“Well!” She sounded pleased. “An assignation?”
“Don’t be foolish, Hallie. You knew I was meeting Alex here. Alex, we’ll talk another time, but do think about what I’ve said. I’ll leave Hallie to you.” He went through the door past his sister and out of the church, moving hastily, as though eager to be away.
“Now what was that all about?” Hallie asked.
“You’d better ask your brother. He told me that meeting me here was your idea.”
“It was.”
Alex was silent, waiting for Hallie to continue or leave. Not that she’d ever been one to take a hint—and she didn’t now.
“Susan was such a darling little girl. I can’t wait to see her again. It was sad that she had to leave under such unhappy circumstances.”
“Let’s give her time to catch her breath, shall we, Hallie? She’ll be tired after a long trip.”
“Of course. Well—I’ll get back to work, though it’s been a slow day. I just wanted to look in on you two since I knew you were here. I’ll see you later on, after Susan has arrived.” She went clattering away over the flagstones, and it was a relief to have them both gone, though Alex felt more bewildered and anxious than ever. The last thing she wanted Susan’s coming to do was to dredge up the past. At the time, the horror of what had happened to Dolores seemed to cause a loss of memory on Susan’s part. She had been unable to tell anyone what had happened, and questions had sent her into bursts of hysteria. Alex could only hope that nothing of that experience had remained with her over the years.
Remembering where she was, Alex wondered if some help might come to her in these surroundings. She looked up into the vast, vaulted spaces overhead. There were no cross beams, nothing to interfere with that airy expanse. Space soared thirty feet above her head, with the roof rising another ten feet higher. Light glowed through three oxeye windows set in deep eaves, while high, arched windows along the outside walls added more formal lighting. The effect was softly subdued and quieting to her troubled spirit.
Somehow she must find the courage to deal with all the concerns that Susan’s arrival would bring into her life. But for now, Susan was on her way, and Alex wanted to be home when her granddaughter arrived.
Outside, in the warmth of the afternoon, she followed the walk to her car, passing ancient gravestones where other members of the Carter family were buried. She must not allow Gilbert’s silly notions to worry her. He was, after all, what he had always been—a frustrated actor. Unsuccessful on the stage, he had turned to a second profession—teaching early American history at a small local college. He had used his acting ability to dramatize his subjects, and his classes had been enormously popular. He had managed to teach even his more unmotivated students to appreciate history. Now that he had retired, he claimed to be working on a definitive history of Christ Church, though no one had seen any pages of his manuscript as yet.
To everyone’s further astonishment he had purchased an old mansion on the Rappahannock River and turned it into an inn he called The Mulberry Tree. It had recently received several stars in a highly regarded guide. An innkeeper could benefit from being an actor too.
Ironically his son Eric also wanted to go on the stage, and Gilbert was opposing him at every turn, perhaps because he knew the hardships so well. As usual, Eric had his Aunt Hallie’s support—which must have added to Gilbert’s displeasure.
Back in her car, Alex drove to Kilmarnock and turned east toward home. The Northern Neck of Virginia—a peninsula that lay between the Rappahannock and the Potomac rivers, with its toe in the Chesapeake—had offered a safe haven to Juan Gabriel when they had fled from Peru. Because of its position between two rivers, the Northern Neck was almost an island, and had been isolated from the rest of the state. Even when bridges were built, things didn’t change a great deal.
Along the road loblolly pines thinned occasionally to make room for fields of soy beans or healthy stands of high corn. Away from Kilmarnock a side road led to Sawmill Creek and the house Juan Gabriel had bought for them when they’d first arrived in what was to be their adopted country. Virginia’s history and pleasant climate had interested him, so they had come here. Having lived in Virginia most of her life, Alex took pride in being an American, and had managed to rid herself of all but a trace of her Spanish accent.
The ragged coastline of the peninsula was etched with dozens of Tidewater creeks, and it was at the head of one of these that Juan Gabriel found the house he wanted. Victorian architecture had fascinated him, and since there were many such houses, he had bided his time and found just the gem he had hoped to acquire.
The move away from Peru and the danger that country held for him had been good for Juan Gabriel’s writing. Already a distinguished novelist whose books were read in translation everywhere, he had found new perspectives in the United States and his creativity had thrived.
Alex had loved each and every one of his books, except The Black Swan, which had left her troubled and unhappy—though she’d assured herself that it was only fiction.
He had continued to write until he had his stroke. After that there had been nothing. He hadn’t wanted to live as he was. She knew that, so she quickly dismissed Gilbert’s implications. She mustn’t think about his words. She was eager now to be home.
When she turned into her driveway, George Dixon came around the house to open the car door and help her out. George and his wife, Gracie, had been with her almost since the Montoros’ arrival, and both were dependable friends. George was part Indian and not as dark as Gracie. Almost all the Indians were gone from the Northern Neck, but here and there one saw the high cheekbones and long noses that signified Indian blood.
George conveyed his news quickly. “Your granddaughter phoned, Miss Alex, and Miss Theresa took the call. She’ll tell you.”
Alex thanked him, and when he’d taken the car around to the garage she stood for a moment on the front walk looking up at the house. Fanciful nineteenth-century whims prevailed, with gables, a flat, cupola-topped tower, peaked roofs at different levels—all impractical and delightful. These days, Alex seldom climbed the stairs to the upper floors. A comfortable suite had been arranged for her on the first floor and she lived in it happily.
When she and Juan Gabriel had bought the house, it had been painted yellow, but she much preferred the present white with gray trim. Soft gray roofs blended with white clapboard and white veranda railings. Here people said “porch,” but Alex loved the word “veranda,” and felt that it better suited the generous expanse that embraced the front of the house and curved back for a distance on either side.
To the right of the white wooden steps a flamboyant blooming of crape myrtle pleased her with its startling pink. Green shrubbery, carefully trimmed by George, grew beneath the veranda rail, and had been kept just as Juan Gabriel would have wished. Behind the house a wide lawn sloped to the water. Only a few well-spaced houses occupied this street. Alex enjoyed living on the outskirts of a village that was so tiny it didn’t appear on most maps.
She looked up at the tower with its narrow encircling balcony, and found that its eccentricity still delighted her. She planned to put Susan in the tower room, and she hoped it would please her. All those many years ago, Susan had carried her dolls up there to look out windows that must have seemed majestically high to an imaginative child.
The thought of Lawrence disturbed Alex all over again. The fact that he had died recently didn’t lessen the pain of the harm he had done. She planned to be cautious around Susan, since she had no idea how close her granddaughter might have been to her father, or what lies about her grandmother he might have fed her. At least Susan had wanted to come, and it was she who had written the first recent letter.
Alex’s examination of the house was only a delaying tactic, a postponement of what lay ahead. Right now she felt too weary to deal with the events of the rest of the day, yet none of t
hem could be avoided.
When the screen door opened and her niece Theresa Montero came to the head of the steps, Alex stiffened. She knew she ought to feel grateful to have Theresa in her life. For years the young woman had dealt capably with whatever crises arose, and had managed all the business connected with Juan Gabriel’s books. She had come to live with them as a little girl, when her father, Juan Gabriel’s nephew, had died a political prisoner back in Peru, and her mother succumbed to a long illness soon after.
Theresa had been twelve when Susan was taken to New Mexico by her father, and Alex knew instinctively that she didn’t welcome the idea of Susan’s return.
Theresa waited on the veranda, unsmiling, though that meant little, since she seldom smiled. She was a stunningly beautiful woman, with huge dark eyes—eyes that looked out at the world with habitual distrust from under thick brows. She wore her heavy black hair wrapped around her head in a high coiffure. The only lively thing about her was the long amethyst earrings she always wore, which danced when she moved her head. She could be animated enough when she was angry, but fortunately her temper was usually under control.
Theresa wore a smock the color of crape myrtle blossoms over slim black trousers. As usual, a splash of paint streaked the smock—today it was aquamarine. Theresa was a gifted painter, but at present her choice of eggs as a medium seemed strange to Alex. She had chosen to paint dozens and dozens of intricately detailed eggs in the “Russian” style.
“You didn’t tell me where you were going, Alex,” Theresa said. A statement of fact, rather than a reproach.
Nevertheless, it made Alex testy. “I needed to get away. And I haven’t been gone long.” Her meeting with Gilbert Townsend was none of Theresa’s affair.
“Susan Prentice called,” Theresa continued, her disapproval clear.
“Yes—George told me. When will she arrive?”
“Peter should be meeting her at the library soon. You needn’t have taken his time. I could have gone.”
Alex didn’t answer. She hadn’t wanted Theresa to be the first person Susan met when she arrived. Peter Macklin was a few years older than Susan and they had played together as children. Peter was Alex’s most trusted friend, as well as her doctor, and he had been quick to offer this small service, since Alex preferred to meet her granddaughter on home ground. Susan had written that she was a nurse, so Alex felt they would have something in common.
Alex climbed the steps with the aid of the railing, wishing that Theresa weren’t there watching her slow movements.
“Susan may arrive at any minute, so I’ll go and change,” she said.
“Don’t hurry,” Theresa said with a slow smile, “I’ll be here to meet her.”
“I will meet my granddaughter,” she said, and Theresa shrugged.
In her own big, pleasant room, which was comfortable in spite of the August heat, she bathed her face in cool water, and then regarded herself in a long mirror. Her white jacket and trousers hadn’t wilted too much: they would do. Her courage began to return as she studied her reflection. The woman in the glass looked confident. If any weakness or vulnerability hid behind her façade, no one ever need guess. This woman could deal with whatever was to come. Sometimes it was an advantage to be intimidating.
She touched soft rose lipstick to her mouth, and renewed the black of her long eyelashes. Not too much eye shadow. She didn’t care for the pale faces of older women, but she didn’t want to look made up either. “Drina” had been lost long ago, but she still had herself—Alexandrina Vargas Montoro—a woman to reckon with. And she still possessed that mysterious quality that had drawn audiences to their feet when she was young. Rudy Folkes, who had discovered her, taught her, loved her, had once said, “It’s not only that you are a great dancer—it’s the magic you bring to a stage that is endlessly fascinating.” Well, she mused, some men had found her fascinating even when she no longer danced.
She lifted the crystal stopper from a bottle of perfume and touched it behind her ears, and at her throat and wrists. The scent had been her “signature” for more years than she cared to recall and it brought back memories she couldn’t afford to think about now.
She went out to what Juan Gabriel had called the drawing room, or sometimes the sala—though neither term seemed suitable here in the States. As she sat in her favorite chair—a tapestried wingback, from which she could look out the front windows toward the street—she was glad that Theresa was nowhere in sight. She wanted to be alone when Susan arrived.
2
In the library in Kilmarnock the volunteer at the front desk had been watching for Susan. When the young woman introduced herself, the older woman held out a friendly hand, regarding Alex Montoro’s granddaughter with open interest. Susan’s grave expression made her resemble her grandmother, though she seemed far more apprehensive than Alex ever did. Her brown hair had been trimmed into a smooth cap, and her dark eyes were wide and serious. She looked tired, which was natural, but when she smiled her face was warm and attractive. Alex must have been more beautiful when young, but her granddaughter’s prettiness had a disarming appeal.
“My grandmother wrote that someone would meet me here in the library,” Susan began.
“Yes, of course. It’s Dr. Macklin you’re expected to meet. He phoned to say it may be another half hour before he gets here. Would you like to call your grandmother?”
Susan nodded, all her uncertainties about this trip rising in a wave of new anxiety. She had yet to speak directly with her grandmother; they had only exchanged letters. Now, however, the inevitable seemed upon her. She picked up the receiver and dialed. Theresa Montoro answered, and that was even more disturbing to Susan. She hadn’t thought of Theresa in years, and a vague, unsettling memory returned of someone who had enjoyed teasing her in an unkind way—someone she had disliked and feared. Susan sensed that Theresa felt as uncomfortable as she did. Their exchange was brief. Her grandmother would be told of her arrival, Theresa said, and they would expect her when Dr. Macklin could pick her up. Susan found a corner of the library where she could sit at a table near a window and look out at the grass and bushes.
Bookshelves were close by, but she was too tired to open a book. Tired, not only because she’d left Santa Fe early this morning, but because of a deep anxiety that wore her down emotionally. Nothing her father had told her about Alex Montoro had been reassuring.
Nevertheless, there were questions about her mother that needed to be answered. She needed to know why her father had hated her grandmother so deeply. She knew nothing of his years in Virginia—something he refused to talk about—and when he married again, her stepmother had been the only loving presence in her life.
Her work as a nurse had been satisfying to a great extent, but in the last year her own problems had become a pressing issue.
During this time she had taken only terminal patients, since she felt they were the ones who needed her most, but the inevitability of death had begun to destroy her peace of mind. Falling in love with Dr. Colin Cheney hadn’t helped.
When she was a young nurse in training, she’d been warned that while she must use her own humanity to enhance her nursing skill, she should never allow herself to become emotionally involved with patients who were going to die. Some nurses managed this detachment, but Susan’s response had become one of indignation against a profession she found too narrow in its views. Whatever protective skill she had started out with had worn thin during Gina Martin’s illness.
She’d grown to love the frail, courageous little woman in whose home she had lived for the last few months. She had watched the destructive ravages of chemotherapy and despaired of a profession that offered nothing better. It hadn’t helped that Susan was engaged to marry Colin—not when her indignation was directed against him as Gina’s doctor.
“There are other ways!” she’d protested more than once. “Why can’t you at least look
into them?”
Colin had dismissed such alternatives as quackery and told her she was being unprofessional. He’d been so arrogantly sure that he knew all the answers!
At the memorial service, Susan sat with Gina’s family and felt all the more guilty and miserable because of their gratitude for the little she’d been able to do. Colin, of course, was a busy doctor and hadn’t been there. The next time she saw him they’d argued more heatedly than usual, and she had returned his ring. The following day she wrote to her grandmother in Virginia. It was time to turn her back on nursing and reexamine what she wanted from life. It was also time to discover who she was and that meant delving into the past. She wished that her grandmother hadn’t sent this Dr. Macklin to meet her. She was weary of the whole medical profession.
Dozing in her chair, she looked up suddenly to find a man studying her from across the table. His gray eyes, set beneath straight, dark brows, seemed disconcertingly intent and, oddly enough, a little amused.
“Hello, Susy,” he said.
In confusion her thoughts tumbled back to when she was six and there’d been a dark-haired boy she’d called—Petey? He had been all of ten years old, and she’d followed him around when his family came to visit, always his eager and adoring slave. As memory returned, she began to smile.
“I wondered if you’d remember,” he said.
The boy’s face had developed wide cheekbones and a rather craggy look that was unrecognizable. The young mouth had grown straight and a little stern. Only his dark forelock had a tendency to flop over his forehead as it had done when he was a boy.
“I do remember,” she said, and held out her hand. “You’re Dr. Macklin, of course, though I remember you only as Petey.”
The Ebony Swan Page 2
