by J. R. Ward
But solitude was not the same thing as being left behind, she thought.
She tried to imagine how Blair would react to the news that Jack had kissed another woman. Of course he’d say it meant nothing, that it was a mistake, that it would never happen again. How else could he possibly explain himself? She wondered whether the woman would cry and throw him out. Or did she have ice in her veins like his mother?
Part of her wanted to blame Jack and get angry at him for putting all three of them in such a bad situation. But she couldn’t ignore her own role in the farce. The night before last he had been trying to resist kissing her in the kitchen. She’d been the one pulling him down to her mouth, so she was hardly an injured innocent. She was complicit, and the idea that she’d damaged someone else’s relationship made her sick. The adage that there had to be something inherently wrong between two people for infidelity to occur just rang hollow.
There were few things in Callie’s life that she truly regretted. But sitting in the clear morning light, surrounded by things that reminded her of Jack, she wished she had never met the man. She could have so easily gone about her life, perfectly happy in her cocoon of seclusion.
Instead, she was torn up.
As she continued to think about Jack, all sorts of scenes came to mind, none of them easy to bear. When she felt as though she’d been sitting forever, she checked the clock. Only half an hour had passed.
How was she going to get through the day? Or worse, the night? Even though she hated herself for it, she knew she was just killing time until Jack returned. And as with the distinction between being by herself and feeling abandoned, there was a tremendous difference between understanding that he had another woman and knowing that he was actually with her.
Callie thought of all those times she’d watched her mother wait for a visit that was canceled. All those evenings that had been spent sitting by a phone that never rang. All of the betrayals, large and small, that came with being number two. Her mother had lived less than half a life as she’d held on to a man who was never truly hers. After so many years of seeing the effects of the relationship, Callie had thought for sure she’d learned by a bad example and would never put herself in such a position.
She closed her eyes and leaned her cheek back against the stained glass, struck by a scene from childhood.
It had been her birthday. She’d just turned nine. Her mother had prepared a vanilla cake with chocolate icing and told her to set their small Formica table with three place settings. Callie had known what that meant and had barely been able to control her excitement.
He was coming. This time, her father was really coming.
In a role reversal, her mother had helped her pick out a dress to wear and they had spent time curling her hair and putting it up into bows. Her mother’s mood had been light that day and Callie had taken pains to revel in it, fully aware it wouldn’t last.
The good times rarely did.
They’d been sitting in the living room, her mother flipping through the same magazine over and over, Callie forced to play with her stuffed animals on the chair instead of the floor because of her dress, when the phone rang. She’d stopped moving as her mother had picked up and said a few terse words. The frozen smile sent back at Callie had meant that plans had changed and her mother was trying to be good and not yell in front of her.
Her mother had retreated into her bedroom, dragging the phone behind her, and quickly shut the door. As muffled, angry words seeped out, Callie had gone into the kitchen and over to the extra place setting at the table. She’d picked up the napkin she’d so carefully folded, the stainless steel knife, and the mismatching fork and spoon, and put them all away. She hadn’t been able to reach high enough to get his plate back in the cupboard, so she’d hidden it under the sink.
Her mother had emerged sometime later, red-eyed and blotchy in the face. The cake had been brought out, the candles lit and extinguished, the presents unwrapped, but it had been no party.
Callie had gone to bed early only to be woken up much later when the door to her room had opened. The light from the hall had sliced across her blankets and her mother had stood in the beam, her slim figure a dark silhouette. The first thing Callie had noticed was that her mother’s hair, which had been put up neatly in an elaborate bun earlier in the evening, had fallen into disarray. A halo of errant strands fanned out around her head, making her look like she was wearing a messy crown.
“Get up, Callie.” Her mother’s voice had trembled with urgency.
“What’s wrong?”
“We’ve got to go out.” Her mother had gone over to the dresser and started to pull out sweaters and pants, tossing them in disarray onto the floor. “Come on. Hurry. Put something on.”
Callie had known better than to ask any more questions. When her mother was like that, the easiest thing was to do as she was told. And that night, the anger vibrating in the air had been as bad as she’d ever seen it.
Out on the street, in the cold January wind, her mother had hailed a cab. As they squeezed inside, she’d barked out an address that Callie didn’t recognize. During the ten-minute trip, the cab surged and halted through traffic lights and she’d wished she was back home. She kept thinking about her warm bed to distract herself from the way the taxi smelled and how her mother was muttering under her breath.
The cab had pulled over in front of a big private home in a neighborhood that was much better than the one they lived in. In this part of town, there was no trash in the gutters and all of the grand houses were decorated for the holidays. Each one had a pretty wreath with a velvet bow on its front door and Christmas trees twinkled through wide, clean windows.
Her mother had grabbed her hand and marched up the stairs of the mansion. When they’d gotten to the glossy front door, her mother had reached for the knocker and Callie had hoped she didn’t break it. It was a golden lion’s head with a ring in the nose, more majestic than scary.
Her mother had raised the ring and Callie had braced herself for when it was slammed down. But her mother had stopped. She’d just stood there, frozen in time, one hand on the brass knocker raised high, the other gripping Callie’s arm.
As the pressure of her mother’s grip cut off circulation, Callie had let out a whimper. “Mommy, you’re hurting me.”
Her mother had looked down and blinked, as if wondering what Callie was doing there with her. And then the door opened, ripping the knocker from her mother’s hand. The ring fell with a sharp sound.
On the other side was a couple like the ones Callie had seen in the newspaper or on the TV. The lady had been wearing a long, dark fur coat and the man had been dressed in a tuxedo with a white scarf around his neck.
They seemed as surprised as her mother did.
“Good evening,” the man had said, bending slightly at the waist. He held the door open even wider and warmth rushed out of the house along with a pool of light. As his wife had stepped onto the stoop, he’d patiently stood to one side. “Madam?”
“We’re not . . .” Her mother had paused. “We’re not going in.”
The man had frowned and then the woman had prompted him with a tug on his arm. Before the door had closed, Callie had gotten a brief glimpse of some of the people inside. They all looked so beautiful. Like dolls on a wedding cake, she’d thought.
While her mother stared off into the distance, Callie had watched the couple walk two doors down and disappear into another fancy house with a pretty wreath. She would have liked to explore the neighborhood, but the icy wind was cutting through her coat and she’d started to shiver. She’d wondered why her mother wasn’t cold. She hadn’t even put a coat on over her dress.
“Mommy? Can we go home now?”
“Yes.”
Her mother had started back down to the street, all the while staring through the big windows of the mansion. Before she had followed, Callie had stood on her tiptoes, trying to figure out what her mother was so fascinated by.
And then she’d seen her father.
“That’s Daddy!” She’d jumped with excitement. “Let’s go see Daddy.”
Her mother had quickly hushed her. “Come on.”
“I want to go to Daddy!”
Her mother had run up the stairs and urged her along. Callie’s voice had risen to a whine. “But why can’t we see Daddy—”
Suddenly, her mother was down on her level.
“I said no! ” she’d hissed, grabbing onto Callie’s shoulders and shaking her. “We are not going in there. Do you understand? He had his chance to see you tonight but he blew it!”
Callie had burst into tears.
“Then why did we come?” she’d sobbed.
Her mother had instantly stopped. With a sad moan, she’d crushed Callie to her chest.
“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so very sorry.”
With a start, Callie came back to the present. Her father never had come to see her on her birthday. He’d had twenty-seven tries at it, but hadn’t shown up once.
She let out her breath and pushed the hair from her face.
God, she hated remembering the past. It did awful things to her chest, making her feel like she was breathing through a rag stuffed down her throat.
Hopping off the window seat, she threw on some clothes and headed to the studio. When she got up to the garage, she decided to put on some music and work on the documents. She flipped through the CD collection by the stereo and decided that Norah Jones was not going to be a good call, not unless she wanted to cry all day long. When some big band swing was coming from the rafters, she went to the bin she’d pulled over to the couch and sat down.
She’d started to arrange the papers chronologically and it was a fascinating menagerie. Handwritten receipts for goods from the 1800s. A purchase contract for the tract of land on which Buona Fortuna now stood from 1871. A diploma from Harvard with the name Phillip Constantine Walker and the date 1811 on it. A scrap of paper with a scrawled Walker signature.
Reaching blindly into the box, she pulled out a pile of paper and put it on her lap. The top sheet was the beginning of a household inventory and she smiled as she read down the list of beds, linens, and dressers. The valuations were incredible, twenty dollars for a mahogany bureau and ten cents for a blanket. Going by the handwriting and the kind of paper, which was similar to others she’d seen, she figured it was probably from the late 1800s and was a record of Buona Fortuna. She hoped she found the rest of the document.
Five more pages of the inventory followed, one about kitchenware.
The next sheet of paper was a surprise. It was older and the script was difficult to read, the slanted words and faded ink almost impossible to decipher. She squinted and stared at the page.
Whilst I waited, seeing not your face coming to my window but only shadows, I pondered love and laid bare thoughts of great loss. To forge independence, I give myself to the war before us, but I cannot yield to the sacrifice without you. I waited in vain and now must go north, to Concord, with my men. Worry not. Our secret is safe. Your general will never know. Not from me.
N. W.
Callie read it again and looked over at the painting with surprise.
Could it be the first Nathaniel? Writing on the way to the Battle of Concord?
Or was she seeing hoofprints and thinking zebras again?
She put the letter aside and rushed through the rest of the papers on her legs, scanning the sheets without bothering to sort them. She put her hand into the bin again and again, but two hours later, she hit the bottom without finding the letter’s first page.
“Damn it.”
Her mind churned over the fragment’s content again. Her knowledge of American history was average. Of course she knew who Nathaniel Walker was and she remembered a little about the Battle of Concord. But who was the general he’d gone into battle with?
Grace, she thought. Grace would know.
Callie got to her feet and headed for the house, intent on getting her address book from her room.
As she came into the kitchen, Elsie was looking clearly distraught while talking to Thomas.
“What’s wrong?” Callie asked.
Elsie’s eyes went to Thomas, who was standing at the sink and rinsing spinach.
The man gave a resigned shrug. “Mr. Walker died five years ago today. The missus has a hard time with it every year.”
Callie was surprised. It was a little hard to imagine Jack’s mother mourning anything.
Thomas turned back to Elsie. “Try Côte Basque. Tell Billy I sent you. He owes me and he’ll fit her in. Then call Curt Thorndyke’s mother, Fiona. The two of them will reminisce and she’ll like that.”
Elsie took a deep breath. “Okay.”
“And don’t take what she said personally. You know how she is.”
“Yes. I do. But frankly, when she gets like this, I don’t really care.”
After the other woman left, Thomas said, “I was about to take a message up to you. Gray Bennett called. His number’s on that pad over there.”
“Oh, thanks. I did hear the phone ring up in the garage, but I don’t feel right about answering it.” She tore off the sheet, thinking tonight would be a perfect night to go out with him. Anything to take her mind off Jack.
She was on her way out when she remembered what Gray had said about Nathaniel Six. “I know this isn’t any of my business, but what was he like? Mr. Walker, I mean?”
Thomas turned off the water and braced himself against the counter with his hip.
“He did a lot of good for a lot of people. And he loved Mrs. Walker. Used to say she was his finest creation.” There was a pause and Callie couldn’t tell whether he was trying to recall the past or choose his words carefully. “He was a handsome guy. Great athlete. Died real quick. Woke up one morning, feeling fine. Twenty minutes later, they found him dead in the shower. Brain aneurysm. He was just gone.”
Although the tone was casual, the man was shaking his head as if he regretted the loss.
“He treated me real good. I met him when he was staying in Osterville for the summer. I’d just gotten out of the Navy and had a job as a caddy at the Wianno Club. One afternoon in July, I carried his bag for him. It sure was hot that day. A hundred degrees out and not a breath of wind, but he was bound and determined to finish eighteen holes. The rest of his foursome and their caddies wilted, but he and I made it all the way around. After that, he wouldn’t let anyone else carry his bag. It was he and I, all summer long. Got to the end of August and he asked me what I wanted to do. I told him I liked to cook and he got me into the Culinary Institute of America on scholarship, one that I suspect he set up just for me. When I got out, I worked in some restaurants in New York City and I was damn good. Until I lost my arm.”
Thomas looked down at himself. “One unlucky move on a motorcycle and I went from being on top of the world to someone who couldn’t unscrew a bottle on his own.”
His smile was measured and she couldn’t guess at what he’d had to go through to overcome the injury.
“Anyway, after I recovered, I got a letter from him. We’d always kept in touch. I was honest about what had happened. Two days later he called and offered me a job as his personal chef. That was near about thirty years ago. Pay’s good. Got my own kitchen. I’m a happy man.”
The man offered a lopsided grin, as if embarrassed he’d said so much.
She smiled back at him. “You sound like you miss him.”
“Yeah, I guess I do. He was good to me even if he could be . . . difficult with others.” Thomas clamped his mouth shut. “Listen, if you want a phone with a private line, go to the library.”
Callie thanked him, and when she came back downstairs with her address book, she found the room, sat in a leather club chair, and picked up the phone. When Gray answered, he asked her out for dinner at seven and she agreed.
Next, she called the Hall Foundation and Grace’s assistant put her right through.
“Callie! H
ow are you? I just got back from a trip and I was about to call you at Jack’s this very minute. I’m so excited that you took the job.”
“And I owe you some thanks for the good word you put in for me.”
“It was the least I could do. How are you and Nathaniel getting along?”
“We’re doing quite well. He’s quiet, but his eyes follow me everywhere.”
Grace laughed. “How’s the rest of the family treating you?”
Callie dropped her voice. “Mrs. Walker is a bit of a challenge.”
“I can only imagine. And Jack?”
“He’s good. Okay. Yup, definitely fine. But how are you?”
There was a pause.
“Not all that well, to tell you the truth. I feel like everyone I know is trying to sell off a piece of me. My ex-husband is threatening to write a tell-all book about our marriage, in spite of the confidentiality provisions of our separation agreement. My former chief development officer was shopping around an exposé about the Hall Foundation and I had to level an injunction against him. And a doorman has picked up a ghostwriter and is going to write his memoirs about working in my building. Which will of course include details about me and my marriage.”
Callie shook her head. “Grace, that’s awful, especially considering what you’ve just been through. You must be exhausted.”
“I am. With all these book proposals swirling around, the press is worked up. ‘No comment’ is becoming my middle name.” There was a pause. “You know, Callie, you’re the one who could do the most damage to me, to the Hall Foundation, to my mother. You could so easily cash in on your story and blow our father’s reputation sky-high, but you haven’t. I can’t tell you what that means to me.”
Callie smiled with gratitude.
“I would never betray you, Grace. I’m not going to say anything to anybody. Ever. You can trust me.”
“You know, I’ve had a lot of people tell me that over the years. But coming from you, I actually believe it.” Grace fell silent for a moment. “Trust is not something I’ve had a lot of experience with. Except for Ross, and now you.”
