Primitive Secrets

by Deborah Turrell Atkinson

  Storm was filling in what blanks she could on the Unimed application when Meredith Wo rapped once on the door and burst in without waiting for a response. “Have you got that application filled, yet?”

  “I’m working on it right now.”

  “What is taking so long? Storm, if you’re going to be anything other than a pencil pusher, you’ve got to take some initiative. Fill in the goddamn blanks.” Meredith paused for a breath and stood with her hands stiff at her sides, fingers splayed. Her face was covered with a sweaty sheen. “You tell those pimply-assed anal-retentives down at the Department of Health what you expect from them. Today!” Wo sprayed the words across the room. What was all this? Could Unimed be threatening to transfer its business to another firm?

  Wo would have flounced out the door and left her derision ringing in Storm’s small office, but she caught her high heel on a loop of carpet. It was just enough time for Storm to speak up, with such calm strength in her voice that she surprised herself. Wo stopped dead in her tracks, though she jerked her foot about a bit.

  “Meredith, think of the government like an elephant who’s lying on your car keys. You have to give it peanuts to get it to move. It works better than pushing.”

  Wo’s eyes narrowed. She opened and closed her mouth once, then turned on her heel.

  When Wo was out of sight, Storm let out a pent-up breath. That was no fun at all. However, she was proud of remembering one of Uncle Miles’s lessons, especially when she needed it. Perhaps other confrontational types would back down when faced with calm strength, too. Of course, Uncle Miles had had a wonderful intuition about people. And she, the perpetual hothead, had finally had enough presence of mind to try it. Of course, that loose thread on the carpet had helped, too.

  Storm rubbed her face. The implacable front may have worked this time, but she hoped the confrontation wouldn’t come back to haunt her. Meanwhile, she had to get through a stack of files before she went home this evening. And it was already well after three.

  Over an hour and most of the pile later, Storm responded to a tap on her door. “Come in,” she said.

  Hamlin stuck his head in. “I wanted to get your take on that guy who’s suing the supermarket.”

  “That maggot? Don’t tell me you’re thinking of taking the case.”

  “Someone else will if I don’t.”

  “Yeah, well, let ‘em. Hamlin, maybe I’m just naive, but I wouldn’t want to wake up and know I helped a guy like that rape the system.”

  “Why did I think you’d say that?” He leaned against the door frame.

  “Cause you thought the same thing?”

  “I suppose.” Hamlin shook his head in mock resignation. “Hey, how did things go with Martin?”

  Storm put her pen down with a thud. “He canceled on me. Hamlin, it’s not like him to do that.” Her forehead creased with concern. “Could we call DeLario?”

  Hamlin came in and sat down. “Don’t you think it’s a better idea to let him contact you when the hurt wears off?”

  “Look, Martin used to force me to talk to him when I was upset. And it helped. I’m at least going to try to get in touch with him.”

  Hamlin winced. “This is different than a teen-age snit. How do you think Hamasaki reacted when he found out Martin was gay?”

  “Snit?” Storm glared at Hamlin, then took a deep breath and sat back. “I’m glad I wasn’t around for that confrontation. He probably lectured him, told him it was a choice.” She grimaced. “It would have driven Martin up the wall.” She glowered again. “f Hamasaki knew.”

  Hamlin ignored her last comment. “That’s what I thought, too.” He got up to leave. “How about if I call Chris and try to arrange a get-together?”

  Storm held out her phone. Hamlin shook his head. “I’ll have better luck in an hour or two.”

  Storm watched him go. He was more protective of DeLario than most guys were of their brothers. Hamlin probably finished his undergraduate training twenty-plus years ago. Most roommates lost track of each other in graduate school; the close ones sent Christmas cards across the continent once a year.

  Storm finished her paperwork and took the stack to Wang’s office. His secretary waved her in.

  “I’ve got a meeting with Sherwood Overton in five minutes,” he said when he looked up from some papers on his desk. Storm couldn’t read the expression in his eyes because of the reflection of his desk lamp in his thick-lensed glasses. “I’ll try and get the answers to your questions. Meredith gave me your list.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Wang.”

  On the way back to her office, Storm turned at the soft sound of splintering wood and saw carpenters prying the brass plaque from Hamasaki’s door. One of them smoothed putty into the screw holes; a can of wood stain sat on the floor.

  Storm dashed down the hall, closed her door, and dialed the Hamasaki household. “Hi, Aunt Bitsy? Some workmen are taking Uncle Miles’s name off the door.”

  “I know, darling. Edwin told me that they needed the office space.” Her voice was low and resigned.

  “We haven’t even gone through his things.”

  “I know, we’ll have to get to it. One of the partners has her eye on it.” Aunt Bitsy emphasized the word “her.” She always had thought Meredith was too pushy.

  “When does Wang want the room available?”

  “By next Monday. He was very polite about it, Storm. I got the feeling he didn’t want to do it, but as managing partner, he’s stuck with the dirty work. I think it’s just hard for us to accept that Miles is not coming back.”

  “It is for me.” Storm fought to keep her voice steady.

  “Me, too. But we’ve got to face it,” Aunt Bitsy said. “Let’s see if we can get a truck and move the furniture in the next day or two. I want to be sure some of the prints on the wall stay in the family. They’re quite valuable. And he’d like you to have some of his wonderful old books. Is there any chance you could go through the files before then? Save anything that pertains to the house or estate for me and keep the legal ones for yourself. Throw out the rest. I don’t think I could stand….” This time, Aunt Bitsy’s voice shook. “I’d really appreciate it, dear. And I’ll ask the other kids to reserve some time to help move the heavy things.”

  Storm hung up and walked back down the corridor to Hamasaki’s office, but the door was locked and smelled of fresh varnish. The locks had been changed, too. Her old key to the office was useless, even though the room was still filled with Hamasaki’s things. Storm jerked on the shiny new doorknob and drew back her foot. “Damn them!” she muttered. A noise behind her stopped her from shattering her toe and any remaining dignity.

  Diane, Wang’s secretary, was locking the door to their office. “If you don’t tell anyone, I’ll give you the key,” she whispered. “Ms. Wo shouldn’t have had the lock changed so soon.” She glanced down the hallway. “Mr. Wang can’t say no to her.”

  Storm felt her face flush. “Thanks, I’d appreciate it. I’ll start getting his things out of the office after work tomorrow.”

  When she returned to her office, she slumped into her chair. Tears burned her eyes and she took a couple of deep breaths.

  When the phone rang, she picked it up slowly. “Yes?”

  A pause responded to her lugubrious greeting. Then a syrupy voice began, “This is Dr. Edelstein’s office. Your internist, Dr. O’Toole, referred you for grief management.”

  “What?” Storm sat up straight in her chair.

  “We’d like to schedule you for tomorrow morning at nine.”

  “Wait a minute. O’Toole isn’t my internist.”

  “You’ll have to take that up with Dr. O’Toole. Hold on please.”

  A new-age guitar arrangement of “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head” played in Storm’s ear. Right as she was about to slam the receiver down, a man’s voice came on. “Now, young lady. Plenty of normal people bene
fit—”

  “Are you Dr. Edelstein?”

  “Yes, and we have arranged an appointment for you that—”

  “Dr. Edelstein, there’s some confusion.”

  “Confusion is part of the problem. Depression skews your whole perspective.”

  “Listen to me, Edelstein. I am not—”

  “Unless you let us help—”

  “Depressed!” Storm crashed the receiver down. She launched to her feet and stomped across the room to the window. Her breath steamed the glass. If Edelstein or O’Toole had been in the room, she would have breathed fire.

  The sound of a clearing throat caused her to turn.

  Hamlin was peering around the doorframe. “Care to go out for a little hot spiced Valium?”

  “What?” Storm snapped, then sagged against the window frame. “You heard that?”

  “I think the stevedores down on the docks heard.” Hamlin tiptoed to her window and made a show of looking down to the street. “They’re cheering for you.”

  Storm couldn’t stand it; her scowl cracked into a smile. “What’s with him? What did Hamasaki see in O’Toole, anyway?”

  “A depraved friend makes a guy feel better about himself, didn’t you know?” Hamlin said. “O’Toole needed him.”

  She looked at him for a moment. “If we can substitute a good red wine for that Valium, I’ll take you up on it.”

  “Now that sounds like a reasonable woman.” He plopped some papers onto her desk, then tucked her arm into his and steered her down the hall.

  “What’s the rush?” Storm asked. “You think the men in white coats are coming?”

  Hamlin squeezed her arm. “Hell, no. Edelstein wants nice, placid neurotics who pay their bills on time.”

  Storm threw back her head and laughed. In the elevator, they collapsed against the walls in stitches. When the elevator stopped on the fourth floor, two potential riders stared at the howling couple. They let the doors close. You never know these days.

  Chapter 27

  They were still chuckling when Hamlin led her into a cozy downtown tavern. The aroma of grilled meats and vegetables made Storm’s mouth water. Her head swiveled to watch a waiter with a heaping plate of nachos, smothered in guacamole and cheese, while Hamlin steered her to a large corner table

  “I just realized that I’m starving.”

  “I called ahead for a reservation for four.”

  “Four?” Storm’s smile faded. She dropped into the deeply cushioned booth. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I did.” Hamlin sat at right angles to her in the booth.

  “Sooner, I mean. I might have composed myself faster.”

  Hamlin grinned. “I got distracted.”

  “Right.” Storm looked up at the waiter who had appeared for their drink order. “Cabernet, please.”

  Hamlin spoke up. “I’ll have one, too. Just bring a bottle of the Clos du Bois.”

  When the man left, Storm leaned toward Hamlin. “How hard was it to persuade them to come?”

  “I let Chris pick the restaurant. My treat.”

  Storm narrowed her eyes at him. “Does Martin know I’m going to be here?”

  “Chris will tell him.”

  Storm drooped in her seat. “Are you sure?” She regarded him glumly while the waiter appeared, opened the wine, and offered a taste to Hamlin. Hamlin nodded to the fellow, who poured wine in Storm’s glass, then Hamlin’s.

  Hamlin bobbed his head in greeting at the first of two figures following the maitre d’ around the corner. DeLario walked single file in front of Martin, who looked up to negotiate his way around a table. His face froze in shock at the sight of Storm. He pivoted to flee, but DeLario grabbed his arm.

  “Wait, please. We need to talk to her.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? Can’t anyone tell me anything straight anymore?” Martin spoke through clenched teeth. Heads turned toward him.

  Storm clutched the stem of her wineglass. DeLario kept his hand on Martin’s arm. His low, comforting voice reached her in unintelligible phrases.

  She looked up at Hamlin with flashing dark eyes. “I didn’t want to bushwhack him!”

  “It’s not what I expected, either,” Hamlin said.

  Storm stood up. “I’m leaving.” She looked at Martin. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you, either time. Call me when you want to talk.”

  “Wait.” Martin walked away from the table with her. He stopped and wiped a shaking hand over his face. “I’ve been having a hard time, lately.”

  Storm became aware of a table of four people who were fastidiously studying their sashimi. “Martin, let’s sit down,” she whispered. “Or should we go someplace alone, where we can talk?”

  Her eyes flicked over to where DeLario and Hamlin sat. Hamlin was addressing DeLario, his face serious. DeLario grasped a wineglass with long, delicate fingers and moved it around in small circles while he listened. His hands were incongruous with the tanned ruggedness of his face and the frayed jeans he wore. He must wear gloves to work with the bronzes he sculpted. She was struck by his height and looks. From their glances, she could tell other people were impressed, too.

  DeLario was oblivious to the attention of the other diners. His head bobbed in tiny, begrudging movements to whatever Hamlin was telling him.

  “I could use a drink,” Martin said. He looked at DeLario. “We might as well stay here.”

  When they got to the table, DeLario stood up and took Storm’s hand. His fingers were damp and cool. “My apologies for the surprise.” He stopped just short of kissing her hand in an old-fashioned, European manner. His dark, steady gaze settled on Martin. “My friend, I am so sorry. I thought this meeting would help all of us understand each other.”

  Martin nodded without a word and took a seat next to DeLario and facing Hamlin. Storm sat next to Hamlin. For a long second, the silence had a palpable density. Martin studied the weave in the tablecloth and DeLario’s expression was as frozen as one of his statues’. Storm thought she could feel an electrical current pass between the two men. She and Hamlin were invisible to them at that moment. She glanced toward Martin and saw that his downcast eyes were hooded with anger.

  DeLario’s face was craggy and intense. His dark wavy hair, streaked with gray and pulled into a ponytail, contrasted with Martin’s jet-black, short razor cut. DeLario’s eyes appeared aged ahead of his years, though the lines around his expressive mouth added to his looks. The hand that held the stem of his wineglass trembled.

  Storm looked at Martin and her heart squeezed with emotion for him. All signs of last week’s sunburn had faded except for a few freckles that stood out against the white of his nose. It was he who loved more deeply. She knew how that felt.

  “I’m glad to see you, Martin,” she said softly, to break the spell. She felt Hamlin’s feet shift beneath the table, probably with relief.

  Martin tried to smile. “I’m glad to see you, too. I was planning on phoning you tomorrow.”

  Storm wasn’t sure if that was true after his behavior ten minutes ago, but it was no time to argue. “I guess you were worried about my reaction?”

  Martin’s eyes dulled. “Of course. I thought you were checking up on what Dad told you.”

  “He didn’t tell me anything. Come on, we had lunch last week. Don’t you think I would have said something if I’d known?” Storm asked.

  “I wasn’t sure.” Martin flushed. “You were so close to him.” He took a drink from the glass of wine Hamlin had poured.

  “I know.” Storm picked at a thread on the tablecloth. “And I’m not even his real daughter.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “It’s okay. I promise Uncle Miles didn’t breathe a word about you and Chris. He wouldn’t, you know. It was private,” Storm said. “How did he find out? Did you tell him?”

  “I wish I had.” Ma
rtin took another belt of wine and glanced toward DeLario. Storm followed his look just in time to see the sculptor shake his head, then look away.

  “He called a couple of weeks ago and Chris answered the phone.” Martin didn’t bother to disguise the pain in his eyes when he looked at her this time. “When I got on the line, he asked me if ‘that man’ was my lover.”

  “And you told him?” Storm asked.

  “I…I didn’t know how.” Martin examined the base of his nearly empty wineglass. “No one said anything for what seemed like a long time, then he changed the subject to stocks, asked my advice about some purchases. I told him about Unimed and asked him if he’d release part of my trust fund or at least invest it for me. He hemmed and hawed around for a minute. You know how tight he could be. He said he’d check some things and call me back.”

  Storm frowned. Though Hamasaki hadn’t handed out money without a reason, he hadn’t seemed tight. Of course, she’d had different expectations than his own kids. When she thought of where she was headed with her old high school gang, she was grateful for the opportunities he offered her. Better not bring up that bag of worms.

  “What happened when he called you back?” she asked.

  “He didn’t.”

  Martin’s eyes flicked to DeLario again. Storm looked at him, too. The artist’s gaze was on her and his eyes were filled with a darkness that she didn’t understand.

  Hamlin was taking in the whole exchange, his expression as blank as a poker player’s.

  “What else did he say?” she asked, then wished she hadn’t. She could feel DeLario’s glare burn her face.

  “It was his voice, the sarcasm in it,” Martin said. Storm thought she saw DeLario nod briefly in her peripheral vision, but Martin continued without looking in his direction. “When he said he’d get back to me, I knew he was really talking about my lifestyle and what he would do about it.”

  “Martin, could he have been upset about something which had nothing to do with you? Maybe he was upset about David. Or me, for that matter,” Storm said.

  “Storm, you don’t understand.” Martin’s lip curled at her. He emptied the wine bottle into his glass, then held the bottle up to catch the attention of a passing waiter.