Dawn in Eclipse Bay

by Jayne Ann Krentz

It occurred to her that the success of Harte Investments over the years had been more of a thorn in the sides of the Madison men than anyone in her family had ever fully understood.

  Ten minutes later, Gabe stood with Lillian on the front porch and watched Mitchell climb into the SUV. Bryce put the behemoth into gear and drove off toward the main road.

  They watched the rain fall for a while.

  “I’m thinking about giving you a break,” Gabe said.

  Lillian folded her arms. “What kind of a break?”

  “You know that sixth date you owe me?”

  “That sixth date is a figment of your obsessive imagination. It will never happen.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  He watched the SUV disappear into the trees. “I need a date for that banquet in Portland I mentioned the other night at dinner. The one scheduled to honor a former professor of mine. Are you free?”

  She turned halfway around, searching his face with an unreadable expression. “This is your idea of a real date? A rubbery-chicken business dinner complete with long, boring speeches?”

  “I’ll be giving one of those long, boring speeches. Do you want to come with me or not?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Think fast. I’m going to drive into Portland Monday morning so that I can get some time in at the office before the dinner. I plan to stay overight and drive back here Tuesday.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She shrugged. “Going into Portland for the night would give me a chance to stop by my studio and pick up some odds and ends that I left behind. Yes, I can see where the trip might be marginally worthwhile for me.”

  “Okay, I get the point. It wasn’t a real romantic invitation, was it?”

  “I can live with the unromantic part. Just so we’re clear that this is not to be considered as your sixth, contractually arranged, bought-and-paid-for Private Arrangements date.”

  “Call it whatever you want.”

  “I’ll do that,” she said curtly and opened the screen door. “And another thing you should know before we drive into Portland for this big evening on the town.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I feel that we both need to give ourselves a chance to evaluate the future direction of this relationship.”

  He stilled. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “In simple terms?”

  “Yeah, I do best with simple terms.”

  “It means no more sex, at least not for a while. I want some time to think about what’s going on here. I believe that you should do some thinking about it, too.”

  He said nothing. Just looked at her.

  “Is that a problem for you?” she asked.

  “Hell, no. I can think. Do it all the time. Sometimes I have two or three whole thoughts in the course of a day.”

  “I thought you could probably handle it.”

  “What I’m thinking now is that this decision not to have any more sex for a while has something to do with that scene that just took place with Mitchell.”

  She hesitated. “Maybe his sudden appearance on the doorstep first thing this morning did help to put some things into perspective. But don’t blame him. They were things that I should have thought about last night.”

  “Like what?”

  “Do you have to get obsessive about this, too?”

  “I just want some answers.”

  She put one hand flat on the screen. “I want us both to be sure that we know what we’re doing.”

  “Does that mean you don’t know what you’re doing? Or that you don’t think I know what I’m doing?”

  “I came here to Eclipse Bay to paint. You came here to recover from a bad case of burnout. Neither of us planned to get involved in a relationship.”

  Understanding hit him.

  “What happened between us last night scared the hell out of you, didn’t it?” he asked softly.

  Her nails made little indentations in the screen.

  “Maybe we should both be a little scared, Gabe.”

  “If it’s Mitchell you’re worrying about, forget it. I’m pretty sure he bought that story you gave him about walking over here for coffee this morning. He doesn’t know you spent the night.”

  She looked down the long drive to the place where Mitchell’s SUV had disappeared.

  “He knows,” she said.

  “Where’s that damn cell phone?” Mitchell asked.

  Bryce took one hand off the wheel long enough to reach into the small space between the seats. He picked up the phone and handed it to Mitchell without comment.

  Mitchell found his reading glasses, fished a notebook out of his pocket, flipped it open and located the number he wanted. He carefully punched the digits on the phone, peering carefully at the display to make sure he’d struck the right ones. It wasn’t easy. The arthritis made some things harder than they had been in the old days.

  “Why do they make these buttons so damn tiny?” he asked.

  “People like small phones,” Bryce said. “Small phones require small buttons.”

  “That was what they call one of them rhetorical questions.” Mitchell listened to the phone ring. “You weren’t supposed to actually answer it.”

  “You ask me a question, you get an answer,” Bryce said.

  “You’d think I’d know that by now.”

  “Yes, sir, you would think that.”

  The phone rang a third time.

  “Shoot and damn,” Mitchell said. “He’d better be there. I don’t have time—”

  The fourth ring was cut short.

  “Hello?” Sullivan Harte said.

  Mitchell grunted with satisfaction at the sound of the cool, graveled voice. He and Sullivan hadn’t had much to do with each other in the years since the destruction of Harte-Madison and the infamous brawl in front of Fulton’s Supermarket. They hadn’t even had a civil conversation until Hannah and Rafe’s wedding a few months ago. But some things you didn’t forget, he reflected. The voice of the man who had fought alongside you in the green hell of jungle warfare was one of those things.

  “This is Mitch.”

  “What’s wrong?” Sullivan asked immediately.

  “Your granddaughter is shacking up with my grandson.”

  There was a short silence.

  “Got news for you, Mitch.” Sullivan chuckled. “It’s okay now that they’re married.”

  “I’m not talking about Hannah and Rafe.”

  There was another brief pause.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Sullivan no longer sounded amused.

  “Lillian and Gabe.”

  “Sonofabitch,” Sullivan said very softly.

  “You referring to me or my grandson?”

  “Sonofabitch.”

  “You’ve made your opinion real clear,” Mitchell said. “Point is, what are you gonna do about it?”

  “Gabe is your grandson.”

  “And Lillian is your granddaughter. I fixed things last time. It’s your turn.”

  “You fixed things? What the hell do you mean, you—”

  Mitchell punched the button to end the call, cutting Sullivan off in midsentence.

  He looked at Bryce and grinned.

  “This,” he said, “is gonna be downright entertaining.”

  chapter 9

  Claire Jensen dropped an overstuffed leather briefcase onto the vinyl seat and slid into the booth across from Lillian. She was flushed and a little breathless.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “Marilyn wanted to go over some talking points for an interview she’s doing tomorrow and we had to make some last-minute changes in the schedule for the Leaders of Tomorrow open-house event. Hey, you’re looking great, Lil.”

  “Thanks. So are you. It’s good to see you again. Been a while.”

  “Too long.”

  Claire laughed and Lillian felt the years fall away. Claire had alway
s been fun. She was a bright, high-energy woman who bubbled with personality and plans.

  “You’re right,” Lillian said. “Much too long. Where did the time go?”

  “Life happens. Not like we both haven’t been busy for the past few years.”

  They had met when Claire had been a student at Chamberlain College. Lillian had been attending a college in Portland but she had always spent her vacation breaks with her family in Eclipse Bay. She and Claire had both gotten jobs as waitresses at a pier restaurant one summer. Claire had needed the money. Strictly speaking, Lillian had not needed the income but she had needed the job. The Harte family believed very strongly in the work ethic. All Harte offspring were expected to work during summer vacations.

  Initially she and Claire had had little in common, but the long hours spent dealing with stingy tippers and rude tourists had forged a bond between them. They had hung out together after work and talked a lot about the important things: guys and the futures they were planning for themselves.

  Claire was the first person and, for a long time, the only person to whom she had confided her dream of becoming an artist. In what some would call typical Harte fashion, she had been very focused on her goal but, acutely aware of her family’s opinion on the subject of art as a career, she hadn’t discussed it much. It had been exciting to share her secret with someone who understood an impractical dream.

  Claire had had some very impractical dreams of her own in those days. She had wanted to go into politics.

  “This place certainly hasn’t changed much, has it?” Claire commented. “Snow’s Café looks just like it did when we used to come here back when we were in college.”

  The décor of Snow’s Café had always reflected Arizona Snow’s unique view of the world, Lillian thought. The walls were hung with a mix of faded rock band posters and enlarged satellite photos of the terrain around Area 51 and Roswell, New Mexico. The clientele consisted mostly of students from nearby Chamberlain College.

  “What about the menu?” Claire asked. “Is it still the same?”

  “Let’s see.” Lillian plucked the plastic laminated menu out from its position between the napkin holder and the little carousel that held the condiments. She surveyed the offerings. “Still heavy on veggie burgers, french fries, and coffee drinks.”

  “The three basic food groups for college students. Arizona knows her clientele,” Claire mused. “I’m so glad you called. How did you know where to find me? I didn’t even know that you were in town.”

  “I saw Pamela McCallister in Fulton’s Supermarket. She mentioned that you were up at the institute, plotting Marilyn Thornley’s campaign. How’s it going? Think she can step into Trevor’s shoes?”

  “No problem,” Claire assured her. “One thing’s for certain, she’ll look a whole lot better in them than he did.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Didn’t you hear the rumors that went around after Trevor pulled out of the running?” Claire leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Word has it that Trevor liked to have sex in high heels and women’s lingerie.”

  “Oh, those rumors.”

  Claire sat up and settled back against the seat. “Gossip among the campaign staff has it that he was forced to quit the race because he was being blackmailed with some old videos that showed him prancing around in frilly underwear. It was a shock, you know?”

  “The campaign staff never had a clue?”

  Claire sighed. “Of course not. The staff is always the last to know.”

  “What made Marilyn decide to become a candidate?”

  “She’s always been extremely ambitious. But I think that until recently she saw herself in the role of the candidate’s wife. The power behind the throne, as it were.”

  “I heard she put a lot of her family’s money into Trevor’s campaign.”

  “True.” Claire made a face. “Between you and me, when Trevor imploded, she was absolutely furious. I’ve never seen anyone in such a rage. I overheard a massive fight between the two of them one afternoon. She told Trevor that she could do a better job of running for office herself and that she was going to prove it. Said a lot of things about how much time she had wasted on him. She dropped the divorce announcement on the staff the next day.”

  “How did you end up as her campaign manager?”

  “I was in the right place at the right time. She and I had worked together a lot in the course of Trevor’s campaign. She knew me. Knew what I could do. Most of all she wanted someone she could trust to head up her campaign. When she offered me the job, I jumped at the chance. That woman is going places.”

  “And you’re going to go with her, is that it?”

  Claire laughed. “You got it.” Her grin faded to a thoughtful expression. “You know, it’s funny. Back at the beginning, when I used to dream about getting into politics, I pictured myself as the dynamic female senator from the great state of Oregon. Then I found out how much cash it takes just to run for dog catcher, let alone to get a shot at a state or national office. Short of marrying money, the way Trevor did, there aren’t a lot of options. So I decided to carve out a career behind the scenes.”

  “Still dream of becoming a candidate?”

  Claire shook her head decisively. “Not anymore. I love what I do. There’s real power and a real rush in running a good campaign. And there’s very little downside if it fails. The candidate may disappear from the face of the earth after a big loss but a good strategist just moves on to another campaign.”

  “I’m glad things worked out for you, Claire.”

  “You and me both. What’s up with you? How long will you be in town?”

  “I’m here for a month.”

  “A whole month?” Claire asked in surprise.

  “I’ve made the big move. I closed down Private Arrangements. I’m going to devote full time to my painting and see what happens.”

  Claire’s lips parted on a silent wow. “Good for you. No risk, no glory, I always say. Staying at your folks’ cottage?”

  “Yes.”

  “Funny how you Hartes and Madisons keep coming back to Eclipse Bay, isn’t it?” Claire commented. “Hannah and Rafe are full-time residents now.”

  “They love it here.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing, those of us up at the institute can’t wait until they get Dreamscape open. As it is now, when people come for seminars and receptions like the Leaders of Tomorrow event, we’re forced to put them up in one of those low-budget motels out on the highway.”

  “They’re planning to open in the spring. Assuming the Willis brothers cooperate, of course.”

  Claire grinned. “What a pair. I practically had to get down on my knees and plead with them to come out to my place a couple of weeks ago just to unclog a toilet. They charged me a small fortune. I didn’t have any choice but to pay it, of course, and they knew it.”

  chapter 10

  Gabe dropped Lillian off at the entrance to her apartment building shortly before ten o’clock on Monday morning.

  “I’ll pick you up at seven,” he said when she made to slide out of the Jag.

  She stood and looked at him through the open door. Tension coiled in the pit of her stomach. He was dressed for business once again in the legendary Gabe Madison war armor: steel-gray jacket and trousers, charcoal-gray shirt secured with silver-and-onyx cuff links, silver-and-black striped tie. When he moved his hand on the wheel, the dark-gray edge of his shirt cuff shifted, revealing the gleaming stainless-steel watch on his left wrist.

  He looked good, she thought. Exciting. Powerful and predatory and wholly in control. You’d never guess that he was suffering a bad case of burnout. But, then, what did burnout look like?

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll be ready.”

  She hurried toward the building’s secured entrance and punched in the code. Gabe waited until she was safely inside the lobby before he drove off in the direction of his downtown office.

  He was wrong to accuse her
of being nervous about their relationship, she thought a few minutes later when she twisted the key in the lock of her apartment door. She had spoken the truth the other morning when she had tried to explain herself to him. They both needed to think things through. Neither one of them could trust their own judgment at the moment.

  A man dealing with burnout was certainly not in the best position to make sound decisions regarding his personal relationships. As for herself, she had arrived at a major turning point in her life. Getting involved in an affair with a man who was going through his own emotional crisis was the last thing she needed.

  Probably be best to write off that night at his cottage as an ill-advised one-night stand.

  It all sounded so logical. Why did she feel depressed by her own clear reasoning?

  She opened the door and walked into the apartment. They had made good time on the long drive from Eclipse Bay this morning. She had most of the day ahead of her to tidy up some of the loose ends that she had left dangling when she had rushed out of town a few days ago. She had a number of things on her agenda, not the least of which was deciding what to wear to the dinner tonight.

  The atmosphere of the apartment had the closed-up feeling that accumulates quickly when a residence has been uninhabited for a few days. She walked through the rooms, cracking open windows to allow fresh air to circulate.

  She did the living room first and then went down the hall to her bedroom. At the entrance, she paused. A tingle of eerie awareness drifted through her.

  There was something different about the room. Something wrong.

  She looked around with her artist’s eye, noting the small details. The bedding was undisturbed. The closet doors were firmly closed. The dresser drawers were shut.

  The closet doors were closed. Completely closed.

  Her attention snapped back to the mirrored closet. She stared at it for a long time.

  She was certain that she had left it partially ajar because of the way the slider got hung up when it was pushed fully closed.

  Almost certain.

  She had been in a hurry the other morning when she had left for Eclipse Bay, she reminded herself. Perhaps she had forced the door closed without thinking about it.