The President's Daughter

by Mariah Stewart

He'd deal with that soon enough.

  Right now, there were so many pieces of the puzzle still missing. Who else—beside Kendall, Norton, and Celeste Hayward—had known about the President's affair? And why such secrecy, even now? Would this one indiscretion—assuming of course that there had been only this one—have been such a blight on the President's reputation? Though the moral climate of the seventies was certainly not as open as was current, certainly other Presidents—before and after Hayward—had had affairs.

  Maybe Blythe's death had nothing to do with her affair with Hayward.

  Right. And maybe that car had backed over Blythe by accident.

  Maybe, maybe, maybe .. .

  The word pounded into his head with every step he took.

  The Henderson Public Library was a one-story redbrick Federal-style building with white pillars and shutters that sat on a small rise overlooking a pretty lake. To the right of the building, a fence had been erected to enclose the entirety of the wide slope that led down to the water. The gate was open, and Simon peered in as he passed by.

  Beyond the gate, a path of interlocking cobbled stones led down the slope into a garden that was clearly under construction. From the center rose a gazebo, freshly painted if one were to believe the sign that hung from the door. Newly planted flower beds encircled the gazebo, and paths led out like spokes from a wheel. Simon wandered along several of the paths to find that each led to a different patio-type clearing wherein seating had been arranged in a variety of groupings, some containing several benches, others but a solitary chair. Trees had been strategically planted to provide shade to the seating areas, and here and there, throughout the garden, birdhouses sat atop wooden posts. Numerous potted plants appeared to have been set down and left to one side of one path, and several large bags of mulch lay in a heap on the ground. Simon stepped around them and headed back toward the gate just as it swung open.

  A young woman struggled with a squeaky wheelbarrow that was piled high with plastic bags that Simon assumed contained more mulch. Simon hurried to the gate to hold it aside for her.

  "Here. I'll get that," he said.

  "Thanks." The woman pushed the unwieldy load onto the cobbled path.

  Simon might have just nodded a friendly, "You're welcome," and continued on to the library that had been his destination. But just at that moment she glanced back over her shoulder and flashed a smile that went all the way to his heart.

  There was something about that smile....

  When the buzzing in his head began to subside, he followed her halfway down the path, drawn as if on a towline, and asked, "Can I give you a hand?"

  She brought the wheelbarrow to a stop in front of the gazebo. "Thanks, but I think I can manage from here." And she rewarded him for his trouble with one more smile.

  Simon stood rooted to the spot and took her in.

  She was tall and willow slender and wore dusty jeans and a dustier T-shirt, large, round tortoiseshell sunglasses that hid far too much of her face. Her hair was tucked up under a baseball cap, all but one brave dark strand that hung down the side of her face.

  With seemingly little effort, she lifted the top bag of mulch and tossed it onto the ground.

  "That bag weighs, what, forty pounds?" Simon asked.

  "Fifty," she replied as she hoisted another and tossed it to land next to the first.

  "You must work out on a pretty regular basis."

  "Every day." She grinned and grabbed another bag.

  "You lift?" Simon was obviously impressed.

  "Constantly." The woman appeared infinitely amused by the question.

  "You must spend a lot of time at the gym," Simon observed.

  She straightened up, still grinning, and told him, "Gyms are for desk jockeys."

  Simon laughed. "I get it. You're the gardener here."

  "If you stay in school long enough, they let you call yourself a landscape architect."

  "This all looks new." Simon gestured around him.

  "It is new. Brand spanking new, every bit of it." She grabbed hold of another bag and lugged it a few feet away before dropping it onto the ground.

  "You do all this work yourself?"

  "I'm good, but I'm not that good. I had lots of help." She stopped at the back of the wheelbarrow and appeared to be looking him over. "This was a community effort. I did the design, furnished most of the plantings, but just about everyone in town had a part in its creation in one way or another. The gazebo, for example." She stepped back as if to admire the structure. "It was designed by a local contractor, but it was built by the carpentry students at the high school."

  She pointed to the stone walks on which they stood. "The stones were donated by a builders supply company and the paths were laid by volunteers."

  "I see what you mean by community effort."

  "Right down to the bake sales and the flea markets that helped pay for the fencing and the lumber. The people in this town did everything to raise money but put on a show in the barn. When it comes to fund-raising for a good cause, never underestimate smalltown USA."

  "What's the cause?"

  "The garden was intended to celebrate cancer survivors. A place to come and find a few minutes of peace, of inspiration. A place for contemplation. We've planned it as a place where families can gather quietly together."

  "Ah, hence the separate rooms." Simon nodded and knew there had been no "we" involved in the planning. He'd have bet his Mustang that she'd designed the entire garden—maybe even proposed the idea—herself.

  "Exactly. I—we—thought that there should be places that offered privacy, a little serenity. Often badly needed while doing battle with the disease."

  "Sounds as if you've been close to the action."

  "My mother is a survivor. It will be five years in May."

  "You did this for her." It wasn't a question.

  "Watching her struggle made the disease real to me for the first time. Before that, cancer was just an ugly word. My mother's illness certainly did bring me closer to it than I ever wanted to be." She spied a handprint of dirt on her jeans and attempted to brush it away. "But the garden ... it's really a memorial for an old friend, a high school classmate. She grew up here, came back after college to teach. And she was quite an artist. Everyone in town knew her and liked her. Respected her. This was just a means of honoring her memory."

  A teenaged boy appeared at the gate just as Simon was about to comment.

  "Over here, Will." She stepped to the path and waved.

  The boy, in no apparent hurry, lumbered toward the gazebo.

  "You're late, William." The woman made a show of looking at her watch.

  "I, um, got tied up at school," the boy mumbled.

  "Ummmm, let me guess. The girls' softball team was playing today," she teased, and the boy's face reddened. "Okay, Mulch-boy, you start on that side of the gazebo; I'll take this side. We need to get this done before Saturday."

  She pulled a penknife from her pocket and glanced back at Simon, saying, "This stuff is pretty pungent, if you're not used to it."

  "I can take a hint." Simon stepped back good-naturedly. "Good luck with your garden. It's going to be beautiful."

  "Thank you." She straightened up, both hands on her hips, as if studying him. "Come back and see it when it's done."

  "Will I get a private tour?"

  "Maybe. If you play your cards right." There was just a hint of tease in her voice.

  "Then I just may have to do that." Simon paused at the gate, reluctant to leave but knowing that he was overstaying his welcome. She had work to do, and he had work of a different sort to tend to. It was best that he get on with it.

  "I'll see you around, then." She touched the brim of her baseball cap, flashed that smile again, then turned her attention to the business at hand.

  "Count on it," Simon said under his breath, stealing one more backward glance at the woman before heading into the building and the business at hand.

  Simon stepped
into the cool of the library and wandered the main floor. Stacks of books reached almost to the ceiling, and he scanned the fiction shelves. All the familiar books were there and some he'd read long ago and all but forgotten. Life had held little time for fiction lately, he noted with some regret. These days, his reading consisted more of nonfiction in general and research material in particular. He picked up a copy of Steinbeck's The Red Pony, recalling the images the book had inspired when first he'd read it, so many years before.

  "Did you want to take that out?" a heavyset woman with short dark hair stopped to ask.

  "Ah, no, actually, I was looking for Jude McDermott."

  "Oh, she's not here. Is there something I could help you with?"

  "Actually, I was hoping to speak with her. I was under the impression she was working today." Peeved, Simon looked around the large room, as if he'd recognize the object of his search.

  "Ms. McDermott was here this morning, but she left for a meeting around eleven."

  "Will she be in tomorrow?"

  "I think tomorrow she goes to Baltimore for a conference. She'll be back on Friday, though. Would you care to leave a message for her at the desk?"

  "No, I think I'll just catch up with her at home. Thanks." Simon returned the book to the shelf and paused to look out the window onto the garden. The pretty young landscaper was nowhere in sight.

  Simon left by the front door in time to see the lithe figure disappear into the cab of a dark green pickup truck with GARDEN GATES painted on the door. Mentally tucking away the name of the company for possible future reference, Simon watched her drive away, kicking himself for not having asked her name.

  On Saturday morning, Simon followed the same road back to Henderson and parked his car in the same spot across from the McDermott house. The green station wagon was in the same place it had been in earlier in the week.

  He walked across the street and started up the path.

  "You here to see Jude again?" the old woman next door called from her front steps.

  "I haven't caught up with her yet." Simon called back as if to an old friend.

  "Well, you won't find her here now, either." The woman took the steps gingerly. "She's down at the cancer garden."

  "The garden by the library?"

  "Right. The one they made for that artist who died last year. You know the one I mean. Did all those pictures of naked ladies on the beach. You know who I mean," the woman insisted. "But you want to hurry, if you're going to make the dedication. It starts at one."

  "Aren't you going?" Simon asked, his spirits picking up at the possibility of seeing the pretty dark-haired gardener again.

  "Nah. My arthritis is acting up. I'm goin' back inside. This weather is bad for my hip." The woman turned and shuffled back to the house with a wave. "I'll see ya later."

  "See ya!" Simon called back to her, a grin on his face.

  Simon's step was lively as he headed toward the library, again on foot. This time VU introduce myself. I'll ask her name. ...

  He blended in with the gathering crowd that gravitated toward the library, then passed through the gate, his eyes searching, searching . ..

  And found her.

  Her face was still obscured by the oversize dark glasses, but her hair hung down past her shoulders in glossy black ringlets. She wore a dress of soft green that followed the curves of her body gently and swung loosely around her calves, and she stood with her hands on her hips, speaking with an eager young man who scribbled down every word she said in a spiral notebook. Amused by the antics of the apparent cub reporter, Simon stepped closer.

  ". .. and was really going for a space where visitors might find comfort and inspiration. I wanted to create a serene environment where groups or individuals might experience a sense of peace, which is so necessary for a cancer patient." The woman leaned forward slightly as if to better hear the reporter's next question, which Simon couldn't quite hear.

  "Well, of course I had planned this as a memorial for Laura Bannock, who as you know lost her struggle last summer...."

  She had taken the young reporter's arm and steered him in the direction of all the things she most wanted him to see, though any fool could tell the poor man was mesmerized by her.

  Not that I blame the guy. Simon smiled and watched as she wrapped the young man around her little finger.

  "Now, there will be a fountain in the center of the oval and, eventually, a stone bench nearby. We're still soliciting donations; do you think you might be able to fit that into your article somehow?"

  Oh, I'd bet the rent on it. Simon chuckled to himself and walked down a grassy slope to the lake, leaving her to her business. For the moment.

  There were several small rowboats tied to a narrow wooden dock, but no one seemed interested in taking them out onto the lake. Several wood ducks swam noisily through the reeds that grew at the water's edge, and a small flock of sparrows chirped from a nearby hedge. All in all, it was peaceful enough, certainly, Simon thought as he strolled along, a fitting-enough setting for the memorial to a woman who apparently had been well regarded in the community.

  Simon looked back to see that the crowd had started to surround the small gazebo that stood at the farthest edge of the garden. He wandered back up the slope, arriving just as the dark-haired woman began to address the crowd.

  "We thank you all for coming. It gives me so much pleasure to see the community so well represented. As a longtime friend of Laura Bannock's, I mourn her, as so many of you do. But I'm so pleased with the manner in which her family chose to celebrate her life. I am so honored to have been asked to design her memorial. This little park, this garden, is a place where we'll all be welcome to take a moment from our day-to-day and just relax and reflect." She held up a pair of scissors with exaggerated blades. "Mrs. Bannock, I think you should cut the ribbon on the gazebo and officially open the garden."

  A thin woman with spare features wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a dark blue pantsuit stepped up and accepted the scissors. "1 think we should all thank Dina for the lovely garden she designed for us." Mrs. Bannock tucked the scissors under her left arm and led the applause. "You should all know that Dina did all this work for free and donated the plants, too."

  Dina. The name rang in Simon's ears. Her name is Dina.

  More applause.

  "She and Polly Valentine, there—Polly, we all thank you and welcome you to the community—and, of course, Jude ..."

  At the sound of the name Simon's head snapped up.

  "And the students in the horticulture class from the local high school, who helped plant all of the trees."

  The applause spread around him. Simon craned his neck to see if he could tell who was who, but there were too many people gathered around the gazebo. Finally, he tapped the shoulder of a man several feet in front of him and asked, "I'm sorry, I missed the names of the people Mrs. Bannock just thanked. Did you happen to..."

  Without turning, the man said, "The high school kids who planted the trees."

  "Before that. The women she named by name"

  "Oh, Dina there, in the sunglasses, she designed the garden, and Polly Valentine, she works for Dina...."

  "Andjudeis...?"

  "Oh, she's the little blonde with the short hair there in the white jacket. Jude McDermott. She's our librarian. Right next to her daughter."

  "Her daughter?"

  "Dina. Dina is Jude's daughter."

  The words shot through Simon like a heavy charge of electricity.

  He stepped forward just close enough to see Dina flash a wide smile for the local press.

  There was something about that smile....

  Drawn to her, Simon stepped closer.

  And then she took off her sunglasses, and Simon's heart stopped in his chest.

  Simon knew that face.

  His hand found its way to the inside pocket of his sport jacket, sought the photograph he had tucked away. He slid it from the envelope and held it up, checked to see if his memory was
playing tricks on him. But no, the face in the photo was just as he had remembered it.

  There was no mistaking what he saw before him but no explanation for it, either.

  Dina McDermott was a dead ringer for Blythe Pierce. Right down to her megawatt smile.

  Simon sat in his car, across the street and a safe distance from the McDermott house, and tried to make sense of what he'd seen and what he knew.

  He'd seen a young woman who looked exactly like a woman who'd been dead for almost thirty years.

  Unless her mother, Jude McDermott, was a close relative of the deceased, how could this be?

  But if Jude was related to the Pierces, wouldn't Betsy Pierce, who seemed to be so open and forthcoming, have referred to Jude as such, instead of merely as her sister's college roommate?

  The only logical explanation was even too farfetched for Simon to consider.

  The front door of the McDermott house opened, and the tall, graceful young woman stepped out, accompanied by the basset hound. The pair set out on a walk that brought them past Simon's car on the opposite side of the street. He decided to take the direct approach, but by the time he got out of the car Dina and the dog had stopped to speak with a neighbor and hadn't seemed to notice him at all. Simon leaned against the car, considering his options.

  He could follow her and try to engage her in conversation. Or he could walk across the street and ring the doorbell. Daughter was oh, so appealing, but it was Mom he was here to see. And besides, sooner or later Dina would finish walking the dog and return.

  Following his head rather than his heart, Simon crossed the street and walked up to the front door. Inside his busy brain there were countless questions crashing into one another with far too many intriguing possibilities. Only Jude McDermott could separate fact from fiction. Whether or not she would do so remained to be seen.

  He was still working on his opening line when the door opened and he stood face-to-face with the woman he'd come to see.

  "Mrs. McDermott, my name is Simon Keller. I'm a writer, working on a new book about former President Graham Hayward, and I was hoping for a few minutes of your time."

  "I... I never met the man. I'm afraid there's nothing I could tell you." Jude McDermott's pretty face faded to chalk white in a heartbeat as she froze in the doorway.