by Cameron West
“That really wasn’t you in Milan, was it?” I said.
“Nope.”
“Or up in the woods?”
“Sure I was in the woods. That’s where my cabin is.”
I thought back to when we lay next to each other in the hospital the morning after the fire. I hadn’t mentioned Mendocino when I’d asked if he’d been in the woods.
“Archie,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“No one could replace my father.”
“I know that.”
“But I could use a big brother.”
His eyes got watery. Mine, too.
Ginny joined us. She thanked him for taking her in when he did, and kissed him on his ear—the only place, he said, that didn’t hurt. I kissed him on his other ear and he cracked a smile that filled the whole room. He held up the book he’d been reading:Leonardo,by Robert Payne.
I told him about the present I’d left buried for him behind the tree. He said he liked presents.
It was four in the morning when Ginny and I pulled down the driveway to the Hollister House. We rang the buzzer at the main building and a light switched on. When the door eventually opened, Pop wasstanding there in a robe and sleeping cap. He rubbed his eyes and peered at us for a moment, his perfect false teeth gleaming in the hall light.“By jingo, it’s Holmes and Watson,” he said. “Come on in, you two.”
We hobbled in like a couple of Yodas. He sat us down on the couch and stared at us, like we’d appeared out of a lamp he’d rubbed. We stared back, vibrating from the trip, soaking in the sight of him and the sweet stillness of the night.
Pop left the room, reappearing in a couple of minutes carrying a round wooden tray which held four stoneware mugs, drifting trails of tangerine-scented tea steam. As he handed us each a cup and took one for himself, Mona stepped into the room in a long blue robe and slippers, her face wrinkled from sleep. She didn’t say a word, just sat on the edge of Pop’s chair.
Pop pushed his hat back. “So . . .”
Even though it was damn late or damn early, it was time to tell the tale. Ginny and I pieced the whole thing together, for them and for each other. Pop and Mona listened eagerly, his old head cocked to one side, her hair draping loosely down her lapels. Pop exploded more than once with “What happened next?” and “By jingo.”
Chirping birds were ushering in the dawn as we finished.
I withdrew the Medici Dagger and presented it to Pop. He cradled it in the palms of his hands, hunching over, gazing at the spectacle. He passed it to Mona, who held it up to the light, turning it till it glinted magnificently.
The four of us basked silently in the beauty of Leonardo’s creation. When Mona returned the Dagger to me, the heat from her hands lingered in the mysterious alloy.
“What are you gonna do with it, Reb?” Pop said.
I found myself enveloped in sadness—sublime sadness. It was the blanket I’d been wrapped in since that tragic night in the summer of ’80—the cover that had simultaneously provided me warmth and kept me cold as a tomb.
Ginny reached over and touched my knee, and that blanket fell away. I didn’t need it anymore.
“The Dagger belongs in the National Gallery,” I said softly, “with the Circles of Truth.”
We sat for several fragile minutes, grasping our cups, breathing in the grandeur and tragedy—the strange symmetry of circumstances that had brought us together.
I nabbed a quick look at Ginny. She caught me and hooked me, and held me in her stare. Then she took my face in her hands and kissed me deeply, shamelessly, a low feral sound emanating from her throat. It was a ground-stomping, wall-pounding, whinny-if-you-can, fog-up-every-window-in-the-world kiss.
Most of me turned to warm taffy as Pop began to whistle “A Kiss to Build a Dream On.” I opened an eye and saw that he and Mona were holding hands.
Finally, Pop announced, “Well, if you’re looking for Same Time and Next Year you can have ’em—except Same Time’s not altogether patched up yet.”
With her lips still touching mine, Ginny said breathlessly, “Next Year will be just fine.”
I gave my earlobe a little tug.
“By jingo,” Pop chortled. “I believe you’re right.”
acknowledgments
Many thanks to Laurie Fox of the Linda Chester Literary Agency for her tremendous agenting and contributions to the book. Thanks to my editor, Mitchell Ivers, and the staff at Pocket Books, and to Sally Willcox and Laurie Horowitz at Creative Artists Agency. Thanks to Linda Michaels, my foreign rights agent.Special thanks to Paula Wagner and Tom Cruise for sharing the vision of Tom as the perfect Reb. Thanks also to Gaye Hirsch at Cruise/ Wagner Productions. Thanks to Marsha Williams for her enthusiasm and support of this book.
Thanks to Seamus Slattery, my partner, my best friend, a creative genius. It is my great fortune to be able to collaborate with you. Thanks to Jane Slattery, a true friend, and to Mike and Katie Slattery for their patience and support.
To my wonderful wife, Rikki, I thank you for the gift of your love, your fine ideas—including the name for the Circles of Truth—for your excellent editing, and for your unsurpassed culinary touch.
To my beloved son, Ki, I am delighted by your musicality with so many instruments and awed by your writing talent. I am so grateful to be able to watch you grow into such a fine human being.
Last, thank you to all my guys. Without you, I would not have survived. I especially thank Clay and Wyatt for allowing me to use some of their really cool phrases in this book.
There is comfort in the comfort room.
s/head>
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Acknowledgments
