by Sylvie Kurtz
Spinning away from the scene of the mirage, she forced herself to concentrate on the collection of Currier & Ives prints, showing off the same scene of a country lane and pond in four seasons. The house in the background looked remarkably like Moongate Mansion. Maybe she could use them as a montage to show the passage of time.
“That’s better.” Work was her salvation. When it came to work, her fate was in her hands, not in some monster’s from a dream. She could do this. She’d done it hundreds of times before. The only pressure on her was the one she was putting on herself. “Stick to the plan.”
Houses, according to a psychologist she’d once interviewed for a segment on dream analysis, were a metaphor for the human psyche. This one seemed rusted in time. Haunted almost, like a restless mind. Maybe that’s what Rita wanted by looking back into the past—a cure. If she understood what had happened to Valentina, then she could let go of her child and finally find peace.
The floor of the hall thundered, and Nicolas Galloway reappeared, long, determined strides making short work of the distance between them.
“About time,” she mumbled, tugging her blazer back in place with her free hand.
His expression remained frozen in the feral position, and instead of an apology, he barked, “Follow me.”
Sheesh, he didn’t even pause to see if she followed, just assumed she would. She was used to following directions, but unbending commands were another thing. And she’d had just about enough of going through an intermediary to get to her appointment. “I really need to speak with Ms. Meadows.”
“You’re in luck. You’re getting your wish.”
As she scrambled after Nick, the raspberry brambles on the hall wallpaper shifted as if rustled by a breeze. The smell of burned toast stung her nose. The scraping of a knife against dry bread scratched at her brain.
“It’ll be just fine. See?” A woman’s voice. “Now, which do you want, strawberry or blueberry preserve?”
Valerie stopped and peered into the dining room, set with Lenox china, Pairpoint crystal and silver-plated dinnerware.
“What are you doing?”
At the boom of Nick’s voice, the image vanished, leaving behind an empty table and chairs. Valerie swiveled her head to look at Nick frowning at her from the library entrance. At least this time she remembered where the flash of memory had come from—the photograph from Victorian Homes of a Thanksgiving dinner at Moongate the year before Valentina disappeared. “I thought I smelled toast burning.”
“Someone’s bringing tea.” He disappeared into the room.
Valerie hurried to catch up with him. Tea was good. Tea meant Rita Meadows would let her see the archives. Tea meant that Nicolas Galloway owed her an apology—not that she was holding her breath for one. And maybe it also meant food. Which made her think of Mike. He was going to be royally cranky that she was taking so long. A well-fed Mike was a happy Mike, and a happy Mike got her good footage. Payback from Mike, on the other hand, was never a good thing.
“Sit,” Nick ordered.
Arguing right now would be a waste of breath, so she chose a wing chair that gave her width and height, and deposited her portfolio and purse on the floor at her feet and the empty coffee cup on the side table. She didn’t play games, but she didn’t make easy prey, either.
Nick paced the marble hearth of the fireplace as if he was drawing up some sort of war plan, and she pulled back her shoulders readying her defenses.
“We need to set some ground rules,” he said. “One, you are not to wander unaccompanied on the grounds or in the house at any time. That goes for your friend with the camera outside, too. I’ve already sent someone to detain him.”
Detain Mike? Good luck to anyone who tried to separate Mike from his camera. “Ms. Meadows has already given her permission to shoot.”
“This is nevertheless Ms. Meadows’s private home and intrusion into her privacy will not be tolerated. We do not want a tabloid exposé that will exploit Ms. Meadows’s pain at the tragedy of her daughter’s kidnapping.”
What bug had crawled up his butt? “Look, you’ve made it clear you don’t want me here, but if you think you can intimidate me into leaving, you’re wrong.”
He rounded on her with High Noon intensity. “Right now, I’m cooperating, but don’t cross me, or you’ll regret the day you showed up on our doorstep.”
Jeez, Louise, what did he think she was going to do? Blow her career by ticking off the man who paid her salary? “An exposé is certainly not our intention. At his niece’s request, Mr. Meadows asked his executive producer to put together these segments on Valentina’s kidnapping. Mr. Meadows expects clean and true reporting any time his station airs a package. This will be no exception.”
“Ms. Meadows is the constant target of people who would prey on her pain for gain. There are certain facts we would rather not make public in order to protect the family from scam artists.”
Okay, she could see why he might be a tad touchy on the subject. Her task was to mollify him and wow him with her ability to present a fair and balanced portrait of the family’s misfortune. “I understand your point, Mr. Galloway. As I said, we’re not out to prey on Ms. Meadows. But she was the one who asked that we tell her daughter’s story with the hopes of bringing her home.”
“It’s been twenty-five years.” The statement sounded remarkably like a trick question.
“I understand. But finding the child’s…location would allow Ms. Meadows closure, don’t you think?”
His presence was an iceberg in a room too small to contain him, and she was uncomfortably aware of his proximity, of his stark and grim gaze—of his pain. Then, like the incidents in the foyer and the dining room, for a flash, his face wavered. A play of light and shadows had her chest heaving with a sweet ache of longing and her arms yearning to loop themselves around his neck.
A chill pierced her skin, raised a crop of goose bumps. Her fingers clawed around the arms of the chair to keep herself from slipping into the unwanted fog once again. Her breath hitched in her throat and a pang of loss nearly swallowed her. How could that be? She shook her head and, when her gaze reconnected with his, the same unyielding glower glared back at her.
Nicolas Galloway was no friend.
Yet his eyes stirred dark echoes of her recurring dream and spiked her blood with unease. Why?
“Are you okay?” he asked, frowning.
“Too much coffee.” She flashed him a smile that, to her horror, wobbled.
With a sudden jolt as if she’d hit him, he turned his back on her and resumed his pacing. “Two, we’ll need approval over the final product.”
Valerie shot to her feet. With the amount of blood, sweat and tears she spilled to write, shoot and edit a package, there was no way she was going to let him mess with her baby. “It doesn’t work that way.”
“We have to be sure you haven’t inadvertently leaked privileged information.”
She had the station owner and the interview subject on her side. Why was she letting him get under her skin? She forced a smile. “Well, then, you’ll have to take that up with the executive producer. Keep in mind that I do have a tight production schedule to adhere to if Ms. Meadows’s story is to air in time for the kidnapping’s anniversary.”
Wrong tactic, of course. She knew that the second she uttered the words. Keeping the package off the air was exactly what Nicolas Galloway wanted.
“That, of course, is your problem.” Nick’s pacing came to an abrupt halt and his gaze fixed on the doorway.
Rita Meadows paused at the entrance to the door, holding on to the door frame as if she were dizzy. There was a lot of that going on today. Someone needed to check the furnace and see if the carbon monoxide level was okay.
Rita’s recovery was quick. She pasted a work-the-room smile on her sculpted face, extended a hand and welcomed Valerie with the practiced ease of someone used to dealing with people. “You must be Valerie. Mr. Higgins speaks highly of you.”
; “As he does of you.” Rita’s hand was cold and brittle in Valerie’s and a wave of sympathy made Valerie squeeze warmth into her grip.
Close-up, even with her understated makeup, Rita looked hollow-eyed, a little too thin, a little too pale. Her hair, the color of expensive champagne, was twisted elegantly at her nape, giving her a fragile kind of beauty that seemed somehow tragic to Valerie.
Nick rushed to Rita’s side, cupped her elbow and led her to the sofa, where he stood beside her on guard like the pit bull of his reputation. Stray out of line, get too personal, his cutting expression said, and I’ll rip you to shreds.
Aye, aye. Message received, she telegraphed back, and his frown deepened.
She could see why some women might fall for him. The primitive quality he exuded told a woman that, as long as he was there, she would be safe from predators. For many—her friend Sheree among them—that promise of savage protection was the fodder of dreams. Personally, Valerie already had too much overprotection in her life. The last thing she needed was to add a man’s shadow to the one already stalking her.
Rita looked up at Nick, touched his arm. “Is Holly bringing tea?”
Nick gave a sharp nod, but his quick eye shift toward the door betrayed his uncertainty. He wasn’t going to leave to check on tea when there was an intruder sitting in his employer’s library waiting to pounce on her.
Chill, she wanted to say. I don’t bite.
“I know you must be tired from the flight,” Rita said to Valerie, “so I won’t keep you long.”
“I just wanted to introduce myself and set up a convenient time to go over your archives. I have another interview on Thursday, but I’d like to tape yours on Friday.”
“You may come by to look at the archives at any time.”
“Eleven.” The sharpness of Nick’s voice coated the air with rime. “It’s the only time I have available.”
“I’ll be here, Nicolas,” Rita said. “I can walk her through my collection.”
His jaw tightened and antagonism bristled from him, but he didn’t say a thing. What was it costing him to keep silent? She was starting to understand just how much Rita Meadows meant to him, how far he’d go to protect her. How could Valerie reassure this many-times-bitten pit bull she meant no harm?
“Eleven will be fine.” Valerie injected light and air into her voice. “My photographer will also need access to Valentina’s room and the living room, as well as the grounds.”
“Yes, of course,” Rita said.
“We’ll keep our visit as short as possible.”
“Take all the time you need. I want Valentina’s story retold in all its details. You never know what will trigger someone’s memory.”
As Rita explained what she wanted to accomplish by airing Valentina’s story, Nick stared at Valerie until the room was sucked dry of air and her head grew light.
“Nick! Nick! Watch me!” A splash of water.
“I have better things to do than watch a baby play.”
“I’m not a baby.”
“Are, too.”
“Well, forget it, then. I’m not telling you my secret.”
A lakeside gazebo with green-and-white striped awnings. Green water. Green trees. Eye-hurting blue sky. Valerie remembered seeing a picture of Nick and Valentina sipping lemonade at Rita’s feet on a dock. Why was that picture coming back to her now?
“May I ask you a personal question?” Rita asked Valerie, changing subjects.
“Sure.”
“How old are you?”
“I’ll be thirty next May.” By then she’d planned on being in New York, working as a producer for a major network in the news division—at least according to the life plan she’d drawn up when she was eighteen. Come to think of it, she’d only checked one item off that long list. “That probably sounds as if I don’t have much experience—”
“Oh, no, dear, I don’t doubt your qualifications. How tall are you?”
Wow, where was this coming from? And what did it have to do with her ability to shoot an interview? “Five-four.” With three-inch heels. “My mother’s short. That’s where I get it. The shortness, I mean.” Oh, good, now she was babbling. Definitely time to get solid food in her.
Rita’s face crumpled. Her body curled into itself and spasmed in time to a coughing fit. The red agenda she clutched in her lap fell to the ground, spilling its contents. A photograph fluttered and landed upside down at Valerie’s feet.
“Rita?” Moving with speed and athletic grace, Nick knelt at his employer’s side, a glass of water in hand. “Here.”
Rita sipped the water Nick offered her, but the coughing only worsened. Nick gently stood her up.
Not knowing what to do to help Rita, Valerie picked up the agenda and put the pages back in place.
“Stay here,” Nick ordered, glaring at her, then escorted Rita out of the library.
Valerie picked up the photograph, turned it over and gasped. The hairstyle was wrong, and the smile was too stiff, but otherwise, the picture could be hers. “What in the world?”
Why did Rita have her picture? And why didn’t she remember posing for it? What kind of twilight zone had she walked into?
After ten minutes of waiting for Nick’s return, questions running laps in her mind as she studied the photograph from Rita’s agenda, the coffee Valerie had had on the car ride up was putting pressure on her bladder. The tinkling of water in the brass tranquility fountain on an accent table didn’t help.
A middle-aged woman entered the library, looking more like a shadow than a person with her black dress, gray hair and pale skin. Did no one in this house believe in the health benefits of a touch of sun? She carried a silver tray of tea and shortbread cookies—no toast, Valerie noted—and studied the unwelcome guest with decided wariness.
The woman clucked, her dark-brown eyes troubled. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft, but unfriendly. “Ms. Meadows will be down shortly.”
“She was coughing.” Valerie stuck the photograph behind her back. “Mr. Galloway took her up to her room.”
“Oh, no.” The woman’s silver braid snaked over her shoulder as she slapped the tray onto the coffee table and hurried away, her feet making no noise on the rose-adorned carpet.
“Is there a bathroom nearby?” Valerie called after her.
The woman waved a hand vaguely to her right. “Around the corner.” The woman stopped her flight. Her small hand clutched the door frame as if her nails were fangs. Closet vampire? “It’d be best if you left now.”
“I want to be sure Ms. Meadows is okay.”
“No good will come of you digging up bones.”
“We’re taping the segments at Ms. Meadows’s request.” Valerie was starting to feel like a broken record.
“Your act,” the woman warned, shaking her head. “It won’t wash. Nick’ll see right through it.” She turned and vanished into the dark hall.
“Good to know I’m so wanted.” What was going on here? Had Higgins set her up for failure so he would have a good reason to promote Bailey over her? Something wasn’t right. Not just with the room, but with the whole house.
She glanced around the library with its floor-to-ceiling stacks, its comfy chairs and cozy fireplace. Nothing about the elegant decor triggered her unwarranted fear, but she couldn’t help the chill crawling up her spine.
Maybe she should leave and come back in the morning when everybody had calmed down and she’d had some food.
First, though, she had to find a bathroom.
Valerie slipped the photograph into her portfolio. She wanted to study it further, see if she could remember when it was taken. She stepped into the hall. At least this time the walls didn’t ripple. The first door she tried opened into a laundry room that smelled like summer rain. The next door opened into a dark room that looked like a closet, but smelled of rose potpourri and water. Valerie fumbled for a switch and found one in the hallway. Ah, finally, a bathroom.
She relieved herself and adm
ired the painted mural that made it seem as if she were in some enchanted garden—a watercolor background of mossy-green with pink roses, golden grasses and birds. A single blue butterfly hovered on one side of the mirror as if it were going to drink a sip of water from the sink while she washed her hands. She’d always liked butterflies, especially blue ones. As she reached to touch the gossamer wings, the lights went out, leaving her swallowed by darkness.
She sucked in a breath and wrapped her hands around the cold marble of the sink to anchor herself in the pitch-black space. Blinking madly, she tried to orient herself. A power failure? It happened a lot in old houses, didn’t it?
Tamping back her irrational fear of small, dark places, she forced her frozen fingers to let go of the sink. She turned with small baby steps to keep her balance, then groped blindly for the door.
Out of the darkness, a slice of light materialized and crept into the gap between the floor and the bottom of the door. She frowned. The power was still on in the rest of the house?
A board creaked outside. She froze. “Hello?” Is anybody out there?”
She stared at the paring of light, but no shadow rippled across its path.
“Just an old house settling into its bones,” she told herself, but the shaky sound of her voice didn’t reassure her. Open the door and get out of here.
Her trembling fingers bumped against the hard wood of the door. With her heart pounding an SOS against her ribs, she patted the smooth oak until she found the knob. Her damp palms slipped on the glass knob. It wouldn’t budge.
She tried again, pulling and twisting. A kind of desperate madness swept over her. “Hey! Turn on the lights! Open the door!”
She panted as she tried to control the sense of impending doom sweeping over her. The burn of tears stung her eyes and, hanging on to the knob as a child would, the craziest need to call “Mama” bubbled on her trembling lips.
Not that her mother was the kind who’d fussed over emotional outbursts. You don’t need a night-light, Valerie. You’re a big girl, and big girls don’t cry.
