Authors: Island of Dreams
Small things with big memories. Like the photos he had treasured.
She rested her hand on the frame for a moment, then left the room and closed the door behind her. If only she could close the door to her thoughts.
I’ll get some work done, she told herself. She went down to the office and sat at the typewriter. She could send some query letters to various magazines on several story ideas. But she only stared at the blank page in the typewriter. An hour later, the blank page still blank, she reached for the telephone and tried Michael’s number. It was busy.
Twenty minutes later, she was still trying. Restless beyond endurance, she decided to walk down to the beach. Perhaps she would go by the house he was renting. But then she reined herself in. She couldn’t let it happen again. Not again.
She argued with herself. It was only that she needed to prepare him, and herself, for this evening.
Liar, she scolded. If nothing else, you’ve tried to be honest with yourself.
Suddenly impatient with herself, she called Andy and headed straight for the beach, proud of herself when she turned in the opposite direction from Chris’s house. She would take a long, exhausting walk, and then she would call him about tonight. There was safety that way.
Safety? Was there any such thing any longer?
Chris cradled the phone against his shoulder, and his fingers tapped a nearby table impatiently.
“I can’t come back now.”
He heard the bafflement in the voice of his vice president, Allen Crandal. “They won’t make a deal unless they talk to you personally.”
“Damn it, I’ll call.”
“That’s not good enough. They’re demanding certain assurances about their employees and forest lands they control.”
“Tell them we’ll put it in the contract.”
“Our attorneys say no. It can create a host of problems. But the Hatches will accept your word, I think, if only you can sit down and talk to them. A day. Only a day.”
“I can’t,” Chris said.
There was a long pause on the telephone. “You’ve been trying to get that company for five years. This may be the only opportunity.”
“Then I’ll lose it,” Chris said flatly. “Do the best you can.”
“Chris…”
“No, Allen.” His tone was sharper, more impatient than he intended.
There was another pause. “Is there anything I can do? Anything I can help with?”
Chris’s fingers stopped tapping. Allen had been with him more than six years, and they had never had a drink together that wasn’t business, never visited each other’s homes, never inquired into the other’s life. It was the way Chris had wanted it, the way he had learned to live. The way a fugitive lives, a person who has no past. There were too many dangers in friendships, in attachments. One slip and the house of cards could come tumbling down.
Yet he was touched by the concern in Allen’s voice, concern which seemed to go beyond business.
“No,” Chris said in a more moderated voice. “But you’re going to have to handle this on your own.”
“When will you be back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Some papers need your signature.”
“I’ll send you my power of attorney,” Chris said. “You should have it day after tomorrow. Do whatever you think best.”
There was another silence. Since Chris had taken control of Northwest Lumber, he had held it tightly. He hired the best and he usually took their advice, but he always knew exactly what was going on and no major decision was ever made without his knowledge and approval. “I’ll do my best,” Allen said finally.
“Thank you,” Chris said, knowing that too was out of character. He paid top dollar and he expected results. He knew he was often delinquent on the niceties. That was part of the barrier he had established between himself and other people. No lowered drawbridges. No unexpected attacks.
“If you need anything—”
“I’ll call,” Chris said. He gently laid the phone back down. He hadn’t wanted to tie it up that long. He wanted to be available for the detectives, for Meara.
It was strange. He had been trying to get George Hatch’s company for years, and now it meant nothing, less than nothing. He couldn’t, at the moment, care less about the company into which he’d poured all his life and energy for the past twenty years. He had worked twelve- to fifteen-hour days because there wasn’t anything else, because it helped him survive.
Now he didn’t care about anything but Meara and Lisa. His daughter.
He thought about killing Kurt Weimer himself. It was one solution. But, he realized quickly enough, not a very good one. A subsequent investigation, his photo in every paper in the country. Just one identification, just one, and everything Meara had tried to build would be gone. Someone from those two weeks long ago would remember. Someone always remembered.
The best, the least hurtful solution for everyone was to catch Weimer in illegal activities, to expose his Nazi connections. Weimer was obviously unaware of Chris’s existence; otherwise, he too would have been targeted by now. Kurt Weimer must feel very, very safe.
Chris knew, however, what hell it must be for Meara. Remembering. Fearing. Unable to do anything but wait. All on top of her husband’s death. And his own devastating return.
He felt terribly weary, weighed down by the havoc he had instigated years ago. So many debts to pay. He could never completely atone for them. Some things he probably couldn’t have avoided. But Meara? His inability to stay away from her when he knew, damn it. When he knew what kind of damage could result. But even then, his mind could never have imagined this. Never! He would have to live with that burden every day of his life. He stood and went to the drawer where he had put his gun. Until he had purchased a gun a month ago, he hadn’t held a pistol since the war, although he had used a rifle.
His company’s best client owned a hunting lodge, and Chris was required occasionally to put in a command performance. Many of his clients were, in fact, hunters, an activity that held no attraction for Chris. He had seen enough of death during the early years of the war, and when he was forced to join the hunting parties he made damned sure his shots went wide of any game.
If it weren’t for the exposure to Meara and Lisa, he would be tempted to stalk Weimer now. The actual fact of prison couldn’t be worse than the hell he lived now.
The phone rang again, and he picked it up slowly. “Chandler.”
He knew from the hesitant soft breathing on the other end who it was. “Meara?”
“I…wanted to warn you that Kelly has invited Lisa and me over to dinner tonight. I knew of course you were coming, but…I hadn’t thought he would also invite us.”
There was obvious panic in her voice, and it hurt. God how it hurt. She dreaded him meeting her daughter, their daughter. He understood it. But that understanding didn’t stop the flash of pain ripping through him.
“I’ll be careful,” he said stiffly.
“She…she’s still hurting…”
“So are you,” he said, vicious self-contempt in his voice. “Because of me.”
“No,” she said slowly. She had been thinking all day, remembering. She had gone after him that spring with one-minded determination. During the walk this morning, she had remembered how many times he had warned her, how he had tried to keep his distance. Why hadn’t she remembered that before? Because she hadn’t wanted to. It was easier to blame him. “I wanted you too.”
“You wanted what you thought I was,” he said in a fiercely objective way.
“I don’t know.” Her voice too was tired. “But none of that matters any more,” she said lifelessly. “The only thing that does matter is Lisa.”
“And you.”
“No,” she said simply.
“Meara…”
“I just wanted to prepare you,” Meara said quietly. “That’s all. Kelly told her you were a friend of Sanders.”
“What else…was said?”
“She asked me about you. I said you lived in the northwest, that you were involved in one of Sanders’s cases and we’d met once when you came to Washington. That’s all.”
“All right,” he said mildly. “Thank you for calling.” There was a silence on the other end, then he heard the connection severed. He slowly let the telephone slip from his own hand and leaned back against the sofa.
He had spent his life in rigidly disciplined lines, had subdued and conquered emotions, had learned to control his every expression, his every word. Except for two weeks in the spring of 1942. Except for then, and the consequences of that weakness had been devastating.
And now, tonight, he would meet one of the results of that fallout. His daughter. His chest tightened until he thought he couldn’t breathe, and for a moment he wondered if he were having a heart attack. The physical pain was all consuming, spreading over him in aching waves. Slowly it receded, but time had passed. He didn’t know how long. Some of the pain receded, but not all.
His daughter. He had thought about her, dreamed about her, wondered about her. He had treasured the few photos he had of her, and pictured others in his mind: her first party dress, her first date, her graduation from high school. Each had been an aching, agonizing reminder of what he had surrendered. His hands pressed together until they were white.
He knew he was often called the iron man at the company.
Tonight, he would have to prove it.
C
HRIS STUDIED HIMSELF
in the mirror. He had been doing that for a very long time this evening.
But there was no vanity in the examination. He had looked at himself in the mirror for years, searching the face of a man he despised. He had seen himself grow older, had seen the shell grow harder, the eyes grow more empty each succeeding year.
No, there was nothing to admire in the face that looked back at him.
But there was another reason to look now.
How much did his daughter resemble him? Would there be a certain acknowledgment between them? He had spent so much time this afternoon looking at her pictures, and recalling the morning he first saw her here.
Her hair was gold, a slightly darker shade than his, but that was not unusual. Meara’s red hair was also touched by gold, and Sanders, he recalled, had light brown hair. No giveaway there.
Eyes? Her eyes were blue. He hadn’t seen them a week ago, but he knew from the information sent to him that they were blue. Bright blue. Not the dark inky blue of his own. There was nothing else, he thought, to link them. Lisa had Meara’s bone structure, the same wide, stubborn mouth. Perhaps Lisa had some of Chris’s height, but then Sanders had also been tall.
He had made a promise to Meara, one he meant to keep, no matter the cost to him. Lisa would never know from him that he was her father. He would stay out of her life, hers and Meara’s, once he had insured their safety.
It was the only gift he had.
He looked down at his watch. Ten minutes. He didn’t want to be early. He didn’t want to seem eager.
Chris looked down at his clothes. He had dressed with care in a light blue summer suit he had found in Brunswick earlier. He wore an even paler blue shirt, and a dark blue tie, dark blue socks and black shoes. He looked imminently respectable, he thought with a twisted smile. He wondered what his hosts would think if they knew what he really was: a fraud, a name on a cemetery stone. That, and more.
His hand shook as he picked up his wallet and placed it in a pocket, and ran a comb once more through the unruly hair which curled in the damp coastal air. He glanced at his watch again. Five more minutes. He thought about a drink, and how much he wanted one, needed one, and then how much he couldn’t afford it. He needed every ounce of discipline he could master.
Time. It was time to go. Time to meet his daughter. Time to see Meara again.
None of them, not Eric von Steimen or Michael Fielding or Chris Chandler, had ever known fear like this. Fear—deep, sickening fear.
Yet there was something else too. Elation.
Chris straightened his tie one last time.
Would Lisa suspect anything?
Meara glanced desperately around the room, again wanting to run and hide and take Lisa with her.
She had been ready for thirty minutes. As if to deny that anything unusual was happening, she wore casual clothes, a brightly colored but cotton skirt, an emerald green blouse and a pair of sandals. She had used only the barest touch of lipstick on her lips.
She poured herself a gin and tonic, knowing it was probably a mistake. There would be drinks at Kelly’s. Her hands shook as she held the bottle of gin, and more splashed in the glass than she intended. She usually used only the slightest trace. But now she gulped the drink like a person stranded in the desert for days without water.
Where had the hard-won peace gone?
She had worked so hard to achieve it, had even been able to lock many memories away. Not those of Michael, nor the force of the brooding blue eyes. But she had been able to put aside the violence of that last night. And now it was all coming back, each detail magnified.