Three Fates

by Nora Roberts

  “Spend the day with me,” he repeated and tortured himself by leaning her back against the door and taking her mouth again. “Say yes.”

  “Yes. What?”

  “Eleven. I’ll be here at eleven. Go inside, Tia.”

  “Go where?”

  “Inside.” God help him. “Inside,” he repeated as he fumbled a bit with her lock. “Damn it, one more.” He yanked her back against him, kissed her until the blood was roaring in his head. “Lock the door,” he ordered and, giving her a little shove inside, shut it smartly in his own face before he could change his mind.

  Six

  TIA wasn’t sure if it was curiosity or lust that drove her to look for the old journal. Whichever it was, it was a powerful force to make her face her mother in the middle of the day.

  She loved her mother, sincerely, but any session with Alma Marsh was wearing on the nerves. Rather than risk a germ-crawling taxi, she walked the eight blocks to the lovely old town house where she’d spent her childhood. She was so energized, so full of the delight of the last two days and Malachi, she didn’t even think about the pollen count.

  The air was thick as a brick, and so miserably hot it wilted her crisp linen blouse before she’d walked crosstown to Park Avenue. But she strolled along, as she headed uptown, humming a tune in her mind.

  She loved New York. Why hadn’t she ever realized how much she loved the city, with its noise and traffic, its crowded streets. Its life. There was so much to see if you just looked. The young women pushing baby carriages, the boy walking a group of six little dogs that pranced along like a parade. The sleek, black, hired cars taking ladies to lunch, or home again after a morning’s shopping. And look how gorgeous the flowers were along the avenue, and how smart the doormen looked in their uniforms as they stood outside the buildings.

  How had she missed all this? she wondered as she turned onto her parents’ pretty, shady street. Simple. On the rare times she actually walked outside of her own three-block radius, she kept her head down, her purse in a stranglehold and imagined herself being mugged, or run over by a bus that jumped the curb.

  But she’d walked yesterday with Malachi. They’d strolled up Madison Avenue, had stopped at a little sidewalk café for cold drinks and careless conversation. He talked to everyone. The waiter, the woman beside them with, of all things, a miniature poodle in her lap.

  Which could hardly be sanitary.

  He talked to shop clerks in Barneys, to a young woman debating over scarves in one of the terrifying boutiques Tia usually avoided. He struck up conversations with one of the guards at the Met, and the sidewalk vendor where he’d bought hot dogs.

  She’d actually eaten a hot dog—right on the street. She could hardly get over it.

  For a few hours she’d seen the city through his eyes. The wonder of it, the humor in it, the grit and the grandeur.

  And she was going to see it again tonight, with him.

  She was nearly skipping by the time she reached her parents’ house. There were flowerpots flanking the entrance. Tilly, the housekeeper, would have planted and tended them. She remembered now that she’d wanted to help plant the pots once. She’d been about ten, but her mother had worried so about dirt, allergies and insects that she’d given up the idea.

  Maybe she’d buy a geranium on the way home. Just to see.

  Though she had a key, Tia used the bell. The key was for emergencies, and using it meant decoding the alarm, then explaining why she’d done so.

  Tilly, a sturdy fireplug of a woman with stone-gray hair, answered quickly.

  “Why, Miss Tia! What a nice surprise. All settled in, then, after your trip? I really enjoyed the postcards you sent me. All those wonderful places.”

  “A lot of places,” Tia agreed as she stepped into the cool, quiet air. She kissed Tilly’s cheek with the easy comfort she felt for few. “It’s good to be home.”

  “One of the best parts of traveling is coming home, isn’t it? Don’t you look pretty today,” Tilly said, surprise in her voice as she studied Tia’s face. “I think traveling agreed with you.”

  “You wouldn’t have said that a couple of days ago.” Tia set her purse on a table in the foyer, glanced at the Victorian mirror above it. She did look pretty, she realized. Sort of rosy and bright. “Is my mother available?”

  “She’s upstairs in her sitting room. You go right up, and I’ll bring you both something cold to drink.”

  “Thanks, Tilly.”

  Tia turned to the long sweep of stairs. She’d always loved this house, the elegant dignity of it. It was such a combination of her parents—her father’s great love for antiques, her mother’s deep need for organized space. Without that combination, that balance, she supposed, it might have been a hodgepodge, a kind of sub-shop for Wyley’s. As it was, the furnishings were arranged with an eye for style as well as beauty. Everything had its place, and that place rarely changed.

  There was something comforting in that continuity, that stability. The colors were pale and cool. Rather than flower arrangements, there were lovely statuary, wonderful old bowls filled with chunks of polished, colored glass.

  Ladies’ gloves, jeweled handbags, hat pins, cuff links, watch fobs, snuffboxes were displayed behind ruthlessly clean glass. Temperature and humidity were strictly maintained by a climate-control system. It was always seventy-one degrees, with a ten percent humidity rate, inside the Marsh town house.

  Tia paused outside her mother’s sitting room door, knocked.

  “Come in, Tilly.”

  The moment Tia opened the door, her spirits dropped. She caught the faint scent of rosemary, which signaled her mother was having one of her difficult mornings. Though the window glass was treated to filter out UV rays, the drapes were drawn. Another bad sign.

  Alma Marsh reclined on the silk-cushioned recamier with an eyebag draped over her upper face.

  “I think I have one of my headaches coming on, Tilly. I shouldn’t have tried to answer all that correspondence at one time, but what can I do? People will write you, won’t they, and then you have no choice but to respond. Would you mind getting my feverfew? Perhaps I can ward off the worst of it.”

  “It’s Tia, Mother. I’ll get it for you.”

  “Tia?” Alma slid the eyebag aside. “My baby! Come give me a kiss, dear. There couldn’t be any better medicine.”

  Tia crossed over and gave Alma a light kiss on the cheek. She might have been having one of her spells, Tia thought, but her mother looked, as always, perfect. Her hair, nearly the same delicate shade as her daughter’s, was glossy and swept back in gentle waves from a face suitable for a cameo. It was delicate, lovely, unlined. Though she tended to be thin, her body was turned out with casual elegance in a soft pink blouse and tailored trousers.

  “There now, I feel better already,” Alma said as she shifted to sit up. “I’m so glad you’re home, Tia. Why, I didn’t get one moment’s rest while you were gone. I was so worried about you. You took all your vitamins, didn’t you, and didn’t drink the tap water? I hope you demanded nonsmoking suites in all your hotels, though God knows they don’t enforce that. Just come in and spray after some horrible person’s spewed carcinogens into the air. Pull open the drapes, dear, I can barely see you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I can’t indulge myself,” Alma said heroically. “I’ve a dozen things to do today, and now that you’re here . . . Well, we’ll make time for a nice visit, and I’ll work harder later. And you, you must be exhausted. A delicate system like yours suffers under the demands of travel. I want you to arrange for a complete physical right away.”

  “I’m fine.” Tia moved to the windows.

  “When the immune system’s compromised, as yours must be, it can take several days before you recognize the symptoms. You make that appointment, Tia, for my sake.”

  “Of course.” Tia drew open the drapes, relieved when light poured into the room. “You don’t have to worry. I took very good care of myself.”<
br />
  “Be that as it may, you can’t . . .” She trailed off when Tia turned around. “Why, you’re all flushed! Are you feverish?” She leaped off the daybed, clamped a hand over Tia’s brow. “Yes, you feel a little warm. Oh, I knew it! I knew you’d catch some foreign germ.”

  “I’m not feverish. I got a bit hot on the walk over, that’s all.”

  “You walked? In this heat! I want you to sit down, sit down right here. You’re dehydrated, courting heatstroke.”

  “I’m not.” But she thought she might feel just a little dizzy after all. “I’m perfectly fine. I’ve never felt better.”

  “A mother knows these things.” Revived, Alma waved Tia to a chair and marched to the door. “Tilly! Bring up a pitcher of lemon water and a cold compress, and call Dr. Realto. I want him to examine Tia right away.”

  “I’m not going to the doctor.”

  “Don’t be stubborn.”

  “I’m not.” But she was beginning to feel a bit queasy. “Mother, please, sit down before you aggravate your headache. Tilly’s bringing up cold drinks. I promise, if I feel the least bit ill, I’ll phone Dr. Realto.”

  “Now what’s all this fuss?” Tilly came in, carrying a tray.

  “Tia’s ill, you only have to look at her to see it, and she won’t have the doctor.”

  “She looks just fine to me, blooming like a rose.”

  “It’s fever.”

  “Oh, now, Miss Alma, girl’s got some color in her cheeks for a change, that’s all. You sit down and have some nice iced tea. It’s jasmine, your favorite. And I’ve got some lovely green grapes here.”

  “You washed them in that anti-toxin solution?”

  “Absolutely. I’m going to put your Chopin on,” she added when she set down the tray. “Real low. You know how that always soothes your nerves.”

  “Yes, yes, it does. Thank you, Tilly. What would I do without you?”

  “Lord only knows,” Tilly said under her breath and added a wink for Tia as she walked out.

  Alma sighed and sat. “My nerves haven’t been good,” she admitted to Tia. “I know you felt this trip was important for your career, but you’ve never been so far away for so long.”

  And according to Dr. Lowenstein, Tia thought as she poured the tea, that was part of the problem. “I’m back now. And all in all, it was a fascinating trip. The lectures and signings were well attended, and it helped clear out some of the cobwebs I’ve been dealing with about the new book. Mother, I met this man—”

  “A man? You met a man?” Alma came to attention. “What kind of man? Where? Tia, you know perfectly well how dangerous it is for a woman alone to travel, much less to hold conversations with strange men.”

  “Mother, I’m not an imbecile.”

  “You’re trusting and naive.”

  “Yes, you’re right, so when he asked me to go back to his hotel room to discuss the modern significance of Homer, I went like a lamb to the slaughter. He ravished me, then passed me to his nefarious partner for sloppy seconds. Now I’m pregnant and I don’t know which one is the father.”

  She didn’t know why she’d said it, honestly didn’t know how all that had burst out of her mouth. She felt her own headache coming on as Alma went white and clutched her chest.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. But I wish you’d give me some credit for common sense. I’m seeing a perfectly nice man. We have an interesting connection that goes back to Henry Wyley.”

  “You’re not pregnant.”

  “No, of course not. I’m simply seeing a man who shares my interest in Greek myths, and who, coincidentally, had an ancestor on the Lusitania. A survivor.”

  “Is he married?”

  “No!” Shocked, insulted, Tia got to her feet to pace. “I wouldn’t date a married man.”

  “Not if you knew he was married,” Alma said significantly. “Where did you meet him?”

  “He attended one of my lectures, and he had business here in New York, so he looked me up.”

  “What sort of business?”

  Growing more frustrated by the minute, Tia pushed at her hair. It felt suddenly, abominably heavy. As if it were smothering her brain. “He’s in shipping. Mother, the point is that in talking about the Greeks, and the Lusitania, we touched on the Three Fates. The statues? You’ve heard Father mention them.”

  “No, I can’t say I have, but someone asked me about them just the other day. Who was it?”

  “Someone asked you about them? That’s odd.”

  “It’s neither here nor there,” Alma said irritably. “It was in passing, at some function your father dragged me to though I was feeling unwell. That Gaye woman,” Alma remembered. “Anita Gaye. She has a hard look about her, if you ask me. And no wonder, marrying a man forty years older, and so blatantly for his money no matter what anyone says. Well, more fool he. She’s fooled your father, of course. Women like that always fool men. A good businesswoman, he says. A credit to the antiquity community. Hah! But where was I? I can’t concentrate. I’m just so out of sorts.”

  “What did she ask you?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Tia, I dislike speaking to the woman so can hardly be expected to remember some irritating conversation with her about some silly statues I’ve never heard of. You’re just trying to change the subject. Who is this man? What’s his name?”

  “Sullivan. Malachi Sullivan. He’s from Ireland.”

  “Ireland? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “It’s an island, just northwest of England.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic, it’s very unattractive. What do you know about him?”

  “That I enjoy his company and he appears to enjoy mine.”

  Alma let out a long-suffering sigh. One of her best weapons. “You don’t know who his family is, do you? Well, I’m sure he knows who yours is. I’m sure he knows very well who you come from. You’re a wealthy woman, Tia, living alone—which worries me to distraction—and a prime target for the unscrupulous. Shipping? We’ll see about that.”

  “Don’t.” Tia’s voice snapped out, surprising Alma into lowering herself back into her chair. “Just don’t. You’re not going to have him investigated. You are not going to humiliate me again that way.”

  “Humiliate you? What a thing to say. If you’re thinking of that . . . that history teacher, well, he wouldn’t have been so angry and upset if he’d had nothing to hide. A mother has a right to look after her only child’s welfare.”

  “Your only child is nearly thirty, Mother. Couldn’t it be, just on a wild whim of fate, couldn’t it be that an attractive, interesting, intelligent man chooses to go out with me because he finds me an attractive, interesting, intelligent woman? Does he have to have some dark, underlying motive? Am I such a loser that no man could want a normal, natural relationship with me?”

  “A loser?” Sincerely shocked, Alma gaped. “I don’t know what puts ideas like that in your head.”

  “No,” Tia said wearily and turned toward the windows. “I bet you don’t. You needn’t worry. He’s only in New York a few days. He’ll be going back to Ireland soon and it’s unlikely we’ll see each other again. I can promise if he offers to sell me some bridge over the River Shannon or pops up with a great investment opportunity, I’ll turn him down. Meanwhile, I was wondering if you know where Henry Wyley’s journal might be. I’d like to study it.”

  “How should I know? Ask your father. Obviously my concerns and advice are worthless to you. I don’t know why you bothered to come by.”

  “I’m sorry I upset you.” She turned back, walked over to kiss Alma’s cheek again. “I love you, Mother. I love you very much. You get some rest.”

  “I want you to call Dr. Realto,” Alma ordered as Tia walked away.

  “Yes, I will.”

  She lived dangerously and took a cab downtown to Wyley’s. She knew herself well enough to be certain if she went home in her current mood she would brood, and eventually decide her mother was right—about the state of
her health, about Malachi, about her own pitiful appeal to the opposite sex.

  Worse, she wanted to go home. To draw the drapes, huddle in her cave with her pills, her aromatherapy and a cool, soothing gel bag over her eyes.

  Just, she thought in disgust, like her mother.

  She needed to keep busy, to keep focused, and the idea of the journal and the Fates was a puzzle that would keep her mind occupied.

  She paid the cabdriver, slid out and stood for a moment on the sidewalk in front of Wyley’s. As always, she felt a rush of wonder and pride. The lovely old brownstone with its leaded windows and stained-glass door had stood for a hundred years.