Artemas searched her eyes. What he saw in them—a mystifying blend of serenity and sorrow—was new. “I love having you here,” he whispered. “Stay as long as you can.”
“She’s there, goddamn her. She’s with Artemas.” James replaced the phone on a small lamp table and leaned back in his chair, his fingers biting into his thighs. Through the burgundy silk of his pajama bottoms he felt the long indention of a scar on his bad leg.
Alise stepped out of the bath, her hair wrapped in a towel, a thick white robe knotted around her waist. He looked at her standing uncertainly across their large, dimly lit bedroom. A brooding antique armoire loomed on the wall nearby, making her seem more delicate, more ethereal, too vulnerable. “What are you saying?” she asked, frowning.
James slammed a fist against his leg. “Lily’s sequestered in Artemas’s private wing at the estate. She’s been there with him for the past two days. Playing nurse. Cooking for him. Changing his bandages. A new maid went into the bedroom suite by mistake yesterday morning and found Lily asleep on the bed with him.”
“How do you know all this?”
He was too angry to care that he’d been indiscreet about his methods. Pushing himself up—thank God, he no longer needed a cane—he limped to a large dresser and
jerked one of its drawers open. “I asked one of the servants to let me know if Lily ever visits the estate.”
Alise gasped. “You mean you
bribed
someone, don’t you? You bribed a servant to spy on your own brother?”
“If that’s what you want to call protecting the family’s reputation, then yes.” He retrieved a slender, leather-bound book and shoved the drawer shut.
She ran to him as he returned to the phone. James turned, scowling with impatience, as she grasped his arm. The look on her face stabbed him. Disgust and fury glittered in her eyes. “Have you lost all of your self-respect? You can’t justify this.”
“Do you think I enjoy doing it?” A muscle throbbed in his neck, and he wrenched a hand over it, squeezing hard. “I hate going behind Artemas’s back. But what about the way he’s disregarding the family’s concerns? Goddammit, I’m not going to let him throw away the good name we spent years rebuilding. I’m not going to have it overshadowed by gossip and innuendo about his relationship with the widow of one of the men who was responsible for Julia’s death.”
Alise cried out and shoved at his bare chest. “What you’re doing is more damaging to the family than any compassion and loyalty Artemas has shown Lily!”
“If Richard Porter had murdered Julia with his own hands, would you want to see Artemas involved with Lily?”
“Oh,
James.
” She moaned with frustration. “You can’t honestly believe that’s a reasonable comparison. There are too many shades of gray. What happened was a mixture of mistakes, poor judgment—”
“Don’t. It’s bad enough to hear that kind of shit from Elizabeth and Michael. Cassandra is starting to retreat too. They don’t want to admit that Artemas could let a personal obsession drag him down.”
“He’s needed someone important in his life for years. He’s been so lonely since Glenda died. Let him have a chance to find some happiness. He’s not a fool, and I don’t believe Lily is bad for him.”
“That’s a risk I’m not willing to take.”
Flipping the book open, he reached for the phone again. “I’m calling William DeWitt. He may be the only one who can make Artemas recognize the brutal reality of this situation.”
Alise stepped back, her hands falling to her sides. “I don’t know you anymore. I don’t know what you’re capable of.” She left the room. James slung the address book down and followed, but couldn’t reach her before she entered a guest room down the hall and shut the door. As he halted before it, he heard the smooth click of the latch bolt, a shocking, obscene sound of distrust and separation.
Sweating, sick to his stomach, he leaned against the door. He would make ail of this up to her, somehow. She’d see that he was right.
Lily woke to the feathery touch of a tiny paw patting the tip of her nose. Artemas sat on the bed beside her, smiling. He held up a long strand of her hair, rubbing it between his fingertips. Clearly the kitten had been provoked.
The warmth in his eyes was affectionate and provocative. The faint light of a lamp across the large room cast shadows on him, making his dark hair meld with their background, reflecting old silver in his eyes. The room had a hushed, middle-of-the-night stillness about it. She was hypnotized.
“Is your arm hurting again?” she whispered finally, rising to one elbow. A soft, down-filled comforter slid down her chest. It made a sensuous weight, pressing her oversized flannel shirt against her breasts. Her legs felt contentedly relaxed inside a cocoon of old gray sweatpants.
“I’m fine. I want to take you downstairs, and now’s the best time. No one will see you with me. You won’t feel uncomfortable.”
She sat up and studied him, silent and thoughtful, her pulse kicking into a rapid patter of excitement. A narrow white sling made a sharp contrast to the dark hair of his chest. It cradled his burned arm at the wrist. He’d draped a dark blue robe around his shoulders and somehow managed
to don a pair of soft old jeans and white socks. He read her thoughts and said, “If any of the live-in servants are awake at this time of night and wandering where they shouldn’t be, they’ll assume we’re sleeping together, regardless of how we’re dressed.”
She glanced at the oversized bed, with its black coverlet and white sheets pulled back on his side. She lay on top of them, an arm’s length from his mound of large white pillows. “The Puritans would be proud of us.”
Artemas glanced grimly at his arm. “I have a built-in bundling board. Blistered, drugged on pain pills—it’s a helluva way to get you into bed.” Before the discussion moved into even more hopeless territory, he took her hand and tugged gently “But it’s a start. Come on. Let’s go downstairs. I have something to show you.”
She stood beside him in front of a pair of overwhelming, heavily carved doors in the darkness. “I’m lost,” she whispered. “Where are we?”
Artemas took an ornate key from the pocket of his robe and fitted it into the doors’ gleaming brass mechanism. “It’s a surprise. Cover your eyes. Don’t peek.”
She did as he said, feeling a little foolish. The slight chill of the polished wooden floor crept up through her heavy socks. She heard the smooth, ponderous sound of the doors opening. He took her by the elbow and guided her forward. The sweet, earthy smell of flowers and plants was easily identified. The air cooled. Water, gurgling languidly somewhere, was unmistakable.
There was a sense of having stepped into a vast space. Shallow steps met her feet, some type of stone. As he nudged her downward, she felt the glasslike surface of tiles. She judged their square perimeter with her toes.
“One more second,” he said, his voice as low and private as a caress but also threaded with anticipation. She heard the doors closing, and the barely audible click of a switch. He took one of her hands in his. “Look at your palm court, Lily.”
Her chest ached with poignant recognition. A sigh of
pleasure and surprise burst from her. He had transformed the vast, ruined, glass-enclosed room into the luscious heaven she had always tried to imagine.
After decades of loneliness, the little stone girl poured water from her fountain pedestal. A pampered forest of palms formed a background for ferns and a glorious variety of flowering plants. Tiled pathways wandered through their midst. Beautiful white-ceramic urns replaced the broken vessels she remembered.
“It’s wonderful,” she whispered. “Even better than I dreamed.”
She heard the melodic chatter of sleepy, disgruntled parakeets roosting in the trees. Artemas lifted her hand. One bright yellow bird swept down and landed there. Lily studied it wistfully. Perched atop their intertwined fingers, it was as delicate and proud as a memory.
Twenty-seven
The ruthless old bargain hung in the air like the scent of the pine logs burning in the music room’s fireplace. The room was softly lit and comfortable, the stately baroque pieces soothed by overstuffed couches and chairs, a baby grand gleaming like sculptured onyx by tall, filigreed windows.
Artemas leaned back in an armchair, a tumbler of scotch ignored on the table beside it. His arm, cushioned on a pillow in his lap, itched and hurt like a hundred sunburns. He’d taken no pain pills since the senator’s arrival. It was unwise to be less than alert around the man.
The senator nursed an ornate pipe and stared, slit-eyed, into the flames. Stretching one leg over the other on the ottoman in front of his own chair, he looked deceptively benign. Finally he took the pipe in mottled, elegant old hands and studied it as if seeking enlightenment. “Since I’ve retired, I have entirely too much time to think,” he told Artemas. “And one of the things I’ve discerned, in my infinite wisdom, is that your continuing kindness and respect since my daughter’s death are more than I deserve.”
Artemas measured his words carefully. “We’ve paid our debts to each other.”
“No resentment, my boy? You have no inkling of disgust for the dreadful old bastard who manipulated your life?”
“I chose to accept your offer. I could have walked away.”
“As I recall, it was a threat, not an offer. I was desperate. I can’t be pious in my old age and say I’d have been forgiving if you’d turned me down. I assure you, I would have done everything in my power to ruin you. Don’t tell me you doubted that.” The senator smiled thinly. “It would insult my ego.”
“Whether I felt trapped or not, I kept my word. And you kept yours.”
“And now I sound as if I’m a frail old sinner asking for redemption.” The senator made a derisive sound at the thought. “In fact, I’m here to meddle in your life again.” When Artemas straightened in the chair and studied him with deadly intensity, the senator shook his head. “You are far too powerful to fear me now. Relax, my boy. I’ve come here to listen and advise, not to threaten. I’m concerned about you and this woman—this Lily Porter.”
His teeth clenched, Artemas said softly, “I don’t owe you an explanation of my personal life.”
Cupping the pipe on the lap of his trousers, the senator settled deeper into his chair. “I understand you’ve known this woman since both of you were children. I can only assume her friendship is well worth the risk of alienating your family.”
“She hasn’t caused the problems. She’s done her best to avoid hurting me or my family. Which is more than I can say for how we’ve treated her.”
The senator contemplated that in silence. “I’ve never doubted your loyalty to my daughter. I don’t now. But I’d like an answer to one question. Were you involved with Mrs. Porter—Miss MacKenzie, at that time—were you in love with her when you married Glenda?”
“Yes.”
“But you gave her up to honor our agreement?”
“Yes. Lily and I didn’t see each other again until after Glenda died. By then, Lily was married and had a son.” Artemas held the senator’s gaze. “Lily is not the kind of person who ignores her vows. And I never asked her to.”
“And now that those vows are not an issue?”
“I’ll draw her into this family. I’ll convince her that the past can be overcome. I’m going to prove that to her if it takes the rest of my life.”
“And what if your hopes are never realized? Are you prepared to choose her over all that you’ve worked for, and all those who love you?”
“Yes.”
“My God.” The senator sighed. “I came here to remind you of all you’ve sacrificed to secure your family’s stability and success. I feared your feelings for Mrs. Porter would make those noble efforts meaningless. It seems I was mistaken.”
“Completely,” Artemas replied. He said nothing else. His love for her was something he didn’t want to discuss further. He had so few private treasures. Lily was his greatest sacrifice. Having her with him again would
give
meaning to it all.
Mr. Estes sidled over to Lily as she was hanging bundles of dried flowers on pegs along the greenhouse wall. She wanted flowers to put in her house all winter, even dried ones. “You are
never
still,” he complained.
She grunted. “Always got work to do. Unlike some folks I know, I don’t see the use in mully-grubbing around in a bad mood.”
He scowled and leaned against a table, lost in thought. The cloudy light of the autumn afternoon cast him in a pewter tint, like an old photograph. But his eyes gleamed vividly, shifting to her and then away. His moods had been more mercurial than usual since that frightening day at the hospital. She couldn’t penetrate them. “That empty pad of concrete outside is starting to get on my nerves,” she said lightly. “We ought to use most of the profit from Malloy’s
project to build a shop. Mr. Parks says we could put up the shell for under five thousand dollars.”
“It’s too late in the year to fiddle with construction.” Mr. Estes’s voice sounded strained, distracted. He rubbed his jaw and stared at the tables and shelves filled with plants. He wandered outside. Lily watched him walk among long rows of shrubs and willow saplings. Their outside inventory covered almost an acre, forming a neat patchwork. When she looked at it, she thought of the old quilts she’d put on her bed yesterday. Mama’s and Grandma’s handiwork had the same loving order to their patterns.
He ambled around, thumping his hands against his trousers like the fat red rooster who was standing on a pile of mulch, preening for his hens in a beam of sunshine that had burst through the clouds. When Mr. Estes finally came back into the greenhouse, he wandered up and down the aisles between the tables, muttering. “Winter’s coming. I feel it in every bone of my body.”
“Joe’s up for parole in January. You’ve got a lot to look forward to.”
He halted, staring at her with unfathomable distress, the way he did any time Joe’s name came up. “You don’t,” he blurted.
She jerked a piece of twine tight around a clump of lavender. “I can’t say he’s one of my favorite people.”
“He’s the only flesh and blood I have. You
got
to understand that. Don’t you hate me for taking his side.”