As Laine unravels the mystery of her grandparents’ marriage she is forced to face one more question of the heart—Can love live even after it has died?
Kristy Tate, author of Stealing Mercy, returns with another story laced with romance and intrigue.
CHAPTER
1
The Chinook wind stirred the fallen
leaves and tossed them around the deserted street. An
eastern wind carries more than dust and ashes, Laine’s mother had told her;
it uproots secrets. And everyone knows
once one secret is told, no secret is safe.
Hers included.
Laine paused in front of the Queen Anne
Hill Chapel doors. The sun, a faint pink glow over the eastern hills had yet to
shine, but Laine hadn’t any doubt that it would rise to another scorching
Indian summer day. She looked out over
sleeping Seattle. The dark gray Puget Sound stretched away from her. On the
horizon, distant ships bobbed and sent quivering beams of light over the water.
She turned her back on the ships, on any
dream of sailing away, and inserted the key into the heavily carved wooden
doors. They creaked open before Laine
turned the key. Odd. The chapel,
built in the 1930s, had a musty, empty smell. She stepped into the cool shade
of the foyer and the door swung shut, closing with a click that echoed through
the cavernous room. The morning sounds of birds, crickets and insects disappeared
when the doors closed. Laine’s sneakers smacked across the terracotta tile, her
footsteps loud.
She had thought she’d be alone, which is
exactly why she’d chosen to come near dawn. Not that she’d been able to sleep.
She hadn’t slept for weeks, which may explain why at first she’d thought the
girl standing in the nave, facing the pulpit, her face lifted to the stained
glass window, might be a ghost—or, given her surroundings, an angel.
Although Laine couldn’t see her face,
the way the child’s head moved, it looked as if she was having a conversation
with the Lord trapped in the glass, or one of the sheep milling about His feet,
giving Laine the uncomfortable sense of interrupting. The meager morning sun
lit the glass and multi-colored reflections fell on the girl, casting her in an
iridescent glow. Slowly, she turned and Laine realized she wasn’t a child, but
a young woman, around twenty, maybe half her own age, wearing the sort of thing
her grandmother would have worn. Vintage clothing, Laine noted, incredibly well
preserved.
“Good morning,” Laine said, smiling.
“I’m sorry to intrude. I wasn’t expecting anyone…” She let her voice trail away.
Laine had certainly never felt any peace through prayer, but that didn’t mean
she wanted to interrupt on anyone seeking grace and Pastor Clark had given her
the key, so naturally she’d assumed the chapel would have been locked and that
she’d have this time to practice alone.
“Well, where is he, then?” the
girl-woman demanded, placing her balled fists on her hips. She had yellow blonde
hair, cut in a curly bob, and wore a pale blue sleeveless dress that fell
straight to her knees. Laine considered the young woman. Given the scowl and
hostile eyes, she didn’t look like a humble Christian follower, but she did
seem oddly familiar.
“I’m sorry—who are you looking for?” Laine
tucked her hands into her pockets, feeling inappropriately dressed. She’d
thrown on Ian’s sweats, one of the few sets of clothes he’d left behind.
Perhaps he didn’t exercise at the hotel, or, more likely, he’d just bought
himself a new pair of running clothes. Now that her grandfather had died,
making Ian The-Man-In-Charge, Ian could afford new running clothes, the hotel
suite, and room services of all sorts. Which didn’t explain, really, why Laine
wore his cast-offs. Just because he’d left them behind didn’t mean Laine should
wear them. And yet, she did. Frequently.
“Sid!” the woman spat the name. Her gaze
raked over Laine, making her uneasy.
Laine tugged at the drawstring holding
up the sweat pants, wondering why this woman would be looking for her
grandfather. “He’s still at the funeral home.” She swallowed. “They won’t bring
the casket here until tomorrow morning. There’s the viewing tonight at the
house…” She heard her own sadness in her voice.
“Then what are you doing here?” The
woman’s eyes matched the color of her dress and as she drew closer, Laine saw she
wore a necklace of the same steely blue. Laine’s hand instinctively crept to
her own necklace, a gift from Sid, an emerald he’d said matched her eyes.
“I’ve come to practice the organ.” Laine
shifted on her feet. A tingle of déjà vu ran up her spine. Looking at this
woman was like watching a rerun of an almost forgotten and yet beloved
television show. They must have met some other time at some long ago, forgotten
place; Laine was sure they’d been friends. Although, at the moment, this woman
was not a friendly person.
The woman looked at the massive organ
and then back to Laine. “Why are you playing the organ? I’m sure Georgie could
spit out the money for an organist. No need for freebie-family members to
play.”
Laine opened her mouth to ask how this
woman knew her father or her relationship to Sid, but then remembered her
family had never lived a quiet life. Well, except for her. Her own life had
been, until now, ungossip-worthy. Her breath caught in her throat and then she
let it out slowly, bracing herself for the difficult weekend. She’d weather the
rumors and the chit-chat. She could be strong.
Even if she’d never been before.
“I wanted to play,” Laine told the
woman, lacing her voice with resolve she didn’t feel. “As a gift to my
grandfather.”
Why
are you here? How did you get in? How do I know you?
Laine wanted to ask, but years of social training held back her questions.
The woman snorted. “Not much of a gift,
that.”
“Yeah, well, it’s something I want to
do.” Laine let a little of her social training slip and she brushed past the
woman. She marched up the aisle toward the organ, lifted the massive cover,
turned on the switch and adjusted the bench.
“A gift to your grandfather, or an
excuse not to sit by your husband?” The woman appeared beside her.
Laine squared her shoulders and bit back
a rude retort. She’d have to get used to the questions. Even if they weren’t
asked so bluntly, they’d still be asked. Maybe not to her face, maybe behind
her back, but the questions would be there, either in people’s eyes or on their
lips. Laine would not provide answers.
The woman stood at her elbow. “If you’ve
come to practice, where’s your music?”
Laine gave her a tight smile as she
settled onto the bench. “I memorize.”
“If it’s already memorized, why are you
practicing?”
For the first time Laine caught a hint
of the woman’s French accent. “Who did you say you are again?”
“I didn’t say and you didn’t answer my
question.”
Laine
began adjusting the stops. “Every instrument is different. A pedal may be
broken, the bench could wobble… I’ve learned from sad experience that it’s best
to give every instrument a test run. I mean, an organ’s not like a violin. You
can’t just bring your own.”
The woman cocked her head. “What would
you know of sad experiences?”
Most people would say her life was
charmed, but if she lived such a fairytale, why was she so sad? Because the prince she’d been kissing for most
of her life had turned into a toad?
“Do I know you?” Laine asked, her
fingers pausing above the keys.
The woman leaned against the organ. “I
don’t know, do you?”
All of Laine’s politeness drained away. “I’m
sorry. I don’t know you. And because
I don’t know you, I don’t feel I need to share.” Laine hit the keys, a D minor
chord, and music reverberated through the deserted chapel.
“Good for you.” The woman chuckled and
hitched herself up on top of the organ. She had reed thin legs, pale as
porcelain and covered with silky hose. She swung them back and forth, like a
child pumping a swing, her heels rap-tapping the organ.
Laine lifted her fingers, horrified. The
sudden cessation of music filled the room. “You can’t sit on this organ.” Her words echoed.
The woman cut her a sideways smile. She wore bright red shoes with ribbon ties on
the ankles and the red heels continued bumping rhythmically against the organ. “No?”
“No.
It’s a 1930’s Wurlitzer, solid walnut. It’s extremely valuable, and you’re kicking it.”
“You’re very rich.” The woman smiled,
but didn’t budge or stop swinging her legs. “You could replace it.”
Laine hated being reminded of her money.
It made her feel guilty and dirty. She supposed that’s why she worked so hard
at the foundation. She pounded out the first line of Pie Jesu and said, through gritted teeth, “Get off!”
And to her surprise, the woman did. Laine
almost stopped playing, but after watching the woman wander down the aisle, her
hands trailing along the pews, Laine turned her full attention to the music swirling
through the chapel and, for a moment, she felt better than she had in weeks.
#
Walking
down Lily Street past the turn-of-the-last-century mansions, Laine pulled her
blazer close, as if by buttoning it she could hold in all her broken pieces.
The suit hung on her. She’d had to pin the back of the skirt to keep it from
sliding off. At least wool breathes,
she told herself, refusing to consider that wool, heat, nerves and sweat could,
and most assuredly, would, cause a smelly combination.
When
had she lost so much weight? How had that happened? Had she discovered the
miracle weight-loss program? Could she market it? The Lose Your Guy, Lose Your Gut diet?
Because
she’d walked, she’d worn her flats, but stopping at the gate, watching her
relatives, friends, and business associates climb from their cars in their
suits, dresses, and heels, she considered going home and changing into
something less worn. It’d seemed ridiculous to drive such a short distance,
ridiculous to walk the three hilly blocks in heels, and it would be equally
ridiculous to walk back and forth just to change her shoes. Of course, she
could walk home and then drive for the return trip. But—then where would she
park?
I’m stalling,
she thought. Her eyes flicked over the cars lining the tiny street. This was
supposed to be a private viewing, family and close friends only, and yet,
somehow, her stepmother had managed to turn it into a celebrity photo opportunity.
She told herself she wasn’t looking for Ian’s Mercedes, but she stopped checking
the cars when he pulled up.
She
stepped behind a mammoth rhododendron, and through the petals and branches, she
watched him climb from his car. Despite the suit and graying hair at his
temples, from a distance he looked nearly the same as he had in high school.
Which just wasn’t right. She’d aged, why hadn’t he grown old beside her? The
sprinklers had recently shut off and Laine’s flats sunk into a patch of mud. Her
feet slipped slightly in the muck and she felt off balance and shaky.
A
voice spoke in her ear. “Why are you hiding in that bush?”
Laine
jumped and put her hand on her heart to slow its beating. She turned and
scowled at the tiny woman at her elbow. “You!”
“You’ve
got mud on your shoes and plant rubbish on your jacket.”
Laine
looked down at her shoes and brushed twigs and petals off her blazer.
“I
thought your outfit this morning was perhaps the ugliest thing I’d ever seen,
but now,” her gaze swept over Laine, “I can see I was wrong.”
Laine
cast Ian another look to make sure he hadn’t noticed her standing behind the
bush and then whispered, “What’s wrong with my suit?”
“You
mean besides the fact it’s ugly and must be incredibly itchy and hot? Well, for
one thing, it doesn’t fit you. Where did you find it?”
“In
my closet.”
“That
explains a lot.” The woman fingered the pleats on her own blue silk dress.
She’d changed her shoes. The red heels had been replaced with a pair of black
pumps that would have been sedate if not for the faux diamonds on the toes. “You
obviously need a new closet.”
“This
is a viewing, not a fashion show.” Laine folded her arms, studied the woman and
used the voice she only trotted out when donors tried to renege on their
pledges. “Who are you? Did you work for my grandfather?”
The
woman looked sly. “Sometimes.” So, that’s who she was—one of her grandfather’s
girls. Laine didn’t deserve abuse from one of her grandfather’s ladies. She looked too young for even Sid. And she
thought that it had been years since Sid’s Romeo days, but with her
grandfather—it was hard to know who was who in his revolving love life.
Sid
hadn’t been a paragon of virtue, but Laine had tried to live her life by a
strict code. Insulting grieving granddaughters at funerals breached that code.
“Oh
hello!” Ian called.
Laine’s
head snapped up. Even from a distance, the timber in Ian’s voice made her
quiver. She’d thought he’d seen her, thought he was speaking to her, but now
she saw him cross the grounds, his arms open, his eyes kind, warm and generous—he
could afford all those emotions now—as he approached a girl in a white sheath
dress. Mary or Marie somebody from the reception desk. So much for family and
close friends. But then Laine
remembered, vaguely, something about Mary or Marie being related to Denis
Openheimer, of the Openheimer Weiner fame. Of course, her stepmother would
invite an Openheimer.
“Who
wears white to a funeral?” the woman asked, before bringing her gaze back to Laine.
“Although, it’s better than your frumpy suit.”
Laine
turned away from Ian, not wanting to watch him embrace Mary or Marie, and
looked at the woman just in time to see a fistful of mud flying.
“Hey!”
Laine called out as the mud splattered across her chest. Clods of dirt stuck to
her blouse as she pulled it out of her waistband, trying to prevent the mud
from running down her skirt.
“I
think the proper response would be ‘thank you’.”
“Thank you?”
“You’re
welcome.” The woman brushed off her hands, spun on her heel, and headed toward
the back entrance of Sid’s house. “Now, follow me.”
Laine
looked down at the disaster of her shirt. “I will not follow you.”
The
woman stopped in the driveway by the white catering van. “What, you’re going to
walk three blocks to change into something equally dowdy? You’re going to risk
being late or possibly even not showing your face at your grandfather’s
viewing? Think of the gossip, the rumors. Everyone will know for sure that Ian’s
left you. He will think you weren’t
brave enough—”
“Stop
it!” The words and emotions flew out of Laine’s iron-clad control.
A
teenager holding a large pink pastry box stepped from around the corner of the
van. “Ma’am?” He had freckles dotting his nose and he looked hurt and surprised
by her outburst.
“Not
you,” Laine said, her voice sounding weak. “I wasn’t talking to you. I was
talking to—”
She
looked around, but the tiny woman had disappeared.
The
kid edged toward her, as if she were a wounded Doberman in need of help and yet
still capable of doing serious injury. “Can I help you? Get you some water or
something?”
Laine sighed and put her fingertips on either
side of her temples. “Look, I hired your company.”
The
kid began to back away from her. His hands, clutching the pastry boxes, turned
white around the knuckles.
“I
just…” Laine swallowed, following him. “There’s a short, blonde woman hanging
around here. She’s about this high.” Laine held up her hand so it was even with
her chin. “If you see her, I want you to come and get me immediately.” She’s going to pay, Laine thought, for at least my dry cleaning.
The
mud seeped through her blouse and felt cold and oozy. What to do? Totter home,
change into something, anything, clean? Go into town and buy something? She
didn’t have her purse. She glanced at Sid’s house. It had rooms and rooms and
closets full of stuff.
She
looked out over the lawn. Ian stood on the front porch, pumping hands with Uncle
Harry. Ian had on a dark, well cut, custom-made suit. Even as a teenager he’d
been fashion conscious. Other girls had shopped with their boyfriends,
selecting their clothes, dressing them as if they were the Ken to their Barbie.
Laine had always been too busy studying, working on the student council,
organizing the next fundraiser. Even then, she’d been raising money for
somebody, or something else.
Laine
stomped into her grandfather’s kitchen and the catering staff, who had been
bustling around the counters and mammoth oak table turned to stare at her,
their conversations and chatter coming to sudden and stunned stop.
“There’s
a crazy short lady here,” Laine said. “If any of you see her, I want you to tell
me immediately.”
Most
of the staff gave her blank stares, but a few turned away, smirking. Short, crazy lady, Laine thought as she kicked
off her muddy shoes. Yeah, right. Short
and crazy are both subjective adjectives and could just as easily be applied to
me.
Laine
ran up the back stairs and turned into what was once her aunt Claire’s room.
The room still smelled of violets, her aunt’s smell, and Laine’s heart clenched
with the sudden memory. Softly, she closed the door behind her and went to sit
on the bed. The room hadn’t been redecorated since the eighties. Tiny yellow
and blue flowers covered everything—the walls, the bedspread, the host of
pillows, the dress of the Cabbage Patch doll resting against the brass headboard.
What
would happen now to Sid’s house, to Claire’s things? Why hadn’t she thought
about this? Had anyone? Perhaps her stepmother and her dad had plans. Although,
thinking and planning had never been their fortes.
Ian
would now officially run the company. He’d been Sid’s puppet for years, until
slowly, almost imperceptibly, he’d begun pulling the strings as Sid had aged.
No one had expected Sid to live to ninety-seven, especially not his string of ex-wives.
He’d outlived all his spouses and two of his children.
Thinking
about spouses, exes and current, Laine unfolded from the bed and went to the
closet. She had known her aunt Claire as a fussy old lady and didn’t expect to
find anything other than flowery muumuus, Claire’s favorite daywear. A muumuu
or a dirt crusted suit? Laine had to find something without mud clinging to it
and she didn’t need a whole outfit. Her suit was fine, thank you very much. She
just needed a blouse.
She
glanced out the window and saw Ian talking to a circle of her employees from
the foundation. Marie laughed and placed her hand on Ian’s sleeve. White heat
flared through Laine and she closed her eyes against the pain and anger.
When
she opened her eyes she saw a dress hanging in the closet. Long sleeves, high
neck, black lace over a strapless taffeta under-bodice, a pleated band at the waist.
The sort of thing she’d never buy.
And
yet.
She
looked back out the window. Marie had on an impossibly short skirt, something
no one over the age of thirty should ever wear. Allison, a mother of four
children, had on a blouse that lifted when she moved her arms and exposed a
bright strip of white belly. In a world of inappropriateness, Laine, the good
daughter, the philanthropist, could wear a black lace dress.
She
took off her suit, kicked it into the closet’s corner, and stepped into the
dress. To her surprise, it didn’t smell of violets or mildew, but of Chanel Number
5. The lining felt luxurious against her skin and the lace clung slightly as
she moved.
Considering
her reflection in the mirror, she decided she couldn’t wear the muddy flats. Tearing
into the shoe boxes on the closet shelf, she discovered black lace shoes with pearl
buttons and three-inch heels. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t be able to walk. With
the shoe box tucked under her arm, she went to the bed, sat down and slipped on
the heels. They fit perfectly. Odd.
Looking
at her herself in the mirror, she wondered when and where her aunt had bought
the dress and matching shoes. She tried to imagine the woman she’d known, the
wearer of shapeless muumuus and of the collector of Cabbage Patch dolls,
wearing such a dress, wearing Chanel Number 5 perfume. There are so many things we don’t know about the people around us, even
the people we love, she thought, and
we pass so quickly through our lives, briefly colliding before sailing away.
On an impulse, she reached up and took the
pins from her hair. Her curls spilled down her back. Remembering the
handkerchief in her suit pocket, she drew it out and promised herself that she
wouldn’t use it. No one would see her cry, but if they did, they would think
she cried for Sid. Not Ian. Perhaps Ian would cry and she could magnanimously
lend him her handkerchief and give him a condescending smile, accompanied by a
conciliatory pat on the shoulder. She smiled at her reflection, braced her
shoulders, and left the room.
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