Will was the rising star of his office. He had been written up in Forbes as a newcomer on the move and he was about to be transferred, with a huge raise and major responsibilities, to the New York office, the mother ship. As usual, he was beating the women off with a stick, but he hadn't yet found anyone he wanted to be serious with. His mother and his sister-in-law had set a high standard for him to strive for.
Tom had found peace with himself, which was the most dramatic story in the clan. Late one night, when he came back to Will's apartment from working his shift at Finnegan's, he picked up part of his dissertation and looked at it for the first time in a long while. And it hit him—he still loved math: the beauty of the abstractions, the challenge of solving problems, the muscularity demanded of his brain. He completed his work, and in a few weeks he was going to be defending his thesis. His advisor had assured him he would be approved, and that he'd be published. When that was done, he'd be Dr. Gaines. Another Ph.D. in the family, like his parents before him.
And he had a girlfriend: Laurel Johnstone, Callie's friend from the Museum of Art who had helped him with the New York art connections. He had called to thank her for helping him find out about Diane Montrose, and wound up asking her out for coffee. Afterward they had gone back to her apartment and talked until late in the evening. The following night they went out again, and started going steady a week later.
She shared many of his interests, like listening to jazz and taking long hikes. She even hung around Finnegan's on Sunday afternoons, although she didn't care about football. The sex was good, too, easy and stressless. For the first time in over a decade he believed he was going to have a good life, and as important, that he deserved one.
He rarely thought about Diane anymore.
Even their father was beginning a rehabilitation, although by his former lofty standards it was a small one. He had gone back to working on his book about Central America, and his editor liked the chapters he had sent her. Tom had spoken to Dr. Janowitz at UCLA and persuaded him (with a bit of gentle arm-twisting) to bring Walt in as a guest lecturer. That had gone well, and they'd had him back a few more times. There was the possibility (a slim one, but slim is better than none) that UCLA would hire him for a few years until he was ready to retire—they wouldn't need to give him tenure, so they could get him on the cheap. He was still one of the brightest and most knowledgeable minds in his field.
The rest of Walt's life was humdrum, which worked for him. He had come to Chicago to see his granddaughter a few weeks after she was born, but hadn't been back since. Other than that, the boys didn't hear much from him, but enough so that they knew he hadn't gone off the deep end again. He was going to have to live with the tragedies of his life and there was nothing they could do about that except be there for him when he wanted them to be.
He hadn't heard from Diane Montrose again. He assumed he never would. He missed her, but he knew it would be better if he didn't.
The limo driver dropped them near the gravesite shortly before eleven. He'd come back in an hour to pick them up. Clancy removed a portable stroller from the trunk and snapped it open. Callie carefully laid baby Jocelyn, who had fallen asleep during the ride up from Chicago, into the little carriage and pulled the sunshade over her.
Will carried a bouquet of flowers, roses and lilies. Their mother's garden had always had roses and lilies. They walked across the manicured lawn to Jocelyn's small stone. Although the weather was warm and humid, as it had been when they came the year before, they were dressed up this time, the men in suits and ties, Callie in a dress and low heels.
They stood in front of the grave. Will knelt down and placed the flowers next to the stone. “Hey, mom,” he said. “We're here.”
Tom glanced at his watch. Clancy put a hand on his brother's arm. “Relax,” Clancy said. “He'll make it.”
Tom, looking fretful, nodded.
Carefully, Clancy took the sleeping infant from the stroller, and, cradling her in his arms, knelt by the grave. It was the first time they'd been here since the baby was bom.
“This is your granddaughter, mom,” he said, placing a hand on the stone. “We named her Jocelyn, after you.”
The baby squirmed and gurgled in her sleep. Clancy handed her over to Callie.
A taxi approached along one of the narrow lanes that meandered from the cemetery entrance to the gravesite. Will, shading his eyes against the sun, pointed to it.
“There he is.”
The cab stopped. Walt got out of the back. He, too, was dressed appropriately, in a nice sports coat and slacks. He was carrying a wicker basket under one arm and a bouquet similar to the one the boys had brought in the other. He paid the driver. The cab took off, and he walked toward his sons.
There was an awkward moment; then the brothers enveloped him, and they all embraced. When they separated, Walt walked closer to the stone. He hadn't visited his wife's gravesite since he buried her.
“Hello, Jocelyn,” he said in a soft voice. “I've missed you.” He knelt down and placed his bouquet next to the one his sons had brought. “I've really missed you. More and more, as time goes by.”
In the distance, some birds sang out to each other, but otherwise it was very quiet. The brothers stood tall and still. Clancy, standing in the middle, put an arm around each of his brothers’ shoulders, and they draped their arms over him. Callie, the baby pressed against her chest, cried quietly into a tissue.
Walt stood up. He walked over to Callie and looked tenderly at his sleeping granddaughter. “Maybe part of mom is with us, in this little one,” he said. “I'd like to hope that.”
“I'm sure she is, Walt,” Callie told him, wiping her eyes again. “There's no way she couldn't be.”
“I've been reading the Bible lately, believe it or not,” Walt said, almost cheerfully. “There's a passage; we've all heard it, it was even a big pop song back when I was vour age, that there's a time to weep—we've done our share of that—and a time to laugh. A time to mourn—we've done that, too. So let's laugh a little, okay? Or at least, smile.”
He took a sweating bottle of Veuve Clicquot out of the wicker basket and passed it to Clancy. “It should be cold, I picked it up on the drive here.”
Clancy twisted the wire on the cork. Walt reached into the basket and brought out five champagne flutes. He handed one to Tom, Will, and Callie, holding the remaining two for Clancy and himself. Clancy uncorked the bottle carefully, so it wouldn't splatter. He poured into each of the glasses.
Walt held his glass aloft. “To Jocelyn,” he toasted.
They clinked glasses, and drank. Walt stood over the gravestone. “Your mother loved champagne,” he said. He poured a few drops onto the stone. “Here's to you, darling. You'll always be with us.”
The limousine showed up precisely at noon. The brothers and Callie knelt by the grave one last time to say goodbye. Only Walt was left to bid farewell.
“You go ahead,” he told them. “I want to spend a few moments here by myself. After you get to the restaurant you can send the driver back for me.”
They each gave him a fierce hug, then walked across the lawn to the limo. Clancy handed baby Jocelyn to Callie, who buckled her into her car seat. They piled in and drove away, toward the exit.
As they were leaving, the boys looked back through the car windows. Walt was standing next to the grave. He was staring at the stone; he seemed to be talking to it. They weren't sure, because he was getting smaller and smaller in the distance, but he looked as if he was at peace.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In the course of researching this novel, which included a field trip to Guatemala and Belize during the spring of 2001, I was assisted in my efforts by several wonderfully helpful people.
Dr. Anabel Ford, Director of the MesoAmerican Research Center, Institute for Social, Behavioral, and Economic Research Center (ISBER) at the University of California at Santa Barbara, and Director of the El Pilar Archaeological Reserve for Maya flora and fauna in the Cayo
District, Belize, was very gracious in guiding me through all aspects of my research having to do with Maya archaeology. She read and gave me copious notes on the sections of this book pertaining to Central American archaeology and current archaeological life, and also invited me to her site, El Pilar, in Belize, where she and her staff gave me firsthand instruction and tutoring. Any mistakes of fact relating to any aspects of archaeology, Maya or otherwise, are completely mine.
Jennifer Pureed, Assistant Dean of Development for (he Donald Bren School of Environmental Science and Management at UCSB, directed me to all the people at UCSB who assisted me with the various aspects of university procedures relating to tenure, pension plans, and other technical and academic matters.
Roger B. Perry, of Perry Insurance Service in Santa Barbara, worked with me on the insurance portions. Julie Miller, of the Los Angeles accounting firm of Kaufman, Bernstein, Oberman, Tivoli, and Miller, and Jon Ratner, of CIBC Oppenheimer in Los Angeles, helped with the investment sections. Michael Haskell, of Haskell Antiques in Montecito, California, gave me valuable information on the art gallery parts, including those having to do with illegal art transfers.
My wife, Carol, was supportive of this effort, as she is of all my work. She read every sentence I wrote, from first draft to last, gave me notes and insights, and kept my spirits up during those inevitable times when the writing isn't going the way you want it to.
This novel evolved from a series of “what-if’ conversations that my brother, David A. Freedman, of Albuquerque, New Mexico, and I had over the course of several get-togethers, phone conversations, and e-mails. He also accompanied me on my research trip to Central America, and was, as always, excellent company.
I also wish to thank my friend Markus Wilhelm of The Literary Guild/Book-of-the-Month Club, for his ongoing support.
This is the first book I've worked on with Rick Horgan, my editor. It was a terrific experience. He labored tirelessly (and almost endlessly) to help me shape this into a far better piece of work than it was when he got it. I also want to thank his assistant, Katharine Rapkin, for her help in the numerous tedious but necessary details that I asked her to assist me with.
OUR PARENTS ARE THE REASON WE EXIST.
From the New York Times bestselling author J.F. Freeman comes a roaring suspense thriller about one family's deadly encounter and the disturbing betrayals uncovered by three brothers.
BUT WHAT IF EVERYTHING WE THOUGHT WE KNEW ABOUT THEM…WAS WRONG?
Walt Gaines is prominent archaeologist, husband of thirty years, and father of thee. But after his wife is murdered near an ancient Mayan ruin, he cuts off nearly all contact with his family. Now Walt's sons decide to perform an excavation of their own. Beyond their father's sudden change of lifestyle—his new million-dollar home and young girlfriend—the secrets the sons are about to unearth are more complex, and more devastating, than anything they could have imagined…
FALLEN IDOLS
“BEYOND LUST, BEYOND VENGEANCE, BEYOND MURDER LIE THE DARK TRUTHS…
ALL REVEALED IN THIS NOVEL.” —Publishers Weekly
“A CCOMPELLING STORY, TAUT, MOVING, AND WONDERFULLY TOLD.” —Robert B. Parker
Fallen Idols Page 43
