“Yes. Thank you—”
“Do you think this publicity will promote your career?” Falcone called, shoving at the customer service manager, holding his camera above the man’s head and continuing to photograph her.
She leaned against the security guard as he propelled her out of the crowd toward a side exit. “I hate that sonovabitch Falcone,” the guard muttered. “You shoulda seen how he dogged Pat Boone last week.”
“Pat Boone?” She chortled, heard herself making frantic little hiccupping sounds, and clamped her mouth shut. Her insides had turned to water. She decided that if she reached the car, she would drive until she felt safe. It might be a long trip.
The entrance to the hospital’s police ward was blocked by thick double doors with heavily reinforced glass. A young, harried-looking officer intent on adhering to rules staffed the desk outside. He seemed even less likely to compromise each time he scanned Sebastien’s rumpled trousers and shirt, the beard stubble darkening his jaws, and his generally frazzled appearance. Sebastien realized that to the officer he looked desperate. He was desperate, because he hadn’t been able to locate Amy thus far.
Frau Diebler’s words kept coming back to him with remnants of shock. Twins. Amy hadn’t wanted him to know. Nor had she wanted him to know that she was trying to help Elliot Thornton. She had feared and distrusted his reaction; he had made it impossible for her to confide in him, or ask for his help.
“I left Paris late last night,” he explained again, his voice raw with fatigue. “I just arrived in Los Angeles an hour ago. When I called your superiors, they told me that the detective would be here this afternoon, and I might be able to talk to him.”
“There he is. Good luck.”
A heavyset man had just stepped out of one of the rooms that lined the hallway beyond the security doors. He negotiated an obstacle course of nurses, orderlies, and gurneys as he walked toward Sebastien, studying him with a neutral expression. When he arrived at the doors, Sebastien saw from the badge on the lapel of his brown suit that he was Rodriguez, the detective in charge of Elliot’s case.
Rodriguez opened a door and stuck his head into the anteroom. “Yeah?”
“This guy’s looking for Amy Miracle.”
“Yeah, him and every other sleazeball reporter in town.”
Sebastien gritted his teeth. “My name is de Savin. I’m not a reporter. I’m her—” he searched for words, feeling foolish and impatient, “I’m her husband-to-be.” If she still wants me.
“I can’t release any information on her without her permission. She’s safe, I’ll tell you that much.”
“Let me see Elliot Thornton.”
Rodriguez laughed. “This isn’t a country club, hombre.”
“Amy is eight months pregnant with twins,” Sebastien said with barely controlled anger, emphasizing every word. “My children. She was beaten, terrorized, and almost raped last night. Is it so hard for you to understand why I want to talk to the man who did that to her, and why I want to find her?”
“Pal, from the look on your face you might strangle Thornton, and that would put a nasty cloud over my day.”
“Would you at least send a message to Amy—tell her the name of my hotel, so that she can call me?”
“Write it down and leave it with this officer. I’ll think about it.”
“Maybe I can help,” a voice said behind Sebastien. He pivoted and found himself facing Jeff Atwater, who looked as if he’d just stepped from the pages of a men’s magazine but whose eyes held haggard sympathy.
After a second of stunned appraisal, Sebastien’s anger rushed to his last memory of Jeff, sprawled on the floor of a San Francisco hotel with his mouth bleeding.
“Get out of my sight,” Sebastien said softly, his voice as stark and unyielding as the ugly concrete wall that framed Jeff’s humble attitude.
Jeff turned paler than he already was. “I heard months ago that you and Amy had found each other again. I’ve always kept track of her, asked about her discreetly, that kind of thing. She came to me once for help, about Elliot Thornton.”
“Whatever she felt for you died a long time ago. You can’t ingratiate yourself with her because she’s no longer with Thornton. I won’t let you come between us again.”
“You make it sound as if I ever had a chance.”
“Damn you, she hasn’t needed you for ten years; why would she need you today? Was it that good between the two of you? Don’t expect it to mean anything to her now.”
“My God, didn’t you ever ask her what really happened? We had one night together, Sebastien. One lousy night. I charmed her into doing something she didn’t really want. She hated me for it. I hated myself. Is that what you’re talking about? There was no affair. I only let you think that to keep you away from her. Hell, I wanted there to be more, but I couldn’t compete with your sainted memory. The poor kid was sure you’d come back for her any day. If old Pio Beaucaire hadn’t convinced her otherwise, she wouldn’t have been easy prey for me.”
Sebastien took a step toward him, restraint losing its hold. “You did that to me—and to her? You lied. Why, goddamn you?”
“I was a fool. I was confused. I was greedy. Your father didn’t want you involved with Amy. He paid me to make sure the two of you went separate ways. I’d put up with enough middle-class bullshit in my life. I wanted money.”
“My father paid you?” Sebastien grasped Jeff’s crisp white shirt and shoved him against the wall. “You betrayed us for money?”
Rodriguez stepped into the hall. “I don’t want to deal with this. Back off, both of you.”
“It’s all right,” Jeff assured the detective, his eyes never leaving Sebastien’s. “He only hits me at medical conventions.”
“Why?” Sebastien demanded. “Why did you betray us?”
“For the money, yeah. But also … because of Amy. You’re not the only one who fell in love with her.”
Sebastien kept him against the wall and stared into his eyes, searching for the truth, hating him no less but understanding him a little more. He thought of Amy, of what she must have gone through blaming herself, as he knew she must have. All this time he’d kept a small, hurt, unforgiving place hidden inside him because he thought that she’d traded him for Jeff. Once again, she made him ashamed of his cynicism. He had to find her and make things right, everything.
“You hopeless piece of trash,” he whispered to Jeff finally, his hands winding tighter into Jeff’s shirt. “You don’t know what it means to love anyone besides yourself.”
“Then why do you think I showed up here, today? Out of some charitable instinct for Thornton? Hell, no. I’m trying to help him for Amy’s sake. And for yours. Look, believe what you want to believe about me. But this is my way of apologizing. I’ve talked to Elliot’s attorney on the phone. He asked Thornton if he’d meet with me.” Jeff looked toward Rodriguez. “I’m Dr. Atwater. The psychiatrist. I’m authorized to see Thornton.”
“All right.”
Jeff nodded toward Sebastien. “Can this deceptively murderous-looking person come with me?”
Rodriguez grunted. “Is he really Dr. de Savin?”
“The one and only,” Jeff replied.
“If you say so, then. Five minutes.”
Sebastien scrutinized Jeff, who was beginning to flush deeply above his shirt’s twisted collar. “If there’s any truth to your apology, this is all I want from it.”
“Fair enough,” Jeff answered, and gestured for Sebastien to follow him.
The pale, gaunt man who lay in the hospital bed with one shoulder bandaged and his arm in a sling filled Sebastien with both loathing and pity. Elliot looked at his two visitors with sunken, dull eyes. “Where is she? Is she okay?”
Sebastien stepped to the foot of the bed. Regardless of pity, he could find it very easy to forget that a uniformed police officer stood in one corner of the room. He could find it easy to put his hands around Elliot Thornton’s throat. “You tell me,” he rep
lied.
Tears slid down Elliot’s face. “I don’t know.”
Jeff stepped forward. “Your attorney says that she won’t press charges if you hospitalize yourself for a full rehab program. I want you to enter the program at my center. It’s the best. If you really want to get well, you will. I’ll oversee your treatment personally.”
“Right now I’d like to die. Everytime I think about what I did to Amy, what I tried to do … I know that I was crazy. She hasn’t loved me for a long time.” He glanced at Sebastien while he raised a trembling hand to wipe his face. “You were always there. Right from the beginning. A freaking shadow from before I met her. But it’s not your fault that things went wrong. It’s mine. This is the first time I’ve admitted it.”
“How noble, you son of a bitch, now that you’ve hurt her and shamed her so badly.”
“I’ll give interviews. I’m gonna do it—tell everything—how she tried to keep me sober, how she wrote for me when nobody knew it, how much shit I gave her for wanting to leave me. And … what happened last night. Everything. I’ll make it up to her. I want her to be happy.” Elliot turned his face to one side, his throat working, the white pillow framing his ravaged features and swollen profile. “I know it’s over. Tell her that I love her, but I know.”
“I have to find her, first.” Sebastien went to the door, paused, and met Elliot’s distraught, beaten gaze. Sebastien despised him, and always would, but the man was broken, not an enemy any longer. “I’ll tell her what you said,” he promised. But God, where is she?
Jeff came to him and held out a hand in farewell. “I envy what you and Amy have together. I’ll never let my guard down enough to have that kind of relationship with anyone. She saved you from yourself. I wish she could have done the same for me. Tell her I said … just tell her that … it wasn’t only the money I wanted.”
Sebastien would never offer this man any consolation, not even a nod of acceptance. When he looked at him in killing silence, Jeff’s shoulders slumped. He returned to Elliot.
“Let’s make this easy. We’ll talk about your future,” he said to him, sitting down in a chair near the bed. “I have every reason to think that you have one, now.”
Amy’s mind was a dungeon of exhaustion. Her back ached. Her sore neck and breasts combined with her throbbing wrist to make a circuit of pain. She held the ledge of the pay phone and tried not to gag over the acrid fumes rising from the pavement of the convenience store’s gas station.
“Detective Rodriguez, please.”
After what seemed like an eternity he came on the line. “Where are you?”
“Headed toward Mendocino. I’m in the wine country.”
“My God, are you alone?”
“Yes. I had to make a fast getaway.” She explained briefly.
“You shouldn’t be driving!”
“You’re tellin’ me. If my stomach were any larger, I couldn’t reach the steering wheel.”
“Listen, I had a visit from your Dr. de Savin.”
She sagged with relief. “Did he say where he was staying?”
“Yes. He left the name and phone number of his hotel.”
“Can you get a message to him? I’m going to his place at the vineyard. The house has been closed up for almost a year. The phone’s not connected. I don’t want to be alone there. He needs to come up as soon as he can.”
“I’ll try to find him.”
“And can you try to find my friend Mary Beth? Page her at the airport, find her once she gets there, somehow? Tell her why I left.”
“I’ll do my best. Are you sure you’re all right? It’ll take five or six hours, or longer, for Dr. de Savin to get there, even if I reach him at his hotel right now. I have a feeling that he’s not the type who’ll just be sitting around in the room waiting for a call. He’s probably out interrogating every person in L.A. who might know where you are.”
“I’m fine. Just tired. I know I shouldn’t be alone like this, but everything’s okay. Really. I’ll rest and wait for him to get here.” Nothing mattered now except doing what was best for the babies, even if it meant exposing herself to Sebastien’s anger.
“You get yourself to his house and take it easy,” Rodriguez urged. “Soon as he gets there everything’ll be better.”
Amy thanked him and slipped the phone back on its hook. She shut her eyes. No, the worst hasn’t even begun yet.
She shuddered with relief when she finally guided the rental car down the long, forest-shrouded driveway to Sebastien’s cottage and vineyard. She had a house key he’d given her almost a year ago, during the heady, promising days right after they’d met again. As she hobbled through the cottage’s cool stone rooms, holding her back with one hand and her stomach with the other, Amy was surprised at how comforted she felt.
There had been that time, that wonderful time before he had to return to France, and before she became pregnant. It had really existed. So much had happened in a year. Her head swam with the memories and the fear that nothing would ever be as wonderful between them again.
She went to his bedroom and lay down on the bare mattress, wrapping herself in musty blankets, immediately grateful for rest above all else. The late-afternoon sun didn’t warm the room. Later she would light the gas heater in the corner. The electricity was turned off, along with the phone and water, but on the way up she’d stopped at a little grocery and camping supply store, where she’d purchased a lantern, bottled water, and food that wasn’t perishable. She’d fix herself something wonderful to eat.
Just as soon as I feel better, she thought now, sinking into a bare, stale-smelling pillow with a soft moan of appreciation. Her thoughts faded before a tidal wave of exhaustion. Comfort. She was as close to Sebastien as she could get, wrapped in the dreams they had shared here.
The house was dark inside, now. She found her way to the lantern, lit it then carried it gingerly down the hall to the kitchen. She’d lost her appetite, but she forced herself to take bread from a grocery bag and eat a slice. She checked her watch. It would still be a few hours before Sebastien could possibly get here.
She dragged herself back to the bedroom, set the lamp on the nightstand, and burrowed under the covers again. Dozing, she had a dream about elves dancing on her stomach. It hurt. She made herself wake up to dispell it. Then, going breathless with disbelief, she knew why she’d been dreaming about a pain in her stomach. She felt the blood drain from her face as the slow, deep contraction built inside her until it had the severity of a bad menstrual cramp.
The silent shout of protest ricocheted inside her head. Not now. Not yet. Not here.
The contraction faded. Sweating, she checked her watch and waited. It could mean nothing, just a reaction to all the stress. Of course. She was going to have a perfect labor and delivery. Not a month early. Not up here in the middle of nowhere, without a hospital. Without a doctor. without Sebastien. Sebastien. Was every circumstance conspiring to make his fears come true?
Cursed. The babies are cursed. He was right.
Stop thinking that way!
The next contraction, another relatively mild one, came twenty minutes later. Staring at her watch in the flickering lantern light, she told herself that twenty minutes was great. If she was going into labor, it would probably take a long time, She listened to cool winter wind rattle the oaks outside the cottage. The bedroom was a dark cavern with a small, desperately bright center where she huddled, counting the minutes, refusing to let her imagination find ghosts in the shadows.
She yelled as she woke up from the brief, pain-soaked nap. Dawn light made a sieve of the loose-weave curtains on the room’s windows. Another contraction hit her. Then she felt a rush of fluid between her legs. She threw the covers back. During the night she’d rummaged through Sebastien’s dresser and found a flannel workshirt of his, which was now all that she wore. She pulled the front of it up and felt between her legs. When she couldn’t deny that her water had broken she cried out. Where was Sebastien?
All right, stay calm. Put on some clothes and go get in the car.
Yesterday she’d bought a blue-wool maternity jumper and a blouse. She pulled the jumper over Sebastien’s work shirt and shoved her feet into tennis shoes. With her overcoat around her shoulders, her purse clutched under one arm, and a washcloth stuffed inside her panties, she went out into the crisp morning.
When the next contraction came she said, “Yow, oh yow,” because that made it sound a lot funnier than it was. Then she staggered to the wooden fence that flanked both sides of the drive and hung onto it until her knees buckled. She sat down on the damp, cold grass beside the driveway and tried to breathe the way she’d been taught in birthing classes.
After the pain passed she pulled herself to her feet and walked back to the cottage. The contractions were now only five minutes apart.
She gathered towels and put them beside the bed, then found a bottle of rubbing alcohol and poured it into a glass. She lit the heater and opened the curtains to increase the light.
She put a kitchen knife into the glass and set it on the nightstand, so that she’d have something with which to cut the umbilical cords. She took the laces out of her tennis shoes and washed them, then laid them on a towel to dry. They were the only things she could think of that could be used to tie off the cords.
Finally she set a glass of orange juice and a hunk of cheese on the nightstand so that she’d have food to keep up her strength. Then she stripped off everything but Sebastien’s shirt and got into bed.
It was time to face the truth. She was going to have the babies before Sebastien got here. They might be too small and too weak. They could easily die from complications, and she might die as well. She was terrified that she was going to fulfill the de Savin curse.
“Sebastien, I need you,” she whispered. “I’ll fight as hard as I can. I won’t give up.” She bit into a folded towel as the next contraction came.
The rental car hurtled under the oaks of the cottage’s front yard and slid to a stop. The yard was bright with morning sun. Sebastien cut the motor and leapt out. Climbing the stone steps to the small veranda, he reached for the cottage door while pulling a key from the pocket of wrinkled, blue-gray trousers. When Rodriguez called he’d just stepped from the shower at two A.M. after spending half the night in L.A.’s comedy clubs, tracking down various friends of Amy’s, none of whom had known where she’d gone.
Miracle Page 46
