by Nora Roberts
“Well, we don’t have to worry about it anymore. Celeste can go back to just being my friend. Oh, Mama.” Adrianne hugged her, swaying with the embrace. “It’s so good to have you home.”
“Baby.” Cupping her face, Phoebe drew away. “Not a baby anymore. You’re eighteen today. I hadn’t forgotten. I haven’t been able to get you anything yet but—”
“Yes, you did, and I love it. Would you like to see it?”
Pleased by the laughter in Adrianne’s eyes, Phoebe said lightly, “Oh, dear, I hope it was in good taste.”
“The very best.” She pulled Phoebe through the foyer and into the living area. Over a small fireplace was a portrait.
Phoebe had been twenty-two when the photograph it was painted from had been taken. She’d been at the zenith of her beauty, with a face that made men quiver, eyes that made them believe. She was a goddess wearing the jewels of a queen. Around her neck The Sun and the Moon glinted. Fire and ice.
“Oh, Addy.”
“Lieberitz painted it. He’s the best, a little eccentric and definitely on the dramatic side, but a master. He didn’t want to give it up once it was done.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s my present,” Adrianne reminded her teasingly. “The only thing I wanted more was to have the real thing back with me.”
“The necklace.” She ran a hand over her neck, down her breasts. “I still remember what it was like to wear it, to feel the weight of it. It had magic, Addy.”
“It still belongs to you.” Adrianne looked up at the portrait and remembered. Everything. “One day you’ll have it back.”
“One day.” She smiled, enjoying the moment. “I’m going to do better this time. I promise. No drinking, no pills, no dwelling on past mistakes.”
“That’s what I want to hear.” She stepped aside to answer the phone. “Hello. Yes. Please send her up.” Adrianne replaced the receiver and kept her smile in place. “That’s the nurse. I explained to you that Dr. Schroeder recommended having her, at least temporarily.”
“Yes.” Phoebe turned her back on the portrait and sat.
“Mama, please, don’t feel that way.”
“Don’t feel what way?” Phoebe hunched her shoulders. “I don’t want her to wear one of those damn white uniforms.”
“All right. I’ll arrange it.”
“And she isn’t to stare at me when I sleep.”
“No one’s going to stare at you, Mama.”
“Might as well be back at the sanitarium.”
“No.” Adrianne reached out, but Phoebe yanked her hand out of reach. “This is a step forward, not a step back. She’s a very nice woman, and I think you’ll like her. Please don’t—don’t pull away,” she ended helplessly.
“I’ll try.”
She did. Over the next two and a half years Phoebe struggled against an illness that seemed constantly to outpace her. She wanted to be well and strong, but it was easier, so much easier, to close her eyes and drift back to the way things had been. Or more, into the illusion of the way things could have been.
When she let the reins slip, she imagined she was between jobs, a movie being edited, a new script being considered. She could float for days on the euphoria of the reality she created within her own mind. She liked to think of Adrianne as a blissful young socialite without a care in the world, gliding through life on the wealth and prestige she’d been born to.
Then the world would turn upside down, dance fitfully over the middle ground until she was mired in a depression so deep, so dark, she lost days at a time. She would imagine herself back in the harem with the same smells, the same dim light, the same endless hours of heat and frustration. Trapped, she would hear Adrianne call to her, plead with her, but she couldn’t find the energy to answer.
Again and again she fought her way back, and each time it was more difficult, more painful.
“Merry Christmas Eve.” Celeste glided in, a Russian lynx over her shoulders and her arms full of boxes wrapped in silver paper.
Adrianne sprang up to take the boxes while eyeing the coat with a mixture of envy and amusement. “Did Santa come early this year?”
“Just a little gift to myself for a successful eight-month run in Windows.” She touched the collar before taking off the coat and tossing it over a chair. “Phoebe, you look wonderful.” It was a lie, but a kind one. Still, Celeste thought her friend looked better than she had a few weeks before. The sallowness was less pronounced. Adrianne had brought in a hairdresser just that afternoon to color and style Phoebe’s hair. It looked nearly as rich and full as it once had.
“It’s so sweet of you to come. I know you must have been invited to a dozen parties.”
“Ranging from obnoxious to boring.” On a sigh Celeste dropped down on the sofa and stretched out her firm, still shapely legs. “You know very well there’s no one I’d rather spend Christmas Eve with than you and Addy.”
“Not even Kenneth Twee?” Phoebe asked, managing a smile.
“Old news, darling.” Grinning, she tossed both arms over the back of the couch. “I decided Kenneth was entirely too staid.” Sensing Adrianne behind her, she lifted a hand. “You’ve outdone yourself with the tree this year.”
“I wanted something special.” She took the offered hand. Celeste felt the nerves like thin little wires.
“You’ve succeeded.” Celeste scanned the spruce. On each branch was a different hand-painted ornament. Elves danced on the limbs, reindeer flew, angels glittered. “Those are the decorations you had commissioned for the battered children fund drive?”
“Yes. I think they came out really well.”
“It looks like you bought them all up yourself.”
“Not quite.” Laughing, Adrianne walked over to fuss with the positioning of a teardrop ball. “The project exceeded the goals. In fact, it did so well I’m thinking of making it an annual event.” Satisfied, she turned back. Behind her the tree tossed out glittering light. “Well, how about some eggnog?”
“My dear, you read my mind.” Celeste slipped off her shoes. “I don’t suppose your Mrs. Grange has any of those holiday cookies left?”
“Baked a fresh batch this morning.”
“Bring them on.” Celeste patted her flat stomach. “I renewed my membership at the gym.”
“I’ll be just a minute.” She cast one worried look at her mother, then hurried off.
“Adrianne’s hoping for snow.” Phoebe stared at the window, letting the colored lights Adrianne had strung around the frame blur in her vision. “Do you remember that first Christmas, right before we left for Hollywood? I’ll never forget Adrianne’s face when we lit the tree.”
“Neither will I.”
“I gave her a ball once, one of those little glass balls that you turn over to make a snowfall. I wonder what became of it.” Absently, she rubbed at a headache behind her eyes. She seemed to get them constantly. “I wanted her to go out tonight, be with young people.”
“Christmas is best when you spend it with family.”
“You’re right.” Phoebe shook her hair back and determined to be gay. “She’s so busy these days, with all her charity work and socializing. Then she spends hours with her computer. I have no idea what she does with it, but it makes her happy.”
“Now if we could only put our heads together and match her up with some wonderful, wildly handsome man.”
With a laugh Phoebe stretched out both hands. “That would be great, wouldn’t it? Before you know it, we’d be grandmothers.”
“Speak for yourself.” Celeste lifted a brow as she patted the back of her hand under her chin. “I’m years too young to be a grandmother.”
“Christmas cheer, anyone?” Adrianne carried in a large tray. “What are you two giggling about?”
“Giggling’s undignified,” Celeste pointed out. “Your mother and I were sharing a sophisticated chuckle. Oh, God, are those snickerdoodles?”
“Just the cookie for the sophisticated palate.” A
drianne handed her one, then poured the eggnog. It was spiced with nothing more than nutmeg. “To another Christmas with my two favorite people.”
“And to dozens more,” Celeste added before she sipped.
Dozens more. The words screamed in Phoebe’s mind, taunting. She forced a smile and held the cup to her lips. How could she celebrate the thought of years when each day was a torment to live through? But Adrianne wasn’t to know. Shifting her eyes, Phoebe saw that her daughter was watching her, the beginnings of worry on her face. She managed to make her smile brighter, but her hand shook a little as she set down her cup.
“We should have some music.” Phoebe linked her trembling fingers. Even when Adrianne rose to turn on the stereo she didn’t relax. It felt as if there were hundreds of eyes watching her, waiting for her to make a mistake. If she had a drink, just one, then the pounding in her head would stop and she could think clearly.
“Phoebe?”
“What?” She jolted, terrified Celeste had read her thoughts. Celeste always saw too much, wanted too much. Why did everyone want so much?
“I asked what you thought of Adrianne’s plans for the New Year’s Eve charity ball.” Concerned, she reached over to squeeze her friend’s hand. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it, the reputation Addy’s building as an organizer?”
“Yes.” “Silent Night”? Wasn’t that “Silent Night” on the radio? Phoebe remembered teaching the carol to Adrianne long ago in the hot, silent rooms in Jaquir. It had been a secret between them. They’d had so many secrets. Just as she had secrets now.
All is calm, all is bright. She had to be calm because everyone was watching.
“I’m sure it’s going to be a terrific success.” Celeste glanced over at Adrianne, and the message passed silently between them.
“I’m counting on it.” In an old habit she sat close to Phoebe and took her hand. On a good day that small contact was all her mother needed. “We hope to raise about two hundred thousand for the homeless. I’ve worried that a gala dinner dance with champagne and truffles isn’t really appropriate for a benefit for New York’s homeless.”
“Anything that raises money for a good cause is appropriate,” Celeste corrected her.
Adrianne sent her a quick, humorless smile, then looked at Phoebe. “Yes, I believe that. I believe that very strongly. When the end’s important enough, it more than justifies the means.”
“I’m tired.” If her voice sounded petulant, Phoebe didn’t care. She wanted to get away from the watchful eyes, the unspoken expectations. “I think I’ll go up to bed.”
“I’ll take you up.”
“Don’t be silly.” Phoebe fought off annoyance. It faded completely when she looked at Adrianne’s face. “You stay down here with Celeste and enjoy the tree.” She wrapped her arms tight around her daughter. “I’ll see you in the morning, baby. We’ll get up early and open presents just like we did when you were a little girl.”
“All right.” Adrianne turned her face up for a kiss and tried to ignore the fact that Phoebe’s once sturdy body seemed so brittle. “I love you, Mama.”
“I love you, Addy. Merry Christmas.” She turned, holding out both hands for Celeste. “Merry Christmas, Celeste.”
“Merry Christmas, Phoebe.” Celeste brushed her lips over both of Phoebe’s cheeks, then on a sudden impulse hugged her. “Sleep well.”
Phoebe walked to the stairs, pausing once to look back. Adrianne was standing beneath the portrait, the portrait of Phoebe Spring in the prime of her youth and beauty, beneath the power and glamour of The Sun and the Moon. With a last smile Phoebe turned and walked up alone.
“How about some more eggnog?” Adrianne asked quickly. Celeste caught her hand before she reached the punch bowl.
“Sit down, honey. You don’t have to be strong for me.”
It was heartbreaking to watch. Layer by layer, degree by degree, Adrianne’s control crumbled. At first it was a trembling of the lips, a blurring of the eyes. Strength melted into hopelessness until she sat, weeping into her hands.
Saying nothing, Celeste sat beside her. The child didn’t cry enough, she thought. There were times tears helped more than bolstering words or comforting arms.
“I don’t know why I’m doing this.”
“Because it’s better than screaming.” There wasn’t a drop of liquor in the house, not even a dram of medicinal brandy. “Let me make you some tea.”
Adrianne dragged her fingers over her eyes. “No, I’m all right. Really.” She sat back, deliberately relaxing. She’d taught herself how to ease the tension out of her limbs, her mind, her heart. It was a matter of survival. “I guess I’m not feeling very festive.”
“Feel like talking to a friend?”
With her eyes closed Adrianne reached out and found Celeste’s hand. “What would we do without you?”
“I haven’t been too much help lately. The last few months the play’s taken most of my time and energy. But I’m here now.”
“It’s just so hard to watch.” Adrianne kept her head back. The tears had been an indulgence she hadn’t realized she’d needed. It felt good, so good to be empty. “I know the signs. She’s drifting away again. She tries. It almost makes it worse to know how much effort she makes. For weeks now she’s been fighting the depression, and losing.”
“Is she still seeing Dr. Schroeder?”
“He wants to hospitalize her again.” Impatient, Adrianne pushed herself off the couch. She’d had enough self-pity. “We agreed to wait until after the first of the year because the holidays have always been so important to Mama. But this time …” Trailing off, she looked up at the portrait. “I’m going to drive her up the day after tomorrow.”
“I’m so sorry, Addy.”
“She’s been talking about him.” By the way Adrianne’s voice tightened, Celeste understood she was referring to her father. “Twice last week I found her sitting and crying. Over him. The day nurse told me Mama had asked her when he was coming. She’d wanted her hair fixed so she’d look nice for him.”
Celeste bit back an oath. “She’s so confused.”
With a laugh Adrianne looked over her shoulder. “Confused? Yes, she’s confused. For years she’s been given drugs to keep her emotions from falling too low or reaching too high. She’s been strapped down and fed through tubes. She’s been through stages when she can’t even dress herself and others when she’s ready to dance on the ceiling. Why? Why is she confused, Celeste? Because of him. All because of him. One day, I swear it, he’ll pay for what he did to her.”
The cold hate in Adrianne’s eyes had Celeste rising. “I know how you feel. Yes, I do,” she said when Adrianne shook her head. “I love her too, and I hate what she’s been through. But concentrating on Abdu, and on some kind of revenge, isn’t good for you. And it won’t help her.”
“When the end is important enough,” Adrianne repeated, “it more than justifies the means.”
“Honey, you worry me when you talk that way.” Though she detested taking Abdu’s side, Celeste felt it best for all of them. “I know he’s the cause of many of Phoebe’s problems, but he has given back something over the past few years, making sure there was enough money for her treatment and her living expenses.”
Silent, Adrianne turned back to the portrait. It wasn’t yet the time to tell Celeste that was all a lie. Her lie. There had never been a cent from Abdu. Sooner or later she’d have to tell her, but for now she wasn’t certain if Celeste could handle the truth about where the money had come from.
“There’s only one payment he can make that will satisfy me.” Adrianne folded her arms to ward off a sudden chill. “I promised her that one day she’d have it back. When I have The Sun and the Moon, when he knows how much I detest him, I may wipe the slate clean.”
Part Two
THE SHADOW
Himself a shadow, hunting shadows.
—HOMER
Always set a thief to catch a thief.
—THOMAS FULLER
Chapter Ten
New York, October 1988
Black gloves clung to the knotted rope, going hand over hand, supple wrists taut but flexible. The rope itself was thin, yet strong as steel. It had to be. The streets of Manhattan were fifty stories below, shiny from the early morning rain.
It was all a matter of timing. The security system was good, very good, but not impenetrable. Nothing was impenetrable. The preliminary work had already been done in a few hours at a drawing board at a computer with a set of calculations. The alarm had been disengaged, really the most elementary part of the job. It had been the cameras scanning the hallways that had determined the method of break-in. Entrance from inside would be inconvenient at best. But there were other ways, always other ways.
There was only a drizzle now, and the chill that went with it, but the wind had died. If it had still kicked, the figure hanging on to the rope would have been bashed into the brick face of the building. Streetlamps made greasy rainbows in the puddles so very far below; the clouds masked the stars overhead. But the black-clad figure looked neither up nor down. There was a light film of sweat on the brow below a snug stocking cap; it sprang not from fear, but concentration. The figure slipped down another foot, focusing on the rope while strong legs bent and pressed against the bricks for support and balance. Even ankles had to be well tuned, flexible like a runners or a dancer’s.
The body and mind of a thief were as important, often more so, than the bag of tools required to open a lock or foil an alarm.
There was little activity on the streets, an occasional gypsy cab scouting for a fare, a lone drunk who had wandered over from a less affluent neighborhood. Even New York could be subtle at four A.M. If there had been a parade with marching bands and floats, it would have made no difference. For the figure in black there was only the reality of the rope. A missed grip, an instant of carelessness, would have meant a nasty death.
But success would mean … everything.
Inch by cautious inch, the narrow terrace with its abundance of potted plants and sturdy railings came closer. The pores and cracks of the bricks, the tiny flaws in the mortar, could be seen clearly. If the drunk had looked up and been able to focus, the black figure would have appeared tiny, an insect crawling along the face of the building.
