Authors: Maureen McMahon
He leaned toward me, his eyes serious and I realized with
distaste that he was pleading with me, something I would never have thought
possible. It left a sick feeling in my gut.
“I’m sorry, Suzanna. I guess it’s sort of hypocritical of me
to say all this now but—well, I really mean it and no matter what happens, I
want you to know I’ve never meant to hurt you.”
I knew why he was saying all these things and my mind worked
furiously. What sort of desperate situation would make him grovel so? At the
same time, I was surprised how little empathy I felt. I nodded my head, unable
to think of what to say. I felt as if I’d been dumped on stage before a packed
house and forgotten my lines.
Colin didn’t seem to notice my discomfiture but hurried on
as if too long a pause would cut off the words forever. “You of all people know
Leo and I were never close.” He snorted at the understatement. “But I won’t say
he didn’t try. In the beginning, I think he tried too hard. I guess I just
couldn’t forgive him for what he did to Mother. Eventually he gave up, which
was a relief to us both.
“I’ve never been good with money. He was always there to
bail me out. It was sort of a truce we had—I could do what I wanted, as long as
I kept the name clean and stayed out of his hair.” He hesitated and I noticed
that his hands were trembling.
“I always wanted the best for Ali. In the beginning, I would’ve
done anything—and I can tell you, she likes spending money! There were new
cars, acting agents and coaches, wardrobes for every occasion and parties…”
He set the glass ballerina down and began to pace. “I moved
here to try to stop all that. You’re right about having to make our own lives.
It took me a while to realize it but that’s what I wanted to do when I came
back here. Leo bought the marina and set us up. I really wanted to make it work
but…” His voice trailed off and I felt my palms begin to perspire.
“What are you saying, Colin?” I asked, my voice hoarse.
“I’m saying I’m broke and in debt up to my ears,” he said,
almost angrily. He turned on me fiercely. “I’m saying that if you don’t marry
Grant, I’m washed up! Finished! Kaput! Me, Alicia, David, the marina! I don’t
own a cent of it!”
I stared at him in alarm. “But surely…”
He leaned over my chair so his face was inches from mine and
I shrank back at the desperation in his eyes. “I need time, Suzanna. Leo pulled
out too soon! I could’ve done it—still can—but I need more time!”
I didn’t speak. After a moment his desperation ebbed and he
fell back onto the sofa, covering his face with his hands. My mouth was dry.
Guilt flooded me and I tried to block it out—tried to find some escape from the
knowledge that this man’s life was in my hands. At the same time, I was furious
he put me into such a tenuous position by shoving the responsibility for his
poor judgments squarely onto my shoulders.
It was his own fault! Why should I feel responsible? I
looked at him sitting there in abject despair and something melted inside.
Perhaps I still had some compassion left.
He dropped his hands and looked up, drained. “Sorry,” he
muttered. “I just wanted you to know.”
He stood up and straightened his shoulders. “I won’t beg
you, Suzanna. I’ve made my own bed and I won’t blame you if you tell me to lie
in it. But the will does state the marriage need only last one year. No one’s
life has to really change.” He studied me, trying to read my stricken face,
then shrugged. “I just wanted you to know.”
I watched silently as he left the room, more confused than
ever. I hated him for telling me those things and hated myself for wanting to
reach out and help him. I knew it took a lot for him to break down and confide
and I also knew, seeing his predicament, I’d never be able to refuse Leo’s will
without accepting the blame for the consequences. But perhaps that was all part
of Colin’s plan? Could he have staged the whole episode? I wouldn’t put
emotional blackmail past him.
I went out onto the patio, squinting against the bright
sunlight glinting off the pool and the distant lake. I could just make out a
small fishing vessel bobbing on the horizon. Leo taught me the rudiments of
game fishing years ago from the deck of his yacht. The thought of casting out
pretty baubles to snag a living creature seemed barbarous at the time. I used
to wonder how it must feel to be caught and dragged, frenzied with panic, into
a foreign atmosphere—measured, gawked at, ripped and torn and eventually,
tossed back while strange creatures laughed unconcernedly. I preferred sailing.
With that thought, I went back into the house and up the
stairs to my room. I changed into my swimsuit, pulled on a matching sky blue
cover-up and slipped on a pair of deck shoes.
* * * * *
The boathouse and dock nestled in a small cove to the east
of the main beach. It served as protection for Beacon’s smaller recreational
watercraft. The yacht was berthed in Chicago and was used primarily for
entertaining clients. There was also a company seaplane on call twenty-four
hours a day in case Leo was needed at the main office in Chicago.
I grabbed a set of keys off the hook in the kitchen and
headed for the beach. The sun was warm and I removed my wrap and shoes as I
descended the steps to the beach. The sand burned my feet and I was grateful
for the cooler touch of the pier.
I unlocked the door to the boathouse and pushed it open,
allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness within. There were four boats here—a
sleek black speedboat with red flames painted down the sides, a twenty-two foot
yacht with real teak trimmings, a twin-hulled, fully equipped fishing boat and
a small, two-man catamaran. This last I approached with a half-smile. Most
likely no one had used it since I’d left Beacon but the bright fiberglass hull
still gleamed, even in the relative gloom.
I stepped onto the center platform, unsnapped the canvas
covering the boom and sail and used the paddle to maneuver it out into the
sunlight. I looped its mooring rope over a pylon while I checked that all the
rigging and safety gear were intact. Two gulls screeched overhead and I saw
them reflected in the crystalline waves.
Within minutes I was set. I paddled a short way out before
raising the bright multicolored sail. The gusty breeze caught it immediately
and I was off, skimming across the sparkling waves.
The day was perfect. There were only three small marshmallow
clouds adorning the sky below a plump golden sun, whose pulsing heat shimmered
in the air and beckoned moisture up from the earth. The water was sapphire blue
and I let one hand trail in the frothy wake. Despite the warmth of the days,
the chill of late August nights had settled like a reptile into the vast
freshwater depths.
I leaned back, holding the rope tightly so the sail bloomed
and the boat skipped smoothly over the soft swells. The opposite pontoon lifted
out of the water. Today, the lake was tame but before a storm it could rise up
like a primeval beast ripping viciously at its long-suffering borders. In the
winter, it was even more predatory, writhing with cold-blooded purpose around
the rocks and dunes with frigid, sinewy intent, waiting for prey. Now it was
puckish, playful—as though full-bellied and content but in need of diversion. I
knew the lake too well to fear it but I’d also learned to respect it. I could
translate the first signs of foul weather.
I shaded my eyes and scanned the shoreline. Beacon was
entrancing from this angle. Sandy cliffs rose like sandbox sculptures,
interwoven with green fingers of forest and grassy knolls. Atop the tall rise
stood the house, its windows watching the horizon with vacuous patience, almost
as though it was waiting—waiting for Leo to return. The glass winked silver
while the garden hedgerow underlined the looming white walls.
I loosed the rope and let the sail flap, drifting on gentle
swells. I never failed to be amazed at the magnificence of this view. Often,
larger yachts and schooners strayed from the crowded shores further south to
sidle by for a glimpse of the house or to train their zoom lenses on it, hoping
for some exclusive photos of Leopold Dirkston’s private life. It now occurred
to me that if I let the estate go, those same greedy sensationalists could snap
it up and turn it into anything they desired—a tourist trap, a public landmark,
a museum. I frowned, imagining the unmarred beach strewn with gaudy umbrellas
and sun worshipers with their coolers of beer and blaring radios. I shuddered
and was swept by a sudden possessiveness.
I pulled the rope tight again. The swells were getting
larger and the skiff fairly skimmed the surface. I leaned far out over the side
for ballast. The wind whipped my hair and cleared my head. I was suddenly aware
my decision was made. The realization flooded me with relief, as though all my
concerns had blown away with the wind.
For what it was worth, I loved Beacon more than I despised
it. I knew that, despite my reservations, the place was my home and to let it
go would be like abandoning an ailing pet. This reasoning allowed me to
shoulder the burden my father had placed on me without submitting to him.
The game wasn’t over. He merely had me in a temporary
stalemate. After the year was out, we’d see who’d win.
Chapter Four
For we are strangers before thee and sojourners,
as were all our fathers:
our days on the earth are as shadow,
and there is none abiding.
King James Bible,
1 Chronicles 29:14–15
The funeral was a monstrous affair. Leo had requested that
his body be cremated and his ashes buried at Beacon. The estate already held my
mother’s remains. How could I allow the estate to go to strangers while my
parents were buried here? There really was no decision to be made. I knew
without doubt I must do everything in my power to prevent Beacon from being put
up for sale. The more I thought of the will, the more I accepted it, telling
myself again and again that a year wasn’t long. In Colin’s words, “No one’s
life need really change”. He was right and I was prepared to go along with the
condition. But on my own terms. And Leo couldn’t force me to like it.
There was a memorial service the whole family attended,
along with hordes of well-wishers, acquaintances and gossipmongers who’d heard
of Leopold Dirkston and wanted to see who remained to inherit the fortune.
There were also reporters from dozens of newspapers, as well as television
camera crews and journalists. These people weren’t allowed inside the church
but swarmed around the steps and entrances like maggots.
For appearance’s sake, Grant enlisted the services of two
limousines to transport the Dirkston clan. At the church itself, police and
security guards held back the crush of onlookers and media until we were all
safely inside and seated at the front in black-draped pews.
Alicia was primed for an Academy Award performance. She
leaned delicately on Colin’s arm, pressing a lace-edged handkerchief to her
nose with a black-gloved hand and sniffing pathetically. She was dressed in
black chiffon that flowed like mist about her fragile frame. Her head was
hidden by a wide-brimmed black hat with a snood to contain and cover her golden
hair in the back, a demi-veil in the front. She wore stiletto heels and seamed
black stockings that displayed her slender legs to perfection.
David escorted me at my request. I felt I needed his stolid
support to get me through this ordeal. I wore a black tailored jacket and
skirt, devoid of frills and decorations, with a modest velvet pillbox hat. I
despised hats but, not wishing to create discord, bowed to Martha’s and Alicia’s
advice.
Grant followed us into the church. He seemed out of place
and uncomfortable. It was an environment I knew he abhorred. As was my habit these
days, I appraised him critically. I had to admit he was actually quite handsome
in his dark suit with his hair neatly combed and his face newly shaved.
The ceremony took the better part of two hours. The priest
was Greek Orthodox, though it made little difference. Leo had disdained
organized religion since early childhood, almost as if it posed a threat to his
ambitions for worldly success. If he’d thought to do so, he’d most certainly
have disallowed any sort of service. Luckily for the rest of us, he hadn’t.
Despite my mysterious sense of apathy, the memorial lent a greater reality to
his demise and for that, I was thankful.
At the front of the church, surrounded by wreaths and
bouquets, stood a small, black onyx urn that held Leo’s ashes. The smell of
burning incense mingled with the thick, sweet perfume of hundreds of flowers
was stifling. I tried to take slow, deliberate breaths, barely aware of the
droning voice of the priest concentrating instead on the steady grip of David’s
hand and my own disassociated thoughts.
The church was full to overflowing, lending further
discomfort and I wasn’t the only one relieved when the eulogy was completed.
Grant left silently before anyone else to waylay reporters and give them some
incomprehensible jargon to take back with them. This allowed the rest of us
time to reach the sanctuary of the cars and move off for the private ceremony
to be conducted over the burial of the urn within Beacon’s grounds.
I was dry-eyed and because of it, I suspected the crowd
condemned me as heartless and unfeeling. In truth, I felt only emptiness. The
little black urn meant no more to me than the impersonal words spoken by the
pompous, balding priest. I knew it would take some time to put my father to
rest in my own heart. I still felt his presence throughout the estate, as if I
might come around a corner and find him striding toward me, grinning, or
dictating to some junior executive scurrying to keep up, his clear, deep voice
echoing resonantly.
Perhaps if I’d been able to see my father’s body, his death
would have been easier to accept. But this wasn’t to be. The funeral home
provided brief visitation hours but the casket was closed—also at Leo’s
request—so it was no more familiar or recognizable than the impersonal black
urn.