For All of Her Life

by Heather Graham

  She still didn’t know exactly why.

  Or did she?

  Maybe she still loved him. Somewhere, deep inside her. And maybe she couldn’t bear to see that tension still in him.

  “Tomorrow. I fly back tomorrow,” he said.

  “No business in the city?”

  He shook his head. “Just you.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  He grinned. “You should be.” He leaned forward suddenly, taking her hands. “Kath, thank you,” he said softly.

  Oh, God. This was a Jordan she knew well, too. He could rant, he could rave, he could demand that things be done his way. But he’d always given credit to others, and he’d always been quick to apologize, quicker still to give thanks when he thought it was due.

  She wanted to snatch her hands away, take them from that enveloping warmth she knew too well. In the shadows, she still knew exactly what his hands looked like. Very long, the palms large, fitting the man; his fingers slim and yet powerful. The fingers of a natural musician. His nails would be bluntly cut, clean, even. Once upon a time, he would have touched her cheek next, leaned closer to her, kissed her lips...

  Damn! How could this seem so natural, so easy, when ten years had passed.

  She managed to draw her hands from his, cursing the shadows yet thankful for them. She couldn’t read his eyes, neither could he see what lay within her own.

  The limo had stopped, she realized. They were back at her condo.

  The driver opened the door. Jordan thanked him, helped Kathy out. They started for the street door, but before they reached it, there was a sudden flurry of blinding activity.

  “Dad!” The shriek came in unison from the two young women emerging from the doorway.

  Alex and Bren. Kathy stood back, watching her daughters, seeing the joy on their faces as they greeted their father. She realized with a pang that though they loved her dearly and were happy to have spent most of their growing-up time with her, they adored their father as well.

  And time with him was something precious.

  They are grown now, she thought. And still, they are their father’s little girls.

  Alex, Kathy’s own height but absolutely her father’s image. She had Jordan’s sandy hair, his lime green eyes, his way of cocking his head. Her personality, as well, was more her father’s. She was determined, and she was an artist. She meant to storm the world as a photographer, but more than that, she loved photography as an art, loved the play of light on a subject, the contrast of colors, the beauty of a sunset, the poignancy in the face of a lonely child.

  People had liked to tease Kathy by saying there had been a dead-even splitting of genes when she and Jordan had decided to procreate. Bren, with her whiskey eyes and deep red-brown hair, was even taller than her sister and mother, nearly five-nine, and slim as a reed. Like Kathy, she loved books. Alex had to be coaxed into studying; she had made it through high school with mediocre grades, then scored miraculously high on the SATs. Bren, who would stay up all night with her books, had scored only moderately on the college boards, but her grades were among the highest in her class.

  Kathy was incredibly proud of both of them.

  Even if they were fawning over Jordan with such enthusiasm it was almost nauseating.

  “Mom!” Alex said, at last seeming to realize that Kathy had emerged from the limo as well. She looked just a little bit uneasy, as well she should, since she was aware that her mother now had some idea of what she had been doing.

  “Mom!” Bren echoed, still arm in arm with her father, but smiling broadly at Kathy. “You guys had dinner together? How great.”

  “Just dinner—” Kathy began.

  “What a perfectly civil thing to do!” Bren exclaimed, grinning.

  “Wonderfully civil,” Kathy said dryly.

  “We didn’t throw a single piece of food at one another,” Jordan said somberly.

  “Dad!” Alex groaned, and elbowed him in the ribs.

  “See, she did let you in,” Bren murmured.

  “Barely. She belted me on the head and slammed the door in my face.”

  “Oh, Dad!” Bren giggled.

  “Then the police came.”

  Both girls giggled. “Oh, you two!” Alex sighed, not believing a word of what he had said.

  Jordan shrugged, looking at Kathy.

  Enough. He was going to fly back home tomorrow morning to Miss April. And Kathy—Kathy was going to remain civil. The events of this night had played havoc with her soul, and she was going to have to learn to be both very careful and very hard.

  “I know you three will want to visit,” she said lightly, “but I do have to go to work tomorrow. I’m going up.”

  “We’ll all go up!” Alex said cheerfully.

  They all followed her into the building’s lobby, where they greeted James who, Kathy was glad to see, now had the good grace to appear very sheepish. Except that he was quick to grin when Bren tried to introduce him to her father, and he assured her he’d already had the “honor.”

  The light in the elevator seemed blinding. Kathy wondered if she might not look a hundred years old beneath it, and she could feel the three of them staring at her the whole way up. “Mom, have you agreed to come to Florida—?” Bren began.

  “Mom, you’ve got to, please? Twenty-one is a major event in a person’s life. Please, you’ve got to come for me,” Alex insisted, breaking in on her sister.

  “Mother—” Bren began anew, ready with her own pitch.

  “She’s agreed,” Jordan said.

  “What?” the girls cried.

  The elevator opened on Kathy’s floor. She walked out, heading for her door, pulling out her key.

  “Mother!” Alex insisted.

  “Well?” Bren demanded.

  With the door unlocked, Kathy spun around. “Will you all please hush up out here in the hall? Other people might be sleeping?”

  The girls quieted quickly, and Kathy stepped on into her apartment, followed by them and then Jordan. She looked at him, reminding herself that she was going to be perfectly civil. And dignified. Dignity was in order now.

  “Yes, I’ve agreed to come to Florida. But I really do have to work tomorrow.”

  “But, Mom, Dad’s just come—” Bren began.

  “And I think that’s fine, and I want you to enjoy him. Jordan, please feel free to stay as late as you wish. The three of you talking out here won’t disturb me in the least. Have a nice night, you’ve just got to excuse me.”

  “Of course!” Bren murmured, and came to kiss her good night. Alex followed her sister. They both hugged her extra warmly.

  Dignity had its own rewards.

  But still she felt Jordan’s eyes on her.

  “Thanks, Kath,” he called to her. That voice. That damned voice was his. Husky. Rich. Somehow sensual even with such simple words.

  “Sure,” she said. They stood a room apart. She wasn’t going anywhere near him again. He had his own dignity. And she still had to admit, he looked damn good. Tall, straight. Handsome.

  Why couldn’t he be decently decayed? His face seemed all the more arresting. Hard to draw her gaze from him now.

  “Good night,” she said firmly.

  The word echoed back to her from all three.

  She turned quickly to head for her room.

  And she felt his eyes on her all the way. Felt a very strange warmth. Felt again, or sensed, his tension.

  And something more...

  What? Oh, dear God, just what was in that gaze? What was it she sensed but just couldn’t touch?

  Five

  JORDAN STOOD IN THE darkness, looking out the windows of his Plaza suite. The rooms were beautifully situated, offering a view of Central Park and of the avenue below. It was very late, but New York was never really in darkness, nor did the city bow to night and sleep. There were still horse-drawn carriages below. Their drivers, some of them garishly dressed, approached the tourist-types who embraced the mood of the city and s
till walked the streets, most of them now returning to posh parkside lodgings. Taxis still moved about, delivering their fares to various hotels. Occasionally a sleek limo swept along the street. Far across from him Jordan could see the large windows of FAO Schwarz, a delightful dazzle of color guaranteed to fascinate every child—and to entice adults as well. Tiffany was near, as were a multitude of high-priced and trendy stores. This was one of the best areas of the city, but not so far away some of the homeless were sleeping in doorways while junkies were making their buys. Gangs were busy stealing the streets from the innocents. Heat swept up from the subways to add to the summer haze caught between the walls of concrete and steel, despite the fact that it was night and the sun had fallen. New York. He’d loved the city. Loved to come here, go to the theater, hear good music, and enjoy the bustle and the unending flow of humanity as diverse as could be found anywhere in the world.

  He’d avoided New York, though, for the past ten years. Because Kathy had run away from him and come here.

  Staring out at the park, it was too easy to remember the first time they had come here together. She’d never been out of the far South, had never seen fall before. When they’d walked in the park, she’d worn her first pair of gloves, along with a friend’s old lambskin jacket. “It’s autumn, Jordan!” she’d told him, completely exuberant as she scooped up a pile of red and yellow leaves—along with some hardened carriage-horse droppings.

  “Kathy, some of it is autumn. Some of it is horse manure!” He could still remember the face she had made at him, and the way they had laughed, and rolled in the leaves.

  So long ago. Strange, he’d been the serious one then, the down-to-earth one. She’d been so quick to explore, to laugh. Blue Heron had already existed at a much smaller level—just Keith on drums, Derrick Flanaghan on bass, Kathy as backup, and himself on lead guitar. But he’d wanted to study music. He’d wanted all the background he could take in—not just to play and hope for a fleeting popularity, but to create with all his life. His father, who’d spent much of his young life playing bars on Miami Beach and cruise ships, had taught him, encouraged him—and warned him. “Get the education, too, my boy. Life plays funny games. Suppose you do get rich and famous, eh, son? You’ll want to handle that money properly, you’ll want to know where to travel. You’ll want to know about the world, maybe—where you can give a hand, where you can’t.” So he had been serious in school, and Kathy—though she’d had an incredible flair for learning from the early cradle, he was certain—had taken the world much more lightly then. They’d been students, in their senior year at Florida State, but they’d married the year before and come up to stay with one of Kathy’s aunts, an artist living a wonderfully Bohemian life in Soho.

  The first snows had fallen while they had been in the city. They had both smoked in those days and Kathy had set the finger of her glove on fire when she had tried to light his Marlboro for him. They’d both ripped the glove off her hand, had crashed into one another while stomping on it and had laughed and rolled in the snow and made love in her aunt’s little rooftop garret.

  Sometimes it was surprising that she had run to New York to get away from him. But then, he had kept his main residence on Star Island, and there memories had never left him alone. She had remained in every room. She had decorated the place, and she had done so beautifully. Certain rooms had an Oriental flair, others were completely Early American. The patio area was done in Art Deco, with fascinating lamps, furniture, and ashtrays. The paintings on the walls reflected the period furnishings. She had made the home a show-place when they’d barely had the money to keep it, and later, when they’d hit big—she’d been able to really indulge her taste for art.

  But Kathy had left behind everything that had been hers, everything she had loved. He didn’t know just what his feelings had been at first, but shock had been a part of them; his pride had been severely wounded, and he’d been bitter. So much so that he’d assured his lawyers he wanted no waiting time since reconciliation was out of the question, she could have had almost anything she wanted as long as they got it all settled as quickly as possible. She hadn’t wanted anything. So fifteen years of marriage had ended in a matter of weeks. Amazing. He’d been even more shocked. And bitter. He’d always known he could be difficult, but she’d managed to cope with that before. He’d known there had been times when she hadn’t felt secure anymore, but he hadn’t been able to assure her.

  He’d never gotten past the night of the fire...

  Because he hadn’t known what she had known. He hadn’t known whether she had been with Keith the night he had died, whether she had kept silent because they’d been arguing so fiercely... and because Keith had actually been the subject of a few of those arguments. He just hadn’t known if she had...

  Killed Keith? He taunted himself. He didn’t believe that, not for a second. In fact, he didn’t know that anyone had killed Keith. Keith had taken barbiturates. They had rendered him unconscious. The doctor had said the smoke had killed him before he’d burned, that the drugs hadn’t brought about his demise. Still, the scandal had rocked them all. Hurt, betrayed, they were anguished by the loss.

  All of them. So it had appeared. Stunned. In pain. Even the figure Jordan had seen running to the guest house just moments before the fire had consumed it? The figure no one else believed existed.

  Or admitted to being...

  The figure he had thought at first to be his wife.

  He closed his eyes in the darkness of the room, hoping to lock out a sudden onslaught of pain that should have died over ten years ago with his friend. Nothing had been clear; everyone had been fighting. At the inquest, he had stated that he was certain he had seen someone running to the guest house from the main house. No one had supported him; no one had believed him. Because the only people staying at the main house had been members of Blue Heron, their spouses and children, or employees Jordan would have trusted with his own life and the lives of his family members.

  Everyone had talked of last seeing Keith alive. Then Jordan had to come out with what he’d seen. Because Keith had died that night. Because he had to know if Kathy had been running to Keith—and why. He’d asked her pointblank if it had been her, and she’d denied it, reminding him that she had been there when he’d been about to burst into the fire. He’d believed her. He’d claimed to believe her. But no one else had come forward. And so the doubts had haunted him, and to this day...

  ...He didn’t know.

  The attorneys had told him he was overwrought. He had doubted his own sanity. Indeed, he had backed Kathy into a wall, though she had never understood just quite what it was he meant to shake from her—he hadn’t known himself. He’d been afraid to voice his worst suspicion—that his best friend had been murdered. Not that he wouldn’t have made a prime suspect himself. He’d argued constantly with Keith. Theirs had been a truly strange friendship, because he had loved his talented friend like a brother, and because, most of the time, they had been almost as close as blood kin.

  But Jordan had also been irritated by Keith at times. Jealous, maybe, because Keith and Kathy had also shared a special relationship. Sometimes, he’d been afraid it had been more. At the end, he hadn’t known. His doubts were what had destroyed the friendship. But there had been more, of course. One of their major arguments had been over drugs. They’d nearly gone to jail in France because cocaine had been found in one of Keith’s drums. Jordan had hit the roof, but Keith had adamantly denied that he’d tried to smuggle cocaine through customs. Hard to believe, when he didn’t argue the fact that he found nothing wrong with a high now and then, but their lawyers had somehow managed to get the charges dropped. Shelley and Kathy had stood up for Keith, Judy had said flat-out that he should be thrown out of the group, Derrick hadn’t been given much of a chance to express an opinion. Larry Haley had turned thumbs down on his friend, while Miles had been supportive. Miles always went along with Shelley. Strange, Jordan had always thought Miles was in love with Shel
ley, but in all the years the group had been together, and in all the years they had been apart, the two hadn’t become a pair.

  It had been amazing. Keith’s death had first made them all incredibly close. Then they had split apart, as if unable to bear one another any longer.

  Because something hadn’t been right that night.

  He’d quit trying to talk to the police because he hadn’t known for sure if there had been anything to prove. All he knew now for certain was that he thought he’d seen a figure running to the guest house just a few minutes before flames had enveloped it. No remains other than Keith’s had been found in the ashes. After the inquest, he’d kept his silence because he hadn’t been certain—and because he hadn’t been able to bring himself to believe that any of those present would have done anything to hurt Keith.

  Much less kill him.

  But now he knew. The first time talk of a screenplay being written on Blue Heron had appeared in print, he’d gotten a call at the Miami Beach studio, like something out of a thirties movie. A voice, muffled by some kind of thick material, coming through as neither male nor female, had given him warning. “Don’t let a movie be made; don’t let the group come back together.”

  “Who the hell is this?” he’d inquired, annoyed rather than frightened.

  He’d been met by silence, then the voice had informed him, “Just do as I say!”

  He’d never liked being threatened, and he was far more irritated than frightened by the call. He’d started to tell the caller just what to do with himself when a loud click in his ear let him know that whoever it was had gone.

  Though he’d remained more annoyed than anything else, he’d been a little disturbed. That evening he’d called the phone company and arranged to have caller identification added to his home phones. It had been a hoax, he was sure, but it didn’t hurt to know who was playing games.

  He’d been at a local restaurant when the next call had come. It had been even stranger. “Let the dead stay buried.”