Annette had no idea what Jean-Paul might have told Jared and Rebecca while they were in the Tu Do Street apartment together, or even before that terrible night. Jean-Paul could have told Jared everything during her nephew’s eleven months in Saigon. Jean-Paul could have gone to Rebecca and boasted about being Stephen Blackburn’s friend. Annette didn’t know what the Frenchman had done, and that bothered her.
With Jared in Boston, Annette had dispatched Quentin immediately to Europe, out of his cousin’s path. As a further precautionary measure, she had had Kim follow Jared and thus knew he’d gone straight to Thomas.
That only augmented her fear.
As much as she could explain away the ambushes, affairs, robberies, Jupiter Stones and whatnot, Annette couldn’t deny she had deliberately misled her son into believing Jared had fathered Tam’s baby. She supposed she could admit she’d made a mistake—but then what? More questions? More accusations? A son who no longer believed in her?
And there was Mai, of course. Knowing Quentin as she did, Annette assumed he’d never forgive her for having ruined any hope of his and Tam having a life together in Boston. And he didn’t even realize Annette had had the manipulative little bitch killed.
She still had the note Tam had written her:
Dear Mrs. Reed,
I know what you did to my father. I know about your illicit network here in Saigon. I know you were the jewel thief on the Riviera in 1959. I have the Jupiter Stones. I found them among your things before leaving France. You can have them back and I will forget everything I know about you, if only you’ll let me have Quentin. I love him and he loves me. I know he’d never abandon me unless you made him, unless you lied to him. But help me, and I will keep my silence.
Tam had kept her silence anyway, hadn’t she?
Annette had suffered the threat of Jean-Paul Gerard for too many years not to know how to deal with another schemer swiftly and surely.
She wasn’t sure what her nephew would prove to be.
He never did try to see Quentin or her. Instead he announced that Mai was his daughter by Tam, a tragic victim of those last violent, wrenching days of South Vietnam, and returned to San Francisco.
His mother mentioned that Jared had papers for the baby, and Annette entertained the possibility that Jared and Tam had slept together and he believed Mai was, in fact, their daughter. It would have had to be a casual fling. Jared was another honorable sort, and he and Rebecca had been so in love that a full-blown affair seemed unlikely.
But Rebecca apparently believed Mai was Tam and Jared’s child, and no one was more surprised than Annette when Rebecca and Jared split up.
Taking the bull by the horns, Annette decided it would be prudent to do her part in keeping him out of Boston. She made it clear she objected to his fathering an illegitimate half-Vietnamese child and didn’t want anything to do with her. He’d responded exactly as she’d hoped he would; she hadn’t heard from him in fourteen years.
But if Annette had any lingering uncertainty over whether Jared or Quentin had fathered Tam’s baby, seeing Mai at fourteen ended that.
She brought the girl into her home and silently prayed Quentin had taken the opportunity of his mother’s absence to leave.
He hadn’t.
He was in the kitchen when Mai smiled at him in the way that reminded Annette so much of Benjamin.
“Mai,” Annette said, holding the girl by the shoulders, “this is your father’s cousin, Quentin.”
Mai…
Relieved and somewhat surprised by his mother’s cheerful welcome of Jared’s daughter, Quentin held his breath and stared at the girl, fighting to keep from crying. Everything about her reminded him of Tam—of how much he’d missed his cousin Jared being a part of his life. This is their daughter, Jared and Tam’s. Quentin had long since forgiven them. He’d abandoned Tam, after all, at least in her eyes. He’d told her a thousand times he would love her forever, that no matter what happened when he went back to Boston to crawl on his belly for his mother’s help, she should not give up on him. He’d be back or he’d get her to Boston. They must have been meaningless words to her. How many American men had made similar promises to her friends over the years? Perhaps she’d understood him at twenty-two better than he’d understood himself and had realized he’d never come back—not that he’d had the chance. How many days before she and Jared were at it?
When his mother told him Tam was pregnant and had moved in with Jared, his fantasies of swooping into Saigon and bringing Tam home abruptly ceased.
But he hadn’t wanted anything to happen to her, and he hadn’t wanted to lose Jared. He had been like a big brother to Quentin.
In a way, he supposed he’d abandoned Jared, as well as Tam. He could have gone to San Francisco anytime, defied his mother’s wishes and risked Jared’s throwing him out for what he’d done to Tam—risked his own discomfort at seeing Mai. Of course, Jared had shown no indication of wanting to see Quentin in the last fourteen years, either. Did Jared blame him for Tam’s death? Did he think Tam would be alive if only Quentin had gone ahead and married her?
But Jean-Paul Gerard had tested Quentin’s courage in 1974, and it had come up lacking.
“It’s good to meet you,” he said to his pretty cousin, his voice cracking as he vainly tried to sound cheerful, “finally.”
Annette and Quentin were friendlier than Mai had expected from her father’s rare descriptions of them and seemed genuinely glad to see her. Mai gratefully accepted a warm muffin and milk while her great-aunt busily rinsed the breakfast dishes and put them in the dishwasher. She was so different from Mai’s grandmother, who’d once explained that her younger sister Annette had taken no interest in Mai for her own selfish reasons, not because of anything Mai was or had done. Annette, her sister had said, was essentially an insecure woman who desperately needed recognition and affirmation from everyone around her, but was also incapable of seeing her own weaknesses. Mai’s grandmother talked a lot about the importance of self-understanding.
“Quentin, there’s no need for you to waste your weekend hanging around here,” Annette said. “I’ve got a lot to do.”
“What about Mai?”
“Your father knows you’re here?” Annette asked.
Mai made a guilty face. “Well…”
“He doesn’t.”
Mai nodded and admitted her father might not even know she was in Boston. She added, “Do you know where he’s staying?”
“I’m afraid not, but we’ll work something out. In fact—” Annette turned to her son. “Quentin, I know this will come as a shock, but Thomas Blackburn called earlier and said he’d like to meet me in Marblehead. Please don’t interrupt and just listen. Thomas indicated Jared would be there, as well. I’m hoping this means we can work something out to make peace between our families. It’s going to be a tight squeeze for me to get up there and back before I leave later this afternoon, but why don’t I take Mai along? I can just turn her over to her father when he arrives.”
“All right, but why don’t I join you?”
“Perhaps you should keep an eye out for Jared and let him know I’ve got Mai and everything’s okay. We’ll see him in Marblehead.” She turned to Mai and smiled reassuringly. “How does that sound to you?”
“Okay, but I guess I should let my dad know I’m all right…as soon as possible.”
“I know several places he might be staying. We can try to call him on the car phone. How’s that? And we know he’ll be in Marblehead before too long—has he or your grandmother ever told you about the Winston house there? Your dad and cousin Quentin used to play there all the time when they were just boys.”
“Grandmum showed me pictures of it.” Mai beamed, remembering how much she’d wanted to visit the huge, rambling house. “I’d love to see it.”
Annette dried her hands and then put one out for Mai to take. “Then let’s go.”
Thirty-Five
“Sofi—Sofi, it’s Rebecca. I need y
our help.”
She was pacing in her grandfather’s kitchen. She still hadn’t heard word from anyone—her building, Winston & Reed, Jared. She couldn’t wait around for something to happen.
Sofi said, “Words I’ve despaired of hearing from R. J. Blackburn. What can I do?”
“I need you to come over here now.”
“Done—”
“No, wait. I won’t be here. Listen—I’m leaving the Jupiter Stones on my bed. Take them to a safe place. I imagine David Rubin can secure them. Nobody comes near them except Jean-Paul Gerard, Jared Sloan, my grandfather or me.”
Sofi inhaled sharply. “Jean-Paul Gerard. R.J., isn’t he a crook?”
Rebecca abruptly stopped pacing. “No. He’s not a crook. If something happens and none of us is able to get the stones, tell the police the gems were found in Annette Reed’s possessions in 1959 in the south of France, but not recovered until now.”
“Wait just a minute. What’s this about ‘if you’re not able to’?”
Rebecca resumed pacing and answered as clearly and as concisely as she could. “I can’t go into all the details right now. Tell the police Annette was Le Chat, and they’ve got to prove it and set the record straight. They have to admit they were wrong about Jean-Paul Gerard.”
“R.J.—”
“Sofi, will you do it?”
“I’m on my way.”
Rebecca hung up. The rain had picked up, the wind whipping it against the windows. As a little girl, she had loved to be in there while it rained. She’d color, read, play games with her brothers, just sit and watch the raindrops hit the puddles. Florida storms and the drafty O’Keefe house were different, but she’d brought her love of rainy days south with her.
It would be so easy, she thought, just to go upstairs and curl up on her bed and do nothing.
She dragged out her handbag, withdrew the red velvet bag of stones, and took the two flights of stairs two and three steps at a time and left the Jupiter Stones on her pillow.
Back downstairs, Athena was munching on an English muffin with pictures of dead bodies unfolded on her lap.
“I’m going out,” Rebecca told her. “If an Amerasian girl—fourteen years old—comes by, sit on her until Jared Sloan gets back.”
Athena glanced up with dark, intelligent eyes. “His daughter?”
“Yes.”
“And if he asks where you are?”
“Mt. Vernon Street. He’ll know—tell him it’s all Annette.”
Athena didn’t need to repeat the instructions, just said, “Okay,” and returned to her studying.
Rebecca headed out.
Jean-Paul hobbled down Mt. Vernon Street, knowing there was no longer any time…knowing he should have strangled Annette last night when he’d had the chance. He had jumped in front of the big Mercedes coming out of her driveway, trying to impede its progress out into the street. He’d pulled on the doors, but they were locked. He’d banged on the windows and screamed at Mai to run.
She’d looked nervous, but Jean-Paul had seen Annette’s reassuring smile and heard her as she rolled her window down a few inches. “Don’t worry—I won’t let him hurt you.” Then she’d turned to him. She knew she had him. “See you soon.”
The powerful car lurched, throwing Jean-Paul off. He’d landed hard and cried out at the pain slicing up from his bad leg.
Now he needed a car, a way to get to Marblehead. There was no question in his mind that Annette was using Mai to lure him to her house there. It was a private setting. She could kill him—finally. And Mai? What would Annette do with the girl? Jean-Paul felt himself go numb with shock and pain. Annette would kill Mai. She’d tried once before, in Saigon.
What have I done?
Rebecca Blackburn swung around the corner. Her expression, her mouth set hard against the rain, reminded him of her father so long ago. She was already older than he had been when he’d died. “She’s a relentless mix,” Stephen had said affectionately of his young daughter, “of her mother and her grandfather.”
No, my friend, nothing will happen to her.
But right now Jean-Paul needed her help.
Her gaze fell on him and she didn’t flee, as perhaps would have been smart. She came to him, running hard and just daring him to try and get away. Instead he moved toward her.
Before she could speak, he said, “There’s no time. Rebecca, I need a car. Annette—”
“I know about her.”
Jean-Paul could see that she did, and a surprising sense of peace came over him as Rebecca looked at him without fear, without hatred, without confusion. For the first time in thirty years he had someone who believed in him. That it was Rebecca meant everything to him.
But he said, “It makes no difference.”
“I have a truck. Come on—let’s go. You can tell me everything on the way.”
“No.”
Already starting down West Cedar, she swung back around at him, her rain-soaked hair whipping into her face. Jean-Paul grabbed her by the shoulders and held her tight. If his action created any doubts about her conclusions about him and Annette, they didn’t register in her pale, wet face.
“The keys,” he said.
“If you want them you have to take me with you. My grandfather’s in trouble, isn’t he?”
“Give me the keys, Rebecca.” He hesitated as his words had no discernible effect on her. Then, finally, he said, “Annette has Mai. She’s going to finish what she started in 1975.”
At Rebecca’s stricken look, Jean-Paul acted, taking advantage. He grabbed her wrist and twisted it behind her back, sticking one hand into the pocket of her soaked jacket, then the other. He came up with a set of keys.
“Which truck?”
“You’re hurting me—”
“You’ll survive, but I’ll break your arm if you don’t tell me. Which truck?”
“You’ll know.”
Glancing down West Cedar, he saw what she meant. Amidst the upscale cars was one battered ten-year-old truck. He started to release Rebecca, but knew she would only chase after him. Even if she didn’t have his soldier’s experience, she was younger, faster and didn’t have his bad leg. But he couldn’t bring himself to break her arm. Adding pressure, he pushed her down to her knees. She cried out in pain, but he didn’t release her.
“Let me do what I have to do,” he said.
Then, swiftly and with calculated force, he kneed her in the side, catching her in the ribs. She doubled over in pain, momentarily breathless.
Moving as quickly as he could, Jean-Paul hurried toward her truck.
Rebecca caught her breath and forced herself back upright. Her arm ached; she could see the imprint of Jean-Paul’s fingers on her wrist. The cold rain pelted down on her, but she ignored it. To get off West Cedar, Jean-Paul was going to have to drive past her.
In the next seconds, she heard the familiar rattle of her truck.
She was surprisingly steady on her feet, but to mislead Jean-Paul, she wobbled around as her truck came to the intersection of Mt. Vernon and West Cedar and slowed for a car speeding down Mt. Vernon.
Rebecca lunged and grabbed on to the back of the pickup, grabbing hold of the tailgate as Jean-Paul shifted gears and screeched sharply to the right, out onto Mt. Vernon. She could see Jean-Paul checking his rearview mirror. She hauled herself up and over the tailgate and went sprawling into the back of the truck, landing hard.
Jean-Paul slammed on the brakes at Charles Street, got out and walked around to her. “You don’t give up, do you?”
“I’m going wherever you’re going,” she said, “even if I have to steal a car and follow you—”
“All right. We’re wasting time.” He put out a hand. “Come on.”
Not trusting him, she ignored his offered hand and climbed down on the other side of the truck. Her arm ached, her side ached, she’d banged her knee leaping onto the tailgate—but Annette had Mai, and Rebecca didn’t know where her grandfather was. She jumped into the passe
nger seat before Jean-Paul could get back behind the wheel and speed off without her.
“Why do you care so much about me?” she asked him as he thrust the old truck into gear and clattered onto Charles Street, heading toward Storrow Drive.
He looked at her and grunted. “Don’t push your luck.”
“No, I’m serious. You could have knocked me out or run me over. There’s something going on between you and me that goes beyond a macho Frenchman’s idea of protecting a helpless woman.”
His white eyebrows arched, and for a moment she could see vestiges of the dashing race-car driver he’d been. “You’re no one’s idea of helpless.”
“So why do you care about me?”
“Because,” he said, “I’m too stupid to know any better.”
Jared did everything short of taking on a half-dozen security guards and breaking in to Quentin’s condominium in the elegantly subdued five-star hotel on the Public Garden. Chords of Mozart floated down the hall from the tearoom where a pianist in black tie was entertaining the sparse crowd gathered on love seats and wingbacked chairs, being civilized and very correct. The man at the front desk had suggested several times that Jared have a seat in there and await his cousin’s return. A pot of tea and Mozart. Just what he needed.
Where’s Mai?
“I don’t have any change,” he told the man at the front desk he’d been harassing. “I need to make a call—”
He pushed a telephone toward Jared. “Please,” he said, “go right ahead.”
His stomach burning, he dialed the Eliza Blackburn House.
“Put on a tape if you like,” Annette told the nervous girl sitting beside her. They were already winding through the familiar streets of the picturesque seaside town of Marblehead. “It’ll only be a few more minutes.”
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