Mirror Image (Capitol Chronicles Book 4)

by Shirley Hailstock

  "Where should I take these?"

  He was holding a stack of boxes. She snapped out of her musings and grabbed the remaining boxes. Then she headed for the front entrance. Two nurses met them at the door.

  "It's so good to see you again, Ms. Alexander," one of them said as she took the boxes from her arms. "I know your mother will be glad to get these." She walked a short distance and set the boxes on a table. Duncan did the same.

  "You're limping," the other nurse said. "What happened?"

  "Nothing," Aurora lied. "I fell down and skinned my knee."

  "Did you see a doctor? We could get Dr. James to look at it."

  "I saw a doctor. I'll be back to my usual self in a few days." The nurse smiled but looked concerned. "Most of these are for the staff," Aurora said as she always did, and the nurse's expressions changed to a show of appreciation. "I'll take a few for Mom and her friends."

  Aurora took three boxes, including the one Duncan had eaten from, and turned to him. "There's a waiting room at the end of the hall," she said. "I won't be long."

  He grabbed her arm as she moved to go. "I'd like to meet your mother," he said.

  Aurora's eyes opened wider. She glanced at the nurse.

  "She's in the art room," the woman said with a nod. The nurse left, carrying several of the boxes.

  Aurora set hers back on the table and faced Duncan. "My mother has Alzheimer's Disease," she told him with a catch in her voice. "She doesn't know me. She doesn't remember her friends, her other children, even my father. We're all strangers to her."

  "Do you mind if I meet her?"

  "Of course not."

  He picked up the boxes. "Then lead."

  Cass Alexander stood before a canvas by a closed window at the end of the first floor. Aurora and Duncan entered the room. It had pictures on the walls, and art books graced several shelves, but mostly it had easels standing in various places about the room. Aurora went to her mother and stood there waiting for Cass to turn and see her.

  A moment later the woman turned. "Hello," she said with a smile. "Do you paint?"

  Aurora shook her head and did not speak.

  "I like to paint. This is a picture of that tree over there." Aurora followed the direction of her pointing finger and saw a leafless oak tree in the distance. Staring back at her mother's picture, she saw the likeness was much like one a third grader would do, but she had captured the fact that it was a tree.

  She wondered if deep inside her mother had returned to being a third grader.

  "Do I know you, Dear?" she asked, facing her painting.

  "I'm Aurora, Mom. You used to call me Rory."

  Her mother stopped painting and looked at her. "You must be mistaken, Dear. There are no children here." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "I don't think they allow them for very long."

  Duncan stepped forward and put his hand on Aurora's shoulder. Aurora grasped it and leaned into him. He was solid and strong, and she took his strength.

  "Mrs. Alexander, Aurora brought these for you." He offered her a box.

  She took it. "It's still warm," she said, and opened it. "Cinnamon rolls. I love cinnamon rolls, and I always heat them."

  "She remembers cinnamon rolls," Aurora whispered, "but she has no recollection of her child. It's so unfair."

  "Won't you sit down and have some, too?" her mother asked.

  They pulled chairs close to the window. Duncan set the unopened boxes on a vacant chair and each of them had a bun.

  "Do you know someone here, Dear? I'm sorry, I forgot your name."

  "My name is Aurora and my mother is here."

  "That's nice, Aurora." She rolled her name over her tongue as if she were trying to remember something. Aurora held her breath, hoping that just this once she would remember.

  "I used to know someone named Amanda. She wore white all the time and she would bring me things when I needed them."

  "That's the nurse, Mom."

  Cass Alexander's eyes opened wide. "You're right. What did you say your name was?"

  "Rory." There was desperation in her voice.

  "Is this your young man?"

  Duncan had been quiet until then. He sat forward in the chair. "We only met recently, Mrs. Alexander, but I hope we will be great friends."

  Somehow Aurora was warmed by his voice. She knew he was humoring her mother and she appreciated it

  "What is your name?"

  "Duncan West."

  "I think I knew some Wests once. Oh, there were a lot of them. Can't quite recall where we met, but I know there were lots when it came time to eat. Do you paint?" she asked Duncan.

  "No. I never learned."

  "You don't learn. You just do."

  "I see," he said. "When you paint, do you ever do people?"

  "People?" She said it as if she'd never thought of painting people.

  "You could paint your mother... or your daughter."

  She stared at Duncan. Actually, she stared through him, looking for something or someone to put an image with.

  "I can't remember my mother. She probably looked a lot like me."

  "Yes," Duncan agreed. "Mothers and daughters do tend to look alike." Aurora knew what he was doing. She mentally thanked him for his efforts, but she knew they would mean nothing. She had tried for the last three years to get her mother to remember her or one of her sisters or her brother—anyone with whom they had a common bond—but Cass Alexander had retreated into a world only she inhabited. "Maybe when we come again you can show us a portrait of your daughter."

  Her mother didn't agree, but she did smile and she didn't deny having a daughter.

  When Aurora left the hospital an hour later she felt happier than she ever had since putting her mother there three years ago. She'd tried maintaining her at home with sitters and nurses, even after she no longer remembered any family, but it quickly became overwhelming. She couldn't hold a job. She missed a lot of appointments, and often her mother wandered away, throwing Aurora into a panic. The third time the Rocky Hill policeman rang her doorbell in the middle of the night to return her mother—whom they'd discovered wandering along a busy highway nearby—Aurora made the hardest decision of her life. She couldn't take care of her mother any longer. Tearfully, she sought out the nursing home and moved her mother there.

  She had Duncan to thank for her mood today. He opened the car door and she got inside. She didn't know when they'd decided he would drive, but she'd handed him the keys and he'd helped her into the passenger seat before going around and sliding behind the wheel.

  "I know she won't remember me when I come again, Duncan," she began as he pulled out of the parking lot. “But I'd like to thank you for coming with me."

  "How often do you go there?"

  Aurora dropped her gaze to her hands. "I used to go every week. Now it's only once a month."

  "It must be hard, but there's no need for guilt about what you're doing for her. She appears happy. She has people to take care of her and you know she's safe."

  She thought him very perceptive. He'd nearly read her mind. No one else had understood the anguish at having to put her mother in a nursing home. He seemed to know what she had gone through in making the decision, and what she went through each month when her mother failed to recognize her, though she had never brought up the subject.

  Duncan completed the drive in silence. He thought about the woman sitting next to him. How different she was from any woman he'd ever met. He was still thinking about her when he turned the car into her driveway and pushed the button of her garage door opener. The door rose and he drove the car into the shaded space.

  Getting out, he came around and reached for her hand to help her out.

  Standing in the subdued light of the garage, he lifted her hand. It was light and soft, delicate. He'd never thought he'd use a word like delicate for a woman's hand, but it was the perfect description for Aurora's. She had long, slender fingers ending in sculptured nails. A bright red polish shown from
them, and the third fingernail of each hand had a pattern painted on it. Duncan noticed The Marsha Chambers Show logo in miniature on her fingers.

  "I had it done for the show," she said, offering her hand for closer inspection.

  When she pushed her hand toward him, Duncan could still smell the fresh bread and the scent of the soap she used. He'd never been swayed by a woman's perfumed soap, but his mind created all sorts of pictures of her using a bar of hers, and he was there in most of them. He dropped her hand before he did something stupid, like raising it to his mouth and kissing it.

  "Very nice," he said inadequately.

  She looked at the hand he'd dropped and he saw her expression change. He hadn't meant to insult her, but she had no idea what the closeness was doing to him.

  "The show." He cleared his throat. “It's why I came by this morning."

  "Let’s go inside?" She led him into the house. They entered through the kitchen and she stopped before the counter where she'd been when he arrived. Swinging her gaze from the cabinet to the refrigerator, she hobbled to the cabinet and took down two glasses. Then she poured juice into them and started for the living room. Duncan took the glasses. She used for the wall for support until she reached the room.

  He handed her glass back after she took a seat on the sofa, her leg stretched in front of her. He sat across from her. Light filtered in through the curtains at the oversized windows and made the room bright and airy. To the right of the facing sofas was a large fireplace with a huge mantel, the kind only found only in old houses. This area of New Jersey had a lot of houses like this one. It also had plenty of developments springing up like weeds all over the metropolitan area.

  "What about the show?" she asked. He noticed the difference in her voice. Earlier they had been friends. Between them a warmth had developed. It had become too warm for him. He'd destroyed it when he dropped her hand. Seeing Marsha's logo had brought him back to reality. It had nothing to do with Aurora.

  For a couple of hours he hadn't thought of Marsha Chambers or the show. Then, seeing her nails, he knew his purpose in being here.

  "We'd like you to come back to the show." He said it directly, using none of the charm people often told him he possessed. If she returned it had to be her decision, not one she made because he manipulated her into it.

  "Back for what?"

  "We'd like you to work there for a while." The way she looked at him made him nervous. He could tell she was trying to find the meaning in his words. "If you're available, of course."

  "We?" Her eyebrows went up in question.

  "It was Marsha's idea. She thought you might be willing to stay on, and learn something more about the inner working of television for a while."

  Aurora drank her juice slowly. She didn't react with anger or enthusiasm. Duncan was unsure of what she was thinking. Finally, she placed the glass on the table in front of her. "I'm sorry, but I've decided to leave show business."

  "Why?" Duncan asked, surprised. "You come across on camera very well." He'd seen the film of the program, which would air in several weeks. She was one of the best guests of the day, sitting poised and smiling. Her chin wasn't too high or too low and she didn't fidget in the chair or look at the movement of the cameras or stage personnel. Her attention was on Marsha, or the audience. Little, if any, of her footage needed to be edited. He could see her doing other on camera programs in the future.

  "I don't like it," she answered. "I'm never going to let anyone make a fool of me in front of millions of people again."

  "What are you talking about?" he hedged, although he knew what had happened.

  "I'm talking about Marsha Chambers and her questions that are designed to make the audience accept the answer she wants, even if it isn't the one the guest gives. I hated it, and I'm through with it."

  "Then maybe you'll be interested in my proposal." Aurora stared at him. She folded her arms across her chest. Duncan knew that the stance meant she'd closed off, that she wasn't ready to accept whatever he had to say, but he couldn't take his eyes off the swell of her breast under the silk blouse. "I'm listening."

  "I'd like to offer you a job." Her position didn't change. "You said you were leaving show business. Mostly you've worked in front of the camera. I thought you might like to work behind the scenes, maybe in film editing."

  "I don't know anything about film editing. Isn't this a position that would require some experience? If not in the actual editing, at least in the industry?"

  "You've been in the industry for at least three years, if the resume you submitted for yesterday's show is correct."

  "It is." She nodded. "I've impersonated Marsha Chambers for three years, attending cocktail parties, standing in for photo sessions with tourists, doing routines on a cruise ship, and traveling with several other look-alikes to do talk shows. That hardly qualifies me for film editing."

  "It doesn't, but we often take interns or apprentices and teach them an aspect of the business."

  "And this is where I fit in?"

  Duncan nodded. "If you like, I'll explain intern programs."

  "I know what they are," Aurora told him. "I've even placed some of the young women I used to work with in these temporary positions. They gain work experience and it gives them added confidence and a sense of self-worth when they realize they can support themselves."

  "It can't hurt you. You'll learn another aspect of the business that pays extremely well. If you're good and a fast learner, you can find a permanent job in this field." He waited a moment for her to think about it. “Will you try it?"

  He didn't realize how much he wanted her to agree to this request until she'd waited a long time and said nothing. He'd told himself when he came here that it was to placate Marsha, but it was really because he enjoyed talking to her and wanted to talk more. He wanted to be around her. She was kind and giving, where Marsha was selfish. She was different from most of the show business types, at least for now. After association she might turn out to be the same, but she'd already been in and around show business people for three years and she still remained...normal.

  "What's the catch?" Aurora asked.

  "Catch?"

  "You didn't know I'd planned to leave the business. I only told you about that today. So what is really behind this? What does Marsha want?"

  He shrugged, hoping to make light of the situation.

  "She only said that you might want to be a participant in the audience, for the filmings."

  Aurora dropped her arms and leaned closer to him, her eyebrows knitted together. "Which part of this has to do with the kidnapping?"

  Chapter 3

  The wind pressed against him with giant, cold hands—she whirled about his head, trying to throw him off balance. He took a step back but stood across from the house, visible. He dared them to see him, dared them to recognize him. Pulling the collar of the blue navy jacket closer to his ears and adjusting the baseball cap to conceal his identity, he watched as overcast daylight bathed the house in stark coldness. Traffic whizzed past him but he was oblivious to it.

  He'd learned to concentrate, block everything out except the one purpose for which he lived, for which he'd survived. And there she was, his instrument, within spitting distance. A hundred feet, a little over thirty yards, separated him from his goal. But he would wait. He knew how to wait, how to bide his time and let things come to him.

  Both of them in the same place, he thought. He looked at the sky, at the car in the circular driveway, at the neatly cut hedges and the chrysanthemums. Yellow was his favorite color and these flowers soothed him, calmed him enough to make him wait for the right time. He swung his gaze to the hedges, perfect, green, and ready for winter.

  She wouldn't make it to winter this year. He hoped she had enjoyed the spring, the summer days in the sun, maybe spent a few hours at the shore. These last few months on earth should be savored like a fine wine, enjoyed with carefree frolics like childhood, a precious string of pearls about to be broken
.

  Reaching inside his coat he pulled the small, flat box from a hidden pocket. It looked foreign in his big, gloved hand; midnight blue velvet, soft and feminine. It reminded him of her, of that sensual mouth that pouted at all the right times, that looked into the camera and smiled, making every man in America hard as a rock before her low, sexy voice sent them into instant climax.

  She wouldn't understand the pearls. She'd think they came from a secret admirer. He was an admirer. He loved her, loved the way she talked and laughed, loved the way she could play to the camera, take control of the audience, even that home audience she could neither see nor feel. She'd played her love scenes to him year in and year out, and it was because of her that he'd come here. She was only one of the pearls in the link. But she was the most important one. When she broke, the entire strand would come undone. The Marsha Chambers Show would crash and burn. Unlike him, there would be no phoenix rising, no one to pick up the pieces and begin again. It would be gone, over—the fat lady would have sung. The song was long and lovely but it had to end, and the end was in sight.

  She was in there. Somewhere behind those shutters she lived. It would be a shame, snuffing out her life, taking her forever away from a world that worshiped her, but it was necessary. He frowned and crossed the street. At the door he set the unadorned box on the step and rang the bell. He waited a moment to hear the chimes begin, then stealthily disappeared.

  Her time was coming. Coming soon.

  ***

  Duncan repeated his earlier comment. "The kidnapping wasn't real." They now stood in the kitchen. Aurora needed movement when she argued, and despite her leg she'd left the sofa and returned there. Duncan had followed her.

  "You mean the man who tried to grab me yesterday and throw me into a van was a hologram, or some virtual reality creature who escaped from the television station?" She shivered at the remembered struggle. The darkly dressed man holding her, pushing her toward the van. The taste of the glove in her mouth and powerful smell of fear that overtook her, panicked her and made her afraid. It blinded her with its intensity. "He was real, all right."