"Dan! It's been twenty years—!"
"I know, I know. But something happened to me recently, Maddie. Something so profoundly, desperately moving ... I need to tell you all of it. I don't care if I have to tell it between cheese puffs—"
"But why right now? You've been here for weeks—"
"I know that!" he said, sounding disgusted with himself. "I've thrown away more weeks without you—because I didn't know what to say or how to say it. Hell, I still don't!"
He scanned the smoke-filled sky, acrid from charcoal and sulfur, and then he turned back to her for another try. "It's this way: if you'd called the cops when I approached you tonight, that'd be one thing. But you didn't. You walked with me on the beach, and now I've got a right—no, don't look surprised like that—I have a right to be with you. I've always had that right," he insisted. "I just didn't know it before Afghanistan."
"I don't ...?" She was bewildered by the whole rambling speech.
"I know," he muttered, frustrated. "When I was there covering the war, I was shot—"
"Shot!" she cried, horrified. "How badly?"
"Nothing fatal, as you can see. But the bullet's not the point. The point of the encounter was that I ended up being cared for by a—I guess you'd call her a—"
He sighed and said, "Hell. I was wrong; the story can't be told between cheese puffs."
The crowd, still pumped up from the show, was continuing its mass exodus away from the lighthouse. Maddie and Dan stood fixed to the spot like rocks in a stream while bodies flowed and rippled around them. Maddie, for one, was completely paralyzed. She shouldn't stay; she couldn't go. Dan wasn't much better. He shared the tension of her silence for a long moment.
Finally he said, "To hell with Afghanistan and the cheese puffs; I'm coming with you anyway, just to drink you in."
There were so many reasons not to let him. Norah. Michael. The village gossip-mongers. Trixie and her newsletter!
Maddie agonized ... and then her shoulders lifted in a slow, helpless shrug.
"Okay, but you'd better have a reason. You'd better bring your—"
"Checkbook."
"And a pen."
He laughed out loud and her heart did a somersault; she'd forgotten how much she loved that laugh.
"They can have it all," he said, taking her hand in his.
****
Still in a rage, Michael leaned on the horn of his Beemer and shouted, "Get the hell out of my way, you moron! Move it!"
The elderly man settled his wife in the front seat of their Buick and hurried to the driver's side as fast as his walker allowed. He folded the collapsible aid and laid it in the back of his car, then gave Michael a timid wave of apology before easing himself carefully into the driver's seat. There was another delay as he belted himself in, started up the engine, adjusted his rearview mirror, and then—for all Michael knew—cracked every one of his knuckles before finally putting the car in gear.
Michael kept his hand on the horn and flashed his high beams on and off for good measure. What a mistake to think he could escape ahead of the crowd. He hadn't taken into account that some yokel was going to block him in on the grassy lot. For twenty minutes he'd been cooling his heels, his rage keeping pace with his paralysis. For twenty minutes, a single image flashed on the screen of his thoughts: Maddie, in the arms of Dan Hawke, being kissed by him as if she'd done it before.
He remembered every detail clearly: her dress, slid up over the pale flesh of her thigh; her hand, locked around Hawke's wrist as he gripped her shoulder; her head, bent back as Hawke brought his mouth down on hers.
She would pay. Michael didn't know how, he didn't know when—but she would pay.
He needed a drink. His first stop would be at Morty's Package Store; his second, at Norah's fund-raiser.
Chapter 15
The wine and cheese fund-raiser was in full swing.
Norah's house was aglow with carefully dimmed lights that showcased her big house, showcased her fine things, and last but definitely not least, showcased Norah.
Her little red dress was gone now, replaced by a little black dress that managed to be both offhand and chic at the same time. Her only jewelry was in her earlobes: blockbuster diamond solitaires that more than made up for the simplicity of the dress.
The bartenders, both of them, and the servers, all six of them, wore white shirts and black jackets and were much better attired than some of the guests, who already numbered over a hundred. No other house in Sandy Point, and certainly not the lightkeeper's house, could accommodate such a large and lively crowd.
The room where the guests were nibbling and drinking could only be described as ballroom-sized. It featured a long wall of French doors overlooking the sea and glittering with the reflections of two massive chandeliers that anchored each end of the ceiling. Texans in snakeskin boots were reflected in that wall of windows, along with women in slinky dresses, and nautical types in blazers and Bermuda shorts. Each of the guests, whether plain or fancy, had pledged an impressive sum to make it past Norah's front door.
"Rich and eclectic. That's the best kind of support," Dan said as he scanned the crowd. "Shall we pay our respects to our hostess?"
Maddie said faintly, "Oh, I'm pretty sure she knows we're here."
Who didn't? The reclusive, elusive, damn good-lookin' Dan Hawke had not only deigned to come to a function, but had brought a woman on his arm as well. All eyes were turned to him and Maddie as they stood searching the crush for Norah.
"Ah. There she is," Dan said, oblivious to the stares. He slipped his hand under Maddie's elbow and they began making their way toward their hostess.
He must feel like Moses parting the sea, thought Maddie as guests fell away from them during their trek across the room. People practically scraped the floor with their foreheads in acknowledgment of them. Ingratiating smiles, shyness, averted eyes and just plain gawking—Dan and Maddie got it all in a few short yards.
So this is what it feels like to be a trophy date.
The experience was a little unreal. Maddie had become invisible, except as a reflection of Dan's celebrity. It was a first for her, and only slightly amusing.
Norah turned, saw them together, smiled broadly and waved, all without missing a beat. "Hi y'all," she said, still under the spell of the long, tall Texans. Her glance at Maddie had a mischievous dancing light to it, as if she were saying, "Round one to you, toots."
She kissed the air by Maddie's cheek, and then Dan's, completely without hostility. She wasn't the least bit put out at seeing them arm in arm. To Norah it was all a game, and Maddie had just made it more interesting.
"Where's Joan? Didn't she come with you?" she asked them with perfect innocence, despite the lingering hint of a smile.
Dan said, "The last I saw of her was on the beach, moving through the crowd on tiptoe and trying to see over people's heads for someone."
"Chasing after Maddie's ex, I imagine."
An awkward silence followed. Norah enjoyed it, and Dan was oblivious to it, but Maddie rushed to fill it. "That's a beautiful dress," she told Norah as they lifted chardonnay and shrimp from passing trays.
Norah smiled and said, "What, this old rag?"
Maddie smiled back. "It goes so well with this old house."
Norah had no problem laughing at the quip. She was totally comfortable with her wealth. Still smiling, she said, "Dan, let me steal Maddie from you for a minute, would you?"
He frowned, but she ignored it.
Wrapping her long, slender fingers around Maddie's forearm, Norah drew her gracefully to one side and said, "Do you want him, Maddie? If you do, tell me now."
Maddie choked on her shrimp.
"No, I'm serious," said Norah. "If you want him, I'll leave him be." She added quietly, "I guess I'm just surprised that you do."
"Norah, for pity's sake. He's not a sweater on a sale table," Maddie said in a hushed voice. Even for Norah, the conversation was a little over the top.
But Norah persisted. "Do you?"
"Please, Nor ... not now," Maddie begged. She stole an uncomfortable glance at Dan, who just then was being buttonholed by Trixie. "I don't know what I want. I know I still have feelings for him ... but that doesn't mean I have to give in to them. Suddenly everything's moving so fast. This isn't the time to try to decide. Can't we drop it for now?"
Norah shrugged and said, "I'm willing to—but I'm not so sure about your ex."
She nodded in Dan's direction. Maddie swung around in time to see Michael and a tall, silver-haired man talking with Dan and Trixie. Michael looked grim; Dan did too. It didn't take a zoologist to figure out why.
Bringing Dan seemed like such a better idea on the beach.
"Do me a favor, Norah—go play with your Texans and leave us alone for a while," Maddie said, nudging her friend in the opposite direction from the group.
Maddie's heart was high in her throat as she returned to keep peace between the only two men she'd ever cared for. Please, no scenes, she prayed. Undoubtedly because of the media scrutiny in the aftermath of her father's murder, Maddie had a dread of being in the public eye—and it didn't get much more public than this.
"Well, well, well, here you are at last!" Michael boomed out as she came up to them. His voice had a too-jovial edge to it; she knew at once that he'd been drinking. He introduced Maddie to Geoffrey Woodbine, the director of some kind of research institute.
"I'm sorry," Maddie said, only half attentive, "but I didn't quite catch that. The what institute?"
"Brookline Institute of Research and Parapsychology," Woodbine volunteered. "You've never heard of it," he said without taking offense. "It's been around since 1936—a year after Duke founded their own lab—and yet we're not the household name that they are. We investigate parapsychological phenomena," he explained with a smile. "You know—ESP, telekinesis, remote viewing—that type of thing?"
Maddie gave Michael a single sharp glance. What was he up to now?
He'd always had an interest in parapsychology, and once it had been fun to indulge it with him. But that was before he became convinced that he possessed psychic powers. Maddie was the first to admit that her ex-husband was sometimes extraordinarily perceptive. But he was no mind reader; of that she was convinced.
"I see you're uncomfortable with the idea," the director told her. "Well, it's not unusual for people to be nervous about things they don't understand."
Dan gave him a cool look. "That's a little condescending, don't you think?"
Woodbine looked surprised. "Sorry. No offense," he said quickly.
"And none taken," Maddie reassured him. She had to get Dan out of there or there'd be two men challenging him to a duel.
It was Trixie Roiters who ended up warding off bloodshed.
Simply out of curiosity, she switched the focus to the director himself.
"And what brings you here, Dr. Woodbine? Are you interested in the lighthouse?"
"Yes," said the director, turning now to her, "but not in the way you're assuming. Michael told me about tonight's fund-raiser and the reason behind it. It's a worthy cause; these structures should be preserved at any cost.
"However," he added, "I'm here because I have a more academic interest in lighthouses. As it happens, I wrote a doctoral thesis on what are known as 'forms with power'. "
"You mean good-looking women?" Trixie said with a wink at Norah.
The director smiled politely, then explained. "Forms with power are shapes that have metaphoric value for people working psychically. For example, the sword, the circle, the triangle, the cross, the cone—all of these shapes, or forms, have been relied on since antiquity to give guidance or protection to the psychically gifted. They seem to impart some form of energy to these people. At a minimum, such forms are extremely potent symbols."
Trixie seemed to go a little glassy-eyed, prompting Woodbine to cut to the chase. "The lighthouse is clearly a cone form."
That made everyone perk up.
"The tower is a form with power? Power to do what?" asked Maddie.
Like a professor summing up a lecture, Woodbine said, "The lighthouse is a powerful symbol, not only to sailors but to the populace in general. Whether the lighthouse is more than that remains to be seen. I came because I was intent on touring the tower—to get a feel for it, as it were."
"How very interesting," said Trixie, stopping a waiter and lightening his load by three more hors d'oeuvres. "And did you pick up any weird vibrations when you were in it?"
He smiled and said, "I would not call them 'weird.' But did I detect an aura of significance? Oh, yes."
"Great! I'll put all this in the Crier."
"I'm sorry?"
"I'm editor of the Sandy Point Crier," Trixie explained between bites. "It's a little community newsletter I publish. There are lots of prominent guests here tonight, but you're the only one I've talked to who has a different angle on the lighthouse," she explained, wiping her fingertips daintily on a napkin. "I like that. I'm going to use it."
"I wish you wouldn't," Woodbine said at once, catching them all by surprise. "It's so easy to make a joke of parapsychological phenomena, easy—even with the best of intentions—to distort those truths."
"Oh, I won't distort anything, don't you worry," said Trixie with a cheerful grin. "Cone ... lighthouse ... psychic. Got it. Well—must mingle," she said, flapping her fingertips at them. "Ta-ta."
She waddled off and the director turned to Michael. "Is she serious?" he asked, clearly incredulous.
Michael didn't hear him. He was watching Dan with a steady, unblinking look.
It was left to Maddie to answer the director's query. "Trixie pretty much does what she wants; she's an institution in Sandy Point. But I'm sure you have nothing to fear, Dr. Woodbine. After tonight, she'll have much more material than she can possibly fit in the Crier. Besides, your theory might be a little too ... esoteric for her readers," she added diplomatically.
He gave her a tight-lipped smile and said, "If you'll excuse me, I think I'll try to impress on her the impossibility of condensing my theories into a glib sentence or two."
That left Maddie with Michael and Dan. She glanced from one—tall, blond, and hostile—to the other, with his dark brooding eyes and hawkish nose. The air between the three of them crackled with tension. Maddie didn't have a clue whether a cone was a form with power, but she understood perfectly how a triangle could be. Talk about vibrations.
Michael broke into a sudden, ugly grin and said, "So! Here we all are. Gosh. We haven't been together like this since—when, honey? College, would it be? Your junior year—am I remembering it right?"
"Please don't, Michael."
He ignored her and turned back to Dan, punching him with vicious playfulness on the shoulder. "And you were a senior. Hey, man, did you ever finish up that degree?"
Dan said quietly, "It became a little irrelevant."
"You mean—? Well, sure, I guess it would, what with the arrest and all."
"I mean, because it was irrelevant. I didn't need a degree in journalism to carry a camera into a war zone. I just needed to be able to watch my back."
"A useful skill to have," said Michael, in a low, menacing voice. In a lightning change of tone he added, "But you're being too modest, Daniel! You stepped out in front of the camera quickly enough, and you've never really had to look back, have you?" he joked.
"I've looked back plenty, Michael. Believe me," said Dan evenly. All the while, his burning gaze was fixed on Maddie.
As much as she tried to control her emotions, Maddie could not keep the color from flooding her cheeks. Flustered, she said, "Michael, did you get a chance to talk with Tracey? I checked before we—I—came here, just to make sure she went straight home after the fireworks. She's there, but of course she's still not speaking to me."
Somehow the word "Tracey" cut through to him. He looked like a man stepping out of a trance as he said, "Yeah, I talked with her. In fact, I promised I'd stop
in at Rosedale after this. I said it to keep the Kevins away, but I guess I should follow through on it. You don't have a problem with that, do you?" he added with a sneer.
Definitely, Maddie did. She was afraid that Michael would tell her mother about Dan before she had the chance to, but she was forced to say, "Of course I don't, Michael. For heaven's sake—"
Suddenly his expression changed again, from sarcasm to one of anguish. "Consistent. Isn't that what you said we had to be? Consistent?"
It was a direct plea, but Maddie didn't know for what. Michael was sometimes whipped around helplessly by his emotions, and this clearly was one of those times. In an old, odd way, her heart went out to him.
"Michael, do what you want," she said gently. "I can't make those decisions for you."
She watched in dismay as his emotions turned on a dime one more time. "You're damned right you can't," he said bitterly.
He left without another word. Maddie realized that her head was pounding and her knees were shaking from the encounter. She hadn't known how afraid she was until he turned his back on them.
"I'm glad we got that over with," Dan said calmly.
"How can you possibly say that?" she asked in amazement. "Nothing's over with!"
"Every encounter will be easier now," he argued. "The first one is always the worst."
"Is that what they taught you at CNN? Were you listening to him? He basically told you to watch your back."
"Come on, Maddie. You don't believe he's dangerous," Dan pointed out.
"Or I wouldn't trust him with Tracey?" Maddie sighed and said, "I guess you're right. I know he would never, ever, hurt a hair of her head. You might not be safe -- maybe even I'm not -- but I think he'd give up his life for Tracey. I really do."
"Be grateful for that," Dan said softly. "I've seen so much worse out there. Infinitely worse."
"I know. I know." She shook off her uneasiness with an effort. They were at an elegant fund-raiser, surrounded by successful and generous patrons of a worthy cause. The evening was a success. She was with the only man in the world she wanted at her side right now. Norah had agreed to give her the space she needed. And finally, Dan was right: the next encounter between the three of them couldn't possibly feel as awkward.
A Charmed Place Page 15
