A coldness trickled through me. I felt myself shivering. "Don't say things like that, Sash; you frighten me."
"Don't be so silly." She laughed. "I'm only kidding."
"You know very well I've never liked anything that's macabre or ghoulish or has to do with the occult-" I didn't finish my sentence. Sarah was staring at me, concern reflected in her eyes.
"What is it?" I asked. "Why are you looking at me like that? So oddly."
"You've gone quite pale, Mal. I'm sorry, honestly I am. I'd forgotten that you're a bit squeamish about those sort of things."
"And you're not," I retorted, trying to recoup, forcing a laugh. But I was still cold all over, and irrational as it was, I felt a peculiar sense of apprehension.
"Only too true," Sarah agreed. "The more ghoulish and scary something is, the better I like it, whether in a film or a book." She laughed again. "Poe was my favorite until Stephen King and Anne Rice came along."
"I'm afraid I have different tastes," I remarked. Closing the door behind me, I walked back to the sofa.
Sarah strolled over to the long table under the window at the back of my studio and stood looking down at the watercolors spread out on it. "These are terrific, Mally!" she cried, sounding surprised. Her voice was suddenly full of merriment. "Oh, I love these drawings of the creatures in the wall! Here's Algernon, the black snake, with his head in the cookie jar, or I should say the chocolate-covered cherry jar. And how adorable-Angelica in her Easter bonnet off to the Fifth Avenue parade, and the chipmunks making a cradle for the baby they're going to adopt." She turned around; her face was wreathed in smiles. "Mal, you're brilliant, a genius. These are delightful paintings, full of charm and humor. You've missed your way. You should be illustrating children's books."
"That's sweet of you to say, but I have my hands full with so many other things, quite aside from Andrew and the twins," I said. "But I'm pleased you like them. I had fun creating the books, and Andrew helped me with the editing of the stories."
"The kids are going to love the books when they find them in their Christmas stockings," Sarah said.
"I hope so, considering all the time I've put into them."
"You ought to try to get them published, Mal." I shook my head. "I'm not sure they're good enough."
"Take my word for it, they're good enough."
"I wrote and painted them for Jamie and Lissa-just for them, and that's the way I prefer it."
After Sarah left the studio, I picked up my brush and went back to the portrait on the easel. It was of Diana, and I was painting it as a Christmas gift for Andrew.
I had done the initial drawings in July, when she was visiting us, and taken a number of photographs of her in this pose at that time. Working in oils for the past two months, I was now almost finished. I spent a good hour concentrating on Diana's hair color, trying to capture the reddish lights in it, and once I felt I had it exactly right and couldn't improve upon it, I put the brush down. I needed to step away from the portrait for a couple of hours, to get a new perspective on it; also, it was almost lunchtime, and I wanted to eat with the twins, Jenny, and Sarah.
Taking up a rag, I dipped it in turpentine and cleaned the brushes I had used this morning. When I finished, I turned off the lights, pulled on my heavy cardigan, and headed for the door. But before I reached it the phone began to ring, and I picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
"It's me, darling," Andrew said from London.
"Hi, honey, how are you?" I asked, smiling into the phone, glad to hear his voice.
"I'm okay, Mal, but missing you and the twins like hell."
"We miss you, too."
"You are coming over here next weekend, aren't you?" he asked, sounding anxious.
"Nothing could keep me away! Sarah's agreed to bring the twins and Jenny up here, and they'll have fun together."
"And so will we, Puss, I can promise you that," my husband said.
Part Two. KILGRAM CHASE
CHAPTER ELEVEN
London, November 1988
On Thursday morning at nine-thirty I flew to London on the Concorde.
Andrew had insisted that I take the supersonic flight because it was so fast, only three and a half hours long, reasoning that since I was going for just a few days, it would give us more time together. He had overcome my objections with the assurance that his office was paying for my very expensive ticket.
I quickly discovered it was a terrific way to fly. I had hardly had a chance to eat a snack, relax, and read my Colette when we were landing at Heathrow. Another good thing about flying Concorde was the way the luggage came off the plane and onto the carousel so quickly. The porter I found was soon stacking my cases on his trolley and whizzing me through customs. As we came out into the terminal I was still blinking at the efficiency and speed with which everything had moved.
I looked around for Andrew and saw him before he saw me. He was standing just beyond the barrier, looking handsome and dashing with a trenchcoat thrown nonchalantly over his shoulders. He wore a gray pinstripe suit, a pale blue shirt, and a plain gray silk tie, and as always he was immaculate, not only in his clothes, but from the top of his well-groomed head to the tip of his highly polished brown shoes.
A rush of excitement hit me at the sight of him. It always did when we had been apart. He was the only man I had ever loved, the only man I would ever want.
Suddenly he saw me, and his face broke into smiles. I raised my hand in greeting, smiled back, and hurried forward as he moved toward me. A split second later he was holding me in his arms, hugging me to him and kissing me. As I clung to him I thought how extraordinary it was that less than four hours after leaving Kennedy I was standing here on English soil, embracing my husband.
We drew apart finally, and I said, "My bags are on the trolley," looking over my shoulder as I spoke.
Andrew glanced at the porter and nodded.
"'Evening, guv'nor," the porter said. "Got a car waiting, have you?"
"Yes, in the parking area just outside this building," Andrew told him.
"Right ho!" The porter went trundling ahead of us, pushing the trolley. We walked after him.
Andrew turned to me and lifted a brow. "You've come for the duration, have you?"
"Duration?"
"Of my stay. You've certainly brought enough luggage."
I laughed. "Only two cases and a makeup bag."
"Rather large cases, though," Andrew murmured, half smiling.
I threw my husband a flirtatious look and said, "But I'll stay if you want me to."
"Will you really, darling?" His face lit up, and there was a sudden eagerness in his eyes, excitement in his manner.
Instantly I regretted teasing him and explained in a more serious tone, "I'd love to stay longer than we'd planned, Andrew, but you know I can't. I've got to go back on Monday."
"Why?"
"I can't leave the children for longer than a weekend."
"'Course you can, darling. The twins'll be fine. They've got Jenny and your mother, and Sarah to watch over them."
"Sarah's working during the week," I pointed out.
"Your mother isn't, and Jenny is very reliable. They're as safe as houses with her."
"But we agreed I'd only come here for the weekend," I reminded him. I stopped. Staring hard at him, I said, "I shouldn't have risen to the bait just now, and I shouldn't have teased you, said I'd stay longer. Honestly, it's just not possible. I'd feel uneasy, Andrew."
Suddenly he looked awfully glum, but he made no further comment. We walked on in silence.
Making a snap decision, I stopped again, turned to him, and said, "Look, I'll stay on until Tuesday, honey. I think that'll be all right. Okay? Is that okay with you?"
Smiling, he nodded and exclaimed, "Mal, that's great, just great!" Then taking hold of my elbow firmly, he hurried me forward.
We went through the glass doors of the terminal, crossed the road, and entered the parking area where the porter was already waiting
with my suitcases on the trolley.
I shivered. It was a damp November night and quite cold, typical English winter weather.
A dark green Rolls-Royce moved slowly toward us and braked. A uniformed chauffeur jumped out, nodded to me, and said, "Good evening, madam," and went to help the porter load the bags into the trunk before I even had a chance to acknowledge him.
Turning to the porter, I said, "Thanks for helping me," and walked over to the Rolls. Andrew tipped him and followed me. Bundling me into the car, Andrew then stepped in behind me and closed the door. Immediately he took me in his arms and gave me a long kiss, then pulling away, he said, "It's so good to have you here, Mal."
"I know. It's the same for me," I answered. "Wonderful to be here with you."
The chauffeur got in and turned on the ignition. A few seconds later we were leaving the airport buildings behind and heading out onto the main road in the direction of London.
As the car sped along, I glanced at my husband. My eyes lingered on his face, and I saw, on closer examination, that he looked much more tired than I had realized. There were dark smudges under his eyes, and in repose, his face appeared unexpectedly weary. A general air of fatigue enveloped him.
Frowning, I said, "You've had a much rougher time than you've told me, haven't you?"
Andrew gave a quick nod, squeezed my hand, and inclined his head in the direction of the driver, obviously not wanting to speak in front of him. He murmured, sotto voce, "I'll tell you later."
"All right." Opening my bag, I took out two envelopes with Dad printed across their fronts in uneven, wobbly, childlike letters. Handing them to Andrew, I said, "Lissa and Jamie have each written you a card."
Looking pleased, he put on his horn-rimmed glasses, opened the envelopes, and began to read.
I leaned back against the soft cream leather of my seat and stared out the window. It was just six-thirty, and dark, so there was not much to see. The road was slick with rain, and the traffic at this hour was heavy. But the Rolls-Royce rolled steadily along at a good speed, and I knew that in spite of the rain, which was now falling in torrents, we would arrive at Claridge's in an hour, or thereabouts.
Later that evening, after I had called Jenny in New York, unpacked, showered, redone my makeup, and changed my clothes, Andrew took me to dinner at the Connaught Hotel.
"For sentimental reasons, Mal darling," he said as we walked from Claridge's to the other hotel, which was situated on Carlos Place.
It was still cold and damp, but the heavy downpour had long since ceased, and I was glad to get a little air after being cooped up on the plane. Anyway, I always liked to walk in London, especially in Mayfair around the dinner hour.
The traffic was far lighter and the streets were much less crowded; in fact, they were almost empty at this time of day. There was something charming and beautiful about this lovely old part of London. Certain streets in Mayfair were still residential, although some of the elegant Georgian mansions had been turned into offices; nonetheless, the section was very special to me, and it held many fond memories of my courtship.
Once we were settled at our table in the restaurant of the Connaught, Andrew ordered a glass of white wine for me and a very dry martini for himself. As we waited for the drinks to materialize, he started to talk about the London office of Blau, Ames, Braddock and Suskind, and without any prompting from me.
"I think I got over here just in the nick of time," he explained, leaning across the table, pinning me with his eyes. "The place is in a mess, as I sort of indicated to you on the phone the other night. It's been badly managed for the last few years. Joe Braddock's son-in-law doesn't know his ass from his elbow, and Jack Underwood and I will have to do a lot of fancy footwork in order to keep it afloat."
I was incredulous. It had always been a financially successful operation. Until recently, apparently. Startled, I exclaimed, "Do you mean you might have to close the London office?"
He nodded emphatically. "Yep, I sure do. Malcolm Stainley's one of the biggest dummies I've ever met. I don't know what got into Joe. Giving him the European end to run was more than foolhardy. It was criminal. And it is the European end, not merely the London office, since most of our French, German, and Continental business is handled and billed out of here."
"Nepotism, of course," I said. "That's why Malcolm is where he is." Then I asked, "But what exactly did he do, Andrew?"
"He made one hell of a mess, that's for sure," Andrew muttered, falling silent as the waiter arrived with our drinks.
After we had clinked glasses, Andrew went on, "The trouble with Malcolm Stainley is that he hasn't got a clue about people. He can't keep staff, for one thing, and in my opinion that's because he pits people against one another. Anyway, morale is at rock bottom here, and everyone hates his guts. Then again, he's a bit of a cheapskate, so he's always trying to save money-in the wrong ways. For instance, he hires second-rate talent instead of going for the best and the brightest. In consequence, we lose out on a lot of bids we make to potential clients, because the presentations are lousy." Andrew shook his head. "He's shown very flawed judgment on many different levels."
"But what's the solution? After all, Malcolm is married to Joe's daughter, and Ellen likes living in London. So you can bet Joe isn't going to remove her husband, or fire him. At least, that's the way I read it."
Andrew looked thoughtful as he sat and sipped his martini without responding.
Finally, he said, "No, I don't suppose Joe is going to do anything about Malcolm, so Jack and I will have to render the bugger helpless and take his power away to boot."
"And how do you plan to do that?" I asked, raising a brow.
"Appoint someone else to run the London office, get it on the straight and narrow."
"But Joe may not agree to that. And Malcolm surely won't," I ventured.
Andrew gave me a small, very knowing smile. "Joe will agree to certain things, Mal. Jack, Harvey Colton, and I have been talking retirement to him, and in no uncertain terms, these last few months, and he will agree to do what we propose. In order to stay on with the agency himself. He loathes the idea of retiring, as I thought you'd realized."
I nodded but made no comment. Joe Braddock was close to senile, in my opinion, and should have been put out to pasture eons ago.
Andrew continued, "You're right, of course, in that Joe won't like seeing his son-in-law demoted or displaced. And neither will Malcolm the Great himself. He'd put up one hell of a bloody fight, no two ways about it, if we said we wanted him to go. So we're not going to do that. Instead we're going to kick him upstairs, give him a fancy title." Andrew paused dramatically, then finished, "And we'll tie his hands. Manacle them, if necessary." He grinned at me conspiratorially. "That leaves the way open for a new, hands-on guy who'll pull the company out of the mire, get it back on course. And lead it to financial security. We hope."
"Do you have someone in mind?" I wondered out loud.
"Jack and Harvey wanted me to take it on. However, I said thanks but no thanks. Frankly, Mal, I didn't want to uproot us all, take the kids out of Trinity, move to London for a couple of years. Because that's what it would mean. It's going to take two, maybe even three years to pull this operation around."
"Oh," I said, staring at him. "But I wouldn't have minded living in London for two or three years, Andrew, really I wouldn't. If you haven't already hired someone else yet, why don't you take the position after all?"
He shook his head. "No way, Mal, it's not my cup of tea, cleaning up somebody else's mess. Besides which, Harvey, Jack, and I have been streamlining the New York operation. I want to keep on doing that, it's very important to me." Narrowing those brilliantly blue eyes at me, he said softly, "Oh, hell, darling, you're disappointed, aren't you?"
"No, I'm not," I protested, although he had read my thoughts very accurately.
"I know you, Mallory Keswick,". my husband said in the quietest of voices. "And I think you are disappointed…just a little bit."
"Well, yes," I admitted. Then I gave him a reassuring smile. "But I'm not important in this instance. It's your decision. After all, it is your career, and you're the one it affects the most. Whatever you decide about where you work, be it agency or city or country, it'll be okay with me, I promise you."
"Thanks for that. I just don't want to live in England," he answered, "but then you've always known this. I love Manhattan and working on Madison Avenue. The rhythm of the city excites and invigorates me, and I love my job. Not only that, I'd miss Indian Meadows, and so would you."
"That's true, I would. So who have you hired? Or haven't you found anyone yet?"
"Jack Underwood. He's going to move over here and tackle the job. In fact, he's flying in next Wednesday so that we can go over things together before I leave. He'll stay on, as of this coming week, and assume the running of the British company immediately. It's going to be a permanent move for him. At least, he'll be here for a few years. I'm going to miss him."
"So you and Harvey will have to cope on your own in New York?"
"That we will. And we do have our jobs cut out for us. But we both believe we can bring the agency back to its former standing. Although it has been losing ground a bit, we're still big in certain areas of advertising, and we have a roster of good and very loyal old clients."
Reaching out, I took hold of his hand, which rested on the table. "I haven't seen you looking so tired for a long time, darling. I guess it has been pretty rough whilst you've been here in London. Much rougher than you've let on to me."
"Mal, that's true to a certain extent." He sighed under his breath. "And I have to admit that very long hours and a disgruntled staff have had their debilitating effect, no two ways about it." Then he winked, taking me by surprise, and in a lighter, gayer tone, he added, "But now you're here, my darling. We're going to have a lovely weekend together, and we're not going to discuss business. Not at all. Agreed?"
"I agree to anything you say or want."
A dark brow lifted, and he laughed a deep-throated laugh. He said, "Let's order another drink, and then we'll look at the menu."
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