Dark Lady

by Richard North Patterson

  Caroline’s legs felt weak beneath her “My father …” Nicole’s eyes shut. “Please.” Caroline backed slowly from the door. Wandering to the living room, she slumped in a chair and waited. She did not know whether the nausea she felt was for herself or for her father. In front of her stood Paul Nerheim. His hair was mussed, his clothes not right. His voice was soft, tentative. “I’m sorry, Caroline. And so is she.” Caroline simply stared at him. He shrugged, helpless. “Your mother wants to see you.” Caroline straightened in her chair. With a coldness she did not know was hers, she said, “Get out. Now.” Their eyes met. Slowly, Nerheim nodded, and then he turned and left the house.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Moments later, Nicole appeared. She was wearing a silk bathrobe and an air of composure that, to Caroline, seemed fragile. Her mother sat across from her, studying her closely, and then Caroline’s disarray seemed to register in her eyes. “What happened to you, Caroline? Your face is braised.” Caroline folded her arms. She said nothing; it was too late for Nicole’s concern, and the idea that she could be so cheaply bought filled her with contempt and anger. Nicole seemed to know this. “All right,” she said softly. “You wish me to explain myself.” Caroline was unsure of this: what she wanted most was for the last half hour to vanish like the nightmare that it seemed. But she had no words to say this. Nicole crossed her legs, arranging her robe with a distracted air. In the light through the window, her face looked thin and pale. “What I did was wrong,” she said at last. “More than anything, because you saw it.” Caroline’s voice was cold. “I’m sorry I surprised you, Mother. I know you weren’t expecting me.” Her daughter’s words seemed to strike Nicole like a slap. Her eyes flew open, and then she sat back, folding her hands. “Do you expect me to flay myself, Caroline? Would that make things better?” It left Caroline without words again. “No?” Nicole’s voice held gentle irony. “Then perhaps I can trouble you to listen.” Caroline shrugged. But she felt her heart race.

  “I did not expect this moment,” Nicole continued softly, “and I have no speech prepared. Especially for a daughter who loves her father as much as you love Channing. So if I am tactless, or inartful, please forgive me.” Caroline filled with a kind of dread. Her face was stone. Pausing, Nicole seemed to swallow. “There is nothing wrong with Channing, Caroline, but that he married me. Perhaps it was his mistake to ask. Certainly, it was my mistake to accept.” Caroline stiffened in her chair. “He gave you a life Mother.” There was a first glint of passion in her mother’s eyes. “He gave me his life—” She stopped herself abruptly, forced her voice to lower. I saw a gentle man, Caroline. Perhaps paternalistic, but kind. What I did not see was the frightened man. Frightened of women. Frightened of whatever he could not control—”

  “Father’s not frightened.” Caroline felt her mystification become anger. “People look up to him. Everyone I know.” Slowly, Nicole nodded. “In his world, yes. That is his strength.” Caroline gave her mother a look of cold rejection. Nicole’s voice was soft again, as if she was willing herself to ignore the evidence of Caroline’s eyes. “I was the choice, Caroline, of a frightened man. Young and rootless, an alien in my own country, shattered by what I had lost. Not just a family, but a world that once made sense to me. I no longer had any world of my own …. ” Nicole paused. Her voice was stoic; it did not ask for sympathy. But part of Caroline, just by listening, felt dirty and complicit. She watched her mother in silence. “Channing,” Nicole continued quietly, “believed in his own kindness. But he also believed that I would never defy him, or leave him, or even question him.” Nicole looked down. “As a man, or as a lover.” Caroline stiffened, and then Nicole gazed at her directly. “On all counts, Caroline, I have been a disappointment. So perhaps you could say Channing healed me.”

  Buried in her voice was a trace of bitterness so faint that Caroline could not detect whether it was directed at her father or at Nicole herself. But Caroline seized on it. “Quit trying to turn me against Father.” Her voice rose. “You don’t deserve him—”

  “Don’t I?” Nicole burst out. “With his fear, possessiveness, and anger? I would think you would find me more than deserving.” Oddly, the sudden outburst changed the balance between them; Caroline felt her confusion become a chill self-control. “I would never have said that, Mother. Not until I saw you in bed with him. So I guess Father has always understood you better.” Nicole seemed to flinch. “I know,” she said in a husky voice, “that I’ve been no great mother to you. But please take the good from your father without letting him control you. Because the danger is that he will—your life and your thoughts.” At once, Caroline felt the sudden desire to lash out so that her mother would stop. “Damn you,” she screamed. “Do you think I need Father to tell me that I just found you fucking Nerheim—”

  “Caroline, please.” White-faced, Nicole stood. “If this is what we must discuss, at least understand me as a woman. I know you must have begun to feel these things yourself.” Caroline felt herself flush. Pausing, Nicole looked down at her intently. “I have little that is my own, Caroline. But I remain a woman, with a woman’s needs.” Her voice was calm now. “It is a fact in which, as a man, your father has little interest. Whatever his flaws, Paul Nerheim does. And that, to Channing, is the mirror of his own inadequacy.” The sound of her mother speaking Nerheim’s name made this dispassionate shaming of her father unendurable to Caroline. “Don’t talk like that. Not about my father,” she cried out. “He saved you. Do you think what happened to your parents is some kind of excuse? It’s like ‘They were murdered, so I get to hurt anyone I want to hurt—’”

  Abruptly, Caroline caught herself. The look on her mother’s face was too terrible to watch. Folding her arms, Caroline looked away. Her mother’s voice, soft and clear, seemed to come from far away. “So I’ve wounded you that badly …. ” Caroline could not answer, or even look at her. There was a long silence, and then she felt Nicole’s fingers rest gently on her shoulder. Her voice was softer yet. “I know that you will never tell your father, Caroline. But I won’t make you my accomplice. Paul Nerheim will not set foot inside this house again.” Caroline did not answer. It was a moment before she realized that her mother was gone. Alone, Caroline went to the porch overlooking the water, and wept until she had no tears left.

  For the next three days, they barely spoke. Caroline had no wish to be near her mother, or with friends. She left the house early: on the first day, she willed herself to sail to Tarpaulin Cove and back; for the two days following, she hiked and cycled alone. Nicole made no approach to her. Caroline did not know, or wish to know, how Nicole Masters spent her days. From their silent dinners, Caroline had the sense of a woman who seemed to have gone somewhere far away, until she would suddenly catch her mother watching her with veiled curiosity. At night, Caroline could hear her pacing the house. In a week, Caroline knew, Channing Masters was due to join them. Caroline found the thought unbearable. She could not imagine them dining together, every silence laden with Channing’s ignorance, her mother’s guilt, and the knowledge that Caroline devoutly wished she could erase. But the only person she could say this to was Nicole. Finally, Caroline could not stand their silence. On the fourth afternoon, returning from a bike ride, she went to her mother’s room.

  At the moment Caroline saw Nicole, she froze.

  Her mother sat at her dressing table, her fine-boned face reflected in a makeup mirror. With her left hand, she carefully applied eyeliner to the corners of her bright-green eyes.

  Caroline’s voice was flat. “Going out?”

  “Yes.” Her mother’s expression did not change. “Until midnight or so, perhaps. So you needn’t wait up for me.”

  The moment was strange to Caroline: the irony in her mother’s voice; the intent look in her eyes; the light on her face. Nicole did not turn; to Caroline, it was as if her mother was lost to her.

  “What are we going to do.”?” Caroline asked abruptly. “When Father comes.”

  Nicole mov
ed the eyeliner a fraction, gazing narrow-eyed into the glass. “I haven’t considered it. What we always do, I suppose.”

  To Caroline, this did not ring true; even Nicole’s tone had the sound of an evasion. “‘What we always do,’” she said in desperation, “won’t be like that for me anymore. I don’t think I could stand it.”

  For the first time, Nicole turned to her, asking softly, “But what can I do, Caroline.”? Now that you know. Tell him for you.”? Or simply leave him?” She paused. “Which would mean, once Channing was done with me, that I must leave you as well. For he would never let me take you.”

  Caroline felt a tremor in her body. “Then don’t go out, at least. Please.”

  Nicole studied her. “I must,” she said finally. “At least for tonight.”

  Caroline could say nothing,

  Nicole regarded her and then turned to the mirror, more intently than before. It was as if she did not care to look at Caroline’s face.

  Caroline drifted to the sun porch.

  She gazed out at the waves, swelling, lapping, dying on the beach beneath them. There was something hypnotic

  about water, Caroline realized; as frightening as the ocean could be, its timelessness soothed her.

  Her mother’s footsteps sounded on the porch.

  Caroline turned, looking into her mother’s face. For a moment, Nicole’s eyes were soft, and then she bent to kiss Caroline on the cheek.

  Caroline froze, silent, neither welcoming nor resisting. Nicole’s lips were light, fleeting.

  Her mother stood, walked away. To Caroline’s surprise, she stopped, turning in the doorway.

  “I’m sorry,” she said simply, and left.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Caroline waited up for her. She could not help this, could not sleep. She imagined her mother’s evening, prayed that her father would not call. The house was dark and still. At one o’clock, her mother had not returned. Caroline went outside, stood on the bluffs, listened to the slow, deep surge of the purple waters against the cliff. The night was black, moonless. The wind in her face was stiff. Caroline felt a chill; folded her arms against the cold; listened, vainly, for the sound of tires on gravel, the white Porsche that Nicole treasured and Channing found ostentatious. Nothing. Caroline tried to envision her mother, found it painful. Perhaps, she told herself, Nicole had drank a little more than normal, forgotten her promise to return. Perhaps they had made love more than once. The luminous dial of her wristwatch read one-thirty. At two, Caroline promised herself, she would do something. What, she did not know; it was as if by setting a deadline she could induce Nicole’s return. Sometimes her mother drank too much. She said this to herself, curtly and baldly, as she had not before. It made her feel the change in her, the clear-eyed SOlTOW. Yet she shrank from calling Nerheim. Deeply lonely, Caroline returned to the house.

  She went to the kitchen. In the pale light, she gazed at the schoolroom-style clock. She would hate it, Caroline told herself, if her parents ever did this to her, keeping watch. The thought of her parents made her sad again. Damn Paul Nerheim. He had no right. Yet at two o’clock, she found that she could not call him. There was nothing magic about two, she told herself. How would she feel if she interrupted them from lovemaking, like a child with her face pressed against the window? Worse, a child who could not understand the world of adults, who simply needed their attention … Caroline made herself tea. There was a noise outside. Caroline stood, walked quickly to the front door, cracked it open so that her mother could not see her. The drive was empty. Caroline closed the door, leaning against it. Then she went to the kitchen and opened the telephone book. For long minutes, she stared at Nerhein’s number, until she knew it by heart. Then she stood, forcing herself to turn the dial. “Hello?” It was Nerheim, dull-voiced, puzzled. Caroline drew a breath. “Is my mother there?”

  “Caroline?”

  “Yes.” A moment’s silence. “She left.” Nerheim’s voice was clear now. “Hours ago.” Caroline felt her chest constrict. “When?”

  “A little before twelve.” His tone was oddly kind. “She wanted to get home to you.” Caroline felt her eyes close. Quietly, she said, “She’s not here.” Nerheim’s silence seemed endless now. When he spoke again, his voice was low; Caroline heard both concern and efficiency. “I’ll call the Chilmark police. And the state police.”

  Caroline was silent; it took her a moment to realize why she did not wish him to do this. “No,” she said. “I will.”

  An hour later, the telephone rang. Caroline jumped up to snatch it. “Miss Masters?” Caroline sagged with disappointment. “Yes?” The man’s voice was quiet and level, with a distinct Massachusetts accent. “This is Sergeant Mannion of the state police. The locals say your mother may be missing. Or at least that you don’t know where she is.”

  “No. No one does.” He seemed to hear the despair in her voice. “They told me she was leaving Windy Gates in Chilmark. Is that right?”

  “Yes.” Caroline paused. “She was visiting a friend.”

  “Do you know where else she’d go?”

  “No. Just here.” A tentative note entered his voice. “Is your father there?”

  “He’s in New Hampshire.” Defensively, she added, “At our home.”

  “I see.” His voice was careful, neutral. “She hasn’t been gone that long—”

  “Please,” Caroline interrupted. “Can you just look for her? I’m afraid she’s had an accident …. ” Saying this, Caroline felt her stomach wrench. Wished to tell him, If it weren’t for me, my mother would be home. He could not have known this. But when he spoke again, more gently, it was as if he had heard her. “What does she drive?”

  “A white Porsche.” Caroline heard the quiet of thought. “All right,” he said at last. “I’ll look for her. By the time you hear from me, she’ll probably be home.”

  For two hours, the telephone did not ring and no car came. Caroline wandered through the empty house, defenseless against her imaginings. She had never felt so alone.

  A little before five, the first thin dawn turned the darkness of the ocean blue gray. Gazing out the window, Caroline realized that night had kept her hopes alive. In the chill light of morning, she knew that her mother would not return. Caroline heard the spit and crunch of gravel, tires stopping on the drive. Filled with sudden excitement, she ran to the door. In her mind, Nicole Masters was alive again, stepping from her low-slung Porsche as Caroline opened the door. When she saw the black patrol car, Caroline froze. A uniformed man emerged. As he came closer, part of Caroline registered his reddish hair, pink scalded face, mild blue eyes. He was slightly pigeon-toed, she noticed; perhaps that was why he seemed to walk so slowly. “You’re Caroline, aren’t you.” It was the voice of the state policeman, softer now. She nodded, numb. “I’m Frank Mannion.” His tone was muted, but his eyes would not leave her face. “There’s a car been spotted—a white Porsche. I should call your father now.” Caroline blocked the doorway, as if to keep him from the phone. “Where is it.”?” A shadow crossed his face. “On the beach. Below Windy Gates.” Caroline’s heart stopped, and then she felt herself shudder. “How … ?” He seemed to inhale. “Caroline,” he said, “there’s a body near the car. A woman.” She felt her eyes shut, her head bend forward. Heard Mannion say, “Please, let me call your father.” Slowly, eyes still closed, Caroline shook her head. “Someone should identify her.” His voice was still quiet. “And your father should be here for you.” Caroline opened her eyes. “No.”

  “Caroline, I’m sorry—”

  “I won’t give you his number.” Her voice was tight. “I can’t let him find out.”

  Mannion shook his head. “He has to know”he began, and then something like comprehension appeared in his eyes.

  Quietly, Caroline said, “Take me there.”

  The ride was impressions. Dawn breaking over the Vineyard, as fresh as creation; the white homes and picket fences of Edgartown; then woods and farmland; telephone poles; stone wall
s; fields as open as the Scottish moors, rolling toward the sea. As they neared Chilmark, Caroline could feel Mannion’s reluctance, the leaden silence between them. “Did you always live here?” she asked.

  She felt his surprise, a moment’s hesitancy. “No. I’m new. Until me, they never had state police on the island before.” Caroline was quiet for a time. “Do you like it?”

  She felt him turn to her, as if to appraise what she needed. “The islanders aren’t so sure about me,” he said finally. “They’ve had their own way all this time. But my wife likes it, and it’s good for the kids.”

  Caroline nodded. “How many do you have?”

  “Three.” They turned off the road, down the dirt path toward Windy Gates. Caroline could say nothing more.

  Trees enveloped them, thick and ancient and overgrown, hanging over the path so that only patches of morning sun dappled the red clay. Caroline felt the tightening in her chest and throat; with sudden clarity, she imagined her mother the night before, dancing with Paul Nerheim on the tennis court to music no one else could hear, their bodies close, a bucket of chilled champagne nearby ….