Octavia hesitated and then nodded once. “You’re right. You are very intuitive, Anson.”
“Don’t know about intuitive, but I do know something about Cabot,” Anson said.
He and Octavia were standing close together in a corner at the back of the crowded gallery. He was no expert on such matters, but to his untrained eye, the show looked like a roaring success.
The publicity about the confrontation between Virginia and Kate Delbridge in the back room had probably done wonders to ensure a big turnout. Nevertheless, the guests who were swilling the sparkling wine and wolfing down the fancy canapés seemed to be genuinely impressed with the show.
Although there was a lot of art on display, it was the picture from Hannah Brewster’s Visions that got his attention. The fiery scene was displayed against a stark white wall. The local media had gone all out to dig up the old story about Zane’s cult. Television crews and cameras had descended on the gallery shortly before the doors had been opened. It seemed like every guest in the room had his or her cell phone camera out and was snapping pictures like mad.
Anson had to admit that he was as fascinated as everyone else by the Visions painting. Even standing on the far side of the room, it was hard to take his eyes off the blazing scene. With her brushes and paints, Hannah Brewster had somehow captured the terrible events of the night of the compound fire in a way that was far more revealing than any photograph or video, as far as he was concerned.
He remembered Virginia’s words the day she had walked into the offices of Cutler, Sutter & Salinas. “Here’s the thing about Hannah Brewster. She had trouble dealing with reality, but that was why she painted. She said it was the only way she could get at the truth.”
“She was right,” Anson said quietly.
“What?” Octavia asked.
“Hannah Brewster painted the truth. That’s how it was that night out at Zane’s compound. That’s exactly how it was.”
“Dear heaven,” Octavia whispered. She gazed at the painting. “I’ve always known it must have been a nightmare.”
Anson thought about the screams of the children that he still heard in his worst dreams.
“Yes,” he said.
Octavia sighed. “I hoped Virginia would be able to forget it or, at least, put the memory behind her. She was so young, after all.”
“Some things you can’t forget.”
Octavia looked at the painting. “No.”
Anson forced himself to look away from the Visions picture. He focused on the crowd.
Most of the artists looked to be both bewildered and thrilled by all of the unaccustomed attention.
Virginia was elegant and charming in a black dress with a little black jacket that effectively concealed the small bulge of the bandage that covered her wound. Her hair was in a sleek twist. You’d never know she had nearly been murdered a few days ago, Anson thought. One tough lady.
The fancy affair was an alien environment for Cabot, but he appeared to be holding his own. Virginia had taken him shopping before the event. The result was a laid-back but surprisingly sophisticated-looking Cabot in a stylish steel-gray jacket, black trousers and a black pullover. At the moment he was deep in conversation with a very earnest, very intent-looking man who was wearing heavy glasses and a rumpled jacket.
“I have no doubt but that there’s a strong bond between Virginia and Cabot,” Octavia said. “That’s not what I meant. It’s this obsession with hunting for that monster, Quinton Zane, that worries me. How can Cabot and Virginia ever be truly happy if they don’t find a way to put the past behind them?”
“What matters is how they deal with the past.”
“I suppose so,” Octavia said. “Virginia still has nightmares about what happened the night Zane burned down his compound and murdered my daughter and those other people.”
“She’s not the only one who has bad dreams. So does Cabot. Hell, so do I, for that matter.”
Octavia gave Anson a long, considering look. “You have nightmares because you couldn’t save them all, don’t you?”
He knocked back some of the effervescent wine. “Reckon so. I’m sorry, Octavia.”
“That you weren’t able to save my daughter? You made the choice I know my daughter and I’m sure the other mothers who died that night would have wanted you to make. You saved their children.”
He thought about trying to explain that he hadn’t made a conscious decision that night. He’d acted purely on instinct. He had known the kids were forced to sleep in the barn because he’d kept an eye on Zane’s compound for months. The children had been his first priority on that terrible night.
In the end he didn’t say anything. He knew that Octavia understood.
They watched the crowd in a companionable silence for a time.
“Don’t know much about the art world, but I’d say this looks like a good crowd,” Anson said after a while.
“Yes, it does,” Octavia said. She smiled, quietly pleased. “I wonder what Cabot and Hector Montgomery are talking about. They appear to be very deep in conversation.”
“I noticed. Who is Hector Montgomery?”
“One of the local dot-com tycoons. Made a fortune in the high-tech world and then retired last year.”
Anson snorted. “Doesn’t look a day over forty.”
“He isn’t. Probably more like thirty-five. He’s in the process of setting up some kind of charitable foundation. The headquarters are here in Seattle. Having him show up this evening is a coup for Virginia. Perhaps he’s decided to start collecting regional art.”
“That would be a good thing for Virginia, I take it?”
“Nothing arouses interest in the art world like finding out that a high-profile collector is attracted to the works displayed in a small, previously low-profile gallery such as this one.”
Anson grinned. “A variation on auction fever?”
Octavia chuckled. “Yes, indeed. It’s human nature, I suppose. Almost anything appears to be a lot more interesting and more valuable if someone else is willing to pay a lot of money to acquire it.”
On the other side of the room, Virginia joined Cabot and Hector Montgomery. Hector fixed his very focused attention on Virginia and said something to her. She inclined her head and led the way across the room to a large metal sculpture that had been twisted into what Anson considered a very strange shape.
Cabot propped one shoulder against the wall, drank a little champagne and watched Virginia with the eyes of a man who knew damn well that he had found the woman of his dreams.
“I just want my granddaughter to be happy,” Octavia said.
Anson snorted. “If you ask me, happiness is overrated.”
Octavia rounded on him with an expression of disbelief. “I beg your pardon?”
“Most people don’t even recognize happiness when it hits them over the head. They only appreciate it when they find themselves unhappy. There’s something a lot more important than happiness.”
Octavia regarded him with intent curiosity. “About your theory of happiness. Perhaps you would care to explain further?”
“Sure,” Anson said.
And he did.
CHAPTER 72
“I gather the show was a success,” Octavia said.
“Better than I could have hoped.” Virginia set her teacup down on the saucer. “Hector Montgomery, the tech mogul who is firing up his own foundation, was there.”
It was midafternoon. She and Octavia were having tea in the sunroom of Octavia’s house. The space overlooked the large garden.
She was off the pain meds but the doctor had suggested that driving was probably a bad idea until her side had healed. Cabot had taken the suggestion as law. He had insisted on driving her to Octavia’s house before heading to the office.
“I saw Montgomery chatting with you,” Octavia sai
d. “He appeared quite animated.”
Virginia smiled. “Between you and me, he’s the type who gets wildly enthusiastic whenever he discovers a new passion. Currently, that passion is art, so I’m not complaining. He wants to hire me as a consultant.”
“That’s wonderful. He has become a collector, then? I assumed as much when I spotted him in the crowd.”
“Yes. He wants to build a personal collection with a focus on Pacific Northwest artists, but he also wants to have a series of installations in the headquarters of his new foundation. That means that the artists involved will get a lot of public exposure. It’s a fantastic opportunity for them and for me.”
“Yes, it is.” Octavia hoisted her teacup in a small salute. “Congratulations, dear, you’re on your way. The Troy Gallery is going to flourish. Once word gets around that Montgomery has hired you as a personal consultant, you will have people standing in line outside the gallery. Interior designers and serious collectors will be desperate for your advice.”
“Well, collectors are a fickle lot and artists are inherently complicated. Still, you’re right, last night provided a wonderful launching platform. Now it’s up to me to take my business to the next level.”
“You will,” Octavia said. “The gallery is your passion. I understand that now and I am grateful that you stuck to your own path, even when I was pressuring you to take another one.”
“I know you wanted me to be happy. You thought that would only happen if I stuck to the family script and went into academia.”
Octavia smiled. “I have it on good authority that happiness is an overrated condition.”
Virginia raised her brows. “Good grief, where did you get that bit of advice?”
“Anson Salinas and I had a rather illuminating chat last night,” Octavia said. “When I told him that I just wanted you to be happy, he gave me his opinion of happiness. He claimed it was a superficial, fleeting sensation that most people don’t even recognize when it happens to them. They only pay attention when they find themselves unhappy. And then they tend to feel resentful and angry.”
“He has a point, I suppose.”
“He went on to say that what really mattered was the ability to experience joy. He seems to feel that is the more powerful emotion because it endures, regardless of circumstances. Once you’ve known joy, you are never quite the same. It changes a person.”
“Do you think he’s right?”
“I know he’s right. I was devastated when I lost your mother. I blamed myself.”
“I thought you blamed me,” Virginia said. “She got married because of me. She was vulnerable to Quinton Zane because of me. Later you and Granddad got divorced because of me.”
Octavia shut her eyes in an expression of grief and regret that was far more poignant than words. Alarmed, Virginia reached across the small table to touch Octavia’s hand.
“Octavia . . . Grandma. Please. You were right. We shouldn’t talk about the past. It just opens up all the wounds.”
Octavia’s eyes snapped open. They burned with resolve.
“Pay attention, Virginia,” she said, “and never forget what I am going to tell you. You are not to blame for the choices that your mother made, and you are not responsible for the choices that your grandfather and I made. We were the adults. We made our own decisions. You bore the fallout of those decisions, and for that I can only say I am truly sorry. I have no right to ask for your forgiveness. I just want you to know that I’m sorry.”
Virginia gripped Octavia’s hand very tightly. “There is nothing to forgive. You were there for me when I needed you. You gave me a home. You provided me with stability and structure when I needed it most. And I always knew that you loved me, no matter how much we argued. I know I often disappointed you but I hope you know that I love you, too.”
“Virginia. Oh, my dear girl. You do not know the half of it. You were the one who saved me. If it had not been for you, I do not think that I could have survived the loss of Kimberly and, later, Paul’s betrayal. You brought love and purpose back into my life. Those are gifts that I have never taken lightly. And for the record, you have never disappointed me. When we argued, it was because I was terrified that you would make a choice that would cause you pain. I was so afraid that I would fail to protect you, the way I failed to protect Kimberly.”
“You were right. My mother made her own choices. In the end, she and the other women who defied Quinton Zane were very brave and very daring. Their plan failed but their children were saved.”
“I told Anson that he made the right decision when he rescued the children from the barn that night. He made the choice that Kimberly and the other mothers would have wanted him to make.”
Virginia could no longer hold back the tears. She did not even try. Neither did Octavia.
When the storm passed, they stood close together, looking out into the mist-drenched garden.
“Cabot asked me to marry him,” Virginia said after a while.
Octavia smiled. “Took him long enough.”
“How can you say that? Cabot and I have only known each other for a short time.”
“You and Cabot share some history. And you two can envision a future together. That is a wonderful thing.”
“I was thinking we could have the wedding here in your garden.”
“An outdoor wedding in Seattle is always a bit risky. It might rain.”
“So what? If it rains, we’ll just move things inside. This sunroom would make a lovely venue for a wedding.”
“Yes, it would,” Octavia said.
Virginia smiled. “Cabot and I are going out to dinner tonight. Can you join us?”
“Love to, but I’m afraid I’ve got other plans.”
“One of your club meetings?”
“No, dear. Something a bit more interesting. Anson invited me to have dinner with him this evening.”
Virginia was speechless for a couple of seconds. This was probably what it felt like to be struck by lightning, she decided.
“What?” she finally managed. “You and Anson Salinas? Dinner?”
“Makes a nice change from bridge and the garden club, don’t you think?”
CHAPTER 73
“Anson has a date?” Max Cutler’s disbelief echoed through the phone. “Are you serious?”
“Let me take a wild guess here,” Jack Lancaster said. “Anson’s hot date is some fast-moving blonde half his age who discovered that he is part owner of a security business that just got a big infusion of cash.”
His voice was laced not so much with disbelief as it was with cool, detached cynicism. Jack always suspected the worst of people until proof to the contrary appeared. It was, Cabot thought, the predictable side effect of a career spent in academia studying criminal behavior.
“You can both relax,” Cabot said. “Anson’s date is my fiancée’s grandmother.”
“Grandmother?” Max repeated. “Just how old is she?”
“Early seventies, I think,” Cabot said. “Virginia told me that her grandmother married young—while she was still in college.”
“Anson just turned seventy-one,” Jack observed. “So at least he’s dating age-appropriately. But what do he and Virginia’s grandmother have in common?”
“You mean, aside from the fact that Octavia’s going to be my future grandmother-in-law?” Cabot asked.
“Aside from that,” Jack said.
“You could say that Octavia and Anson have some history,” Cabot said. “Octavia was the one who showed up to collect Virginia the day after Zane torched the compound.”
That was all he needed to say.
Jack exhaled slowly. “So she was one of the many people Anson had to face the morning after.”
“As long as I live,” Max said, “I’ll never be able to wrap my head around what it must have been like for Anson that
day.”
“Octavia has made it clear that, given a gun and an opportunity to shoot Zane, she would pull the trigger in a heartbeat,” Cabot said.
“Sounds like she’ll make a fully accredited member of our little Zane Conspiracy Club,” Jack observed.
“Oh, yeah,” Cabot said. “She’s on board.”
“I can’t believe we’re discussing Anson’s love life,” Max said. “He’d be pissed off if he knew about this conversation.”
“Well, I, for one, don’t plan to say anything about it,” Cabot said.
“Neither do I,” Jack said.
“Agreed,” Max said. He paused. “Are you sure he can’t overhear you?”
Cabot looked through the door of his office and contemplated Anson’s empty desk. He smiled.
“Anson went home early to get ready for the date,” he said.
Max chuckled. “Good sign.”
Jack cleared his throat. “As interesting as this topic is, it’s not why I called. I’ve been going through my copy of the new files on Zane that you sent, Cabot. I still can’t say definitively that he’s alive, but I can tell you one thing.”
“What?” Cabot asked.
“We’ve assumed that if Zane is still out there, he’s been living as an expat in various foreign locations,” Jack said.
“So?” Max prompted.
“I think there’s a very real possibility that the failure of his son and daughter will draw him out of hiding.”
“Because he wants revenge for the death of his son and the fact that his daughter is going to prison?” Cabot asked.
“Quinton Zane isn’t capable of caring enough about anyone, including his own offspring, to risk his neck in an effort to exact revenge,” Jack said. “No, if this situation brings him back to the U.S., it will be because he’s concluded that the catastrophic results of Fleming and Delbridge’s project reflect badly on him. Make him look weak.”
Promise Not to Tell Page 30