“Are we in park?” he finally asked her.
“You mean the car?”
Not waiting for an answer, Bryan reached over and pulled her onto his lap. He kissed her. Linz’s dress rode up as she turned to fully face him.
The kiss went on until a horn blared behind them. They broke apart, both breathing heavily.
Bryan whispered, “Why don’t we forget the party and go to your place?”
Another honk sounded and the car finally drove around them. Linz closed her eyes, trying to gain some self-control. “I can’t. I need to make an appearance first. It’s my work.”
Bryan let go of her and leaned back in his seat, looking tortured. “Okay, let’s go.”
Linz climbed back over to the driver’s seat, already regretting her decision. She drove to Belmont Hills on autopilot. They kept their conversation limited.
“So what have you been up to?” Bryan asked.
“Oh you know. Stuff. What about you?”
“Stuff.”
They rode the rest of the way in silence. Linz glanced down at her fake nail tips and grimaced. She could not wait to get home and rip them off.
Bryan stared out his window at Belmont’s gated mansions. They looked more Beverly Hills than Boston.
Linz finally turned into a long driveway. Valets stood at the end, waiting to whisk the car away. Bryan took in the enormous French classical château and whistled. It was nestled in its own little forest. “Who lives here?”
Linz hesitated. “My dad.” She got out, leaving him flummoxed.
“This is your house?”
She threw him a look. “I moved out in college.”
He followed her toward the front door. “What are you, royalty?”
“Crowned princess of the pharmaceutical industry.” She hooked her arm through his. “Party’s this way.”
Linz usually loathed revealing to people just how much wealth she came from, especially in a dating situation—not that she dated often. Medicor was the largest privately owned pharmaceutical company in the world, and she was happy to let her share sit in various accounts and accumulate interest. One day she would need it all when she opened her own research institute, but in the meantime she preferred her low profile.
For the first time, she didn’t care if Bryan knew. She felt liberated by the fact that their relationship existed beyond material things. Growing up, she had been cocooned in a bubble filled with science and academia. It had been a hard decision to trade in her anonymity and go to work for her father. Many saw it as a public grooming for her to take over the company when he stepped down. In reality, she couldn’t have cared less about running Medicor. Her research was her primary passion—strange how she had thought about neither since she met Bryan.
They heard the music before they saw the band. With Bryan’s arm in hers, they walked toward a large, tented dance floor with a stage that had been erected between the pool and the tennis court. Two dozen round tables filled the yard. Each one was decorated with ivory damask linens and vintage French vases filled with long-stemmed red roses to complement the black china. Two champagne fountains, along with an impressive ice sculpture, finished off the dramatic presentation. There were at least three hundred guests there to appreciate the effort.
Linz spotted her project team sitting together at a nearby table and led Bryan over. Everyone’s attention was turned to the stage, where Conrad Jacobs was giving a speech.
“In med school, an old professor of mine used to say that being a scientist doesn’t require eyeglasses and a lab coat. I’m glad to see you all left yours at home.” He waited for the laughter to die down.
Bryan sat in the closest chair before he collapsed. He could no longer feel his legs. There stood Conrad, the person he had been researching. Bryan noted how little Michael’s old colleague had aged—he looked the same aside from the distinguished gray along his temples and a more confident air.
Then Bryan realized something else. He leaned over to Linz with an incredulous whisper. “Is that your father?”
Without looking at him, she nodded yes. She was too busy listening to the speech to notice his reaction.
“I was living on a shoestring, struggling to get by on a government grant when I discovered I could make a difference, and Medicor was the result of that vision. We’ve come a long way in thirty years. Now Medicor is a global enterprise with research facilities around the world. And everyone here tonight has made us who we are today. Leaders. Dreamers. Healers.”
Bryan felt like he had been transported to another planet. Conrad now lived like a king in a castle, and was surrounded by hundreds of employees listening to his every word like gospel. So much had changed in thirty years. Even more mind-blowing was the fact that Linz was his daughter.
“… scientists at the top of our fields, striving to go over and above our imaginations. Medicor means ‘to cure’ in Latin and that remains our mission. Tonight we celebrate our drive to achieve it. Please enjoy.”
The speech was followed by strong applause. Bryan looked at Linz, disconcerted by the pride and love shining in her eyes. Tonight would not be the night to ask her about her father.
He also hadn’t failed to notice all the curious looks he was getting from her coworkers. Steve gave Bryan an appraising glare and leaned toward Linz. “I researched ‘unexplained phonetic cognizance,’” he shouted across the table. “I couldn’t find any cases.”
“Thanks, Steve.” Linz shot Bryan a rueful glance. “Steve, Neil, Maggie, this is Bryan, a friend.”
The jazz band began playing Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World.” Bryan saw Conrad signaling Linz, and she stood, looking apologetic. “I’ll be right back.”
She left Bryan alone to fend for himself. Steve was growing less cordial by the second. “How long have you guys been dating? Did you meet online?”
Maggie kicked Steve under the table and smiled at Bryan. “Sorry, he’s not used to social interaction.”
Neil joined the conversation, a chicken satay in each hand. “So what do you research, bro?”
“Research?” Bryan watched Conrad and Linz step out onto the dance floor.
Steve crossed his arms. “Yeah. What’s your specialty?”
Bryan turned back, realizing they all assumed he was a scientist. “Oils. Excuse me.” He stood up and set off toward the house. Now that he knew it belonged to Conrad, he couldn’t contain his curiosity. He left everyone scratching their heads.
“Oils? That bioengineering?” Neil reached over to Steve’s plate and stole his shrimp brochette. “And what’s with the suit? Is retro back in?”
Maggie rolled her eyes. “Like you would know. I think he’s hot.”
On the dance floor, Linz followed her father’s lead. She was used to dancing with him at functions.
“Nice speech.”
Conrad spun her around. “Does that mean, Dr. Jacobs, that I can start calling you Lindsey again in public?”
“Fine, I overreacted at the meeting.” Linz glanced back at the table. Bryan hadn’t lasted long. She watched him disappear inside and felt guilty for leaving him.
Conrad noticed him too. “Who’s the suit?”
“The artist I was telling you about.”
Conrad faltered with his next step. “You brought him here?”
Linz laughed at the astonishment on his face. “Watch your feet, twinkle toes. It’s just a date.”
* * *
Bryan wandered through the main hallway, his architectural eye taking in the curving colonnade and sweeping pavilion. Earlier, when they had come up the drive, he had been astounded to recognize a design Louis Le Vau had studied on paper hundreds of years ago.
The house clearly resembled one of the scrapped plans for the East Wing of the Louvre. Bryan remembered the debacle like it was yesterday. Le Vau had already remodeled most of the Louvre but had been unable to finish it after he had been fired by Jean-Baptiste Colbert, advisor to Louis XIV. A train of architects had s
tood in line to attempt to remodel the wing, including the most influential architect of the French Renaissance: Francois Mansart. An utter perfectionist, Mansart often tore down partially completed projects and began again. He had drawn up several brilliant plans for the wing, but Colbert had released him as well. Le Vau had seen the plans because he had remained on the Louvre’s building committee. Bryan would have recognized Mansart’s original design anywhere. He wondered how Conrad had gotten his hands on it.
Bryan passed under a Roman arch and ended up in a formal living room where several photographs were displayed on a Grecian table next to a grand piano. Most were of Linz. One photo showed her winning the World Junior Chess Championship. Bryan picked it up and smiled. Toward the back, he noticed a small photo of the entire family taken when Linz had been a baby. The woman holding her could only have been her mother. She and Linz shared the same beauty. Conrad and his wife must have met after Michael’s death—Bryan didn’t recognize her. Linz’s brother looked to be about two or three in the picture, his face oddly solemn. It was the only photo of her mother and brother in sight. Perhaps grief kept the others locked away.
He picked up another photo of Linz as a young girl. Dressed in a ballet costume, she stood on pointe, her other leg extended high in the air. Her face had a calm, focused look, as if striking such perfect balance came effortlessly to her. Bryan wasn’t surprised. Balance had always been one of her strongest attributes. It had been one of the first things he had noticed when he had met her this time—her carriage, her poise. There were other qualities that she also had unknowingly carried with her: the way she tilted her head slightly to the right when she was contemplating something, the unblinking focus of her eyes at times, and the way her thumb performed a circular pattern on the tip of her index finger when she was truly deep in thought.
Bryan looked around the room and noticed another door leading away from the living room. He glanced back to make sure no one was watching and entered.
On the other side was an enormous gallery housing an antique collection that would rival any museum’s. Bryan took a few steps inside and stopped.
Coming into this room had been a mistake. These were relics from his own memories. His eyes darted around in panic as the fingers of the past started to wrap themselves around his neck, choking him.
Before he could turn around and escape, he saw a tall glass case in the center of the room displaying a small item. He walked toward it in astonishment, his chest heavy, and he felt the room collapse as the weight of a vision propelled him to another time and place.
TWENTY-ONE
NORTHERN ATLANTIC OCEAN
986
The wind hid Odin’s breath—Bjarni knew only a god could have conjured such a storm. He dropped sail to slow his speed, but the gales continued to push him off course. The ocean waged its war against his ship for a second day until Bjarni began to believe it wasn’t Odin, but Hel herself from the Underworld, raising her hands within the waves in an attempt to capsize them. He would never reach Greenland.
Bjarni prayed once more to Njord, God of the Sea and protector of all sailors, to keep them from her clutches. He gripped the vegvísir tighter in his palm and felt the stone grow warm in his hand.
A magical charm, the vegvísir was said to keep anyone from losing his way on the roughest seas. Bjarni looked down at the stone’s rune-like symbol, its ornate lines stretching in all four directions, cross-points perfectly carved, and had to believe it would. Garnissa had made it for him when she realized he would return home and find her gone.
Every winter Bjarni went back to Iceland to stay with his father, Herjólfr, at Eyrarbakki until the weather cleared. Bjarni was one of the best traders in the land, and he had accumulated his wealth over the years for one purpose—to build the finest longhouse for Garnissa and obtain good farmland. He had been planning to settle the agreement with her father for her hand. But when he had arrived, he had not even begun to unload his cargo when his old friend Guid had come running to deliver the news.
“Your father’s gone—Garnissa too with her family,” Guid had said.
A swift panic rose within Bjarni and he had fought to hide it. “Gone?”
“They all joined Erik the Red to sail for the new land he’s discovered.”
“Erik’s returned?” Bjarni frowned. Erik had been banished from Iceland for the past three years. He had killed two of his neighbors in a dispute over pasture lands. Before the controversy, Erik had been a good friend of Bjarni’s father and Bjarni had grown up playing with Erik’s sons, Thorvald, Thorskeinn, and Leif, often getting into mischief with them.
Usually the boys preferred to be caught and punished by Bjarni’s father, who was much more soft-spoken in comparison to Erik, who had a temper to match his flaming red hair. Even when he was a child, to Bjarni, Erik had been the strongest, most intimidating man he had ever met. He possessed the spirit of a true leader, charismatic and bold, and he hated fools. It did not surprise Bjarni to hear now that Erik had returned and been able to persuade most of the village to follow him to a new land where he would be Chieftain.
“He’s calling this grand new frontier Greenland,” Guid said with a hint of skepticism. “People left their farms and took their trade.”
“How many ships?” Bjarni asked, unable to believe Garnissa and his father had gone without him.
“Twenty-five. They left late spring to settle well before winter.”
Twenty-five ships meant hundreds of people. Bjarni said nothing, his thoughts racing ahead as he weighed his options.
“Garnissa asked me to give you this.” Guid handed Bjarni a small object wrapped in hide.
Bjarni had opened the bundle to find the vegvísir, and his heart had quickened when he saw the stone’s intricate design. He would have recognized Garnissa’s hand anywhere—she was the finest carver in the village next to her mother. Leaving the gods’ compass with Guid had been the best message she could have sent: Come and find me.
Without question, Bjarni had decided to continue on to Erik the Red’s new land—a brash move considering winter was almost upon them and he did not know the way, nor would they be traveling with the support of other boats. And to make matters worse, he had twenty crewmen eager for land.
Keeping his face expressionless, Bjarni had tucked the stone into his belt. His crew could not know that he was trying to beat winter to Greenland because of a woman. The men would have taken their cargo and refused to sail.
Bjarni had gathered them on shore and looked each one of them in the eye. “Accompany me to this new paradise and see what you will gain. I promise a land of plenty as Erik’s described it, with boundless edibles and wildlife. The markets in Iceland have been slowly dying for years, the land overharvested … we are all restless for something better. Greenland promises a new beginning for those of us who are willing to grasp it. Come with me.” The men had grumbled but were game to follow him, and they had left port that same day.
Now they were lost at sea.
Bjarni did not believe in the magic of the Old Ways as Garnissa did, but he held on to the belief that her vegvísir would help him find his way. After two days of ceaseless battle with the storm, the crew was exhausted, sleep-deprived, and weary from bailing water to keep the ship afloat. Bjarni gripped the stone tighter. He was not ready to die just yet.
He yelled out over the wind, “Secure the spare sail to the mooring line! We’ll pitch it aft and make a droug!” Perhaps a crazy move in such a storm, but he saw no other choice.
All accomplished seamen, the men took action, knowing it was their captain’s final attempt to gain some control of the boat. They managed to lose speed but continued to sail on blindly.
Bjarni fought the wind to reach the tiller and relieved Olvir to man it himself. If any knarr could survive Odin’s storm it would be the Gata. He had built the boat with his own hands ten years ago, guided by his eldest uncle, the finest shipbuilder in all of Iceland. The trees had been carefully cho
sen from his father’s land and blessed by his mother. And when he and his uncle had split the first piece of wood for the helm, Bjarni had not looked away but had chosen to see the boat’s fate. Few men did.
“Look, boy. The wood split even and true,” his uncle announced, slapping his back in celebration. “I swear by the gods this boat will not shipwreck you.”
His mother had cried while the men laughed in relief. Bjarni bent down and picked up the two pieces, fitting them together perfectly.
“She will never fail you,” his uncle said solemnly. “Remember that.” And then the old man had walked off to build it.
The ship’s name had come to Bjarni on the morning it was ready to meet water—the Gata, which meant the road. His ship would be a road through the sea, and no vessel would travel it better.
True to his uncle’s words, the Gata did not fail him but rode out the storm until its fury broke on the third day, leaving only fog behind. Bjarni raised the sail to catch what wind he could and took out his sunstone to find the sun’s position. But even his treasured crystal could not help him. That night Polaris—the North Star—and its two pointer stars remained hidden as well. Odin was not through with him yet.
The Gata sailed for two more days. Fortunately, the crew had plenty of casks of fresh water and dried food for the journey, and the men took the time to rest. Only Tarr was discontent.
This was Bjarni’s first voyage with the man, and he had begun to question his decision to allow him passage, but he had been in need of an extra hand. Olvir had vouched for the stranger, though not with any conviction—Tarr had been a raider most of his life and bore the hardness of it in his eyes. Bjarni had heard tales of raiders since he was a child, of looting and murdering on foreign lands—how men skirted coasts and swiftly attacked sleepy villages, leaving behind only burned buildings and sorrow.
Tarr looked as if he could tell such stories. His skin was marred with scars from battle-axes and arrows, more so than most. He had paid for his passage on the Gata with wadmal and coin like the other men, but Bjarni could not help but feel that the moment his back was turned, Tarr’s knife would appear to rob him of both. It would be a hard fight if it came to pass—the men were both of equal height with strong builds, though the similarities between them ended there. Tarr was dark-haired to Bjarni’s blond, and where Bjarni’s eyes were warm and green like a forest in summer, Tarr’s were the palest blue ice and hid the same coldness.
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