An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
www.ellorascave.com
Shadows in the Mist
ISBN 9781419915895
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Shadows in the Mist Copyright © 2008 Maureen McMahon
Edited by Helen Woodall.
Cover art by Croco.
Electronic book Publication May 2008
The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Shadows in the Mist
Maureen McMahon
Dedication
To my husband, Peter, and my children, James and KatyAnne, for their endless love and support, and in memory of my father, Foster Brandon, whose faith and encouragement kept my dreams alive.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Business Week: McGraw-Hill, Inc.
Cinderella: Disney Enterprises, Inc.
Jell-O: Kraft Foods Holdings, Inc.
Mazda: Mazda Motor of America, Inc.
Maserati: Ferrari S.P.A. Joint Stock Company
Mercedes: DaimlerChrysler AG Corporation
New York Times: New York Times Company
Prologue
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the shadow.
Thomas Stearns Eliot, The Hollow Men
Looking back, I realize the first time the apparition appeared to me was the night of my father’s death. At the time, I thought it was my imagination or some strange hallucination but now I know otherwise.
I rented the cabin as a retreat. The seclusion was meant to force me into completing a second novel I was commissioned to write. Instead, it simply served to accentuate the prickling sense of disquiet that had afflicted me for months. After my arrival, I did a lot of pacing, a lot of smoking and a lot of thinking but my laptop still lay untouched in its leather case.
It happened on the second night. The cabin, hidden deep in Michigan’s Manistee Forest, was rustic to a fault. There was no phone, the electricity worked when it felt like it and the water tended to change color daily. There was a chill in the air that night. A mist had worked its way down through the trees and settled in opaque gauze close to the ground. I lit a fire in the ample fireplace and it crackled warmly but still I shivered.
I was drawn to the window. Had I heard something? Was it the wind creaking in the boughs? Or the snap of a twig? I turned out the lamp so I could see more clearly into the darkness beyond. The firelight danced, making shadows flick across the walls and ceiling. I cupped my hands and peered out through the glass.
The mist slithered between the close-packed pines and cloaked the thick underbrush. Fingers of it stretched up trunks and crept across the meager plot in front of the cabin. The pine boughs hung heavy and still. There wasn’t a breath of wind to stir them. The night blackness was dense and impermeable, the tangled forest canopy allowing not a trace of moonlight or starlight. The fire glow from my window cut a shimmering rectangle across the needle-strewn yard and lit the encroaching mist into spectral patterns.
My eyes found him immediately, dark against the swirling fog but somewhat indistinct amid the shadows of night and forest. It was the figure of a man—faceless, featureless. He didn’t move but I felt his intensity. It reached out to me and beckoned me, pleaded with me—beseeched me with silent urgency.
Surprisingly, I wasn’t afraid. Something in me responded. I wanted to go to him, to comfort him but my body was frozen and my limbs were numb. So instead, I opened my mind and, in the deepest recesses of my consciousness, I felt him touch me. The touch chilled me, turned my insides to pulp and left me reeling and dizzy. And if I were to translate the touch, it would spell two words. Two words screamed like a banshee wind in a hurricane of agony and desperation. The words “Help me!”
Chapter One
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget
Text by Christina Rosetti. Set by John Ireland. When I Am Dead, My Dearest
I hit the stop button and pulled the tape out of the machine abruptly. David handed me the plastic case.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Sure,” I lied, fumbling with the cover, feeling unreasonable irritation over his penchant for such ancient and sentimental recordings. “Are we nearly there?” It was a stupid question. I knew the roads as well as he did.
He took no notice. “Nearly there,” he said.
Good old reliable David—always calm, always predictable. I was glad it was him who had told me. He’d always been able to soothe. On this occasion, though, there wasn’t much he could do to lighten the blow.
“Your father had a terrible accident, Suzanna,” he’d said. “I’m afraid he’s…dead.”
His voice had been emotionless. The words slipping from his lips, like acid over steel. My first impulse was to laugh. The thought of Leopold Dirkston being mortal like the rest of us was preposterous. Yet I knew David would certainly not joke about something as macabre as my father’s death. Disbelief was immediately replaced by horror.
“How?” I asked. We were sitting in the cabin. He’d appeared on my doorstep without warning and I knew before he even opened his mouth that something was amiss.
“I’m afraid it was just one of those horrible things, darling. I found him in the swimming pool. He must have fallen and hit his head and…”
I tried, without success, to visualize this fantastic concept.
“You found him?”
“Yes. Colin and I stopped by to go over some business and, well, he was just floating there in the pool. We pulled him out and started CPR right away. For a while we even thought…” He made a helpless gesture. “Dad came over right away and rode with him in the ambulance but I’m afraid he died on the way.”
I didn’t hear the rest. An anthill of thoughts burst open and I felt my head reel with the effort to focus.
“I’m sorry, Suzanna.”
He reached over and his long fingers engulfed mine with a warm, dry strength I found unbearable. My eyes lifted to his face and I saw that, for the first time in my life, David couldn’t comfort me. This thought sent a bolt of panic through me and I snatched my hand away and fled to the bathroom to be sick.
That was only a few
hours ago. I’d had no choice but to pack my few things and head for home. Now it was just after one a.m. and the towering steel gates of Beacon, Leo’s estate, had just come into view. I wasn’t eager to be back. I’d grown to resent Beacon nearly as much as I resented its creator. At times I wondered if it was, in fact, some sort of extraneous limb of my father’s. A few locations remained untainted by his dynamic personality. There was High Dune, my bedroom, the lighthouse—these places were mine and mine alone. Just knowing they were there waiting made my homecoming more palatable.
David pressed a button on the intercom affixed to the gatepost. “It’s me, John,” he said.
I could see the security guard peer out the window of the small gatehouse and, recognizing David’s car, waved acknowledgment. Seconds later, the gates slid open, allowing us to pass.
I hadn’t met John. I did know we employed two guards at Beacon, one to screen visitors at the front gate and one to patrol the grounds. Grant Fenton looked after that side of things. Even if I didn’t see them, I always knew the guards were there, so it was impossible to feel completely private.
“You said he asked for me?” I was still searching for answers.
David glanced in my direction. “Yes. He seemed to come to for a moment, just before the ambulance arrived. He said your name. That was all.”
“But why? Why would he?” I felt sick again.
David’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Dad says he’s sure it was an accident, Suzanna. Leo had had a few drinks, stumbled on something by the pool, fell and hit his head on the concrete edge.”
I frowned. Leo didn’t have accidents. He’d built an empire by using good judgment and sound logic. He rose from the slums of Chicago to a position as owner and president of one of the largest shipping firms on the Great Lakes. No, I couldn’t believe he simply made a fatal “mistake”. But if not an accident, then what? Once again I shivered, afraid to follow the path my instincts chose. Instead, I took a different approach.
“Did he have a lot to drink?”
David shrugged. “I don’t know. Dad seemed to think so. You know how it once was…after your mother died? We believe if he was sober, he might not have stumbled.”
I hesitated. “Was he…was he drinking often? I mean since I left?”
He didn’t answer right away and I noticed his lips tighten. Finally, he looked at me. “Suzanna, don’t do this to yourself. It wasn’t your fault. It was an accident, that’s all—a tragic accident. Blaming yourself will do no one any good.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
He let out his breath in exasperation. “Okay, okay… Yes, I suppose you could say he was drinking more than usual! But it wasn’t as much or as often as before.”
My palms began to perspire and I gripped the door handle, remembering the last time I saw my father.
* * * * *
“A writer? You want to be a writer?”
He sat behind his heavy mahogany desk and stared at me as if I’d just announced I wanted to have my leg amputated for cosmetic purposes. The huge wall of glass behind him looked out over the bay and South Chicago’s Calumet district. With the sun framing him, he looked like Thor, ready to hurl his golden hammer and smite the traitor before him.
I didn’t flinch, forcing myself to be calm. After all, I expected this, didn’t I?
His hair was thick and clung together in gray bouffant perfection, dramatically streaked with black. With wry amusement, I noticed he’d let his sideburns grow and was now sporting a moustache. Despite all his Old World ideals, he still wanted to keep up with the younger set.
“Yes, Dad.” My voice was steady and I lifted my chin, a gesture intrinsically his. “I’ve had a novel accepted by Charlotte Press in New York. It’s to be released in a few months.”
I was excited but I tried not to sound like a schoolgirl on her first date. This contract was the realization of my greatest dream. I was being accepted as a writer on my own merits without benefit of any influence from my father or his powerful name. With this goal achieved, I was now ready to take on the world.
“They told me they might be interested in second novel,” I added, as if it would make any difference.
“Charlotte Press.” He said the name as if it were melting ice cream. “What the hell do they publish? Comic books?”
I felt my resolve begin to crumple. “They publish—” It was too late. I knew what he would say and finished the sentence in barely a whisper, “Romances.” I chewed my lower lip.
His bushy eyebrows flew up and he burst into laughter.
Molten rage welled up inside me and I turned on my heel to go.
“Wait, Suzie!” He struggled to regain his composure. He blew his nose and wiped his eyes, still chuckling. “Romances,” he repeated to himself.
I stood woodenly. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of responding to his outburst.
“Well,” he said, his mirth now under control, “this is a surprise! And has dear David helped you research this romance of yours?” His sarcasm wasn’t lost. It was a vulgar thing to say and I knew he was baiting me for a fight. Instead, I chose to ignore the implication, telling myself he must indeed feel threatened to resort to such cruel tactics.
“I wish you’d try to understand,” I said, my voice much calmer than I felt. “If you love me like you keep telling me you do…” I stopped. Now I was sinking to his level.
His voice cut in like a thunderclap.
“Don’t you give me that, young lady! Everything I’ve ever done was for you—and your mother, God rest her.” A fleeting shadow passed over his face and as quick as his anger had erupted, it abated. He leaned back in his chair, drained and suddenly old. He gazed at me, puzzled.
“Why won’t you come to me?” he asked. “Hell, I’d buy the damn publishing company for you if that’s what you want! Why do you have to grovel?”
I sighed. It was no use. How could I ever make him see I had my own ambitions—needed to earn my own applause? He was so very brilliant in his own world of import, export and finance and yet so very naїve when it came to simple human nature.
As I looked into his confused eyes, I felt like weeping. “I’m sorry, Daddy.” It was all I could manage and the helplessness of that utterance only served to widen the vast chasm gaping between us. I could now see with pinpoint clarity that we would always be strangers.
* * * * *
That was almost six months ago. Since then, I’d been back to Beacon only once and stayed for less than three hours. Leo was away—a meeting in Amsterdam or something. I couldn’t remember. I’d only returned to collect some of my things and made certain I wouldn’t have to face him again. Tears trickled down my cheeks now as I realized we’d never again have the opportunity to patch up our differences.
David guided the car down the long gravel approach. The house towered before us, a huge crouching lioness, impervious to wind or weather. Gardens curled around a sleeping fountain. The flagpole stood stark against the night sky, its empty rope clanking out a rhythm in the steady breeze blowing in off Lake Michigan. The only signs of life were the lights pouring from the downstairs windows and the floodlights that illuminated the circular approach and portions of the carport and garage.
David pulled his aging Mercedes around in front of the steps and I glanced at him, wondering what he was thinking. His face was shadowed and expressionless. I gave a mental sigh. It was this very inscrutability that had attracted me to him in the first place. David was always a paradox, a tower of unreadable complexity, a challenge to my insatiable curiosity.
However, after a nine-year relationship fraught with continuous power struggles and unresolved conflicts, I had somehow lost any desire to understand him. As much as I admired him and wished I could be like him, marriage to him would be a big mistake and I knew I was wise to break off the engagement. Still, whenever I looked at him, I felt that dull ache of loss and wished again there was some way that we could make it work.
/> Feeling my eyes on him, he turned and half-smiled. “Here we are. I’ll let you off and look after your things. Colin and Alicia are inside with Grant. They wanted to wait up for you.”
He held open the door and I sighed and stepped out. My eyes found his and, for once, our thoughts found common ground. He took me into his arms and held me close. I squeezed my eyes shut to keep the tears back, wishing I could stay there forever, safe from the confrontations waiting inside.
His lips brushed my hair, then he put me away from him. “It’ll be all right,” he said. “You’ll see.”
I nodded acquiescence and took a deep breath to bolster my wavering courage.
The great sweeping veranda of Beacon spread out before me, skirted on all sides by gleaming white steps. I mounted them with leaden feet, conscious of the stone lions’ crouch, their malevolent eyes watching me from beneath all ten of the slim white pillars. I shivered. The ponderous, solid oak door was adorned with another lion’s head, this one gripping a huge iron knocker in its mouth. I tried not to look at it, fumbling in my purse for my keys.
Without warning, the door swung open and light streamed out blinding me.
“Suzanna, dear! I thought I heard David’s car. It does make such a racket. It’s just as well we don’t have close neighbors. They’d certainly complain, don’t you think? Oh, my, you must be simply devastated! All this is just too shocking!”
“Alicia,” I managed to slip in as she drew a breath. “How are you?”
I endured her embrace accompanied by the inevitable clink and chink of a dozen bangles and the smell of heavy musk I guessed she bathed in daily. Stepping past her into the foyer, I scanned the familiar surroundings, ignoring her continuing prattle.
The entrance hall was impressive, to say the least. The floor was a mirror of onyx tiles, black marbled with gold. The ceiling was vaulted and decorated to excess with coffers of plaster cherubs and nymphs, all delicately gilded and framed with twining grapevines or roses. A wide staircase, carpeted in immaculate, impractical white, swept up to the second floor gallery. Near me, against the wall, a rare Grecian urn was displayed on a marble pedestal. The roses in it were wilting and a few petals lay scattered on the floor. If Leo were here, those roses would not have been allowed to reach such a state. It was tangible proof things weren’t as they should be.
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