Michael’s neck grew pink. “Ummm.”
“And it got worn out?”
“Ummm.”
“What did finally happen to it?”
There was a pause, then: “My mother threw him out.” When Danica made a sympathetic sound, he rushed on. “It was only a toy. I’d outgrown it.”
“I sometimes wonder if we ever outgrow toys like that. They represent an important part of our childhood. It’s sad, the parting.”
He shot her a curious glance. “You sound like you’ve had the experience.”
“Mine wasn’t the same as yours, but yes. I had a doll. I was probably closer to her than to my mother. I had to leave her when I went off to boarding school.”
“Wasn’t she waiting for you when you got home?”
Danica shook her head and gently stroked the puppy’s soft fur. “My room had been done over into a teenager’s room. Mom discarded her along with the canopy bed, the candycane wallpaper and the lollipop mirror. She had wanted to surprise me with what had been done to the room. Fortunately, she wasn’t there when I saw it. I cried for hours.” She laughed. “Maybe it’s best that way. You know, zip, gone. Brief period of mourning. Done.”
“Will you do it that way for your child?”
“No!” Her response had been instant. Now she softened her voice. “No. I think I’d like decisions like that to be joint ones. In any event, I hope I’ll be a little more sensitive to my child’s needs. Childhood is short. Often it’s rushed all the more. I don’t want to do that.”
Looking over at her, Michael felt a sudden swell of sadness, and love. Sadness for all she had missed in life, love for what she was in spite of it. She was going to make a wonderful mother. He only wished it was his child she would be mothering.
As promised, Blake came on Saturday morning. As warned, he brought work with him. By Sunday afternoon when he pulled out of the drive, Danica wondered why he had bothered making the trip. They had had little to say to each other beyond the mandatory surface conversation and had spent most of their time at the house, each on his own.
That the silence, the lack of communication, bothered Danica much more than usual was no surprise. For the first time in her life she had a source of comparison. Don’t do it. It’s not fair. Blake’s your husband. Michael’s your friend. But she couldn’t help herself. The differences were glaring. The more she fought them, the more pronounced they became, and in consequence, the sadder she felt.
As always, though, Michael came through. She was feeling particularly low when he called on Wednesday afternoon. They had been out biking together the day before, but she had expected he’d be working.
“Can you come over, Dani?”
“Sure. Is everything okay?”
“Great! I want you to meet someone.”
“Someone? Who?”
“Come on over and see.”
He was the mysterious Michael again, and she could hear his smile. But why not? She was in the mood for another mystery. Lord knew she needed something to pick her up.
Forewarned was forearmed. Dressing in a pair of casual linen slacks and a matching short-sleeved sweater, Danica dabbed blusher on her cheeks, stroked a touch of mascara on her lashes and brushed her hair to a high sheen. Strapping on a pair of sandals, she set out across the sand.
Michael was waiting for her on the deck with a woman by his side. She wore a calf-length skirt of a soft cotton fabric that swirled about her legs in the gentle breeze, a loose shirt and a vest. A soft scarf was wrapped around the top of her head and knotted above one ear; its ends flowed into the dark hair that curled gently about her shoulders. Her stance was feminine, but somehow familiar. She was as slender as Michael was lean.
Michael met Danica halfway up the steps and took her hand to draw her the rest of the way. Danica smiled at him, but her curious gaze quickly returned to the woman who waited.
“Dani, I’d like you to meet—”
“Priscilla,” Danica finished, her smile widening as she held out her hand to Michael’s sister. “You may not look like twins, but the family resemblance is marked.” It was there in the strong line of the jaw, the firm lips, the open smile.
Cilla Buchanan offered a confident handshake. “You’re more observant than most. I usually try to pass myself off as his date. He looks more gorgeous every time I see him.”
Unable to argue, Danica simply arched a mischievous brow Michael’s way. Michael, who was enjoying himself, completed the introductions. “Cilla, this is my neighbor, Danica Lindsay.”
“Obviously,” Cilla drawled, “since she came in across the sand. Well, Danica, I’m glad to meet you. Michael’s been grinning in anticipation of something from the minute I arrived this morning. I was beginning to think he was going to keep his secret to himself all day.”
“It’s that element of mystery,” Danica said softly. “He leans toward it, I’ve noticed.”
“He should have been a mystery writer, not a historian.”
“There’s mystery in history,” Michael argued. “That’s the whole point in writing about it. It’s the unraveling that’s a—”
“Challenge,” Cilla cut in to finish. “So you’ve told me many times. I still think you should work for the paper. There’s nothing like smelling a story, sniffing out its details one by one and solving a true puzzle.”
“You sound like a bloodhound,” Michael retorted, but without malice. “Come on. Let’s sit down. Lemonade, Dani?”
She shook her head.
“I’ll have one, Mike,” Cilla said, sinking down into one of the deck chairs and crossing her legs. “Make it tart.”
Michael gave her a tart look before disappearing.
“He’s a nice brother. I really wish he did work for the paper. Then we’d be able to see each other more often.”
Danica drew over a nearby chair. “He didn’t mention you were coming.”
“He didn’t know.” She flipped the ends of her scarf back over her shoulder and shot Danica a buoyant smile. “I didn’t know until last night. The city room’s been a madhouse with the convention going on. Now that we’re between the two, there was a sudden lull. I figured that I’d better grab the chance while I had it. Once I get back, it’ll be off to St. Louis and pandemonium all over again.”
“I didn’t realize you did political reporting,” Danica remarked with caution.
“Mostly I do investigative journalism, special assignments for the paper. When it comes to national elections, though, just about everyone gets involved in one way or another. I don’t mind it; the excitement is contagious.”
“Was there all that much excitement in San Francisco? I got the impression that Picard’s renomination came off without a fuss.”
“To an extent, but then, he’s the incumbent. Still, there were some interesting floor battles waged. A vocal contingent of delegates wanted modifications in the platform. They’re more moderate than the President and have been uncomfortable with his stands on the economy and foreign trade.”
Danica could understand that. Blake and her father were supporting Jason Claveling for, among other reason, those very differences with the President. “They didn’t get very far, did they?”
“Nope. Ahh, my lemonade.” She reached for the tall glass Michael handed her. He offered a second to Danica on the chance she had changed her mind. When she shook her head again, he kept the glass for himself and sat down facing the two women.
“You’re not talking politics, are you?”
“As a matter of fact,” Cilla began without remorse, only to be interrupted by her brother.
“I’d better warn you that Danica’s no innocent on that score.” He was also warning her to be careful. He knew Cilla to be quick-tongued and opinionated in a way that had never bothered him but might bother another. He wouldn’t have put it past her to inadvertently blurt out something that would offend Danica. “Her father is William Marshall.”
Cilla’s lemonade took a wrong turn in her thro
at. She coughed, pressing a hand to her chest. “William Marshall? Are you serious?” She was looking at Danica, who smiled apologetically and nodded. “Michael, you’re courting the enemy!” she exclaimed, but the thread of humor in her voice echoed Danica’s own upon first learning of Michael’s family connections.
“I’m not courting her. In case you hadn’t noticed, she’s married. We’re friends. Dani’s keeping me sane.”
“Fat chance,” Cilla murmured with affection. Then she grew thoughtful. “Danica Lindsay. Danica Marshall. Why does that last sound familiar?”
“Probably because you’ve written so much over the years about Danica’s father,” Michael suggested. He was closely enough attuned to everything about Danica to sense the faint unease she was feeling at that moment, despite the perfect outer calm she projected. “Maybe you’d better quit while you’re ahead, Cilla.”
But Cilla would have no part of it. As her brother loved his little surprises, so she loved intrigue. She was smelling a story, and as always when that happened, her inquisitive nature took command. “What does he think about your living next to a Buchanan?” she asked Danica.
“I’m not sure he knows. Blake and I just bought the house a few months ago and my parents haven’t been up yet.”
The gears in Cilla’s mind were turning. “Blake Lindsay…uh, Eastbridge Electronics out of…Boston?”
“Cilla has a photographic memory, Dani. She’s probably seen some caption along the way.”
“He’s supporting Claveling, isn’t he?” Cilla went on, recalling more and more.
“That’s right,” Danica answered. It was public knowledge. And besides, she wasn’t ashamed of it. If Jason Claveling won the nomination, she would vote for him herself. No, the only thing that bothered her about the man was the fact that he commanded so much of Blake’s time and effort.
“Your father’s a big Claveling man.” She frowned, struggling to organize fragments of memory. “I’m trying to…there’s been so much written about William Marshall…but…I hadn’t realize he had a daughter.”
“My parents kept me well-protected,” Danica murmured.
Michael, who was growing uneasy himself, promptly made a move to shift the conversation. “Slightly different from our situation, but I don’t think anyone could have kept you well protected, Cilla. You were an aggressive twerp, speaking of which, how’s work going, aside from the conventions?”
Cilla accepted the diversion with grace, Danica with relief. In truth, Danica found herself fascinated with the ensuing talk, which centered on the daily rigor of the newspaper journalist. She had always viewed the papers from the outside; glimpsing them from the inside now was enlightening.
“You really do all that checking?” she asked when Cilla was describing the work she had recently done on a bribery report.
“Of our sources? If we didn’t, we’d be risking lawsuits every day. Some papers take more chances than others, and of course, public figures are usually fair game. But sources of information can sometimes be pretty sleazy characters. It’s in our interest to check them out before we make fools of ourselves. The headline that’s slapped on a story can be misleading enough, but then—” she held up a hand “—I don’t have any part in that.” She glanced toward the sliding screen. “I think your baby wants out, Mike.”
Michael twisted around to see the puppy standing forlornly at the screen. In an instant he had freed it from its cage and was gently placing it into Danica’s outstretched arms. Quite appropriately, the talk turned to dogs, then, comfortably, to fond childhood remembrances, then old friends, then, as the minutes turned into hours, the novel written by one of Michael’s old friends, which he and Danica had been reading simultaneously, then back to the puppy, who, having been romping by their feet after taking a nap in Danica’s lap, had proceeded to pee on Michael’s sneaker.
“That’s it,” Michael exclaimed in clipped words, “the final straw!” Scooping up the little dog, he stared it in the eye. “I’ve been up every damn night this week with you, you fool pooch. I’ve spoon-fed you, cleaned you, toted you to the vet, held your paw when you cried for your mama. And what do I get for all this love?” He glared at his sneaker and muttered a brief obscenity, which Danica was fast to contradict through her laughter.
“Not that, Michael. At least not yet. Maybe you’d better take him in.” When Michael moved to do so, she looked at Cilla, who had shared her appreciation of the puppy’s unique, if misplaced, demonstration of love. “How about you and Michael coming to my place for dinner?” She had already learned that Cilla was up for several days. Cilla, in turn, had already learned that Blake had returned to Boston the Sunday before.
“No way.” Cilla stood alongside Danica. “I’m taking you both out.”
“That’s silly, Cilla. You probably eat out five or six nights a week.”
“Now, how did you know that?”
“You’re a working woman. You’ve got a hectic schedule.”
Cilla lowered her voice as the two women entered the house. “The truth of it is I’m a lousy cook. Either I burn the butter or curdle the sauce or cut my finger instead of the tomato. I have this wonderful guy, though—”
“That you’re seeing?”
“No, no. This guy cooks. When I’m planning to have a guy guy in for dinner, I give Fred the key to my apartment. He comes in during the afternoon and prepares everything, then leaves simplified instructions on what I have to do to make sure things are hot. My dates rarely know the difference.”
“Pretty tricky.”
“Tell me you think I’m awful. Are you a gourmet cook?”
Danica laughed. “Not quite. I’ve never had much of a chance to cook. The kitchen’s always been occupied. What it boils down to is that I’m learning how to cook up here. I’m not too bad.”
“Two women after my own heart,” Michael hummed, catching talk of food as he passed them on his way from kitchen to bedroom. “Let’s go, ladies. I’ll just change my shoes and then I’m taking you both out to dinner.”
“I’m taking us out to dinner!” Cilla called.
“No, you’re not,” Michael bellowed back from what Danica guessed to be the bottom of his closet. “I’ve never been a kept man and I don’t intend to start now. Be gracious in defeat, Cilla. A docile woman is a thing to behold.”
Cilla wasn’t about to be either gracious or docile. “Try writing that in a book, Michael, and they’ll boo you off the shelves. ‘A docile woman is a thing to behold,’ my foot. Modern men don’t say things like that. They don’t even think things like that.” She lowered her voice so that only Danica could hear. “At least, if we keep telling them they don’t, maybe they won’t. I sometimes wonder if it isn’t a losing battle.” A frown creased her brow, as though mirroring the passage of a brief pain through her mind.
Danica was intrigued. Until that moment she hadn’t seen a single dent in Cilla Buchanan. She seemed confident, optimistic, indeed a tiny bit intimidating to Danica. But with that fleeting frown something had emerged. Vulnerability? Sadness? Danica couldn’t quite pin it down because it was already gone, but she sensed that Cilla’s pain was very personal.
Over dinner she kept an ear out for anything that might lend credence to her suspicion. Once, in passing, Cilla spoke of her ex-husband, Jeffrey, but her tone remained even. Danica wondered whether she was well controlled, legitimately neutral or simply preoccupied. She kept giving Danica pensive looks from time to time.
The three were enjoying dessert when Cilla abruptly put down her fork. “I remember now,” she said in a tone of dawning recognition. “Danica Marshall. Of course I’ve heard that name. Didn’t you play tennis at one point?”
Danica knew that it would be foolish to feign innocence. “Yes. A long time ago.” She dared glance at Michael and caught the discomfort in his eyes. It was enough to tell her that he’d known all along, that he had been waiting for her to raise the subject herself, that he hadn’t wanted to dredge up something she w
ould rather not have mentioned. Ironically, this knowledge gave her strength.
“You were good, as I recall. You made it to the top.”
“I was ranked fourth in the country.”
“But—” again Cilla tugged at her memory bank “—you stopped. Very suddenly.”
“Cilla, I’m not sure Dani wants to discuss—”
“It’s okay, Michael,” Danica said softly, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “I don’t mind talking about it.” Maybe it was that, given the success of Cilla’s career, she wanted to share her own, albeit defunct one. Maybe it was that she liked Cilla. Maybe it was that she needed Michael to hear. Then again, maybe it was the wine she had drunk.
“I was eight when I first started playing at our club. Our pro believed I had talent, and my parents jumped at the thought. They gave me lessons, twice a week during winters, every day during summers. When I began entering tournaments and winning, they were thrilled.” She paused and looked down, momentarily unsure as to how much to say, then, with the sudden confidence that she was in the right, raised her eyes and went on.
“My father has always been a competitor. He imposed that drive on me. He was convinced that I could be the country’s top-ranked female player. He was proud of what I was doing and that motivated me to work harder. I was twelve when I went off to boarding school. I had a private coach there.” She arched a brow. “I had a special schedule and was excused from classes whenever there was a tournament. Not great for winning friends in school. Anyway, by the time I was fifteen, my parents decided to enroll me in a full-time tennis academy in Florida.”
“Arroah’s,” Cilla prompted, recalling the association of the two names.
Danica nodded. “Armand was wonderful. He was just starting the academy. I lived in his house, along with several other players.” She looked at Michael. “Reggie Nichols was one of them. We had met before, but that was where we became close friends. Eventually the school expanded enough to warrant a dorm, but Reggie and I stayed close.”
“That’s understandable,” Cilla remarked. “You were well matched in skill.”
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