Possessions

by Judith Michael

  "Could we sit down?" he asked and led the way to the couch where they sat at opposite ends, facing each other. Katherine could not take her eyes off him. Tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy stride, he had a narrow, tanned face that was stem in repose, then suddenly lightened by the warmth of his smile. His daric eyes were deep-set beneath heavy brows and unruly dark blond hair, and he wore his clothes with the confident air of a man accustomed to wealth. He was everything that Craig was not—and yet, somehow, the longer Katherine looked at him, the more he reminded her of Craig.

  "I'm sorry," she said, turning away, picking up a thread from the carpet. "I know I'm staring, but you remind me of . . . something about you reminds me of my husband. I don't know what it is, you're really quite different from Craig, but something about you . . ." She faltered. "It's absurd, I know; I suppose I'll see Craig everywhere, now that—" She stopped again and took a breath. "What is it you want?"

  Ross opened his briefcase and took out the newspaper folded at the picture he had been looking at on the plane. "I saw this yesterday in San Francisco." He held it out, but Katherine, recognizing it, made no move to take it. A little awkwardly, he put it on the couch between them. "I have a cousin," he began. "Or I had one. Craig Hay ward." From an inner pocket he pulled out a small photograph and laid it beside the news-

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  paper. 'This was taken in 1966, when he was twenty-two. He was home from college for the summer, in San Francisco. A month later he was killed in an accident. At least, we thought he was killed. But when we saw this newspaper, it seemed a good idea to talk to you."

  There was a silence. "YesT' Katherine said politely. Relief was sweeping through her and she barely glanced at the picture. He had nothing important to tell her. "I still don't know what you want from mc."

  "Some of my family," Ross said carefully, "think the two pictures are the same man."

  Katherine frowned. "I thought you said your cousin is dead."

  "We thought he was dead."

  "Well, it doesn't matter whether he is or not. My husband has nothing to do with him. He has a different name; he comes from Vancouver, not San Francisco; and he doesn't look anything like your picture. Even if he did, what would it mean? The world is full of people who look like other people and no one thinks anything of it. I'm sorry you've had a trip for nothing, but you're wasting your time, and mine, too, so if you'll please go—"

  "You're probably right," Ross agreed, but he stayed where he was, looking from the photograph to the newspaper picture and then around the room. "But as long as I'm here, I'd appreciate it if you'd answer a few questions. If you don't mind."

  "I do mind." There was something about his voice, too, that reminded her of Craig, and she was becoming uncomfortable.

  "Mrs. Fraser," said Ross quietly. "Do you really believe your husband told you everything about himself? Isn't it possible that he had some secrets from you, that he kept a part of himself separate—"

  "No!" Abrupdy, Katherine stood up, hating him for making her lie. "It is not possible and it is none of your business; nothing here is any of your business!"

  He sat still, looking up at her. "I want a few answers. Then I'll leave. The more you help me, the sooner that will be."

  "I can't help you! Can't you understand that? Can't you understand that I have no interest in you or your cousin? You said yourself there was probably nothing in it; what more do you want? You walk in here and accuse my husband of being someone else, which is ridiculous; you show me a picture that

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  doesn't look at all like him; and you expect me to let you talk all day about it? I have other things to think about and / want you to go. I don't even know why you came here, trying to upset us—"

  "I'm not here to upset you. I'm here because my grandmother sent me."

  The unexpectedness of it caught Katherine in mid-flight. She tried to picture Ross's grandmother—how old she must be!—sending him to Vancouver on a wild goose chase. Ross leaned forward. "You see, Victoria is absolutely certain this is her Craig, her grandson, and she asked me—instructed me," he added with a private smile of such tenderness that for a moment Katherine liked him. "Instructed me to drop everything and come to Vancouver to confirm it."

  "And if you found it wasn't true?"

  "I would tell her that and she would accept it. After all, she'd already lost him once."

  "Lx)st him." For the first time, Katherine picked up the picture and really looked at it. A thin young man, clean-shaven, wearing a sports shirt open at the neck, tilting his head and smiling, but with an air of sadness, as if a thought or a memory haunt^ him. Shakily, she sat down. The eyes were like Craig's. The face was Todd's.

  Ross was watching her. "You see why I wanted answers."

  Stalling while she tried to think, Katiierine asked, "What does that mean—lost him?"

  "He disappeared. There was a sailing accident in San Francisco Bay and we never saw him again. We assumed he drowned and was swept away. The current is especially strong near the Golden Gate Bridge, where it happened. But he was very strong—a champion long-distance runner in high school and college. It's possible that he was able to swim to shore. And then walk away."

  "But why would anyone do that?"

  "I don't know. Shock, perhaps. He'd jumped in the water to save his sister when she fell overboard."

  "And—did he?"

  Ross shook his head. "She died."

  "That's . . . terrible. But still—"

  "Her name was Jennifer."

  '*Oh." It was like a long sigh.

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  "And Craig never could face his own failures. He always ran away from them."

  The way your husband did. The unspoken words hovered in the quiet room. But we don't know that, Katherine argued silentiy; we don't even know if he's alive. She thrust the picture at Ross. "Your grandmother is wrong. It's nothing more than a resemblance. My husband didn't even have a grandmother, at least none that he knew. He had no family at all; he was an orphan, just as I was. It was one of the things we talked about: how much we wanted a family.'^

  "No family. Who brought him upT'

  "Oh, foster parents, but we meant we wanted a loving family. The Driscolls fed and clo±ed him but they didn't—"

  "The Driscolls? That was the name he gave you?"

  The note in his voice stopped her. "Do you know them?"

  "My cousin and I used to play a game—that we were kidnaped and gave our kidnapers such a hard time they paid us to escape from them. We made it up from an O'Henry story we liked, called 'The Ransom of R^ Chief.' One of the kidnapers in the story, and in our game, was named DriscoU."

  In the silence Katherine heard the pounding of her heart. It's because he's so serious, she thought; he makes these coincidences sound more important than they are. "I'm not interested in your childhood games," she said, making a move to stand up. "And if that's all you have to say, you'll really have to leave. We have so many things to do— "

  "You have nothing to do but wait," Ross said coldly. "Look, damn it, I don't like this any better than you do. I didn't even want to come up here—I thought it was a waste of time—but now I have the damndest feeUng that it's not. In any event, there are too many things I can't explain, and I don't like loose ends. I'd think you wouldn't either, don't you want to know the truth? I want your help; whatever you can give me—"

  "I can't give you anything!"

  "Photographs. Letters. A diary. Didn't your husband have a desk? Craig always had one at home, with everything sorted out, alphabetized, organized into neat packs held with rubber bands or pieces of string that he'd collect and wind around his fmger—"

  "So whatT' Katherine cried. "Millions of people organize their desks that way!"

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  "Or," he went on, watching her. "You can tell me what you thought when you looked at this picture. Todd. Is that right? I think it is; when I first saw him, I thought I was looking at Craig at that
age. Craig and I grew up together; he was only two years older—that would make him thirty-seven now; is that your husband's age?—and we were as close as brothers, especially since neither of us liked Derek, who really is my brother. Derek is one year older tiian I. We all came in a rush, as Victoria liked to say. Jennifer, too: if she'd lived, she'd be thirty-three now. And Todd is the image of Craig at seven or eight. Which is he?"

  "What?"

  "Todd. Is he seven or eight?"

  "Eight." Katherine walked to the arch that led to the entrance haU. Through the open front door she saw Todd and Jennifer sitting cross-legged on the grass, not talking, not moving. Waiting. For their father, for news of their father, for something to happen. She shivered. Something was happening. She turned back to Ross, thinking that she liked his face, its strong lines, the steady, absorbed way he looked at her, his smile when he talked about his grandmother. Briefly she wished they could like each other, because she had no one to talk to. No one had called, no one had come by, not even Sarah Murphy, since the newspaper story about the embezzlement had appeared two days ago. But there was no way Ross could be their friend.

  "I want you to leave," she said again. He was silhouetted against the wall of windows and she could not see his face; when he did not answer she went on. "You've told me your story, this crazy story that you're determined to believe, no matter what I think. Well, I'll tell you what I think. I'm sure there was a Craig Hayward who resembles my son, but it's just a coincidence and that's your problem, not mine. I married Craig Eraser, I've lived with him for ten years and / know him. You can't walk in here and tell me I don't know my own husband, that he's kept a lifetime of secrets from me about San Francisco and a grandmother and an entire family I never heard of. Do you think I'm a child? I'm sorry you're disappointed, but not one word you've said is the truth . . . well, I suppose you do have a cousin named Craig, or you did, but nothing else is true, nothing else, nothing else ..."

  Her words fell away in the silent room. Ross walked toward 35

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  her and she saw his dark eyes, oddly gentle in his stem face. His voice, when he spoke, was so quiet it took her a minute to feel the impact of his words. "My cousin, Craig Hay ward, his sister Jennifer, my brother Derek and I grew up in San Francisco, in a neighborhood called Sea Cliff, and spent our weekends swinmiing or sailing or hiking in the mountains. Craig always said that someday he would build a house high up, with a curved wall of windows overlooking mountains— or water."

  Instinctively, Katherine looked past him, through the curved windows, at the sunlit bay at the base of their hill.

  "He read a lot," Ross went on. "Mostly spy stories and histories. He was good with his hands and liked to make wood carvings, especially figures of people. But his favorite carvings were the soapstone ones made by Eskimos. Like this one." He picked up an eight-inch black whale that Craig had bought a year ago from Hank Aylmer, a friend who bought carvings in Eskimo villages to sell in the United States.

  Katherine closed her eyes, wishing Ross Hay ward gone. He waited, and in the dense silence, she feh the force of Craig's absence. She had been too bewildered, too busy making telephone calls and talking to the police and trying to deal with Jennifer and Todd to feel the reality of it, but in that moment the fiill impact struck her. She stood in her house and Craig was nowhere in it. She felt him everywhere but he was nowhere. It was not the same as saying: Craig isn't in the living room or the dining room or even in Vancouver. It was as if she had to say, Craig is not.

  Didn't this man understand that that was what she had to think about? Why did he force this relentless outpouring of information on her when she had to think about a house without Craig? She opened her eyes to tell him, but as soon as she did, he began talking again.

  "And my cousin liked the construction business. We were in it together: our grandfather, Hugh, who died in 1964; his sons Jason and Curt; and the three of us—Craig was Jason's son; Derek and I are Curl's sons. Every sunmier we worked in our family's company; we'd done it since we were kids, sweeping out offices, doing errands, tagging along on site inspections, later helping with blueprints. Craig loved it; he couldn't wait to finish college and work fiiU time. He was on

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  a job with my father the summer Jemiifer was killed and he disappeared. Are there any photographs in the desk in that room?"

  Trembling, Katherine folded her arms rigidly to keep her body still. She didn't have to tell him anything. Without her help, he would have to leave; she would never see him again; she could forget he'd ever been here.

  But she knew it was too late for that. Because he was right: she did want to know the truth. Walking around him, she went into the study and took from the top drawer of Craig's desk the picture she had found. Wordlessly, she handed it to him and together they looked at the lovely girl laughing in the sunlight.

  Ross let out a long breath. "Dear God." Once again he opened his briefcase and handed Katherine another picture, this one of four people on a sailboat: Ross on deck, hoisting the sail; the young Craig of the first picture at the wheel; a stranger, handsome and aloof, in the cockpit, and beside him the lovely girl, shading her eyes as she watched the sail rise up the mast.

  "Jennifer," Ross said simply. "Craig's sister."

  Chapter 4

  R

  EREK Hayward refilled his glass with the special Scotch his grandmother kept on hand for his visits and looked thoughtfully across the room at the woman his brother had foisted on the family: a Canadian housewife as out of place in Victoria's elegant home as a field mouse among orchids. Katherine Fraser. Wife of Craig Fraser. Who, if Ross had it straight, was in fact their cousin Craig Hayward. Long gone, long forgotten. They'd thought.

  Why the hell had Ross been in such a hurry to bring her here? Without giving them a chance to talk about her, even to get used to the idea of her, he decided on his own to invite her and her offspring to meet them. And without a whimper Victoria went along. So here they were—a family dinner. Even Jason and Ann, coming out of hiding in Maine to meet Katherine Fraser and hear about their son, their golden boy. Who, after all, hadn't drowned fifteen years ago. Who had only run away. And now, it seemed, had done it again.

  Derek smiled thinly. Trust Craig, he thought, to act like Craig. Absently swirling his Scotch, he watched Katherine as she talked to the rest of the family, and wondered what she was like beneath that drab facade. There had to be more, he

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  thought; Craig had always liked good-looking women. But this one had no poise or sophistication, no glamour, no beauty . . . well, maybe. Good bone structure in her face, unusual eyes—might be interesting if she fixed herself up and stood straight instead of dragging down every line of her face and body. He shrugged. What difference did it make? If she really was Cousin Craig's wife—and the photograph she'd shown Ross seemed to prove it—the only thing that mattered was that she was here, a stand-in for her husband, and they'd have to find out what she wanted from them, and what she really knew about Craig.

  Tlie others were clustered about her at one end of the vast drawing room of Victoria's penthouse. Almost fifteen years since they were all together, but still they were more interested in Craig's wife than in each other. Even absent, the son of a bitch managed to make himself the center of attention. Something else he'd always done.

  Derek looked away, giving the room a cursory inspection as he did on every visit, to make sure Victoria was keeping the place up. It was worth a fortune; far more than the fortune that had been spent on it since his grandfather bought the top two floors of the building and reniodeled them twenty-five years ago. The old man had been a genius, Derek reflected. Lx)ng before restoration became chic, he made the Hay ward name famous for the kind of expensive custom work that rebuilt without destroying the best of the old. And everything he knew went into his own home, fi-om the smallest carved moldings to the huge marble fireplaces and the ceiling-high Tiffany window. Superb workmanship.
It had been at the heart of every lesson Hugh Hayward's grandsons learned under his direction and still remembered and used, even if it was in the modem glass and steel towers that Derek preferred. At least, Derek amended, I remember, and I suppose Ross does. Who knows what Craig remembers?

  Craig again. Always there. Intruding. Across the room, that Canadian housewife stood between Ross and Victoria, reminding everyone that he was alive and could turn up any day. Possibly in Vancouver but, now that Ross had brought her here, just as likely in San Francisco, back to their big happy family and the construction company that Derek had been running for years without interference.

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  "A fearsome, ferocious frown," Melanie commented lightly, coming up beside him. "Who's the latest target?" She followed his gaze. "Oh. Ross's new toy."

  He took a moment to approve her sleek good looks and the curve of her silk dress, then asked casually, "And what do you make of her?"

  She pursed her lips. "A good wife never comments on her husband's toys."

  "My dear Melanie, you know better than to suggest that my brother collects other women. Or plays with them." Shifting his glass, his hand brushed her bare arm. "If you're looking for reasons to divorce him, you'll have to look elsewhere."

  "And if I find someT'

  "It would amaze us all." He watched Ross bring Katherine a glass of wine.

  "Amaze you! Haven't I told you, over and over— T

  **Over and over." He smiled at her. "Proving how easy it is to complain about a husband without giving up his bank account."

  "Derek, Melanie," said Tobias, behind them. "Deep in a sinister plot?"

  "Exchanging recipes," Derek said smoothly. "How are you, Tobias? Still well? Still writing your book on—what was it? Cannibalism?"

  "Love," Tobias corrected cheerfully. "I think you have them confused, Derek." His blue eyes were wide and innocent above the neat white beard that quivered as he spoke. "And then of course, the family history, as you also know. Perhaps I should interview you for both books. With your unique viewpoint—"