ShadowsintheMist

by Maureen McMahon

By providing servants’ quarters in the house itself, Leo outdid himself. There were enough rooms on the third floor to house a staff of twelve but aside from Martha, who lived alone in a small corner room, the rest were vacant. It was a real waste. Leo had expected to fill the house with lavish entertainment—grand parties and regular gala festivities like those held by upper classes in the bigger cities of Chicago, Los Angeles or New York.

  It obviously didn’t occur to him that grand parties meant little to the simple folk who lived in this neck of the woods. Of course there were parties but nothing so often or extravagant as to require permanent staff.

  Martha sat down companionably in a chair near my bed. “I didn’t really have a chance to welcome you back, Suzanna. Things have been so hectic.” She frowned and looked down at her hands folded neatly in her lap.

  She wasn’t a small woman. Despite her plumpness, she exuded a solid strength, developed from years of manual labor. Her face was pleasant, falling into the gentle folds of age and lined delicately around a thin, liquid mouth usually set in patient determination. Her hair was a soft crown of silver waves. Behind thinly framed glasses, her eyes were a sparkling gray and magnified by the lenses, attested to a beauty muted only by time.

  “It’s just not the same without your father,” she said quietly.

  I played with my scrambled eggs. “I find it all so unbelievable. Maybe you could shed some light on what happened that night?”

  She looked up, surprised. “Why, surely you’ve been told?”

  “Yes, yes. David told me the facts and the others, well—it still doesn’t seem possible Dad could be so careless. Did he seem upset to you? Was he drinking a lot?”

  “No.” She hesitated. “I mean, not like before but… Well, that night he did seem a bit tipsy. You know he always liked to have a drink after dinner. He said it relaxed him.” She looked up at me thoughtfully, then added, “I don’t know for sure, dear but I think something was bothering him. He seemed so…so restless.”

  “The business?” I queried.

  She shook her head. “No. Well, maybe. I don’t know. I guess it’s just a feeling I had.” She plucked nervously at her apron for a moment, then stood up abruptly.

  “But listen to me ramble on!” She smiled. “How we do prattle when we get older. It was an accident, that’s all. Just a horrible, senseless accident. Can I get you anything else, dear?”

  She didn’t sound very convincing but I knew it was pointless to pursue the issue. I’d only alienate her and I wanted as many people on my side as I could muster.

  “No, Martha, everything is lovely. Thank you again.”

  She smiled and left, obviously anxious to get away. Puzzled, I watched her go. Perhaps she wasn’t as open and honest as I assumed.

  It was nearly eleven o’clock when I finally went downstairs and wandered into the rear parlor. This was one of my favorite rooms and I often came here to read or write or just think. Sunlight streamed in through the sliding glass doors that accessed the stone-paved patio and pool. Plush cream rugs were scattered about a buffed hardwood floor and a comfortable two-seater sofa and twin chairs, upholstered in a refreshing peach-and-cream floral, were grouped in front of a white marble fireplace.

  In the winter, heavy draperies were drawn across the doors to keep the warmth from escaping. Now, however, only the fly screens were shut and a warm breeze swirled in carrying the scent of chlorinated water and damp earth.

  I glanced at the mirror over the hearth, self-consciously fingering my dark hair. There was no doubt I was Leo Dirkston’s daughter. I had his stubborn chin and Greek coloring. My eyes, however, were my mother’s—a rich brown flecked with gold. They tended to show my emotions too readily, so I learned early in life to veil them discreetly with my thick fringe of lashes. Still, I’d always secretly envied Alicia, who was as fair and glamorous as I was dark and unsophisticated. I often tried to convince myself practicality and intelligence were traits far superior to sexiness and physical beauty but I still coveted those pouting lips and that slinky body.

  My eyes dropped from the mirror to the neat display of framed photos covering the mantle top. One in particular stood out and I picked it up. It was a shot of my mother taken shortly before her death. She looked lovely, captured candidly on the beach, her fawn-brown hair loose and drifting in delicate fingers about her face. She had turned, laughing, toward the camera and her eyes sparkled in wild abandon. I smiled back sadly.

  I’d rarely seen her so carefree. She’d always seemed timid and skittish, like a doe caught in an alien environment. I guessed the gossip surrounding Carmen’s death and Leo’s remarriage too soon after, caused a lot of pressure. It was probably responsible for the nervous disquiet that forever surrounded her.

  I set the photo back and glanced fleetingly at the others. There was myself astride Dimmy, my pony. Another of me in my graduation cap and gown and one of the whole family posed in front of Beacon. The rest were of Colin and Grant and one studio print of Leo taken for the cover of Business Week. I turned away brusquely.

  “A bit of useless nostalgia, eh?” Colin gave a wan smile as he came in through the patio doors. I made a cynical assessment of him. In his frayed and patched cut-off blue jeans, faded yellow T-shirt and bare feet he looked every bit a beach bum, except for his pasty complexion, which was odd, considering the time and effort he’d once put into suntanning.

  “I thought you’d be at the marina,” I said. “What’re you doing home?”

  “David’s minding the store,” he replied absently, fingering the photo of Anna. He rubbed his thumb along the face of the glass, a frown creasing his brow. “I suppose Grant has told you the wonderful news?”

  I nodded. There was no point in trying to avoid a confrontation. Colin had every right to feel slighted. Still, I wasn’t ready to deal with his feelings yet. I hadn’t yet dealt with my own.

  “What do you plan to do?” His voice was guarded.

  Once I might have felt sorry for him—even tried to offer sympathy—but over the years, he’d made it quite clear he didn’t want my concern or any other emotional bond between us. I suppose that to him I was Leo’s favorite. That alone was enough to create a rift. The ten-year difference in our ages served to broaden it.

  “I don’t intend to marry Grant, if that’s what you mean.” I chose to be as blunt as he, hoping he would drop the subject and leave me alone. Instead, he gazed at me with eyes full of sadness and resignation. He sat down and ran his fingers through his disheveled curls. My defensiveness ebbed and I sat down nearby, assessing him less harshly.

  “Do you think I’m wrong?” I asked.

  He sighed and shrugged. “No. I suppose if I were in your shoes, I’d be insulted. But I hoped…” He smiled sheepishly. “I have my own neck to look out for, you know.”

  I cocked a brow. “I hate to be trite, Colin but money isn’t everything. Surely, the marina is doing well enough?”

  A shadow passed over his face and I frowned. This wasn’t like Colin. I expected sarcasm, accusations, demands. I could cope with those but this quiet defeatism was so out of character that I was bewildered. Dare I hope the rebellious Colin of old had mellowed? Had he lost some of his dark broodiness?

  “You know I’d like to save this place,” I said. “But…well…maybe it’s time we all quit living in Dad’s shadow and made lives for ourselves.”

  “I think the problem goes a little beyond that.” He picked up a small figurine from the table and turned it around in his hands. “I know you’ve never thought much of me. I guess I deserve it. I’ve never gone out of my way to be fair.”

  I opened my mouth to speak but he waved an impatient hand. “I never meant to take things out on you. There were times, though I never told you, when I wished we could’ve been closer—like brothers and sisters are supposed to be—but my damn pride always got in the way and after a while, it was just too late.”

  He leaned toward me, his eyes serious and I realized with distaste that he w
as pleading with me, something I would never have thought possible. It left a sick feeling in my gut.

  “I’m sorry, Suzanna. I guess it’s sort of hypocritical of me to say all this now but—well, I really mean it and no matter what happens, I want you to know I’ve never meant to hurt you.”

  I knew why he was saying all these things and my mind worked furiously. What sort of desperate situation would make him grovel so? At the same time, I was surprised how little empathy I felt. I nodded my head, unable to think of what to say. I felt as if I’d been dumped on stage before a packed house and forgotten my lines.

  Colin didn’t seem to notice my discomfiture but hurried on as if too long a pause would cut off the words forever. “You of all people know Leo and I were never close.” He snorted at the understatement. “But I won’t say he didn’t try. In the beginning, I think he tried too hard. I guess I just couldn’t forgive him for what he did to Mother. Eventually he gave up, which was a relief to us both.

  “I’ve never been good with money. He was always there to bail me out. It was sort of a truce we had—I could do what I wanted, as long as I kept the name clean and stayed out of his hair.” He hesitated and I noticed that his hands were trembling.

  “I always wanted the best for Ali. In the beginning, I would’ve done anything—and I can tell you, she likes spending money! There were new cars, acting agents and coaches, wardrobes for every occasion and parties…”

  He set the glass ballerina down and began to pace. “I moved here to try to stop all that. You’re right about having to make our own lives. It took me a while to realize it but that’s what I wanted to do when I came back here. Leo bought the marina and set us up. I really wanted to make it work but…” His voice trailed off and I felt my palms begin to perspire.

  “What are you saying, Colin?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

  “I’m saying I’m broke and in debt up to my ears,” he said, almost angrily. He turned on me fiercely. “I’m saying that if you don’t marry Grant, I’m washed up! Finished! Kaput! Me, Alicia, David, the marina! I don’t own a cent of it!”

  I stared at him in alarm. “But surely…”

  He leaned over my chair so his face was inches from mine and I shrank back at the desperation in his eyes. “I need time, Suzanna. Leo pulled out too soon! I could’ve done it—still can—but I need more time!”

  I didn’t speak. After a moment his desperation ebbed and he fell back onto the sofa, covering his face with his hands. My mouth was dry. Guilt flooded me and I tried to block it out—tried to find some escape from the knowledge that this man’s life was in my hands. At the same time, I was furious he put me into such a tenuous position by shoving the responsibility for his poor judgments squarely onto my shoulders.

  It was his own fault! Why should I feel responsible? I looked at him sitting there in abject despair and something melted inside. Perhaps I still had some compassion left.

  He dropped his hands and looked up, drained. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I just wanted you to know.”

  He stood up and straightened his shoulders. “I won’t beg you, Suzanna. I’ve made my own bed and I won’t blame you if you tell me to lie in it. But the will does state the marriage need only last one year. No one’s life has to really change.” He studied me, trying to read my stricken face, then shrugged. “I just wanted you to know.”

  I watched silently as he left the room, more confused than ever. I hated him for telling me those things and hated myself for wanting to reach out and help him. I knew it took a lot for him to break down and confide and I also knew, seeing his predicament, I’d never be able to refuse Leo’s will without accepting the blame for the consequences. But perhaps that was all part of Colin’s plan? Could he have staged the whole episode? I wouldn’t put emotional blackmail past him.

  I went out onto the patio, squinting against the bright sunlight glinting off the pool and the distant lake. I could just make out a small fishing vessel bobbing on the horizon. Leo taught me the rudiments of game fishing years ago from the deck of his yacht. The thought of casting out pretty baubles to snag a living creature seemed barbarous at the time. I used to wonder how it must feel to be caught and dragged, frenzied with panic, into a foreign atmosphere—measured, gawked at, ripped and torn and eventually, tossed back while strange creatures laughed unconcernedly. I preferred sailing.

  With that thought, I went back into the house and up the stairs to my room. I changed into my swimsuit, pulled on a matching sky blue cover-up and slipped on a pair of deck shoes.

  * * * * *

  The boathouse and dock nestled in a small cove to the east of the main beach. It served as protection for Beacon’s smaller recreational watercraft. The yacht was berthed in Chicago and was used primarily for entertaining clients. There was also a company seaplane on call twenty-four hours a day in case Leo was needed at the main office in Chicago.

  I grabbed a set of keys off the hook in the kitchen and headed for the beach. The sun was warm and I removed my wrap and shoes as I descended the steps to the beach. The sand burned my feet and I was grateful for the cooler touch of the pier.

  I unlocked the door to the boathouse and pushed it open, allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness within. There were four boats here—a sleek black speedboat with red flames painted down the sides, a twenty-two foot yacht with real teak trimmings, a twin-hulled, fully equipped fishing boat and a small, two-man catamaran. This last I approached with a half-smile. Most likely no one had used it since I’d left Beacon but the bright fiberglass hull still gleamed, even in the relative gloom.

  I stepped onto the center platform, unsnapped the canvas covering the boom and sail and used the paddle to maneuver it out into the sunlight. I looped its mooring rope over a pylon while I checked that all the rigging and safety gear were intact. Two gulls screeched overhead and I saw them reflected in the crystalline waves.

  Within minutes I was set. I paddled a short way out before raising the bright multicolored sail. The gusty breeze caught it immediately and I was off, skimming across the sparkling waves.

  The day was perfect. There were only three small marshmallow clouds adorning the sky below a plump golden sun, whose pulsing heat shimmered in the air and beckoned moisture up from the earth. The water was sapphire blue and I let one hand trail in the frothy wake. Despite the warmth of the days, the chill of late August nights had settled like a reptile into the vast freshwater depths.

  I leaned back, holding the rope tightly so the sail bloomed and the boat skipped smoothly over the soft swells. The opposite pontoon lifted out of the water. Today, the lake was tame but before a storm it could rise up like a primeval beast ripping viciously at its long-suffering borders. In the winter, it was even more predatory, writhing with cold-blooded purpose around the rocks and dunes with frigid, sinewy intent, waiting for prey. Now it was puckish, playful—as though full-bellied and content but in need of diversion. I knew the lake too well to fear it but I’d also learned to respect it. I could translate the first signs of foul weather.

  I shaded my eyes and scanned the shoreline. Beacon was entrancing from this angle. Sandy cliffs rose like sandbox sculptures, interwoven with green fingers of forest and grassy knolls. Atop the tall rise stood the house, its windows watching the horizon with vacuous patience, almost as though it was waiting—waiting for Leo to return. The glass winked silver while the garden hedgerow underlined the looming white walls.

  I loosed the rope and let the sail flap, drifting on gentle swells. I never failed to be amazed at the magnificence of this view. Often, larger yachts and schooners strayed from the crowded shores further south to sidle by for a glimpse of the house or to train their zoom lenses on it, hoping for some exclusive photos of Leopold Dirkston’s private life. It now occurred to me that if I let the estate go, those same greedy sensationalists could snap it up and turn it into anything they desired—a tourist trap, a public landmark, a museum. I frowned, imagining the unmarred beach strewn with gaudy umbrellas and s
un worshipers with their coolers of beer and blaring radios. I shuddered and was swept by a sudden possessiveness.

  I pulled the rope tight again. The swells were getting larger and the skiff fairly skimmed the surface. I leaned far out over the side for ballast. The wind whipped my hair and cleared my head. I was suddenly aware my decision was made. The realization flooded me with relief, as though all my concerns had blown away with the wind.

  For what it was worth, I loved Beacon more than I despised it. I knew that, despite my reservations, the place was my home and to let it go would be like abandoning an ailing pet. This reasoning allowed me to shoulder the burden my father had placed on me without submitting to him.

  The game wasn’t over. He merely had me in a temporary stalemate. After the year was out, we’d see who’d win.

  Chapter Four

  For we are strangers before thee and sojourners,

  as were all our fathers:

  our days on the earth are as shadow,

  and there is none abiding.

  King James Bible, 1 Chronicles 29:14–15

  The funeral was a monstrous affair. Leo had requested that his body be cremated and his ashes buried at Beacon. The estate already held my mother’s remains. How could I allow the estate to go to strangers while my parents were buried here? There really was no decision to be made. I knew without doubt I must do everything in my power to prevent Beacon from being put up for sale. The more I thought of the will, the more I accepted it, telling myself again and again that a year wasn’t long. In Colin’s words, “No one’s life need really change”. He was right and I was prepared to go along with the condition. But on my own terms. And Leo couldn’t force me to like it.

  There was a memorial service the whole family attended, along with hordes of well-wishers, acquaintances and gossipmongers who’d heard of Leopold Dirkston and wanted to see who remained to inherit the fortune. There were also reporters from dozens of newspapers, as well as television camera crews and journalists. These people weren’t allowed inside the church but swarmed around the steps and entrances like maggots.