“If it was a trap, wouldn’t they target you? You’d have gone, too, without a second thought.” Aunt Bay took a plate from the cupboard. “I need to eat. There’s plenty here when you’re ready, and for Michael when he comes home.”
One of the knives in the wooden block stuck out farther than the others. Amy nudged it into place. “You make me feel like I’m overreacting, but you saw him too.”
Michael’s aunt snorted. “Child, if I thought you were overreacting, I’d straight-out tell you. I’m not afraid for his safety, but I’m concerned about whatever he learned. Until there’s something productive I can do, I choose to keep calm and go about my business. For now, that means food.”
The phone rang, and Amy dove for it. Caller ID showed Safia’s number. Swallowing her disappointment, Amy tried to sound cheerful. “Hello.”
“Amy, it’s Safia. Is everyone all right? I just got in, and Dafiq says a police car was there. He’s sulking because his father wouldn’t allow him to run over to see it.”
Amy grinned. Obviously the boy hadn’t seen the previous cruiser. “We’re okay, thanks. It wasn’t a break-in, or anything else to concern the neighbourhood. More like hate mail.”
“But why?”
“Someone’s mad I asked questions about Gilles’ and my plane crash. If I wasn’t suspicious before, I would be now.”
“Oh, Amy, be careful. Keep your security system on, just in case.”
“We will. Give Dafiq a hug for me, and another one for Aunt Bay.” Amy replaced the phone. “Dafiq saw the police car.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Aunt Bay put her plate in the microwave. “It wouldn’t be overreacting to text Michael and ask how long he’ll be.”
“And if his answer reassures me that he’s okay, so much the better?”
“Naturally.”
Michael’s answer didn’t reassure either one of them. Don’t wait up. And don’t worry.
They did wait up, but Amy tried to follow Aunt Bay’s example and not worry. Finally they went to bed.
Michael came home well after midnight. Amy made herself stay in bed, but she heard Aunt Bay call out to him. He grunted something indistinct and went straight to his room, footsteps heavy.
Amy woke the next morning thick-headed and parched, with a sour taste in her mouth. Only exhaustion from the previous night had let her sleep. Whatever she’d dreamed before waking cast a heavy dread over her spirit. Dread and a fear for Michael, even though her brain knew he was home.
The house was silent. Amy flung back the covers and slid out of bed. Silent half-prayers flitted through her mind, with the more practical thought that Michael would need a good breakfast.
She was puttering in the kitchen when the alarm console by the front door beeped. Aunt Bay, deactivating it to fetch the newspaper? Moments later, Michael’s aunt walked into the room. She sniffed appreciatively. “I could get used to this.”
“There are cheese scones in the oven, and I’m about to start the bacon. How did you sleep?”
“Short and sweet. You?”
“I slept.” Amy slit the bacon package and placed the first strips on the grill. “Do you want to wait for Michael, or should I start your eggs now?”
Aunt Bay poured herself a glass of orange juice. “I’ll wait.” She settled at the table with the paper.
When Amy heard the sound of running water from upstairs, she made fresh coffee. Bacon sizzled and popped on the grill. What wasn’t eaten this morning could be crumbled in salads or added to pizza. Amy’s taste buds popped. Homemade pizza sounded good. Maybe for Sunday, when they could unwind after the open house.
A while later, Michael came in. “What’s this? I figured you two would be mad at me, and here you are, making a feast.”
His eyelids drooped, and even a shower and a shave couldn’t make him look energetic. What had Gilles’ friend said? And how could it have taken so long?
His aunt spoke first. “Amy knows you’ll talk better on a full stomach.”
Michael shoved a hand through his hair, leaving damp tufts sticking up every which way. “It was definitely sabotage. Gilles was the intended target. The man I spoke with has people he can ask for help. Until we hear from him, one of us stays with Amy at all times and we leave the alarm on, even during the day. Except for the open house, but I’m hoping to hear from him before then.”
Amy took the frying pan off the heat and shut off the burner. The eggs could wait. “There’s more to it than that. You were gone a long time.”
A strange expression crossed his face. “I can’t tell you any more.”
Amy lodged her fists on her hips. “Says who?”
“The guy. His name’s... Nathin. Nathin Ayon.” Michael scowled. “From what he said, I agree.”
Aunt Bay stood and crossed to the cabinets. “And you’re sure we can trust him?” She snagged a mug and passed it to Michael.
“Absolutely.”
A sharp scent stung Amy’s nose. She spun and grabbed a flipper just as Aunt Bay unplugged the grill. Four black shapes of what used to be bacon lay crisp and stiff. Amy chipped them up and dropped the pieces on a plate to cool before disposing of them.
Aunt Bay cranked open the window. “Michael, I don’t care how much this fellow talked, there’s no way you spent all night listening. Where were you?”
“I learned something about Gilles.” He focused on pouring his coffee. “I needed some space.”
Amy still held the flipper, and her fingers curled tighter around it. “What did you learn?”
Michael didn’t look her way. “I can’t tell you. I’m sorry.”
“He was my fiancé. I have a right to know.”
“I agree. But for now that’s how it is.”
~~~
Paintings brightened the walls throughout the main floor of the house, along with prints of all sizes, framed and unframed, on easels and display stands. Amy ran her fingers along the edge of a white, wooden frame showcasing a dew-laden spider web sparkling against a deep blue sky. If Michael pronounced his newest painting ready in the morning, they’d hang it here and move the spider’s strands to a secondary position.
Judging by the volume of his music, things weren’t going well in the studio. No wonder, after the upset of yesterday and his late night. Still, this was his biggest event of the year, and the show would go on. With or without the image of melting snow dripping from red winter berries that he felt still needed “something”.
Amy wandered through the artwork, adjusting an angle here and a display stand there. She double-checked the office. Tidy. The living room had been emptied of their personal items and turned into an intimate salon, displaying small and mid-sized prints of Michael’s originals.
Later tonight, they’d clear the kitchen. In the morning, the caterers would roll in. Amy swiped her palms on her jeans. First, dinner with a perfect stranger — her father.
She scurried upstairs to change out of her work clothes. Michael had done most of the lugging, but she’d picked up dust marks and even a stain from somewhere. She stared into her closet. What to wear, to impress a man whose opinion had her heart skittering? Objectively, it shouldn’t matter at all. Practically, it turned her into a six-year-old.
Four-thirty already. She had at least an hour, but he’d said he’d be here as soon as he could finish his meeting. Amy’s hand shot into the closet and pulled a flowing, emerald-green blouse from a hanger. She loved how the silky material felt against her skin. Sensible black pants and shoes would keep it from looking like she was trying too hard.
Amy frowned into the mirror. There wasn’t much she could do about the dark circles under her eyes. She undid the functional ponytail and gave her hair a good brushing, then let it fall free against her back.
By the time she walked downstairs, Amy had achieved a calm-and-collected look. Inside, a butterfly migration was in full swing. She poked her head into the kitchen. The roast smelled delicious. Aunt Bay stood at the sink peeling carrots.
“Or I want to go upstairs so I won’t eavesdrop. Although Michael or I will have to turn on the vegetables when it’s time.”
“Do you want me to cut up the carrots?”
“Sure. My hands are pretty good today, but why do them in?” Aunt Bay took a final swipe at the carrot in her hand, and laid it down on the cutting board.
“Sliced or diced?” Amy pulled a bib apron over her head and grabbed a hair elastic from the junk drawer.
“I was going to slice them, for a honey-ginger glaze.”
“Sliced it is.”
Aunt Bay spread an autumn-leafed cloth on the table and set out cutlery and glassware.
When Amy finished the carrots, she hung up the apron and released her hair. “Do you think this top is too much?”
“What do you think?”
Amy grinned. “I like it.”
“Then it’s perfect. And you look gorgeous. They’ll both think so.”
“They? Michael never notices what I wear.”
“Child, he’s an artist. He’s hard-wired to see beauty.” Aunt Bay’s eyes narrowed. “But as we’ve observed today, he can be very closed-mouthed.”
“Amen to that. Will you wait with me for my father, or do you have things to do?”
“Nothing I can’t do once he gets here.”
They settled in the living room, Amy watching the driveway. She tried to respond to Aunt Bay’s conversational cues, but her thoughts bounced from her father to Michael’s secret about Gilles and back.
Finally a car crept along the drive and stopped by Aunt Bay’s purple SUV. A jolt of adrenaline shot Amy from her chair. “He’s here.”
“So it would seem. I’ll get Michael, and give you a minute alone. Then if you could introduce us, we’ll fade into the woodwork until it’s time to cook those vegetables.”
Amy gave the older woman an impulsive peck on the cheek. “Thank you.”
Aunt Bay left the room first. Amy perched on the edge of her chair, waiting for the doorbell. Pulling the door open ahead of time would look too eager. She scuffed a toe against the laminate floor. After all the moving around today, leaving her cane in her room wasn’t the wisest choice. But she didn’t want to play on Neal’s sympathy. If he liked her, let it be for her strengths.
The bell pealed. Amy gulped a deep breath. The zinging sensation in her stomach had upgraded from butterfly wings to swooping birds, but she made herself walk sedately to the entrance.
The cool metal doorknob grounded her. She turned it, swung the door inward. And stood face to face with her father.
Chapter 22
Neal Williamson was taller than Amy had expected, and a bit heavier than his online photos showed. Amy’s gaze swept pale blond hair cut short around the ears, a florid complexion with a long nose that broadened at the tip. She met his eyes, blue and somewhat wary. Was he regretting this?
She stepped back to let him in. “Neal. I’m glad you came.” Her voice carried a flutter, as if one of the birds had escaped.
A cardboard cake box dangled by its strings at his right side. He set it on the floor and extended his hand. “It seems stiff to shake hands with my daughter, but shall we?”
His grip was strong, his palm dry. Not nervous after all? But he was, by the tightness around his eyes.
Amy liked his direct approach, and the slow smile that crept out of hiding when their hands clasped.
Neal picked up the cake box and offered it to Amy. “The hotel desk clerk said I couldn’t go wrong with a dessert from the Seaport Market.”
“You didn’t need to bring anything, but their bakery choices are amazing. Thank you.” Amy reached for the box.
“And I found this outside the door. A child must have dropped it.” Neal held out a fashion doll in a glittery wrap.
“That’s odd. Our neighbours have a little boy, but no girls.” Amy turned at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. “Neal, I’d like you to meet Beatrice Rockland and Michael Stratton. Michael, Aunt Bay, Neal Williamson. My father.” They knew that, but it felt good to be able to say it — to acknowledge the relationship and to not fear their judgement.
Amy watched the hand-shaking and tested the tones of their greetings. What if they didn’t like one another?
“What do you have there?” Aunt Bay’s sharp question came out of nowhere.
“Just a doll I picked up from the step. Amy says there are no little girls around, though.” Neal held it out. “I’ve heard of duct-tape dresses, but never aluminum foil.”
Michael’s aunt took it, frowning. The doll’s head popped off, long hair trailing as it bounced across the floor. Aunt Bay shrieked and jumped back.
When was the last time Aunt Bay let anything startle her? Amy tried to catch Michael’s eye, but he had ducked under an easel to retrieve the errant head.
Neal apologized. “I tried to put it back on.”
Aunt Bay stared at the slim figure in her trembling hand. “Michael?”
He handed her the head, sliding the hair through his fingers. His face had taken on the waxy tint from the other night.
Amy went rigid, limbs frozen. “It’s — me. Isn’t it? Hair like mine. Silver clothes.”
Michael took the cake box from Amy’s unresisting fingers and handed it to Aunt Bay. He pulled her into his arms in a grip that barely let her breathe.
Cold, so cold… but his warmth enveloped her. One hand pressed her head against his chest, caressed her hair. Amy caught a few of his whispered words. Praying. Michael was praying. For her. She burst into tears.
Behind her, Aunt Bay’s clipped tones informed Neal what had been happening.
His voice rose in protest. “Amy, come home with me. It’s not safe here.”
Michael’s arms crushed Amy’s ribs. He spoke over her head. “They’ll find her anywhere.”
“She’s my daughter. I want to help.”
“She’s my—”
Michael’s face pressed into Amy’s hair and his hold relaxed enough to let her breathe. Her heart banged against her ribs, so hard and fast that he had to feel it. Would he think its pace, her arms’ frantic grip, was only fear? Did she want him to know the rest, since he clearly didn’t share the emotion?
He cleared his throat. “My responsibility to keep safe.”
Whatever he’d been going to say, these words didn’t carry much clout. Amy could practically hear the electric charge of the two men’s eyes meeting over her head.
Aunt Bay’s approaching heels clicked on the tile. “That’s enough testosterone. There’ll be an officer here shortly. In the mean time, shall we sit? Amy, Neal, it’s a shame your first meeting had to be spoiled like this. You go into the living room and I’ll make us some coffee. Michael will help me.” Her tone made it an order.
It felt like Michael pressed a kiss into Amy’s hair before releasing her. Her lips twisted. Wishful thinking on her part.
Her arms didn’t want to let him go. “Thank you,” Amy whispered, drying her eyes on her sleeve. The tears turned the silky green fabric almost black.
She turned to her father, staying as close to Michael’s side as she could. “I should have told you on the phone, instead of waiting to see you in person. Thank you for not bolting straight out the door. It’s not your fight.”
His face settled into grim lines. “When you accepted me into your life, it became my fight.” He tossed out a laugh that didn’t fool anyone. “I never backed down from a scrap on the ice, and I’m too set in my ways to change now.”
A long look passed between Neal and Michael. Then Michael stepped forward, one hand trailing across Amy’s back until he lost contact. The other hand reached for Neal’s. “Then we’re on the same side.”
Neal gave a crisp nod and took his hand. “The police should t
ake this seriously now that it’s escalated to a physical threat.”
Aunt Bay huffed. “I certainly hope so. What about Gilles’ friend and his contacts?”
Michael pulled out his cell phone. “He’ll be furious. But he needs to know. Excuse me while I make this call.” He walked into the gallery.
The office door clicked shut. Did he really need that much privacy? They all knew what had happened. Amy rubbed her palms against her upper arms for warmth. “I guess now we wait for the police. Again.”
Amy led her father to the living room. She dropped into her favourite chair and elevated her leg to ease her hip. Her other foot tapped the floor.
Neal stood with his back to the window, feet wide and hands clasped behind his back. “No one knows we’re connected. Fly west and stay at my place until the authorities solve this. Come back to your job and your life here when it’s safe.”
So far away… Would absence make Michael’s heart grow fonder, or would she slip his mind entirely? “This is our busiest time of the year with exhibits and shows.”
“I’m sure they’d rather hire a fill-in worker than see you hurt.”
Amy’s toes tapped faster. “Michael said they’d find me anywhere.”
“Assuming he’s right, it would give the authorities more time to catch them first. I don’t like this contact who’ll only speak with him.”
“He started by texting me to stop asking questions. Maybe I made him mad by not cooperating.”
“Apparently you inherited a touch of my bullheadedness.” Neal rocked back and forth on his heels. “Use it wisely.”
Amy smiled. “It’s come in handy so far.”
Aunt Bay poked her head in the doorway. “Coffee’s ready, if you’re interested.”
Neal straightened. “I’ll come and get it. No need to deliver. Amy?”
“None for me, thanks.”
He returned with a mug of coffee and a tall glass of water. “Beatrice thought you might like this.”
“Thanks.” Amy cradled the glass carefully in her lap. Maybe the focus on not spilling it would slow her still-jittery pulse.
After a few false starts, Amy and Neal fell into an exchange of stories about her mother, Isobel. Neal’s memories spanned a brief time, but they helped Amy see her mother differently than she had as a child. Her own anecdotes brought smiles.
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