Robert looked into the darkness again.
The chair was empty.
He jumped up and turned on the light. There was no one in the room. He felt like an idiot. A cold idiot. The temperature in the room had dropped ten degrees at least, he was certain.
He looked at the bedside clock and groaned. Almost three a.m. He needed some sleep. Badly.
He crawled back into bed. Milo had appeared because they’d been talking about the man after imbibing killer wine. His dream apparition had told him to go to the library because Douglas had been suggesting he make sure to browse the library while they were there.
He punched his pillow, closed his eyes.
In a short while, he fell asleep again.
His imagined nocturnal visitor did not return.
At seven a.m., his alarm clock blared. Morning had come.
CHAPTER 8
The old house was crawling with people.
Douglas had always loved to entertain, so through the years the house had often been full. But never as it was today. Brad was there, of course. And there were still photographers, videographers, lighting men, a director, a woman who was responsible for continuity, wardrobe and makeup people, and a set designer. Jillian had been to ad shoots before, but she’d never seen anything this complicated. Nor had she been the object of such attention before.
The gown for the first shoot was beautiful. A deep dark crimson with a brocade bodice, flowing sleeves and a silk skirt. She was posed on one of the old carved wood entry benches that might have come from any century, from medieval times to the present. She posed once with her hair done in braids, then free, with stockings and shoes, without shoes, even barefoot. They shot stills first, with just her. A young man continually dabbed powder on her nose and cheeks. Snow lay deeply on the ground outside, but beneath the lights, it was hot.
Brad, Daniel, Theo, Griff and Eileen stood in a little huddle, with Eileen directing the photographers, Brad directing her, and the group of them discussing every little movement. Douglas was there, the faithful Amelia by his side, but he kept his distance, letting the others take the bit for this campaign and run with it.
Robert wasn’t there—not until he appeared in black, form-hugging leather pants and a puffed sleeve, V-necked shirt. He, like the carved wooden bench—and herself, she imagined—were suggestive of the magic of a distant past. He smiled at her awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable with his role but game to try it. She smiled, seeing him arrive.
Brad directed Robert into a position on his knees in front of Jillian. The photographer moved him. Eileen moved him. The photographer moved him again. Shots were taken, he was adjusted, she was adjusted. More powder was puffed on their faces, they were moved yet again, Jillian’s hair was smoothed; the makeup woman fussed over Robert.
They took a break while the video cameras were set up. They were both given a line, the same line, since it had been decided that the commercials, each thirty seconds, would be a bit different, but all with the same look, the same feel. The line was “Llewellyn jewels, as timeless as love itself.”
The first commercial had Robert walking into the room with a locket, saying the line as he approached Jillian, and slipped the locket around her neck. For the second spot, he set the locket around her neck, and she looked into the camera and said the line.
Simple.
It took most of the afternoon. First Robert gave a perfect reading, but something was wrong with the placement of a light and their faces wound up in shadow. The second take, he tripped over a wire as he entered. The next time, Jillian found herself blowing it, nearly sliding off the sofa as she leaned forward to receive the locket. She nearly landed on top of him. They looked at one another and laughed; Eileen sighed with impatience.
They started again.
Jillian didn’t mind. It was tedious. Hot. Difficult to hold certain positions. But it was fun, as well. Fun to work with Robert. To see the light in his eyes as they patiently waited, while Griff and Eileen argued a point. Each time he fitted the locket around her neck, she felt the brush of his fingers, the warmth of being near him. At times the room seemed to fade away. She forgot what they were doing. It seemed to be something that had really happened, his eyes on hers, that touch around her neck. The sensation when he touched her….
Deeper than time.
“As timeless as love itself.”
It had been his turn. She frowned, certain he had said something else.
I will always be there for you.
“That’s not it—” she began.
“Cut! Jillian,” Eileen said, aggravated, “he was perfect.”
“What?”
“He was perfect.”
He was looking at her, puzzled, as well, deep blue eyes studying her. So close. Apparently he hadn’t said anything wrong, after all.
Suddenly she felt like drawing in. Getting away from him.
He had lied to her, made promises, failed her….
“Can we please start over?” Daniel called.
“What’s wrong?” Robert asked her softly, while the makeup people performed yet another touch-up.
She shook her head. “Nothing. Sorry. Really.”
She felt again the deep tremor of his voice against her senses, the touch of his fingers on her flesh, and it was disturbing. She felt the fierce desire to be with him, that it was right to be with him, while also feeling that she should run. Far and fast.
The day wore on. She didn’t imagine the wrong words coming from his lips. Once again she fell into the mood of the work, and her every movement with Robert seemed nearly perfect, as they willingly tried everything the director suggested.
At last they broke. A round of applause went around the room, started by Douglas himself.
“We’re done?” Jillian enquired.
“For now,” Daniel said. “We’ve got some recording to do. And I’ll need to take a look at the stills and see the film when it’s been edited to make some final choices—but you’re done.”
“Great,” Jillian murmured.
“Eileen, Griff, you’re up now.”
There were to be two voiceovers, Jillian discovered. She watched as the sound men went to work. Eileen did the first. “This Christmas, make it a gift that lasts forever.” Griff did the second, so they could mix the male and female voices.
Jillian watched for a while, then murmured that she was going up to take a shower.
She ran the water very hot and scrubbed studiously. She had never felt her face more packed with makeup. The shower pulsed down on her deliciously, and she stood beneath the spray, wondering why she was trying to find something wrong when it felt as if everything should be so right.
“I need a psychologist,” she murmured. “Or a psychiatrist. I can just lie on a couch and say, ‘I’ve met the most perfect man, and it’s the most wonderful, complete feeling in the world to be with him. He’s the greatest Christmas gift ever, and still…he makes me feel as if I should run. Guilt feelings, you say? Because my husband has been dead only a year? No, I don’t think so, you see, because he was my best friend and a truly generous person, and I know he would want me to be happy. No, that’s not just something I’m saying to convince myself. But I do think I’m a bit crazy, totally losing my mind.’”
She turned off the water, really worried for a moment. She could have sworn he’d said words he didn’t say. A roomful of people had heard the line correctly, and she had heard something else entirely.
She dressed in comfortable jeans and a sweater, and headed downstairs. To her amazement, the parlor where they had been working was almost empty, except for Henry and piles of boxes. He was opening them, the look on his old face pleased and peaceful.
“Ah, there you are, Jillian. It’s a good thing the water heaters here can supply an army.”
“Where is everyone? Was I that long?”
“You were. And, let’s see…Agatha is seeing to the roast, your grandfather is resting, the camera crews have gone home, and
the young folks, most of them, I believe, are out sledding.”
“Down Dead Horse Hill?” she asked. The hill behind the house was so named, they all assumed, because the climb was steep and might just kill horses trying to reach the top with a heavy load. Not that horses had been used to climb the hill in many years, although a few cars had been known to slide back down it when reckless drivers ventured out too quickly after an ice storm. It was a wonderful place for sledding; they had all gone there ever since they were little kids. Growing up hadn’t changed the pleasure of sliding over the snow with the wind in their faces, freezing their noses.
“Dead Horse Hill,” he agreed. “Ah, here’s the box with the singing ducks.”
She gave a little cry of delight, diving in to help Henry. They carefully took out the ducks. Carved of wood and dressed in Dickens fashion, they had songbooks held in their little duck hands. There were ten ducks, and they stretched across the mantel. When wound, they played ten different Christmas carols, with a different duck taking the solo each time. It was one of her favorite pieces.
“Let’s set these guys up first,” she said.
“You should join the others and do some sledding before dinner,” Henry advised. “Have some fun.”
“I love to decorate for Christmas with you, Henry. You know that.”
“You’d have more fun with people your own age,” he told her gravely.
She smiled. “We’ll do the ducks, then I’ll head on out.”
Henry helped her, and they arranged the duck band on the mantel. They looked lonely, so she took a few minutes to put one of the beautifully crafted silver wreaths above them on the mirror.
“It’s beginning to look like Christmas,” she said, pleased. She loved Christmas. She had loved it all her life. As it came closer each year, she felt anxious. Especially when she was a child, she’d been afraid that Christmas would come but she wouldn’t…make it.
Last year Milo had been the one who hadn’t made it, she thought. She bit her lower lip. They’d been here last year at this time. First, just her and Milo, Agatha and Jimmy, the groundskeeper and all-around manager of the house and the stables they kept for Tangerine, Blossom, Cream, Igloo and Crystal. Douglas had purchased the horses years ago when he had determined that his young progeny should all learn to ride.
Then her grandfather had joined them.
Milo had loved the horses. The weather hadn’t been so bad last year; in fact, November had been mild. He had watched the horses from his window when he became too ill to leave his bed. “Strange, isn’t it?” he asked her once. “I never rode, but I feel that I know how, that I could leap on old Blossom and ride off into the sunset.”
“You wouldn’t run very fast,” she had tried to joke. “Blossom is pretty old now. And very slow.”
He’d curled his fingers around hers. And she had known that he was smiling.
And then…
It hadn’t been that much longer, and he had died.
They had all come then. Her family. And Connie and Joe. Even Amelia and Gracie Janner.
“It’s nearly dark,” Henry warned. “We can do more Christmas tonight. Agatha can make hot chocolate, we’ll make popcorn, play Christmas carols…you go on out now. Play. Be young.”
“Henry, you’re not so old.”
“I’m young at heart, like Douglas, but my old bones are beginning to creak, and that’s a fact. Go on now.”
She kissed him on the cheek and went into the large hall closet for a good snow jacket and pair of boots. Gloved, booted and decked out for the cold, she left the house.
* * *
For half an hour Robert had gone sledding with the others. It had been fun. The snow was perfect, fresh and clean. Here, far from the city, it didn’t turn to slush so fast. There were plenty of sleds, small and large, but the Llewellyns tended to like to take individual runs. Even Eileen was shrieking like a kid, going for a running start and taking the hill at top speed.
She loved to try to beat Gary, but her fiancé seemed to take it in stride and hold his own.
At the foot of the hill was a small white wooden fence. Daniel mentioned that Douglas had had the fence constructed when he heard of an accident on a similar hill in which sleds had shot out into the road and people had been killed. “This way, if we get too rambunctious, we only break a few bones,” Daniel said with a grin.
Both Connie and Gracie Janner seemed more hesitant than the others. Naturally. They hadn’t grown up here and didn’t know the hill so well. Not like the Llewellyns, who competed avidly with one another.
Gracie rode with Daniel the first time, and Robert wondered idly if Daniel was aware of the terrible crush his secretary had on him. None of his business. Joe had disappeared, so Daniel offered to take Connie down until she got used to the feel of the hill. Gracie watched like a first-grader sent to the corner on a time-out, but Connie was oblivious, shrieking with delight all the way down.
After a few runs, Robert asked about the stables. Daniel told him that there were plenty of horses, all good riding except for Blossom, who was in retirement.
“If you feel like taking a ride, I’d go for Crystal. He’s well mannered, an Arab-quarter-horse mix, with beautiful gaits and sure feet in the snow. If you need help with anything, Jimmy handles the horses and the grounds. His apartment is at the far end of the stables. He’ll be watching his soaps—he tapes the shows during the week and watches them all on Saturdays. He’ll be happy to give you a hand, though.”
“I’ll try not to bother Jimmy,” Robert told him. “But I may just go for a ride.”
“Head across from the house. There are miles of hills and fields, and nothing to worry about under the snow.”
“Thanks.”
Jillian still hadn’t come out. He thought about going back to the house to see if she wanted to join him, but he had still more or less promised to keep a distance, so it might be better if he just went out alone.
He had no difficulty finding Crystal, since all the stalls had engraved nameplates for their occupants. He spent a few minutes studying each of the horses—all healthy and handsome animals. Igloo had been named for his slightly mottled white coloring, Robert was certain, just as Cream had been named for hers. Tangerine was a palomino. Blossom was nearly the size of a Clydesdale. Crystal was almost silver, his size had come from his quarter-horse half, for he was well over sixteen hands high. He had a handsome face and bay coloring, and the facial dip and body structure of an Arab. “Well, fellow, want to explore?” Robert enquired.
There was no need for him to bother anyone for assistance—Jimmy could enjoy his soaps uninterrupted. The Llewellyn tack room was like everything else Douglas Llewellyn owned and controlled—perfectly organized. Bridles hung on the wall, and saddles and saddle blankets rode sawhorses, each item neatly labeled to indicate which horse it belonged to.
Crystal seemed eager for an outing, standing tolerantly still while Robert slipped on his bridle and tightened the girth. He led the animal out of the stables and mounted up.
Soon he had crossed the road and come to open territory. Crystal did have smooth gaits, and he was ready to run. For ten minutes they raced, plowing up snow, tearing up the earth underneath. The wind was a wild rush. It felt great.
Still, he slowed the horse after a while, turning back at a smooth lope, trotting, walking. Crystal was a fine animal.
He loved to ride. Living in the city, he had given up on the idea of buying a horse, something he had wanted to do since he was a kid. He’d always loved horses, and riding had been natural for him from the time he’d been very young.
Unlike the Llewellyns, though, he had not grown up in the lap of luxury. He had a great family, had gotten lots of wonderful encouragement, but he lacked anything like the Llewellyn money. His father had told him that the first American Marston had come to the United States with a Scottish regiment in the British Army, fighting against the colonists. When the British had lost the war, they had deserted many of thei
r Scottish companies, and that Marston had become a passionate American. Marstons were proud, and certain of their own lineage—but they hadn’t left the old country with anything but the clothes they wore and the weapons they carried.
Robert had paid for college by going into the Service. From both, he’d learned a lot.
But not a lot about the foolishness of riding in unknown territory when it was nearly dark, he told himself ruefully. He had taken the route Daniel had suggested, but the countryside didn’t come with streetlights.
Heading back, he crested a hill and paused. He could see the lights of the Llewellyn property, the house lights and those illuminating the grounds. Dead Horse Hill was clearly visible against the coming dusk. He could still see the group sledding. By squinting, he could pick out who was who. Eileen was still at it, challenging someone to a race.
Jillian.
She was bundled up, but her reddish-gold hair was still discernible beneath her hat. She was laughing at Eileen, responding to the challenge. Connie and the others were encouraging the contestants. Their camaraderie made him smile where he sat, watching. They were a close group—a closed group, in their way. He was the outsider.
But he’d been hired to watch….
Something disturbed him about the scene. He wasn’t sure what, but as he watched, his smile of amusement faded. His eyes wandered down, and he saw suddenly that there was a huge gap in the fencing at the foot of the hill, right where Jillian would be heading.
She would stop before then, surely. Except that she was racing, building up speed and momentum and…
There was a car coming. No, a truck. He heard the vehicle sweep onto the curving road that fronted the estate and lay between him and them.
Surely Jillian would stop in plenty of time.
But…Douglas had had the fence built because people had been killed by sledding onto a road.
“Stop!” He roared out the warning, but too late. Both women had leapt onto their sleds and started down the hill.
He didn’t think; he simply kneed Crystal and went flying across the field, the wind whipping by him.
A Season of Miracles Page 13