PARKING OUT OF sight of the big house, Annie hurried up the drive. This would not be a good time to encounter the reclusive actress. Annie could see no tactful way of explaining her call. Annie decided she would airily explain she had dropped in to see her stepsister, just a family call, and Marguerite Dumaney or any of the others could take that response any way they wished.
She was pleased that a row of willows screened the mock cave from the front of the house. The dragon head, sans fire, poked out peaceably from the rocky lair, reminding Annie of her favorite hole on the island’s miniature golf course.
A thin figure burst from the shadows beside the fake cave. Rachel pelted down the drive, skidding to a stop in front of Annie. “Pudge told me. Did you really see Mike?” A thin hand grasped Annie’s arm.
“I really did.” Annie took Rachel’s hand in hers, pulled them to a bench near the willows.
As they sat down, Rachel turned to face Annie. “Tell me what he said. Tell me every word.” Rachel’s eyes shone.
Annie talked fast, describing Mike’s face and the sound of his voice and the way he looked. Annie turned two thumbs up as she concluded, “and he burned the money.”
Rachel clapped her hands together. “Yes, he would. That’s what he would do.” Her smile was pleased and proud. For a moment. Abruptly, the smile slid away, leaving her face composed but stern. She looked so young and so implacable. “They lied to us.” Her eyes darkened. “If it hadn’t been for you…” Her voice trailed away.
“I agree that”—Annie picked her words carefully, for this was dangerous ground—“it’s important to remember that you have to believe in yourself. Trust yourself. But Rachel, you will have to talk to your mother, get things straight with her before you can see Mike. You have to understand that your mother wants to protect you.”
“From Mike? That makes me so mad.” Her voice cracked. “She doesn’t have any right!”
Annie knew that Happy had every right. And it was possible that Marguerite had misled Happy, too. “Wait, Rachel. Don’t quarrel with your mother. That’s never the way to persuade anyone of anything. Let Pudge talk to your mother first.”
“Oh, Annie.” Rachel’s face drooped. “She and Pudge aren’t even speaking. He’s going away. You’ll talk to him, won’t you? Please ask him to stay. I need him.”
Annie tensed. Ask Pudge to stay? Oh no, that she couldn’t do. That she could never do. She avoided Rachel’s eyes, staring at the slick green plastic neck of the dragon. “They aren’t speaking?”
Rachel pressed thin hands against her cheeks. “He slammed out of her room, and he rushed down the stairs. His face…” She shivered. “I’ve never seen Pudge look like that.” She grabbed Annie’s hand. “He’ll stay if you talk to him. Or maybe he could come to your house.” She jumped up from the bench. “Annie, thank you for everything. I’m going to—”
Running footsteps slapped against concrete.
Rachel’s head jerked toward the sidewalk that curved around the willows. Annie pushed up from the bench.
Happy, her eyes brilliant with anger, her round face flushed, plunged into view, her gaze sweeping from Rachel to Annie. She stopped a few feet away, tried to catch her breath. “I saw you leave the house, slipping out.” Her curls quivered as she glared at Annie. “You came from that boy, didn’t you? You and Pudge, mixing in where you don’t belong. Rachel’s my daughter and I know what’s best for her.”
“Mother, Aunt Marguerite lied. She lied.” Rachel’s passionate cry hung in the quiet air.
Annie stepped toward Happy. “Let me explain—”
Happy clapped her hands over her ears. “I don’t want to hear a word. Not a word. Everything’s gone from bad to worse since Pudge came, and now you’re causing trouble, too. Everything’s so upsetting.” Tears spilled down her plump face. “I hate ugliness. Everything’s dreadful now. Quarrels. And meanness. And I’m so frightened for Marguerite. She wants to give all the money to that dreadful man and she doesn’t understand how they’re all so angry. That kind of anger is dangerous. And now this trouble with Rachel on top of everything else. You just go home. Leave us alone. You don’t belong here.” Happy pointed toward the street.
Rachel grabbed Annie’s arm. “I don’t want her to leave. She’s my sister. She’s more of a sister to me than you are a mother. All you ever do is try to keep me from being happy. You don’t care about me. You never have.”
Happy took a step forward. Her plump hand whipped through the air. The sound of the slap mingled with Annie’s shocked gasp and Happy’s sob.
Rachel shuddered. She touched the cheek with its irregular reddening splotch. She backed away, one step, two. “I hate you. I hate you!” She whirled away and ran up the drive.
“Max”—it was a pathetic wail—“I don’t know what to wear!” Annie stood in the middle of her walk-in closet and stared indecisively at the row of dresses, slacks and tops. She held a pair of white wool slacks and a red Christmas sweater in one hand and a short black dress in the other.
Max leaned against the doorjamb, eyes bright, lips curving in a merry smile. “I kind of like what you have on now.”
Annie flicked a glance at the full-length mirror and her reflection, attired in shell-pink bra and matching bikini panties. She grinned. “You would.” Their eyes met in the mirror and Annie loved what she saw. But—“Max, be serious. What should I wear?”
“I am serious,” he murmured. He pushed away from the door and planted a kiss on her shoulder. “Mmm.”
“Max.” She wriggled free. “I have to decide.”
He settled for a swift pat on her fanny and resumed his admiring stance in the doorway. “How about that pink outfit?” He walked to the far end of the rack and lifted up a hanger.
She studied the Battenberg lace jacket and the shell with a star lace inset and the silk slacks. “That’s more for spring.”
“Hey, it’s eternal spring here. Usually.” Even the Low Country could dive to the forties in winter. “You look wonderful in pink.” He slipped the clothes free and handed her the blouse. “Not that it makes any difference. Pudge already thinks you hung the moon. You could wear a voodoo mask and a black cape and Pudge would be enchanted.”
Annie clutched the blouse and stared at Max, her face doubtful. “Would he?” She whirled around abruptly, began to pull on the shell. Her words were muffled. “This is silly. It doesn’t matter. Besides, he probably won’t come.” Her head emerged and she smoothed her honey-blond hair, determinedly not looking at Max. She slipped into the slacks. “Come on, let’s go check dinner. Although we’ll probably end up eating by ourselves.” She was already in the jacket and stepping into silver flats and hurrying past Max. She waited for him at the foot of the steps, but her bright smile didn’t hide the uncertainty in her eyes.
“He’ll come.” Max’s tone was easy, confident. He turned to the stove and lifted a lid.
Annie leaned against the doorjamb, admiring Max’s swift, economical movements, his concentration as he checked the meat, started work on the salad. She relaxed, pushing away her uneasiness over spending an evening with her newfound father, to savor this moment, the kitchen bright and cheerful with its white cabinets and copper-bottom pans hanging at the central workstation and blue-and-white-tiled floor that always made her think of a huge wave cresting and breaking. Her smile was soft as she watched Max, handsome face intent, thick blond hair tousled, a dish towel dangling over his shoulder, hot pad at the ready.
As he turned to pull down the oven door, he caught her glance and winked, a sexy, funny, happy wink. “What wine, do you think? Cabernet or…?”
“Cabernet. I’ll open it.” She hummed as she opened the wine, made a last check in the dining room. She stood in the doorway. She had enjoyed setting the table. The china was the Holly Ribbons pattern from Royal Worcester, perfect for the holidays. She smiled as she lit the rose candles in cut-glass holders.
Holidays. All those Christmases without a father…Annie looked at the grandfather clock in the corner and felt cold and lost. It was a quarter after seven. Was Pudge fashionably late? Or was he not coming?
At seven-thirty, she opened the French door and stepped out on the terrace.
“Annie?”
She ignored Max’s call, walked across the terrace and stared out into the darkness. She knew the lagoon was there, but there were no lights and no moon. Her hands clenched. Why had she set herself up for this? She knew her father wasn’t reliable. God, how well she knew. Max had good intentions, of course he did, but he didn’t understand about Pudge Laurance. Silly damn name. Silly man. But she wouldn’t be caught like this again. Never again.
The terrace door squeaked.
She needed to have it oiled. It was nice to fasten on a specific, solvable problem. Tomorrow she’d find the 3-In-One and oil the hinges. Too bad she couldn’t oil Pudge Laurance out of her life. She shivered, cold in her lace jacket. She wrapped her arms across her front and listened to Max’s footsteps on the flagstones, her mouth tight, her jaw set.
“Hey, it’s cold out here. Annie, that was Pudge on the phone—”
She hadn’t heard the phone ring. Well, at least her absentee father had the grace to make an excuse. That was more than he had done for twenty-five silent years. Why should she have expected things to be different now? But she couldn’t ignore the welling up of disappointment. Dammit, why did she care so much?
“—and he’s on his way. He was awfully sorry, but there was a big dust-up with Rachel. He’s coming as fast as he can.”
Annie swung toward Max. “Trouble with Rachel? Did he say what happened?”
“No. But it must have been a bad scene. Pudge sounded pretty grim.” Max grabbed her hand. “Come on. Hey, you’re like ice. Let’s go in.”
Max insisted on building a fire.
Annie held out her hands, welcoming the waft of heat. “Poor Rachel. I still can’t believe her mother slapped her! Poor kid. I wish I’d grabbed her and brought her home with me. But I couldn’t. I mean, there was her mother glaring at me, telling me to go away. I swear, how much are they going to lay on Rachel? And I don’t know whether she’s ever had a chance to talk with Mike. I called twice this afternoon, but each time I was told she wasn’t available. I don’t know what that was supposed to mean. I’d swear she was there. It was Alice who answered. She always seems to answer. She has a funny voice. I mean, she sounds so much like Marguerite Dumaney, but with all the vim missing.”
“Probably,” Max said dryly, “it means that Happy told Alice not to put you through to Rachel.” He moved to the wet bar. “A glass of wine?”
“I’ll wait.” She moved even closer to the fire. So okay, December weather on a barrier island was a far cry from winter as Northerners know it and the mercury had touched sixty-four in the afternoon, but tonight it was in the low fifties and cold to a Southerner. She wondered abruptly what kind of winters Rachel was accustomed to. And Pudge? Where had he spent his winters? How odd to know so little about people who were consuming her every thought. “I don’t even know where Pudge has lived.”
The doorbell rang.
They went together to the front hall. As Max pulled open the heavy door with its spectacular inset of stained glass, Annie found it hard to breathe. But when Pudge stepped inside, with a quick handshake for Max and a gentle kiss on her cheek, Annie found it easy to slide her arm through his, welcoming the nubby feel of his tweed jacket. It seemed very natural to look up as she led him through the living room into the den and to assess his face, to see how pronounced were the lines around his gray eyes, how drawn his cheeks. He sat beside Annie on a jaunty peppermint-striped sofa. As soon as they settled, Dorothy L. jumped up beside Pudge, then plumped herself in his lap.
He looked down at the fluffy white cat and smiled, a genuinely welcoming, pleased smile.
Max’s face was a study. “Hey, she’s my cat!”
Dorothy L. didn’t spare a glance at Max. She turned her round face up and, blue eyes glowing, began to knead on Pudge’s jacket.
Annie reached out her hand. “Don’t let her snag—”
“Oh, that’s all right. I haven’t had a cat in a long time.” He rubbed behind her ears. “Never in one place long enough.”
Max brought them each a glass of wine. He grinned at Pudge. “I want you to know that Dorothy L. is very particular in her friendships.”
“So damn particular,” Annie said dryly, “that I am generally invisible to her.”
Max attempted to look modest. “Obviously, she is partial to handsome and charming men. But who can blame her?”
It was a happy moment, but Annie knew it couldn’t last, this little moment of peace with an elegant cat who had somehow known who most needed her love that night.
Pudge smiled down at Dorothy L. whose deep-throated purr was as cheering as the crackle of the fire and the lilt of a Schubert waltz. But despite the soft light from the Tiffany lamp, Pudge looked his age and more, his sandy hair and mustache liberally flecked with gray. He smoothed Dorothy L.’s gorgeous white fur, then looked at Annie, his face somber.
She spoke without thinking and it didn’t seem odd to go directly to what mattered, to talk from her heart to his, even though this was only the fourth time they’d met since he arrived on the island. “What happened with Rachel?”
“I found her down at the dock, piling into a rowboat with her backpack and a sack of Chee•tos and a couple of power bars. She was trying to get the oars right and they were too heavy for her. If I hadn’t seen her…” He sighed. “I was lugging my own suitcase. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. It’s a hell of a place. On the surface, everyone’s polite. But you can feel poison. They’re mad and scared and desperate. I don’t know how Happy stands it. We never had any money, but we had a good time.” He took a sip of wine. “For a while.” He put down the glass, ran a hand through his sandy hair.
The gesture gave Annie an odd sensation, for that gesture was her own. How many times a day did she trail her fingers through her hair? She looked toward Max. He nodded and smiled.
“Anyway, there Rachel was, hell-bent to row to the mainland. She would never have made it. She promised not to run away if I would stay. So I carried my damn suitcase upstairs and unpacked it.” His smile was lopsided. “Of course, Happy may have thrown my stuff out on the drive before I get back. But I can’t walk out on Rachel.”
He met Annie’s searching gaze squarely, slowly nodded. “I’m a slow learner, Annie. I’ve been a damn fool more than once in my life. But I’ve learned something in the last twenty-five years.”
Annie looked toward the crackling flames. She clasped her hands tightly together.
Pudge reached out, tentatively touched her clasped hands. “I’m not asking you to forgive me. I’m not asking you to understand. I’m not going to make excuses. I’m just asking for a chance to prove that I can be your father.”
The fire shifted, brilliant sparks whirling upward. Annie watched the fiery bits blossom and fade. His words were as bright as the sparks. Were they as transitory? She looked toward Max, at familiar eyes brimming with love and encouragement. Once, and it now seemed impossible it was true, she had left New York without telling him where she was going. She came to the island to escape his intentions, no matter how honorable. She’d been convinced they were too different ever to marry. Max was rich. She was poor. Max dabbled in fun endeavors, everything from diving for pearls to directing off-Broadway one-acts. She believed in work, the harder the better. Max was determined to enjoy life, avoiding pomposity, earnestness and any semblance of seriousness. She liked to have fun, but she never lost sight of her responsibilities. A feeling as cold as a blast of air from a polar ice cap swept over Annie. What if Max hadn’t followed her to Broward’s Rock? What if she didn’t have Max? What if she hadn’t taken a chance?
Across the years, she heard her mother’s voice. Her mother had two short comments, depending upon Annie’s situation of the moment: So far, so good; and nothing ventured, nothing gained. Odd to re-create her mother’s dry tone at this moment in this company. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. That’s what she’d said when Annie debated entering an essay contest (she won a trip to Six Flags), writing a letter to Jane Goodall (a handwritten reply), trying out for the lead in the junior play (she got it), applying for a scholarship to Southern Methodist University (all tuition paid). And she didn’t regret the ventures that failed (she didn’t make the basketball team, she lost the race for class president, she was rejected by Wellesley).
It was very quiet. The crackling of the fire was the only sound in the spacious, cheerful room. Annie gazed at the dear, familiar furnishings chosen by her and Max, green wicker furniture with striped fabric, a peeling-paint green washtub holding firewood, Low Country landscapes on three walls, her collection of miniature cats. All this and so much more, so much more, because she had taken a chance, had listened to her heart instead of her reason.
Now she must choose, heart or reason.
Her eyes rested finally on her father. She looked into weary gray eyes. What did he remember of her mother? He must have loved her once. Annie had adored her mother, a brisk, unsentimental, clever, interesting, prickly, kind woman. He would have stories of her, must have stories of her. They could talk together and her mother’s spirit would be there, bright and funny and fiercely independent.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained. But that didn’t mean Annie had any intention of succumbing to charm. She would listen. Listening committed her to nothing. She would also remember her mother’s familiar judgment: So far, so good, and she would be wary. Her face was grave. She spoke softly. “Okay. I never say never.” That wasn’t her mother’s aphorism. It was her own. But sure, attitudes run in families. Someday she would tell a daughter or a son: Never say never.
“Hey.” Max bounded to his feet. “That’s a toast. Never say never.” They were all on their feet, their wineglasses pinging.
It was only red wine, but Annie felt like she was drinking champagne.
The giddy sense of exhilaration stayed with her when they reached the table. As they ate, Annie loved the way the glow from the fire highlighted Pudge’s face. As Max served, Annie looked solemnly across the table. “I want to know everything,” she said simply.
Pudge tugged at his mustache. “Fifty years in a flash.” But he tried. “We were orphans and lived with my mother’s sister in Gainesville. I worked odd jobs for spending money, sacking groceries, throwing papers. But I always snuck away to fish whenever I could. My sister still lives in Dallas. I called her to tell her I’d found you. She sends her love.”
Annie could feel love: love from Max, love from this man who was speaking so quietly. Not even champagne can match the feeling of love.
“…and I graduated from TCU—”
“A Frog!” she exclaimed.
They both laughed at Max’s bewilderment.
“A graduate of Texas Christian University,” Pudge explained. “I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I liked selling and talking to people and traveling. Anyway, I ended up with a degree in business and a ROTC commission. That meant I went into the Army right after graduation. I told you how I met your mom. We didn’t have time for a big wedding. I was being shipped out to Vietnam, so we had a small wedding. You were born while I was there. When I got back, we lived in Dallas.” He pushed the food around on his plate, his face bleak in the ruddy glow from the fire. “I tried a bunch of things. But…I’d been a second lieutenant in the infantry. I came back from an ugly war to a world that hated the war. Nobody wanted to hear war stories from Vietnam vets. I tried a lot of things that first year back. I tried selling insurance. I was a property appraiser. I took our money and borrowed some and went halves on a restaurant. We were ahead of our times. It was a theme place, Jungle Louie’s. My sister painted a safari mural. We had Chinese food and Vietnamese. One day my partner skipped town after emptying the bank account. I’d trusted him. Judy’d always said he was a flake. She was right. Then an old Army buddy called and he wanted me to come out to San Diego and we’d have a charter boat taking tourists out to look at the whales. God, it sounded like fun. I hadn’t had any fun in a long time and I hated being in one place all the time. But…”
Judy wouldn’t go with him. He went.
“Your mom stayed in Dallas. I went. I kept thinking she’d come and bring you. But she never did. One day I called and the phone was turned off. I wrote. The letters came back.” He didn’t look toward Annie. He stared into the fire. He lifted his shoulders. “And from there…I guess I’ve been everywhere, done a little of everything. But that’s enough about me.” He looked at her as if she were spangled with stardust. “I want to know about you.”
What Annie didn’t tell, Max did. When Max described his mother’s efforts to help plan their wedding, he and Pudge laughed so hard they almost choked.
“…harmonic convergence…” Pudge repeated.
“…cosmic revelation…and a gold whale’s tooth…” Max doubled over with laughter.
Annie smiled. Sort of. Though she had to admit that Laurel’s influence had helped create a wedding that was still discussed in tones of awe on the island, recollections ranging from the Burmese love dance to the T-bones from Texas. Annie continued to insist that the rosy glow of the wedding dress resulted from sunlight through stained-glass windows. But finally, Pudge stopped laughing and said in a kind of wonder, “Your wedding. I wish I’d been here, Annie.”
“I do, too,” she said slowly. But his wishes and hers didn’t matter. Yesterday never changes. Maybe she could change her feeling about the past. Maybe. But for this moment, she’d thought as much about the past as she could bear. When they moved to the den for their after-dinner coffee, Annie stirred in an extra teaspoon of sugar and directed the conversation to the present. “Do you think you can persuade Rachel to talk to her mother?”
Pudge trailed his hand through his sandy hair. “Oh, Lord, I hope. I don’t know what’s gotten into Happy. She’s always been bubbly and fun. When she called and asked me to come, she wouldn’t tell me what was upsetting her. She just kept saying that things were awful and wouldn’t I please come. Frankly, I would have said no except she was here on the island. I thought I’d try Ambrose one more time.”
How many times had he looked for Annie and her mother? But maybe that was a question better left unasked. What mattered was that he had come to the island and he had come in search of Annie.
Annie pushed away the thought that maybe the timing was convenient and the island a nice place to visit and it was one more destination for a man with restless feet. Instead, she said quickly, “What do you think now that you’ve looked everyone over? Do you think Happy is upset because her sister’s involved with Dr. Swanson?”
Pudge rubbed his nose and frowned. “I can’t figure out what’s wrong. Oh sure, they’re all upset about Swanson, and that includes Happy. But it’s something more and I can’t get her to ante, not a word. She just paces the room whenever we’re alone and tells me she doesn’t know what to do. Just before Happy got all upset about Rachel and the boy, she told me she was afraid of what Marguerite was going to do. Obviously, she knew about Marguerite’s plans to fund that foundation.”
Annie could pull from her bookstore shelves a dozen mysteries with variations on an old theme: Who gets the money? “Money can definitely cause problems, including murder. Christie knew that.” Annie rattled off the first titles that came to mind. “The A.B.C. Murders. Dumb Witness. Sad Cypress. After the Funeral. And that’s just Christie. There are lots more books about who inherits. Georgette Heyer. Patricia Wentworth. Mary Roberts Rinehart. Marguerite better be careful.”
Pudge leaned back in his chair. “Oh, they’re mad, but I can’t see any of them bashing in her head. Happy’s gotten herself so upset she can’t think. I keep feeling there’s something deeper behind it, not just this flap with Swanson. But they’re all upset. Wayne isn’t nearly as dreamy as usual. I noticed his eyes were pretty sharp when he stared at Swanson at that dinner. As for Terry, he looks like his favorite horse broke a leg. Donna badgers Wayne to do something. Joan bleats about how unfair it is to take away the children’s inheritance. Alice is a cool customer. She doesn’t give anything away. She kind of fades into the woodwork. She’s trying to smooth things over, keeps telling everyone to be patient, that Marguerite has fancies but she always gets over them. And, of course, Happy’s a basket case. The trouble with Happy is that she’s so damn determined to be happy! God, that’s one of the things that drove me crazy and”—he shrugged—“helped me decide to move on.”
Annie felt a faint chill. Yes, this was a man who always moved on. The sweet coffee lost its savor.
“Today I told Happy a few home truths. I told her she needed to get a grip and she had to get off Rachel’s back. That’s when Happy lost it. She started crying and moaning about her responsibilities, that no one else had to make the terrible kind of decisions she was making, but she had to do the right thing, no matter how hard it was, and I simply didn’t understand and I’d never understood her or loved her and she just hated me and wished she’d never called me.” Pudge’s face reddened. “Hell, I know when I’m not wanted. I slammed upstairs and packed. I was ready to leave when I looked out the window and saw Rachel by the dock. There was something about the way she was moving, that I knew she was running away. I stopped that, but when I get back tonight, I may have to have it out with Happy. Dammit, she’s got to understand about Rachel.” He sighed, looked around the cheerful room with its bright prints and comfortable wicker furniture and bookcases and occasional mementos: wooden animals from a visit to Kenya, a framed letter written by Agatha Christie, Max’s tennis and golf trophies, watercolors from past contests at Death on Demand, Annie’s collection of Oaxacan woodcarvings. “Nice,” he said softly. “Nice. Being here is a great break from Marguerite’s hellhole. You know, that woman’s so damn poisonous, it’s a miracle nobody’s murdered her!”