Alexandra hoped the explanation was enough. The truth wouldn’t do—the truth was that she’d let Samantha and Charlotte slip away, let them hide, distanced herself from them, so questions about the past would be forgotten.
But those questions were creeping into her life, now.
“Your niece divorced her husband?”
“She’s had no contact with him over the years, thank God. I learned that much. He’s still in prison. I can’t imagine that she’s waited for him all these years. She was so young. They’d been married less than a year when he was sentenced.”
Alexandra’s stomach was in knots, her palms sweating on the plane’s controls. It was unthinkable that Jake and Sam could resurface together and pose any threat to her neatly manicured family history. “Herb,” she said as casually as she could, “are you telling me the party might have second thoughts about Orrin because of some old family notoriety concerning my nieces?”
“I’m saying only that we’re a tad paranoid about even the smallest possibility of character assasination. We’re looking for saints, Alexandra. That’s what it takes these days to keep the political wolves at bay and the party’s extremists happy.”
“Tell me what you want. Give me your best-case scenario.”
“A warm reunion with your nieces. The loving aunt welcoming back her only sister’s children, who’ve put their youthful rebellion behind them and now see the light. And no convict nephew-in-law. People can sympathize with your niece’s impetuous marriage—and with her divorcing her husband after he killed a man.”
“If that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get. I’ve got two years before the ninety-six convention. I promise you, I’ll get it done. Excuse me, I’ve got a plane to land.”
Alexandra was glad to end the conversation. She had no idea how she’d locate Samantha and Charlotte, but felt confident she’d think of something. And as for Jake—she had dealt with him before successfully, and if any threat still existed, she’d deal with him again. She brought the Piper in for a smooth landing, gliding to a stop near the limousine she’d ordered.
Barbara, elegant and helpful as always, her dark face marred by worried eyes, hurried over and greeted them. “My longtime personal assistant,” Alexandra said to Herb with watchful aplomb. She might have disreputable nieces, but, by God, she had a politically correct secretary.
As the chauffeur took Herb and his luggage to the car, Alexandra drew Barbara aside. “What’s wrong? Tell me quick, before that nosy little troll wonders what we’re whispering about.”
Barbara looked morose and fearful. “Jake Raincrow was released from prison today.”
“Why? How?”
“Time credited for good behavior, or something like that.”
“Oh, my God,” Alexandra said under her breath. “Well, it’s for the best. Gives me more time—”
“Mrs. Lomax, I hate to tell you the rest.”
Alexandra stared at her. “What?”
“Samantha is back too.”
Alexandra’s hands rose to her throat. “And?”
“They’re together at the Cove.”
Chapter
Twenty-Six
“Are you stalking me? Is this how lawyers get their jollies?”
Charlotte’s voice rang out with tired exasperation as Ben closed the door of a customized Jeep and ambled into her patch of yard, stepping lazily through neat, manicured rows of brightly blooming azaleas. She bit her tongue immediately and looked around angrily, as if the class police might march out of the forest and haul her away. There was probably a rule against yelling like a street whore from the doorway of a pricey condominum. People in this resort development on the outskirts of Pandora yelled only when the golf pro was late for their lessons.
He scowled at her. “I set my hook. Now I’m letting you play out the line.”
He fit in with the surroundings far better than she, with his khakis and golf shirts, though he wore a dingy fishing cap with a lure pinned to the crown. He was, in fact, disastrously appealing. She glared at him from her doorway, wearing tight white leggings and an oversize T-shirt with the Cordon Bleu emblem on it. “Does your family know your hobby is fishing for heathen women?”
He halted on the cobblestone before her entrance and studied her with half-shut eyes, his head tilted back, the cap’s brim pulled low. “At this point in my nearly middle-aged bachelorhood,” he drawled in his dignified way, “the Dreyfus dynasty would be ecstatic if I reeled in anything short of a Palestinian terrorist.”
“Wait a second. I’ll get out my flattery meter and decide whether that registers as a compliment. What are you doing here?”
“I know all, I see all,” he intoned. “Sam said you’d come here this morning to sublet a furnished condo. I realized immediately that you were setting up a base of operations from which to spew wisdom. That decision requires my attention. Hah! Thought you’d slip away from me, did you?”
She gritted her teeth. “Look, you jackass, I don’t need your permission to stay around here.”
“Oh, I’m glad you’re staying. It’s one of my fondest nightmares come true. I simply want to know what’s draining through that sievelike mind of yours. What you’re up to.”
“Taking a little vacation. Sam didn’t want me to stay at the Cove—she’s trying her damnedest to have private time with Jake. And God knows I didn’t want to stay there. Not with Jake camped out in a tent at the old housesite. I thought nothing could go worse than it already has, but seeing him turn his back on my sister—again—is more than I can take.”
“I don’t like it either,” Ben admitted. “But at least they’re within shouting distance of each other.”
“That’s too close.” Charlotte’s stomach twisted. She was being bitchier to Ben than usual, because she was upset. “He hit her when she followed him the other day, Ben. I don’t care what she told us—she’s got a black eye!”
Ben gaped at her. “Oh, for the love of—he’d never hit her. You think your sister would lie about something like that?”
“I think she’s so desperate to pretend he still loves her that she’d lie down and let him walk on her if he asked.”
“He does love her.” Ben stared at her pensively. “Take it from a man who recognizes repressed emotions. But he’s got to have time to work out whatever it is that happened between them. I don’t know everything he’s thinking. But I’ve watched him suffer for ten years, and I don’t doubt that he’s where he needs to be, and where he wants to be.”
“Alone,” Charlotte retorted. “Alone in a tent on the spot where Sarah and Hugh and Ellie died. It’s the most morbid—Ben, he wants to wallow in the past. And he wants Sam to wallow with him. He’s punishing her. It’s like he wants to break her heart because he’d gotten hurt for defending her honor. As if Sam asked him to go toss our mom’s shitty boyfriend off a balcony.”
Ben was snaking his head before she finished, his mouth open in a grimace of disgust. “You just don’t get it, do you? It doesn’t matter what you believe about his motives. All that matters is that Sam is hanging on to their future by all ten glorious fingernails. You could do so much more to help her if you’d stop fighting the situation. You’re the most vividly passionate person I know. Full of energy. Creative. Fiercely loyal.” He frowned and looked away, as if verging on a compliment disturbed him. It certainly disturbed Charlotte. She felt too vulnerable when he talked this way. “Put your talents to good use, blondie,” he added gruffly. “Don’t spit in your sister’s stew.”
So much for compliments. Charlotte squinted at him, then waved a hand at the handsomely furnished living room behind her. “I set up a refuge for her. A place she can come to whenever she feels lonely. Which is most of the time. I’m on her side. I’m a realist. All you’ve ever done is encourage her to believe in something that doesn’t exist anymore.”
“I doubt shell seek consolation and advice from a sister whose experience with affairs of the heart wouldn’t fill a demitas
se.”
“I’ve had plenty of experience.”
“Oh, yes? Sam confided to me once that your conquests favor middle-aged sous-chefs who are harmless enough to bully.”
“I like men who are mature enough to be—”
“Harmless,” he repeated. “Grateful. As pliable as an egg custard.”
Charlotte turned and reached for the door to pull it closed in his face. “I’m so glad you took the time from your busy schedule to drop by and lecture me—again.”
“Just fishing,” he said smoothly.
“I hope you wade into a pool of piranhas.” She had the door half shut when a golf cart rumbled up to the cobblestone sidewalk and the resort manager, dressed in tennis whites, waved at Ben. “I’ve got your keys, Mr. Dreyfus. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
Keys? Ben took them from the woman with a small, gentlemanly nod. He held them up like a fine trout he’d hooked, and smiled at Charlotte. “Hello, piranha,” he said drolly. “I’m taking a little vacation too. I’ve leased the condo next door.”
The clatter of the loom hypnotized Sam, and she needed the easy, productive rhythm. It should have felt so good to be home again, to have the dust and cobwebs cleared out, the electricity on, the curtains and linens and rugs washed clean of mothball scents. It should have felt wonderful to work at the loom Jake had made for her and know she was picking up the threads of their lives.
But the month since Jake’s homecoming had only proved how frayed those threads were. Now she and Jake were hermits living in separate caves. Apparently he didn’t want to venture out of the Cove or into her sight. It had hurt more than she could put into words when he’d given Ben a list of supplies he wanted, including a tent. Chills ran through Sam every time she thought of him sleeping where his family had died. He wanted to be close to ghosts, not to her.
And if she touched him, he’d leave. She didn’t doubt it.
When she heard the rumble of a car, she jumped up with nervous expectation. Charlotte and Ben visited every day, but Charlotte morosely kept to the kitchen, as if cooking were the only support she could bring herself to offer. Ben, carrying fishing tackle and a reel, wandered over to see Jake, but reported nothing more helpful than the size of the trout that eluded him in the Saukee. He fished, and Jake let him. No revelations there.
But today was different. She knew who was coming to visit, and it wasn’t Charlotte and Ben.
Sam removed the thin cotton gloves she wore when she worked at the loom—calluses had to be avoided—wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans, and ran to the porch. Goose bumps rose on her arms beneath her plain white shirt, not from the cool spring afternoon.
Joe Gunther’s big luxury sedan purred into the yard. The sight of his jowly, friendly old face brought tears to Sam’s eyes. And Clara peered out the passenger window stoically, her long hair gone completely white now, her brown face an accordion landscape of wrinkles, her dark eyes peeking out among the folds like polished brown marbles.
Sam ran to Joe as he lumbered around the front of the car, his beefy arms spread. He still dressed like Roy Rogers with a jewelry fetish, a silver and turquoise bolero at his collar, every finger flashing a ring. Sam returned his hug, struggling not to cry. She had never known any of her grandparents. Joe and Clara filled that place in her life.
“Well, Miss Sammie,” Joe said gruffly, stepping back from her and studying her with misty eyes. “You got him home, just like I knew you would.”
Sam cleared her throat roughly. “He’s not really home,” she admitted in a small voice. “But at least he’s nearby.”
“I’d have traipsed down here sooner if you’d given the go-ahead. Me and Clara.”
“I know. I was trying to give him some … some settling time. But it looks like he’s as settled as he’s going to get.” She nodded toward the forest. “He’s over there. He stays over there.”
“Aw, Sammie, it won’t be for long. He’s just got to get his lungs full of fresh air. Remember how to breathe.”
“I hope you and Clara can help.” Sam opened the passenger door, stepped closer, and dropped to her bare heels. Clara was as solid and round as the mountains, a loose denim shirt flowing over her long, flower-print skirt. Somber affection glowed in her eyes. She raised a hand from her broad lap and stroked Sam’s hair. “You’re a grown woman inside and out now,” Clara said gently. “It suits you.”
“Oh, Clara, I don’t feel grown. I just feel older.” Clara touched the purple streak along her right cheekbone with her skilled, soothing old fingers. “He didn’t do it,” Sam said evenly. She glanced over her shoulder at Joe, who was also studying her face worriedly. “Prison hasn’t turned him into that kind of man.”
Joe sighed and looked relieved. Clara spoke softly. “It ain’t you he’s at odds with. It never was.”
“I wish I believed that. If it’s not me, then what is he afraid of?”
“Ravenmockers,” Clara whispered.
Sam bit her tongue. There was no point in arguing with Clara. Rising to her feet, she offered Clara an arm. “Let me help you out of the car.”
“I’m not that old.” Clara peered at her shrewdly and hoisted herself from the seat. “You seen your aunt yet?”
“No. I suppose we’ll cross paths eventually.”
“Oh, you will.”
“Look who’s here,” Joe said in a hushed tone.
Sam turned quickly, her heart in her throat. Jake walked out of the woods. She had seen him so little since his first day at home; all the hours of waiting, of thinking about him, welled up inside her like a painfully hungry dream. If she wanted him too much, she’d wake up. He wouldn’t come to see her, but somehow he’d known they had visitors.
“He’s a sight for sore eyes,” Clara whispered to her. “Even if he moves like there’s still bars around him. Look at him, Sammie. Don’t never let him forget you’re on the other side of them bars. He’ll find his way out.”
Joe moved forward and met him, extending one hand. Sam’s heart broke at the strained expression on Jake’s rugged face; it was as if he feared he’d wake up too. Slowly he grasped Joe’s hand. Joe had tears in his eyes. He pumped Jake’s hand, then abruptly slung his other arm around Jake’s shoulders and hugged him.
Sam’s breath caught. Jake stiffened inside the older man’s awkward embrace, his jaw worked, and he turned his face away. Joe cleared his throat and stepped back. When he did, Jake looked at him with a flash of affection that was gone as quickly as it came.
“Let me at him,” Clara snarled under her breath. She shuffled over with ponderous speed, her gnarled hands rising. Jake glanced at Sam, and for one second, as their eyes met, she was certain she saw some of the old tenderness. Then it was gone, and he was gazing down at Clara, who took his face between her hands.
Jake was glad for any distraction that eased the overwhelming pull Samantha had over him. And desperately glad for an excuse to walk into this yard and be with her. Do you still love your wife? Clara whispered to him in Cherokee.
Jake nodded slowly. Clara, of all people, should understand. With all my heart. I stay away so she won’t get hurt by what I have to do.
You need her. You can’t fight a ravenmocker alone.
I have to. There are reasons.
Then I’ll sit by your fire later, and you tell me.
I will.
Clara patted his face, then moved her hands down his arms, squeezing, studying him shrewdly. “Strong,” she announced in English, nodding over her shoulder to Samantha and Joe. “They fed him well.”
“Looks like you been lifting weights,” Joe said gruffly. He nodded to Samantha too. Jake thought with fragile amusement that they seemed eager to confirm, for her, that his spirit must have survived safely inside such a hard cocoon.
But Samantha made a soft, distressed sound that nearly tore him apart. “They used him like a trained animal. They hauled him out every time a sheriff needed a tracker.” Jake flinched. Her anguished gaze settled on his with apology.
“I know. Ben told me.”
Jake struggled with emotions he had subdued for years. He didn’t want to share those empty years with her—he wanted to forget them. Instead, he wanted Samantha to fill him up with every detail of her time alone. “I find people,” he said brusquely. “It’s what I do.”
Joe interjected quickly, “Don’t see how you accomplished much without old Bo.”
Sam remembered the other reason Joe had come today. She whirled around, staring at the car. “Bo.” She jerked the rear door open and stared inside. “Bo.”
“He’s not dead. He’s asleep,” Joe called. “He’s an old dog. He sleeps most of the time. And snores too.”
Sam knelt by the open door. Bo was stretched out on the plush leather seat. When she called his name again brokenly, he raised his head. His jowly face was brindled with gray. He had a cataract on one eye, and he tilted his head, studying her with groggy disinterest with his good eye. She couldn’t find a shred of recognition in it. He won’t recognize Jake either, she thought. Her heart sank.
Suddenly she was aware of Jake’s footsteps behind her. The knowledge that he was standing there, his denimed leg almost brushing her shoulder, made her want to wrap her arms around his knees and beg him not to expect too much from an old dog who’d never been very alert anyway.
“Hello, old friend,” he said. The hoarse sound of his voice ripped into her. She would give anything to have him speak to her with that much welcome.
Bo lurched upright. His long, thick tail wagged madly, swaying his lanky, arthritic body. He bounded past her, whining, and landed in an undignified heap on the ground in front of them, knocking into Sam. She sat down hard. Jake dropped down beside her. Bo scrambled into Jake’s arms and began licking his face.
Tears slid down Sam’s face as she watched Jake pet him. She couldn’t be jealous of an old dog, not when he’d brought the first glimmer of a smile to Jake’s mouth. But, oh, how she wanted to take Bo’s place then. “You can trust Bo,” she said. She scratched Bo behind one floppy red ear. “Bo didn’t forget you either.”
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