by Janet Dailey
It was nine o’clock, the time she usually arrived at the office for a half-day’s work, minimum. But Dina couldn’t think of a single item that was pressing, except the one the family attorney had called about the first of the week.
Returning to her Porsche parked off the road near the beach, she drove to the nearest telephone booth and stopped. She rummaged through her purse for change and dialed the office number. It was answered on the second ring.
“Amy? This is Mrs. Chandler.” She shut the door of the phone booth to close out the whine of the semitrailer going by. “I won’t be in this morning, but there’s some correspondence on the Dictaphone I would like typed this morning.”
“I’ve already started it,” her young secretary answered.
“Good. When you have it done, leave it on my desk. Then you can call it a day. All right?”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Chandler.” Amy Wentworth was obviously delighted.
“See you Monday,” Dina said, and hung up.
Back in the white sports car, she headed for the boat marina where Blake’s sailboat was docked. She parked the car by the small shed that served as an office. A man sat in a chair out front.
Balanced was the better word, as the chair was tilted back, allowing only the two rear legs to support it. The man’s arms were folded in front of him and a faded captain’s hat was pulled over his face, permitting only a glimpse of his double chin and the graying stubble of beard.
Dina hopped out of the sports car, smiling at the man who hadn’t changed in almost three years. “Good morning, Cap’n Tate.”
She waited for his slow, drawling New England voice to return the greeting. He was a character and he enjoyed being one.
The chair came down with a thump as a large hand pushed the hat back on top of his head. Gray eyes stared at her blankly for a minute before recognition flickered in them.
“How do, Miz Chandler.” He rose lumberingly to his feet, pulling his faded trousers up to cover his paunch. The end result was to accentuate it.
“It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. How have you been?”
“Mighty fine, Miz Chandler, mighty fine.” The owner of the marina smiled and succeeded in extending the smile to his jowled cheeks. “I s’pose you’re here to get the Starfish cleaned out. Shore was sorry when your attorney told me you was goin’ to rent it out.”
“Yes, I know.” Her smile faded slightly. Getting rid of the boat seemed to be like closing the final chapter about Blake in her life. “But it was pointless to keep the boat dry-docked here, unused.”
“She’s a damn fine boat,” he insisted, puffing a bit as he stepped inside the shed door and reached for a key. “Never know, someday you might want it yourself.”
Dina laughed, a little huskily. “You know I’m not a sailor, Cap’n Tate. I need a whole bottle of motion-sickness pills just to make it out of the harbor without getting seasick!”
“Then you sleep the whole time.” He guffawed and started coughing. “I never will forget that time Blake came carrying you off the boat sound asleep. He told me aft’wards that you didn’t wake up till the next morning.”
“If you will recall, that was the last time he even suggested I go sailing with him.” She took the key he handed her, feeling a poignant rush of memories and trying to push them back.
“D’ya want some help movin’ any of that stuff?” he offered.
“No, thank you.” She couldn’t imagine the two of them in the small cabin, not with Cap’n Tate’s protruding belly. “I can manage.”
“You just give me a holler if you need anything,” he said nodding his grizzled head. “You know where she’s docked.”
“I do.” With a wave of her hand, Dina started down the long stretch of dock.
Masts, long, short and medium, stood in broken lines along the pier, sails furled, the hulls motionless in the quiet water. Her steps were directed by memory along the boards. Although she had rarely ever joined Blake after her first two disastrous attempts at sailing, Dina had often come to the marina to wait for his return. But Blake wouldn’t be coming back anymore.
The bold letters of the name Starfish stood out clearly against the white hull. Dina paused, feeling the tightness in her throat. Then, scolding herself, she stepped aboard. The wooden deck was dull, no longer gleaming and polished as Blake had kept it.
It didn’t do any good to tell herself she shouldn’t have waited so long to do something about the boat. There had been so many other decisions to make and demands on her time. Plus there had been so many legal entanglements surrounding Blake’s disappearance. Those had become knots at the notification of his death. Since his estate wasn’t settled, the boat still couldn’t be sold until the court decreed the dispensation of his property.
The Starfish had been dry-docked since his disappearance, everything aboard exactly the way he had left it after his last sail. Dina unlocked the cabin to go below. The time had come to pack away all his things. Jake Stone, the family attorney, had decided the boat should be leased, even if it couldn’t be sold yet, to eliminate the maintenance costs and to keep it from deteriorating through lack of use.
It had occurred to Dina that she could have arranged for someone else to clear away his things and clean up the boat. That was what she planned to do when the attorney had phoned the first of the week to tell her he had received the court’s permission to lease the boat. But she was here now and the task lay ahead of her.
Opening drawers and doors, she realized there was a great deal more aboard than she had supposed. The storehouse of canned goods in the cupboards would have brought a smile of delight to any gourmet, but Blake had always been very particular about his food and the way it was prepared. Sighing, Dina wondered how many of the cans were still good. What a waste it would be if she had to throw them all out.
Picking up a can, she quickly set it down. The first order was to get a general idea of what had to be done. She continued her methodical examination of the cabin’s contents. The clean, if now musty, clothes brought a smile to her lips. It was funny how a person’s memory of little things could dim over such a short time as a few years.
A glance at his clothes brought it all back. Blake had been very meticulous about his clothes, being always clean and well dressed. Even the several changes of denim Levi’s kept aboard the boat were creased and pressed. A thin coating of dust couldn’t hide the snow-white of his sneakers.
Both seemed something of an extreme, yet Dina couldn’t remember a time when she had seem him dressed in a manner that could be described as carelessly casual. It made him sound a bit pompous, but the trait hadn’t been at all abrasive.
Blake had been used to good things all his life — a beautiful home, excellent food, vintage wines and specially tailored clothes. Spoiled? With a trace of arrogance? Perhaps, Dina conceded. He had been something of a playboy when she had met him, with devastating charm when he wanted to turn it on. Brilliantly intelligent and almost dreadfully organized, he had been exciting and difficult to live with.
Not at all like Chet, she concluded again. But what was the point in comparing? What could be gained by holding up Blake’s smooth sophistication to Chet’s easygoing nature? With a shrug of confusion, she turned away from the clothes, shutting her mind to the unanswerable questions.
For the better part of the day she worked aboard the boat, first packing and carrying Blake’s belongings to the Porsche, where she stuffed them in every conceivable corner of the small sports car. Then she began cleaning away the years of dust and salt spray, airing the mattresses and cushions, and polishing the interior woodwork.
Dirty and sweaty and physically exhausted, she returned the key to the crusty marina operator. Yet the laborious job had been cathartic, leaving her with an oddly refreshed feeling. Lately all her energy had been expended mentally. The hard work felt good even if her muscles would be stiff and sore tomorrow.
She was humming to herself as the white Porsche rounded the corner
onto the street where she lived with her mother-in-law. Ahead was the Chandler home, an imposing brick structure that towered two and a half stories into the air. It was set back from the road by a formal lawn dotted with perfectly shaped trees and well-cut shrubs and a scattering of flower beds. The many windows and double entrance doors were a pristine shade of ivory. At the sight of the half dozen cars parked around the cul-de-sac of the driveway, Dina frowned and slowed the car, forced to park it some distance from the entrance.
There wasn’t any dinner party she had forgotten, was there, she wondered to herself. The cars resembled those belonging to close family friends. One, the silver gray Cadillac, was Chet’s. She glanced at her watch. He had said he would stop around seven for a drink before taking her out to dinner. It was barely five o’clock.
Her mouth formed a disgruntled line. She had hoped to soak in a tubful of scented bubbles for an hour, but obviously that luxury was going to be denied her. And why hadn’t Mother Chandler mentioned she would be entertaining this evening? It wasn’t like her.
Puzzled, Dina raised the convertible top of her sports car and rolled up the windows. This was not the time to transport all the items from the car into the house, so she climbed out of the car, her handbag slung over her shoulder, and locked the doors.
Happy voices were talking all over each other from the living room as she entered the house. The double doors of carved oak leading into the room were closed, concealing the owners of the voices. The foyer, with its richly grained oak woodwork complementing pale yellow walls, was empty. The wide staircase rising to the second floor beckoned, its gold carpeted treads like sunlight showing her the path, the carved oak balustrade catching the reflected color. She hesitated, then decided to go for a quick wash and change while her return was still unnoticed.
Only it wasn’t unnoticed. As she started to cross the foyer for the stairs leading to the second floor and her bedroom, one of the double doors was surreptitiously opened. Her eyes widened as Chet slipped out, his handsome features strained and tense.
“Where have you been?” There was a hint of desperation in his voice.
If it weren’t for the joyful tone of the voices in the other room, Dina might have guessed that some catastrophe had befallen them, judging by Chet’s expression.
“At the marina,” she answered.
“The marina?” he repeated in disbelief. Again there was that strangled tightness in his voice. “My God, I’ve been calling all over trying to find you. I never even considered the marina. What were you doing there, for heaven’s sake?”
“The Sarfish — the boat has been leased. I was getting it cleaned up.” The explanation was made while Dina tried to think what crisis could have arisen that Chet would have so urgently needed to contact her about.
“Of all the times —”
Dina broke in sharply. “What’s going on?” His attitude was too confusing when she couldn’t fathom the reason for it.
“Look, there’s something I have to tell you.” Chet moistened his lips nervously, his gray blue gaze darting over her face as if trying to judge something from her expression. “But I don’t know how to say it.”
“What is it?” she demanded impatiently. His tension was becoming contagious.
He took her by the shoulders, his expression deadly serious as he gazed intently into her eyes. Her muscles were becoming sore and they protested at the tightness of his hold.
“It’s this…” he began earnestly.
But he got no further as a low, huskily pitched male voice interrupted. “Chet seems to think you’re going to go into a state of shock when you find out I’m alive.”
The floor rocked beneath her feet. Dina managed a half turn on her treacherously unsteady footing, magnetically drawn to the voice. The whole floor seemed to give way when she saw its owner, yet she remained upright, her collapsing muscles supported by Chet.
There was a dreamlike unreality to the moment.
Almost nightmarelike, since it seemed a cruel joke for someone to stand in the doorway of the living room masquerading as Blake, mimicking his voice.
She stared wordlessly at the tall figure framed by the living-room doors. There was much about the chiseled features that resembled Blake — the wide forehead, the carved cheek and jaw, the strong chin and classically straight nose.
Yet there were differences, too. The sun had burned this man’s face a dusky tan, making it leathery and tough, giving a hardness to features that in Blake had been suavely handsome. The eyes were the same dark brown, but they wore a narrowed, hooded look as they seemed to pierce into the very marrow of her soul.
His hair was the same deep shade of umber brown, but its waving thickness was much longer than Blake had ever worn it, giving the impression of being rumpled instead of smoothly in place. As tall as Blake, this man’s build was more muscled. Not that Blake had been a weakling by any means; it was just that this man seemed more developed without appearing heavier.
The differences registered with computer swiftness, her brain working while the rest of her was reeling from the similarities. The buzzing in her head continued nonstop, facts clicking into place.
But it wasn’t her eyes that Dina trusted. What finally led her to a conclusion was Chet’s peculiar behavior before this man appeared; his innate kindness, which would never have permitted a cruel joke like this to be played on her; and the something that he was going to tell before they were interrupted.
Blake was alive. And he was standing in the doorway. She swayed forward, but her feet wouldn’t move. Chet’s hands tightened in support and she turned her stunned gaze to him. The confirmation was there in his carefully watchful face.
“It’s true,” she breathed, neither a statement nor a question.
Chet nodded, a silent warning in his eyes. It was then that Dina felt the cold weight of his engagement ring around her finger, and the blood drained from her face. Her hands reached out to cling to Chet’s arms, suddenly and desperately needing his support to remain upright.
“It seems Chet was right,” that familiar, lazy voice drawled in an arid tone. “My return is more of a shock to you than I thought it would be,” Blake observed. The angle of his head shifted slightly to the side to direct his next words over his shoulder without releasing Dina from his level gaze. “She needs some hot, sweet coffee, laced with a stiff shot of brandy.”
“Exactly,” Chet agreed, and curved a bracing arm around her waist. “Let’s find you a place to sit down, Dina.” Numbly she accepted his help, aware of his gaze flickering to Blake. “Seeing you standing in the doorway was bound to have been like seeing a ghost. I told you we were all convinced you were dead.”
“Not me,” Mother Chandler contradicted him, moving to stand beside her son. “I always knew somehow that he was still alive somewhere out there, despite what everyone said.”
Fleetingly, Dina was aware of the blatant lie in her mother-in-law’s assertion. The thought had barely formed when she realized there were others in the living room. She recognized the faces of close family friends, gathered to celebrate Blake’s return. They had been watching the reunion between husband and wife — or rather, the lack of it.
In that paralyzing second, Dina realized she had not so much as touched Blake, let alone joyously fallen into his arms. Her one swaying attempt had been accidentally checked by Chet’s steadying hold. It would seem staged and faked if she did so now.
Equally startling was the discovery that she would have to fake it because, although the man in front of her was obviously Blake Chandler, he did not seem like the same man she had married. She felt as if she were looking at a total stranger. He knew what she was thinking and feeling; she could see it in the coolness of his expression, aloof and chilling.
As she and Chet approached the doorway, Blake stepped to one side, giving them room. He smiled down at his mother, his expression revealing nothing to the others that might let them think he found her behavior unnatural under the circumstan
ces.
“If you were so positive I was alive, mother, why are you wearing black?” he chided her.
Color rose in Norma Chandler’s cheeks. “For your father, Blake,” she responded, not at a loss for an explanation.
Everyone was still standing, watching, as Chet guided Dina to the empty cushions of the sofa. After she was seated, he automatically sat down beside her. Blake had followed them into the room.
Every nerve in Dina’s body was aware of his presence, although she wasn’t able to lift her gaze to him. Guilt burned inside her, gnawing away at any spontaneous reaction she might have had. It didn’t help when Blake sat down in the armchair nearest her end of the couch.
The housekeeper appeared, setting a china cup and saucer on the glass-topped table in front of the sofa. “Here’s your coffee, just the way Mr. Blake ordered it.”
“Thank you, Deirdre,” she murmured. She reached for the china cup filled with steaming dark liquid, but her hands were shaking like aspen leaves and she couldn’t hold on to it.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a suggestion of movement from Blake, as if he was about to lean forward to help her. Chet’s hand was already there, lifting the cup to carry it to her lips. It was purely an automatic reaction on Chet’s part. He had become used to doing things for her in the past two and a half years, just as Dina had become used to having him do them.
Instinctively, she knew he hadn’t told Blake of their engagement and she doubted if anyone else had. But Chet’s solicitous concern was telling its own story. And behind that facade of lazy interest, Blake was absorbing every damning detail. Without knowing it, Chet was making matters worse.
The hot and sweetly potent liquid Dina sipped eased the constriction strangling her voice, and she found the strength to raise her hesitant gaze to Blake’s.
“How…” she began self-consciously. “I mean when…”