Forbidden

by Caroline B. Cooney

  He did not take it.

  She met his eyes, her rage threatening to take her sanity. She opened the envelope. She had never sealed it; she enjoyed looking at it too much. She took out the two sheets of paper. The birth certificate with Theodora Jayquith’s name under mother and no name under father. The letter from a woman named Donovan who had arranged the private adoption with the O’Keeffes. The return address of Mrs. Donovan: the Jayquith Hotel.

  She held them up for him to see. Mr. Jayquith did not react at all. He did not change his breathing, complexion, posture, or expression. He did, however, take each piece of paper and examine it.

  “Those are the originals,” she said. “But I have photocopies in safe places.”

  That amused him. A very slight smile touched his lips. “Miss O’Keeffe,” he said finally, “come in. You may tell me what financial difficulty brings you here.” He turned and entered his house.

  The interior was as black as a spider’s parlor. Anything could happen to her here, and no one would ever know.

  Or care.

  Annabel and Daniel surfaced from their embrace. It was not easy. They had to decompress, like deep-sea divers. Hands still exploring, eyes still staring, hearts still stunned.

  “My father,” said Annabel, “would never do such a thing, Daniel.” She was genuinely calm. She really felt like his friend. She actually was comfortable with him. “It is out of character.”

  “How do you think a man amasses the kind of fortune and power that Hollings Jayquith has? By being a sweetheart? It’s totally in character.”

  “How do you think a man is elected senator?” she countered. “Not by being sweet, either. Name one sweetheart senator, Daniel.”

  “My father.”

  “But what do you really know about your father? You were twelve when he died. You have to go on what people tell you.”

  Emmie, with wonderful timing, came between them.

  It was all right with Annabel. She had to get off the subject. She needed to keep Daniel’s plans secret. Let nobody know until she herself knew how to stop it before it buried them like an avalanche.

  “What are you two talking about?” Emmie cried. “You look so grim.”

  “Do we?” replied Annabel. “Then we’ll lighten up. Who is the adorable boy you’re with?”

  “Oh! You must meet him! He was in school with John.” Emmie dashed around the high wire fence that enclosed the tennis courts to bring Alex for their inspection. Daniel and Annabel waited in silence. After a moment she realized they were still holding hands. It was not her hand just lying forgotten in his, nor his hand which simply happened to be stationed on hers. Their fingers were tight, and warm, and hanging onto each other.

  Emmie presented Alex and in spite of everything, Annabel was touched by Emmie’s happiness. She pressed her cheek lightly against Alex’s and told him what a pleasure to meet a friend of John’s. The fact that she could not think of any Johns meant nothing; there were many people and names in Annabel’s world and it was the worst possible behavior to admit you had forgotten some of them.

  Daniel and Alex shook hands. “Where are you in school, Alex?” asked Daniel, posing the standard question.

  Interestingly, Alex did not comment on Daniel’s status the way Candice had. Daniel might have been anybody. “I’m out!” he said. “We’re all out! This is summer, in case you hadn’t noticed.” His words and ideas tumbled forward. “Let’s play tennis in the dark,” he suggested. “Emmie, turn off those stadium lights. We’ll play by moonlight.” Alex’s enthusiasm was infectious; Emmie would already have done anything he asked; Annabel and Daniel needed somebody to let them stay together, to postpone the next scene.

  Emmie and Alex played against Annabel and Daniel.

  Daniel. But what about my father?

  The moon was just right. Tennis balls flew like little spooks over the net. Annabel pretended the tennis ball was Candice, which helped her have a brilliant game. She hoped Daniel was impressed.

  Then she thought: What difference does it make? We can’t see each other. We can only plot against each other’s plots, our families caught in a cycle of trying to destroy each other.

  Love really is blind, thought Daniel Madison Ransom. I went and told the murderer’s daughter. Now her father can cover himself. Prepare his own statement. Probably even appear on Theodora’s show when I do. He’ll make a relaxed indulgent rebuttal of a silly little boy’s accusation.

  Daniel averted his eyes from Annabel Jayquith. He had stayed here long enough to please Michael. He had to drive away. And he thought Michael had fallen in love with the wrong girl!

  Daniel stretched dramatically. “Well, that’s it for me, folks,” he said cheerfully. “Great game. Nice to meet you, Alex. I’ve got quite a drive ahead.” He waved the tennis racket. “I’m out of here.”

  He walked past Annabel Jayquith.

  And was out of there.

  Eight

  I AM THE ONLY person on earth who cares about me, thought Jade O’Keeffe.

  She had known that, but never before been terrified by it. The chauffeur got back in his car and slammed the door as loud as a bomb going off. The car purred away, not like a car at all, but like an animal. Mr. Jayquith entered the black hole of the house. Every imaginable light was on outside, but not one single light was on inside. Jade pretended to be Theodora. Flung her hair and strode in after Mr. Jayquith.

  The chauffeur seemed to be the only employee. No maid or secretary materialized. Of course, it was evening. Perhaps they had been dismissed for the night.

  His silhouette preceded her. And then she was in the light, too much light, a vast room with stone floors so highly polished she skidded. Ice-white walls were hung with dizzying modern art—great splats of color on immense canvases. She might have been touring a museum. There was no furniture.

  They passed into a glassed-walled room, whose stone steps went down, across, and then up again. These stones were green; cold and isolating like the deep interior of a pine forest. An indoor waterfall cascaded from a monstrous mouth below hollow stone eyes from a Central American statue, silently watching human sacrifice.

  The people Jade knew had yellow and brown plaid couches, fake leather recliners, and huge televisions. They had ashtrays for decoration and maybe a Disney World souvenir on the coffee table.

  The living room was white. White leather couches, big as glaciers. White carpet on glittering white floors. Even the coffee table was immense white and leather. Nobody ever put a mug on that. Nobody here would even own mugs. The grand piano was white, not black like the one in the school music room. The single note of color was a brilliant scarlet, turquoise, and orange sort of blanket draped over a couch arm. It would probably not be called a blanket any more than the floors would be called “stone.”

  Two stories of glass faced the outdoors. It was night, and lights staggered among distant trees distorted black silhouettes and creepy unknowns. There were no drapes.

  It had absolutely no feel of a house. Corporate headquarters maybe. Art museum. But a home?

  I didn’t have a home anyway, she thought, just a place to live. And this … this is not just a place to live. This is a palace. He is a king. His daughter is his princess. The house is scary because it’s not really a house. But it’s money. Every wall and stick of it. Money.

  Jade changed her mind. Forget blackmailing Theodora. Who needed her? Revenge could come later. Anyway, Theodora might shrug over the papers in the lockbox. She had shrugged when Jade was born.

  But Hollings Jayquith … he had not shrugged. He had brought her inside.

  Jade shelved Theodora.

  Mr. Jayquith gestured for her to sit, and when she obeyed, he stayed on his feet. She was forced to look up, a kindergarten child on her first day of school, afraid and submissive. He looked down, his thin features from this angle appearing like so many knife blades.

  At the wedding, she had thought J Thiell was Mr. Jayquith. The father of the groom
had looked the way she thought a billionaire should: very broad, very strong, physically powerful. Mr. Jayquith, however, had a civilized air, as if, should he murder you, it would be done with class. Mr. Thiell, like primitive man, would just pick up a club.

  Jade O’Keeffe had a club of her own.

  It was another hour before Annabel could extricate herself from the wedding reception. Good-byes were endlessly protracted. There was kissing, hugging, touching of cheeks, and exchanging of summer addresses.

  I won’t phone Dad in Japan tonight, she thought. I’ll wait until morning. I’ll call Theodora tomorrow, too. She’s probably staying at J Thiell’s anyway. Ugh. I’m not calling her there. Tonight I have to be alone.

  The orchestra played on. Theodora was now dancing with Michael, whose father moved in Annabel’s direction. Annabel knew what attracted Aunt Theodora to Mr. Thiell, but she could not feel it herself. Mr. Thiell’s power had an underlying violence. She disliked being around him. “Just a wonderful party,” said Annabel, hugging Mrs. Pearse for about the dozenth time.

  “You’ll be here for tomorrow’s activities, Annabel darling? We’ve hardly begun celebrating.”

  Annabel smiled lamely.

  “You tell your father I’m furious that he couldn’t arrange his life so as to be here,” said Mrs. Pearse. “The man is a scoundrel.”

  Scoundrel? Yes, and far worse, if Daniel decreed it. Anything Daniel delivered to his fans would be believed. Especially on Theodora’s show. People believed in Theodora. They trusted her to provide them with facts.

  I kissed Daniel, thought Annabel. I loved kissing him. I want to spend my life kissing him. What am I going to do? What happens when the wedding photographer realizes that he has color portraits of Daniel and me together the week before Daniel accuses my father of murder? Will he sell some of Venice’s pictures to the tabloids?

  Mr. Thiell’s hand settled on her waist. “So,” he said in that dark shaded voice of his, as if they were both scorpions under the sand, “palling around with Daniel Madison Ransom, eh?” He smiled. Mr. Thiell never showed his teeth when he smiled.

  “Congratulations,” said Annabel, looking away. “Michael will make a fine husband. And you have a lovely daughter-in-law. Candice, dear, have you met Mr. Thiell?” She had the satisfaction of seeing Candice cringe as Mr. Thiell wrapped himself around her. Then she fled.

  Tommy was waiting at the car. Annabel sank into the back with relief. Privacy and silence at last. A space in which to pull her thoughts together.

  The car slid silently away from the Pearses’ and down the quiet road to the Jayquith estate. She wondered where Daniel was. I’m out of here, he had said lightly. But they had not kissed lightly. They had not touched lightly. Which was fake? Which should she hold onto?

  You can’t hold onto any of it, dummy, she thought. Your father murdered his father.

  She caught that terrible sentence in her head and killed it, biting down, smashing it. Daniel says that, she corrected herself. I was quoting Daniel. It’s impossible. Impossible.

  She was cold. Tommy had the air-conditioning on too high.

  As cold as air-conditioning came the icy thought once more: It’s not impossible.

  Her suite had its own stairs to its own tower. An elopement room, she and Emmie called it. Nobody would see the ladder, Emmie liked to point out. The windows were not wired into the alarm system, because year-round, Annabel slept with them open. She would close them tonight, and weep.

  For whom? For herself? Or for Daniel or for her father? How selfish am I? thought Annabel. At least she was no longer at Wythefield. In the dorm you could weep only in the shower, while the beating of the water hid your sobs.

  She had had love for a single night, and carried it a week in her heart. What if she had been meant for Daniel, and he had been born for her? And their fathers together destroyed them?

  The limousine did not feel bulletproof. She felt no more protected than if she were wearing the Egyptian gauze.

  He’s going to interview me, thought Jade. He’s going to decide whether to keep me.

  Her hair prickled. This was it. She had no other chance. She would never have another chance. These people lived in a fortress. She would never get in again, unless she said the right things right now.

  She tried to gauge this man who held her in the palm of his hand. What must she do to win? Should she be weak, so he could rescue her? Should she be strong, so he would meet his match? Should she flirt? Weep? Cling? Fight?

  She must not mention money. If they thought they could get out of this with dollars, they would. The man assumed she was here because of financial difficulties. She had to have other difficulties—difficulties that would bind him to her.

  She must not make requests of any kind. Who knew what they would offer, if it were left up to them? Jade did not even have the vocabulary to name the blanket on the couch or the stone on the floor. What sort of vocabulary did these people have, unknown to her?

  She had learned a lot from tapes of Theodora. Silence terrifies. People fill it. They say things they would hide if you yourself talked. She would make him use the words.

  “My adoptive parents,” said Jade slowly, aiming for a nice mix of pain and courage, “were killed in a car accident.” She left it there. Let him go next. There was a long pause, while he waited for details. She gave none.

  He looked down at the pieces of paper. He looked back at her. At last he said coldly, “I’m sorry. That must have been terrible for you.”

  It works! she thought. I can make him talk with my own short answers! “Yes.” She blinked back tears she did not have, hiding a face shaking with desire and pretending a face shaking with grief.

  She thought: What are the bedrooms like here? The bathrooms? I bet they live like Roman emperors. I bet Theodora has closets for miles! Or no closets at all. Whole rooms for clothes.

  “Where did you get these papers?” he said in a quiet voice, too quiet.

  He isn’t sure, she thought. She looked up at him, letting her chin tremble as if she were about to break. She thought she saw something in his eyes she could only call hope; did Hollings Jayquith want her to turn out to be his sister’s little girl?

  Okay, why? she thought. Why would he want me? She took another risk. After all, each risk so far had paid off. “Have you always wondered?” she said. “Wondered what happened to me? If I was all right?”

  He did not answer. He said again, “Where did you get these papers?”

  “I always knew I was adopted. My parents always told me how proud I would be if I knew who gave birth to me.” This was true. Jade left out the fact that she used to shout back, Well, good, because I’m certainly not proud of you! “When my parents died, these were in the lockbox with the life insurance document.”

  He remained standing. He looked away from her and across the wide empty room. There was something chilling about the unoccupied, unfurnished expanse of it. At length he studied her again.

  Jade produced her trump card, her real proof. An old tattered Polaroid picture of Theodora, eighteen years ago, hairstyle caught in another time. Theodora, standing next to a fat middleaged woman Jade did not know. In that woman’s arms was a bundled infant.

  Mr. Jayquith sucked in his breath sharply. For a long time he stared at the photograph. Whoever the fat woman was, he knew her. His eyes took that woman as proof, not Theodora.

  “Please,” she said brokenly, and let the word sit there, exposed and desperate. No description. No requests. Just please.

  “I rather admire the way you arrived,” said Mr. Jayquith.

  “I would rather have been invited,” she said, choking herself on the words, acting as lost and hopeless as she knew how.

  After that, she quit using words altogether. She used tears and trembling, asked for tissues, and later a glass of water … much better than speech. And Theodora’s techniques, memorized off the tapes, worked even with Hollings Jayquith. Into Jade’s silence, he put words. And the w
ords, syllable by syllable, accepted Jade O’Keeffe.

  Yes! thought Jade O’Keeffe, and barely kept from shouting aloud.

  Tommy opened the door. He seemed about to say something; he seemed in fact quite worried, but she could not concern herself with Tommy’s problems right now. She stepped gratefully into the hall.

  Every room at their country place was large. Her father hated being hemmed in. Ceilings soared, windows reached, floors stretched. To Annabel, each room had the serenity of great space, like cathedrals.

  But this space was occupied. Something, somebody looming, reaching—she flinched as if it were another camera—but it was her father. “Hi, sweetie,” he said.

  Her father’s presence actually made her jump with nerves. “You’re supposed to be in Japan!” She had expected the night in which to think. But there was no time, after all. She would have to blurt out Daniel’s plan. She would not have even one night in which to hold her romance in her heart, and pretend.

  “Canceled,” he said. He was deeply disturbed. She could see it in every muscle and sinew of his body. The angles of his bony face shifted with tension. No! thought Annabel. No, no, no, please God, don’t let Daddy be guilty! Don’t let him already be calling attorneys and planning defenses. Don’t let Daniel be right, please, please, please. She could not bring herself to approach the subject directly. “But if you were in town, why didn’t you come to the wedding?”

  “I was dressing when something came up.” He was almost deep-breathing, as he clenched his fists and then forced himself to fold his arms neatly. In the worst confrontations, the most appalling business nightmares, Annabel had never seen him so much as swallow hard.

  “Sit down,” said her father. “We’ll sit in the French Room. I have something to tell you. Something that’s been withheld from you for many years.”

  Annabel’s life went black. It was not a faint, but a closing-in of total horror.

  They never used the French Room. It was a formal parlor in which her mother’s Impressionist collection hung. A room that almost smelled of lilies of the valley, although it had been many years since Eleanor Jayquith filled the vases. She did not want to hear whatever her father had to say in a room filled with the half-remembered perfection of her mother. “Tell me here,” she said sharply. She knotted her hands together, and the bones of her fingers felt too close to the surface, as if they could snap if there were any more pressure.