by Sharon Sala
“Don’t you think we should at least wait until daylight to run?”
The sarcasm in his voice angered Jade. She turned on him, her dark eyebrows knitting across her forehead.
“Did I say I was leaving right now? No! I don’t think so. But I’m by God going to be ready when daylight comes tomorrow.”
Raphael held out his hand, then threaded his fingers through hers, gentling her with a touch.
“Honey…I don’t think that woman poses any danger.”
Jade slumped onto his lap and then curled her arms around Raphael’s neck, resting her face against the curve of his neck.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. Don’t be mad at me, Rafie…. I can’t bear it when you’re mad.”
He rubbed his hand up and down the middle of her back as he rocked her where they sat.
“I’m not mad, baby…just worried. We can’t run forever.”
Jade lifted her head, her eyes wide with fear.
“Yes, we can, Rafie. We have to. I can’t go back to that life. I’d rather die.”
Raphael’s eyes filled with tears. His little Jade had grown up to be a magnificent woman, but inside she was still that frightened and tortured little girl.
“That’s not going to happen, honey. And you know why?”
Her voice was shaky as she leaned back to meet his gaze.
“Why?”
“Because you’re not that same helpless little girl. You’re not only a full-grown woman, you’re a survivor. If you have to, you could do anything…even take care of yourself.”
She shuddered, then hugged him again. “But I don’t have to, do I, Rafie? Not as long as I have you.”
Raphael sighed, then hugged her close. “Yes, you’re right, honey. Not as long as you have me. So where do you want to go?”
“We’ve never been to New Orleans. I’ve always wanted to see the French Quarter…maybe eat some crawfish and dance to some Cajun music. And it would be a perfect place to paint. What do you think?”
He tilted her chin up until they were looking eye to eye. “Wherever you go, I will follow.”
Jade stared back, seeing her own reflection in his pupils.
“Rafie?”
“What?”
“Do you ever feel like I’m in your way?”
He frowned. “What makes you say such a crazy thing?”
She shrugged. “You know…you’re so beautiful, and I see the way women stare at you. That woman today who was taking our pictures, even she mentioned your looks. Do you ever feel like pursuing a relationship with any of them?”
His face stilled; then she watched his eyes fill with what appeared to be great sadness and regret.
“No. Maybe it has something to do with what I went through as a kid. How about you? Do you ever feel anything when you see a good-looking man?”
She shivered. “Sometimes I wonder, but then I remember, and I put it out of my mind.”
“They aren’t all like that, you know. They don’t all want to hurt you.”
Jade’s lower lip trembled. “But how do you tell them apart? How would I separate a good man from the others?”
“I don’t know honey…but I think that you’d know it in here.” He put his hand over her heart. “It’s something called trust.”
“I trust you,” she said.
“And I trust you, but you’re like my sister. I could never think of you that way.”
Jade grimaced. “Me, either. I didn’t mean it that way. I only—”
He pinched her nose in a teasing fashion. “I know. I know. I was just teasing you.” Then he gave her a big hug. “Go take a shower and get ready for bed while I pack my stuff. That way we can get an early start tomorrow.”
“Okay,” she said, and jumped up from the bed. She opened the closet, got down on her knees, then pulled a small box from the depths.
“What’s that?” Raphael asked.
Once again she got that look on her face that reminded him of a helpless child. She clutched the box close to her chest, her voice trembling as she suddenly looked away.
“It’s the faces. I can’t forget them.”
He sighed. “Maybe you should.”
All the helplessness vanished from her persona as she angrily turned on him.
“Can you?” she asked.
He shrugged. “God knows I try.”
She lifted her chin, her eyes flashing with hate.
“I don’t! I won’t!” Then she took a deep breath and shoved the box in the bottom of her bag, her anger vanishing as swiftly as it had come. “I can’t,” she added, and walked into the bathroom.
As soon as she closed the door, he dropped his head in his hands, stifling the urge to scream.
God in heaven, help me get through this without coming undone.
When he heard the shower beginning to run, he stifled a sigh and pulled his suitcase from beneath the bed, took out the last of his pills and tossed them down his throat. Tomorrow they would be on the run. Again. Would this ever end?
At sixty, Sam Cochrane was still a striking man. He had a full head of steel-gray hair and a commanding presence that went well with the man he’d become. During the past twenty years, he’d become one of St. Louis’s leading citizens, amassing his wealth through wise investments and a successful law practice, although he’d retired from the court just last year. While he took pride in his accomplishments, he would have traded it all to have a second chance with the wife and daughter he’d lost. For ten years after they had disappeared, he’d spent every spare dime he could muster, hiring one private investigator after another to search for them, but with no success. Finally he’d given up the quest in hopes that one day Jade would come looking for him, which explained why, despite his wealth and status, he was still living in the same location. Not a day went by that he didn’t think of them, refusing to accept the notion that they could be dead. Then Paul and Shelly Hudson came back from California.
It was three o’clock on a Sunday afternoon when Sam Cochrane’s doorbell began to chime. Normally Velma Shaffer, the housekeeper who’d been with him for the past ten years, would have been on the job to answer the door, but her daughter had gone into labor on Friday, presenting Velma with her first grandchild, and Sam had given her the week off.
He hadn’t been expecting company and frowned at the interruption as he put down the book he’d been reading, marking his place with a piece of junk mail he had yet to discard, and started toward the front door. The library was some distance from the entryway, and by the time he got there, the chimes had rung another two times.
His frown deepened, but his disapproval quickly turned to delight when he saw Paul and Shelly on the doorstep.
“Hey, you two! Come in! Come in! I thought you were still in California.”
They hurried inside, carrying what appeared to be a large framed painting between them.
“What do you have there?” Sam asked.
Shelly bit her lower lip, searching for a way to explain.
“Just show him,” Paul said.
Shelly took a deep breath, slowly turning the painting around until it was facing Sam.
The smile on Sam’s face stilled as the breath caught in the back of his throat. His vision blurred. His hands started to shake.
“Oh God…oh God…where did you get it?”
“A street fair in San Francisco.”
“Was she there? Did you see her?”
“No, Sam, she wasn’t there.”
The brief moment of hope that he’d felt faded. But to see her face, after all these years, was staggering. He moved toward the painting, putting the palm of his hand against the face on the canvas, then tracing the shape of her eyebrows and the curve of her cheek.
“Maggie…my Maggie.”
Then he looked up. Shelly’s eyes were filled with tears.
His stomach dropped.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Paul reached for his friend, clasping a hand on Sam’s sh
oulder.
“Shelly was stunned when she saw it. She told the artist that she had known the subject years ago and told her that her name was Margaret Cochrane. The artist said it was a woman who called herself Ivy.”
Sam frowned. “Are you saying that this isn’t Margaret?”
“No, what I’m saying is exactly what Shelly was told.”
Sam looked at Shelly. “What else were you told?”
Shelly hesitated.
“Talk to me,” Sam said. “You can’t bring this to me now, not after all this time, and then not tell me everything you know.”
Shelly braced herself, hating to be the one to say the words that were going to hurt their friend.
“Sam, I’m sorry, but she also told us that the woman in the painting was dead.”
It wasn’t as if the thought had never gone through his mind, but hearing the words said aloud was like a knife through Sam’s heart.
“No,” he said, then looked back down at the painting and at the pensive smile on his young wife’s face. “Not dead. Please, God, not dead.”
“It’s what the artist told us.”
But Sam needed a lifeline. “What if he was lying? What if he just told you that to hide Margaret’s real location?” He looked at the painting, searching for a signature, but there was nothing but an odd colored smudge in the bottom right hand corner that looked like a fingerprint.
“The artist was a woman. She didn’t seem as if she was trying to hide anything. In fact, she seemed rather matter-of-fact about the subject.”
“I need to talk to her,” Sam said. “Did you get her name?”
Shelly’s shoulders slumped. “No. I’m sorry. I was so excited to see the painting…then they would only take cash, and my girlfriend and I were busy counting out the money we had between us. The artist walked away, leaving the man who was with her to collect our money.”
“Damn it,” Sam muttered. “I can’t leave it like this…not after all this time.”
Shelly looked at Sam, then started to cry.
“I don’t know why I thought this would be a good thing. All I’ve done is make you miserable. Can you ever forgive me?”
Suddenly Sam realized what he’d done. Shelly and Paul had brought him a gift beyond words, and instead of being grateful for the only clue he’d had to his wife’s disappearance in the past twenty years, he’d been thoughtless—even cruel. He swiped his palm across his face and then held out his hands.
“No. No, it’s I who should be asking your forgiveness. I’m sorry for reacting so badly, but this caught me by surprise.”
“It’s okay,” Shelly said. “We should have warned you instead of just showing up like this, but I was so excited and then—”
“And so am I,” Sam said, interrupting her before she could finish. “I’m also ashamed of my behavior.” He held out his arms. Shelly walked into his embrace as he gave her a hug. “Forgive me?”
“Of course,” she said. “And the painting is yours to do with as you choose.”
“Thank you,” Sam said.
He took the painting and set it down, hesitating briefly before turning its face to the wall. “Now come inside and tell me about your trip.”
The couple led the way into the living room, with Sam following behind. They didn’t see him stop and glance back into the hallway or see the wave of despair cross his face. It wasn’t until later, when they finally took their leave, that Sam was able to let go of the emotions he’d been trying to suppress. He took the painting into the library where he’d been reading, took down an original Wyeth that had been hanging over the sideboard and hung the painting of the woman named Ivy in its place.
His hands were shaking as he walked back across the room and sat down in the chair where he’d been reading earlier—before his carefully manufactured world had fallen apart. He picked up the book, removed the piece of junk mail that he’d used as a bookmark and then looked down at the page. The words were little more than a blur.
He inhaled slowly and then wiped his eyes, once again trying to resume reading where he’d left off. But the words on the page still all ran together, fading in a watery blur. He dropped the book onto the floor between his feet, then leaned back in the chair and stared across the room.
She smiled at him from beneath the arbor of ivy, her long blond hair falling over her shoulders and down across her breasts. Her feet were bare; their painted pink toenails a bright contrast to the yellow fabric of her long gypsy dress. There was a chain of daisies woven through her hair and another dangling from one hand. She looked young and happy and seemingly oblivious to the fact that she’d destroyed his world and stolen his child. Facing her this way—now, after all this time—made him so very, very sad and so very, very angry.
“So they tell me you’re dead. Are you, Margaret…or Ivy…or whatever the hell you called yourself? Are you dead?” He shuddered, as if the words were bitter on his tongue. “So be it, my love. One day I will join you. Then maybe you can explain what the hell you were thinking when you did what you did.”
Margaret’s expression didn’t change. Her smile didn’t waver. Her eyes didn’t blink. The complacency of the woman in the painting began to get under Sam’s skin. How could she smile like that when she’d destroyed him? And there was Jade. His sweet little baby girl. If she was still alive, she was no longer a child.
He got up from where he was sitting and walked toward the painting with purpose in his step, stopping only a few feet from where he’d hung the picture to gaze into her face.
“Where is she?” he muttered. “What did you do with Jade?”
But there had never been answers in Margaret Cochrane, only questions, and asking them now was redundant.
He leaned closer, staring at the right-hand corner near the frame. That smudge he’d noticed earlier was still there, and the longer he looked, the more convinced he became that it was a fingerprint. If so, maybe it would lead to the artist and to the answers he so desperately needed. It was then that he thought of Lucas Kelly. If anyone could make sense of this, it would be Luke. He reached for the phone, then remembered Luke was out of town until tomorrow. Still, he could leave a message. He made the call, unaware that his voice was shaking. Once he was through, he looked up at the painting one last time, then headed for the hall. As he reached the doorway, he flipped off the lights, leaving the picture of his wife just as she’d left him all those years ago—in the dark and without a backward glance.
Luke Kelly walked into his apartment after five days on the road, set down his suitcase and then punched the play button on his answering machine as he sorted through his mail. The last call was from Sam Cochrane.
He smiled when he heard Sam’s voice. He had known him for more than ten years and considered Sam one of his best friends. But the more he heard, the more he realized that he had never heard Sam this shaken.
Without hesitation, he dialed Sam’s number. Sam answered on the first ring.
“I’m home. What’s wrong?”
Sam exhaled slowly. Just hearing Luke’s voice was settling.
“How soon can you come over? I need to talk to you.”
“I’m on my way,” Luke said, and hung up in Sam’s ear.
He didn’t bother to change or unpack, and ignored the fact that he needed a shave. Not once in the eleven years he’d known Sam had he ever asked for a favor. That he was doing it now was indicative of how important this must be. He reached for his car keys, shoved a hand through his hair in lieu of a comb and headed back out the door.
Twenty minutes later he was pulling into Sam’s driveway. Sam met him at the door.
“Where’s Velma?” he asked, as Sam let him in.
“Her daughter had a baby. I gave her the week off.”
Luke tried a smile. “I’m assuming that’s not why you called.”
Sam shook his head. “No, it’s not.” Then he eyed Luke’s appearance. “You look like hell.”
Luke grinned. “Why, thank you, Sam
.”
Finally Sam managed a chuckle. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve never seen St. Louis’s most eligible bachelor looking so…casual.”
“Five days on the road chasing bad guys.”
“Did you find them?” Sam asked.
Luke nodded.
“Good, then you’re hired.”
Luke’s eyes widened. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“More than you can know. Come with me,” Sam said, and led the way to the library. Once inside, he turned and pointed to the picture he’d hung last night.
“Hey, what happened to the Wyeth?” Luke asked. “Did someone steal it?”
“No. For the time being, it’s in storage.”
“Then what’s with this? It’s good. In fact, it’s really good. Who’s the artist?”
“I don’t know, but I need you to find her for me.”
“Why?”
Sam took a deep breath and then turned to face the painting. “Because that’s a painting of my wife, Margaret. She’s been missing for more than twenty years, and it’s the first sign of her I’ve had since it happened.”
Luke was stunned. He’d known of the incident and how deeply Sam had been affected. More than once he’d heard Sam speak of the little girl, Jade, who’d been so dear to his heart, but he’d rarely heard Sam speak of his wife. Now, from the expression on Sam’s face, he could only assume that one reason Sam had been quiet about Margaret was that the incident was too painful.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
“Paul and Shelly found it at a street fair in San Francisco last week.”
“My God…what are the odds?” Luke muttered; then he leaned forward, looking for a name on the painting, and saw nothing but a faint image of a fingerprint stamped in red on the grass beneath the woman’s bare feet.
“There’s no name on the painting,” he said.
“Yes, I know, and unfortunately, Shelly didn’t get the artist’s name when she was buying this. That’s where you come in. Will you help?”
“Of course,” Luke said. “I’ll need to talk to Paul and Shelly before I go any further. They might remember something on questioning.”
Sam hesitated, then shoved his hands into his pockets and strode to the window on the other side of the room.
