“Welcome to the Hamptons.” Maggie turned to smile at the Golden, settled in the back seat next to Michael’s wheelchair, crutches, and carved mahogany cane. “You, too, Shiloh. You’re in Eastern Long Island now, only one hundred miles from Manhattan but truly another world.”
Beyond the car windows, the morning air sparked with bright sunlight, the red cedars burned with the last fires of autumn. With each bend in the road, dramatic coastal scenes unfolded before them—shingled windmills, villages and tiny harbors crowded with boats, undulating dunes and, beyond, walls of wild grasses, glimpses of waves crashing against miles of windswept, desolate beach.
“We’re strangers in a strange land,” muttered Michael to the Golden as they passed a quaint fish market with bright buoys hanging from its windows.
Shiloh stared thoughtfully out the window but chose to reserve judgment.
Michael grinned. “Almost there. What should I know about your godfather?”
“Well, as you will see, Alexander Karas comes from old money. Law school at Yale, where he met my parents—and, I suspect, became a member of Yale’s secret society, Skull and Bones. Went on to serve twelve years in both Republican and Democratic administrations. He was tireless in his quest for peace, described as a ‘peace-process junkie’ more than once by the Times. Zander is unflappable, can go for hours without sleep or food. One hell of a prosecutor, hates flying economy, favors jeans, not-quite-regulation haircuts, and fine whiskey. Oh, and did I mention he looks like Randolph Scott?”
“Christ. Does the guy walk on water in his spare time?”
“What spare time?” She grinned. “He is on the Metropolitan Museum of Art board. And Lincoln Center’s Avery Fisher Hall as well …”
“Come up with one flaw. Just one.”
“He tells awful jokes. Don’t feel you have to laugh. Unless you want to live.” She laughed, surprising herself.
“I’ll keep that in mind. Ever married?”
“No, no wife or children. He says he’s married to his work. But I always thought maybe there was ‘the one who got away.’ A secret love, like Beethoven’s mysterious Immortal Beloved.” She looked up from her map. “The turn is just ahead. There. Old Beach Lane.”
Beckett turned left into a winding lane under a canopy of ancient elms and tall pines twisted by the wind. She’d seen these pines before … Maggie opened her window to breathe in the cold pinescented air. And to calm her suddenly skittering nerves.
What was the matter with her?
You know, she told herself. Another mile, past horses grazing in white-fenced paddocks. One horse, a beautiful black mare, raised her great sleek head to watch them. Then the trees parted like a curtain and the road opened into a sweeping driveway. Michael slowed as crushed shells crunched beneath the tires.
The elegant Hamptons home was perched on the edge of a low seagrass-covered bluff overlooking the Atlantic. All stone and glass, it was two stories high, with a curving porch and great expanses of windows beneath gables and a gambrel roof. A hint of formal gardens and a slate terrace, and the glint of deep-blue waves cresting beyond the dunes.
“So this is how a Supreme Court nominee lives,” muttered Michael as he turned off the engine.
“Short list,” Maggie reminded him. “I think the President announces his nominee next week.”
Michael opened the door, reached for his cane, and whistled to Shiloh. “Time to meet the godfather,” he said.
“Not taking the crutches?” asked Maggie.
An ironic smile. “It’s a man thing.”
Maggie stepped out of the SUV and gazed up at the beautiful old house. The faint rustle of a breeze through dying leaves, the scent of chrysanthemums sharp and spicy in the air. Somewhere beyond the house, the soft whinny of a horse, and the distant thunder of waves crashing against a headland.
The silvering shingles and the cry of the mare stirred a fragment of memory, as if it came from a long-ago dream. A rusted iron gate, a glimpse of a garden blooming with giant wild roses …
A sense of uncertainty washed over her, as if she were about to play a dissonant chord on the piano. Inexplicably wary, but trusting her instincts, she turned to Michael. “I think maybe we should get back into the car and leave.”
She felt his hand, strong and steady, on her elbow. “What is it, darlin’?”
“I told you that my mother drowned at Manhattan Beach, in New York. But—” she looked up into his eyes— “it was the Atlantic Ocean. No pool, no hidden garden. That’s why my dreams have never made sense. But now—I have a bad feeling—I can’t explain it—that Ocean House holds some of the answers to my mother’s death.”
“Okay. We’ll just get back in the car and—” He raised his head. “Christ. Too late, Maggie.”
She heard the great door open, turned to see her tall, handsome godfather coming toward them down the broad stone steps.
“Maggie! Colonel Beckett,” said Judge Alexander Karas in his deep, familiar baritone.
“Welcome to Ocean House.”
PART IV
“If by your art, my dearest father, you have put the wild waters in this roar, allay them …”
— Shakespeare, The Tempest
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
OCEAN HOUSE
MONDAY, OCTOBER 27
“THIS PLACE IS something else,” murmured Michael as they entered the two-story, octagonal foyer. He set his cane firmly on the floor and did a slow turn, taking in the high stained-glass windows, the richly colored Persian carpets, the bouquet of lilies overflowing onto a round cherry table. A graceful, floating winged staircase curved right and left up to a distant, shadowed landing.
“And this is only the foyer,” smiled Maggie, turning to Zander. “It’s good to be here, thank you.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Goddaughter. As I told you in New York, this old place needs voices, laughter, movement, life. And a dog.” He chuckled as he bent to rub Shiloh’s head.
The Golden shied away with a soft growl. Maggie caught Michael’s quick concerned glance, shook her head at him. “Shiloh hasn’t been himself lately,” she said to Zander. “Will you show us around?”
“Of course.” He turned to Michael with a sweeping gesture of his arms. “My father, Sebastian Karas, loved this old place. He was born here, as was I. But it fell into disrepair during the later years of his life. I’ve spent this last year, since he died, trying to bring back Ocean House’s former glory. Two full work crews, inside and out, seven days a week. The East Wing is still a shambles, as well as the boat house, and much of the grounds.”
“I’d say you are knocking it out of the park, Judge,” said Michael, gazing up at the intricate pattern of the stair railings. “Only God could have done better.”
“You think so? But the only difference between a judge and God, Colonel, is that God doesn’t think he’s a judge.”
A beat of silence, and then Michael chuckled, too loudly. Both Maggie and Shiloh threw him a look.
“That bad, eh?” said Zander. “I owe you one, Colonel. The library is down the hall to the left, through those doors. We can meet in there tonight for a sixteen-year-old Black Maple Hill bourbon. I think the library is the most beautiful room in the house.”
“You had me at Maple Hill, Judge,” said Michael. “I’ll look forward to it.”
“But right now,” said Zander, “a toast.” Three flutes of French champagne bubbled on a small table, and he offered the glasses. “Welcome back, Maggie.”
Michael raised his flute. “I could not live without champagne,” he said. “In victory, I deserve it. In defeat, I need it.”
“Can’t argue with Churchill,” said Maggie, taking a long sip. “Let’s just hope we don’t end up needing it while we’re here,” she said under her breath.
“Come, this is the room I want Maggie to see.” Zander led them across the expanse of foyer toward two huge double doors and drew them open. They stepped into a high-ceilinged ballroom, surrounded on two si
des by tall windows. At the far end, set in a curve of shining glass, stood a Steinway grand piano. Maggie caught her breath, and Michael moved to stand by her side.
“Maggie?”
“It’s okay,” she said in a whisper. But she moved closer to him.
Zander gazed fondly at the sweeping ballroom. “Maggie’s parents and I used to have our Gatsby parties here in the old days, Colonel, just after we left Yale. They were newlyweds, and we all were beginning our lives in Manhattan, but we would drive here on weekends. We did it for years, although not nearly as often after I went to DC.”
He turned his eyes on Maggie. “I told you that my father was especially fond of your mother. I think because she reminded him of his wife, my mother. She played the piano, too, did you know that? She had the look of your mom, with her long dark hair, and heart-shaped face. Both women died too soon.” Zander’s eyes clouded. “My father always said your mother gave him back a little bit of his wife, especially when she played the piano, and he encouraged Lily to come often. She brought you here almost every week when you were a young child.” He hesitated. “Although less often when you were older … I thought you might remember this room.”
Maggie gazed at the glowing, oyster-colored walls, the polished oak floor, the sun pouring in bright bars through the tall windows onto several Renaissance landscapes. And felt the faint stir of memory.
“Yes, I remember. There were chairs set up, in rows curving like arms, over there. And there. My mother sat at the piano, in a long beaded dress.” She smiled and turned to Michael, who was watching her, his hand resting on Shiloh’s head. “It’s a happy, lovely memory. I used to sit up there”—she gestured toward a narrow, high balcony that ran along one side of the wall—“and listen to the music. My father would play the violin, I think.”
“Yes!” Zander smiled. “And I would play host and pour the champagne. I couldn’t play a note, Colonel. Still don’t know why Maggie’s parents gave me the time of day. But I’m glad they did.” He smiled at Maggie. “And I’m glad you remember some of those times. I’m hoping this Wednesday’s party will bring them back.”
He turned to Michael. “I’m hosting a benefit here for the fiftieth anniversary of Yale’s orchestra. And I’ll be announcing the bequest of Ocean House to Yale for a new art museum. I hope you will stay to attend the gala, Colonel, with my goddaughter.”
Beckett glanced at Maggie. “I’d be honored, Judge, thank you.”
“Maggie,” said Zander, “I’ve also invited Gigi, if she’s well enough. And the Archbishop.”
“Now that’s a party,” muttered Beckett to the Golden. “At least we won’t be the oldest guys there.”
Zander laughed as he gestured toward the piano. “I know you will need to practice for several hours every day while you’re here, Maggie. Consider this room yours.”
“I will, Zander. Starting this afternoon. Thank you.”
“You’re sure you won’t consider playing for us all on Wednesday night? It would be—”
“A career ender!” Maggie held up her hands with a smile. “You do know the Carnegie folks are promoting the Rachmaninoff rhapsody as my first public return? I’m afraid they won’t go for second. But Hannah Hoffman has agreed to help you out. She’s transcendent—you won’t be sorry.”
“Can I help it if I’m your biggest fan? Now come this way. I want to show you the gardens, and you’ll see how Ocean House got its name.” Another set of double French doors led to a broad slate terrace. It was the perfect October day in the Hamptons, cool and crisp, with the sharp hint of apples and leaf smoke in the air. The surrounding woods swayed with bright spears of orange, crimson, and gold. In the distance, the low undulating dunes sparkled silver in the light. And echoing in the air, the muffled thunder of ocean waves crashing against the beach.
Maggie gripped Beckett’s hand and caught her breath as they gazed out at the riot of chrysanthemums, asters, and goldenrod that spilled downhill, in manicured terraces, to a huge, shimmering infinity pool.
“Easy, darlin’,” Beckett said softly, his eyes on the pool. “Anything?”
Her breath came out in a surprised, relieved whoosh. “No. No bad memories here.”
Zander came up behind them and pointed to the west, toward the paddocks. “We have a stable here, to house some beautiful rescue mares. And there”—he gestured east—“down by the beach is an old boathouse, although the water is too rough to do much boating. I’ve kept my boat moored at the harbor for years. Over there, you can see the glass roof of the conservatory, through the trees. I’ve been filling it with orchids and other tropical plants.”
“No roses?”
“Your mother loved them, didn’t she? But no, the formal rose garden is long gone. Didn’t do well in the salty air.”
Okay, thought Maggie, that’s good. No roses.
* * *
Almost four thousand miles to the east, Simon Sugarman stood with Hannah Hoffman and her greyhound on the terrace of a Provençal vineyard. Just months earlier, he had stood in this very place—although the dog on the terrace that day had been a brutal Doberman, not a gentle greyhound. He remembered, too, hiding in those woods at the edge of the property, keeping watch. The image of Maggie O’Shea as she strode bravely across the terrace and disappeared into the house was still so clear in his mind. Just before all hell broke loose.
The vineyard was much as Sugarman remembered it, almost unchanged since the summer. Rows of vines still climbed the undulating hillside behind the shuttered stone farmhouse, although now they were heavy with clusters of crystal-green and burgundy grapes. The blue stone terrace was the same as well—the small round table, the splashing fountain, the ochre pots of autumn geraniums drooping in the last of the late-day sun. Only noon back in the States, he thought, but here in Provence the sun would set within the hour.
“Come sit,” he said, taking Hannah’s elbow and guiding her to the old metal café chairs scattered under a shading arbor of purple vines. “I wish you could see this light—it’s clear and kind of shimmery. Opalescent. Learned that in a crossword.” He chuckled. “Never seen light like this anywhere else.”
Jac followed them silently, wary and alert, her eyes on the pair of leashed Dobermans held close to the two muscular guards standing at the far end of the terrace.
“I don’t blame you, Jacquie,” he murmured. “I never trust a Doberman, myself.”
“You said the dogs are leashed, Simon?” Hannah asked, sensing Jac’s disquiet.
“Yeah. I just hope they know we come in peace.”
She turned her smile on him, the wild black curls swinging like a cape around her shoulders. Huge tinted glasses shadowed her eyes. “I’m glad you’re here, Hannah,” he said, shifting his chair closer as he drew a narrow box from his jacket pocket and pressed it into her hands. “This reminded me of you.”
He watched as she raised the long gossamer scarf to her cheek.
“It feels so beautiful. No one has given me such a gift in a very long time, Simon. What color is it?”
“Like the sky at twilight.” Like your eyes.
She swirled the scarf around her neck and touched his arm. “The sky … How can I thank you?”
“Just remember your promise. If we discover anything about the location of the art, I go on alone. You’re on the first plane to the States. Capisce?”
“Unless you ask me to stay.”
Sugarman shook his head, unsettled by the way she kept him off balance. “You’re going to love TJ,” he said, moving away from the minefield of her words. “But this little boy has been through a helluva lot—more than any kid should have to suffer, so we need to be careful—”
“Monsieur Sugar!”
Small running footsteps on stone. The guards stepped closer as Thomas John Orsini—TJ—raced across the terrace and threw himself at Sugarman. A pretty young Frenchwoman, TJ’s nanny, followed and settled herself in a chair on the far side of the terrace.
“Whoa, little pa
l!” Sugarman looked fondly down at the child. Soon to be seven, TJ was still thin as a hockey stick, with huge dark eyes and a mop of black curls tumbling in his eyes. “It’s good to see you again, mophead. You’ve grown since July. You’ll be as tall as I am soon. Slap me five.”
“I have missed you and Maggie,” said the boy in his flutelike voice, smiling as he hit Sugarman’s huge palm with his own much smaller one. He glanced shyly at Hannah and the greyhound, then back to Sugarman. “Did you bring Shiloh with you?”
“No, little pal, not this time. But you’re coming to New York soon, right?”
“Oui, I will see Maggie and Shiloh and Mon Colonel for my birthday. I am practicing the Bach, the way she taught me, to surprise her.”
“My main man! And now I want you to meet another special lady. This is Hannah, and her dog, Jac. Hannah is a musician, like you and Maggie. But she plays the cello.” He drew the child closer to Hannah’s knees. “This is TJ, Hannah.”
The boy stood in front of her, serious and formal, and made a small bow. “Bonjour, Madmoiselle Hannah. May I touch your dog? She is beautiful.”
Hannah set a quieting hand on Jac’s head. “I’m sure she would like that. Will you let her smell the back of your hand first? She’s my friend, but she also is a service dog. Do you know what that is?”
TJ did as she asked, and then began to stroke Jac. “She is here to help you walk?”
“To help me see.”
“Oh, okay,” said TJ, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to meet a blind musician. “Give me your hand, Madmoiselle.” He took her hand and held it to his face. “This is what I look like.” And then, “I am still afraid of the dark. Do you get scared sometimes, too?”
Hannah glanced over at Sugarman. “Yes, I do. But Jac helps me. Playing my cello helps, too. And children. I had a little boy once, about your age.”
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