by Karen Harper
She frowned when she saw the phone on her bedside table where she was sure she’d put it last night. How had she missed seeing it earlier? Oh, and a breakfast tray was on the table by the window, as if someone had known exactly when she got up. She could smell her favorite coffee from here. She had mentioned yesterday to her maid, Rita, that she always forgot to recharge her cell. Rita had probably done that for her when she saw she was still sleeping, then brought up this tray. Thank heavens, she had not been imagining things or hallucinating as she used to during the worst days of her dependencies. She hurried to the cell and punched the talk button while she poured herself some coffee with the other hand.
“Veronica? It’s Tara. How are you?”
“Tara, how lovely to hear from you. I’ve been fine lately, my dear, much better than most of your memories of me when I was ill, I assure you. I believe we can both consider ourselves successful alumni of Mountain Manor Clinic. How are you and your little charge, Claire, doing?” she asked as she sat down on the edge of the bed to steady her legs.
“Fine, thanks. I’m so glad to hear you’re well. Are you still on the advisory board for Red Rocks?”
Red Rocks was a huge outdoor amphitheater, set in a stunning array of mammoth, tilted sandstone monoliths. Between Conifer and Denver, it was nearby for Tara and the senior Lohans, whose home was in Kerr Gulch in Evergreen. Jordan and Veronica Lohan had long been benefactors of Red Rocks, and for years Veronica had been active in helping to select the wide range of cultural events staged there.
“Yes, a real veteran of the advisory board,” Veronica told her with a little laugh. “But why do you ask? May I get you tickets for something?”
“I was wondering if we could meet there today. I’ve appreciated how kind you’ve been through everything and was hoping we could keep in touch. I haven’t had a mother for years, but I’ve always valued your advice. I don’t suppose Laird would approve but—”
“Nor would his father or brother, so let’s do it!”
There was still something exhilarating, Veronica thought, about bucking Jordan, the head of the clan, or even her dyed-in-the-Lohan-wool sons, Thane and Laird, who always thought they knew what was best for her. Talk about the Kennedy women having to toe the line for their husbands’ careers!
Veronica smiled stiffly, recalling she’d once overheard Tara tell Laird that he really didn’t want a Lohan wife but a Stepford wife, a clone windup doll like his brother Thane’s Susanne, who was a perfect and perfectly obedient wife.
Tara had always reminded Veronica of herself, back when she still thought she could maintain her career as a concert organist with the symphony. But she hadn’t managed to even play a theater organ for classic silent movies in the summer or be some church’s guest organist. Instead, Jordan had bought her not one but two massive pipe organs, one here at home and one in the chapel at the clinic. She usually ended up just playing for family or friends, when she’d always longed for a bigger stage—like the one at Red Rocks.
“What time shall we meet?” she asked Tara. “It’s already after ten, but we could meet near the restaurant in the Visitor Center at one.”
“Would you be willing to make it one-thirty? I’ve got a doctor’s appointment. Can you meet me out by the first set of rocks to the left of the west entry, the one with the great view of Creation Rock? You remember, where we took that walk and had that heart-to-heart talk?”
“The one with the natural table and bench?”
“Yes. I’ll bring a picnic for us, then we can get caught up in private without all the people you know coming up to our table to chat in the restaurant. It’s been a while since we’ve really talked, though I treasured your visits after I came out of the coma.”
“Is there something wrong, Tara? You can tell me, and it will go no further.”
“I hope not. I’ll save it all for our lunch.”
“I’ll be there, my dear, and if something goes awry, I’ll call you.”
“Tara, I don’t want to sound like an alarmist, but I think someone’s been watching the house,” Nick told her. She was madly stuffing chicken salad into pita bread; a wicker picnic basket sat on the kitchen counter. Her hands stopped; she looked up at him, eyes wide.
“Did you see someone?”
“No, but Beamer found a trail to that old hunter’s cabin, which has been swept out and used. I know it’s hunting season, but there’s a distinct spot above the house in the tree line where someone’s been lying down with a clear view in through these back windows.”
“Animals sometimes lie down. Maybe Beamer—”
“No. I scented him on this. Does it mean anything to you?” he asked, extending the Cacao candy bar wrapper to her.
She took it from him and read both sides. “It’s not the kind of Hershey’s for s’mores around the old campfire, not that campfires are permitted around here. I see it’s made in Germany.”
“And?” he prompted.
“Nothing, but success in investigation work is often in the details.”
“Tell me about that detail,” he said, pointing at the words she was frowning over.
“One of my disgruntled skips was born in Germany,” she explained, going back to her sandwich-making. “But I recently checked, and he’d gone back to California. He’s not pleased I tracked him down and made him pay for snatching his son. Still, that’s a far stretch over a candy bar wrapper in some old hunter’s cabin.”
“Is he a hunter, like Clay was?”
“No, he’s a biker—a mountain biker.”
“I know it might mean nothing, but I always had to watch my back the last two years, and that’s a hard habit to shake.” He glanced out the window over the sink again. “I’m going to keep an eye out for someone up there—and Beamer will keep a nose out.”
She turned to him and smiled, evidently at the way he’d worded that. It lit up her face and made her look younger. They still stood close together over the sink, and she didn’t move away this time.
“I’ll be careful for Claire’s sake as well as mine,” she promised. “And I’ll recheck to be sure Dietmar Getz is still in San Jose, at least for his home base. He’s not only a mountain biker but a so-called extreme biker who goes all over the West for races and rallies. Would you believe he thought he’d provide a better home for his child than a devoted relative who stays in one place?”
Nick wondered if that was a hint he should leave Claire with her, but Tara was already off on another topic as she went back to fixing food again.
“I have an appointment in town, then I’m going to have lunch at Red Rocks with my former mother-in-law, but I’ve made extra for you, in case you’re hungry later. Or if this doesn’t suit you or fill you up, please just take anything you want around here.” She shoved her hair back from her face and their eyes snagged again. “You know what I mean,” she added, blushing.
“Like food from the fridge or laundry soap,” he told her, as he bit back a grin. “But about someone watching the house, a word to the wise.” As she closed the picnic basket, he put his hand around her wrist like a big, warm bracelet. “If it’s just some neighborhood voyeur or your garden-variety teenager, Beamer and I will be enough to scare him off—but you need to be very careful,” he added, stressing each word. “Besides being a good-looking woman, you’re in a business where you’ve made enemies. Just for the heck of it, as soon as I get my truck, I’m going to drop in to see Clay’s brother and find out what he’s been up to. If he was as upset as you said—well, you just never know.”
“Thanks. Since you were his brother-in-law for years, he won’t be suspicious and maybe you can calm him down. And we agree that I’ll be careful, for Claire and myself.”
“Oh! Jordan!” Veronica said, when her husband suddenly walked into her suite from his adjoining one. “You gave me a start! I thought you had gone by now.”
Despite the fact she had a terrible headache, she was dressed and ready to head out to meet Tara at Red Rocks. The cof
fee and breakfast seemed to have steadied her a bit. She could tell Tara had needed her and she was not canceling their appointment. She hoped Jordan hadn’t planned on her eating with him here.
To her surprise, her primary-care doctor from the clinic, Henry Middleton, followed Jordan into the room. They were both distinguished-looking men, even when not attired in suits, shirts and ties as they were now. Jordan had always been handsome and had kept his good looks—full head of hair, square jaw and six-foot frame—over the years. He hardly had a gray hair amid the dark brown he kept perfectly trimmed.
Dr. Middleton, prematurely silver-haired and blue-eyed, was a good bit shorter but also had an athlete’s build. A real health fanatic who often jogged the rustic paths on the clinic acreage, he had been very instrumental in her successful treatment for alcohol and drug dependence. Because Mountain Manor was heavily endowed by the Lohans, Jordan, in effect, was the doctor’s—all employees’ there—superior.
“Whatever is it?” she asked, putting one hand to her throat. “Thane or Laird haven’t been hurt? The grandchildren? What—”
“I’m doing family intervention early this time, Veronica,” Jordan said, “before this snowballs again and Thane and Laird need to be called in.”
“Whatever are you talking about?”
Instead of answering, Jordan went over to her bedside table and rummaged around in the top drawer. Dr. Middleton looked so very sad, upset even.
“Here—I thought so, I feared so,” Jordan said, and thrust a pill bottle at the doctor. “I won’t say she’s mixing booze with these again, but, for her sake, we have to stop it now. I—the entire family—can’t go through all that again. ‘The Betty Ford of Denver’ newspaper headlines be damned.”
“That’s ridiculous. You’re wrong,” she told Jordan, facing him down as steadily as she could. In truth, she was still feeling a bit strange, but it must have been something she ate either last night or this morning. “If those are Vicodin—”
“They appear to be,” Dr. Middleton interjected, frowning at the bottle.
“Then they are old ones, because I’m clean,” she insisted. “Oh, yes, I want a drink now and then, but I stick to Perrier, and I have not touched a Vicodin tablet since I was admitted to Mountain Manor! Jordan, we had a long dinner last night together. You saw I was normal then—”
“On the contrary, my dear. Your erratic actions and wandering talk were what forced me to face the fact that you’re having a relapse.”
She gasped. He was lying. He had to be lying. She had to get away from him, get away from her own husband. Trying desperately to hold herself together, she said, enunciating each syllable so they would realize she was not slurring her words, “Excuse me, both of you. I’m leaving. I have an appointment and—”
“If,” Jordan said, stepping close to grip her right arm, “you haven’t had a relapse, you won’t mind my looking around at your old stash locations and will agree to a few tests.”
“I won’t. I tell you I’m not using, and I expect you to believe me. I’m fine and—”
“Don’t you realize you’re denying everything, just as you did before?” Jordan demanded.
Traitor! she wanted to scream. But why? Did he want her admitted to the clinic for some reason? It was like a prison there. Did he have another woman? Or could he have somehow learned she was meeting Tara and was terrified she’d tell him about Laird’s other woman?
Dr. Middleton took her left arm. “Please keep calm, Veronica. A relapse is not uncommon, and we can help you again. We’ll have you tested at the clinic by mid-afternoon and admitted if there’s a need—”
“No!” she shouted, trying to yank free. “There is no need! Jordan, what is the matter with you? I’m not going!”
Veronica Britten Lohan, matriarch of the most powerful family in the area, felt sicker and sicker as she was hustled off down the back stairs to a car waiting at the side entrance, as if she had no power over her own her life at all.
Tara had always loved the unique area called Red Rocks, though one could feel very small and insignificant here. Such a powerful display from the author of the universe, she thought as she walked the trail. But now, again, everything had changed. Dr. Bauman had not been as forceful in his opinion as Dr. Holbrook had but, after examining her, he had concurred with the impossible.
“Yes,” he’d said, peering at her over the top of his horn-rims. “You do present some signs of having had at least a long-term pregnancy and, probably, a natural delivery. No signs of cesarean section. A vaginal birth would be incredibly unusual, since you were comatose, but it’s not impossible.”
She’d hardly heard a thing he’d said after that. Dr. Jen had been so adamant that she had not been pregnant during her coma. Obviously, she was trying to protect her from more grief—the loss of a child she never knew. But Veronica would tell her the truth, help her solve this puzzle. Surely her former mother-in-law would know whether Tara had borne a child, another grandchild to Veronica.
Carrying her picnic basket, she forced herself to look around, not to keep agonizing within. This awesome area had a way of putting people in their place. After all, she was only one person in the march of time. Geologists claimed the surrounding, sharply uptilted monoliths here recorded the history of the ages. Not far from the spot where she was going to meet Veronica, dinosaur tracks from the Jurassic period and fossil fragments of sea serpents were imprinted in the rocks. Jurassic Park, indeed. Yes, she thought as a shiver snaked up her spine despite the warmth of the day. She could imagine a primordial monster crashing around the corner of a cliff, ravenous for prey. She was just as ravenous for answers about her lost child, no matter what stood in her way.
A good distance from this fringe area lay the amphitheater itself. Cut like a gigantic sandstone bowl into the surrounding red, rocky terrain, it had once been listed among the seven wonders of the world. With its stone-and-glass Visitor Center, which stood sentinel over it, the vast outdoor concert venue was situated between the largest two rock formations, both standing taller than Niagara Falls. The southern massive monolith, because of its appearance, was called Ship Rock; on the other side loomed Creation Rock, which Tara could see clearly from here.
But her awe was tempered when she passed a familiar brown sign with white print, which brought her back to earth with a thud: No Climbing on Rocks. $999 Fine or 180 Days in Jail or Both.
She reminded herself that life had consequences. Putting her own panic about having possibly been pregnant aside, she wondered if Nick could be right that someone had been watching the house. If she only knew why, surely she could find out who. Worse than that worry, her desperate dilemma pressed hard against her heart again. Laird had been so understanding, so solicitous in the month or so before her coma. He had even seemed to accept that she wanted to stay on the Pill until they settled their problems, although he had fretted and fumed over that before. They had made love more than usual those last days. If she had not taken her pills religiously—she did recall she had done so—she supposed she could have gotten pregnant.
She reached the spot where she and Veronica had taken walks twice before. Tara had served as a docent here, working in the Visitor Center when she and Laird were first married. She put the picnic basket on the natural rock table with its red sandstone bench, which seemed to be carved for their use. No wonder the early Spanish explorers had named this entire area Colorado, their word for “reddish color.”
This was the perfect place for an early-afternoon respite, because the overhanging cliff shaded it from the sun. But she felt hot, flushed. The sun was still warm for September and she’d hiked in from her car at a good clip, but she was perspiring from nerves.
Dare she ask Laird’s mother if she’d been pregnant during her coma? Wasn’t that not only a shocking but a stupid question? She trusted Veronica to tell her the truth, but if by some wild chance she had been pregnant, that meant Veronica’s own son was to blame for not telling his wife about their child’
s birth and death. And both the senior Lohans were protective of their family.
Surely, Tara agonized, if she had borne a child, he or she must have died. But wouldn’t Laird—or at least his lawyers who had handled the divorce—have had the decency to tell her about the loss of her own child?
She paced back and forth in the stark shadow under the rock rim, then glanced at her watch. Her former mother-in-law was late. Veronica had been through her own terrible times, and it had taken her a long while to get back on her feet.
Tara’s and Veronica’s stays at the clinic had overlapped, though their luxurious outlying cabins were widely separated on the hilly, heavily wooded grounds. At Mountain Manor, the individual residences were called “cabins,” just the way the Vanderbilts and Astors had called their mansions in Newport “cottages.” It was, indeed, an opulent place to recover from dreadful problems. As far as Tara knew, Veronica’s face-lifts and Tara’s own treatment for coma were the only medical procedures done there that didn’t relate to drug or alcohol dependency and recovery.
Although Tara’s memory of her long treatment for her coma was a big blank, she was sometimes certain she had heard sounds during the dark depths of her unconscious hours, sounds she couldn’t quite recall. Maybe voices, too. Had she hallucinated, or had she heard Veronica playing the huge organ in the clinic chapel?
Tara paced faster. Her stomach knotted tighter. What if Veronica wasn’t coming? What if she couldn’t face her former daughter-in-law because she’d guessed what Tara wanted to talk to her about? What if she actually had been pregnant when her coma began? And what if Nick was right that someone was watching or even stalking her? Would Nick take Claire away from her even sooner? She could not bear to lose Claire and then learn she’d lost a child, too.
Tara closed her eyes to ward off a bit of blowing dust. Then she realized it came not from the wind, but from above, like gritty rain. It was in her hair and on her shoulders.
Something scraped, then rumbled. Thunder? The entire earth seemed to shudder. She looked up and shrieked as a huge sandstone rock rolled over the ledge above her head.