For the Love of Lilah

by Nora Roberts

  "You can play with him, if you want," Alex told her, appalled that someone so old would cry. "He doesn't really bite."

  "Of course he won't bite." Recovering, Colleen set the dog on the floor, then straightened painfully. "He knows I'd just bite him back. Isn't someone go­ing to show me to my room, or do I have to sit here all day and half the damn night?"

  "We'll take you up." Lilah tugged on Max's hand so that he rose to help her to her feet.

  "Bring the brandy," Colleen said imperiously, and started out stumping with her cane.

  "Delightful relatives you have, Calhoun," Sloan murmured.

  "Too late to back, out now, O'Riley." Amanda heaved a relieved breath. "Come on, Aunt Coco, I'll help you in the kitchen."

  "Which room have you stuck me in?" Only slightly breathless, Colleen paused on the second-floor landing.

  "The first one, here." Max opened the door, then stepped back.

  The terrace doors had been opened to let in the breeze. The furniture had been hastily polished, a few extra pieces dragged in from storage. Fresh flowers sat atop the rosewood bureau. The wallpaper was peeling, but paintings had been culled from other rooms to hide the worst of it. A delicate lace spread had been unfolded from a cedar chest and adorned the heavy four-poster.

  "It'll do," Colleen muttered, determined to fight the nostalgia. "Make sure there are fresh towels, girl. And you, Quartermain, is it? Pour me another dose of that brandy and don't be stingy."

  Lilah peeked into the adjoining bath and saw all was as it should be. "Is there anything else, Auntie?"

  "Mind your tone, and don't call me 'Auntie.' You can send a maid up when it's time for dinner."

  Lilah stuck her tongue in her cheek. "I'm afraid it's the staffs year off."

  "Unconscionable." Colleen leaned heavily on her cane. "Are you telling me you haven't even day help?"

  "You know very well we've been under the finan­cial gun for some time."

  "And you'll still not get a penny from me to put into this cursed place." She walked stiffly to the open doors and looked out. God, the view, she thought. It never changed. How many times over how many years had she envisioned it? "Who has my mother's room?"

  "I do," Lilah said, lifting her chin.

  Very slowly, Colleen turned. "Of course, you would." Her voice had softened. "Do you know how much you favor her?"

  "Yes. Max found a picture in a book."

  "A picture in a book." Now the bitterness. "That's all that's left of her."

  "No. No, there's much more. A part of her is still here, will always be here."

  "Don't talk nonsense. Ghosts, spirits—that's Cor­delia's influence, and it's a load of hogwash. Dead's dead, girl. When you're as close to it as I am, you'll know that."

  "If you'd felt her as I've felt her, you'd know dif­ferently."

  Colleen closed herself in. "Shut the door behind you. I like my privacy."

  Lilah waited until they were out in the hall to swear. "Rude, bad-tempered old bat." Then with a lazy shrug, she tucked her arm through Max's. "Let's go get some air. To think I'd actually felt something for her downstairs when she held Fred."

  "She's not so bad, Lilah." They passed through his room and onto the terrace. "You may be just as crotchety when you're eighty-something."

  "I'll never be crotchety." She closed her eyes, tossed back her hair and smiled. "I'll have a nice rocking chair set in the sun and sleep old age away." She ran a hand up his arm. "Are you ever going to kiss me hello?"

  "Yes." He cupped her face and did so thoroughly. "Hello. How was your day?"

  "Hot and busy." But now she felt delightfully cool and relaxed. "That teacher I told you about was back. He seems overly earnest to me. Gives me the wil­lies."

  Max's smile disappeared. "You should report him to one of the rangers."

  "What, for sending off bad vibrations?" She laughed and hugged him. "No, there's just something about him that hits me wrong. He's always wearing dark glasses, as if I might see something he didn't want seen if he took them off."

  "You're letting your..." His grip tightened. "What does he look like?"

  "Nothing special. Why don't we take a nap before dinner? Aunt Colleen exhausted me."

  "What," Max said very precisely, "does he look like?"

  "He's about your height, trim. Somewhere around thirty, I'd guess. Wears the hiker's uniform of T-shirt and ripped jeans. He doesn't have a tan," she said, frowning suddenly. "Which is odd seeing as he said he'd been camping for a couple of weeks. Average sort of brown hair, well over the collar. A very neat beard and mustache."

  "It could be him." His fingers dug in as the pos­sibility iced through him. "My God, he's been with you."

  "You think—you think it's Caufield." The idea left her shaken so that she leaned back against the wall. "What an idiot I've been. I had the same feel­ing, the same feeling with this man as I did when Livingston came to take Amanda out for dinner." She ran both hands through her hair. "I must be losing my touch."

  Max's eyes were dark as he stared out at the cliffs. "If he comes back, I'll be ready for him."

  "Don't start playing hero." Alarmed, she grabbed his arms. "He's dangerous."

  "He's not getting near you again." The complete and focused intensity was back on his face. "I'll be taking your shift with you tomorrow."

  Chapter Twelve

  He never let her out of his sight. Though they had given the authorities the description, Max took no chances. By the time the day was over, he knew more about the intertidal zone than anyone could want to know. He could recognize Irish moss from rock-weed—though he still grimaced at Lilah's claim that the moss made excellent ice cream.

  But there hadn't been a sign of Caufield.

  On the off chance that he had been speaking the truth about camping in the park, the rangers had made a quiet and thorough search but had found no trace of him.

  No one had seen the bearded man watching the fruitless search through field glasses. No one had seen the rage come into his eyes when he realized his cover had been blown.

  As they drove home, Lilah unwound her braid. "Feel better?" she asked Max.

  "No."

  She pushed her hands under her hair to let the wind catch it. "Well, you should. It was sweet of you to worry about me, though."

  "It has nothing to do with sweetness."

  "I think you're disappointed that you didn't get to go into hand-to-hand combat."

  "Maybe I am."

  "Okay." She leaned over to nip at his ear. "Want to rumble?"

  "It's not a joke," he muttered. "I'm not going to feel right until he's taken care of."

  Lilah snuggled back in the seat. "If he had any sense he'd give up and go away. We live in the house and we've hardly made any progress."

  "That's not true. We verified the existence of the emeralds. We found a photograph of them. We lo­cated Mrs. Tobias, and have her eyewitness account of what happened the day before Bianca died. And we've identified Christian."

  "We've what?" She sprang up straight. "When did we identify Christian?"

  Max grimaced as he glanced over at her. "I forgot to tell you. Don't look like that. First your great-aunt invades the house and sets everyone on their ears. Then you tell me about the man in the park. I thought I had told you."

  She inhaled, then exhaled deeply to keep her pa­tience. "Why don't you tell me now?"

  "It was in the library yesterday," he began, and filled her in on what he'd found.

  "Christian Bradford," Lilah said, trying'out the name to see how it fit. "There's something familiar about it. I wonder if I've seen some of his paintings.

  It wouldn't be surprising if there were some in this area, since he lived here on and off. Died here."

  "Didn't you study art in college?"

  "I didn't study at all unless I was boxed in. Mostly I drifted through, and art was always more a hobby than anything else. I didn't want to work at it because I liked playing at it better. And I wanted to b
e a nat­uralist all along."

  "An ambition?" He grinned. "Lilah, you'll ruin your image."

  "Well, it was my only one. Everybody's entitled. Bradford, Bradford," she repeated, gnawing at the word. "I'd swear it rings a bell." She closed her eyes on it, opening them again when they pulled up at The Towers. "Got it. We knew a Bradford. He grew up on the island. Holt, Holt Bradford. The dark, broody, surly sort. He was a few years older—probably in his early thirties now. He left ten or twelve years ago, but it seems to me I heard he was back. He owns a cottage in the village. My God, Max, if he's Chris­tian's grandson, it would be the same cottage."

  "Don't get ahead of yourself. We'll look into it, one step at a time."

  "If you have to be logical, I'll talk to Suzanna. She knew him a little better. I remember that she knocked him off his motorcycle the first week she had her license."

  "I did not knock him off his motorcycle," Suzanna denied, and sank her aching body into a hot, frothy tub. "He fell off his motorcycle when he failed to yield. I had the right-of-way."

  "Whatever." Lilah sat on the edge of the tub. "What do we know about him?"

  "He has a nasty temper. I thought he was going to murder me that day. He wouldn't have scraped him­self all up if he'd been wearing protective gear."

  "I mean his background, not his personality."

  Weary, Suzanna opened her eyes. Ordinarily the bathroom was the only place she could find true peace and privacy. Now even that had been invaded. "Why?"

  "I'll tell you after. Come on, Suze."

  "All right, let me think. He was ahead of me in school. Three or four years, I think. Most of the girls were crazy about him because he looked dangerous. His mother was very nice."

  "I remember," Lilah murmured. "She came to the house after..."

  "Yes, after Mom and Dad were killed. She used to do handwork. She'd done some lovely pieces for Mom. We still have some of them, I think. And her husband was a lobsterman. He was lost at sea when we were teenagers. I really don't remember that much."

  "Did you ever talk to him?"

  "Who, Holt? Not really. He'd sort of swagger around and glare. When we had that little accident he mostly swore at me. Then he went off somewhere— Portland. I remember because Mrs. Marsley was talk­ing about him just the other day when I was selling her some climbing roses. He was a cop for a while, but there was some kind of incident, and he gave it up."

  "What kind of incident?"

  "I don't know. Whenever she starts I just let it flow in one ear and on out. I think he's repairing boats or something."

  "He never talked about his family with you?"

  "Why in the world should he? And why would you care?"

  "Because Christian's last name was Bradford, and he had a cottage on the island."

  "Oh." Suzanna let out a long breath as she ab­sorbed the information. "Isn't that just our luck?"

  Lilah left her sister to soak, and set off to find Max. Before she could go into his room, Coco waylaid her.

  "Oh, there you are."

  "Darling, you look frazzled." Lilah kissed her cheek.

  "And who wouldn't be? That woman..." Coco took a deep calming breath. "I'm doing twenty minutes of yoga every morning just to cope. Be a dear and take this in to her."

  "What is it?"

  "Tonight's menu." Coco set her teeth. "She insists on treating this as though it's one of her cruises."

  "As long as we don't have to play shuffleboard."

  "Thank you, dear. Oh, did Max tell you his news?"

  "Hmm? Oh, yes, belatedly."

  "Has he decided? I know it's a wonderful oppor­tunity, but I hate to think he'll be leaving so soon."

  "Leaving?"

  "If he takes the position, he'll have to go back to Cornell next week. I was going to read the cards last night, but with Aunt Colleen, I just couldn't concen­trate."

  "What position, Aunt Coco?"

  "Head of the history department." She gave Lilah a baffled look. "I thought he'd told you."

  "I was thinking of something else." She struggled to keep her voice even. "He's going to leave in a few days?"

  "He'll have to decide." Coco cupped"a hand under Lilah's chin. "You'll both have to decide."

  "He hasn't chosen to bring me in on this one." She stared down at the menu until the words blurred. "It's a terrific opportunity, one I'm sure he's hoped for."

  "There are a lot of opportunities in life, Lilah."

  She only shook her head. "I couldn't do anything to discourage him from doing something he wants. Not if I loved him. It has to be his decision."

  "Who the hell is jabbering out there?" Colleen thumped her cane on the floor.

  "I'd like to take that cane and—"

  "More yoga," Lilah suggested, forcing a smile. "I'll deal with her."

  "Good luck."

  "You bellowed, Auntie," Lilah said as she breezed through the door.

  "You didn't knock."

  "No, I didn't. Tonight's menu, Miss Calhoun. We hope it meets with your approval."

  "Little snip." Colleen snatched the paper away, then frowned up at her grand-niece. "What's wrong with you, girl? You're white as a sheet."

  "Pale skin runs in the family. It's the Irish."

  "It's temper that runs in the family." She'd seen eyes that had looked like that before, she thought. Hurt, confused. But then she had been only a child, unable to understand. "Trouble with your young man."

  "What makes you say so?"

  "Just because I never tied myself down with a man doesn't mean I don't know them. I dallied in my day."

  "Dallied. This time the smile came more easily. "A nice word. I suppose some of us are meant to dally through life." She ran a finger down the bed­post. "Just as there are some women men love but don't fall in love with."

  "You're jabbering."

  "No, I'm trying to be realistic. I'm not usually."

  "Realism is cold comfort."

  Lilah's brow lifted. "Oh, Lord, I'm afraid I'm more like you than I realized. What a scary thought."

  Colleen disguised a chuckle. "Get out of here. You give me a headache. Girl," she said, and Lilah paused at the door, "any man who puts that look into your eyes is worth everything or nothing at all."

  Lilah gave a short laugh. "Why, Auntie, you're absolutely right."

  She went to his room, but he wasn't there. She'd yet to decide whether to confront Max about his plans or to wait until he told her himself. For better or worse, she thought she would follow her instincts. Idly she picked up a shirt he'd left at the foot of his bed. It was the silly screenprint she'd talked him into on that first shopping trip. The shirt, and the memory, still made her smile. Setting it aside, she crossed to his desk.

  He had it piled with books—thick volumes on World War I, a history of Maine, a treatment on the Industrial Revolution. She lifted a brow over a book on fashion in the 1900s. He'd picked up one of the pamphlets from the park that gave a detailed map of the island.

  In another pile were the art books. Lilah picked up the top one and opened it to where Max had marked it. As he had, she felt the quick thrill of discovery on reading Christian Bradford's name. Lowering into the chair in front of the typewriter, she read the brief biography twice.

  Fascinated, excited, she set the book down to reach for another. It was then she noticed the typed pages, neatly stacked. More reports, she thought with a faint smile. She remembered how tidily he had typed up their interview with Millie Tobias.

  From the top of the high tower of rock, she faced the sea.

  Curious, Lilah settled more comfortably and read on. She was midway through the second chapter when Max came in. Her emotions were so ragged she had to brace before she could speak.

  "Your book. You started your book."

  "Yeah." He shoved his hands into his pockets. "I was looking for you."

  "It's Bianca, isn't it?" Lilah set down the page she was holding. "Laura—she's Bianca."

  "Parts of her." He couldn'
t have explained how it felt to know that she had read his words—words that had come not so much from his head as from his heart.

  "You've set it here, on the island."

  "It seemed right." He didn't move toward her, he didn't smile, but only stood looking uncomfortable.

  "I'm sorry." The apology was stiff and overly po­lite. "I shouldn't have read it without asking, but it caught my eye."

  "It's all right." With his hands still balled in his pockets, he shrugged. She hated it, he thought. "It doesn't matter."

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "There wasn't really anything to tell. I only have about fifty pages, and it's rough. I thought—"

  "It's beautiful." She fought back the hurt as she rose.

  "What?"

  "It's beautiful," she repeated, and found that hurt turned quickly to anger. "You've got enough sense to know that. You've read thousands of books in your life, and know good work from bad. If you didn't want to share it with me, that's your business."

  Still stunned, he shook his head. "It wasn't that I—"

  "What was it then? I'm important enough to share your bed, but not to be in on any of the major deci­sions in your life."

  "You're being ridiculous."

  "Fine." Rolling easily with her temper, she tossed back her hair. "I'm being ridiculous. Apparently I've been ridiculous for some time now."

  The tears crowding her voice confused as much as unnerved him. "Why don't we sit down and talk this through?"

  She went with her instincts and shoved the chair at him. "Go ahead. Have a seat. But there's no need to talk anything through. You've started your book, but didn't think it was necessary to mention it. You've been offered a promotion, but didn't consider it worth bringing up. Not to me. You've got your life, Profes­sor, and I've got mine. That's what we said right from the beginning. It's just my bad luck that I fell in love with you."