Under the Sheets (Capitol Chronicles Book 1)

by Shirley Hailstock

  "It’s the weather. October always make me feel a little sad."

  "The weather hasn’t put those dark circles under your eyes. You forget, Brooke, I’ve known you too many years. We’ve gone through four Octobers to­gether. This is the first one I’ve ever known you to be any different than the even tempered, confident woman who was eager to begin a catering business."

  "Okay, it’s Grant." Robyn flopped down on the sofa. She pulled the towel from her neck and kicked off her dancing shoes. Her head fell back, and her eyes closed. She should be getting dressed to go home and be with Kar, but she had no energy. "He’s gone, Marianne." The words were spoken qui­etly.

  Marianne didn’t move. "Why?" she asked quietly. "I thought you were falling in love with him."

  "I am in love with him, but there are things I can’t explain. Not to him, not to anyone."

  "I understand," Marianne said. "We all have secrets only our hearts can share."

  Robyn opened her eyes. There was a resigned note in Marianne’s voice. "I wouldn’t think that about you. You share everything."

  "Nobody shares everything." Marianne’s stare was direct. "There are things about me you don’t know. Some of them you might even hate me for."

  "I could never hate you," Robyn told her, knowing there were things she could never speak of to anyone.

  The redhead smiled brightly. "I hope not. You’re closer to me than a sister. I don’t want anything to happen to our friendship."

  "And it never will," Robyn told her.

  Robyn sat forward. Marianne had taken a seat at the lighted dressing table. With the turn of events in her own life, she wasn’t aware that Marianne might be going through her own brand of misery.

  "Do you want to talk about something?" Robyn asked.

  "Why don’t we do something radical?" Marianne ignored Brooke’s question, abruptly changing the subject. "Why don’t we redecorate the lounge or build that photo chapel we talked about? We have enough money."

  "Is that a project to take my mind off Grant or to take yours off. . .him?"

  Marianne stared at her. "A little of both. It always helps me."

  Robyn knew that. Whomever the man was that Marianne met, he pitched her into depression when their weekends ended. Robyn assumed he was mar­ried. Her method of helping Marianne over the rough spots was to involve her in a project to fill her mind and keep her from thinking of him. It usually worked. Now, Marianne was trying to do the same for her.

  "Maybe the chapel isn’t a bad idea. If we could get it ready by spring, we’d have more weddings than we could handle."

  "Good, why don’t we get some paper and pencils and sketch out what it should look like? You’re always so good at doing that," Marianne said, moving to the desk, pulling sheets of paper in front of her and clear­ing a spot to work. She began drawing and chatting. Robyn listened but didn’t hear much of what she said. She thought of Susan and the wet Sunday afternoon when they sketched out Trifles. What a good friend Marianne was, and how fortunate Robyn was to have found her when she placed the tiny ad so many years ago.

  The two women complemented each other. Robyn was good with sculpting vegetables and arrang­ing cold cuts into works of art, while Marianne took to confections. Candy, cakes, and cookies could be any­thing from the simplest sweets to the most elaborate designs.

  Robyn gave Marianne a steady stare. "Marianne," she called. Her friend paused, turning to face her. "The man you see—"

  "Which one?" Marianne asked. She saw several men, but Robyn knew Marianne needed no additional prompting on which man she meant. He was the only one she was serious about.

  "The one whose name you’ve never spoken. He comes infrequently, but when he does, he leaves you drained."

  "What. . .what are you talking about," Marianne faltered.

  "I’ve always known."

  "But you never said anything. Never mentioned—" Marianne looked away.

  "I know, but lately. . ." she paused. "It’s your busi­ness. Yet, whenever you’ve seen him, you’re not the same. Is he. . .married?" Robyn whispered the dreaded question.

  "He’s married to his work." Marianne dropped her gaze to the rich pile of the cream colored carpet.

  "Is there another woman?"

  Marianne raised her head and stared directly at Brooke. "Yes," she whispered.

  "Is she mar­ried?"

  Marianne’s head bobbed up and down slowly as if she wasn’t really sure how to answer the question. "He doesn’t know I’m in love with him. He knows very little about me."

  "Then, why does he come to see you?"

  "I’m convenient. And there are times when it’s nec­essary. We used to work together, and there are things I still do for him."

  "Why, Marianne?" Robyn dropped to eye level. There were tears in Marianne’s eyes. "If he makes you so unhappy, why don’t you stop seeing him? Tell him you won’t do any more work for him?"

  "I can’t. For the same reason building that photo chapel won’t get Grant out of your system. It will help you deal with him not being here."

  "We’re a strange pair. Both of us crippled by men we can’t get out of our systems." Brooke ‘s laugh was mirthless. "Well, Marianne, we’re a couple of survi­vors. We’ll deal with the pain and the healing. In time, we’ll laugh at this."

  "Yes," Marianne smiled. "Now, let’s go make something sinfully choco­late."

  "I’ll meet you in the kitchen. I want to call Will and tell him I’ll be late." Marianne left as Brooke punched Will’s number into the phone. The bell at the other end rang and rang, but Will did not pick up. Neither was there an answer at her house. He and Kari must have gone out for a snack.

  In the kitchen, the two women went to work. "We’ll call it Chocolate Thunder," Marianne said, grabbing a case of bittersweet chocolate from the storeroom.

  "That’s good. I like Chocolate Death. It’ll be the dessert of the day. We’ll have Sue-Ellen make up some cards, and we’ll place them on all the tables."

  When they had a counter filled with supplies, Mari­anne looked at her. "Got any idea what we’re mak­ing?" she asked.

  Brooke laughed. The first genuine laugh she’d had in nearly a month. "How about a double chocolate cake, with chocolate icing. We’ll make a hot chocolate syrup, layer the cake with slices of chocolate ice cream, pour the syrup over it, and top it with chocolate sprinkles. We’ll serve it on those snow white plates in a pool of white chocolate."

  "Yes," Marianne agreed. "That is Chocolate Death." Both women seemed in high spirits as they worked side by side. It was how they’d begun, before there was a Yesterdays, before Grant had walked into Brooke ‘s life, and Marianne had fallen in love with her mystery man.

  Marianne was stirring melted chocolate when Robyn went to use the phone.

  "That’s strange," Robyn turned after replacing the receiver of the kitchen phone. Marianne was lifting one of the chocolate cakes from the oven.

  "What’s strange?" she asked being careful of the hot pan.

  "I’ve tried to call Will several times, and I get no answer."

  "I saw him earlier."

  "Where?" Brooke ‘s brows rose. Will never came to the restaurant without telling her.

  "He and Kari were walking about the grounds. It was during the photo session."

  Because the weather had been so good, the wedding party scheduled for that afternoon had moved into the garden for pictures. Brooke had seen to all the arrange­ments before the afternoon rehearsal. "Where were they going?"

  "I don’t know. They were walking toward the build­ing. I thought they came inside to see you."

  "It’s probably nothing. Kari likes the restaurant. Will probably brought her for a visit and then took her for ice cream." Brooke trusted Will completely. He’d taken care of Kari since he moved in next to them. They couldn’t ask for a better neighbor.

  ***

  "Kari, be careful. I don’t want you to fall and hurt yourself."

  "I won’t hurt myself, Uncle
Grant. I’ll be careful." Kari smiled as she balanced on the steps to the air­plane.

  Tears came to Grant’s eyes. It was the first time he’d looked upon the dark-haired child with the knowl­edge that more than his transfused blood ran through her veins.

  He sat down on the slatted bench outside the ter­minal office. Wind from the airplanes stirred the air, but it was pleasant sitting outdoors. Will sat next to him.

  "Thanks for bringing her, Will. I’ve missed seeing her."

  Grant’s eye followed the little girl. One of the me­chanics was telling her about the airplane. Grant was afraid to get too close to her. He didn’t trust himself not to break down and cry in front of her. But from a distance, he could look at her black hair and see his own reflected there. Jacob’s visit nearly a month ago had sparked memories. Memories he thought were safely buried. But he had found himself opening the storage closet in his condo as if he were opening a vein. Grief and happiness had mixed with laughter and tears as he poured over the photo albums Robyn had left behind.

  Once he opened the albums, he couldn’t stop the memories. Floodgates were pushed back, and the misery he’d hidden, buried within himself, was alive and waiting on page after page of the albums. Under each photo was a caption. Robyn’s neat handwriting inscribed immortality just as her camera had captured a segment of time. Silver bells, cockle shells, dandelions, and weeds are my only rows was the humorous caption under a photo of the flower gar­den she’d planted in front of their house in northwest Washington. Grant and David, pilot-to-pilot was an­other. Every aspect of their short marriage had been recordeds. Even during the period of his captivity in Lebanon, she’d kept up the photographs. Now, he knew she’d left him a record. Something to hold onto when she could no longer be there.

  But these weren’t the pictures he had been looking for. He wanted to find his childhood photos. The ones when he was four, Kari’s age. He had found them in the bottom of a box. He was lucky they’d survived after so many foster homes. They’d arrived in the mail one day after he had gone to live with Aunt Priscilla. In another box, he found Robyn, smiling into the camera. He had taken them out and set them on the piano. There he saw it. Between them was the child they’d created. Kari was the best of both of them.

  He wanted her, and he wanted her mother. Why should the only choices open to him exclude her from his life? Damn, it wasn’t right. Robyn had been doing a job. It wasn’t her fault she was good at it. So good, in fact, she had to give up her own identity and gone into hiding for the remainder of her life. It was worse than being a prisoner. At least in prison, there was the chance of parole. Robyn had nothing. Nothing but the lives she’d given back to him and nine other men in exchange for her own.

  "So what happened, Grant? I thought you and Brooke would be announcing your engagement any day now." Will’s voice snapped his dreams. "Then, sud­denly, you disappear, and she looks like she won’t live past noon."

  Grant pulled his attention away from the child. "It got complicated, Will. There are things I can’t tell you."

  "She didn’t turn out to really be a spy, did she?" Will grunted a laugh.

  "No, she’s not a spy. But you were right about her husband. He is cardboard. She was never really married to Cameron Johnson. He’s just a convenient lie."

  "I knew it." Will’s fist punched the air, emphasizing that his intuition had been proven true.

  "That’s all I can tell you, Will. The rest is classi­fied."

  "Classified? Does she have something to do with the government?"

  Grant shook his head. He’d already told Will more than he should. Jacob Winston had told him he was not allowed to tell anyone what he knew. But Will had been his friend since he was a child. And Will knew nothing about Brooke’s former life.

  "What about Kari? Is she really her daughter?"

  Grant’s gaze went back to his daughter. "Yes, she’s really her daughter. And she was really born in At­lanta."

  Will and Grant were quiet for a long time. Each seemed absorbed in the child. The mechanic was showing her everything about the aircraft, and she, being so inquisitive, continued to ask the same ques­tion—why. Grant could hear Kari laughing.

  "You and Brooke ought to make up. I’m sure Kari would love having you around all the time."

  "If only we could," Grant wished. "If it were up to me, I’d drop everything and go with her. But it would hurt her more than help her. The only thing I can do is go back to Washington and forget we ever met."

  "But how can you forget the child?"

  "I’ll never forget Kari."

  "I know. I still think of. . ." Will swallowed hard.

  Grant knew he couldn’t say his son’s name. Grant knew the hurt must still be raw.

  "Sometimes it’s hard to remember he’s really dead."

  "I’m sorry, Will. I didn’t mean to bring up sad memories."

  "Oh, it’s not your fault. You had nothing to do with it. I blame myself. If I hadn’t involved him, then he never would have been in the position. . ."

  Grant squeezed the older man’s shoulder. He knew exactly how he felt. Losing a child was not something you could get over. He’d never had any time with his own daughter. He didn’t even have memories he could hold close in order to give himself any comfort. And to think it was an act of desperation that had brought him into contact with Brooke Johnson—his wife. He’d rushed to save a child, never imagining she was his own.

  "Uncle Grant. . .Uncle Grant." Kari ran toward him. Her smile was wide, and she held something in her hand. She was dressed in a pink jacket with match­ing hat and gloves that dangled from her sleeves. Her hair, in two long braids, stretched down her back. Grant stood up, catching her as she flew into his arms. He swung her in a full circle before settling her on his arm and holding her to his chest.

  "Uncle Grant, look what I’ve got." She opened her small palm to reveal a small airplane pin. It was the kind they gave children passengers.

  "Why those are the most wonderful wings I’ve ever seen."

  "They look like yours." Kari placed hers against Grant’s jacket collar. "See?"

  Grant looked at them. "Of course, they look like mine. Here, let me pin them on you." He set her on the ground and knelt at her level. Taking the plastic wings, he clipped them to her collar in the same place as his own.

  "Why don’t you two visit for a while?" Will said. "I need to make a phone call." Will smiled at the child.

  "Graffie, do you like my wings?"

  "They’re wonderful, sweetie. One day maybe you’ll be able to fly."

  "I will fly, won’t I, Uncle Grant? When I’m older, you’ll teach me, won’t you?" Her voice tugged at his heart.

  "Kari will miss you when you’re gone," Will said, giving Grant a level stare.

  "I’ll miss her, too."

  Will smiled and turned toward the terminal build­ing. He pulled his cell out and dialed as he walked out of hearing range.

  "Are you leaving, Uncle Grant?" Kari’s mouth formed a pout not unlike her mother’s. Grant wanted to kiss her.

  "I have to go soon." He sat her on his knee, and they continued looking over the airfield.

  "Will you come back to see me? Mother said you were very busy, and you wouldn’t be coming to see us anymore."

  Grant took Kari’s gloves and put them on her chilled hands. "Kari, Uncle Grant has to go away. It may not be possible for me to come and see you for a long time. Can you understand that?"

  Kari’s pout disintegrated into a frown. "But I don’t want you to go away. I want you to come and live with us."

  Grant hugged the small body to him. He kissed the top of her head. "It’s what I want, too. But it’s just not possible. Uncle Grant will always be thinking of you. And, one day, you will learn to fly."

  "Will you come back and teach me?" The sugges­tion brought her smile back.

  Grant fingered the toy wings attached to her collar. "If it’s possible, Kari. If it’s possible."

  ***<
br />
  The voice was raspy, old. Robyn felt as if it came to her from another life.

  "Well, Mrs. Richards, it’s been a long time. But I’ve finally found you."

  Fear’s cold finger scraped down Robyn’s back. Her fingers clutched the phone so tightly color drained from her knuckles.

  "I’m sorry you must have the wrong number. There’s no one by the name of Richards here." The words were practiced, but Robyn never thought she’d ever have to say them. Her eyes quickly scanned the kitchen. Only Marianne was within earshot, and she had water running in the sink.

  "I’ve made no mistake, Mrs. Richards. . .Mrs. Robyn Richards." The way he said her name made her physically recoil. "I’ve waited a long time to find you, and now, I’m sure."

  Robyn didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t ac­knowledge she was Robyn Richards. And, by denying it, she couldn’t ask what he wanted. "Who is this?" she stalled.

  "I’m a parent just like you. Only you killed my son."

  "I never killed anyone." She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. Marianne finished, and Robyn watched her head for the dining room.

  "You have a daughter, Mrs. Richards."

  Robyn’s knees gave way, and she crumpled onto the chair next to the phone. Her face was as pale as the flour clinging to her hands. "Kari!" she whispered.

  "Yes, Kari."

  "What do you want?" Robyn fought for control over the shakes that took hold of her body.

  "I want justice, Mrs. Richards."

  "What are you talking about? I don’t even know who you are?"

  "But you knew my son. . ."

  "Who was your son?" She was out of the chair.

  "And I know your daughter," the man ignored her question. "She’s a beautiful little girl. Where is she now, Mrs. Richards?"

  His continually calling her Mrs. Richards was rub­bing her raw. "Look, I don’t know who you are, but you’ve got things wrong. I’m not Mrs. Richards, and I don’t know your son."

  "You’ll never see her again." Each word was punc­tuated as if he were speaking to a child.

  "Who is this?" she demanded. Restrained fear pierced her.