ShadowsintheMist

by Maureen McMahon

  Grant didn’t comment on my appearance but his cool appraisal left little doubt as to how much he approved. He’d changed his shirt and tie and tried to run a brush through his thick hair but it was determined to do as it pleased, a thick lock falling over one brow to lend him a roguish air.

  We spoke little on the way to the judge’s house. I sat stiffly upright while he concentrated on his driving, intent on getting there as quickly as possible.

  The ceremony itself took less than thirty minutes. Two witnesses, neither of whom I’d met, were on hand to sign the certificate. After the briefest of declarations, it was all over and Grant and I departed as man and wife. Strangely enough, I felt next to nothing. I gazed down at the plain gold band on my finger, thinking it should feel alien. I risked a look at Grant’s chiseled profile and wondered what he was thinking.

  When he stopped the car, it wasn’t at Beacon but at a popular little restaurant that looked out over the lake and specialized in clam chowder. He didn’t ask for my opinion but said simply, “I’m starving. We can get some lunch here.”

  I nodded, feeling hunger gnawing at my own insides.

  Once we were settled in a secluded booth with a modest view, I began to relax. It was a monumental relief to know the dreaded moment was over and left no reason to worry about it anymore. Still, something about this new slant to our relationship embarrassed me and I found it oddly difficult to meet his eyes over the menu. Eventually, he took the card from my hand.

  “You’ve been poring over that since we arrived,” he said. “You can’t avoid me forever, you know.”

  “I’m not trying to avoid you.”

  He raised a skeptical brow.

  “Well,” I relented, “I just don’t have anything to say.”

  He smiled. “And this is the girl who insisted that our relationship stay the same?”

  I frowned. “It is the same. How often have we ever had more than fifteen words to say to each other?”

  He couldn’t deny it. “It seems a shame, doesn’t it? After all those years growing up in the same house, we can’t even talk to one another.”

  “We have our separate lives.”

  “So do a lot of friends but they still communicate.”

  “I don’t want to argue.”

  He sighed. “No. It’s not the best way to start off our new arrangement. Maybe I’m hoping for too much.”

  It was my turn to raise my brows. “And just what are you hoping for?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t really know. Perhaps that we could learn to like each other a little?”

  “I’ve never disliked you.”

  “Me, either,” he responded. “But I’d like us to be…better friends, at least.”

  I hesitated. “Grant, I just don’t know. There’s too much going on. I don’t know who to trust or who to fear. Jenny is in the hospital. My father is dead. The remainder of my family seem only to be interested in Dad’s money. And I’ve been seeing… Well, never mind. Just don’t make me choose sides right now, okay?”

  He nodded resignedly. “Okay. But at least try to keep an open mind.”

  Before I could answer, the waitress appeared with pencil poised over her pad and I gave her my order. Grant asked for a bottle of champagne, the least we could do, he said, to celebrate our wedding day.

  All in all, the afternoon progressed pleasantly and I felt almost giddy as I sipped the bubbling wine and listened to Grant expound proudly on his powers of persuasion at the stockholders’ meeting. I discovered a new and fascinating side to him, enjoying his conversation and laughing at his quips. I even found myself talking candidly about my newest novel, somewhat surprised at his keen interest and encouraging comments. Sometimes, when his eyes met mine in that certain way, I felt my stomach lurch and my palms become moist. What was this odd feeling that came over me when I was around him?

  By the time we were ready to leave, almost three hours had elapsed. The bright sunlight nearly blinded me as I stepped out of the darker restaurant. The clouds were broken up into floating islands, their shadows lumbering like dinosaurs across the dark blue of the lake. I was grateful for the light raincoat I’d brought, for despite the blaze of the sun, the wind was chilly.

  When we arrived at the house, still amiably reminiscing about early days at Beacon, the front door flew open and Martha ran down the steps to meet us. She was wringing her apron, her face lined with anxiety.

  “Suzanna! Grant! Thank heavens you’re home! It’s Alicia. She’s been locked in her room all day and she doesn’t answer when I knock. I’m so worried. I heard her arguing with Colin this morning and she seemed so upset. I’ve got the extra key to her room but I didn’t think…”

  I stiffened, remembering Alicia’s distraught state all too well. Grant started for the stairs but I grabbed his sleeve. “Maybe I’d better go.”

  He frowned, then nodded and I stepped past him and hurried up the stairs.

  Despite my loud pounding on the door, there was no sound or response, so I inserted the key and opened the door. Alicia lay sleeping on the bed. Her face, still streaked with mascara from her earlier tears, was peaceful. She lay on one side with an arm thrown out in front of her, fingers hanging over the side of the bed.

  It was below her fingers, just peeping out from under the dust ruffle, that I saw the familiar bottle and my throat constricted. I lifted her limp wrist and felt for a pulse. It was faint but still there. I shouted urgently for Grant and Martha while fishing for the prescription bottle and frantically searching for spilled pills. There were still a number of the tablets left. If this was a suicide attempt, it was a feeble one.

  Grant bounded into the room with Martha on his heels.

  “Call an ambulance,” I ordered. “She’s taken some of my tranquilizers. She’s unconscious.”

  Martha flew from the room to make the call while Grant took the bottle and inspected it.

  “How did she get hold of these?”

  “I gave her a couple this morning. She was so upset. She asked for them. But I left the bottle in my room.”

  “Shit! How could you do something like that?”

  I stared at him dumbfounded. “What are you talking about?”

  “The last thing Alicia needs is pills! You know as well as I do that she has a drinking problem! Can’t you read?”

  He thrust the label under my nose and the words ”Not To Be Taken With Alcohol” leapt out.

  “But she wasn’t drinking!”

  He grunted. “I find that hard to believe. And even if she wasn’t, don’t you know you’re not supposed to just pass around prescription drugs to anyone?”

  I glared at him incredulously. “Are you trying to blame me for this, Grant?”

  At that moment, Martha reappeared. “The ambulance is on its way. I also phoned Colin and he’ll meet them at the hospital. Is she all right?”

  Temporarily sidetracked, I turned back to Alicia and felt her pulse again. It was steady.

  “I think so. But I think we should try to wake her, don’t you?”

  No one responded, so I sat down on the edge of the bed and shook her, repeating her name over and over. She groaned once but didn’t open her eyes, so I continued to shake her hard.

  “Perhaps if we get her on her feet?” I looked at Grant. “Would you care to lend a hand or should I do it by myself?”

  Ignoring my acid tone, he stepped in and lifted her easily, draping her arm over his shoulders and supporting her at the waist. I put her other arm over my own shoulders and together, we dragged her back and forth across the room, her bare feet trailing uselessly. By the time the ambulance siren could be heard, she was moaning irritably and once the paramedics were ushered into the room, she was attempting to open her eyes.

  Within minutes, the attendants had her strapped onto the gurney and hurried her to the ambulance. I looked on, helplessly comparing this to the scene at the river’s edge. I hugged my arms around myself to keep from shaking. It was all becoming too much.
One drama on top of another. Grant’s callous accusations had touched a guilty nerve and try as I might, I couldn’t convince myself I wasn’t to blame for most of the recent mishaps.

  Overcome, I flew down the hall to my own room and shut the door, giving way to a torrent of grief. Grant watched me go but didn’t attempt to follow, striding instead to his car to set off in pursuit of the ambulance. The afternoon was shattered and our good intentions gone up in smoke. I expected it would take a long time before we’d ever be able to repair the damage done.

  * * * * *

  Life at Beacon changed little after my marriage to Grant.

  No one appeared the slightest bit surprised or much interested the deed was done. They all knew it was inevitable and Alicia’s overdose was of greater import.

  The media, on the other hand, snatched the story greedily and played it to the hilt. Headlines like “Dirkston Heiress Weds For Wealth” and “Dirkston-Fenton Marry To Free Fortune” appeared across national newspapers and tabloids. Scandal sheets went even further using touched-up photos of Grant and myself or caricatures suggesting every conceivable—and sometimes inconceivable—slant to our relationship.

  Thankfully Alicia’s close call remained private. I could well imagine what a scandal it would create if the story found its way to the press.

  I tried to ignore the publicity but found it difficult. Where once I could move about freely and relatively anonymously, now I met reporters and cameramen everywhere, some of them shouting questions that were downright rude. The gates to Beacon were kept securely locked but there was often a small group milling around, just waiting to catch someone coming or going.

  I wished fervently that I could go back to my little cabin in the woods but I knew that part of my life was gone. Even if I wasn’t personally controlling the machinations of Dirkston Enterprises, I played a major role in its success or failure. It was a responsibility I shouldered, but resented.

  Grant was elated by the press coverage, gloating over the fact Dirkston was receiving some of its best, most extensive advertising for no cost whatsoever. After an initial dive in stock values, business began to rally until it was literally booming. More and more industries threw their shipping contracts Dirkston’s way, intrigued by the aura of success and wealth that the media never failed to exaggerate.

  Consequently and much to my relief, Grant spent a large percentage of his time at Dirkston Towers in Chicago, working around the clock and using the penthouse to snatch what little sleep he could. If I thought it feasible, I’d have gone back to my cabin but I felt obliged to take over the running of Beacon and help sort out some of the confusion there.

  When Lottie heard of Alicia’s close call, she didn’t come to work for a week, claiming that the house was surely jinxed. I had to coax her personally before she’d agree to return. Martha was showing the strain and tension of disorganization and seemed to have aged overnight. I insisted she take a couple of weeks off. This meant finding someone to fill her shoes. In the meantime, I took on the work myself.

  Colin spent the majority of his waking hours either at the marina or at the hospital. He too, seemed to feel Alicia’s overdose was partially my fault. He spoke very little and made obvious detours to avoid me. I guessed Alicia was doing nothing to change this unfair prejudice but I refused to let it get to me. The only person who seemed unaffected by it all was Rudy Coleman. He continued to drift about the estate tending to his regular duties methodically. I watched him with a mixture of respect and incredulity. It seemed to me that no one should be quite so composed.

  David still shadowed me but since Colin spent long hours at the hospital with Alicia, he was obliged to put in a larger share of time tending to business. Giles took over the vigil, visiting Beacon regularly on the pretext of boredom or loneliness, trying to help out where he could. Most times I was grateful for his company, though naturally I would have preferred David. Still, there was a comfortable air about Giles that made it easy to relax in his presence. I needed that to soothe my raw nerves.

  It was less than a week after that fateful Friday that Darla LaTrobe descended upon Beacon. I was rummaging in the attic trying to inventory the furniture stored there, when the doorbell rang. There was no one around, so I raced down the three flights of stairs to answer it myself. When I threw open the door, I was out of breath, streaked with dust and perspiration and clad in my oldest clothes, a frayed bandanna tied over my hair. The woman poised statuesquely on the veranda regarded me with unconcealed surprise. Then she gave a remote smile, adjusted her fashionable little leather shoulder bag and spoke in a husky purr.

  “Good morning. I’m Darla LaTrobe. Would you be so kind as to inform Mrs. Fenton I’m here?”

  My first thought was that one of the reporters had found her way onto the grounds. Then I noticed the leather suitcase at the bottom of the steps and realized she couldn’t have gotten past the guard without a pass. I regarded her suspiciously. She was strikingly attractive in a crisp, tailored sort of way.

  Though not tall, her posture and high heels disguised it. Her hair was a dark chestnut that gleamed like satin in the sun. Cut bluntly and tapered at the sides, it neatly followed the line of her well-defined jaw. She wore a cream beret of soft angora and a two-piece suit of lightweight gray wool. In one hand, she held a briefcase with the initials “D.M.L.” engraved in gold. Her large brown eyes assessed me with arrogance from beneath perfectly shaped brows. I disliked her immediately.

  “I’m Suzanna Dirkston,” I said coolly. “You must be looking for me. I don’t use my husband’s name.”

  Her gaze never faltered and her smile merely widened a fraction. She held out a graceful hand. “Ms. Dirkston,” she said readily. “I’m Mr. Fenton’s secretary.”

  I wiped my own hand on my jeans and shook hers. So, this was the woman Alicia had referred to.

  “Nice to meet you…Miss LaTrobe?”

  At the questioning inflection, she nodded. “Yes, it’s Miss but please, call me Darla.”

  I was disconcerted to note that she could turn up the corners of her mouth quite beautifully without actually parting her lips. It gave her a decidedly feline appearance.

  Determined not to let her intimidate me, I lifted my chin and smiled back. “Won’t you come in? I’m sorry I’m such a mess. I was just doing a bit of inventory in the attic. If I’d known you were coming…”

  I left the sentence dangling, along with its inferred accusation. Darla lifted her chiseled brows. “Don’t tell me Grant didn’t tell you? But of course, he’s been so busy! I’m so sorry. Should I come back later?”

  “No, of course not. Perhaps you’d care for a cup of coffee while we discuss…whatever it is you’ve come for?” My voice held a chilly note. It annoyed me that Darla used Grant’s first name so familiarly. I wondered if it was purposely meant to convey a degree of intimacy.

  “I’d love something. Would you possibly have tea? I’ve never acquired a taste for coffee.”

  “Certainly. Come with me.”

  Ignoring the luggage, I led the way down the passage to the rear parlor. Darla gazed about with admiration. “My! It’s certainly imaginative, isn’t it? The house, I mean.”

  “Yes. Isn’t it?”

  I excused myself after motioning her to a seat. Lottie was in the pantry making a list of items for her weekly trip to the supermarket.

  “Lottie, could you please arrange a tray with coffee and tea and some of those little biscuits with jam?”

  “Why sure, Suzanna. We got company?”

  “You might say so,” I grunted. “Grant’s new secretary, Miss Darla LaTrobe.”

  She pulled a silver tray out from a corner cabinet. “I’ve heard of her. Seems she’s not too bad to look at.”

  I eyed her quizzically. “Where did you hear about her?”

  “I don’t really remember.” She gave me a sly glance. “Heard tell, though, that Mr. Grant thinks mighty highly of her.”

  “I’ll bet he does,” I muttered.
I was becoming increasingly irritable. “I’m going upstairs to change. Just bring the tray into the rear parlor when it’s ready. Thanks!”

  I strode out of the kitchen, pushing aside the swinging doors so that they banged against the dining room walls. Lottie was baiting me and I had no patience for it.

  * * * * *

  “You really didn’t have to change on my account,” Darla said as she raised honeyed tea to her lips and sipped daintily.

  “I didn’t,” I replied. “I was just about to change anyway when you arrived. Another biscuit?”

  “No. Thank you. I have to watch my figure.”

  And I’m sure you’re not the only one who watches it. Out loud, I said, “Now, what brings you to Beacon?”

  She set the china cup back on its saucer and raised her eyes. “I really feel terribly bold, Miss…er…Miz Dirkston.”

  “Call me Suzanna.”

  “Thank you, Suzanna. Anyway, I expected Grant would’ve already explained to you. I hardly know where to begin.”

  By now, my patience was worn very thin. “Is it some papers or documents that Grant wants? Has he sent you to fetch them?”

  “No, no. I… That is… Grant has… Well… Grant actually sent me here to work on a number of contracts. You see,” she lifted the corners of her mouth again, “he thinks I might accomplish more if I worked out of his lovely home—less distractions, you know. And it would also save him the trouble of having to travel back and forth so often.” She laughed—a husky chuckle. “It seems Mr. Dirkston kept much of the company’s paperwork here and Grant finds it such an annoyance to flit back and forth just to find things.”

  I was sitting rigidly in my chair, hardly able to believe what the woman was saying. “Why doesn’t Grant just move the paperwork to the office?”

  She turned her hands palms upward. “I can’t tell you that,” she replied. “I suppose he wants to leave things as they are for a while. As a matter of fact, since the stockholders’ meeting and his election as company chairman—”