by Sandra Brown
Whether the child was Tate’s or not, Carole’s abortion was a political issue, and Avery believed she had planned it that way. It made her ill to think about the negative publicity and grave repercussions if anyone ever found out. The public effect on Tate would be as profound as the personal one.
When Avery returned from her ride, Mandy was assisting Mona with baking cookies. The housekeeper was very good with Mandy, so Avery complimented Mandy’s cookies and left her in the older woman’s care.
The house was quiet. She had seen Fancy roar off in her Mustang earlier. Jack, Eddy, and Tate were always in the city at this time of day, working at either the campaign headquarters or the law office. Dorothy Rae was secluded in her wing of the house, as usual. Mona had told her that Nelson and Zee had gone into Kerrville for the afternoon. Reaching her room, Avery tossed the riding quirt onto the bed and used the bootjack to remove the tall riding boots. She padded into the bathroom and turned on the taps of the shower.
Not for the first time, an eerie feeling came over her. She sensed that someone had been in the rooms during her absence. Goose bumps broke out over her arms as she examined the top of her dressing table.
She couldn’t remember if she had left her hairbrush lying there. Had her bottle of hand lotion been moved? She was certain she hadn’t left the lid of the jewelry box opened with a strand of pearls spilling out. She noticed things in the bedroom, too, that had been disturbed while she was out. She did something she hadn’t done since moving into Carole’s room—she locked the door.
She showered and pulled on a thick robe. Still uneasy and distressed, she decided to lie down for a while before dressing. As her head sank into the pillow, it crackled.
A sheet of paper had been slipped between the pillow and the pillowcase.
Avery studied it with misgivings. The paper had been folded twice, but nothing was written on the outside. She dreaded opening it. What had the intruder expected to find? What had he been searching for?
One thing was certain—the note was no accident. It had been cleverly and deliberately placed where she, and only she, would find it.
She unfolded it. There was one line typed in the center of the white, unlined sheet:
Whatever you’re doing, it’s working on him. Keep it up.
* * *
“Nelson?”
“Hmm?”
His absent reply drew a frown from Zinnia. She laid her hairbrush aside and swiveled on her dressing table stool. “This is important.”
Nelson tipped down the corner of his newspaper. Seeing that she was troubled, he folded the paper and depressed the footrest of his lounge chair, bringing himself to a sitting position. “I’m sorry, darling. What’d you say?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Is something wrong?”
They were in their bedroom. The ten o’clock news, which they watched ritualistically, was over. They were preparing for bed.
Zee’s dark hair was shining after its recent brushing. The silver streak was accented by the lamplight. Her skin, well tended because of the harsh Texas sun, was smooth. There weren’t many worry lines to mar it. There weren’t many laugh lines, either.
“Something is going on between Tate and Carole,” she said.
“I think they had a tiff today.” He left his chair and began removing his clothing. “They were both awfully quiet at supper.”
Zee had also noticed the hostility in the air tonight. Where her younger son’s moods were concerned, she was particularly sensitive. “Tate wasn’t just sullen, he was mad.”
“Carole probably did something that didn’t sit well with him.”
“And when Tate is mad,” Zee continued as though he hadn’t spoken, “Carole is usually her most ebullient. Whenever he’s angry, she antagonizes him further by being frivolous and silly.”
Nelson neatly hung his trousers in the closet on the rod where all his other trousers were hung. Messiness was anathema. “She wasn’t frivolous tonight. She barely said a word.”
Zee gripped the back of her vanity stool. “That’s my point, Nelson. She was as edgy and upset as Tate. Their fights never used to be like that.”
Dressed only in his boxer shorts now, he neatly folded back the bedspread and climbed into bed. He stacked his hands beneath his head and stared at the ceiling. “I’ve noticed several things here lately that aren’t like Carole at all.”
“Thank God,” Zee said. “I thought I was losing my mind. I’m relieved to know somebody besides me has noticed.” She turned out the lamps and got into bed beside her husband. “She’s not as superficial as she used to be, is she?”
“That close call with death sobered her up.”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t think so?”
“If that were all, I might think that was the reason.”
“What else?” he asked.
“Mandy, for one. Carole’s a different person around her. Have you ever seen Carole as worried about Mandy as she was last night after her nightmare? I remember once when Mandy was running a temperature of a hundred and three. I was frantic and thought she should be taken to the emergency room. Carole was blasé. She said that all kids ran fevers. But last night, Carole was as shaken as Mandy.”
Nelson shifted uncomfortably. Zee knew why. Deductive reasoning annoyed him. Issues were either black or white. He believed only in absolutes, with the exception of God, which, to him, was an absolute as sure as heaven and hell. Other than that, he didn’t believe in anything intangible. He was skeptical of psychoanalysis and psychiatry. In his opinion, anyone worth his salt could solve his own problems without whining for help from someone else.
“Carole’s growing up, that’s all,” he said. “The ordeal she was put through matured her. She’s looking at things in a whole new light. She finally appreciates what she’s got—Tate, Mandy, this family. ’Bout time she got her head on straight.”
Zee wished she could believe that. “I only hope it lasts.”
Nelson rolled to his side, facing her, and placed his arm in the hollow of her waist. He kissed her hairline where the gray streak started. “What do you hope lasts?”
“Her loving attitude toward Tate and Mandy. On the surface, she seems to care for them.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“If it’s sincere. Mandy is so fragile I’m afraid she couldn’t handle the rejection if Carole reverted to her short-tempered, impatient self. And Tate.” Zee sighed. “I want him to be happy, especially at this turning point in his life, whether he wins the election or not. He deserves to be happy. He deserves to be loved.”
“You’ve always seen to the happiness of your sons, Zee.”
“But neither of them has a happy marriage, Nelson,” she stated wistfully. “I had hoped they would.”
His finger touched her lips, trying to trace a smile that wasn’t there. “You haven’t changed. You’re still so romance-minded.”
He drew her delicate body against his and kissed her. His large hands removed her nightgown and possessively caressed her naked flesh. They made love in the dark.
Twenty-Two
Avery agonized for days over how to contact Irish.
Once she had reached the soul-searching conclusion that she needed counsel, she was faced with the problem of how to go about informing him that she hadn’t died a fiery death in the crash of Flight 398.
No matter how she went about it, it would be cruel. If she simply appeared on his doorstep, he might not survive the shock. He would think a phone call was a prank because her voice no longer sounded the same. So she settled on sending a note to the post office box where she had mailed her jewelry weeks earlier. Surely he had puzzled over receiving that through the mail without any explanation. Wouldn’t he already suspect that there had been mysterious circumstances surrounding her death?
She deliberated for hours over how to word such an unprecedented letter. There were no guidelines that she knew of, no etiquette to follow when you informe
d a loved one who believed you to be dead that you were, in fact, alive. Straightforwardness, she finally decided, was the only way to go about it.
Dear Irish,
I did not die in the airplane crash. I will explain the bizarre sequence of events next Wednesday evening at your apartment, six o’clock.
Love, Avery.
She wrote it with her left hand—a luxury these days—so that he would immediately recognize her handwriting, and mailed it without a return address on the envelope.
Tate had barely been civil to her since their argument over breakfast the previous Saturday. She was almost glad. Even though his antipathy wasn’t aimed at her, she bore the brunt of it for her alter ego. Distance made it easier to endure.
She dared not think about how he would react when he discovered the truth. His hatred for Carole would pale against what he would feel for Avery Daniels. The best she could hope for was an opportunity to explain herself. Until then, she could only demonstrate how unselfish her motives were. Early Monday morning, she made an appointment with Dr. Gerald Webster, the famed Houston child psychologist. His calendar was full, but she didn’t take no for an answer. She used Tate’s current celebrity in order to secure an hour of the doctor’s coveted time. For Mandy’s sake, she pulled rank with a clear conscience.
When she informed Tate of the appointment, he nodded brusquely. “I’ll make a note of it on my calendar.” She had made the appointment to coincide with one of the days their campaign would have them in Houston anyway.
Beyond that brief exchange, they’d had little to say to each other. That gave her more time to rehearse what she was going to say when she stood face-to-face with Irish.
However, by Wednesday evening, when she pulled her car to a stop in front of his modest house, she still had no idea what to say to him or even how to begin.
Her heart was in her throat as she went up the walk, especially when she saw movement behind the window blinds. Before she reached the front porch, the door was hauled open. Irish, looking ready to tear her limb from limb with his bare hands, strode out and demanded, “Who the fuck are you and what the fuck is your game?”
Avery didn’t let his ferocity intimidate her. She continued moving forward until she reached him. He was only a shade taller than she. Since she wore high heels, they met eye to eye.
“It’s me, Irish.” She smiled gently. “Let’s go inside.”
At the touch of her hand on his arm, his militancy evaporated. The furious Irishman wilted like the most fragile of flower petals. It was a pathetic sight to see. In a matter of seconds he was transformed from a belligerent pugilist into a confused old man. The icy disclaimer in his blue eyes was suddenly clouded by tears of doubt, dismay, joy.
“Avery? Is it…? How…? Avery?”
“I’ll tell you everything inside.”
She took his arm and turned him around because it seemed he had forgotten how to use his feet and legs. A gentle nudge pushed him over the threshold. She closed the door behind them.
The house, she noted sadly, looked as much a wreck as Irish, whose appearance had shocked her. He’d gained weight around his middle, yet his face was gaunt. His cheeks and chin were loose and flabby. There was a telltale tracery of red capillaries in his nose and across his cheekbones. He’d been drinking heavily.
He had never been a fashion plate, dressing with only decency in mind, but now he looked downright seedy. His dishevelment had gone beyond an endearing personality trait. It was evidence of character degeneration. The last time she’d seen him, his hair had been salt-and-pepper. Now it was almost solid white.
She had done this to him.
“Oh, Irish, Irish, forgive me.” With a sob, she collapsed against him, wrapping her arms around his solid bulk and holding on tight.
“Your face is different.”
“Yes.”
“And your voice is hoarse.”
“I know.”
“I recognized you through your eyes.”
“I’m glad. I didn’t change on the inside.”
“You look good. How are you?” He set her away from him and awkwardly rubbed her arms with his large, rough hands.
“I’m fine. Mended.”
“Where have you been? By the Blessed Virgin, I can’t believe this.”
“Neither can I. God, I’m so glad to see you.”
Clinging to each other again, they wept. At least a thousand times in her life, she had run to Irish for comfort. In her father’s absence, Irish had kissed scraped elbows, repaired broken toys, reviewed report cards, attended dance recitals, chastised, congratulated, commiserated.
This time, Avery felt like the elder. Their roles had been reversed. He was the one who clung tightly and needed nurturing.
Somehow, they stumbled their way to his sofa, though neither remembered later how they got there. When the crying binge subsided, he wiped his wet face with his hands, briskly and impatiently. He was embarrassed now.
“I thought you might be angry,” she said after indelicately blowing her nose into a Kleenex.
“I am—damn angry. If I weren’t so glad to see you, I’d paddle your butt.”
“You only paddled me once—that time I called my mother an ugly name. Afterward, you cried harder and longer than I did.” She touched his cheek. “You’re a softy, Irish McCabe.”
He looked chagrined and irascible. “What happened? Have you had amnesia?”
“No.”
“Then, what?” he asked, studying her face. “I’m not used to you looking like that. You look like—”
“Carole Rutledge.”
“That’s right. Tate Rutledge’s wife—late wife.” A light bulb went on behind his eyes. “She was on that flight, too.”
“Did you identify my body, Irish?”
“Yes. By your locket.”
Avery shook her head. “It was her body you identified. She had my locket.”
Tears formed in his eyes again. “You were burned, but it was your hair, your—”
“We looked enough alike to be mistaken for sisters just minutes before the attempted takeoff.”
“How—”
“Listen and I’ll tell you.” Avery folded her hands around his, a silent request that he stop interrupting. “When I regained consciousness in the hospital, several days after the crash, I was bandaged from head to foot. I couldn’t move. I could barely see out of one eye. I couldn’t speak.
“Everyone was calling me Mrs. Rutledge. At first I thought maybe I did have amnesia because I couldn’t remember being Mrs. Rutledge or Mrs. Anybody. I was confused, in pain, disoriented. Then, when I remembered who I was, I realized what had happened. We’d switched seats, you see.”
She talked him through the agonizing hours she had spent trying to convey to everyone else what only she knew. “The Rutledges retained Dr. Sawyer to redo my face—Carole’s face—using photographs of her. There was no way I could alert them that they were making a mistake.”
He pulled his hands from beneath hers and dragged them down his loose jowls. “I need a drink. Want one?”
He returned to the couch moments later with a tumbler three-quarters full of straight whiskey. Avery said nothing, though she eyed the glass meaningfully. Defiantly, he took a hefty draught.
“Okay, I follow you so far. A gross error was made while you were unable to communicate. Once you were able to communicate, why didn’t you? In other words, why are you still playing Carole Rutledge?”
Avery stood up and began roaming the untidy room, making ineffectual attempts to straighten it while she arranged her thoughts. Convincing Irish that her charade was viable and justified was going to be tricky. His contention had always been that reporters reported the news, they did not make it. Their role was to observe, not participate. That point had been a continual argument between him and Cliff Daniels.
“Somebody plans to kill Tate Rutledge before he becomes a senator.”
Irish hadn’t expected anything like that. His hand
was arrested midway between the coffee table and his mouth as he was raising the glass of whiskey. The liquor sloshed over the rim of the tumbler onto his hand. Absently, he wiped it dry on his trousers leg.
“What?”
“Somebody plans—”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“How?”
“I don’t know, Irish,” she said, raising her voice defensively. “And I don’t know where or when, either, so save your breath and don’t ask. Just hear me out.”
He shook his finger at her. “I may give you that spanking yet for sassing me. Don’t test my patience. You’ve already put me through hell. Pure hell.”
“It hasn’t exactly been a picnic for me, either,” she snapped.
“Which is the only reason I’ve restrained myself this long,” he shouted. “But stop bullshitting me.”
“I’m not!”
“Then, what’s this crap about somebody wanting to kill Rutledge? How the bloody hell do you know?”
His mounting temper was reassuring. This Irish she could deal with much more easily than the woebegone shell he’d been minutes earlier. She’d had years of practice sparring with him. “Somebody told me he was going to kill Tate before he took office.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Shit,” he cursed viciously. “Don’t start that again.”
“If you’ll give me a chance, I’ll explain.”
He took another drink, ground his fist into his other palm, and finally relaxed against the back of the sofa, relaying that he was ready to sit still and listen.
“Believing me to be Carole, somebody came to me while I was still in the ICU. I don’t know who it was. I couldn’t see because my eye was bandaged and he was standing beyond my shoulder.” She recounted the incident, repeating the threat verbatim.
“I was terrified. Once I was able to communicate who I really was, I was afraid to. I couldn’t tip my hand without placing my life, and Tate’s, in jeopardy.”
Irish was silent until she had finished. She returned to the sofa and sat down beside him. When he did speak, his voice was skeptical.