MIKE MCGILL PULLED on the freshly ironed white shirt, tucking it into his fine silk black trousers. At forty-two he reckoned himself to be still in good shape, playing golf whenever he got a chance and using the company gym at least thrice a week to keep fit. The Institute had a firm belief that those who maintained a healthy body had a higher energy and concentration level during the long working day and testing had proved it boosted intelligence and performance.
He had finished work an hour early and had driven home, giving himself time to shower and relax before he and Martha had to dress for dinner at Bob and Gina Forrester’s. To be invited to a sit-down dinner at the home of the Institute’s president was a major step up the career ladder as far as he was concerned. Until now, Martha and he had attended the crowded cocktail party thrown every summer by his boss in a marquee erected on the lawn of the large colonial-style home to cater for the Institute’s large number of staff. Tonight was different.
Bob had told him they were having a few close friends over and that Daniel Kendrick from Powerhouse, the giant technology company in San Jose, would also be attending. Mike, adjusting the fastener on his bow tie, could scarcely believe that in an hour or so he would actually be sitting across the table from what the Wall Street Journal had called one of America’s most intelligent and richest men.
Martha had gone to the beauty shop and had her hair and nails done. Her light brown hair was highlighted and worn simple and straight as she was wearing a classic pale blue dress which Mike could tell had cost a fortune; the colour accentuated her pale skin and blue-green eyes.
‘You look great, honey!’ he declared, pulling her into his arms.
‘You don’t look too bad yourself,’ she teased, admiring him as he pulled on the black dinner jacket. ‘James Bond, eat your heart out!’
Martha touched his face gently. Mike responded by bending down and touching his lips to hers, her mouth opening to his, her arms pulling him closer. They were still like a pair of horny kids, Mike thought, as he gently disentangled himself from his wife’s embrace. Bob Forrester was a stickler for punctuality at their weekly progress meetings and he certainly had no intention of arriving late to their dinner party.
The kids had all been fed earlier and had promised to be on their best behaviour. Martha dabbed perfume on her wrists and neck before grabbing her midnight-blue wrap off the bed. Mike checked he had his cell phone and wallet. Patrick whistled his approval as they stood at the bottom of the stairs. The girls told Martha how beautiful she looked.
‘Mom, you look neat. That dress is just perfect,’ complimented Mary Rose.
‘And you smell like the garden at night time,’ added Alice.
‘That is such a sweet thing to say, Alice. Thank you.’
‘Dad, you are real handsome too,’ laughed their youngest daughter.
Mike glanced outside, seeing the cab that he had ordered draw up in front of the house. ‘Come on, Martha! Time to go. You lot be good and don’t stay up too late.’
Martha picked up the gift-wrapped, small embroidered cushion that Evie had helped her to select as a token for the hostess who probably had everything. The intricate rose had been picked out in the palest shades of damask and pearly pink by a seamstress in the last century.
Mike was nervous during the drive to the Forresters’ home off Maple Street. The landmark house stood on about ten acres and was ringed by high shrubs and trees, which managed to hide all but a glimpse of the white gabled windows that overlooked the garden and tennis court. When Martha squeezed his hand he could sense his wife’s reassurance that it would be a fine night, spent in good company. The driveway was lit up and Mike let out a whoop of disbelief at the brand new English Rolls-Royce parked out front.
‘That must be Kendrick’s. He collects cars.’
Paying the driver, Mike helped Martha from the cab. The front door was opening before he had time to ring the bell.
‘Welcome, Mike! Welcome,’ offered Bob Forrester, his dapper figure rushing out to greet them.
Mike introduced him to Martha, knowing full well that even though they had been guests at Rockhall before, Bob would not be likely to remember his wife’s name. Martha, smiling graciously, let herself be kissed on both cheeks by his boss as if they were old friends, his brown eyes flicking over her evening attire.
‘Come in, come in, the both of you!’
They were ushered into an Italian tiled marble hallway and a young woman appeared to take Martha’s wrap. Gina Forrester came over to welcome them, fussing over them and telling them how divine they both looked. Martha politely admired the figure-hugging black sheath dress that their hostess was wearing, which showed off her perfectly toned and tanned body.
‘Come inside and have a glass of bubbly. I do so want tonight to be one of those nights where everything sparkles.’
Mike reddened with pleasure whereas Martha suddenly felt dowdy as Gina guided them inside where three other couples were clustered around a magnificent fireplace sipping glasses of chilled champagne. They chattered and laughed in low tones and Martha noticed that curious glances were bestowed on them as Gina Forrester introduced them to the rest of the party.
‘Everyone – this is Mike McGill and his lovely wife Martha. Mike is one of those computer geniuses that works over in the Institute with Bob.’
Embarrassed, Martha smiled and tried to appear relaxed.
‘Martha and Mike, this is Ted and Megan Harris. Ted is involved in the new digital TV station that’s been set up and Megan is a media buyer for a whole host of clients, including the Institute.’
As Mike shook hands with them, Martha was taking in the tall good-looking man with greying hair cut close to his head, and a grey moustache and warm brown eyes. His wife, as thin as could be, wore wine palazzo pants and a sleeveless silk top, her almost jet black hair pulled back from her face to highlight her amazing bone structure which reminded Martha of the actress Audrey Hepburn.
‘And meet Kaye and John Stillman. John is the chief partner in Stillman Peterson’s, the architects’ firm downtown.’
The narrow-shouldered fair-haired man who was only a little taller than herself seemed a bit put out at the interruption of his conversation, but magnanimously smiled and appeared charming. His wife, bored, turned to resume her conversation with a stunning redhead who was balanced on the arm of a large cream armchair.
Martha sipped at her glass of champagne slowly, letting herself get used to the taste. She had got a little drunk once before on champagne when she and Mike had made a visit to Napa. What with the heat and a few glasses of cool champagne she had found herself giddy and giggling after a wonderful meal, Mike having to put her to bed early, ruining the romantic night they’d planned in the beautiful wine château they were staying in. Her husband threw her a warning glance and Martha almost laughed aloud as her hand was caught in a strong grip.
‘Nice to meet you, Martha.’
Daniel Kendrick was twice the size of the other men in the room, his tall broad figure almost bursting out of his tailored dinner jacket. Through a tuft of greying hair his balding head shone in the glow of candlelight. He was certainly not a good-looking man but there was a kindness and interest in the hazel eyes that made her feel a little less nervous.
‘How you doing, Martha?’
‘Fine, thank you, Mr Kendrick.’
‘It’s Dan,’ he reminded her as he shook hands with Mike. Her husband’s eyes shone and Martha realized that he was in his element talking IT development with someone on the inside track.
‘Encryption is the way to go,’ he added excitedly. ‘There’s a kid in Trinity College in Dublin and the work she’s doing on maths and numbers and solutions . . .’
‘A kid!’ murmured the redhead, who hadn’t even bothered to introduce herself. ‘What the hell do kids these days know about anything!’
‘Actually, Natalie, some kids know a lot. This particular kid signed on with Kendrick Development about five days ago,’ Dan told them delightedly. ‘Jerry Dargats, my number two, flew over to Ireland to meet her and negotiate a contract. She will finish out her two semesters in college and then come out to work with us in San Jose, or on the campus project here in Boston. We were lucky to find her: apparently she has been offered places in Oxford and Cambridge and Stanford.’
‘Seeing that creative pool of talent and genius come together must sure be exciting,’ suggested Mike. ‘The Institute are always looking for graduates with those kind of qualities, but they’re rare enough.’
‘Sure are, but this young lady will get to meet the best brains in the industry and be involved in a new programme we’re running in conjunction with NASA. Powerhouse needs people like that.’
‘Geniuses!’ joked Bob Forrester.
Martha wondered if the conversation was going to centre on high tech industry stuff all night. Mike looked animated: he was at home with such discussions whereas Martha was way out of her depth. Turning sideways, her eyes met Kaye Stillman, who seemed equally at a loss as the waiter moved around refilling their glasses.
Minutes later Gina Forrester led her guests into dinner, to the large cherrywood table laid with modern Danish crystal and Irish linen and sparkling silver tableware. Martha was surprised to find herself seated between Ted Harris and Daniel Kendrick. Mike was across from her with that Natalie woman and Megan. Gina Forrester had tried to ensure that the balance of her guests would encourage some lively conversation. Bob Forrester led them in grace, the mighty humbled by those simple words spoken before they dined.
Gina urged them all: ‘Eat! Enjoy!’
An array of exquisite seafood laid out in a fan shape, shrimp and salmon and crab, adorned the white tableware and Martha realized just how hungry she was. She had been so busy racing around getting her hair done and visiting Alan Ronell, a middle-aged engineer whose wife had persuaded her to try to relieve some of the extreme pain and discomfort he was experiencing following major knee surgery, that she had actually forgotten to eat lunch.
Across from her John Stillman was explaining a new project he’d just begun, and she turned to make small talk with Ted, who talked enthusiastically about the advent of digital, the changes it would reward the ordinary viewer with and the huge profits those companies involved in new ways of broadcasting would enjoy. Martha tried to keep up with the conversation and add something to it as the main course of rack of lamb was served.
‘And what do you do, Martha?’ Ted asked good-naturedly.
‘I’m a homemaker.’
Martha noticed that old familiar reaction that usually occurred when a woman told the person sitting beside her that she was content to spend the most part of her day minding her kids and running a home.
‘How nice.’
‘I used to work with the County Education Board, in the remedial, special ed. department.’ She was annoyed with herself for even bothering to try and explain. ‘But with Mike’s work we had to move to San Jose a few years back and what with settling in and getting the kids sorted we both felt it was easier for me to stay home and be with the family. We have three great kids.’
She could see the flicker of interest in Ted’s eyes dissipate and a mask of so-called interest slip down over his features.
‘That’s neat, real neat, Martha. Megan would love to be home with our daughter, but the demands of her business are such that we have a live-in girl. Well, Cora’s not really a girl, she’s about thirty-five and from Carlisle, Pennsylvania originally. Never married and devoted to our Caroline and runs the house as smooth as pie. I don’t know what we’d do without her.’
‘That’s neat you found such a good person.’
‘Nothing wrong with staying home minding kids,’ interjected Dan Kendrick. ‘My mother raised seven of us on a shoestring. She was some woman!’
Martha smiled at him. He was a nice man but she had no intention of the dinner conversation turning to the choices she had made. She toyed with the food on her plate; the tossed vegetables were cooked to perfection and were a perfect choice with the mint sauce and lamb that was being served. Mike was enjoying himself immensely and she thanked heaven they’d had the foresight not to drive as her husband drank another glass of red wine.
Gina Forrester stared down at her.
‘Why, Martha dear, you are too modest! You are a very talented young woman with a God-given gift.’
Ted looked over at her curiously and even Natalie and Megan stopped their conversation. Martha looked up across the table: all eyes were focused on her and she blazed with embarrassment.
‘Martha is a healer. A very fine healer, by all accounts.’
‘Oh my God, are you that woman that saved the little boy’s life and got him back from the dead?’
‘She is, she is!’ insisted Gina Forrester.
Conversation had ceased and Martha could see the glance of wariness that crossed her husband’s face.
‘I just try to help people, that’s all,’ she said simply.
Bob Forrester beamed at her from the top of the table and she suddenly felt like a dancing bear who was expected to perform for its supper as the other guests stared at her expectantly. Did they want her to grab the crystal water jug and change it to wine before their very eyes?
It amazed her that people’s opinion of her could change so radically at any mention of the healing. Some like the Stillmans were clearly sceptical, while others were both curious and fascinated. All through the rest of the meal as the array of tortes and berries and crème concoctions were savoured, the other dinner guests reached over to talk, some even tried to touch her. Unembarrassed, sitting beside her, Dan Kendrick suddenly rolled up his sleeve, showing her a hard fleshy swelling just under the skin on his elbow, which was giving him problems with playing sports.
‘I’ve had X-rays and anti-inflammatories and steroids and God knows what, it’s giving me hell but I guess I’ve just got to put up with it like Gus Stephens my ortho says!’
Martha stared at his muscled and freckled arm. Touching it automatically, she cupped her fingers around the elbow. Half joking and half serious, she laid her hands on the joint itself and could see his eyes widen as heat spread through it. The lump felt solid and deep, its tentacles weaving through the surrounding muscle and tissue. It felt bruised, something dirty that did not belong in the body of a strong and healthy man. The others watched them as she worked, trying to draw it out and away. Gina gave a little clap when she’d finished as Dan let down the shirt-sleeve, and re-buttoned his cuff. The lump was still there but Martha hoped that she had eased the pain a little.
Coffee and liqueurs were served in the drawing room, Martha enjoying the glass of Bailey’s Irish liqueur that Bob insisted she have. Its creamy warmth spread through her. It had been a delicious meal and she could see the relief in Gina’s face that it had been such a success. The caterers would most definitely be used again. The men stood around the fireplace cupping glasses of brandy and whisky and talking mostly sport and business, while the women pulled their chairs close to each other and chatted easily about their own concerns. The soft firelight made them all seem more relaxed and at ease with each other and Martha was prepared for the onslaught of questions about her new calling.
Natalie with her admission of irritable gut, Kaye whispering of the cystitis that had plagued her since she was about nineteen years old and Gina patting the couch beside her and asking her all sorts of questions about healing and how it worked. Martha admitted she hadn’t a clue but that the power just seemed to come naturally to her.
Doe eyed, Megan Harris stared at her, telling her of the terrible migraines that stalked her.
‘Have you seen someone about them?’ enquired Martha rather naively.
‘Of course I have,’ retorted Megan. ‘The two top neurologists in Boston, though little good they’ve done.’
‘Slowing down and taking some time out sometimes helps with migraine,’ Martha suggested, seeing immediately that this was not the answer Megan Harris wished to hear.
‘Do a bit of your healing!’ urged Natalie Leonard, who turned out to be one of Gina’s friends who had only recently divorced. ‘Go on and have a go with one of us! Poor Megan having to lie in a darkened room. Surely your healing could do something to help her?’
Martha was dismayed. She couldn’t produce a cure out of thin air, if that’s what they wanted.
‘Couldn’t you help her, Martha?’ asked Gina softly.
‘It doesn’t always work like that,’ she tried to explain. ‘I can’t tell what the outcome will be, as it’s something from outside that works through me. I’m just the conductor of this energy or power that makes the healing happen.’
Gina seemed disappointed.
‘Someone talking conductors and power over here!’ interrupted Bob, taking in the look of despondency that had flitted across his wife’s face. ‘Kendrick’s your man for that!’
Martha was relieved when Mike and the others pulled in the chairs and joined them. Dan, glass of whiskey in hand, regaled them with tales of his tough Chicago Catholic childhood and boyhood money-making schemes.
Driving home in the cab at about 1.30 a.m. Martha listened to Mike’s boasting about the discussions he’d enjoyed with Kendrick and his boss. She stared out the window, already regretting the alcohol that had loosened her own inhibitions and made her behave like some sideshow freak. Mike had surprised her with his view that the only reason they had been invited to the head of the Institute’s dinner party was in order that Gina Forrester and her cronies could meet Martha.
‘Mike! Don’t say such things,’ she retorted, not having the heart to admit she had already come to that conclusion herself.