The Spire

by Richard North Patterson

  Though she said this lightly, Darrow sensed she was not joking. “I didn’t know I’d made such an impression.”

  “Part of it was your smile.” Saying this, Taylor’s own faint smile lingered. “That, and the way you talked with me, and listened.”

  Recalling her own vulnerability, Darrow reflected, seemed to soften her a little. “I remember everything about that day,” he told her. “I came to tell your dad that Steve Tillman had been arrested.”

  Taylor shook her head. “Something so important to you, and for me it’s like you were never there. The only other part I remember is sitting in the living room, the two of them trying to reassure me. My mother had a heart condition, she explained—sometimes her blood pressure would drop suddenly and she’d just pass out. There was medication for it; I needn’t worry. I fought back tears: somehow it was important to show them—him, really—that I wasn’t afraid. Then my mother promised that she’d always be there for me.”

  Her deep blue eyes, though directed at Darrow, seemed focused on the past. “But you didn’t believe her.”

  “No. Her promise scared me more than anything else they’d said. That was when I knew she wasn’t like other moms, that she might leave me in an instant. After that, whenever I’d come back from school, I’d go through the house, heart in my throat, until I found her. When I did, she’d smile—in a sad and knowing kind of way, I think now—and give me a hug.”

  To fear losing a mother, Darrow reflected, must have been haunting for a girl that young. He wondered whether Taylor’s fear had been more long-standing and intuitive, preceding her discovery of Anne lying unconscious on the kitchen floor. That might explain the solemnity of the lovely child he remembered and, perhaps, her retreat into painting and drawing. “She hugged me every day,” Taylor concluded simply. “Five months’ worth of hugs, and she was gone.”

  Darrow nodded. “I went to class that morning, and Lionel wasn’t there. You found her, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.” Taylor paused, as though summoning the will to say more. When she did, her words were so vivid that Darrow, listening, could imagine how she felt.

  IT WAS A bright spring morning, a little before eight o’clock. That semester her father taught an early class, so Anne drove Taylor to school. But on this day her mother did not seem to have awakened.

  Tentative, Taylor walked down the hallway to Anne’s bedroom. Her parents had begun sleeping apart—her father was a restless sleeper, Anne had told her recently, with dreams that seemed to surface from the murky void of Vietnam. Leaning her face against the bedroom door, Taylor heard no stirring. She knocked on the door, and still there was no sound.

  Taylor steeled herself, then cracked open the bedroom door.

  She half-expected—deeply hoped—to find her mother stirring. Instead, Anne lay on top of the covers, still and very pale. Something about the cast of her face did not resemble sleep; it was as though, Taylor thought, her soul had left behind a shell.

  Taylor could not touch her. Turning, she rushed out the door and ran toward the campus, heart pounding wildly, tears streaming down her face. She arrived at her father’s classroom out of breath.

  He saw her standing in the doorway and knew at once what must have happened.

  Calmly, Farr faced his students and explained that he had to leave. Then he took her by the hand, his grip firm, and hurried across the campus, urging Taylor to run with him as fast as she could.

  Reaching the house, he paused briefly at the door, then pushed it open. “Where is she?” he asked.

  Mute, Taylor pointed toward Anne’s bedroom. Her father swiftly climbed the stairs, Taylor following.

  The bedroom door was open. Her father knelt by the bed, feeling for Anne Farr’s pulse. Briefly, Taylor saw his eyes shut, and then he turned to her.

  “She’s gone,” he told her gently.

  LISTENING, DARROW REMEMBERED Farr kneeling by a murdered girl, the beginning of a terrible, tragic year. Now he wondered if Farr had thought of Angela Hall as he pronounced his own wife dead.

  “I remember him calling the doctor,” Taylor finished. “After that it’s all a blur. Except that I still recall, very distinctly, how kind you were to me at her memorial service. I didn’t want to let you go.”

  “I wish I could have helped more.”

  Taylor gazed out at the water. “I don’t know what else you could have done. I went into a kind of fugue state, as though I were sedated. My next clear memory is when we came here with my mother’s ashes.” She turned to Darrow again, as if returning to the present. “I hope you don’t mind my bringing you here. But I needed to come, and not with my father. I guess this is what you get to do for me, after fifteen years.”

  “A long time,” Darrow said softly.

  “Right now,” she answered, “it’s yesterday.”

  THE AFTERNOON HER father chose was sunny and mild; the trees were budding with new growth, and slanting sun lightened the blue-brown waters. When Taylor could not bring herself to open the urn that held her mother’s ashes, Farr took it from her hands.

  “This was always her wish,” he explained. “Ever since she learned that her time with us might be too short. Your mother loved beauty—lived for it, really, when she wasn’t living for you. When her heart began to fail, she told me that she wanted to be part of nature in a place we three had shared. A place where we could remember her fondest memories.”

  Taylor had no reason to dispute this. Nor could she imagine her mother trapped in a box, with six feet of earth between her and the light she so loved. Complying with her father’s instructions, Taylor helped him scatter her mother’s ashes on the glistening surface of the river, watching the gray and silver remnants recede from sight. Suddenly, Taylor was bereft: her mother had vanished from this place, and from her life. There was nowhere she could whisper secrets to her, even if her mother could not answer.

  She looked up at her father. His smile, meant to be of comfort, made her feel angry and alone.

  “EVEN THEN,” TAYLOR told Darrow, “I knew it was unfair. He must have been hurting too, and he tried to give me solace. But he couldn’t.

  “Certainly, I was no comfort to him. For me he was Lionel Farr, the Special Forces officer and great professor. She was my mother.”

  Darrow found the story painful. He imagined two people, isolated by their own sorrow, without the gift to reach for each other. “How was Lionel as a father?” he asked.

  Distractedly, Taylor sipped her wine. “In many ways, a stranger. You knew him better, I think. You were almost an adult, and I imagine he saw you as a quasi son he could launch into the world, a living reflection of himself.

  “I don’t mean that as harshly as it sounds—in the best of parents, love can’t be separated from ego. But I was her daughter, not his son. I could never crack his code.”

  “Because you were a girl?”

  “That’s part of it, I think—he didn’t know what to do with me.” She paused, recrossing her legs, moving a little closer to Darrow. “He’d come of age in the fifties, then entered the most masculine environment there was—West Point. In those days, men not only weren’t taught to understand women, they didn’t think it was possible. Even a wife or a daughter.”

  “Maybe so,” Darrow said. “But don’t think my relationship with Lionel was warm and fuzzy—he’s more a combat leader than a therapist. Not that there haven’t been moments. When Lee was killed, he shared his feelings about your mother, as one man who’d lost his wife to another. And in college he always made sure I had enough money, like the time he got me a job taking around prospective students. But our relationship was about mentoring and exhortation, making sure I realized whatever potential I had.” Darrow’s voice softened. “I owe who I am to Lionel. But there were a few important things I had to learn on my own.”

  Taylor surprised him by smiling. “Like listening to girls?”

  Darrow laughed. “And old friends.”

  Taylor shook her head. “I t
hink you care about people, period. I also think you’d rather listen to others than talk about yourself. It’s partly a strategy of avoidance.”

  The comment was so accurate that it took Darrow by surprise. “Am I that obvious?”

  “Maybe to me,” Taylor said. “But my course in Mark Darrow studies began when you were seventeen. You’ve changed a lot, and very little.”

  “That is disheartening,” Darrow replied. “And more than a little scary. You were seven, Taylor.”

  “And very perceptive,” she said briskly. “Then, and now. Which is why I’d guess that working with my father is not exactly problem-free.”

  This time surprise made Darrow laugh. “Not too problematic. But for someone in my position, Lionel has the faults of his virtues.”

  Taylor gave him a keen look of interest. “Such as?”

  Darrow had meant to reveal these thoughts to no one. But Taylor’s directness, and perhaps the wine, made elaboration tempting—especially given her insight into Lionel Farr. “In confidence?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Taylor said with some impatience. “In case you haven’t grasped this, I’ve said more to you in one night than to my father in either millennium.”

  “Okay.” Pausing, Darrow organized his thoughts. “As you suggest, your dad is a classic ‘guy’—give him a problem, and he’ll fix it; give him a void, and he’ll fill it. Because he’s also a born leader, regardless of whatever role he’s in.

  “In a crisis, he thinks faster and better than anyone. When Angela Hall was murdered, Lionel had the instincts Clark Durbin lacked. In a very real way your father cemented Durbin’s presidency, as surely as he made me who I am. So in return for Lionel propping him up, Durbin turned over the internal management of the school.

  “All in all, your dad is a man of prodigious gifts—that Caldwell’s still afloat is mainly due to him. But Lionel amasses power like a magnet draws iron filings. Add his considerable force of personality, and people are very disinclined to tell him no. That, I realize more and more, is how I became president.”

  “You didn’t sense that all along?”

  “Of course I did. But it seems more troubling now that I’m here. One example is the faculty—their power’s too entrenched, and their sway over hiring, tenure, and curriculum reflect Lionel’s own prerogatives. In some very important ways, Clark Durbin became a figure-head. Which suited your dad just fine, I think, right up to the moment a chunk of Caldwell’s money disappeared.”

  Listening closely, Taylor frowned. “But you’re a wholly different proposition than Durbin. My father may be willful, Mark. But he also can be quite subtle, and he’s certainly no fool.”

  “Never that,” Darrow agreed. “But extremely confident in his own vision. So sometimes he doesn’t see other people as clearly as he usually does. I’ve noticed a couple instances of that, one regarding a female foreign student who was sleeping with her professor. To me, it was a delicate situation, and Lionel’s touch a little off.”

  Taylor poured them more wine. “That’s the old adage,” she remarked. “My father can read the notes, but can’t always hear the music. And I believe he knows it. That was part of our problem, I think. It may also be why he never married again.”

  Darrow scrutinized her, curious. “How are the two of you doing?”

  Taylor shrugged. “Now that I’m an adult, I don’t think I was always fair to him. Part of growing up is perceiving that Dad and Mom aren’t Adam and Eve—that your parents had parents too. One reason I came back is to see if I could make things better.”

  “Are they?”

  For a moment, Taylor was quiet, gazing at the tranquil river as its color dulled in the fading light. “A little. Maybe I’m just more accepting. Which would certainly be suitable for a twenty-eight-year-old.”

  To Darrow, this sounded more aspirational than heartfelt. Watching her face in profile, he found himself hoping that, before Taylor left, he could help bridge the lingering divide between two people he cared about.

  The thought brought him up short. He had cared about Lionel Farr for over half his life, perhaps even loved him. Now—he did not know quite when—he had begun to care for Lionel’s daughter. No doubt this connection was rooted in their past. But perhaps, he suddenly realized, there were reasons still to be discovered.

  For a long time, neither spoke at all. Then, without wholly understanding the impulse, Darrow took Taylor’s hand.

  She did not turn. Her only acknowledgment that anything had happened was the slightest tightening of her fingers around his. Quietly, she requested, “Tell me about your mother.”

  The inquiry surprised him. Instinctively, Darrow had expected her to ask about his wife. But in Taylor, he had begun to understand, sensitivity followed perception.

  “Not much to tell,” Darrow answered. “She was a woman of moods—all mutable, many frightening. When you’re a kid, it’s hard learning to be scared of the person every instinct says should be your protector.

  “I wanted to love her, but I couldn’t. When they locked her in the asylum, I was relieved; when she killed herself, I felt nothing at all. Later on I learned that she came from a dynasty of schizophrenics, and understood how damaged she must have been. But the damage made her impossible to love.”

  Taylor absorbed this. “That must be hard, Mark. Even now.”

  “Not really. I moved on—I started my own life, began looking forward to a family of my own, nothing like the one I came from. I still try not to think about her much. Her legacy, if there is one, is that I try to do my best to see people whole, for who they are and what they’ve been through. Especially those who matter to me.”

  Taylor asked nothing more. After a time, she moved closer. Darrow could smell her hair, fresh and lightly scented. Suddenly he felt the pulse in his own throat.

  Tentative, he turned her face to his. Her eyes were open, their expression both expectant and surprised. “What . . .” she began to ask.

  Darrow kissed her. Pressing against him, Taylor’s lips were soft and warm.

  After a moment she broke the kiss, resting her forehead against his. “As I was saying,” she murmured.

  Darrow’s skin still tingled. “Yes?”

  He sensed her reluctance to speak. “Before tonight, you acted like I was still a child. Then I revert to childhood, talking about my mother—and now this. Is being a child-woman what you want from me?”

  Though the wariness of her question startled him, it spoke to her honesty, her desire for this in others. “No,” he answered firmly. “That’s the opposite of how I’ve come to see you. I may be ten years older, but I’m way too young to be your father.”

  She rested her arms on his shoulders. Softly, she asked, “Then where do you think we’re going with this?”

  Darrow hesitated. “Home, I thought.”

  “Home?”

  He sensed a smile in her voice. “My place,” he answered. “Our original destination, if you’ll recall.”

  As she drew back, looking into his face, Darrow detected a disbelief and wonder that seemed to match his own. “That was before you kissed me.”

  Darrow kissed her again, slowly and deeply. “Okay,” Taylor said with a modest sigh. “Really, it was about time.”

  IN THE LIGHT and shadow of his bedroom, Darrow undressed her. What he could see of her body was as beautiful as her face.

  Holding hands, they walked to his bed.

  They touched each other, filled with desire, yet both wishing not to hurry. In time his mouth found all of her.

  “Now,” she whispered.

  Darrow slipped inside her, still aware of her responses, yet lost in the moment. Only at the edge of consciousness did he sense something within her that Taylor still held back. Then he felt her shudder, heard the cry she repressed.

  Briefly, Darrow wondered at this. Then he gave himself up to wanting her.

  Afterward, they lay close together in the dark, feeling the dampness of their skin, the depth of wh
at they felt. Darrow touched her face. “Are you okay with this?” he asked.

  “More than okay.” Her voice lowered. “I hope you’ll give me time.”

  Darrow felt surprised. “I didn’t know I was holding tryouts.”

  “It’s not you,” she demurred. “Definitely not you. But I’ve always been slow to trust, and sometimes it follows me to bed. I wish I could tell you why. But I worry about losing myself, or giving any man too much power over me.”

  “I don’t want that. Or need it.”

  Taylor took his hand. “I think I know that about you. But then, in a way, I’ve known you for a very long time.”

  “Maybe so,” Darrow said lightly. “But I’m sure this didn’t occur to either of us. At least I hope not.”

  “When I was seven? Hardly—I didn’t even know that I had a crush on you. But I did think you were the most beautiful person I’d ever seen.” Taylor laughed at herself. “The first time I saw you again, I still thought that. Think that makes me shallow?”

  “Then so am I. Even when you were a child, I thought you were very pretty. But looking at you now, you damn near take my breath away. Except you’ve no doubt heard similar things too often to trust them, either.”

  He felt Taylor’s mood turn serious again. “I’ve just never been sure it mattered much. Especially at times like this one.”

  Darrow hesitated. Then, by instinct, he spoke aloud another thought that took him by surprise. “Then try this instead, Taylor. You’re the first woman since Lee died who can make me forget her. Not just tonight. For moments at a time, I’m simply with you. That’s a bigger gift to me than you can ever know.”

  Taylor moved closer, breasts touching his chest. “Then I guess I’ll stay.”

  “Was there a question?”

  “Several.” Taylor paused again. “Like my father, sometimes I have nightmares. I don’t want to wake you up.”

  She was serious, Darrow realized. “Nightmares about what?”

  “The usual panoply, I suppose. Fears, random scraps from the subconscious, the dregs of one’s imagination. It really doesn’t matter.”