get it." He pushed his chair away from the table, rising slowly. "So I guess she'll just have to explain it to me."

Author's Note: The song that Olivia sings is 'Til Tuesday's "Voices Carry." One of my personal faves.

Jell-O is a registered trademark of Kraft Foods.

-ck