The Long Road Home (32 page)

Agatha picked up her purse and threw a final disparaging look his way. “No. I’m not afraid of you. You are not ruthless. Neither was your father, or your sister. It is your Achilles’ heel, and it will be your ruin.”

She turned and without another word paraded from the room, not bothering to close the door behind her.

C.W. strode across the checkered floor to the door, catching a final glance of her withered features before the elevator doors closed.

She didn’t see him smile.

Fate decreed that Nora’s auction would be the playing board upon which not only his own problems would be resolved, but Nora’s problems as well. Knowing that, he did not challenge fate. He used it to set his strategy. The players were on the board. The first move had been made. He had to finesse the black queen—and the game was his.

“Checkmate,” he said confidently.

He didn’t know that his own queen was already on the move.

Late that night, in another part of Manhattan, Sidney and Cornelia shared their bed but not their thoughts. They lay side by side, neither attempting to cross the five-inch gulf that separated them. Over dinner, Sidney had cursed Charles Blair’s black heart and his own blind loyalty. That Charles could offer controlling interest of the bank to Agatha was bitter. It made him physically ill. Better to sell public than offer to Agatha.

Cornelia had listened silently, not touching her plate, not offering even a syllable of rebuke or defense of her family. With a strange look of anguish on her face, Cornelia had spoken of patience and faith. Trust and loyalty.

Empty words, Sidney thought, lying in bed with his mouth twisting in anger. He stared at the blackness.

Charles was ever the calculating shark, he realized with cold logic. Charles must have known that things were tense between Nelly and him. He wasn’t cutting him a deal in case
the marriage fell apart. That had to be it. He wouldn’t even offer to his sister.

Damn, but Charles was really going for the highest bidder! Sidney, intensely hurt, hadn’t thought that really possible.

To hell with the whole Blair family, Sidney muttered as he rolled angrily on his side, presenting Cornelia with his back. He’d buy that stock if it took every penny he had, and it no doubt would.

“Sidney?” Cornelia’s voice was soft with sadness.

He didn’t respond. His voice caught in his throat. He heard her sigh heavily and turn to her side, careful not to let her body brush against his. The distance between them pained him. He missed his wife. He loved her still. All it would take was a stretched-out hand, one touch. But no. Impossible. The gulf was too wide.

Sidney tossed and turned for hours, wondering if Charles had really betrayed him. Hadn’t Charles warned him of rough days coming? Of doubt and the need for trust? Was this offer to buy the van Gogh the last trick of a desperate man, or another ploy of the unpredictable Charles Blair?

Possible. He remembered the intense stare in Charles’s eyes. The recollection gave him hope.

Then Sidney shrugged the emotion away. It didn’t really matter. This was business. Every man for himself. Let the bidding war commence, he decided with more aggression than he’d felt in years. The bidding would go high, he figured, but he knew what the bank was potentially worth, and it was more than even Agatha knew. They’d underestimated the bank, Sidney thought, jutting out his jaw and clutching his pillow tightly.

And they’d underestimated him.

NORA TOOK A LONG, last look at her mountain before climbing in the Volvo beside Esther. The Johnston family was there to wave them off, sharing a look of sadness and shock as they clustered on the front lawn. In only twenty-four hours, Nora and Esther had closed up the big house, designated their chores, packed, and said their farewells. All that was left was to leave.

Esther’s eyes were moist but she waved heartily from the window. When she turned and faced forward, her eyes sparked with excitement.

Nora started the engine. In so many ways, this was going to be a long journey to New York, for both of them. She backed out slowly, careful not to hit any dogs, cats, or junk on the front lawn, and eased onto the road. Frank, Katie Beth, and Junior walked the length of the front yard after them, waving. May, Zach, and Sarah watched with solemn faces from the front porch, while Grace and Timmy chased the car down the road calling out, “Bye, bye!”

They hadn’t traveled more than a minute when Nora spied
a blue pickup speeding down the road after them, honking. She pulled to the side, recognizing the truck as John Henry’s. From the corner of her eye, Nora saw Esther’s face pale and stiffen.

John Henry parked on the side of the road, just ahead of them. He leaped from his truck, leaving the door wide open, and ran toward Esther’s door.

“Oh, no,” Esther moaned, with more sadness than irritation, as he approached and yanked open her door.

“Esther, we gotta talk.”

“I tried to yesterday but you wouldn’t come out. It’s too late now. Let it go.”

“Es, please. You can’t go like this.”

Esther glanced at Nora, who promptly nodded and lifted her hand in a signal to get out. She did, reluctantly. They walked a few feet from the car.

“I know you’re doing what you always wanted to do,” John Henry began, marshaling all his reserve. “I respect you for that.”

“Thanks,” she whispered, holding herself taut.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so hard on you—”

“You haven’t,” she interrupted.

“I have, but it’s because I love you so much.”

Esther wouldn’t look up, afraid to see the pain she heard in his voice. “I care about you too.”

John Henry cleared his throat of the cry that suddenly shot up. He stood ramrod straight and he spoke forcefully. “I don’t know when you’ll be comin’ back, or even if you are. Even if you do, I don’t know if I’ll be waitin’.” He paused. “Es, look at me.”

Esther raised her eyes, and in the man, she saw the boy. Esther shuddered and willed herself not to cry.

The wind streaked John Henry’s brown hair across his cheek.

“Before I go I want you to know that, no matter what, I’ll always be here for you, Red. Know that John Henry Thompson will always be your best friend.”

Esther stepped forward, slipping her hands from her pockets to go around his neck. She couldn’t tell him that she loved him too, for fear he’d take it the wrong way and start to hope again. So Esther just whispered, “Thanks,” against the fine short hairs along his neck.

They sealed their pact of friendship with a hug, neither knowing how long it would be before they would see each other again, or whether they would ever be able to touch each other again with such intimacy.

John Henry was the first to break away.

“Good luck, Red,” he said heartily with a brave smile and a hasty wave of his palm. Then he retreated to his truck, his pace far too quick for indifference.

“God, I hope you know what you’re doing,” Nora muttered when Esther slid back in the car beside her.

“Me too,” Esther said gruffly, thinking of the water that pooled in John Henry’s eyes as he turned away. She leaned back, rested one worn shoe across her knee and stared out at the mud ditch that John Henry’s tires dug in the road.

“Let’s go,” she said.

Nora had driven this route many times, but the New York Thruway had never before seemed so long. Each mile brought a new knot of tension along her spine, at each exit she fought the temptation to turn around and head back home.

The mountains shrank in size as she headed south. They were sparse of trees and thick with ski runs. The traffic picked up and the drivers were more aggressive as the scenery changed
from rural to suburban. Nora cut through Westchester, past rows of middle-class postwar houses. Then she hit the New York City limits and the scenery changed drastically.

She was back, she realized with a small shiver. She had thought she was ready to face that metropolis of memories, but now, speeding toward its skyline, she wasn’t sure. New York, for Nora, was a melting pot filled with too many ingredients. Rich, spicy, hot, sour. She just couldn’t digest it.

Esther sat up in her seat and gawked like a tourist at the billboards, the boarded-up buildings, and the high-rise, low-income housing. Nora’s face was grim as realization of the transition she must face hit full force. Here she was Mrs. Michael MacKenzie, with all the history that name evoked. Nora hardened her heart, sharpened her wits, and toughened her hide.

This was more than a change in scenery. This was entering another world.

Big-city driving is as much a learned arrogance as an acquired skill, but once you have it, you never lose it. Nora bumped over potholes, cut across lanes, and shot down to the south of Houston.

Jenny Gold came out to greet them and Nora hastily made the introductions. Jenny and Esther stood eye to eye at the gallery’s threshold. Both women were tall and angular, but the similarity ended there. It was city mouse and country mouse. Jenny Gold’s kohl-lined eyes shrewdly evaluated the simplicity and utter lack of chic in Esther’s severe black cotton dress and worn leather flats. It pained Nora to witness Jenny’s subtle sneer and hear the thinly veiled contempt in her welcome. Nora closed her eyes, inexplicably weary of the significant subtleties of this world.

To her credit, Esther was neither mincing in manner nor
shy. It was as though by her very arrival in the city, Esther had validated her talent and her dreams, cloaking her with a unique aura of confidence. Nora thought Esther was like a brilliant red rose: magnificent, straight, and thorny.

It was Jenny Gold’s job to recognize uniqueness in any form, and she was good at her job. Her sneer shifted to a wide, toothy grin and she swung wide the gallery door.

“Do go off to wherever it is you have to go,” she blithely informed Nora with a wave of her hand. “I’ll see to Esther.”

As Nora drove away, Esther flashed her a delightfully discreet thumbs-up sign.

In contrast to Esther’s confidence, Nora was shaking in her boots. She parked her luggage in a modest, discreet hotel, then headed straight for the Blair Bank, before her nerves failed her. She had carefully chosen a conservative, well-cut suit of dove gray, a white silk blouse, black low-heeled pumps, and matching black purse, and of course, Oma’s pearls. It was her intention to confront Charles Blair with the journal and insist that he pass out the word that the MacKenzie estate was indeed solvent. As the elevator passed floor after floor in the Blair skyscraper, Nora counted reason after reason why she had to face her enemy.

The doors slid open, revealing a long, well-lit corridor of highly polished wood and stark walls covered with a breathtaking collection of Hudson Valley artists. Along the walls sat sleek desks and behind them sat equally sleek and polished secretaries. This was the anteroom of the executive offices, the inner sanctum of the Blair Bank. Nora smoothed her French twist, clutched Mike’s journal, and stepped forward.

Her heels clicked along the bare floors as she walked down the long hall. The eyes of the secretaries discreetly followed her as she passed each desk. Their expressions were curious, and Nora knew they were evaluating the expense of her suit
and the millimeter of her pearls. Undaunted, Nora continued walking until she faced the largest desk at the end of the hall. Behind it was an imposing wooden door with a discreet brass plate: President.

“May I help you?” The secretary was a big woman: eyes, bones, belly, and all. With her dark suit, her severely pulled back black hair, and her sharp expression, the woman looked like an SS guard off rations.

Nora raised her chin and spoke with authority. “I want to talk to Mr. Charles Blair. I am Mrs. Michael MacKenzie. It’s urgent.”

The woman raised her brows and clasped her hands firmly upon her desk. “I’m sorry. Mr. Blair will not see anyone without an appointment.”

Nora bristled. “Announce me, please.”

“I’m sorry. Mr. Blair will not be disturbed.”

“Is he in?” she asked in her most imperious tone.

“Yes.” The word was a dismissal.

Nora studied the pinched face of the secretary and knew there would be no coaxing this gatekeeper. She had bigger battles to fight than with this battle-ax. Holding her purse and journal tightly, Nora swung on her heel and swept past the desk.

“Mrs. MacKenzie! Stop! You can’t go in there. Mrs. MacKenzie!”

The cries of alarm spurred her forward. She didn’t look back. Eyes on the door, heels clicking, she grabbed the door handle, swung wide the door, and marched into the private office.

Light poured in from the large windows. Blinking, she made out a very long, highly polished desk. Behind it was a high-backed leather chair. Nora blinked again, focusing on the man slowly rising from that chair. His long fingers rested
on the desk as he stood to face her. A tall, broad silhouette; a familiar image. The seconds seemed like minutes, the minutes like eternity, as her mind recognized, then questioned, then painfully accepted the sight.

They stood separated by the desk, neither moving, neither speaking. Only the secretary flustered about, muttering, “I tried to stop her, Mr. Blair. She stormed right past me!”

“Leave us,” he commanded, eyes still on Nora.

The secretary sucked in her breath, clasped her hands again, and scurried from the room, silently closing the door behind her.

Still no one spoke. Nora searched his face. The eyes were the same blue ones she had stared into. The nose was the same angled one she had mused about. His skin was the same tawny fabric she had kissed.

But his wild blond hair had been slicked back and trimmed. His wool suit was expensive, his white shirt was crisp, and his tie had just enough panache to be fashionable yet conservative. But it was his hands that arrested her. Those long, tapered fingers that had explored and excited every inch of her now rested confidently upon the desk of Mike’s hated rival.

“C.W. Charles Walker. You left out Blair, didn’t you?” Her voice sounded lifeless, even to herself.

“Yes. My full name is Charles Walker Blair.”

She raised her eyes to his. When they met she felt burned by the intensity he wore whenever he was reining himself in. He held out his hand to her. A sudden memory stabbed deep. She remembered for an instant how much she loved him.

“I hate you,” she whispered.

The pain and hate in her eyes stopped him dead in his tracks. His face mirrored the anguish. “Nora, you must listen.”

“Never. Never again!” She thrust her finger out, pointing to the desktop. “Trust me, you said! You deliberately used me
to get your hands on those ledgers and papers. To save your own neck, and your blessed bank’s, you twisted mine.”

Her voice was low and cold. He tried to explain.

“I did need the papers,” he said evenly. “But it’s much more complicated than it appears. Sit down and—”

“How could you have?” Her chin trembled. “Couldn’t you have just stolen the evidence and left? What kind of perverse pleasure could you have gained from working your way into my life? Did you have to pretend you loved me? Did you have to make me love you?”

“Nora, I—” He swept around the desk.

“Stop! Stay away from me!” she shrieked, stepping back with an arresting hand outstretched. She felt her anger rising up and she couldn’t stop it. She hated him—she loved him; the two emotions churned in such tumult they overpowered her. She gulped huge breaths of air as she hunched over the journal and stared at him with wounded eyes.

“My God, you’re worse than Mike,” she cried. “He used and abused me, but at least he was open about it.” The tears were flowing down her cheeks. “At least he didn’t sleep with me.”

C.W. visibly cringed.

“I hate you, Charles Walker Blair. Not for what you did to Mike. But for what you did to me. Take your evidence,” she said, throwing the journal at him. As he ducked, she swept her hand across his desk, sending the papers and ledger crashing to the floor. “Keep them, I don’t care.”

She squared her shoulders and stared into his eyes. She saw his pain, she saw his desolation, and it took every ounce of strength to muster hatred instead of love.

Nora turned sharply and walked to the door, each click of her heels sounding like a death knoll in her ears. With her
hand on the handle, she turned and faced him one last time. He hadn’t moved a muscle.

“Don’t worry about your reputation,” she said, her voice even. “My shame has bought my silence.”

She swung open the door and fled down the corridor, oblivious to the open-mouthed stares of a long line of secretaries.

In desperate silence, C.W. watched her run down the hall. He stared without moving as she turned in the elevator and faced him, chin trembling but high. The bronze mirrored elevator doors silently closed.

He stood there for several minutes, staring ahead at the doors that had closed tight against him.

“Excuse me, Mr. Blair. Should I clean up the mess?” asked Mrs. Baldwin.

He looked at her face and saw no one. Around him C.W. saw only the rows of meaningless diplomas and awards, the shelves of unremembered books, the walls of an impersonal bank that seemed to be closing in on him. At his feet, Mike’s papers lay scattered.