Mirror Image

by Sandra Brown

  He gave her a reproving glare. “Okay, let’s say he doesn’t notice. How will you feel about him making love to you while thinking you’re somebody else?”

  That hadn’t occurred to her. Thinking about it now caused her to frown. “I’ll want him to know it’s me. I know it’s wrong to trick him, but…”

  Her voice trailed off as she wrestled with the question she hadn’t yet found an answer for. Leaving it unresolved again, she said, “And then there’s Mandy. I love her, too, Irish. She desperately needs a caring mother.”

  “I agree. What will happen to her when your job is done and you desert her?”

  “I won’t just desert—”

  “And how do you think Rutledge is going to feel when you do an exposé on his family?”

  “It won’t be an exposé.”

  “I’d hate to be around when you try and explain that to him. He’ll think you’ve used him.” He paused for emphasis. “He’ll be right, Avery.”

  “Not if I saved his life in the process. Don’t you think he could find it within himself to forgive me?”

  He swore beneath his breath. “You missed your calling. You should have been a lawyer. You’d argue with the devil himself.”

  “I can’t let my career end in disgrace, Irish. I’ve got to make restitution for the mistake I made in Washington and earn back my credibility as a journalist. Maybe I am only trying to be daddy’s little girl, but I’ve got to do it.” Her eyes appealed to him for understanding. “I didn’t pursue this golden opportunity. It was forced on me. I’ve got to make the best of it.”

  “You’re going about it the wrong way,” he said gently, tilting her chin up with his index finger. “You’re too emotionally involved, Avery. You’ve got too much heart to remain detached. By your own admission, you care for these people. You love them.”

  “All the more reason for me to stay. Someone wants to kill Tate and make Mandy an orphan. If it’s within my power, I’ve got to prevent that from happening.”

  His silence was as good as waving a white flag of surrender. She consulted his wall clock. “I must go. But first, do you have something belonging to me?”

  In under a minute she was slipping the gold chain of her locket over her head. Monetarily it wasn’t worth much, but it was her most valued possession.

  Her father had brought it back to her from Egypt in 1967, when he had been hired by Newsweek to document the conflict between that country and Israel.

  Avery depressed the spring and the two disks parted. She gazed at the photographs inside. One was of her father. In the photograph, he was dressed in battle fatigues, a 35-mm camera draped around his neck. It was the last picture taken of him. He had been killed a few weeks later. The other picture was of her mother. Rosemary, lovely and dainty, was smiling into the camera, but sadly.

  Hot, salty tears filled Avery’s eyes. She closed the locket and squeezed it in her palm. Not everything had been taken away from her. She still had this, and she still had Irish.

  “I hoped you had it,” she told him gruffly.

  “It was in the dead woman’s hands.”

  Avery nodded, finding it difficult to speak. “Mandy had noticed it around my neck. I had given it to her to look at. Just as we were about to take off, Carole became annoyed because Mandy was twirling the chain. She took it away from her. That’s the last thing I remember before the crash.”

  He showed her Carole’s jewelry. “Shook my gizzard when I opened that envelope you sent. You did send it, didn’t you?”

  She told him how that had come about. “I didn’t know what else to do with it.”

  “Why didn’t you just throw it away?”

  “I guess I secretly wanted to make contact with you.”

  “You want her jewelry?”

  She shook her head no, glancing down at the plain gold band on her left ring finger. “Its sudden reappearance would require an explanation. I have to keep things as simple as possible.”

  He cursed with impatience and apprehension. “Avery, call it off—now. Tonight.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Hell and damnation,” he swore. “You’ve got your father’s ambition and your mother’s compassion. It’s a dangerous combination—lethal under these circumstances. Unfortunately, you inherited a stubborn will from both of them.”

  Avery knew he had capitulated completely when he asked regretfully, “What do you want me to do?”

  * * *

  Tate was standing in the hallway when she returned. Avery thought he’d probably been waiting and watching for her, but he tried to pass it off as a coincidence.

  “Why are you so late?” he asked, barely looking in her direction.

  “Didn’t Zee give you my message? I told her I had some last-minute things to get for the trip.”

  “I thought you’d be back sooner than this.”

  “I had a lot of shopping to do.” She was loaded down with shopping bags—purchases she had made before her meeting with Irish. “Could you help me get this stuff to the bedroom, please?”

  He relieved her of some of the bags and followed her down the hall. “Where’s Mandy?” she asked.

  “She’s already asleep.”

  “Oh, I was hoping I’d get back in time to read a bedtime story to her.”

  “Then you should have come home sooner.”

  “Did she get a story?”

  “Mom read her one. I tucked her in and stayed until she’d gone to sleep.”

  “I’ll check on her in a while.” She noticed as she passed the hall windows that Nelson, Jack, and Eddy were conversing over one of the patio tables in the courtyard. Zee was reclined in a lounger reading a magazine. Fancy was cavorting in the pool. “You’re missing the conference.”

  “Eddy’s going over the itinerary again. I’ve already heard it a thousand times.”

  “Just set those bags on the bed.” She slid off her linen jacket, tossed it down beside the shopping bags, and stepped out of her pumps. Tate hovered close, looking ready to pounce.

  “Where did you go shopping?”

  “The usual places.”

  He had asked a dumb question, since the glossy sacks had familiar logos on them. For one horrifying moment, she wondered if he had followed her to Irish’s house. He couldn’t have. She had taken a circuitous route, constantly checking her rearview mirror to make sure she wasn’t being followed.

  Safety measures like that, which would have seemed absurdly melodramatic months ago, had become second nature. She didn’t like living dishonestly, being constantly on guard. Tonight, especially, after the emotionally draining visit with Irish, her nerves were shot. Tate had picked the wrong night to interrogate her and put her on the defensive.

  “Why are you giving me the third degree about going shopping?”

  “I’m not.”

  “The hell you’re not. You’re sniffing like a bloodhound.” She came a step closer to him. “What did you expect to smell on me? Tobacco smoke? Liquor? Semen? Something that would confirm your nasty suspicions that I spent the afternoon with a lover?”

  “It’s happened,” he said tightly.

  “Not anymore!”

  “What kind of sap do you take me for? Do you expect me to believe that an operation on your face has turned you into a faithful wife?”

  “Believe what you bloody well want to,” she shouted back. “Just leave me alone while you’re believing it.”

  She moved to her closet and almost derailed the sliding door as she angrily shoved it open. Her hands were trembling so badly that her fingers couldn’t manage the buttons on the back of her blouse. She softly cursed her unsuccessful efforts to unbutton them.

  “Let me.”

  Tate spoke from close behind her, an underlying apology in his tone. He tipped her head forward, leaving her neck exposed. His hands captured hers and lowered them to her sides, then unbuttoned the blouse.

  “It would have been a familiar scene,” he remarked as he undid the last button
.

  The blouse slid off her shoulders and down her arms. She caught it against her chest and turned to face him. “I don’t respond well to inquisitions, Tate.”

  “No better than I respond to adultery.”

  She bowed her head slightly. “I deserve that, I suppose.” For a moment, she stared at his throat and the strong pulse beating there. Then she lifted her eyes to his again. “But since the airplane crash, have I given you any reason to doubt my devotion to you?”

  The corner of his lips jerked with a tiny spasm. “No.”

  “But you still don’t trust me.”

  “Trust is earned.”

  “Haven’t I earned yours back yet?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he raised his hand and, with his index finger, traced the gold chain around her neck. “What’s this?”

  His touch almost melted her. Taking a real chance by revealing more skin than she ever had, she let the blouse slip from her hands to the floor. Her locket lay nestled in the cleft between her breasts, enhanced by the engineering of her sheer bra. She heard the sharp breath he took.

  “I found it in a secondhand jewelry store,” she lied. “Pretty, isn’t it?” Tate was staring at the delicate gold piece with the hunger of a starved man for the last morsel of food on earth. “Open it.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, he scooped the locket into his palm and depressed the clasp. The two tiny frames were empty. She’d removed the photographs of her mother and father and left them in Irish’s safekeeping.

  “I want to put pictures of you and Mandy in it.”

  He searched her eyes. Then he looked long at her mouth while rubbing the locket between his thumb and finger. When he snapped it closed, the sound seemed inordinately loud.

  He laid the golden disk back into place against her breasts. His hand lingered. His fingertips skimmed the soft curves, barely maintaining contact with her skin, but where they touched, she burned.

  Still touching her, Tate turned his head away. He was fighting a war within himself, attested to by the flexing of his jaw, the turbulent indecision in his eyes, his shallow breathing.

  “Tate.” Her plaintive inflection brought his gaze back to meet hers. On a whisper, she said, “Tate, I never had an abortion.” She raised her fingertips to his lips before they could form an argument. “I never had an abortion because there never was a baby.”

  The irony of it was that it was the unvarnished truth, but she would have to confess to a lie in order for him to believe it.

  This germ of an idea had been cultivating in her mind for days. She had no idea if Carole had conceived and aborted a baby or not. But Tate would never know, either. A lie would be easier for him to forgive than an abortion, and since that seemed to be the thickest barrier to their reconciliation, she wanted to tear it down. Why should she pay the penalty for Carole’s sins?

  Once committed to it, the rest of the lie came easily. “I only told you I was pregnant for the very reason you cited the other morning. I wanted to flaunt it. I wanted to provoke you.” She laid her hands against his cheeks. “But I can’t let you go on believing that I destroyed your child. I can see that it hurts you too much.”

  After a long, deep, probing stare, he broke contact and stepped back. “The flight to Houston leaves at seven o’clock on Tuesday. Will you be able to handle that?”

  She had hoped her news would release a tide of forgiveness and suppressed love. Trying not to let her disappointment show, she asked, “Which? The early hour or the flight itself?”

  “Both.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “I hope so,” he said, moving toward the door. “Eddy wants everything to go like clockwork.”

  * * *

  On Monday evening, Irish summoned KTEX’s political reporter into his office. “You all set for this week?”

  “Yeah. Rutledge’s people sent over a schedule today. If we cover all this, you’ll have to give Dekker equal time.”

  “Let me worry about that. Your job is to document what’s going on in Rutledge’s campaign. I want daily reports. By the way, I’m sending Lovejoy with you instead of the photographer originally assigned.”

  “Jesus, Irish,” the reporter whined. “What have I done to deserve him, huh? He’s a pain in the ass. He’s unreliable. Half the time he smells bad.”

  He continued with a litany of objections. He preferred to be paired with just about anybody over Van Lovejoy. Irish listened silently. At the conclusion of the reporter’s petition, he repeated, “I’m sending Lovejoy with you.” The reporter slunk out. Once Irish said something twice, there was no use arguing.

  Irish had arrived at that decision several days earlier. Before he had even begun, the reporter hadn’t had a chance in hell of changing Irish’s mind.

  Avery might not think she was in any imminent danger, but she was impetuous and headstrong and often made snap judgments for which she later paid dearly. He couldn’t believe the mess she’d made for herself now. God almighty, he thought, she had become another woman! It was too late for him to talk her out of assuming Carole Rutledge’s identity, but he was going to do all he could to see that she didn’t pay for this impersonation with her life.

  They had agreed to contact each other through his post office box if telephoning proved risky. He had given her his extra key to the box. Fat lot of good that would do her if she needed immediate help. That safety net was no more substantial than a spiderweb, but she had refused his offer to loan her a handgun.

  The whole cloak-and-dagger routine made him nervous as hell. Just thinking about it made him reach for his bottle of antacid. These days he was drinking as much of that stuff as he was whiskey. He was too old for this, but he couldn’t just stand by, do nothing, and let Avery get herself killed.

  Since he couldn’t be her guardian angel, he would do the next best thing—he’d send Van along. Having Van around would no doubt make her nervous, but if she got into trouble while on the campaign trail, she’d have somebody to run to. Van Lovejoy wasn’t much, but for the time being, he was the best Irish could do.

  Twenty-Four

  The first glitch in Eddy’s carefully orchestrated campaign trip occurred on the third day. They were in Houston. Early that morning Tate had made an impassioned breakfast speech to a rowdy audience of longshoremen. He was well received.

  Upon their return to the downtown hotel, Eddy went to his room to answer telephone calls that had come in during their absence. Everyone else gathered in Tate’s suite. Jack buried himself in the morning newspapers, scouring them for stories relating to Tate, his opponent, or the election in general. Avery sat on the floor with Mandy, who was scribbling in a Mickey Mouse coloring book.

  Tate stretched out on the bed, propping the pillows behind his head. He turned on the television set to watch a game show. The questions were asinine, the contestants frenzied, the host obnoxious, but often something that inane relaxed his mind and opened up new avenues of thought. The best ideas came to him when he wasn’t concentrating.

  Nelson and Zee were working a crossword puzzle together.

  Eddy interrupted the restful scene. He barged into the room, as excited as Tate had ever seen him. “Switch that thing off and listen.”

  Tate used the remote control to silence the TV set. “Well,” he said with an expectant laugh, “you’ve got everybody’s attention, Mr. Paschal.”

  “One of the largest Rotary Clubs in the state is meeting at noon today. It’s their most important meeting of the year. New officers are being sworn in, and wives are invited. Their scheduled speaker called in sick this morning. They want you.”

  Tate sat up and swung his long legs over the side of the bed. “How many people?”

  “Two-fifty, three hundred.” Eddy was riffling through the papers in his briefcase. “These are top businessmen and professionals—pillars of the community. Oldest Rotary Club in Houston. Its members have lots of money, even in these depressed times. Here,” he said, thrusting several she
ets of paper at Tate, “this was a hell of a speech you gave in Amarillo last month. Glance over it. And for God’s sake, get out of that chambray and denim and put on a conservative suit.”

  “This crowd sounds more like Dekker people.”

  “They are. That’s why it’s important that you go. Dekker’s made you out to be a kid with his head in the clouds, at best, or a wacko liberal, at worst. Show them you’ve got both feet on the ground and that you don’t have horns and a pointed tail.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You’re invited, too, Carole. Look your charming best. The women—”

  “I can’t be there.”

  Everyone’s attention abruptly shifted from Eddy to her, where she still sat on the floor with Mandy, holding a selection of crayons in her hand and a picture of Donald Duck in her lap. “Mandy’s appointment with Dr. Webster is at one o’clock today.”

  “Crap.” Tate plowed his hand through his hair. “That’s right. I’d forgotten.”

  Eddy divided his disbelieving gaze between them. “You can’t even consider throwing away this opportunity. We’re up one point in the polls this week, Tate, but we’re still trailing by a dismal margin. This speech could mean a lot of campaign dollars—dollars we need to buy TV commercial time.”

  Jack tossed his folded newspaper aside. “Make another appointment with this doctor.”

  “What about it, Carole?” Tate asked.

  “You know how hard this one was to come by. I probably wouldn’t be able to get another one for weeks. Even if I could, I don’t believe it would be in Mandy’s best interest to postpone.”

  Tate watched his brother, father, and campaign manager exchange telling glances. They wanted him to make a speech to this influential crowd of Rotarians, and they were right. These conservatives, staunch Dekker supporters, needed to be convinced that he was a viable candidate and not a hotheaded upstart. When he looked down at his wife, however, he could feel the strength behind her calm gaze. He would be damned either way he went. “Christ.”

  “I could go to the psychologist’s office with Carole,” Zee offered. “Tate, you make your speech. We can fill you in later on what the doctor has to say about Mandy.”