She sent a look back at the men to ensure Lucius had not decided to pummel his cousin—that tone was very deceptive, and if James were wise, he’d shut up. She stepped into a large den that proved a testament to modernity, quickly assessed the contents, and stepped out again. James did not have a taste for antiques. She would have to ask, after all.
“Do you have any of the family’s items?” she asked. “I’m looking for a bronze mantle clock, an ivory and jade chess set, and a marquetry music box. And any art that came from the family.”
“Bossy little thing, isn’t she?” James remarked. “Chessboard and clock are in the living room, there,” he pointed. “My art collection is displayed in the gallery. I don’t have the music box. I think Serena broke that when we were kids. Over Ben’s head! Remember that, Lucius?”
“He’s telling the truth, Cal,” Lucius granted.
They followed her into the living room, where she photographed the exquisite chessboard and the intricately overdone I-wanna-be-Baroque clock.
“Drinks?” James offered from the sideboard.
“The gallery’s through there,” Lucius told her calmly, and followed her as she went.
It was a good collection; excellent, even. There were some important twentieth-century artists represented: Rothko, Kandinsky, Pollock; a Chagall and a Lichtenstein, too. At least one painting she recognised, and imagined that it was the sort that an Internet search would result in a ‘Private Collection’ advisory next to the image.
“Pretty impressive,” she allowed. “Good ROI, huh?”
“He’s been collecting since I can remember,” Lucius replied. “But it’s just stuff he’s waiting to appreciate,” and then chuckled coldly at the dual meaning of that.
“Nice, isn’t it?” James entered behind them. “It’s going into storage for a while, until I get settled elsewhere.” When no one enquired as to his plans, “Europe, I think. Somewhere in Spain.”
She studied the collection, walking the length of the gallery, taking in as much as she could, photographing everything, even though she knew Lucius was eager to leave. The rumble of their voices reached her, though she couldn’t hear the words.
At first. Gradually the volume increased, at least on James’ part.
“How many times do I have to apologise?” he demanded.
“I never asked you to apologise,” was the amused retort. Lucius had a beautifully aggravating way of being calm in the face of storms. “I don’t know—and don’t care—what happened with you. You stole money from the family. Return it.”
“And then you’ll forgive all, I suppose!”
“No. But the family would probably welcome you back.”
“You’re jealous that I’m out of that circus and you’re not.”
“I’m not jealous—and never have been jealous of you. You have nothing that you’ve earned yourself. All of this,” Lucius jerked his chin at the collection, “is ill-gotten gains from people who loved you and you betrayed. For years. I have no idea who you are. But you’re not family.”
“I didn’t take anything I wasn’t owed. Years of putting in my time—and where was I? FalTech!” He spat the word.
Callie slid a surprised look at James; if Lucius were startled, he was hiding it well.
“You through, Cal?” he asked.
“Almost,” she murmured uncomfortably, toying with the camera. She had never witnessed a family argument before; sometimes Leon had lost it on their parents, way back when, but harsh words bounced off the Dahls as if hitting the inside of the Cone of Silence. Thus, no argument.
“You want some of it back?” James scorned. “Pick out something and leave.”
“Callie.”
She looked to Lucius.
“Pick something, doll. Anything you want.”
“That,” she pointed without hesitation.
James laughed contemptuously.
Lucius didn’t hesitate, and lifted the painting of four twisted falcons from the wall.
“Let’s go,” he said, and they left without another word.
Top down on the Porsche, the large painting wedged awkwardly behind the seats over the extended console and supported by the raised windscreen, a blanket from the trunk wrapped around it, Callie chewed her thumbnail as they headed for his house.
He pulled her hand away from her mouth. “Don’t be nervous.”
“I’m not. It’s just habit.”
“Break it.”
“You’re mad about the Birds.”
“Of all the paintings you could have chosen!” he growled.
“But it’s one of Neville’s love letters! Though not a long one with just four birds.”
“I know,” he smiled widely at this tangled anxiety. “You picked perfectly.”
“Besides,” she added, “the Birds are about loyalty and family traditions. James needn’t be part of that. Shouldn’t be a part.”
“I’ll give you the family traditions,” Lucius agreed dryly, “but loyalty? How do you mean?”
“Any other family would have ditched the disgusting things. But your family holds them closely, never pretending they’re something they’re not. But out of loyalty to Carlyle, or Neville, or whomever, they’re kept. The family, generally, is a loyal and faithful group.”
“Except for James,” he muttered.
“Hence taking the falcons. He didn’t deserve them.”
After a long pause, he said: “And what about me, Cal? Aren’t I breaking a loyalty by getting away from them?”
“You’ve never abandoned them entirely,” she said firmly. “And being loyal to them doesn’t mean you can’t or shouldn’t live your own life.”
“Well, if James showed up on the doorstep, they’d take him over me in a heartbeat.”
“Why do you say that?” Her tone was quietly shocked.
“He was the favourite.”
She had a hard time believing that.
“I guess . . . maybe . . .” he said at last, “I was a little jealous of him for that. The family always kept him close. Always were disappointed if he didn’t show up at a family function. Talked very supportively of him. I only ever got called on to fix things.”
“But James has—or had—need of that sort of support. You don’t. Your family’s smart like that, Lucius. And too smart to choose James as the favourite.”
“You asked me why I quit the band.” He paused. “First and foremost, I reached the point where I didn’t have any interest beyond weekend jam sessions. But we got a gig; downtown, popular club. Opening for some band that had actual airplay, right? We were jazzed; pumped.”
The breeze whipped through his thick hair; the sunglasses hid his eyes.
“We were a big hit. But the whole time, I thought my family was represented in the crowd. A few of them, at least. I learned afterward that no one made it. James was in trouble. Nothing new. School suspension, I think. At any rate, it pulled the family away from anything else.”
He shifted gears; changed lanes. “I quit not long after. I don’t regret it. I wasn’t angry at them. Disappointed, sure. But it wasn’t the first time: whatever James had going on stopped everything. And I think about that time—and others—when imagining my life without them. How it probably wouldn’t be a bad thing. I’d be better off and they wouldn’t notice. Understand?”
“Yes, I think so. You’ve always been their fixer, but they don’t support you. Even in your successes. Even though you don’t need the bolstering, it would be nice if they acknowledged you beyond their needs.”
Another silence.
Then: “Remember Anita?”
“Vaguely,” she conceded.
“I don’t think I thanked you for that. You showed a very different side of yourself, you know. A little bitchy, even,” he grinned.
“Sorry.”
“No! It was perfect, if surprising. So, thank you.” He slid a palm over her naked thigh. “Do you really think cheating is about boredom?”
She placed
a hand over his to stop its path. “Watch the road. And yes. The voice of experience, twice over. And my last boyfriend told me outright I was boring.”
“Idiot. How long ago was that?”
She mumbled an answer.
“How many years?”
“Four!” she snapped loudly.
He howled with laughter. “Oh, doll! That’s crazy! How such a sexual creature could go for—” He stopped abruptly, and asked gently, “Did he hurt you?”
“No, no,” she said impatiently. “I only started seeing him because I was lonely and—Damn it. Okay, so I get lonely. Just a moment of weakness and . . . And when he cheated, it was neither a surprise nor a disappointment. Love is not on my list of goals.”
“I suppose not,” he said dryly.
“Oh, god. That sounds awful said aloud. All of it.” A short, bitter laugh left her throat. “In my head, it sounded less mean spirited and more practical.”
“No, Callie. I get it. It’s tough to escape personal history. Especially with your parents. Those years of deprivation and abuse are your only experience with love.”
“I wasn’t abused,” she objected. Neglected; yes. But not abused . . .
“You were.” Knuckles grazed her cheek. “What else could you call it?”
“So, Anita cheated,” she said brutally, desperate to change the subject.
“Yes,” he drawled. “And it was with James she cheated.”
“That’s . . . unspeakable.”
“That’s the best sympathy you could give me, Cal.”
“You and he were once close?”
“Yes. Once.” The reply was clipped, angry, hurt. “Anyway, I don’t exactly blame her, because I neglected her shamefully. But—” He shrugged; laughed a little. “It was the band all over again. I had all but decided to end things with her. I was back here, fixing things family-wise, trying to work with James while being clueless about what was happening in my personal life. It all came in one fell swoop within a few days—finding out about the affair, James deserting with the coffers—and it was all too murky and I didn’t deal with it at once. Just in bits and pieces. Which meant that, for a long time, I forgot that I had wanted out with her.”
“Ego,” she said sagely.
“Amen,” he laughed softly, and the mood between them lightened.
“You weren’t mad at her, but at James. And not just about her, but about the family.”
“That. And that it put me in the position of . . .”
“Having to stay.”
“Right. And having to tell the family what James the Favourite had done. I didn’t tell them about Anita,” he added. “Or about how many years James had been skimming. Or even too much about that last chunk he took. But I had to tell them they were on the edge of financial ruin and, oh, yeah, James has bolted, coincidentally.” He swore. “They’re carrying a debt that would frighten a small country, all because a long series of big investments all went sour, and James’ embezzlement stoppered the cash flow they were so certain they had. What a mess. So, they started talking HRF again and mortgaging properties instead of liquidating them . . . and here we are.”
Trying to be understanding, though it was mind-boggling, “I guess it would be hard for people who had known nothing but wealth for generations—”
“Hey, you still have to balance the books, right? Whether you have ten dollars or a billion and ten, you still can’t spend more than you can afford.”
Her curiosity got the better of her. “Why was James so dismissive of heading up FalTech?”
“I guess he thought he should have been running the empire.”
“He hasn’t the wit for it,” she said sharply. “It isn’t like he’s you. The family wouldn’t ever have given it to him.”
That received a shuttered look. “Elaborate.”
“Well, you could run Ransome Group blindfolded. And the family trusts you, absolutely. Hanging on to your every word when you speak; waiting for instructions when you’re silent. If you were to announce to them you were executing a coup d’état, they’d line up like good little soldiers behind you.”
“They never listen to me.”
“Maybe they pretend not to listen. Maybe they’re—I don’t know. Trying to get your attention.”
“Acting out . . .” he murmured thoughtfully.
They were silent again.
“I think the falcons are especially important,” she said at last.
“Why? Or is this another excuse for choosing them?”
“No! No, but how did Falcontor get its name?”
“I don’t know. Neville created the company just before he died. Carlyle transferred its offices to Toronto. As for falcons—I don’t know their significance.” They turned into his drive. “Promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“That you won’t start believing the fiction we’re creating.”
Oh, the irony of that! Life with Lucius was one long and tangled fiction.
Bittersweet, she smiled. “Trust me. I’m still a nonbeliever.”
With the falcons propped against a wall in the living room, they sat side by side on the love seat regarding them.
“So, what are the letters?” Lucius finally asked, amused. “L-O-V-E?”
“That’s what I expected, too,” she replied, frowning over her notebook. “I don’t get it.”
He looked at the letters she had transcribed:AIMN
“Main,” he said immediately.
“What does that mean?”
“No idea. But that’s the only real word those letters make. Well, and ‘iman,’ but again, what does that reference?”
She proceeded to make a list of all possible combinations of the letters; twenty-four, with only two being real words, as Lucius had noted.
“Maybe an acronym?” she suggested.
“That’s totally your department.”
She reached for her laptop. “I’ll Google them.”
“No. Come on, jet lag’s going to get us. Let’s go to bed and start fresh tomorrow.”
Considering that he was already divesting her of her clothes as they mounted the stairs, she was pretty sure jet lag was not his main concern.
***
In the ensuing days, staring at the image of the falcons became such an obsession, she put them as both wallpaper and screensaver on her laptop, focusing on them while daydreaming, while mentally organising the HRF report, while talking on the phone . . . She dreamed of them. Thought of them. Constantly.
But they never told her anything.
Today was no different. Rocking in her desk chair, studying the falcons, she was startled when the computer beeped an email notification at the same time there was a rap on her office door. Glancing round: “Hi, Syd. Done for the day?”
“That’s up to you,” the younger woman smiled, setting an oversized envelope in the inbox. “This was delivered to Dana’s desk by mistake. From the UK.”
“The certificates! Finally.”
“Want me to scan them before I go?”
“No, thanks. Have a good night.”
Alone again, she touched the mouse to clear the screensaver, reaching for the envelope at the same time. A smile touched her mouth; the newest email was from Harry Hood, his cheerful voice easily imagined in the brightly worded message to her, and he had attached some old photos of Martin and Hannah, et al, which might interest her. Clicking to download them, she tore open the envelope and removed the wad of certificates, rifling quickly through them to separate the Ransomes from the Hoods before opening the photos to see what Harry had sent her.
A certificate slid from her fingers, floating to the floor, and she leaned to grab it up again, glancing at it.
She gasped sharply, her entire body jerking in surprise, almost upending the chair. Recovering, she happened to glance at the screen—
She swore in astonishment.
What did it mean?
Proof was needed. Proof, proof, and more proof. How coul
d she cross-reference this?
Mentally crossing her fingers, she started the search for a final piece of evidence.
It didn’t take long, and it was better proof and a better answer than she could have hoped for. She set the printer going, trying to quell her excitement, her foot tapping impatiently. As soon as she had everything needed, she ran to Lucius’ office, papers clutched to her breast, almost afraid someone would see the information they contained.
Dana was gone for the day; Lucius’ door stood open. Walking in, she closed and locked the door, leaning heavily against it.
“Hey,” he greeted. “I didn’t notice the time . . . Are you all right?”
She nodded; swallowed, and closed her eyes briefly as she caught her breath. At last, opening her eyes, positive that her excitement was literally shining out of her, she spoke.
“I know what the falcons are saying.”
Chapter Sixteen
Moonlight filled the bedroom, pooling on the polished floor and spilling across the wide bed in a pale wash of luminosity that desaturated all colour.
“A gibbous moon,” Callie murmured. “A waxing gibbous moon. Why aren’t there two words for that?”
His lips trailed over her naked shoulder, and she smiled and blushed helplessly, knowing his sexual satiation was very temporary. The man was indefatigable. “For what?”
“Gibbous. A gibbous moon can be either on the wane or on the wax. It’s not a clear enough descriptor on its own. The modifier requires a modifier.”
“This is what occupies your mind in my bed?” he growled.
“But you read the word ‘gibbous’ in a story and you don’t know what you’re supposed to be picturing—is it decreased on the left, or on the right? Is it approaching full, or is fullness past?”
His reply was to cup a breast and nuzzle her neck. Her eyes drifted closed, and she slowly stretched, writhing languorously against him.
“Feels good,” she breathed, turning towards him, winding her arms about his neck.
“Big day for us tomorrow.” His mouth teased hers. “Well, for you. I’ll just watch and enjoy.”
“They’re going to be upset.”
“I don’t think so. They’ll love that they were—in a way—right. And love the story. It’s epic, and it’ll soften the blow that they were—in another way—wrong.”
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