The child looked around. “Where is he?”
A breath. “In heaven, with the angels.” “Oh. My papa is in heaven, too.”
“Jac and I would like to hear more about your papa,” said Hannah, taking the little boy’s hand and drawing him closer.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
OCEAN HOUSE.
MONDAY, OCTOBER 27
“PLAY FOR ME.”
Late-morning light knifed into the ballroom through the open French doors, changing the Steinway’s wood to a glowing copper. Michael stood by the piano, close to Maggie, as she prepared to tackle the Rachmaninoff. She set her music down and turned to him with a shake of her head. “You’ve heard me play many times, Colonel.”
“But never Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody, ma’am. I know how important this is to you.” He looked down at the Golden. “To us, too, right, fella?”
Shiloh yawned.
“An offer I cannot refuse.” Maggie laughed. “Have a seat, then, gentlemen, and prepare to be dazzled by my favorite variation of Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody. I give you—the Variation Eighteen.”
She settled on the bench, held her hands above the keys for a long moment. And then she began to play.
Just over three minutes later, Maggie opened her eyes as the final notes lingered in the air and turned to her audience. Shiloh was sound asleep, snoring. Michael was looking at her with a bemused expression on his face.
“What?” she whispered. “What is it?”
“That sounded like … the music from the movie Somewhere in Time. And … Groundhog Day?”
“Yes, you’re right, it’s in both movie soundtracks. What did you think?”
A moment of silence. Then, “I think that you were born to play this piece. You don’t even seem to know it, but what you have, Maggie, it’s like … sunlight. It just simply happens. You are made of music.”
She stared at him. “You understand. Yes, this variation is so personal to me. You heard that, in the music. It’s Paganini’s A-minor theme, but inverted, turned upside down, to a major key. Rachmaninoff took something so dark and sad and aching and changed it into—”
“Something beautiful and transformative,” said Beckett. “Like what has happened to you over the past year. Watching you play, watching your face, I can see the transformation. With every note you are finding your way. It’s like this music is telling your story.”
A sound at the French doors, heavy footsteps. Beckett stepped in front of Maggie as a long shadow fell across the piano.
“I am sorry to interrupt,” said a low, accented voice, “but I heard the beautiful music.” The stranger froze, a shimmer of shock on his wizened face. “Is it you, Miss Maggie?”
Sensing no threat, Maggie stepped from behind Beckett to gaze into the stranger’s face. He was well into his seventies, dressed in stained work clothes and boots. “Yes, I’m Maggie,” she said. “And you are …” She stepped closer. “Good Lord! Miguel?”
“Si. You were such a sweet child, Miss Maggie. You and I used to listen to your mama play her music. I thought I was dreaming just now, thought that I was hearing Miss Lily play again.”
Maggie reached to touch his shoulder. “That’s the best compliment I could be given. I remember you, Miguel. You let me help you in the garden.”
“Si. We always chose the most beautiful roses for your mama.”
“My godfather says the rose bushes are long gone now.”
He looked at her with an odd expression. “The formal gardens, yes. But not the wild roses.”
Maggie stiffened, suddenly anxious. Sensing, somehow, that another door to her past was about to open. “Wild roses? Where are they?”
“Still growing outside your mother’s favorite place, of course, the small cottage, by the lap-pool in the woods. Do you remember it? She loved it so much that she made it her own private music room. She would disappear there for hours, to swim and play the piano and listen to her records. The Judge’s father, Señor Karas, asked me to move his Rhapsody Grand Piano there for her.”
The gardener’s voice seemed to be coming from a great distance, as if through fog, and Maggie felt herself swaying. Then she felt Michael’s strong body close to hers, and managed to find the words. “I can’t remember, Miguel. Where is my mother’s music room?”
“Hidden away, in the woods over there—” The old gardener gestured beyond the French doors. “There is a path, long overgrown by sea grape vines these last decades. No one has gone there in many years, including myself. But I will take you there, if you want to see it.”
Another door, about to open.
“Yes, Miguel. I very much want to see my mother’s music room.”
* * *
Far to the east, in Provence, the sun dropped behind the vine-covered hillside and the air turned lavender with twilight. Sugarman sat listening to the woman and boy as they spoke of kites and basketball, swimming and music and his treasured coin collection. And, bien sur, all his amies at school. “But no girls, Madmoiselle Hannah, I am much too young.”
Hannah laughed, and then, finally, she asked TJ if he remembered going to any special places with his father, before his papa went to heaven.
The child looked toward the vines, lost in memory. Then he said, in a voice so low that she had to bend forward to hear him, “My papa spent most of his time in his office. But every Sunday morning he would take me on a special outing.”
Hannah grinned down at him, tousled his hair. “That sounds like fun. Where did you go?”
The boy pushed the dark curls from his eyes. “Sometimes fishing. Sometimes hiking. Sometimes to a museum. He loved to look at the pictures and tell me stories about them.”
Sugarman chucked the boy’s chin gently. “I like to go to museums, too, mophead. Anywhere else?”
TJ closed his eyes as he rubbed Jac’s head. “To church. He liked the organ music. And once—to a church that wasn’t a church.”
Sugarman felt Hannah stiffen beside him. “A church that isn’t a church?” she asked. “How is that possible?”
“My papa called it a … ruin, I think.” He pronounced it “roo-een.” “You know, very old, falling apart. No altar or organ or statues. No stained glass or roof. Just rocks and stones and tall grass. Some of the walls are still there, but they are broken. They let the sunlight in.”
“It sounds beautiful to me,” said Hannah. “I saw the ruins of an abbey in Wales, a long time ago, when I still had my sight. Tintern Abbey. Flowers grew through the stones, and you could see the sky through the walls, where the windows used to be. I remember how special it was. More like a church than a real church.”
“Oui, that is what my papa said. That it was our special place. We had to hike to get there, but I didn’t mind. It had a beautiful cross, taller than I am, and a windmill nearby. He gave me a key, and said I should go back there one day, when I grew older.”
“A key?” Sugarman glanced at Hannah as he leaned toward the boy. “Did this special place have a name, TJ?”
The child squinted at the purpling sky, then turned a stricken face toward Sugarman. “I cannot remember it, Monsieur Sugar. I am sorry. Papa would be very angry with me.”
“No, no, your papa would have understood. I’m thinking that maybe your papa wrote the name down for you, just in case?”
The boy’s eyes brightened. “My coin! Yes, it is on one of my coins. I will show you.”
He dashed across the terrace and disappeared into the farmhouse.
Sugarman turned to Hannah. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“The Provençal countryside is dotted with church ruins,” she said softly. “And old abbeys and chapels have crypts.”
Light, quick footsteps. “Here it is,” cried TJ, holding out a long golden chain with a coin and a small silver key swinging from the central links. He thrust the necklace into Sugarman’s hands. “I think it says the name on the back. It is in French, Monsieur Sugar.”
Sugarman held the heavy, roun
d gold coin in his hand. The front was decorated with a small cross made of three emblems—an anchor, a cross, and a heart. He turned it over.
Five words engraved on the metal.
La Chapelle du Santo Rosario.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
VIENNA
MONDAY, OCTOBER 27
“DO YOU KNOW where Magdalena O’Shea is, Dante?”
Beatrice sat on a chair by the window, staring down into the square. She was dressed in a long flowing blue robe, her hand resting with love on the new, slight curve of her abdomen. Staring at the enigmatic smile on her lips, Dane thought she looked like one of Orsini’s Madonna paintings.
He scowled and shook his head. “No. She dropped out of sight in Salzburg.”
“But you don’t seem upset.”
“Because I know how to find her. Thanks to you.”
“Me?” The smile turned on him, the dark eyes lit with surprise. “What did I do?”
“You followed Magdalena O’Shea after she left the Lipizzaner stables. To the apartment of Hannah Hoffman, yes? The agent Simon Sugarman was there as well. He is the key player, the one searching for the art. He is in Europe for a reason, Bella. He knows Tommy Orsini; the boy trusts him. He is the one I will follow. The boy is well protected, so Sugarman will do the work for me. He will lead me to the paintings, and eventually he—or Hannah Hoffman—will lead me back to Magdalena O’Shea. Then everything will come full circle.”
“But you are here with me, in Vienna. How will you know what Agent Sugarman learns?”
“Many of the men who worked for Victor now work for me. I have two teams keeping watch. One here in Europe and one in the US. My New York contact, Thanos, called while you were sleeping. Sugarman and Hannah Hoffman are at the vineyard in Provence, questioning the boy.” He smiled. “There is a tracking device beneath his car now. And I have a truck, standing by.”
Beatrice rose, walked across the room to stand before him. She set a hand lightly on his chest and looked up at him. “I’m glad I could help you. It makes me happy. I only wish …”
“What?”
“That my father was alive. To know I am happy. To meet the bambino.”
Dane looked away. “Don’t think about his accident, mon ange. Just believe that your father is in heaven and somehow knows your joy.”
She took his huge, scarred hand and drew it, very gently, against her abdomen.
“I know you have done some terrible things in your life,” she said after a while. “And terrible things have been done to you. Your mother left you when you were too young. Your father was violent, vicious. He started it all when he locked you in that closet so long ago. These things mark a child, leave many scars. But I have seen another side of you. I know you can be a decent and kind man. Worth loving.”
He stared at her, unconvinced—and unnerved.
She raised a hand to stroke his scarred cheek. “You just don’t believe there is something in you worth loving, Dante. Can’t you try to feel our joy?”
“Bella Beatrice …” He felt the soft swell of her—of his child—beneath his burned fingertips. “For the first time in my life,” he told her, “I think perhaps I do.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
OCEAN HOUSE
LATE DAY MONDAY, OCTOBER 27
EVERYTHING WAS GREEN, even the light. The path through Ocean House’s woods was almost invisible, overgrown with high, ancient rhododendron bushes, dense with hemlock, birch, fallen limbs, and vines. Maggie had been following Miguel for at least ten minutes—alone, in spite of Michael’s offer. Well, offer was not quite the word, she thought, picturing his dark expression.
Let me be there for you, Maggie. You don’t have to face this alone.
But I do, Michael.
This was something she had to do on her own. Because now, deep inside her, she knew what she was going to find.
Up ahead, the pines and undergrowth thinned. Miguel stopped to part old, tangled branches. “We’re here, Miss Maggie. Through these leaves. Do you want me to stay with you?”
For an instant, she hesitated. Then, “Thank you, no. You’ve been a good friend. But I have my cell, and I know I can find my way back when I’m ready.”
He nodded without speaking and then handed her a flashlight and a small key. “For the cottage. I doubt there will be electricity. I hope you find what you are looking for, Miss Maggie.” Then he disappeared into the forest.
Maggie stood very still, trying to breathe. She could hear the soft sounds of the woods—doves, the rustle of tiny animals, wind sighing through the leaves—but all as if from a great distance. Now her whole being was centered on the small cottage waiting for her beyond the leaves.
Okay, on the count of three. One, two … She stepped through the vines into the clearing.
The first thing she saw was the high, rusted iron gate. It creaked loudly as she swung it open, just as she remembered. She followed the curving stone path to the blue front door. The key felt hot, burning, in her palm. The lock resisted for a moment, then gave. She set her hand on the tarnished doorknob, very aware that she was once again opening a door to her past.
The door opens …
She knows this room!
She steps over the threshold into the dusky gloom.
The electric switch—here, on the wall. No light. The flashlight clicks on. Shadows waver around her. The glass lantern is still on the side table, the matches beside it. Light blooms.
She blinks. To her right, the tall oak bookcase, filled to overflowing with her mother’s beloved 78 rpm vinyl records. Next to the lantern, the old turntable. She closes her eyes for a moment, hears the soft chords of Swan Lake, like an echo in a long tunnel.
To the right, the closet door. She shakes her head. Not yet.
A flowered shawl is tossed over a low sofa, as if her mother has just dropped it there for a moment.
Straight ahead is her mother’s beautiful Steinway grand piano. She is drawn to it helplessly, as if she is a tidal pool drawn by a full moon. She touches the wood, gently presses a black key. The A sharp. Out of tune. But, oh, the piano is gorgeous.
Designed and built in a local workroom, it is a limited-edition Steinway & Sons “Rhapsody” grand piano, its colors all varying shades of deep blue. The word “Rhapsody” is painted in gilt script on the intricate music rack above the keyboard. Sophisticated, romantic, beautiful. Like her mother, Lily.
The wall opposite the piano is bare. There is a slight fading on the paint, as if a large oil painting once hung there. Long gone now. But in her mind, she sees a beautiful dark-haired woman playing a cello against a night sky. Dark Rhapsody.
Beyond the piano are the French doors she remembers. They are closed, covered by white curtains. She is afraid of what she will find when she opens those doors.
The music in her head crashes to a stop.
Hide! Her mother’s voice, frightened.
Now a dark blue fog is seeping into the room, from beneath the French doors. She forces her body to move through the blue shadows, toward her mother’s closet. She opens it slowly, is assaulted by the ageless scent of Shalimar. She staggers, steps back. Opens her eyes. There are the gowns, jewel-colored silks and satins, just as she remembers them.
I hid here. I didn’t help her …
The door closes.
The sharp sound of the closing door behind her snapped Maggie back to the present. She spun around.
A tall, looming presence in the cobalt shadows, stepping toward her.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
PROVENCE
LATE DAY, MONDAY, OCTOBER 27
“STARS WERE THE last thing I ever saw,” said Hannah into the silence of the car.
Stars … Sugarman took his eyes off the road to look at her. They were in the Audi he had rented, driving toward the Marseilles-Provence International Airport just northwest of Marseilles. He had arranged three seats for her on the flight to New York—for her, Jac, and the red-cased cello now stashed with the grey
hound in the rear seat.
Unsure what to say, he remained silent, reaching across the seat to touch her arm.
“Are the stars out tonight?” she asked him.
“Yes, the sky is full of stars. You’re thinking of the night of your accident?”
“I was in the car with my husband and son—around this time of day. We were headed for ice cream, after dinner. So simple, really. Just one of those lovely, small, unfurling everyday moments we take for granted. I remember gazing out the window, thinking about all the beautiful stars in the night sky. Searching for the Pleiades cluster, to show my son. And then the world exploded and disappeared forever.”
“I can’t imagine losing a child,” said Sugarman into the darkness.
“That’s because it truly is unimaginable. It was the worst thing that ever happened to me, Simon. I thought it would kill me. My blindness is nothing compared to that loss. When a child dies, the pain sends you into a deep black hole. Grief swallows you whole, crushes the soul out of you. That night, my son was wearing a blue woolen coat with silver buttons. My dreams are haunted by a little boy in a blue coat. I hear him crying …”
In the back seat, Jac whined softly. Sugarman wanted to pull the car over and take her in his arms. “What can I do, Hannah?”
“You are listening, Simon. Sometimes I am ambushed, and just need to say my son’s name out loud to someone I trust. Max. His name was Max. When I play the cello, I am playing for him.”
“Honestly, Hannah, I would never have handled loss the way you do, with so much grace. But I don’t know what I would do. I’ve never had a child to lose. Or a wife. I’ve loved only one woman in my life, and she almost died because of me.”
She touched his arm, somehow understanding. “How long have you been alone?”
“Seems like forever.”
The lift of narrow shoulders in the shadows. “You seem like a man who would enjoy a wife, children.”
“Maybe. But I’m a black man, Hannah. You can’t understand it until you’ve been stopped and searched by the cops just because of how you look, until your hotel reservation mysteriously disappears, until a white woman crosses the street when she sees you coming. My brother is in prison, where nothing good can happen. I watched my father beaten in the rail yards. My first ‘talk’ wasn’t about the birds and bees, it was about keeping my head down, not arguing or calling attention to myself. Now we tell our teenage boys, don’t wear hoodies, don’t fight back. Hell, I got on an elevator last week and a little white girl hid behind her mother’s skirt. ‘Is that man going to hurt me?’ she cried.”
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