SHE TOOK A step backward.
“God, Annie.” A smile crinkled the too-familiar, too-strange face, a smile that found a ready home. This was a face accustomed to smiling. “You’re so beautiful. You were a beautiful little girl. And now…” Those damnably familiar, yet strange gray eyes filled with admiration.
Her sandy hair, her gray eyes. And yes, her smile. She felt utter confusion.
He held out both hands, strong hands. “I’ve looked for you for a long time, Annie.” His smile was eager, sweet, engaging.
Sudden anger flamed through Annie’s icy calm. “Have you?” Her voice was thin and tight and uneven.
Ingrid came around the cash desk. Annie felt Ingrid’s hand on her arm, but the touch seemed far away.
He took a step forward. “Annie, I wrote and wrote. But the letters came back Addressee Unknown. I—”
“I don’t care.” She spaced the words like barriers at a closed road. She remembered in a jumble all the Christmases when she used to pray for a daddy like all of her friends and the tears that stained her pillow and the questions she never asked her mother. She thought of scraping by and making do and going without. She remembered the years when she’d spun fantasies about her father, and she remembered even more clearly the years she’d no longer spun fantasies, when the idea of a father was remote and unreal. He had never been there for her. Never.
She stared at him, saw his smile slip away, his eyes widen, his hands drop.
“You walked out a long time ago.” She spoke crisply, as if to a late deliveryman, polite but firm, dismissive. “As far as I’m concerned, you can keep right on walking.”
Eyes straight ahead, Annie moved past him, brushing against his suddenly raised arm. For an instant, her heart quivered, but she yanked open the door and plunged out into the fog. She broke into a run, her steps echoing on the boardwalk though the fog dulled the sound. Behind her, she heard a call, muffled by the fog.
“Annie, Annie, please—”
Annie banged into Confidential Commissions.
Max’s buxom blond secretary looked up, a tiny Christmas wreath blinking from her bouffant hairdo. Her welcoming smile froze, then fled. She pushed back her chair. “Annie, what’s—”
Annie was already across the narrow anteroom and flinging open Max’s door.
Max lounged in his oversize red leather chair, holding a copy of Golf Digest, feet propped on an Italian Renaissance desk that would have looked at home in a Vatican office. A putter leaned against the desk. The in box held a dozen varicolored golf balls. The desk lamp was twisted to illuminate the artificial putting green.
“Max!”
She scarcely had time to see his shocked face, he moved so fast, and she was clinging to him, clinging with all her strength.
“Annie, what’s wrong?” Instead of Max’s usual easy, amused tone, his voice was hard, the tone of a man prepared to attack whoever had hurt her. It was like watching a shaggy, well-loved Irish setter transformed to a German shepherd. Her Max, her affable, civilized, laughing Max with a glint in his eye and a grim set to his mouth.
Annie looked up, seeing a face she knew well, handsome features and Nordic blue eyes and golden hair with the glisten of wheat in the sunlight, and a face she’d never seen, eyes steely, jaw taut.
“It’s my father.” Her voice was still clipped and harsh.
Max slipped his arm around her shoulders, drew her to the red leather sofa. “Father?”
No wonder his voice was puzzled. He knew Annie’s family history as she knew his—in bits and pieces. She’d never said much about either of her parents. Why talk about things that hurt when there were always so many happy things to discuss? And, of course, Annie’s mother had died of breast cancer years before Annie had met Max. All Max knew of Judy Laurance were snapshots in albums and one studio photograph, a delicate face with sparkling blue eyes, a high-bridged nose, hollow cheeks and a pointed chin. Straight dark hair parted in the middle. The high-necked blue polka-dot granny dress had a lace collar.
The picture didn’t reflect Judy’s grave smile or the way her eyes lit when Annie came into a room. Annie had always wished she’d looked like her mother, but she knew she didn’t with her short blond hair and serious gray eyes and round chin.
She looked past Max, not seeing the bright modern paintings on his walls, seeing instead the figure of a stocky man with sandy hair and mustache and a round face with laugh lines.
Now she knew where her face came from.
She didn’t care.
“I don’t care,” she said explosively.
Max grabbed her hands. “Annie, what about your father?”
“He walked in the store. Just now. I don’t know where he came from. Or why. Oh, he said he’s been looking for me. For years.” Finally there was a prick of tears. “Max, that’s not true.”
Max squeezed her hands. “It could be true, Annie.”
“No. You remember how you found me?” She looked into dark blue eyes that softened as he smiled.
It was a favorite memory. She and Max had met in New York when he was involved in off-Broadway plays and Annie was an aspiring young actress fresh from Southern Methodist University in Dallas, Texas. They’d looked at each other across a crowded room and when their eyes met nothing was ever the same for either of them.
Except Max was rich. Annie was poor.
Max had lived in big houses all over the world. Annie had grown up in a shabby bungalow in Amarillo.
Max dabbled. Annie flung herself wholly into any enterprise.
Max delighted in ambiguities and prized the unexpected. Annie insisted upon order and effort.
Max took almost nothing seriously. Annie took everything very seriously.
Max proposed the second time he saw her. Annie left town.
She did have a reason: her Uncle Ambrose Bailey’s unexpected death. But she left no forwarding address.
“It didn’t take you any time at all.” Annie pulled her hands free, gestured energetically. “You called SMU, got the name of one of my roommates, phoned her and, presto, you came to the island.”
“I knew you’d gone to SMU,” he said mildly.
“He could have figured it out. Anybody can find anybody with the Internet. The point is”—now her gray eyes were deep pools of resistance—“he didn’t try. He didn’t really try.”
Max sprawled back against the soft cushion, folded his arms behind his head. “He came to the store today.” Her husband looked at her gravely.
She sat up stiffly. “So I should jump up and down and shout with joy?”
Max gazed up at the ceiling. “You lost your mom.” He was silent for a moment and the office was so quiet she could hear the dull boom of the foghorn out in the harbor, a sad, forlorn, lost sound. His blue eyes swung down to meet her gaze. “You’ve been all alone. Maybe you ought to give him a chance.” Then he said quietly, “My dad was too busy working to have any time for me, too busy making more money when he had so much he could have used stacks of it for firewood. Then he died.”
Max’s father would never walk into this office.
Annie folded her arms. “He could have found me if he’d tried.” She was past the shock now, but resentment lodged deep inside, hard as granite. She pushed up from the couch. “I’m okay. But he’s twenty-five years too late, Max.”
Max rose, too. When he started to speak, she reached up, touched his lips. “And we have plenty to do. With Christmas and everything.”
Christmas, a time for families. She pushed away the thought. She wasn’t a sucker for sentimentality. Families…She clapped a hand to her head. “Max, listen, I had a phone call. Your mom…”
Laurel walked across the dance floor toward them. Annie couldn’t help observing her mother-in-law more carefully than usual. Annie turned toward her husband, looking from Laurel to her son. What an incredible resemblance: the same golden hair, the same handsome features (or lovely, as sex decreed), the same eyes—No, dammit, Max’s eyes might, on occasion, gleam with eagerness, soften with tenderness, dance with glee, tease with amusement, but they were never spacey.
As for Laurel, no one, not even Max, could deny that tonight Laurel was at her spaciest. Spacey and lovely, her golden hair curled softly around her patrician face. Laurel lifted a beautifully manicured hand, the coral polish an exact match for lips now curved in a sweet (otherworldly?) smile.
Annie shot another look at Max, then wished she hadn’t. Now was not the time to be reminded of how much Max looked like his mother. Annie didn’t want to ponder family resemblance and the fact that on this island, right now, was a man with her face, an unreliable Johnny-come-lately she never wanted to acknowledge. But acknowledged or not, her father’s reality couldn’t be denied. Just as no matter what she or Max did, nothing could change the reality of Laurel. Or the unreality….
The band belted out “Chattanooga Choo-Choo.” The Island Hills Country Club had always been an enclave for music of the forties and fifties, responding to the tastes of its members, but the recent revival of swing on college campuses had resulted in a weekly Friday night dance attended by members of all ages, not simply jiving geriatrics. Their table was near the front, so they had a good view of the dancers.
Laurel beamed at Annie and Max. “My dears”—the husky voice was kind, tolerant—“the minute I saw you, I came straight to you.”
Max rose. “Hi, Ma.” He grinned in his usual easygoing fashion.
Just as if, Annie thought resentfully, nothing remarkable had occurred.
Annie cleared her throat. “Laurel.” She spoke loudly.
Laurel’s gaze moved to her. “Dear Annie.” As if Annie’s presence absolutely, positively topped off a day packed with glorious moments.
Annie wasn’t deflected. “I came by your house. I called. I left messages. I need to talk to you.”
Max was waggling a hand. She didn’t need a primer in body language to understand. Max had not taken seriously Annie’s report of Laurel’s session with Go-Dog. He had, in fact, hooted with laughter, rolled those dark blue eyes and murmured, “Good old Go-Dog. I’ll bet it made his day.” Max dismissed Annie’s efforts to contact Laurel as unnecessary. “But if it makes you feel better…”
Annie ignored Max.
Laurel’s eyes widened. “What a wonderful idea. To talk, dear Annie.” She cupped her hands as if cradling a rainbow. “However, this evening there are so many wonderful friends I must greet.” She glanced happily around the ballroom.
Laurel was undeniably one of the loveliest women in the room. But there was more to Laurel than sheer beauty. She exerted an attraction to the opposite sex that Annie compared to a tidal pull. As Laurel paused at their table, elegant in a cocktail-length ice-blue dress, men headed their way. Men of all ages and all stations. A retired admiral. The mayor. The captain of the high school men’s tennis team. A waiter. A visiting golf pro. Howard Cahill, an old friend and sometime beau. Fred Jeffries, intrepid sailor and current beau.
Laurel knew, of course, and she showered hellos and lifted a graceful hand and the men eddied around her, each eyeing the other and awaiting an opportunity to break through. “So many friends to greet,” she murmured. “You and Max are such a dear couple. Do have a lovely—”
“Laurel, please. Laurel, what were you doing at the cemetery?” As Annie leaned forward, the music stopped and the last word seemed to reverberate.
Did faces turn toward them? Or was Annie simply imagining the feeling that hundreds of eyes covertly observed their table? Certainly the long list of messages taken by Barb at Confidential Commissions and by Ingrid at Death on Demand and the frenzied blinking of the red light on Annie and Max’s home answering machine were not figments of her imagination. Laurel may have been seen only by Pamela and Gertrude, but the eyes of two had done the work of hundreds. Call after call reported hearing about Laurel’s cemetery visit. The facts were garbled by some:
“Max, I really hate to tell you, but Junie Merritt said Agnes Phillips told her sister that your mother put a model of a demolition derby car by the double-trunked live oak at the cemetery…”
“Max, fun is fun, but pantomimes at the cemetery…”
“Max, apparently Laurel is going to take vows! Now, I haven’t heard what kind of vows, but will the church let a woman who’s been married five times…”
“Annie, I left word on Laurel’s machine, but she hasn’t called. Please tell her we’d like to have her speak at our luncheon next week and tell us about the Other Side. Everyone is so excited…”
“Annie, I hope you can arrange things quietly for Max’s sake. Perhaps a nice rest home might be…”
“Annie, Go-Dog is my very favorite driver. I haven’t been able to get in touch with your mother-in-law, but I’ll do anything…”
In the pause after Annie’s plea, Laurel placed a hand over her heart. “The cemetery.” She could not have projected her husky voice more professionally from the apron of a New York theater. She waited a beat, her limpid eyes circling the room. “I’ve had no success yet, but in my heart I know Go-Dog will come through, just as he always did on Memorial Day.” Murmurs across the ballroom sounded like muted cheers. Laurel smiled with utter confidence. “I’ve asked Go-Dog to find Arturo. I know he will.”
“Go-Dog, go!” a deep male voice shouted. Smiles flashed. Heads bent in eager conversation.
Annie glimpsed a flash of utter satisfaction in Laurel’s eyes, a sharp, totally cognitive flash.
Laurel lightly patted Annie’s arm. “Your aura is rather worrisome, dear. A rather mustardy color. However, Max”—she blew a kiss at her son—“is…oh, it’s coming to me…aquamarine, undoubtedly.” A throaty laugh. She turned toward her admiring coterie, “Oh, Howard, Fred, how utterly divine to see you both,” and swept away.
Annie looked after her with amazement. A beau on either arm. Hot damn. But beneath Annie’s admiration, worry pulsed. That satisfied look of Laurel’s—what did it mean?
Max bent down, kissed the top of Annie’s head. “Come on, sweetie, it’s vintage Laurel. She’s having a blast. Everybody in the room heard that exchange. She’s obviously decided to be the village eccentric.” He was half amused, half exasperated. “If there’s anyone in town who hasn’t heard about her performance in the cemetery, they will know after tonight.”
Annie stared across the floor at Laurel, still circled by admirers. All male, of course. “Why does she want to talk to him?”
Max blinked. “Annie, don’t ask questions that can’t be answered. Who knows? It can’t be anything too serious. They were only married for two years.”
Annie had never sorted out the order of Laurel’s spouses. Max’s father, of course. And a sculptor. Arturo, the race car driver. A general. And a professor. Maybe Arturo was the most fun.
Max grinned. “Actually, I liked Arturo. Laurel called him Buddy. Man, did he drive fast!”
The band swung into “Tuxedo Junction.” Max grabbed her hand. “Come on, Annie, let’s dance.”
Annie felt the old familiar thrill course through her. She loved to dance, but she wasn’t sure you could always dance your troubles away. As she and Max swung onto the floor, she couldn’t quite dismiss her memory of Laurel’s savvy, satisfied look.
Or the face of the man who’d left her and her mother behind so long ago.
A pale streak of silver speared into the dusky room, the crescent moon free for a moment from scudding clouds. Annie lay wide awake, Max’s body curved next to hers, his arm warm over her waist, his breath soft against her neck. The silvery beam briefly illuminated a white wicker divan and a table with photographs and a small china Christmas tree decorated with sugarplums. When she was little and awoke in the December night, she imagined sugarplums dancing along the moonbeam. The ever-present Great Plains wind rustling the sycamore trees became Santa’s husky laughter as he directed his sleigh over head. The pale moonlight wavered, was gone, prisoner again of the capricious clouds. How many years had it been since she’d pictured plump and luscious sugarplums on an avenue of silver?
How many years…? She moved restlessly.
Max’s arm tightened, pulling her nearer. “Penny for your thoughts?”
Christmas memories fluttered like brightly patterned cards slapping into a pile…a heavy snow and the rush of icy air as her sled careened down a hill…her mother’s face flushed from the heat of the oven as she lifted out loaves of pumpkin bread meant for gifts, but there was always one for Annie…the procession at the Midnight Service, joyous and triumphant…opening presents on Christmas morning…
“He was never there.” Her voice ached with unshed tears. “I used to think…oh, when I was really little…that someday he would come. I even wrote letters to Santa Claus. Oh well.” Now her voice was dry, removed, cool. “I grew up.”
Max gently turned her to face him and their faces were inches apart on the pillow. “Annie, maybe—”
“It’s too late, Max.” But she knew as she spoke that her father’s unexpected appearance, this confrontation with a past that she had never even known, had cast her adrift on a sea of memories, expectations, losses—and fears. Was her father’s instability a part of her? She’d always made plans, followed them. How much of that tenacity sprang from her early loss? Would she ever walk away from those who cared for her?
“But he’s alive.” Max’s hand gripped hers. “My dad…well, I guess I always knew he wasn’t really there for any of us. I kept thinking some Christmas he would really see us, my sisters and me. But he could scarcely wait for the presents to be unwrapped to leave. He went to the office on Christmas Day.”
At her involuntary movement, he rolled over on his elbow, stared down in the darkness. “I mean it. Christmas Day. There was always something he had to see to. Oh, he came home for dinner, but I don’t think he was ever aware of us. It’s like we were invisible and he lived in a world bounded by work. If he had lived…But I don’t think he would have changed. I swore that I would never be like him. Never.”
Annie felt a rush of tenderness for the little boy whose father never saw him. Maybe that was worse than a father who was never there. At least she hadn’t had to deal with a quartet of stepfathers. She reached up, gently touched Max’s face.
He turned his mouth, kissed the palm of her hand.
She felt his lips spread in a smile. She looked up and the moonlight flared again and she saw his familiar grin and the gleam in his blue eyes.
“But you can’t say the girls and I didn’t have fun with Ma.” His voice was light and lively. “And I guess she made us feel good about Dad because she’s always had good taste in men—so he must have been fun sometimes.”
Fun. Annie felt a pang. Max had devoted his life to fun. No one pursued pleasure and good times with more élan.
Fun—wasn’t that why her father had left her mother? She and her mother had never talked about her father, about who he was or why he left or what he had done with his life, but she remembered standing outside the living room one afternoon when she was fourteen and listening to her mother and Uncle Ambrose and hearing her mother’s quiet, bitter comment, “All he wanted was to have a good time.” Annie had known they were talking about her father. That was all she heard, whirling around and hurrying down the hall to her own room, flinging her schoolbooks on the bed and thinking: So that’s why he left, so that’s why!
“Hey, Annie, let it go.” Max’s arms slipped around her; his lips brushed her cheek, slipped softly toward her mouth. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”
Were they? Her absent father, his distant father, his ditzy (surely it was no more than that!) mother, how much did they matter for Annie and Max? Just for an instant she lay still, and then her lips opened and fear was lost in passion.