IN ATHENS, THE YOUNG WOMAN starts to make a formal complaint to the police. But she walks away when the looks they give her and the questions they keep repeating filter through the lingering fog of drug and pain. She leaves Athens the day her passport and traveler’s checks are replaced, both of which the Dutch backpackers have stolen.
She spends almost two months running from herself. Then she wakes up in a Barcelona hotel with a vicious sangria hangover, and she can’t even say what country she is in, or how long she has been there, or why she continues to leak tears even in her sleep.
When she arrives in Switzerland, late September rains have transformed the highland roads into rivulets of fading autumn colors. She finds a waitressing job in Zermatt’s top hotel. That lasts until the maître d’ makes it plain there is only one way she will be allowed to stay.
She moves to a bar at the base of the Valais glacier, the local hangout for ski instructors and Matterhorn guides. She meets the Swiss version of a cowboy, a rancher from the Ticino province, with smooth Italian ways and eyes like electric night. She lets him get her drunk and do whatever he wants. But he does it only once, and he leaves immediately after. There are a couple of others who try, and she no longer sees any reason to put up a fuss. But something they find in her leaves them unable to stay the night, or return, or even speak to her the same way afterward. What it is exactly, she can’t say. From her side, the moment they begin their moves, the Dutch backpackers’ drug seeps out of some secret recess deep at the center of her being, and turns her utterly numb. The only sensation she can recall afterward is watching the smoke rise and stain the eternal night.
By the start of the high season, she has been adopted as an unofficial mascot by the local ski troop. They all compete to teach her, all save the ones who have been with her for a night or an hour. They name her Schwisterli, little sister in Swiss German, and they find her absolutely fearless. They take her down the most difficult black slopes long before she is ready. She learns by falling and rising and falling again. They share with her the thrills of following the international slalom circuit, of racing supercharged bikes on snowbound Alpine roads, and of drinking thimblefuls of espresso spiked with Pomme, the fiery Valais apple brandy. And they protect her from any outsider who might otherwise try their wiles on the lovely white-blond apparition with no past and few words and a gaze like shattered sapphires.
Toward the end of the season she sends a letter off to Georgetown University, requesting that they postpone her place and scholarship for a further year. She makes a halfhearted attempt to describe her European experiences in a positive light, then halts when the effort to look back makes her sick to her stomach. Georgetown responds so swiftly it almost seems as though they have been expecting her letter, saying the place is still hers, but not the money.
The next step is the easiest of all.
When the month of spring mud announces the end of the winter season, she packs her bags and accepts a ride to London. Some of the instructors are headed for the international nightclubbing circuit. Once the high snows melt and the skies clear, they will return as mountaineering guides. Until then, they are tall, muscled, young, and rippling with good Swiss cheer.
Their first night in a new club off Piccadilly, they introduce her to the international elite. The talk follows a tragically familiar path along beaches with clubs—Majorca, Sardinia, Rhodes, Lanzarote. This time, she enters the scene with eyes wide open.
The next night she returns on her own. And the night after. She accepts an ecstasy tab from someone, then follows him up to the dance floor. A while later he realizes she is neither dancing with him nor hearing his shouted comments. She does not even notice his departure. In fact, she is not dancing to the music at all. She is too busy writhing to the thoughts that glide about her brain like eager snakes.
Maybe she is inherently bad. This fact would certainly make sense of what otherwise is just a set of random events that direct her life. Maybe there is a dark and tainted portion of herself that rules supreme. All she can say for certain is, looking inside means confronting a colossal bleakness. Depression and a vague self-fury hover just beyond her vision, always eager to clutch and smother. She opens her eyes, surveys the flashing lights and the thunderous din, and reflects that maybe this is where she has always belonged.
By the time she returns to the group, she has decided it is time to stop fighting the inevitable, and give herself over to the game.
She spends four months doing whatever comes her way. Her looks and availability draw the attention of the flash crowd. The fact that nothing seems to impress her only makes them want to shower her with more. An older man gives her champagne and coke and diamonds and a ride to Capri in his private jet. He lasts eleven days. The diamonds are sold and the funds placed in her account. Why she saves the money at all, she has no idea. Georgetown becomes just another myth somewhere beyond the game.
Another player draws her into a modeling agency. Her blond beauty and utterly detached air perfectly suit the current mode. She spends the next three months allowing herself to be flown and painted and dressed and positioned and photographed. The girls and boys in this arm of the game are the same, only more elegantly so. They speak the empty chatter. They make swift little liaisons they pretend are important, at least for the moment. She becomes part of a crowd that hails one another in airports and clubs and studios with excited greetings and a desperate need to find the familiar wherever they go.
In early December she returns to Zermatt. Things are the same, yet different. Calls from modeling agencies keep coming in, taken at the café because she does not bother to connect her apartment’s phone. The Alpine guides pretend that she is still one of them, yet they are all preparing for a departure she refuses to accept.
Finally she leaves for a modeling gig in Geneva, just one day. But that leads to a studio in Zurich, then the runways in Milan and Paris and Brussels. And before she knows it, April is dawning, and a million miles away the highland snows are gone.
Over the next five months Kirsten Stansted travels twice around the globe.
One night in early September, the agency puts nine of them into a suite. Kirsten can’t care enough to recall either the clothing line or the magazine, even the city. They go to some club. A handsome young man and a beautiful young woman resume a romance they have started somewhere else. Only in the limo taking them home, the woman discovers that the young man has been with another. And the young man discovers the woman is taking this far worse than expected.
The next morning Kirsten is awakened by a chorus of screams and the sight of the young woman sprawled dead in her bathroom.
After the police finally depart and the agency’s lawyer makes them sign forms nobody bothers to read and the hotel expels them and they are off to another day’s gig, one of the other women consoles the handsome young man by saying, “Don’t blame yourself. She forgot the first rule of this game, is all.”
The next morning, Kirsten leaves for Washington.
AFTER HER CONFRONTATION with Sephus Jones, Kirsten brought in her gym bag with the change of office clothes and showered in the upstairs guestroom. Marcus had said nothing when she had deposited her makeup in the big home’s unused bath. But his silent pleasure had been so vast she had grappled for days with a renewed urge to flee. How could she tell Marcus that he was someone else’s perfect catch? Especially when she remained so viciously at war with her own desires.
She returned downstairs to be confronted by the crumpled envelope resting on the front hall table. She could still feel the man’s lightning jab into her pocket, the roughness of his fingers on her thigh. She debated calling Marcus at the Raleigh courthouse to tell him … What? That New Horizons remained an enemy? That she had finally decided it was best to return to Washington? She sighed her way into her desk at the rear of Netty’s office.
Research on Dale Steadman took no time at all. The man had left a trail of headlines. The local Wilmington paper called Dale Steadman the epitome of a self-made man, the product of two university lecturers who were both mortified to discover they had sired a behemoth who loved to do battle. He had been an all-state fullback, then played one season of pro ball before injury permanently sidelined him. He had gone on to earn a real degree at Duke, in accounting of all things. He had then returned to Wilmington and established a textile company specializing in high-end sports fashion.
Fay Wilbur chose that moment to come thumping through the office’s rear door. Deacon’s wife was a rail-thin woman who never stopped moving. Kirsten could feel the woman’s glare on her back, an acidic torch that just begged for battle. Fay banged the dust mop around the room, striking every available surface and glaring constantly at Kirsten.
Netty was heads-down at her own computer, her desk at the office’s far end. When Fay finally harrumphed her disgust and departed, Netty said, “That woman is dead set on giving me hives this morning.”
“It’s not you.”
“You know what’s going on here?”
Kirsten did not reply.
“Well, the woman’s in a state, is all I can say.”
Kirsten returned to the research. Three years later, New Horizons had bought Dale out. He started spending more time in New York. He sat on boards and did some consulting for U.S. textile companies seeking to avoid moving their operations overseas. He met Erin Brandt. They pursued an international romance, they married. The Steadmans built a home in Wilmington and subsequently divorced. One child, a daughter.
The phone rang. Netty answered with “Marcus Glenwood’s office. Just a moment please.” She cupped the phone and called, “Fay, it’s for you.”
The thunking halted. “Who’s that calling?”
“Your daughter. Line three.”
The mop was dropped with a clatter. The two women exchanged a glance as Fay picked up the conference room phone and snapped, “What is it now?” She was silent a long moment, then, “I can’t tell you any more than I did the last time. I get to it soon as the man walks in the door.”
Fay slammed down the phone, picked up her mop, and started up the front stairs trailing smoky epitaphs.
Netty rose from her desk with her mug in hand. “Never thought I’d need to run a gauntlet just to freshen my coffee.”
As she was leaving the office the phone rang. Netty snagged the phone on Kirsten’s desk. “Marcus Glenwood’s office. I’m sorry, Mr. Glenwood is in court this morning.” She listened a moment. “Who may I say is calling?”
Netty gave Kirsten a curious glance. “What is this in regard to, please?”
Netty listened a moment further, then pressed the mute button and said, “Senator Jacobs’ office wants to talk with you about the Steadman case.”
“Me?”
“He even knew your name. Should I say you’re not available?”
“This is growing worse by the minute.”
“What is?”
Kirsten reached for her receiver. “Kirsten Stansted.”
“Brent Daniels, Ms. Stansted. I run the senator’s local operations. We understand your office is about to become involved in an international custody dispute.”
“That is for Mr. Glenwood to say.”
“Then our sources have it wrong?”
“How did you get my name?”
“Ms. Stansted, I don’t know if you’re aware, but there are over six hundred cases where American courts have assigned custody to one parent, only to have the child abducted by the other and shielded from being returned by the German court system.”
“Sir, I asked you a question.”
“This is a direct violation of the Hague Convention on Children. It has become a matter of concern to the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. We have been looking for a landmark case to force the German government’s hand.” There was the rustle of pages. “The senator is hoping to be in Raleigh this weekend. Could you ask Mr. Glenwood to stop by the senator’s local office and let us discuss the matter?”
“I will pass on your message.”
“Something your office might not be aware of, Ms. Stansted. Erin Brandt will be leaving for London sometime late Sunday evening. She’s been contracted to perform at Covent Garden, which is the way the Royal Opera House is usually referred to. It’s her only scheduled visit outside Germany this summer. Just a little something to establish our bona fides, give your boss a reason to stop by. Shall we say Sunday afternoon around five?”
As she hung up the phone, Fay banged her way down the stairs, quarreling with the railing and the front hall mirror before heading back into the kitchen. Netty said, “Deacon should get a place at heaven’s front table for putting up with that woman.”
Kirsten rose, picked up her cup, and headed for the rear doors. Netty watched her with astonishment. “You can’t possibly be needing caffeine that bad.”
Kirsten found Fay peering angrily into the refrigerator and muttering to herself. “Can I help you with something?”
Fay reached in and snagged a plate with cautious disapproval. “What is this mess here?”
“Fresh tofu. Bean curd.”
Fay Wilbur was a smoldering wick of a woman. She shook the plate, making the white curd glisten and wobble. “You’re feeding my boy white Jell-O?” She gave it a careful sniff, and her features wrinkled even further. “Land sakes, this stuff is long dead.”
“Put it back, please.”
“And what do we have here.” Fay set the plate on the counter, but kept her gaze inside the refrigerator. “Would you just look at this mess.”
Kirsten moved close enough to be able to see what she was pointing at. “That’s fresh basil. And Brie.”
“How much did you pay for this wine?” She pulled out a bottle, raised her eyebrows at the label. “I know my boy didn’t go and buy this ’less somebody was telling him to. He’s got more sense than that.”
“Excuse me? Your boy?”
“Ain’t nothing in this whole kitchen to keep body and soul together.” She set the bottle back, and asked the cool interior, “Tell me something, child. Can you cook?”
“I don’t see—”
“This is not a difficult question. I want to know, can you cook. Don’t tell me you think you can keep my boy happy with moldy cheese and wine. What are you bringing to the table, other than some fine looks and sweet blond hair?” She swiveled around, using the refrigerator’s open door as a place to settle. “All I’m asking is, what is my boy gonna find himself living with, once them looks of yours start to fade.”
“This is none of your concern.”
“I saw you out there working the front garden this morning, acting like you belong. Didn’t hardly have a thing on, them shorts hiked up where nobody ought to be looking, nothing on your arms but sweat. No behind on you at all. You probably starving yourself to look like Twiggy.”
Kirsten crossed her arms. “Twiggy’s long gone.”
“You will be too, you keep on like you’re going. My boy needs himself a wife and a mother for his children. Not some fancy young missie from up north that don’t have a clue how to make a man feel like a man.”
“Marcus hasn’t said a thing to me about looking for a mother.”
Fay made a noise down low in her throat. “You thinking just because I’m old, worn out, and black, that means I’m dumb too? This is my boy we’re talking about here. I love him just as much as if I’d birthed him myself. If you got something to offer, honey, I ain’t seen it yet.”
With Fay’s fists on her hips and her elbows cocked, she looked like a blackbird ready for battle. “I’m a ways removed from my boy’s starry-eyed mood. He thinks you’re gonna make him a good wife on account of how you’re this pretty young thing. But life’s taught me to look beyond the glamour and the glitter. I’ve listened to six babies scream through my nights. I’ve had forty-two years to get used to worrying over unpaid bills and kids that don’t come home when they should. I know what struggling does to a mind and a marriage.” One wing elongated enough to rake the air between them. “You don’t know nothing about nothing. And that’s the truth.”
Fay moved a step closer, stalking her prey. “Why don’t you tell me something, while you’re at it. Just exactly who is this doing the loving here?”
Kirsten backed away, or tried to, but was halted by the pantry door.
“You’re hiding something. Ain’t you now. Tell me the truth. What is it you don’t want nobody to know?”
This was what she had been looking for, why she had entered the kitchen, a reason to say a permanent farewell. But nothing emerged around the choking force that clenched her throat. She could not understand it. Here was her departure ticket on a platter. The woman had declared open war. Fay was asking the question Marcus had not dared to utter, the one to which she would never give an answer. Never. All she had to do was what she wanted. Leave.
“From the outside you don’t look like nothing but successful. You’re white, you’re rich, you’re beautiful. But I seen past all that, child. I seen what’s the truth. Inside you ain’t nothing but a mess. Come on now. Let’s you and me just get to the bottom of this. Tell me what’s got you so tore up inside.”
The first either of the women knew of Marcus’ presence was the slamming of the refrigerator door. Wham.
Fury emanated from Marcus like a silent bellow. Kirsten had never imagined him capable of violence until this moment. What the old woman saw in his features backed her up a full yard and more.
Marcus said, “You’re going to leave now.”
Fay did her best to hold on to her own ire. “This girl here ain’t nothing but smoke.”
“Wrong. This lady is more than I ever deserved.”
Kirsten felt as defeated as she ever had in her entire life. The opportunity had been given, the excuse granted, the door opened. She shook her head. Impossible situations. Impossible moves.
“If you ever speak to her again like that …” The grip he took on his thoughts clenched his face like a fist. Marcus took a hard pair of breaths, then started from the kitchen.
“Marcus.” Fay’s features crumpled as she reached toward his departing back. “I got me a bad worry.”
He stopped, but did not turn back. “What.”
“My youngest grandson, he’s been caught taking a gun to school.” The old woman’s voice settled down one shattered octave. She angled her words toward Kirsten, offering the only apology she was capable of just then. “What is a seven-year-old child doing with a gun?”
“He’s being held downtown?”
“I ’spect.”
“What’s his name?”
“Jason.” Fay was no stranger to pain. But she had little experience with weeping. The tears she shed seemed to melt her eyes. “Don’t go telling Deacon. It’d break his heart. He thinks the world of that boy.”
“All right, Fay.” He was already stalking away. “I’ll have a word with the sheriff.”
Kirsten had no choice but to follow him down the hall. “Marcus. I have to talk with you.”
“Can it wait?”
“No.” She pointed to where the check lay in the crumpled envelope and described what had happened.
“New Horizons sent a goon over here to threaten you?”
“Netty knew his name.”
His secretary appeared in the doorway behind him. “Sephus Jones. You heard of him?”
“No.”
“Pull up enough rocks around here, you’ll come across him sooner or later.”
Marcus turned to her. “I’m sorry, Kirsten. For Fay, for this latest New Horizons mess.” He cast a dark glare back toward the kitchen. “I can’t understand what got into her.”
“I can.”
Marcus pushed through the front door and started down the stairs. Netty called after him, “Should I call New Horizons and say you’re stopping by?”
He stuffed the check in his pocket. “Don’t tell them a thing.”