67
So finally she can be with him.
As much as Audra wanted to erase the phrase from her mind, she was overcome by the feeling that at last it completely fit. Her first inclination after hanging up with Taylor had been to call Sean and Luanne. She was about to dial them up when she realized who, more than anyone, deserved to hear the discovery first.
“Excuse me,” Audra said to the gallery manager upon entering with Jack. “I’m Audra Hughes. I’m the one who called earlier.”
“Oh, yes,” said the woman in cat’s-eye glasses. “Judith told me to send you on back to the studio.”
On the phone, Audra had asked Judith if they could meet in person right away, by now the topic evident. According to Sean, his mother had taken Luanne’s admission considerably well but needed time to process it. Audra just hoped the information she was bringing would be helpful, not a hindrance.
“If you’d like,” the manager added, “while you and Judith talk, I’d be happy to show your son the new artwork we just hung.” Clearly, she was aware the discussion called for privacy.
“It wouldn’t be too much trouble for you?”
“Not at all. So far, it’s been a pretty slow day.”
Audra turned to Jack. “Are you okay with that?”
“Sure,” he said lightly, already scanning the room.
“Thanks,” she said to the woman, who nodded and swept Jack off for a grand tour.
Audra treaded toward the back corner and into the studio.
At the worktable, Judith sat on a cushioned stool, lost in thought. Her hands rested on a nest of iridescent gauze. Beside the material were several items identifiable at a glance: a stack of books resembling diaries, letters and notes aged from time, and contents of the manila envelope Audra had returned to Luanne.
“Hi, Judith.”
The woman greeted her with a half smile.
“I appreciate you seeing me,” Audra said. “I know you’ve had a lot to think about the last few days.”
“It certainly hasn’t been dull.”
On this point, they were in total agreement.
Audra stepped closer. “I really don’t want to make things worse for you or your family. But there’s something I just learned. Something I think you should know.”
With an audible sigh, Judith said, “I’m not sure my heart can take many more surprises.”
Audra hoped this was said in jest, because she was delivering a rather large one. Regretfully, she could think of no skillful way to ease it in.
“Judith, the man you’ve heard about, Jakob Hemel . . .”
“Isaak,” Judith said, as if trying to reconcile the names.
Audra nodded before finishing: “He’s still alive.”
Judith sucked in a breath. Clenching her hands, she turned her face to the shelves above her table. “How do you know?” she said.
“The person who helped me with research called today. Taylor—that’s her name—she said she tried to locate Daniel Gerard, the FBI agent involved with the trial. She found out he died several years ago. But when he first learned he had Alzheimer’s, he’d asked his daughter to transcribe stories from his life. That’s how Taylor knew about Jakob’s help with the case, and even about his transfer to Europe.”
“Back to Germany,” Judith said, “wasn’t it?” She continued to stare straight ahead.
“Yes,” Audra said. “Before he landed, he was given a new identity for his protection. And later he moved to Switzerland to be with his relatives. That’s why it was harder to trace him.”
After a moment, Judith asked, “How old is he now?” Her guarded tone was understandable. A man of his generation could very well be incapacitated, or at minimum incoherent.
“He’s ninety-four—but from what Taylor gathered, he’s one of those George Burns types. Still youthful and lively, like your aunt, Luanne. Apparently he takes walks through town in the evenings, knows just about everyone in Lucerne.” When Judith didn’t respond, Audra added, “And he loves to paint.”
Judith suddenly angled back to her. “He’s an artist?”
Audra nodded, watching the woman recognize the potential source of her own traits.
“Does he ... have a family?”
“His wife passed away some years ago, but he has two daughters and a son.”
“You’re telling me I have siblings,” Judith said, voice tightening.
“Nephews and nieces too.” Audra smiled to emphasize the positive nature of the news. “Taylor had sent out some e-mails to track down information, and his oldest daughter, Ursula, is the one who responded.”
Judith covered her mouth with her slender fingers, her eyes moistening.
Perhaps this would only magnify her resentment from not knowing all of these years. Audra hoped that wasn’t so, but still she felt confident in having come here. It wouldn’t have been right to withhold any more secrets.
“I’m sorry to upset you. I just thought you should know.” When tears slid down Judith’s face, meeting the shield of her hand, Audra decided it was best to leave; the woman needed time alone with so much to absorb. Yet before Audra could excuse herself, Judith lowered her fingers to reveal a wisp of a smile.
Audra exhaled in relief.
“For so long,” Judith said, “I’ve been searching for who I am. It seemed like part of me was missing . . .” Her sentence faded away, but Audra didn’t need the rest.
“I know the feeling,” she replied, and Judith nodded.
Just then, a knock turned them toward the partially open door.
“Pardon me for the intrusion,” the manager said meekly, “but a customer needs my help. I wasn’t expecting him until later. Would it be all right if I sent Jack in here?”
Audra went to answer, but Judith responded first. “Of course. Bring him in.” She brushed away her tears as Jack entered the studio. “Jack,” she said with growing brightness. “What a treat to see you again.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“You know what?” Judith said. “I have an idea. How would you like to help me with a new art piece?”
The offer seemed either an excuse to more closely study Jack, in light of Luanne’s theories, or a form of payment for the ways he’d inadvertently changed Judith’s life. No matter the case, Audra wasn’t about to intervene. Not after his eyes lit up at the shelves of shiny, colorful supplies.
“Guess you’d better pull up a seat,” Audra said to him.
He hopped onto a stool. As he picked out a paintbrush from a jar full of choices, Judith grabbed the paints. She squirted a rainbow of colors on a wooden palette and set up an easel with a small blank canvas. “Why don’t you start with painting anything you’d like? Then we can add on other materials from there.”
It occurred to Audra right then that Judith could be seeking further insight from Jack’s pictures. The boy had already endured so much testing and observing, Audra was tempted to end the activity.
But the truth was she, too, longed to see the images now in his head. And so she watched.
He painted the stick figure of a boy. He painted a girl in the same fashion. Once again, the two were holding hands.
Audra braced herself as Jack rinsed his brush in a cup. He dabbed at the palette to obtain another color. With a smooth stroke of green, he placed the couple on the grass.
No flames. No planes. No darkness or death.
He even put smiles on their faces. Adding to the scenery, he hung a yellow sun in the sky, launched a pair of birds upward, and planted trees on the ground. All symbols of the brightness and beauty of life.
Although relieved at first, Audra worried he was simply following orders, depicting “happier things” to appease those around him.
Then he paused, drawing back to study his progress. That’s when his mouth curved up in a look of genuine delight—and Audra’s mouth did the same.
She did wonder, though, about the identity of the couple; a lot of options had crossed her mind.
“Hey, Jack,” she ventured to ask, “who are those people supposed to be?”
He shrugged a shoulder. “Just two people.”
She thought about asking him in another way but then realized there was no need. When it came to viewing art, all that mattered was interpretation.
Later that night, Audra lay down in bed and closed her eyes with a feeling of satisfaction. It seemed only a moment had passed when she opened them again, yet sunlight was streaming through her window. Squinting against the rays, she languidly stretched her arms. She reveled in her restfulness until startled by a sense.
Something was wrong.
Jack.
Panic shot through her, the kind from early motherhood, when crib death was only a breath away.
She tore from her bed, heart in her throat, and in the next room discovered his bed empty. A thousand horrific scenarios sped through her thoughts, interrupted by the melody of a cheery tune. She hurried out to the living room and found Jack on the couch, the computer open on his lap, a bowl of Froot Loops at his side.
“Hi, buddy,” she said, recovering.
“Hi, Mom.”
“What are you doing?”
“Just playing a game. I’m trying to find Grace’s penguin at the pizza parlor. We’re supposed to meet at nine.”
Nine o’clock. She glanced toward the kitchen to verify the time on the microwave. When the realization struck, she nearly wept from joy.
Jack had slept through the night.