When I Found You (A Box Set)

by Webb, Peggy

  “I see a house, one large enough for at least a dozen people. I see a basketball court and a swimming pool surrounded by a running track. I see flower gardens and pets and a kind older couple with enough love in their hearts to spare for battered and abused kids.” He paused, smiling down at her. “I see a place called Safe Haven.”

  He grabbed her hand and raced back toward their house. Inside, he pulled a blueprint out of his back pocket and spread it across the coffee table. Safe Haven was printed in large blue letters at the top, and beneath was the architect’s concept of a spacious home that would shelter the children society forgot, teenagers in trouble at home, children whose parents had no jobs and no way to care for them, children battered and bruised with no place to go.

  “Just think,” Bolton said. “We can see those kids two or three times a week, teach them to play ball, to fish, to read good books, to care for the environment, to love and appreciate nature. What do you think, Virginia?”

  She cupped his face, pulled him close, and kissed him.

  “I think the same thing I thought when I first met you. You are remarkable, and I am the luckiest person in the world.”

  “The same right back at you, Mrs. Gray Wolf.”

  -The End-

  From A Distance

  Peggy Webb

  Author’s Note to the Reader

  When I first started writing this novel, Rwanda in the Virungas was a beautiful country at peace. About midway through the book, hell and all its demons descended on Central Africa. Each day as I sat at my computer describing the primeval beauty of the rain forest, I wept for a people without hope and a place that was no more. It is my prayer that by the time you read this, the Virungas in Central Africa will once again be the Virungas in From a Distance.

  Prologue

  NAIROBI, 1995

  He remembered the smell of the flame flower wet with dew and the song of birds awakening before the first pink light spread across the east beyond the Virungas. The glowing malevolent eye of the volcanic mountains was with him, and the wispy shade of acacias on smooth stone. Water cascaded through gorges of mythological proportion, its thunder sweeping through his mind and leaving him naked and filled with yearnings that had no name.

  The memories were more real to Brett than was his brother, who lay dying. Propped in the doorway of the narrow hospital room in Nairobi, he watched the form on the stark-white bed. Death was close. He could feel it in the stillness that hovered in the room and see it in the faces of his mother and his sister-in-law.

  Ruth bent over her husband, one hand holding his in a white-fingered grip and the other tenderly smoothing his blood-matted hair back from his forehead.

  “Hang on, Malone,” she whispered. “You’re going to make it.”

  “Ruth ...” The voice coming from the battered lips was a mere croak; the face that the knife had laid open, a grotesque mask. “Don’t leave me ... Ruth.”

  “Never, my darling. Never!”

  The effort of speaking was too much, and Malone closed his eyes. Ruth pressed her chest across his and held herself rigid, as if she could keep him earthbound with the force of her will.

  Brett stood apart, his hands balled so tightly, the blunt fingernails cut into his palms. A faint light shaded the windowpane with pink and gold and fell across the white sheets in a muted rainbow. Morning had no business shining on death.

  Brett strode to the window to close the shade.

  “No. I want the light.” Malone opened his eyes and looked at his brother. “Brett ...”

  “Go to him,” Eleanor pleaded. Pain and tears had ravaged his mother’s face. She left her vigil by the side of the bed and clutched Brett’s arm. “For God’s sake, Brett, go to your brother.”

  “I’ll race you, Brett. Last one in is a rotten egg.”

  “If you’ll just let me have the car, Brett, I promise I’ll pull your kitchen duty for a month.”

  “Please, Brett ... No one else can do this but you.”

  Heavy with memories, Brett approached his brother’s bed. Ruth’s perfume, sweeter than the ginger that sprang up waxy and white from the jungle floor, stole over him like a forbidden embrace.

  “I’m ... dying.”

  Brett didn’t contradict his brother, didn’t dare add one last lie to the many that separated them.

  “Promise ...” Malone’s breath came in labored spurts now. With a mighty effort he fixed his brother with a fierce blue stare. “Take care of Ruth.”

  Ruth. The woman Brett hated. The woman he loved.

  “I promise.”

  It was a promise that would plunge him into the very bowels of hell.

  Book One

  Chapter 1

  OXFORD, MISSISSIPPI, 1982

  Margaret Anne Bellafontaine’s carefully created fantasy world was about to come to an end. She sensed it in the stiff posture of the man sitting in the chair, in the narrow line of his lips, and the lowering of his thick black eyebrows.

  “Your expenses have run unusually high this month, Margaret Anne.”

  “You’ve never complained before, Max.”

  “I’ve been too lenient with you.”

  She poured tea into two china cups in a manner worthy of a highborn Southern lady. Her hand was steady as she passed a cup to him. He accepted with a nod of his head and a slight smile.

  Max had always admired her manners.

  Maybe things weren’t as bad as she thought. She’d managed Max all these years. If she played her cards right, perhaps she could manage him one more time.

  “Your generosity has always been a part of your charm,” she said.

  It was not true, of course. Maxwell Jones was generous only with his dowdy, petulant wife and with the minions who peopled his entertainment empire. They thought of him as some sort of a god.

  With his mistress he was a tyrant, demanding full measure for his money.

  Margaret Anne thought of him as her security, and she did everything in her power to please him, though it was not easy.

  She had dressed painstakingly for his visit, for the one thing he did care about was appearances. She knew she looked perfect, her auburn hair waved loosely around her face, her makeup subtle, her dress demure.

  Max liked her that way, elegant in public, a hoyden in private.

  “You always did lie well, Margaret Anne.”

  “I’ve had years of practice.”

  Max set his teacup on the Victorian marble-topped table and got up to stand beside the window.

  “How’s Ruth?”

  “Like any thirteen-year-old. Gawky, stubborn, and headstrong.”

  “She’s growing up.”

  “Yes.”

  “She’ll be needing many things.”

  “I’m willing to sacrifice.”

  “Are you?”

  There was more than mere curiosity in his voice: There was something else, a cold calculating tone that made the hairs on the back of Margaret Anne’s neck stand on end.

  “Of course,” she said. “A mother will do anything for her daughter.”

  “Will a daughter do anything for her mother?”

  Too anxious to remain seated, Margaret Anne stood up, smoothed her silk dress over her slim hips, and walked to the piano. She played well. It was one of the many skills she considered necessary for her survival.

  She sat on the polished bench and ran her hands lightly over the keys.

  “Mozart.” Max strode toward the piano and caught her shoulders. “Music won’t soothe this savage beast today.”

  Margaret Anne reached for the top button of her dress. Using the slow, languorous movements he loved so well, she unfastened her dress and let it slide from her shoulders.

  “We’ll have to make it quick,” she said. “Ruth will be home from school soon.”

  Max never took his eyes off her as he lit his pipe. Margaret Anne stood still for his inspection. She knew she looked good. At forty-four she was almost as firm as a twenty-five-year-old.


  He blew a smoke ring in the air, then watched her through the blue haze. Margaret Anne’s nerve endings began to scream. They had ten minutes, fifteen at most before Ruth would be home.

  What was Max waiting for? She’d have made the first move herself if she hadn’t known it would make him angry.

  “You never answered my question, Margaret Anne.”

  “Which question?”

  “Will a daughter do anything for her mother?”

  Real alarm skittered through her. Forcing herself to smile, she unhooked her bra.

  “This is a silly time for twenty questions.”

  “I’ll answer for you.” Max stooped to pick up her dress. As he slid it back onto her shoulders, he gave her body the impersonal perusal a butcher might give a side of beef. “I think she will. I think Ruth will do anything you tell her to do.”

  Margaret Anne clutched the dress to her breasts, and Max walked around behind her and buttoned it. She felt cold all over, but she wouldn’t dare show any weakness by shivering.

  The smell of Max’s pipe tobacco almost overwhelmed her. When he had finished with her dress, Max sat down once more.

  “How long have I supported you, Margaret Anne?”

  “Nearly eleven years.”

  “And how long do you expect me to?”

  “As long as I can please you ... and, Max, I plan to please you for the rest of your life.”

  “That’s good to hear. Do you have any idea what it will take to please me today?”

  “Name it, Max.”

  “Your daughter.”

  Anger flushed her cheeks and burned her body. She wanted to claw the smug, self-satisfied smile off his face. But she understood the art of deceit.

  “Max, I’ll do anything you ask, but my daughter’s not for sale.”

  “Come, Margaret Anne. You do me an injustice. Did I say anything about buying your daughter? This is the twentieth century.”

  “I’m sorry, Max. I misunderstood.”

  “Of course you did, my dear.” He tamped out his pipe in the ashtray. “I don’t plan to buy Ruth, I plan to take her on a little trip.”

  “She doesn’t like to travel.”

  “Margaret Anne, you still don’t understand, do you?”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “This is not a request; it’s a condition. I’ll support you in the lifestyle to which you’ve become accustomed as well as ensure Ruth’s college education in exchange for a two-week holiday with your daughter.”

  Margaret Anne had never openly defied Maxwell Jones. She picked up her china cup, not because she wanted to drink the cold tea, but because she wanted something to hold on to so he wouldn’t see how her hands shook.

  “No deal, Max.”

  “Pardon me?”

  It pleased her that she had the power to shock him. She smiled at him over her teacup.

  “I said no. I won’t let my daughter participate in your ‘holiday.’”

  The look of disbelief faded from his face, and he reached for his own teacup. They faced each other across the room like two aging gladiators.

  “Ruth will be fourteen soon,” he said.

  Margaret Anne knew perfectly well how old her own daughter was. Max was baiting her, but she refused to bite. Instead, she smoothed down her skirt and sipped her tea—proof positive that in all the ways that counted, she was a real Southern lady.

  Max waited for her response, his eyes boring into her. She refused to back down, refused to look away. She felt the sweat form between her thighs and trickle down her legs. Thank God it wasn’t on her face. Sweating was not only unladylike, it was a sign of fear. She couldn’t afford to show Max that she was afraid.

  The silence was so thick, it had a smell—the smell of doubt and betrayal. Margaret Anne shut her mind to everything except winning this deadly mind game with Max.

  “I’m willing to pay a fortune for what some randy young buck will soon take for free, and you’re turning my offer down?”

  “You heard me the first time, Max. The answer is no.”

  He was still for so long that for a moment she dared to hope that she had won. But then he smiled. Chills went down her spine.

  “You’re not young anymore, Margaret Anne.”

  She told herself the same thing every morning when she inspected herself in the mirror to see what damage one more day had wrought. Her hand tightened on her teacup.

  “I had men before you, Max; I’ll have men after you.”

  “What’s the going price for faded whores?”

  She felt the sweat on her face, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her wipe it off.

  “How many more years do you think you’ll have in your noble profession, Margaret Anne? Two? Three? You’ll want a supply of pink lightbulbs. And, of course, you’ll have to be careful not to make love when the sun is shining. Hard to camouflage all those bags and sags in broad daylight.”

  “Damn you!”

  “I thought real ladies never cussed. Isn’t that what you are, Margaret Anne Bellafontaine? A genuine, highborn, blue-blooded, dyed-in-the-wool lady?”

  Her hands shook so badly, she had to set down her cup or risk spilling tea all over her dress. She hadn’t meant to lose control. It could be a fatal mistake with Maxwell Jones.

  Smiling that demon’s smile, he set his teacup on the table.

  “You could get lucky, a woman like you with a wealthy family. Maybe they’ll take you in.” She endured his cruel laughter with a straight face. “Or maybe you’ll want to run to some of your high-society friends for a little loan to tide you over during the hard times. Rich folks are usually quite magnanimous. Of course, charity does wear thin after a year or two.”

  He knew her too well. One by one he was tearing down all possible avenues of escape—if there ever had been any in the first place.

  Still, she clung to hope, however faint, that she could make him back down.

  “Go to hell, Maxwell Jones.”

  The laughter ceased, and in its place was the flat, deadly calm of a cobra before it strikes. He set his teacup on the table beside his chair and started toward her. With slow deliberation he cupped her face, forcing her to look up at him.

  “What do you suppose the job market is like for a woman with no education and no real job skills, Margaret Anne? You think you can learn to be a short-order cook at some greasy spoon? A checkout clerk at Wal-Mart?”

  Inch by painful inch he forced her face upward. Any minute she expected to hear the bones in her neck crack. Out of the corner of her eye she could see her Waterford-crystal vase filled with roses, and the jade figurine on her mantelpiece. Real jade. Not cheap imitation.

  Without Max’s support she wouldn’t be able to afford a roof over their heads, let alone crystal and jade. She remembered how it had been before Max. A dirty walk-up tenement, hamburger stretched out with flour and oatmeal ... if she was lucky.

  And their clothes. Without Max there would be no more browsing through high-class boutiques for the latest fashions. She and Ruth would be reduced to carport-sale junk and hand-me-downs from the town’s high society. Ruth might as well have the label “poor white trash” tattooed on her forehead.

  Forget college. By the time Ruth reached college age, all her spirit and ambition would be gone, beaten down by poverty.

  Max eased her neck up another fraction.

  “Of course, it’s doubtful anybody in the South will hire you after they learn the truth.” His voice was silky, soft. “What will you tell your daughter when her friends shun her on the streets, Margaret Anne?”

  Any minute her daughter would come through the door, her beautiful daughter with the high cheekbones and olive skin, her spirited daughter with the sparkling dark eyes and the long, free-wheeling stride.

  With one word Max could ruin her, ruin them both.

  Margaret Anne was a practical woman; she understood what it took to survive. She didn’t waste time on regrets; she looked him straight in the eye. />
  “When shall I tell her you’re leaving?”

  Chapter 2

  NEW ORLEANS, 1982

  The house looked like a fairy-tale castle. Maybe it would make up for all the things she was missing back home.

  Though she loved Uncle Max practically as much as she would love a father, Ruth hadn’t wanted to come. She’d wanted to stay home and hang out with Wanda Kellerman. Wanda’s cat was going to have kittens, and she didn’t want to miss it.

  When she’d argued with her mother about it, Margaret Anne had gently chided her.

  “After all he’s done for you, Ruth?”

  Her mother didn’t have to tell her she was being selfish for her to know it. Uncle Max had been there for her when she’d sung in her first recital, when she’d had pneumonia, and even when she’d fallen off her bicycle and had fractured her wrist. Not to mention that he had given her her one and only beloved dog, and then had flown all the way from Hollywood for the funeral in her backyard when it had died of cancer the previous year.

  He’d even gone with her to a father-daughter camp for Brownie Scouts.

  She never would forget it. She’d been seven years old and crying her eyes out because all her friends had daddies to go camping with them.

  Her mother had said she’d go, and Ruth had wailed even louder.

  “You don’t have a daddy, and there’s nothing I can do about it, Ruth. Now, dry your eyes like a good girl, and I’ll help you pack. Wanda’s daddy has already said he’d be happy to have two little daughters to watch out for.”

  “I want my own daddy.”

  Margaret Anne walked to the phone and dialed.

  “Max, Ruth needs a temporary daddy for the Brownie Scout campout this weekend. Can you come?”

  Just like that, she’d said it, and Uncle Max had flown out in his private plane.

  Ruth studied the man sitting behind the wheel. Her mother had said he was lonely. She guessed he was, not having any children of his own. Maybe that’s why he came to Mississippi so much.

  She was being selfish as a pig not wanting to come, after all the nice things he’d done for her and her mother. Anyhow, it was only for two weeks. When she got back home, she would tell her mother how sorry she was she’d put up such a fuss. Especially since Margaret Anne didn’t get to come.