The Chase: A Novel

by Brenda Joyce

  Claire nodded speechlessly against his neck.

  He slowly let her slide down his body to the floor. He gazed down at her; she gazed up at him. “You scared me, Claire.”

  “I scared myself,” she whispered. “I’m still scared.”

  “So am I. So now we’re in this together, right?”

  She gazed into his eyes and nodded. “Yeah.” And she meant it, oh yes, she did.

  He dipped his head and Claire leaned up. Their mouths melded, melted, fused.

  When they came up for air, she said, “Make love to me, Ian. Right now.”

  “Now? Here?” He was incredulous.

  She nodded, already unbuttoning his shirt. She had never wanted him more.

  His slight smile vanished. Transfixed, he watched her opening his shirt, his belt, his fly. Claire took him in her hands.

  “What are you doing?” he managed. “You know.” She bent over him, smiling. A few moments later she was on her back, completely naked, and he was sliding deeply into her. Claire held him, closing her eyes, as he carried her into another universe. Afterward, they held each other as he stroked her hair.

  Claire smiled.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked, propping on one elbow.

  “I’m just wondering how I could have been so stupid to walk away from you. You make me happy, Ian.”

  “You make me happy, too, Red.”

  Claire rolled onto her side so they were facing each other. “If I paint my toes taupe, are you going to call me Taupe?”

  “No, I’ll call you Greige.”

  “Smart guy,” Claire whispered. “Smart and sexy and resolute. I’m a lucky lady.”

  “Claire. How can I make everything up to you?”

  “Marry me,” she said with a smile, and then she realized what she’d said and her cheeks turned blazing hot.

  He grinned at her.

  She was aghast, appalled, horrified. “I don’t know how that popped out!”

  He laughed. “You opened your mouth, Red. And spoke your heart’s desire.”

  “That is not my heart’s desire,” she cried, still mortified and lying through her teeth.

  “No? So what is?”

  “A hot fudge sundae, with those silly red cherries on top,” she scrambled.

  “Bullshit.”

  “It’s not funny. Stop laughing at me! I didn’t mean it. I don’t know where those words came from,” she cried, stumbling over her sentences.

  “But it can be arranged. Set a date,” he said.

  “What?” She sat up.

  “You heard.”

  She became watchful. “September. September, oh, fifteenth.”

  He nodded. “Smart girl. Four and a half months. You might be able to pull it off. Big wedding or small?”

  “Small. Romantic. Old-fashioned.” She could hardly breathe.

  He nodded again. “Here or there? And please, no Beijing.”

  “I hate Beijing. There. I’m becoming very fond of the Big Apple.”

  He smiled. So did she.

  “So it’s settled?”

  “Yep.” Claire could hardly believe it. Were they really getting married? In four and a half months? “Shake.” She held out her hand.

  He sobered. “What—don’t trust me?”

  She met his eyes. “I am going to try very hard. Just give me some time.”

  He nodded and slipped his hand over hers. “Time is something I have, sweetheart.”

  Sweetheart. That was almost as good as Red. “I’m starved.” She stood up and slipped on his shirt. “Let’s order two large pizzas. One for you, and one for me.”

  He sat up, superbly naked and as immodest. “Two large pizzas?”

  “Yeah, two. I am ravenous,” Claire said happily, buttoning his shirt. But instead of reaching for the phone, she turned from where she was standing in the foyer and looked at the hall closet.

  Ian was smiling a cat’s I-Just-Ate-the-Cream grin, apparently enjoying watching her. “What?”

  She gave him a look. Claire went to the closet and pulled out the large Courbet painting. “We need to sell this,” she said. “You know that I’m moving to New York, don’t you?”

  “I assumed we’d live together once we’re married,” he said wryly.

  Claire propped the nineteenth-century oil up on the wall and stared at it.

  Ian slowly stood.

  She looked at him—then did a double take. “Boxers, anyone?”

  His expression was strange. “Yeah, sure,” he said, as if he’d forgotten he was naked. He stepped into his shorts and came to stand beside her.

  “You don’t like this painting, do you?” Claire said, studying him, not the painting.

  “It’s beautiful,” he said. “And I happen to like Courbet.”

  “I don’t want to keep it.”

  “I understand.” He seemed mesmerized. “This painting bothers me,” he said abruptly. “It bothered me the first time I saw it at your house in the city, and it bothers me now.”

  “What do you mean?” Claire asked very quietly.

  “I’m not sure. I don’t know. It draws me like a magnet.” He hesitated.

  Claire waited.

  “Don’t laugh.” He glanced at her.

  “I won’t.”

  “I can almost feel Eddy standing behind my shoulder. I felt it at David’s birthday, too. It’s like he’s here, beside me, telling me something. I can hear him, Claire. I just can’t hear what he’s saying.”

  “Wow, you’re a romantic. Romantics believe in ghosts,” Claire said, more than fascinated. She was tingling all over.

  “I don’t believe in ghosts,” Ian said flatly. “Never have and never will. It’s my imagination, obviously. Maybe it has something to do with repressed feelings about his death and my father’s.”

  “Okay,” Claire said. She liked the ghost theory better. “You never heard his voice anyway,” she pointed out.

  “But the feeling is so damn strong,” Ian said, walking over to the painting. He began running his hands over the surface.

  “Ian, don’t. It’s old. You’ll damage it.”

  He didn’t seem to hear her, stroking the gilded wood frame.

  “Ian?”

  He squatted to run his hands over the bottom of the frame. And then he froze.

  “What is it?”

  “Bubbles.” His tone was tense. He went to his trousers and pulled a small penlight out of a pocket “You don’t happen to have a magnifying glass, do you?”

  “Only God knows where. Nothing’s unpacked,” she said, turning on the rest of the lights in the hall. “What is it? What have you found?”

  “Holy God,” Ian cried. “Claire, there are two tiny dots here—and if I don’t miss my guess, they are microdots.” He turned to look at her with wide, excited eyes.

  Claire stared, stunned. Her mind raced. “Ian? Maybe you’ve found the photos Eddy claimed he took!”

  He stood. “That is exactly what I am thinking. I’ve got to call Lisa to get the experts to take care of this.” He tripped over his words in his excitement. He was already at the phone.

  Claire watched him, with excitement. Would life ever be the same? she wondered happily. “Hey, Ian?”

  “What,” he said, dialing.

  “Want a partner?”

  At first he didn’t get it, then he dropped the phone and stared. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Claire grinned.

  One year and several months later

  The doorbell rang. But Jilly was already barking.

  It was Friday, and Claire had left work at noon. She had taken office space to continue all of her charitable work, just a few blocks from their new apartment—after their wedding eight months ago, they had realized they would need a three-bedroom, at least. On Fridays she liked to get home early and prepare a festive family dinner, one far more elaborate than usual. In a way, it was her tribute to Eddy and Rachel.

  The microdots they had found stuck between th
e canvas and the frame on the Courbet had been the photographs taken by Eddy just before he died. In them, he had captured the young Lionel Elgin meeting a German U-boat officer, and at Lionel’s side had been a young woman in men’s clothes: Elizabeth.

  Her trial was pending in another month. She was having the book thrown at her, and there was little doubt that she would be convicted for every single one of her crimes.

  Jean-Léon remained in Tiburon, completely immersed in the world of art. They spoke over the phone every week or so, and once in a while Claire saw him when he came to New York on business.

  William had sold every single one of the homes he had shared with his wife. He had bought a penthouse apartment in New York, where he spent most of his time, although he had also purchased a villa in St. Lucia. Claire saw him several times a week, and they had become very close. He had not spoken to or seen Elizabeth since her incarceration. As far as he was concerned, she had died.

  If he was grieving for what he had thought he had, Claire did not know. He seemed to be going on with his life in a forceful and determined manner. He would be joining them for dinner that night—he never missed a Friday-night dinner unless he was out of town.

  Now Claire wiped her hands on a kitchen towel, wondering why the dog-walker hadn’t let herself in, as it was about that time.

  But the doorbell rang again. Obviously it wasn’t the dog-walker, who had keys.

  “Should I get it?” Ian called from one of the bedrooms. He tried to take half days on Fridays, as well.

  “No, I’ll get it.” Claire crossed the hall and opened the door, Jilly on her heels.

  And she almost fainted.

  The young man half smiled and fidgeted nervously, finally removing a pair of sunglasses. Green eyes met hers.

  “Eddy?” Claire whispered, stunned. He was a dead ringer for Eddy Marshall. The curling black hair, the fair skin, the height, the build. He was even about the same age; Claire pegged him at twenty or so.

  “Ma’am?” He hesitated. “I’m sorry to just drop by.” He spoke with a British accent. “I’m looking for Mr. and Mrs. Ian Marshall.”

  “Ian!” Claire called, trembling now. “Come in, come in,” she said to the young man.

  “My great-aunt seemed to think I could call on you and that it wouldn’t be terribly improper,” he continued, fiddling with his sunglasses.

  “Your great-aunt?” Claire whispered in shock.

  “Hannah Blenheim, but she used to be Hannah Greene.”

  He was Rachel and Eddy’s grandson!

  Ian came out of the office, holding Rachel Anne in his arms. She was only two months old, and she was watching her father with wide, unwavering blue eyes. Ian saw the young man in the baggy jeans and backpack standing in their foyer, and he turned white, halting in his tracks.

  “And you are?” Claire whispered.

  The young man flushed. “I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Neal Marshall.” He smiled uncertainly.

  Ian handed Claire the baby and said, staring as if Neal were one of the ghosts he did not believe in, “You’re Eddy Marshall’s grandson.”

  Neal nodded. “I guess I should have called. I don’t know. But I finally got the courage to meet you.”

  “You didn’t have to call—we’re so pleased to meet you,” Claire cried.

  He glanced at her uncertainly. “My father died a few months ago of a heart attack. My mother’s in a nursing home. Ever since, I’ve been obsessed with finding my family. There’s only Hannah left on the Greene side, and one cousin from my mother’s side. But my father always said there were Marshalls in New York.”

  “I’m your cousin,” Ian said softly. “Eddy was my uncle.”

  Neal smiled a little, still uncertain.

  Ian clasped his back.

  Claire blinked back hot tears. They looked so much like father and son.

  “How old are you?” Ian asked. “How long are you here? Can you stay with us? The rest of my family will want to meet you.”

  Claire bit back her smile. Neal had no idea what he was getting into—their small, intimate wedding had numbered 105 guests. Claire had invited only a dozen of her closest friends, William, and Jean-Léon. Every other guest had been a Marshall: an aunt or uncle, brother or sister, cousin or in-law. No to mention their kids.

  “Actually, I’m going to NYU this year. I’m a junior,” Neal said. “I’m going to finish up my B.A. over here. I’ve always wanted to live in America.” He shrugged as if that made no sense.

  “That’s great!” Ian exclaimed. “Can you stay for supper?”

  “Well, yeah,” Neal said, looking from Ian to Claire.

  “We would love to have you,” Claire said softly.

  Suddenly Ian grabbed him. “Hey, do you like to fly?”

  Neal brightened. “I love to fly! I’ve been flying ever since I was thirteen years old.”

  “That’s great! I keep a twin-engine out at Teeterboro. Want to take her for a little spin tomorrow?”

  Neal’s eyes were wide. “I’d like nothing more,” he said.

  Rachel Anne had fallen asleep in bed between them. Claire was reluctant to move her to her crib just yet. She stroked her downy hair, filled with a mother’s infinite love.

  Ian leaned over the baby toward Claire. “I can’t get over it.”

  “I know.” She met his shining eyes. “It’s almost a miracle, Ian. Rachel gave birth before she was killed. Her sister Sarah raised the boy. And today their love lives on in Eddy’s grandson, Neal.”

  Ian smiled at her. “You are so romantic.”

  “I am so happy.” They smiled at each other. “Ian, this feels so right. I mean, the moment I saw him, before he even said who he was, I was overcome. He feels like family.”

  “He is family, Claire,” Ian said firmly. “He’s our family.”

  Claire sighed and stroked the soft crown of Rachel Anne’s head again. “If I ask you something, will you promise not to laugh at me?”

  “I promise,” Ian said, kissing the baby’s tiny little hand.

  “Do you think that maybe, just maybe, we could buy a bigger apartment—just in case Neal needs his own room to come to now and then?”

  Ian smiled, but he did not laugh. “How come we think alike?” He leaned over to her until their lips were brushing.

  “Great minds,” Claire whispered.

  “Yeah, Red,” Ian said—a long time later.

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  The phone call came at one in the morning.

  It would change her life.

  She hung up the receiver, stunned. And for one moment, Kait was simply paralyzed. After all these years—how many had it been?—Lana had walked right back into her life.

  Kait fought to breathe, fought to think. Lana had sounded frightened and tense, which was completely uncharacteristic for her. What did she want? All she had said was that they had to meet, and now, and that there was no time. Oh, God. Something had to be terribly wrong for her sister to so suddenly reappear in her life this way.

  Kait leapt from the bed, sweating, even though it was a pleasant autumn night. Memories of the past began to dance around her, taunting, teasing, tearful—expectant. She was afraid—but she was also hopeful.

  How many nights had she lain in bed, her mind straying to the twin sister who had chosen to walk away from their relationship, who had almost completely disappeared? How often had she thought of hiring an investigator to find out where Lana was and if she was all right? But just when she was a heartbeat away from doing so, Lana would call, telling her that she was in Paris or Rio, asking how she was, reassuring Kait that all was well. Those calls were few and far between. They lacked detail and substance. But they had always given Kait hope, which she had clung to.

  And now Lana was here, in Manhattan, insisting that they meet.

>   Kait dashed to the closet, grabbing jeans. She had to go. It never even crossed her mind to say no, because this telephone call, unlike the others, signaled that something was terribly wrong.

  Five minutes later, she was hurrying down Central Park West, past several doormen, who regarded her with bleary eyes from behind the locked front doors of the buildings they kept. She veered left, fully alert and no longer dazed, but tense now with worry. Possibilities flooded her mind. What did Lana want? When had she last spoken to her? The phone call, coming like this, felt like an emotional mugging. Kait not only didn’t know what to think, she didn’t know how to feel. She was frightened, but, dear God, this time, Lana wasn’t going to walk out of her life again.

  In spite of the tears that burned the backs of her eyelids, Kait was determined. Somehow, this phone call would be a new beginning for them.

  The coffee shop on Columbus Avenue was brightly lit and surprisingly busy. Her steps slowed as she approached, her heart lurching and then racing with overwrought nerves. Fear of rejection made her want to turn around and run away, but Kait pushed open the door firmly instead. If Lana wanted to resume their relationship, she would not be calling in the middle of the night. Clearly she wanted something else. Whatever it was, Kait intended to deliver, for that might bring them together. But their estrangement had begun so many years ago, in late childhood and early adolescence. And Kait had never understood why.

  She inhaled harshly, stepping through the glass door and into the illumination of the too-bright interior lights. As she did she caught a glimpse of her frighteningly pale reflection in the mirror on one wall—she had never been this starkly white, the contrast almost gruesome with her short, dark hair. And even from a short distance, there was no mistaking the trepidation in her blue eyes.

  What could Lana want? What had happened?

  And why couldn’t this have been a simple reunion, in the light of day?

  She turned, her gaze swinging out over the crowd in the coffee shop. Most of the patrons were in their twenties, having had that one extra drink and now eating off the effects. The atmosphere was oddly festive and extremely noisy, a glaring contrast to her own nerves and state of mind.

  Lana stood up from a booth where she had been sitting alone.