"How can I, Sam? Maybe if you were rich. But I'm giving back all of the money; I'll have nothing after this."
Ah, shit: the money. His parents were on the way to being destitute again, if—if—Eden was giving back all of the money.
Something in his face tipped her off that he didn't altogether believe her. She became angry; she said, "What does it take to make you believe me? Hans is a thug. Do you understand? A murderous thug!"
"But possibly an imaginary one?" Sam asked wryly.
"Oh? Imagine this, in that case." She turned away slightly from him and yanked up her already high dress: the backs of her thighs were appallingly black and blue.
"My God," Sam said, his jaw clamping down tight. He touched the massive bruises gingerly, hardly able to believe that someone could punish a woman that way. "Where do I find him?"
"His name is Hans Erlich; he hangs out in South Boston," she murmured, pulling her dress back down. "He's an arms dealer, I'm pretty sure, and a big-time collector of Nazi paraphernalia. I guess he wanted the Durer because he's decided to move into something more mainstream," she quipped. But her voice was quavering as she added, "He said that if I don't bring him his money tomorrow, he was going to... to use the next car to kill me. Sam, I am so scared," she said, hugging herself as she stood before him.
He had never seen her afraid before. She was trembling violently as she said, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I don't want you to see me like this." She made an effort to pull herself together, but she failed. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she kept mumbling.
Sam couldn't bear to see a woman in terror. He took Eden in his arms to reassure her and said sympathetically, "Does Eric know about this?"
She rolled her forehead in a back-and-forth no across his shirt. "I didn't tell him I recognized Hans in the Volvo."
"Do you want me to give the money back for you?" he said, holding her a little away and searching her face for some clue what she wanted from him.
"Yes. No. I can't ask you to do that," she said, looking down at the ground. When she raised her head again, tears were flowing down her cheeks. "I can't ask you, even though I know that once you would have gone to the moon and back, if the man in the moon were threatening me. Oh, Sam," she said in a soft wail, "I love you so much. I was such a fool. I've never stopped loving you; I knew I wouldn't, and I never have. We were so good together ... that's why I never could bring myself to divorce you ..."
She jerked away from him and made a massive effort to bring herself under control. Wringing her hands desperately, she kept repeating, "I'm sorry, sorry ... I swore to myself that I wouldn't say anything. I know it's over between us, I know that ... but we were so good together. Oh, Sam, when I heard you were on the island, I—something happened. I don't understand it, I can't explain it, but something terrible and wonderful happened. I fell in love all over again ... still ... for the first time. I can't explain it. Sam ... Sam ..." she said through her tears. "I love you."
It was that last "I love you" that did it for Sam.
Something about it was too insistent, too like Eden wanting her way. Maybe she meant it and maybe she didn't, but the amazing thing, the joyous thing, the absolutely liberating thing, was that Sam didn't care either way. He had given his heart so completely to Holly that he had little room for any emotion for Eden except pity. He did feel genuinely bad for her: her conning ways had finally caught up with her. He'd help her as much as he could, but not out of love.
"Eden, I don't know what to say—"
"Say you love me, then!" she cried. "At least say you'll have me! Just once—for old times' sake." She threw herself at him, and before he could unwrap her clinging arms from around his neck, they were accosted by a scandalized, disillusioned sixty-two-year-old with a shiner.
"Eden!"
"Eric! Thank God you're here. It's Sam," she said, backing away from him in sudden horror. "I don't know what came over him; he went into this jealous rage," she said, rushing toward Anderson.
"Get away from me!" he cried in a ghastly voice. He raised his arms so quickly that she ran up against them and staggered backward.
"Eric, how could you? You ... you said you trusted me," she said plaintively. Anyone would have thought that poor old Eric had been the one caught cheating.
Sam felt a little like the father of a problematic bride: Here you go, fella; she's all yours. "Well," he said, feeling oddly buoyant, "gotta go. Eden, if you want me to deliver that money for you, just call Holly. She'll know where I am."
Tonight, tomorrow, for the rest of their lives. All Sam had to do was convince her that he was, indeed, The Right One for her. She had believed it once. If he had to park on her porch until the island got swept into the sea, he was going to make her believe it again.
"You lied to me!" Eric said in a scandalized croak. "You liar! I heard everything. Lies!"
"I'll leave you two to it," Sam said with a polite smile and a shrug. Then he turned and walked out of the swampy mire of Eden's influence once and for all.
But he didn't know where he was walking to. Holly was in the Camp Ground somewhere, but where? He remembered that she had originally invited him to help her hang lanterns on a cottage whose name had something to do with birds. What was it? Robin's Nest? Chicken Coop? He racked his brain and came up with the owner's name: Renata something. Wren House, yes, that was it; it was a play on her name.
The search began. He went from porch to porch, asking arbitrary guests if they knew where Wren House was and for a while got no for an answer. Finally he hit pay dirt. "Take the next left," said an elderly gentleman.
He turned down the next spoke of the hub that was the park and was lucky enough to spot the Cissy-Sally redhead, getting scolded for standing on the banister of the porch. The scolder was a taller, older version of Holly's other niece. Sam walked up to the woman and said, "Hi; Sam Steadman. Where can I find your sister?"
Ivy looked him up and down from under her lifted eyebrows. "You're Sam Steadman?" she asked, her voice slathered with disbelief.
"Yeah. Where can I find your sister?"
His urgency made an impression. She cocked her head and said, "Why?"
"None of—"
Screw it; it was her business. It was all of their business. "Because I love her and I want to tell her that."
"Ah. That's a good reason. Are you eligible yet?"
"Soon."
"You'd better be. Because you broke her heart a few minutes ago. She hitched a ride home."
"Thanks. See you."
He dropped down the two steps, waved to Cissy-Sally, and took off at a canter, aware that his car was parked practically on the other side of the island. It was hot and muggy and already he smelled like an overworked pony, but he was in an unbelievable hurry to see Holly again. He'd just blown seven years clinging to the flotsam of a misguided notion. That had to be why he didn't want to waste even seven minutes without engaging Holly on what was bound to be a long debate over whether he was worthy of her.
He wasn't. He knew that. He tried to chalk up his blunders to his lack of experience. What did he know about women like Holly, really? Nothing. He'd never known someone like her before. The closest he could come to her was ....
Millie Steadman. Good grief—Millie Steadman! Honest, candid, funny, and good, those were the bedrock values that Sam had been looking for in a woman. Throw in a few other attributes—Holly was beautiful, talented, and fantastic in bed—and you had the makings of a world-class, once-in-a-lifetime chance for happiness, which Sam had just blown completely to hell.
No. Nearly blown completely to hell. He refused to fall back into his usual defeatist view of women. How could he, when he'd been taken in by Millie Steadman and taken up by Holly Anderson? How many men had that kind of luck? He practically yodeled for joy as he hopped into his Corolla and took off for Holly's place.
Crawled, that is, to Holly's place: Oak Bluffs was gridlocked. Nothing new there; but in his present mood, Sam was ready to tramp across the roofs of s
topped cars. Holly, Holly, Holly! He could hardly wait to throw himself at her mercy. He had no doubt that she'd point out his stupidity to him (many times), but he could count on her to be kind and clever about it when she did. And when they were well into their old age, and sitting by a fire, and the snow was blowing all around them, she would doubtless remind him again, hopefully not in front of the grandchildren, and he would be sheepish and agree.
Him! Sheepish! He positively looked forward to the prospect.
Hey, when you're right, you're right, and when you're wrong, you're wrong.
He was sitting through his third red light, wistfully if anxiously fantasizing, when something that Eden had said hit him with the force of a crowbar across the face: I'm pretty sure he's somewhere on the island, which has me terrified out of my wits.
More lies from Eden? But what if they weren't? Same had seen the bruises. What if the Nazi-lover was still skulking around, looking for his money before Eden took off with it?
Where would he skulk?
Where else?
Ah, hell, Sam thought, washed over by a wave as cold and terrifying as any a mariner faced. The barn. Hans had been there before, but he'd taken off when Holly showed up; that was suddenly as clear as a bell. And Holly—Holly, who'd never been on a mean street in her life—was undoubtedly working through her emotions where she always did, in her studio, pounding and banging and moving furniture.
Sam felt, literally, as if he were drowning. Breathing was impossible and it was all he could do not to go into a full-bore panic. He took an arbitrary detour, sideswiping the rental on a fire hydrant in the maneuver, and managed to cover two hundred feet before running smack into yet another roadblock, a squad car and two vehicles whose fenders were bent.
Hell! He couldn't back up, so he abandoned the car altogether and headed for the nearest bike rack. Locked, locked, locked, locked, not locked. Out came the stealable bike; Sam hopped aboard and began pedaling his way out of the traffic jam. On Eastville he began walking the bike with his thumb stuck out for a lift. A pickup pulled over and Sam chucked the bike in a ditch, then told the driver, "Fifty bucks if you take me to Tashmoo."
"Cool," said the long-haired kid in painter's pants. He launched into an endless stream of chat, maybe to earn his dough, but Sam wasn't interested. He was able to manage a grunt or two, but his mind was in overdrive, fearing the worst. Holly, please, stay out of the barn.
Chapter 29
The barn door squealed as Holly slid it open and entered her studio, determined to salvage what she could of her life. Her mother was right. She lacked discipline. She needed to focus. No time like the present. Never put off till tomorrow. Just do it. Today. Now. This minute.
And to hell with Sam Steadman. Seeing him wandering around and killing time—killing time!—at the Camp Ground had been a heart-stopping blow for her. Whether he was waiting to rendezvous with Eden or whether he was just hoping to run into her there, one thing was clear: he hadn't been looking for Holly. If he had, he would have gone straight to Wren House.
To hell with Sam Steadman. Who needed him? She'd rather grind her iron tuteur.
Holly was proud of the birthday present she'd created for her mother, a three-foot-high garden structure shaped into a pair of wrens perched on a gnarled branch. Holly had intended it to be a support for a small vining flower, but it was pretty enough to stand alone in a garden. She had painstakingly cut and shaped and welded the wrens, instantly recognizable by their perky tails, and had shaped the branch with a fair amount of horizontal in it. The effect was almost eastern in its simplicity and very pretty, but some of the edges still needed grinding.
Better them than my teeth, was her grim thought as she donned a clear face mask to protect herself from flying particles. She plugged in her grinder and set to work, and if Sam happened to return and the noise happened to keep him awake, so much the better.
Because to hell with Sam Steadman.
Gradually Holly let go of her misery, getting lost instead in the artistic process of making something carefully planned look charmingly spontaneous. No question, grinding was a form of therapy tonight. The loud noise, the play of sparks, the smell of metal heating up under the spinning disk—all of it served to take Holly out of herself and onto another plane. It wasn't exactly a happy place, but at least it wasn't painful.
Until someone came up behind her and gave her a stunning blow to the back of her head.
****
Sam had three twenties; he threw them on the front seat of the pickup and told the kid to keep the change. The sense that Holly was in danger was overwhelming now; he took off in a sprint down the shell-lined drive, wondering how he had missed the obvious: that at any given time, Eden probably had half the New England underworld hot on her trail.
He saw that the door at the top of the stairs was open and that all the lights were on inside the loft apartment. But the same scenario was being played out in the studio, and that made his blood congeal. He ran inside the shop. There was no sign of Holly, but a buzz-cut hulk in a black tee shirt and slacks was methodically tearing apart Holly's beloved workplace.
"Hans!" Sam shouted. "Over here!"
Hans it was. At the sound of his name, the thug turned and sent a narrow hand-painted drawer flying past Sam's ear as he ducked to the side. Were there any other weapons than drawers? Sam hadn't been thinking of a gun, hadn't been thinking at all except of Holly. His instincts had been two steps behind his emotions, but they were catching up fast. He dropped behind a wardrobe and ducked down low, waiting to see if Hans was dumb enough to have carried a weapon onto the island.
Apparently he was. Sam heard the gun being cocked. The good news was, Hans must not have had occasion to use it yet. The bad news was, where was Holly?
"Move out where I can see you," Hans commanded. "Now. Believe me, no one will hear if I shoot."
"Since you put it that way ..." said Sam. He stepped out from the shadow of the tall, half-painted armoire and dutifully put his hands up.
Hans squinted through steel-blue eyes at him. "We've met?" he asked, almost genially.
"No," said Sam, "but your reputation precedes you."
Where was Holly?
"Which reputation? I'm very talented."
"I've heard. I guess I'm thinking, as a hit-and-run expert."
"Ah. Too bad you know me, period. Sit down—that chair," he said, nodding to a sturdy armchair.
"Where's Holly?" Sam said, wild to know now.
"Who's Holly? Oh, so that was Holly."
"Where's Holly, you bastard?"
"Shut up. Sit down."
Hey. There's Holly!
Sam saw the top of her head as she rose slowly from the floor not far behind Hans. Her face was fierce in concentration as she lifted an iron garden ornament, one he knew she'd been working on for her mother, and positioned it behind and above Hans.
"No need to get testy," said Sam, playing for time. "Just ... stay cool, man."
He was careful not to look anywhere but in Hans's eyes as he made a business of edging around the jammed-up furniture.
Down came the birds-on-a-branch, crashing into Hans's arm and sending the gun flying. It seemed to Sam that Holly fell to the floor after that, but he was too busy jumping Hans and knocking him semi-senseless to know for certain. He recovered Hans's gun and had to resist slamming it against the man's head in retaliation for the blood he saw fresh and wet on Holly's neck as she half staggered to her feet again.
"I'm okay," she said, trying to reassure him.
Sam was anything but reassured. "Sit down, sit down," he begged, dragging over another chair—this one a rocker painted with a mama goose and a trail of goslings—while he kept the gun leveled at Hans, who was sitting on the floor with a dazed look and blood streaming down his face.
Holly sat in the rocker and pulled out a phone from the flap pocket of her smock. Calmly, she punched in 911 and then handed the phone to Sam.
In less than a minute he had the
police and an ambulance on the way. He handed her the phone and said, "You okay enough to hold the line open?"
"For Pete's sake, I've been whacked on the back of the head before," said Holly with spirit. "I was captain of the soccer team my senior year."
"I didn't know artists could be coordinated," he said, smiling with relief.
"Folk artists can."
Sam turned his attention to her attacker. "How about filling me in, Hans? We can make it easier for you when the cops get here."
"Yeah, sure."
"I mean it. Look, suppose I get the ball rolling for you. Here's what I know: Eden stole an engraving from my parents—yeah; surprised? But now it turns out the engraving's a fake."
"That's right," said Hans, his eye beginning to swell over a bloody gash on his cheek. "I got that straight from an expert. You want his report?"
"No, I'll take your word for it. I have to say, I'm curious: why would you even want a Durer?" Sam asked. "He doesn't seem like your style."
"We're descended."
"Ah. The family tree thing. All right, well, let me give this a shot. You tell me if I'm right or wrong. My guess is that Eden told you that she didn't have your money anymore—that it went to pay the medical bills of her in-laws. Correct?"
Hans nodded.
"And she said she was going to pay you in installments, because she was now engaged to a very wealthy man. Also correct?"
Again Hans nodded. "She gave me her engagement ring as token collateral. Said it was worth a chunk of change."
"Nice touch on her part. Do you have it on you?" Sam was thinking of the marquis diamond, very small, that he'd given her after their elopement.
Hans seemed to consider whether he should answer or not, then shrugged and said, "In my pocket. She said it was worth fifteen grand, and it is. I had someone look at that, too."
"Fifteen!" Obviously not Sam's marquis. "Let's have a look. Nice and easy, please."
Hans reached slowly into his hip pocket and pulled out what was clearly a very old ring filled with gem-stones, chief among them, a startling emerald.
Safe Harbor Page 26
