Dark Rhapsody

by Helaine Mario

  “Get Michael!” cried Maggie to her father. Then she followed the Golden into the fog-laced dark.

  * * *

  The mist-bound night was ghostly, the roar of waves muffled by the smothering blanket of fog. The moon a shimmering penumbra against scudding black clouds. She heard the sound of the water before she saw it. The whispering susurration of the waves, rolling onto the rocky beach.

  Maggie froze, raised her head to listen. Distant shouting beyond the hill. But here—only the sound of the ocean. And then she heard it, Shiloh’s low growl. Somewhere ahead, in the shadowed mist. She moved cautiously forward, her bare feet quiet on the windswept dunes.

  A black shape loomed, like a large hunched animal. The boat house. She moved toward it. “Shiloh?”

  A fierce snarl. Shiloh took shape in the dark, standing motionless, the hair standing up on his back, his eyes locked on the old wooden door. It was ajar. Inside, through the slats of broken boards, impenetrable blackness.

  She held her body still, staring at the door, trying not to think of a wolf watching, waiting for her in the fog. Where was Michael? Heart hammering against her ribs, she took a deep, painful breath. Be strong, she told herself. Be strong for Hannah. And for Shiloh.

  “Dane,” she called. “I know you’re here. I’ve come for Hannah.”

  Silence. Fog the color of ash swirled like smoke around her. Then a movement, beyond the door.

  Dane stepped from the mist. A silver pistol was aimed at her chest. Slipping off his amber aviator glasses, he met her eyes and smiled at her.

  She tried not to flinch when she saw his distorted face, but no surgery could change those terrifying eyes. She knew he’d seen the flare of her shock. She felt the Golden tense to lunge, heard the low growl in his throat. Gripping his collar with all her strength, she said, “No, Shiloh. Stay.”

  Stepping in front of the dog, holding him firmly behind her, she faced Dane. “Where is Hannah Hoffman?”

  Dane glanced over his shoulder, toward the churning ocean. “Are you still afraid of the water, my Juliet?” It was the name he had called her in France. His voice was as silky and terrifying as she remembered.

  “The wild waters roar and heave,” said Dane, waving the pistol toward her heart. “The brave vessel is dashed all to pieces. And all the helpless souls within her drowned.”

  “What do you want from me?” she whispered.

  “I want the Matisse. The Dark Rhapsody.”

  She stared at him. The sound of running steps, coming closer in the pulsing haze. “Here!” she cried. “We’re here!”

  A shout in return, lost on the wind.

  “Take care of your hands, my Juliet.” His eyes slid toward the black ocean. “The tide is coming in.”

  Then he smiled at her once more and vanished into the cloak of fog.

  Maggie willed herself not to follow. “Stay, Shiloh,” she said again, holding him against her body.

  What had he meant about the tide?

  Something was wrong. She turned to face the beach, straining to see through the fog. The haze of moon edged behind a cloud and darkness spread like a mantle over the sand. Now she could hear the fearsome crash of the waves, see the faint line of phosphorescence where they foamed against the sand. And something else … Maggie felt the panic ice through her. She took a step into the dunes, searching the roaring shadows. There.

  A small rowboat, on the very edge of the water. Slowly, inexorably being pulled by the tide out into the waves.

  Breaking through the fog, the flutter of a blue silken scarf. Hannah’s scarf!

  Pure terror washed over her.

  Not Hannah. Dane couldn’t be that cruel.

  “Shiloh! Get Michael!” She began to run.

  Across the dunes, across the sand, through the spinning tendrils of mist. Toward the dinghy. Toward Hannah. Toward the water.

  Not the water. Not again.

  Without slowing down, she launched herself into the wall of black water racing toward her.

  And dove into the watery heart of her fear.

  The ocean was freezing, numbing. The high waves broke over her, knocking her to the bottom. Sucking at her. Her dress clung to her, heavy, pulling her down. Sand and salt water filled her mouth.

  She struggled to the surface. “Hannah!” she cried.

  God, God. My mother drowned, my husband drowned. You. Will. Not. Drown.

  So dark, water in her eyes, stinging. The ocean frigid, heaving beneath her, thrusting her down. Where was the boat? There.

  The dinghy was some ten feet ahead of her, just where the waves gathered strength, crested, ready to break.

  Some deep part of her was aware that the last time she’d been in the sea, she’d been trying to get to shore. But tonight, she was swimming away from safety. Into the depths of the ocean.

  She took a deep stinging breath and dove beneath the dark, roiling surface, swimming, fighting against the incoming waves toward the old dinghy. Wave upon fearsome wave plunging, pushing her back, pulling her down.

  She opened her eyes. A halo of glimmering spray, caught in sudden moonlight.

  Blinded, she swam, fought, reached, missed. Flung herself forward, felt the old wood beneath her fingers. Slipped away. Reach, damn you! Yes. Held on.

  Wave after roaring wave broke over her. The dinghy was flung up, then crashed down. She held on for dear life, gasping, trying to pull herself up and over the edge of the small spinning boat.

  Tired, she was so tired. Try one more time. Just once more. So cold …

  A huge wave caught the dinghy, spun it toward the beach. She was losing her grasp, her hands cramping, freezing. My hands, she thought. And then, just hold on!

  I can’t …

  She felt her fingers slipping off the boat. Bone-deep fear gripped her.

  “I’ve got you, sprite.”

  Words against her ear, familiar. Strong arms. Safety. Was she dreaming?

  “It’s okay, Maggiegirl. I’m here.” Cold hands gripping hers, helping her to hold on. Not Michael’s hands.

  “Where’s … Michael?” She could only manage the two words.

  “Couldn’t find him in all the chaos. You’re stuck with me, kiddo.”

  “Do it. Myself …”

  “Sure you can. I’m just here to help. Almost there … Hold on!”

  Another wave, a fierce crash of spray, flinging them high, higher, then down, churning, cascading forward, fast, faster.

  The dinghy slammed onto the beach with a stunning crunch and broke apart.

  Hannah!

  Maggie and her father spilled to the sand. Seawater washed against their feet.

  Somewhere close, the Golden barked.

  Shuddering uncontrollably, Maggie staggered to her feet and stumbled toward the smashed boat.

  Empty. Just a blue silk scarf—Hannah’s scarf—soaked and torn, tied to the gunwale.

  “Bastard. We’ll find her, Maggie.”

  Maggie looked at her father. “Thank you.”

  Finn Stewart coughed and spit out water. “Didn’t know I could run so fast,” he chuckled. “Hell, didn’t know I could still swim.”

  “Took you long enough.” Her body would not stop shuddering, but somehow, she managed the smile.

  “There’s the Maggie I remember. Now let’s get you someplace warm and dry.”

  “What the hell were you thinking, Finn?”

  “That I’ve finally found you again and I’m damn well not going to lose you this time.”

  Frigid water swirled around their ankles. Together they stared down into the battered dinghy, now broken and wedged deep into the wet sand. “You braved the ocean to find her, Maggie,” said Finn.

  The moon edged from behind a cloud. Her father’s face caught the misted light, pale with shock, the way he had looked in her dream that night by the pool, staring at her from among the roses. The night her mother drowned.

  Something’s not right.

  She blinked, looked down, became awar
e of her soaked clothing, and was transported back to the night her mother died. Memory crashed in like the black ocean waves against the sand.

  “I remember,” she said, turning to her father. “I remember all of it.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  OCEAN HOUSE

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 29

  “IT WASN’T YOUR face I saw that night,” said Maggie to her father.

  “It was Zander’s face. He was the faceless man at the pool. The man in my dreams.”

  “Yes,” said Finn. “It was Zander. He was there. Zander was your mother’s lover.”

  Maggie’s chair was drawn close to the fire in the Ocean House library, her eyes riveted on the flames. Michael sat beside her, his strong hand on her knee and his eyes on her father. Shiloh was curled at her feet, and she rubbed her bare foot against the warmth of his fur. With an uncontrollable shudder, Maggie gathered the thick white robe closer and cupped her hands around a steaming mug of tea laced with brandy.

  She turned to her father. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me think it was you?”

  “I was in shock. Your mother was dead. I didn’t know what had happened. I’d gotten there too late. I heard you screaming and then found you collapsed on the stones. Zander blamed you, Maggie.”

  “Me?” She felt as if she’d been struck.

  “He said you and your mother were fighting, and you pushed her. He said it was an accident—but how could I let you live with that?”

  Her father stood and began to pace, his face all sharp planes in the firelight. “Zander and I, we knew we had to protect you. He took your mother to his boat … brought her to the ocean off Manhattan Beach. I stayed with you. Everything I did that night, Maggie, every decision I made, was to protect you.”

  Maggie stood, went to her father, gazed up into his eyes.

  “But I didn’t hurt my mother. I jumped into the pool that night. I jumped in to save my mother. I’d heard the shouting, ran to help her. I saw Zander hit her, I saw my mother fall into the water.” She flinched as if struck by a fist.

  Finn cupped her face in his hands. “Zander lied to me. He was protecting himself. I know that now, Maggiegirl.”

  “That’s why my clothes were soaked,” said Maggie. She swiped at the tears filling her eyes. “But I couldn’t find her. The pool lights were out. The water was too dark, too opaque. Too blue. I remember climbing out, shouting for help. And then I felt a terrible pain in my head.” She looked at her father. “Somehow you were carrying me, running … It’s the last thing I remember before I woke up in the hospital.”

  “All I could think about was getting help for you,” said Finn. He took her cold hands in his and held them against his heart. “It’s going to be okay, Maggie. We’re going to be okay.”

  The grandfather clock began to chime, eleven p.m. Maggie raised her eyes to Michael. “It’s late. We should have heard something by now. You’re sure Jac is going to be okay?”

  Michael dropped another log onto the fire, watched the red sparks spiral upward in the shadows before answering. “You ran straight into the Atlantic Ocean, at night, and you’re worried about a dog.” He shook his head. “Yes, Jac will be fine. One more crime Dane will pay for. Right, Shiloh?”

  The Golden gave a low, fierce growl, his eyes shining like black stones in the firelight.

  Michael touched Maggie’s shoulder. “We’ve got to go. I told Sugar I’d help with the search for Hannah as soon as I was sure you were okay.”

  “Hannah can’t see! She must be so frightened, so alone.”

  “We’ll find her, Maggie, count on it.”

  Maggie pushed the robe aside. “I’m coming. I’ve got to do something!”

  “You almost drowned just an hour ago, Maggie. In freezing water. Your lips are still blue, dammit. Stay put. Hannah can’t be far. She’s Dane’s bargaining chip. He can’t risk hurting her.” Beckett paused and looked at his phone. “Sugar just texted. There’s a good lead. A couple rented a boat in Three Mile Harbor Boat Yard. Just north of here. There’s a fingerprint … Let’s go, big fella.”

  Shiloh lurched to his feet, impatient, sensing action.

  Maggie hugged Michael tightly. “Find Hannah for me,” she whispered. “And don’t get shot!”

  Michael glanced at Finn. “She always says that.” A hesitation. Then, “You believed that staying in Maggie’s life put her in real danger. I get that. You did what you did to keep her safe. And you were there for her tonight.” And then he and the Golden were gone.

  Finn turned to Maggie. “He’s right, you know. I would have given anything to stay, to be part of my girl’s life.”

  “I loved you so madly,” she whispered.

  “I won’t blow a second chance, sprite.” Finn leaned forward, his face a mask of concern in the flickering firelight. “But right now it’s all about Hannah. Dane told you he wants the Matisse, Maggie. The Dark Rhapsody. How the hell are we going to get Hannah back if we don’t find that damned painting? It could be anywhere.” He shook his head back and forth. “If only Lily were here. She loved that painting, she’d stare at it for hours. She knew its secrets. I can still see her, curled on the sofa in her music room, playing those old classical records of hers as she gazed at that painting.”

  “That’s it!” Maggie set her teacup down with a sharp crack. “I know where my mother hid the answers. You told me yourself, when we talked in Vienna, what my mom would always do. I just need to get my coat. Then we’re going to her music room.”

  * * *

  “Mom knew something, Finn. About Dark Rhapsody. We just have to find it.”

  Maggie sat on the soft red-patterned carpet in her mother’s music room, in front of the tall, overflowing bookcase. Piled in front of her were dozens of dusty, old vinyl record albums—78 rpms—albums that had been stored in the room since before her mother’s death. She reached for the top one, withdrew the record, and peered inside the twelve-inch square cardboard sleeve.

  “Nothing but the record,” she murmured, setting it aside and reaching for the next one.

  Finn Stewart sat on the sofa, a frown curving his mouth. “What the hell is going on, Maggie?”

  “You told me that Mom read a book about a World War II spy who used a French record shop for passing secrets in the album jackets.” She reached for another album. “And that she would hide money, letters …”

  “We could be wasting our time, sprite,” said Finn, waving one more album cover at her.

  “Ha!” cried Maggie. “O ye of little faith.” She held up a one-hundred-dollar bill.

  “Good God. Here’s a letter I wrote to her,” said her father in an odd voice. His fingers shook as he opened it, a sudden, faraway expression on his lined face. “My darling Lily,” he read aloud. He fell silent as he scanned the first paragraph and the shine of tears filled the old blue eyes. “God,” he whispered. “We were so young. I loved her so much.” He leaned toward Maggie. “But old love letters won’t help us.”

  “Just read,” said Maggie. “Here’s another one. There’s got to be a message, a clue, in here somewhere.”

  Forty-five minutes later, they’d found and read several of Finn’s love letters. But they’d found no mention of Dark Rhapsody.

  “One more pile to go,” said Maggie. “I’ve been looking for … here it is!”

  She held out an album cover that showed a beautiful woman in her twenties, seated at a grand piano. Dressed in a long emerald gown, her long, wild black hair caught back from her face, her green eyes gazed at the photographer. The title was Lily Stewart at Carnegie Hall. Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, Op. 43. Sergei Rachmaninoff.

  “By God. I remember that night,” said Finn softly. “The first time she ever played at Carnegie Hall.”

  “It’s why I chose it for my own performance there. Tell us your secrets, Mom.” She held her breath, removed the vinyl record, and reached into the sleeve. Caught her breath as she withdrew several pages of an unfinished, penciled musical
score.

  She studied the music, humming the notes softly, her hands shaking so hard that the notes and chords blurred before her eyes. The music washed over her, passionate and haunting, bringing memories in waves.

  “It’s the music from my dream,” she whispered. “The rhapsody my mother was composing when she died. Her Dark Rhapsody.” She turned, held the pages out to her father.

  And then a pink envelope, caught behind the score, fell to the carpet.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  OCEAN HOUSE

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 29

  THE LETTER, ON pale pink paper, was written in her mother’s scrawling, loping handwriting. The date was 1982.

  My dearest one,

  What would I do without you? I was so blessed to meet you when I did, to become your friend. And for you to become my confidante, for all these years. Yale changed my life. It gave me so many gifts—my music, Finn, my beautiful Maggie. And you.

  I am sitting on the sofa in my music room at Ocean House. The rain is smashing into the pool outside the door, stirring the dark water, and the ghosts are swirling in my head tonight. I’m thinking about the people I’ve loved, the bad choices I’ve made, the people I’ve hurt. The people who have hurt me.

  I’m going to ask Finn for a divorce tonight. He is so gifted, so brilliant. But too dazzled by the glittering world of the Maestro. It is his destiny, but not mine. What looks so glamorous from the outside can also be very lonely. You know the feeling, you understand. My eyes are finally open, and I know what I am going to do. I’m going to start over, somewhere far from here, and make a new life for myself and my daughter.

  I’ve tried to put everything I’ve been feeling, all the chords of joy and sorrow, into a rhapsody I’m composing. Music tells our stories, that’s what Finn always says. This Dark Rhapsody will be mine.

  I’ve always believed that we remember the moment we meet the people we will love, the people who will matter most in our lives. I remember the moment I met Finn, standing in the rain in front of Woolsey hall. The first moment I held my beautiful infant Maggie in my arms. And I remember the first time I saw you, standing so tall and straight, in the Marquand Chapel Quad. You were—what?—all of twenty? Twenty-one? And I was, well, let’s just be kind and say a bit older than that.