The Ivory Key

by Rita Clay Estrada

  “I worry about you,” Armand said softly. “Your lovely eyes show a growing strain, and I know I do not have the power to erase it.”

  She smiled. “I’m fine.”

  “I love you, Hope. You know that now, do you not?”

  Her smile widened, warming him. “Yes,” she repeated. “I know that... now.”

  “It will work out.”

  She couldn't answer that. She didn't know if he was right.

  She had just finished applying her makeup when she heard the whine of a motor. Grabbing her brush, she pulled it through her hair once more, then caught the sides and held them back with tortoiseshell combs. A quick glance in the mirror showed her she looked almost as good as new. She had even gained back some of her weight. Her father would have to say the island convalescence had agreed with her. She smiled, for it was really Armand who agreed with her, body and soul.

  When the skiff pulled into the dock, she was standing on the pier, relaxed, and with a big smile still lighting her face.

  Her father, wearing white flannel trousers and a white-and-blue polo shirt, jumped off. He was as good-looking as ever. The touch of gray at his temples set off his dark hair, the only gene they seemed to share. He was trim, his face strong and square, his expression slightly intimidating. But his eyes, normally a cool gray, were filled with concern as he examined her closely. Then he strode toward her, enfolding her in a bear hug that made her remember her childhood.

  “You look good, honey,” he said gruffly. “Still a little peaked, but a lot better than a month ago.”

  “Thanks for the seal of approval.” She grinned at him.

  His own smile dropped. “I said you looked good, not completely well. Central America took its toll.”

  She placed a kiss on his cheek, surprised at the tenderness he was showing. This was a side of him she hadn't seen since she was a child. “What about Central America?” she teased. “I don't remember a thing.” She realized, surprised, that it was true. It wasn't important to her anymore.

  Her father retrieved a box tied with rope, and carrying it with one hand, he placed his other arm around her shoulders. Together they walked up the path to the house.

  Just then a whistle caught her attention. Quickly, she scanned the trees to her left. There he was, his hands on his hips, lounging against one of the pines, whistling that damned tune of his as he watched them, the twinkle in his eyes visible even from the path.

  Her heartbeat raced as she realized he was in full view of her father. She shook her head in warning, but he just shrugged his shoulders and continued whistling.

  “What is it, honey? What's wrong?” Her father stopped, staring down at her. “Are you in pain? Are you dizzy?”

  “Oh, no,” she managed to stutter. “I'm fine. Really I just stepped on a stone, and it skittered across another one and I didn't know what it was.” She bent down, pretending to look at the offending pebbles. As her father followed her gaze, she stretched her arm out to the side and gestured at Armand, attempting to shoo him into the woods.

  Her signal must have worked, because the whistling stopped. She straightened, a bright, vacuous smile on her lips, to find her father staring at her as if she had just eluded the guards in an asylum.

  He touched the back of his hand to her forehead. “Are you all right?” He asked the question carefully, but his eyes showed concern—or was it fear lurking there? Fear for her sanity?

  A giggle erupted. At least Frank hadn't heard her ghost! “I’m fine, really,” she managed, but the thought of how she must have appeared to him made her break up again. “Something just bit my funny bone. That's all.”

  “I see,” he said slowly, confused at her behavior. They began walking toward the house once more. “At least you haven't lost your sense of humor.”

  Hope laughed aloud in sheer relief. “Not lately. It's alive and well, Frank.”

  His only reply was a grunt that suggested he didn't believe a word she'd said.

  She opened the screen door and led him into the kitchen. “How about a cup of tea, or something to eat?”

  “No, thanks.” He lifted the box. “I brought my own food. A little restaurant I stopped at along the way left a lot to be desired, but I did eat something.”

  She could imagine. There was only a country cafe between the lake and Two Harbors, and it served plain, home-style cooking. No French chefs, no gourmet dishes, just good, hearty fare that would fill a hungry working man's stomach—not to her father's epicurean taste at all.

  She couldn't resist baiting him. “Some folks think it's the best restaurant around,” she said, setting the kettle on the stove to warm up the pot of tea she had made earlier.

  “I have no doubt some ‘folks’ would. But it wasn't quite to my liking. I want my fish broiled, not fried.” His dour expression said more than words could, and laughter lit Hope's eyes again.

  After her tea was made they sat quietly on the front steps of the porch, each waiting for the other to speak. Her father cleared his throat. She cocked her head toward him, curious about what he had on his mind. He was nervous, but the Frank Langston she knew was never nervous about anything. “Hope,” he began slowly, “I want you to come home with me. Spend some time in Washington. Relax.”

  She placed a hand on his arm. He cared for her, she knew. He just didn't know how to show It. He never had. Still, he had come all this way... “Thanks, Frank,” she said softly, giving his arm a squeeze. “I appreciate your concern, but I'm fine.”

  “I don't like the idea of your staying here alone. It's too dangerous.”

  “I was visiting you when I was kidnapped,” she reminded him mildly. “Besides, Washington is your home. This is mine.”

  “It's that damn career of yours,” he growled, letting out the frustration that had gnawed at him all the way to Minnesota. “It's too damned dangerous. If it weren't for that job, you'd be married, taking care of a house full of children instead of traipsing all over the globe.”

  She raised her eyebrows haughtily. She wasn't Frank Langston's daughter for nothing. “Is that what you think all women were born for? Or just me, because I'm lucky enough to be your daughter?”

  “Don’t you try that tone with me, young lady. I'm a past master at turning the tables.” He straightened. “I not only think your job is dangerous, I think you ought to consider another alternative to this, this, crude lifestyle.” With a wave of his hand he encompassed the entire island.

  Hope knew exactly what he meant. “I think I've heard this argument before. Several times, in fact.” She turned to face him, her eyes shooting darts at him. “Wasn't this much the same thing you used to say to mother? Before she divorced you to become one of the best computer programmers in the business?”

  Even the birds stopped singing. Her father's face stiffened and turned gray at the accusation. “That's dirty, Hope.”

  “You bet it is. Just about as dirty as you trying to keep me seventeen.” Her bitterness overflowed. “Remember that year, Frank? It was the year mother died, and you tried to keep me out of my first year in college because you thought I ought to recuperate from mother's death. What you really wanted was an obedient daughter who could learn to play hostess to half of Washington.” Her breath caught in her throat, turning into a lump of cold hard anger. “And you couldn't even go to the damn funeral!”

  “I had an ulcer attack!” He defended himself. “And it was also the year that you, in one of your childish fits, began calling me Frank instead of Dad.”

  They stared at each other through the deepening twilight for long minutes, each measuring the pain of the other at fast. Then all the fight drained from Hope's body. She stared at the calm blue water. “Hell and damnation,” she said calmly.

  The cicadas were warming up for their nightly serenade, and the sound of the water lapping at the dock could be heard clearly before her father spoke again. “I loved her, you know I loved her so much I wanted her to be with me all the time.”

  “
But not enough to let her go.” Her control was on a tightwire. She didn't want to see his hurt and guilt. “You wanted to bundle her and me in wrapping paper and stick us in a closet so whenever the urge to be a father and husband came over you, we'd be there, waiting like a good little family should.”

  “You don't know what you're talking about,” he said wearily. “It takes two people to make a marriage.”

  “Just as it took two to produce me. But only one of you had the time or desire to look after me.” A trace of bitterness seeped into her voice. “So don't bother handling out platitudes at this stage. I think I've heard them all.”

  “Perhaps, with hindsight, you might be right. But our marriage failure still had nothing to do with you and is not a topic for discussion. You're only bringing up your mother as a red herring to divert my attention from you.”

  “Your marriage had everything to do with me. I was the one in the middle.” She gulped a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Besides, you were the one who brought up your marriage,” she corrected. “I had already turned down your offer and had moved on to something else.”

  “Then let's stick to the topic I originally chose,” he said reasonably, ignoring the brief flare-up between them. “I want you to come back with me to Washington for a few weeks. Please. After that, we'll see.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you honestly believe you've recovered completely from that ordeal in Central America?” Frank's voice was soft, and she became wary.

  Hope stood and took two steps to the ground, jamming her hands into the back pockets of her jeans as she swiveled slowly to face him. She couldn't leave Armand. Not now. “I want to enjoy your visit, Frank, but I can't when I know you came here to talk me into leaving. I just want you to accept my decision. I'm not going. I'm staying here until the time is right for me to leave. Then I'll come visit you.”

  The battle of wills was evident even in the darkness. They stared at each other, determination etching their faces, until finally her father stared down at the steps. She gave a deep sigh of relief. Too soon.

  “There's another reason you need to come with me,” he said softly. A shiver went down her spine. “The Senate Foreign Affairs Committee wants you to testify. They're reviewing our Central American policies, especially Sao Jimenez, and they want your input. In fact, they demand it.”

  “And you knew this all along.” Her words were barely a whisper.

  “Yes.”

  “Then this trip is because of that, isn't it?” Where was the surprise she should have felt? “You let me believe that you were concerned only for my health. My welfare.”

  “Because I am. Your health comes first, no matter what. The hearings are three weeks from now, and I wanted you to have a few weeks of rest before you had to face them. If you were a housewife, Hope, you wouldn't have been in this mess to begin with. That's why I wished you hadn't been a career woman. A career cuts everything else out of life, including the happy moments. I know.” His eyes closed in pain. “Loving moments can't be born when both people are totally involved in a career.”

  Hope turned and stared out at the dark mound of earth to the side of the house, wanting nothing more than to be enfolded in Armand's protective arms. She needed his soothing touch, his quiet, reassuring whisper. His strength.

  “Hope. I tried to get your name off the list,” he said. “But I'm not that powerful. Whether or not you had to appear, I wanted you home with me for a while.”

  She sighed, knowing he probably did. “Don’t worry, Frank, I'll stand in front of the committee. But my choice is to stay here until I have to leave.”

  “Don’t I have any say in the matter?”

  Her voice was filled with conviction. “No.”

  “You're my daughter Hope. I was hoping...” His voice trailed off.

  “So was I. At one time I thought we could be friends, if not family.”

  “Don't say that.” His voice was actually trembling. Real or an act? She couldn't say, but wouldn't trust her emotions.

  “If I had my way, Frank,” she said slowly, “I wouldn't be saying anything to you because you wouldn't be here. You'd be in Washington sending me wish-you-were-here cards and minding your own business, just like the old days...” Years of bitter, weary anger spilled out, dampening her soul with tears.

  “My God. How very harsh and judgmental you are.”

  Without a word, Hope turned and slowly entered the house. Her father followed her down the narrow hallway.

  They spent the rest of the evening making sate, superficial conversation. The food was delicious, but all Hope could think about was how she could get some of it up to Armand. After what he had been eating, the food her father brought would make Armand's day.

  “Hope?” Her father finally raised his voice, apparently having a hard time getting her attention.

  She flushed guiltily. “Yes?”

  “Which is my room?” His tone was patient, but his body was slumped slightly over the table and he was leaning on his elbows.

  For the first time in a very long while, Hope took a good look at her father. She hadn't really noticed the dark sienna circles beneath his eyes or the pinched look of strain around his mouth. And the slightly pained squint was a recent and undesirable development. Time had taken its toll. He looked exhausted. When had he grown old, and why was she just now noticing it? Perhaps she had been just as blind as her father...

  She shook her head. “You can use the spare bedroom. It's already made up for you. I'll be sleeping outside tonight.”

  “You'll do no such thing. For heaven's sake, you need your rest more than anyone.”

  “There's no need for concern. I have a tent at the top of the hill where I've been sleeping very comfortably. I'd rather sleep up there than in the house,” she said stiffly.

  He looked as if he was going to argue the point, then decided against it. “Then I'll say goodnight,” he replied, turning toward the narrow staircase.

  Hope let out a sigh of relief. “Good night,” she answered as he disappeared up the stairs.

  In fifteen minutes she had the kitchen cleaned. It was the longest fifteen minutes Hope had ever spent.

  Every muscle railed against pulling her up the hill. But her head and her heart told her that Armand would be near. Dear Lord, there was so little time left.

  “I was becoming worried, little one.” Armand's velvety voice came from behind the small pine. She jumped at the sound. Her eyes searched the area, trying to spot his tall, well-formed shape. She had been so intent on reaching the top, she had forgotten to look for him at the barrier. He was sitting on the incline, legs bent, his arms resting across his knees as he faced the house and the path.

  The side of his face was lit by moonlight, making the rest of him resemble the devil incarnate. His hair was like pitch, and eyes that glowed like silver-blue coal stared at her. Was there ever a face as handsome or as devastating as his?

  She let go of all the tension, now that she had reached her goal. “I couldn't get away immediately.”

  His chuckle was as dark and deep as his demonic appearance. “I could tell.” He held out his hand to her, palm up, silently beckoning her to join him.

  “How?” she asked, moving toward him. She ducked down and cuddled next to his warmth.

  He chuckled again as he wrapped her sweetly in the warmth of his arm, just where she needed to be. “I know the daughter. She was probably very busy arguing,” he answered. “But for right now, my Hope, let me enjoy the black-and-silver beauty of the night.” He gazed up at the star-speckled sky. “It's so peaceful here.”

  “Umm,” she murmured, snuggling closer into the heat of his body. She leaned her head on his shoulder. It was firm but padded. A perfect pillow, she sighed in sleepy contentment. But his next question woke her right up.

  “Your father seems to be a reasonable man. I do not understand why you were so worried about his visit.”

  “Reasonable? He's trying to blackmail me into
going back to Washington with him. Immediately! And you helped him along by making me look like a crazy woman!” she whispered angrily, “For a moment I felt like the Mad Hatter at a tea party!”

  “Do you still have them?” he asked, his warm breath stimulating the sensitive side of her neck.

  “Have what?”

  “Mad hatters. Our hatters used to go insane from breathing the fine beaver hair with which they made the stylish hats,” he explained patiently. “Do people still wear those hats? I have not seen any on the people in the magazines.”

  She gave a tired chuckle. “At least now I know where the saying originated, but no, we don't wear them anymore, even though we use the expression.” She rubbed her chin against his chest.

  “Why does he want you to visit his home? You said the man was your father, but you call him by his Christian name.”

  “It started a long time ago,” she explained defensively. But for the first time since her mother died, she had cause to wonder if she wasn't acting like a child, as her father had charged. It had started that way, she knew, but as time passed it became too awkward to change back.

  She felt the tension in Armand's shoulder and arm muscles slowly ease. “I think I am beginning to understand you, my Hope. And, for some reason, that worries me more than anything else.” He sighed resignedly, one hand stroking the tender, soft skin of her breast before standing and pulling her up after him. “Come, I think it is time you slept.” His arm circled her waist as he led her up the hill. Her head still rested against his chest, her hand in his. “I want you lying next to me, where I know you are safe.”

  “I am safe,” she said finally, balancing on tiptoe to kiss the sharp angle of his jaw. “And I'm happy. Very happy.”

  He pulled her into his arms and kissed her forehead. “So am I. my lovely one. So am I.”

  The moon traveled across the bright, starry sky, but Hope didn't notice it. She was where she wanted to be—safe in Armand's arms.

  And, with morning's light, she could pretend he wasn't fading, even though it was happening more and more lately. The process seemed to be accelerating as she gleaned more information.