MAX PAUSED IN his casual progress toward the evening’s lion, Emory Swanson, to watch Annie. Annie, the rescuer. He’d seen her reach out to others so many times, to people who were hurting, to animals that were abandoned. Now she was responding to the pain in a troubled teenager’s face. He glanced toward Pudge. Their eyes met. Pudge looked proud.
All right. Rachel was in good hands. Now it was time to get to work. Max intercepted Swanson near the wet bar. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Swanson. I’ve heard so much about you. Ms. Dumaney believes you are definitely a wizard.”
Was there the tiniest flicker in Swanson’s attentive brown eyes? He had never, of course, heard Marguerite mention Max’s name. “Call me Emory, please.” His deep voice oozed bonhomie. “Marguerite has remarkable psychic gifts. I suppose you are an old friend of hers?”
“Marguerite’s family has a long connection with mine,” Max said smoothly. After all, Pudge was his family in a real sense and Pudge went back a long way with Happy. And if Max’s claim gave him some legitimacy with Swanson, well, so much the better. Max gestured vaguely toward Wayne. “Wayne and I couldn’t help noticing Marguerite’s conversation with Claude. Now”—Max tried to appear both earnest and slightly credulous—“how in the world did she manage that? Or is it all in her head? After all, we didn’t hear Claude’s voice.”
Swanson teetered back on his heels and gave Max a condescending smile. “No, of course not. Only Marguerite hears Claude.”
“So you don’t?” Max fought down a burning desire to jam his thumbs in his mouth and give a Bronx cheer.
Swanson’s limpid gaze never wavered. “That’s not to be expected.” His tone was patient. “The connection is between Marguerite and Claude. I have simply been able to help Marguerite focus so that she achieves her goal of communication.”
“But this connection”—Max raised an eyebrow—“could all be in her mind.”
“Not at all.” Swanson folded his arms and smiled pleasantly, with only a hint of smugness. “Marguerite can be sure that this connection is now, at this moment, and for the future because Claude has informed her of his wishes.”
“Wishes?” Max stared into amused eyes.
“Oh yes. Claude apparently has strong feelings about the path Marguerite should follow. I think”—and now Swanson’s amusement was scarcely masked—“that the family will be most interested.”
Annie ducked inside the arbor. “Hiding out?” She sniffed. Honeysuckle. She reached up, touched a strand. Yes, it was real and it was blooming. But nothing could be too surprising in a huge mishmash of a house guarded by a fire-breathing dragon in a mock cave and a spouting whale beached in a fountain.
“Yeah. What’s it to you?” Rachel’s voice was sullen, but her dark eyes were pools of misery. As Annie stepped nearer, a thin hand yanked loose a strand of honeysuckle, crushed it. The sweet scent hung in the air.
They stood so close, Annie could hear Rachel’s shallow breathing. The small space pulsed with emotion. Rachel seethed with anger, resentment, bewilderment, hostility.
Annie hesitated. Was Rachel simply a teenage mess? It would be easy to dismiss her volatility as the turmoil engendered by raging hormones and unfinished personality. But Annie thought it was more than that. This girl was consumed by anger, anger made even more painful to observe because of her obvious vulnerability. Whatever was wrong, Rachel was near an explosion.
“Trouble with your mom?” The very words carried Annie back a decade, to whispered confidences among friends as girls bewailed their mothers, their obtuseness, their jealousy, their small-mindedness. Even then Annie had known she was an exception. She and her mother rarely disagreed. Annie never knew whether it was because there were only the two of them or whether they enjoyed a special gift.
Rachel gripped a spoke of the huge wagon wheel that formed one side of the arbor. Her curly dark hair hung down in her face. “I hate her. I hate her. She’s awful. She treats me like I’m a stupid kid. That’s how they all treat me.” Her voice rose. Tears welled in her eyes. “I hate this house. I hate—”
The deep tone of a gong reverberated.
Annie opened her purse, pulled out some tissue. “Here. Come on, Rachel. It’s time for dinner.”
“I don’t want any dinner.” Rachel swiped at her face, jammed the tissue in the pocket of navy silk slacks that flapped around pencil-thin legs. The sleeves of the bright red wool cardigan hung almost to her skinny knuckles. This was the Dickens waif in dress clothes and her appearance was perhaps even more forlorn than in the oversize grunge of the afternoon. Rachel’s eyes gleamed. “If I don’t show up, it will piss off Aunt Marguerite and that will put Mother into a spin. She’s like a cat on hot rocks about Aunt Marguerite. Who cares what the old hag does with her money? Of course, they all care a lot. They’re greedy pigs. Mother tries to act like she doesn’t care about the money, that she’s just worried—”
“Annie.” Max’s warm hand touched her shoulder.
Annie looked around with a smile. “I know. Time for dinner. Rachel and I are just coming. Rachel, this is Max,” and she took that bony arm and gently tugged, turning Rachel toward the palm-framed archway.
As they walked, the girl between them, Annie managed not to grin. Yes, Rachel was a bundle of burgeoning hormones; witness her immediate fascination with Max. Annie applauded Rachel’s good taste. After all, Max definitely was the handsomest man in the room—oh, all right, Swanson was a close second—but tall and well-built Max was by far the sexiest with his rumpled blond hair, vivid blue eyes and expressive mouth. And Max, bless his kind heart, had immediately noticed Rachel’s red-rimmed eyes and drooping face and was ladling out the Darling charm by the bucket.
Annie and Max stepped inside the archway. They both came to a full stop, eyes wide.
Rachel stood with her hands on her hips and watched them. “Honestly, you look like you just spotted an extraterrestrial with a boom box. My friends can’t believe it, either.” Her small mouth twisted in a sardonic grin. “Mike said we could make a fortune if we had tours at twenty bucks a head and charged an extra five to see the dining room.”
So it was a dining room. Annie slipped her arm through Max’s, pulled him along. After all, they could look when they were seated.
Rachel chattered and led them toward the table. “…half the length of a football field. See, the far end is a jungle. It has sprinklers and heat machines and everything and it’s really a rain forest. Can’t you smell it?” Rachel wrinkled up her nose.
Annie could. The dark, rich scent of dirt and vegetation and moisture cloyed the air.
“We had a couple of monkeys, but they got into a fight and Harry pushed Sally off the bridge. Do you see the bridge?” Rachel pointed up at a rope bridge that stretched from a clump of trees in the rain forest the length of the room to a landing that jutted from a spiral staircase that rose to the ceiling. Faux Christmas stockings, decorated with elves and deer and snowmen, hung every few feet from the bridge.
“The staircase opens into the tower.” Rachel’s tone was matter-of-fact. “Watch your step.”
Rachel spoke in time to prevent Annie from plunging into an indoor pond. Actually, it was more than a pond. Perhaps canal was a better description. The four-foot span of water circled an island that held a jade-green glass table. Arched bridges spanned the water at twelve, three, six and nine o’clock.
Alice Schiller waited on the island. “This way, please.”
In a moment, they were all seated at the circular table, Emory Swanson to Marguerite’s right, Terry Ladson to her left, Wayne Ladson opposite Marguerite. Donna Ladson Farrell, Max and Joan Ladson sat between Swanson and Wayne. Happy, Rachel, Annie and Pudge sat between Terry and Wayne. An immense green candle served as the centerpiece, with Christmas balls heaped around the base. The sweet scent of pine mingled with the heavier odor of water.
A stocky manservant moved deftly around the table.
Annie declined wine. She turned determinedly toward Rachel. “Is the rest of the house this unusual?”
But Rachel was leaning toward her mother. She hissed in a voice Annie could barely hear, “I don’t care what you say. If you won’t let me see him, I’ll run away. You can’t be so mean.”
Happy’s plump hand gripped her daughter’s thin arm. “Rachel, hush.” Her tone was soft, too, but implacable. “This isn’t the time or place—”
Rachel pulled her arm free, knocking over a silver goblet of ice water. She pushed back her chair, came awkwardly to her feet, like a stumbling colt. Her angular face flamed. “Don’t look at me. Leave me alone.” She turned and ran, clambering across the bridge, her steps clattering on the stone floor of the huge room.
Annie quickly set the goblet upright and unobtrusively patted her soggily cold skirt and ached for Rachel, diminished and furious, running from humiliation, certain that everyone was laughing at her.
Pudge quickly handed Annie his napkin. “Here,” he said softly. “Poor kid.”
Happy’s plump face tightened into a stiff mask. “I’m sorry. Rachel’s not been feeling well. I hope you will excuse—”
Marguerite Dumaney’s drawl overbore her sister’s hurried words. “Of course she feels well, Happy. The child is simply having a marvelous”—the word stretched and stretched—“time. Actually, a fine performance. One I might almost envy. I can’t wait to behold the scene when she discovers that her Romeo prefers money to her. It cost very little to put paid to that budding romance. Perhaps we can all convene here tomorrow night for an encore. Now let us—”
Annie knew she was coming into the drama during Act II, but it wasn’t hard to understand. There was a boy and Rachel cared about him and—for what reason?—Marguerite offered him money to stay away from the girl. And he took the money. Annie hated the thought. What would this betrayal do to a girl just beginning to look for love?
Just for an instant, Annie’s eyes locked with Marguerite’s. The actress arched a brow in amusement and her voice never faltered.
“—enjoy our dinner, for I will have a much more exciting announcement when we conclude. I have found truth.” Her eyes burned with a zealot’s conviction. “I asked each of you here to help me celebrate my birthday. But the true celebration will be in the liberation of our spirits from the terrible weight of possessions. Everything I have, everything here”—one hand swept in a slow arc—“shall be dedicated to finding truth. We shall take the Golden Path.”
Her words fell into strained silence. Happy’s plump face sagged. She pleated her dinner napkin and stared at her sister in dismay. Terry Ladson’s red face was suddenly hard and wary. Pudge muttered, “Not to be upstaged…” Wayne fingered his beard, his face carefully expressionless, his eyes cold. Donna’s sharp features were suddenly pinched and frightened. Alice’s face echoed Marguerite’s dramatic beauty, but instead of Marguerite’s complacent self-absorption, Alice looked bleak, her features sunken and drawn. Joan took a deep, trembling breath.
Emory Swanson, however, looked pleased. Exceedingly pleased. He sat at ease in his chair, his eyes gleaming with triumph.
“But”—and Marguerite’s gaiety was in stark contrast to the dark resistance surrounding her—“we must all be patient until after dinner. Now, Emory”—and she turned to her right—“tell me again about the golden crystal. That’s the one I…”
Conversation creaked into being, jerky and disjointed. As Annie picked at her salad, desperately aware of Pudge to her left and Rachel’s empty space to her right, she heard snatches:
Emory Swanson’s reassuring balm, “…know that you yourself hold the keys to many kingdoms and…”
Max’s dear voice, a solid spar in a sea of unpleasantness, “…specialize in helping people with problems. No, I don’t…”
Joan Ladson’s slightly querulous tone, “…can’t believe how much everything costs today. And I just have to get a new car…”
Alice Schiller’s dry comment, “…has never been able to control herself so…”
Donna Farrell’s harsh whisper, “…has she lost her mind?”
Wayne Ladson’s exasperated mutter, “…had no idea she’d gotten in so deep until…”
Terry Ladson’s puzzled query, “…what’s all this about crystals?”
Happy Laurance’s anxious flutter, “…Marguerite doesn’t realize how upset…”
The words swirled and buzzed, disconnected and unimportant. Annie’s being was concentrated on the physical presence of the man who sat next to her, on the well-formed hand that nervously turned his wineglass, on the sheen of his bright green jacket, on the face turned toward her with its sandy mustache. She knew he looked at her even though she stared straight ahead.
“You were nice to Rachel.” His voice was a musical tenor.
The manservant whisked away salad plates.
Annie picked up her roll, tore off a portion, buttered it. “It’s hard to be her age.”
“She told me she came to see you.”
The dinner plates were served, sea bass with a bleu cheese sauce, stuffed artichokes and sautéed winter vegetables.
Annie slowly met his gaze. Before she could discipline her mind and her heart, the thought came tumbling through her sweet and clear as a fine white wine that he was nice with honest eyes and a kind mouth. Her face tightened. He hadn’t been there for her. He had never been there for her. She didn’t owe him a thing.
Pudge leaned closer. “Annie, did your mother ever tell you about the night we met?”
She stared into his eyes, feeling a jumble of conflicting emotions. Yes, she wanted to know. He could re-create a moment in time that she had never known. He could bring her mother to the table, young and eager and full of hope and the beginnings of love. But every word he spoke forged a link between them and Annie wanted no link. Not now. Not ever. He had proved he couldn’t be trusted.
“She never talked about you.” Annie’s voice was harsh.
Pudge sighed. “I don’t suppose I blame her.” He sounded very tired.
Annie poked at the fish, though she knew she couldn’t eat anything. One painful word at a time, she said jerkily, “The night you met—”
Afterward, she couldn’t recall anything of that dinner, the taste of the food or the sounds of other conversation or the odd surroundings of that water-encircled table. She ate, yes, but most of all she listened and learned.
“—my sister Amy asked me to help her that night. She taught fourth grade. I was in town on leave. I was a second lieutenant in the infantry…in the hall carrying a Humpty Dumpty made out of egg cartons and I bumped into this pretty girl…Judy was in her first year as a kindergarten teacher…you don’t look like her, you know—”
Annie knew.
“—her hair was as black as midnight and her eyes shone like sapphires. Delicate features, but a firm chin. Very firm. Deep-set eyes and hollowed cheeks and a rosebud mouth. I never gave another thought to helping Amy. She found me after the open house and asked if I intended to take up residence in the kindergarten room.” Pudge’s mouth curved in a rollicking grin. “‘Hell yes,’ I told her. I knew then that I wanted to marry Judy. I told her…”
The dessert plates were removed.
Marguerite rose. She waited until every eye was on her and the only sound in the huge room was the susurrant wash of surrounding water.
Annie marveled at Marguerite’s impact. Yes, it was all a piece of stagecraft, from the silver beam of light trained upon her to the carefully timed pause. Stagecraft, yes, but magic, too. Rich auburn hair swayed around the haggard, still-elegant face. Black strokes of makeup made the smoldering eyes darker, larger, mesmerizing. Her bloodred lips parted.
“Life”—Marguerite leaned forward, looked at each in turn—“and death. Forces greater than any of us.” It was a declamation, her deep, husky voice imbuing the words with grandeur. One hand, the scarlet-tipped nails bright as flame, slowly encompassed them.
The audience—and they were indeed an audience—probably wasn’t reacting as Marguerite wished. The watching faces exhibited caution, wariness and uneasiness, but no one appeared captivated or impressed. Except, of course, the attentive, oh-so-pleased Dr. Swanson.
“It has been my great good fortune to realize that I possess an extraordinary capacity for reaching beyond this world.” Her crimson lips spread in an exalted smile. “I have a responsibility to myself, to society, to the world. Therefore I shall divest myself of the encumbrances of this world and dedicate myself and my fortune to the great efforts being made by Emory Swanson.”
Swanson looked up at his benefactress, his expression one of humble self-deprecation.
She smiled down at him. “Oh, I know you’ve counseled me to give this great consideration, to be sure that I can follow the Golden Path. I know I can.” She clasped a hand to her heart. “I am led. I shall endow the Evermore Foundation—”
Terry Ladson stood so quickly his chair clattered to the stone floor. “Marguerite, you can’t be such a fool.” His red face was mottled.
Happy struggled to her feet, too, twisting the napkin in her hands. “Marguerite, you mustn’t. This isn’t what Claude would want.”
Wayne Ladson waved a languid hand, but his eyes were angry. “Calm down, everyone. Let’s hear what Dr. Swanson has to say. What is this Golden—”
The lights went off.
Though the lighting had been dim, except for the silver spot trained on Marguerite, the transition from light to utter darkness left Annie straining to see and feeling as though black velvet pressed against her eyes. Sounds pulsed around her, Marguerite’s imperious voice demanding, “The lights. Someone see about the lights,” Happy’s frantic bleat, “I don’t like this,” the scrape of a chair, Alice Schiller’s sharp cry, “Marguerite, be careful.”
Alice Schiller’s warning frightened Annie. Schiller’s husky voice throbbed with fear—fear for Marguerite, fear for a woman hell-bent on destruction. What was happening in the darkness? What could happen?
The lights came on.
Annie’s heart thudded. She stared toward the head of the table.
Marguerite Dumaney stood rigid, her features sharp-edged, her lips twisting in a furious scowl. Her gaze, dark eyes hooded and implacable, swept the table, then paused, eyes locked on the single gardenia that lay on the table in front of her. The transformation was slow, her face softening, lips parting in wonder and awe. Slowly, hand trembling, she reached down, lifted up the gardenia. A flush suffused her cheeks. Her lips scarcely moved, and the sound was a whisper. “Claude.” Then, loud, strong, triumphant, her voice filled the huge room. “Claude.” She held the gardenia to her cheek, then thrust the flower toward Emory Swanson.
“Claude always gave me gardenias. Always. He wants us to know he’s pleased. He is reaching out to me across the great chasm.”
Wayne Ladson smoothed his beard. “Pretty dramatic, Swanson. How did you bring it off?” Admiration mixed with sarcasm.
“That’s what I’d like to know.” Terry hunched forward in his chair and glowered.
“Claude always gave her gardenias.” Happy’s eyes were wide and shocked. “He did.”
Donna’s mouth curved in a derisive smile. “Don’t be an idiot, Happy.”
Joan lifted her glass with a shaking hand. “Where did the flower come from?”
Pudge looked up at the lights.
Alice Schiller stared at Marguerite, her face tight with foreboding.
Max’s gaze was focused on Emory Swanson. Annie understood why. When the lights came on, faces around the table reflected surprise, uncertainty and shock. And that included Emory Swanson.
Whoever—or whatever—spun a sweet-scented gardenia through the air to fall in front of Marguerite was unknown to Swanson. And that, Annie thought, might be the most peculiar and unsettling fact of all.
Marguerite cupped the gardenia in her hands, smiled at it tenderly. “Oh, Claude. Claude.” She moved away from her chair, stepping out of the light.
Everyone watched her go.
At the bridge, she turned. She lifted the gardenia, touched it to her lips. “Claude. Forevermore.”