Owen's Touch

by Lee Magner

  Mariana’s eyes widened, and for a moment she questioned the wisdom of being scrupulously candid with Owen about the plan she had concocted with her sister. Owen definitely did not look pleased.

  “Well—” she said. “Yes.”

  “Why the hell did she involve you in this? Why didn’t she deal with it herself?” he demanded, radiating disbelief at the risk Mariana had taken.

  “I’m getting to that,” she promised, trying to remember why it had seemed like a perfectly reasonable plan to her at the time. She had to admit, her memory was getting a little foggy on that point. Owen’s furious glare wasn’t improving her recollection at all. She hunied on with her explanation.

  “We planned it so that I wouldn’t run into Louie....”

  “And just how the hell could you be sure that he wouldn’t surprise you?” he demanded, sublimating his anger with sarcasm.

  “All I had to do was be at the house to phone him on schedule....”

  “He left a schedule for Maryanice to use to check in with him?”

  “Yes.”

  Owen rolled his eyes heavenward, seeking divine assistance for his self-restraint.

  “What if he’d arrived at home unexpectedly?” Owen asked, his voice hardening and his eyes turning the color of billowing black smoke.

  “He rarely showed up unexpectedly,” Mariana retorted defensively. “We picked a time when he was committed to a big series of meetings with his business contacts in Suriname, Colombia, Mexico and several island gambling resorts in the Caribbean. For the past several years, he made that trip in the late fall, and he never came back in less than a month.”

  “Did it occur to you that he might kill you if he realized you weren’t his wife?” Owen demanded furiously, completely dismayed that she had put herself in such a dangerous situation.

  “Of course,” she hissed, looking pointedly around the room. “Keep your voice down, please! I don’t want this mess to be the newest piece of gossip for everyone to chew on.”

  “That’s the least of your worries, Mariana,” he muttered, but he did lower his voice. “Did you ever come face to face with him?”

  “No.”

  Owen breathed a soft sigh of relief.

  Mariana took the opportunity to seize control of the conversation again.

  “You asked me earlier how Maryanice ended up in the hospital,” she reminded him. “I’m trying to get to that.”

  Owen closed his mouth and nodded for her to continue.

  “Well...Maryanice finally located me when she was in Las Vegas. Louie likes to stop there when he has business in Los Angeles. She used the visits as an excuse to search for me, pretending to go shopping or gambling or sight-seeing. She happened to see one of my collages hanging on the wall of a coffee lounge in her hotel. It was the image of a young woman that looked a lot like us. She was drawn to it, and when she saw the way I’d signed it—‘Mari’—she asked how she could buy the piece.”

  “The hotel management referred her to your agent, Cryssa Roberts,” Owen guessed.

  Mariana, wreathed in proud smiles, nodded her head happily.

  “God must have smiled on her, Owen. She had done everything she could think of, as discreetly as possible, since she didn’t want Louie to know what she was up to. She had persevered for months and months, but that piece of art was a gift from heaven, pointing her toward me.” She looked at Owen, and her expression became very vulnerable.

  “Sort of like when he smiled on me that night on the mountainside, and maneuvered you behind that truck so you could put your hand in mine and pull me to safety.”

  Owen felt the strange sensation swirling around him that he always felt when he looked into Mariana’s eyes.

  Maybe you were a gift to me, he thought. Would she be willing to hold on? Would he?

  “Just don’t test the limits of the Almighty’s generosity,” he warned her.

  Mariana disregarded his annoyance for the moment and picked up the thread of her story again.

  “Maryanice had begun searching for me in earnest over a year ago. She desperately needed to find someone to trust. Someone she could turn to for strength so she could break free of Louie’s psychological hold over her. Someone to love her. Someone to believe in her. She’d lost all faith in herself. She wanted someone to tell her she could make something of her life. That her life was worth struggling for.” Mariana looked at him anxiously. “Can you understand how she felt, Owen?”

  Owen steepled his fingers and stared at them thoughtfully. He knew from personal experience how difficult it could be to withstand the determined manipulations of a rich and powerful person. How much worse it could be for a young woman virtually alone in the world being toyed with by an older, more sophisticated man who lacked a conscience.

  He lifted his steady gaze to Mariana’s worried eyes.

  “Yes,” he assured her evenly.

  Mariana reached out and covered his strong hands with one of hers.

  “And can you imagine how I felt? Here was my twin sister, whom I believed dead, given back to me. It was like a miracle. And it was like a nightmare. She was trembling and frightened and she needed me, Owen. Can’t you understand why I would want to help her escape from the man who was destroying her?” She pleaded silently with her eyes when at length she fell silent.

  Owen covered her hand with his and stared at the strong, supple fingers. They were slightly roughened from work. The strong, expressive hands of an artist who worked with clay.

  “I can understand the impulse,” he said at length. “But why didn’t you just keep her with you and let her file for divorce from long distance?”

  “First she needed to get into a rehab program,” Mariana said fiercely. “There’s a really good residential program that Cryssa knew about. Maryanice agreed to go in. She needed money of her own to pay. And she didn’t want her husband to come and interfere. We thought we could buy her a few weeks of uninterrupted therapy there if someone kept talking to Louie for her. That would keep him from suspecting that she was actually laying plans to leave him for good. We hoped by the time he returned, she’d have a support network in place. It would give her a fighting chance to divorce him.”

  “But you said you returned her rings. Wouldn’t selling them have generated cash for her?” Owen asked, frowning.

  “She didn’t want anything to do with those rings. It might have made financial sense, but...they were symbols of bondage to her, Owen. She’d have scrubbed toilets for years to pay her bills rather than use money raised from those.”

  “Well, then, what assets did she expect to use?”

  Mariana sighed. “I was supposed to find a safe-deposit box key that she had left taped underneath the top dresser drawer. But it wasn’t there when I showed up at their house. I maintained the pattern of life that she led, going to the AA meetings on Sunday. Being bored out of my skull all week long...” She grinned. “Picking up liquor at the store and pouring it down the drain at the house, so some bottles would pile up.”

  “Until the accident,” he amended.

  She nodded.

  “Well, that explains why Kelton thought you looked pretty strung out when you first came to the AA meetings, but seemed much healthier recently. There were two of you—Maryanice in the beginning, and you later on.”

  Mariana nodded.

  Owen frowned. “So why isn’t your sister in the hospital now?”

  Mariana frowned worriedly. “I wish I knew.”

  “Where’s Louie Roualt?” Owen asked more pointedly.

  “He...might be back by now.” Mariana gulped when she saw the angry dismay in Owen’s eyes. “I didn’t know that when we went there this afternoon, Owen!” she exclaimed heatedly. “If I’d remembered all this, believe me, I wouldn’t have gone back there. Not without talking to Maryanice first.”

  Owen closed his eyes. When he opened them, he seemed to have found an iron core of self-control.

  “We’re calling Lefcourt and letting th
e police sort this out,” Owen said. By the tone of his voice, he made it clear there would be no debate or argument about this point. “Domestic power struggles are dangerous situations. Marital combat can be fatal. You’ve done as much as you can for Maryanice with that—” he was about to say hairbrained. “—misguided masquerade. You will not pretend to be your twin sister in dealings with Louie Roualt again.”

  Mariana withdrew her hand and straightened in her chair, her cheeks reddening in angry embarrassment. Part of her was deliciously gratified that Owen cared deeply enough for her to say something so transparently proprietary. However, the rest of her had been independent far too long to meekly acquiesce to such an unvarnished command.

  “I have been looking after myself for almost thirty years, Owen Blackhart!” she briskly informed him. “That last comment of yours sounded more dictatorial than anything I’ve heard directed toward me since I got out of kindergarten!” Her eyes flashed defiantly.

  Owen gritted his teeth and glared at her across the table of dirty plates.

  “I simply want you to live another thirty years,” he growled. “And considering the way I feel right now, you should consider my choice of words to be extremely diplomatic!”

  Mariana gaped at Owen. Before she could reply, however, a shadow fell across their table. She looked up to see Seymour Rushville beatifically beaming down at her. She smiled weakly.

  “Mariana!” he said, his voice booming. “And Owen!” He bent in Owen’s direction conspiratorially. “I’m surprised to see you two are still in town, what with all the reporters crawling all over us all day long here. Sweet Aunt Annie’s fan,” he swore, grinning. “I think just about every last person in town today got taken aside and interviewed.”

  “Great,” Owen muttered sarcastically. He motioned for the check and sat like a man stoically awaiting the next unseen blow to fall.

  Seymour leaned toward Owen and lowered his voice. “Bye the bye, Owen, Averson’s been looking for you this evening. He called me about a half hour ago to ask if I’d seen you.”

  Owen frowned. “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “No...” Seymour hesitated. Then he sheepishly added, “But I figured it was probably something to do with the court hearing the judge set for tomorrow morning in the matter of that challenge to Portia’s estate settlement.”

  “I haven’t heard about any court proceedings being scheduled,” Owen said in surprise.

  “Probably because you haven’t been home to check your mail or answer your phone calls from your lawyer,” Seymour suggested cheerfully. “I have it on very sound authority that there’ll be a hearing, all right.”

  “What authority?” Owen challenged.

  “The court docket manager is my stock boy’s aunt,” Seymour confided with a hearty grin.

  “That’s sound authority,” Owen conceded fatalistically. He looked at Mariana. “Maybe you’d like to help Seymour redecorate his store tomorrow, Mariana? Looks like I’ll be sitting on a bench most of the day.” A rustling sound drew his attention to a figure weaving through the now packed restaurant. Averson Hemphill, Esquire. Looking very relieved to have spotted Owen.

  “There you are, Owen! I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

  “So I hear.”

  In all the excitement, Owen hadn’t noticed a man approaching him from behind.

  Mariana had. Her eyes grew big, and she cleared her throat, trying to get Owen’s attention.

  “Mr. Blackhart?” called out the newcomer, who was pointing a camera at them.

  Owen turned to glower at the man and was greeted by a bright flash of light. Then another. And another.

  Then the photographer grinned at them and hastily headed for the front door. He was in a waiting car and driving away before Owen could stop them.

  “Looks like you two will be seeing your faces in tomorrow’s newspaper,” Seymour said, finding it all greatly amusing. “Autograph a few at the store, if you have some time, will you?” He heard his name being insistently called from a raucous corner table. “Uh, sorry, folks...it’s my turn to buy the beer. Good luck in court, Owen. And holler if you need anything, Mariana. You know my number.”

  “Owen, we need to discuss what’s going to transpire in court tomorrow,” Averson was saying. “Could you come by my office after you’re through with dinner?”

  “Would right now be soon enough for you, Averson?”

  The lawyer was taken aback, but he quickly recovered.

  “I’ll just pick up my take-out order and meet you at my office. I hope you don’t mind if I eat dinner while we talk?” Averson said with an apologetic smile.

  As the lawyer went to the back of the restaurant to pick up his food, the waitress returned with their check and began clearing away the plates.

  “Was everything okay tonight?” she asked automatically.

  “No,” Owen muttered darkly.

  Startled, the waitress looked from Owen to Mariana.

  “Don’t mind him,” Mariana told her soothingly. “The photographer didn’t shoot his good side.”

  The waitress looked from Mariana’s solicitous expression to Owen’s mildly outraged one.

  “I don’t like having my picture taken, neither,” she heartily assured him. “Both my sides are not good,” she added with a little too much sincerity to be believed.

  “Come on,” Owen said, rising to his feet and turning to leave. “We’ve got too much to do to sit around Rafael’s Café looking photogenic.”

  Mariana grabbed the purse and hurried after him.

  Owen spent over an hour with Averson Hemphill, listening to the description of what was likely to happen in court the following day. Pleading sleepiness, Mariana had curled up on the somewhat worn leather couch in the reception room and tried to catnap.

  She soon realized that she couldn’t fall asleep while Owen was pacing slowly around Hemphill’s office, discussing what could become a very serious problem for him.

  The door that connected the reception area to Hemphill’s office was made of a beautiful light oak. Its oil-rubbed finish looked like it had been done by hand, she thought, admiring the warm wood tones.

  For some reason, Hemphill had installed a large pane of glass in the upper portion of the door. While it afforded less privacy than wood, the intricately etched designs and shadows made by frosting the glass permitted more light to pass through from one room to the other, and made each seem more open. Hemphill had another, adjoining office which had a solid wood door, so he had seclusion when he or his clients required it.

  Mariana was glad he was using the etched-glass-and-wood door’s office tonight. She could watch Owen through the pane to her heart’s content. Every once in a while, he seemed to sense her wistful regard, because he would turn and glance back at her. She’d smile at him sleepily, and she’d see something flicker in the depths of his North Sea eyes.

  It was late by the time they returned to Owen’s stone house in the country. The frail crescent moon provided only a hint of light. Except for the pools of man-made electrical light, the house and its surrounding grounds were blanketed in darkness. Mariana hadn’t realized she’d dozed off in the car until she awoke with her cheek nestled against Owen’s shoulder.

  “Why don’t you go on to bed,” he said huskily. His gaze roamed over her face, as if he were carefully committing every lovely feature to his memory. Slowly, he caressed her cheek.

  “I’m going to take a look around, make sure everything’s locked,” he said finally, letting his hand fall away from her face and dragging his gaze from her lips.

  They went into the house, with Owen leading the way and checking to make sure nothing had been disturbed.

  “I thought crime was almost nonexistent around here,” Mariana commented, sleepily smothering a yawn with one hand.

  “Normally that’s true.” He prowled through their bedrooms, bathrooms, and all the other sections of the old stone house. When he returned to the living room, Mariana was s
till standing there, watching him thoughtfully. “I’d feel a lot better if we knew exactly where Louie Roualt was and what he was doing.”

  Mariana felt a strange premonition at the mention of her brother-in-law’s name. She told herself she was overreacting. She shivered nevertheless.

  “Nobody has reported seeing Louie around here,” she argued, trying to be logical and reasonable. “If a stranger had come around asking questions, I’m sure the word would spread like wildfire,” she added dryly, having great faith in the town’s ability to gossip fast and furiously.

  There were strangers around asking questions, though, Owen thought. Roualt could let people assume he was another journalist, hiding his identity. Since the media circus was likely to continue, he could still use that ruse in the future. Owen decided not to alarm Mariana with that scenario just yet. Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe he just felt too fiercely protective of her to think straight.

  “We didn’t see any sign of him at Maryanice’s house today,” she further noted. “If Louie didn’t connect Maryanice with the reports of the amnesia accident victim, he probably doesn’t have any more information now than he had a few days, or a few weeks, ago.”

  “Unless he’s returned and decided to make finding you his top priority.” Owen argued seriously. “It’s dangerous to underestimate a man like Louie Roualt.” His concerned gaze fused with hers. “I’m going to check around the outside of the house.”

  He locked the door on his way out.

  There was no evidence that anyone had tried to tamper with any of the entrances. It was far too dark to see if the ground bore any unexpected footprints. The ground was a little soft, and it would have shown the marks. Unfortunately, there’d been so many reporters covering the story, he couldn’t be sure any prints didn’t belong to house-peeping members of the press.

  He went back inside, locked the door one last time and stopped in front of Mariana’s bedroom. She had taken off her sweater and shoes and was standing by the bed in her shirt and slacks, staring at him with a questioning, vulnerable look in her eyes.

  “I want you to stay at Averson’s house tomorrow while I’m in court,” he said slowly.