Nightsong (16 page)

“Not that I can remember.” How could she remember when she was fighting a host of memories that decried this distorted image of the man she’d known and loved as husband?

“I think Mark stole the van Warner just so he could substitute the forgery, a painting that in his own mind proved he was not the non-talent Thayer claimed he was.”

“But what about the other paintings Mark did? The ones that sold? That got wonderful reviews?”

“They were stolen, too, Elleny.” Phillip paused before adding another layer to the ugly truth she faced. “From Jesse.”

What little color she had left in her cheeks faded. “No.” Her whisper didn’t even warm her lips in passing. “No, he wouldn’t…. He
couldn’t
have done that.”

“Look at the paintings for yourself, Elleny. Take a long look at the canvas in your store. It’s good, but it’s not special. It’s not even very unusual. Compare it to the style, the sheer magic in the painting that hangs in your front room. Both canvases bare Mark’s signature, but he painted only one of them. And only one of them has the shamrock. Take a look at that, Elleny. A good, hard look.”

“I don’t believe it. Mark would never have stolen from his own father. Jesse wouldn’t have allowed it.” She choked as the doubt seared into her mind with burning possibility. But it couldn’t be true. She had loved Mark. She couldn’t have misjudged him so badly. Yet the doubt wouldn’t go away. It doubled in size and pressed her back against the door.

“Jesse couldn’t have stopped it without a scandal, Elleny. He protected himself and Mark in the only way he knew. Why else would he have bought back all those paintings? Why else would he sit in that mausoleum day after day, bitter and disillusioned, except to keep Mark’s secrets?”

That seemed all too possible. Jesse would have done whatever was necessary, sacrificed anything, to protect the Damon name. For A.J., if for no other reason.

“Are you willing to give me the benefit of the doubt now?” Phillip asked softly. “Can you admit that just maybe I’ve told you the truth? And if you still won’t believe me, then why don’t you ask Jesse?”

Elleny put a hand to her forehead, shielding herself from further questions. Didn’t Phillip understand what he was doing to her? Couldn’t he see? She couldn’t admit anything to him without reevaluating all the treasured memories of the past. “I refuse to upset Jesse with your ridiculous speculations. You can’t prove anything, Phillip. When it comes right down to it, you’re only guessing.”

Startled surprise flickered across his face and was replaced by cool irritation. “It’s more than a guess, Elleny. Stop pretending that your marriage was perfect and face the hard, cold facts of reality.”

Anger returned in a slow, scalding tide. “You have no right to say that, Phillip. The cold, hard reality is that my marriage
was
good. Not perfect, but good.”

“It was based on lies!
Lies,
Elleny. You loved a man who never existed.”

“That seems a little self-righteous coming from you, Phillip. I thought I loved you, but as it turns out, you don’t exist either.”

“I never deceived you about anything important, Elleny. Any lie I told you was a part of my job, simply a cover and the only way I could hope to discover the van Warner.”

“Well, you’ll forgive me if I find it difficult to distinguish between lies.” She straightened and pulled away from the support of the door. “Under the circumstances I think you should find another place to stay. And since you’re leaving anyway, don’t waste any time in getting out of my life.”

“Fine.” His hand closed over her arm with a ferocity he fought hard to control. “And since I’m leaving anyway, why don’t you make things simple and tell me where Mark hid that painting?”

“If I knew, do you honestly think I’d tell you?”

His smile was humorless as he released his hold on her. “You don’t know or you wouldn’t be so damned loyal to the memory of a man who betrayed your trust. But you’ll defend him to the last, won’t you, Elleny? All right. Go on believing what you choose. When I find the van Warner, you’ll realize that you were wrong, and I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing – even if you won’t admit it – that you should have trusted me.”

“I did trust you, Phillip.” She turned, opened the door, and faced a black night of emptiness. “Take that thought to bed with you.”

Elleny stepped onto the landing and closed the door on his reply. He wouldn’t follow her; she felt certain of that. Why would he even try? There wasn’t anything else to say. Or do. Until he found the painting – if such a painting really did exist. And if it did and he should find it, what would happen?

A trembling panic stirred in the pit of her stomach. Public exposure? Criminal charges? Legalities? Disgrace? And what would that do to A.J. and to his future? She couldn’t begin to guess what the ramifications might be. She couldn’t even comprehend the idea that Mark was guilty. It scared her. It angered her.

Ask Jesse,
Phillip had said.
Ask Jesse. Ask Jesse.
Elleny ran down the stairs, trying to escape the memory, the option Phillip had offered.
If you don’t believe me, ask Jesse.

She stopped on the bottom step and grasped the railing tightly with her hand. The only way she could ask Jess was to admit the possibility of Phillip’s truthfulness. If she accepted any part of what he’d told her, she had to accept it all. Not only that Mark had deceived her, but that Jesse had known about it and had deliberately kept it from her.

She didn’t want to believe that. She didn’t
want
to believe any of it, but now that Phillip had placed the idea before her, she had no choice except to consider it.

That in itself made her angry, and yet she recognized the sense of betrayal at the core of her emotion. It wasn’t that she and Jesse had ever been close, but surely he had realized
her
vulnerability to the consequences of Mark’s actions. If he’d been caught....

Elleny shuddered with the thought. How would she have protected herself and her son? In that situation ignorance would not have been bliss but utter foolishness. Why hadn’t Jesse told her? But then why hadn’t he stopped it? Why had he covered for Mark, allowed the crime to multiply into another and another?

Would she do such a thing for A.J.? Would she protect him although it meant violating every moral standard? It was not a question she could answer with absolute certainty. How could she judge Jesse? Right or wrong, he had paid a high price to protect the Damons. All of them – Mark, A.J., her, and himself.

With that thought Elleny was grudgingly aware of the sympathy insinuating itself into her anger and making room in her heart for compassion. What would happen to Jesse if the truth he had sacrificed so much to conceal became public knowledge? She didn’t think he would be able to bear it.

Maybe none of it was true. Maybe Phillip was the only one who had lied.

But if he hadn’t?

Well, she would face that when the time came. For now, she had to face the long hours ahead.

Hours in which she would have to define truth and love and loyalties.

Hours in which she would try to piece together a heart that suddenly had no past and no future.

It was the early hours of morning before Elleny gave in to the doubts and made her way down the stairs to the living room. With a weighty feeling of disloyalty she crossed to the wall where the picture hung. For what seemed an interminably long moment she hesitated in the dusky darkness and then reached to snap on the small lamp attached to the frame.

As her eyes grew accustomed to the soft light, the painting warmed to subtle beauty. Color flowed to color with no clear pattern, yet the scene evoked intensity and a vivid sadness. It was a scene of a summer, one brief season, fighting beneath a blazing sun, clinging stubbornly to a life that faded moment by moment. That was the poignancy of the painting.

And its message? Elleny supposed that would vary with the perspective of the individual viewer. For her, in the waning hours of the quiet, contemplative night, there was a message she didn’t want to consider.

It was Phillip’s fault. He had seeded the doubts. He had altered forever her perception of Mark. Phillip stated without compunction that she was wrong for ever loving Mark.

But she had. And it hadn’t felt wrong then.

She slipped a trembling hand into the pocket of her robe and welcomed the soothing touch of satin. There was no way to soothe her mind, though. No way to look at the beautiful painting before her without wondering, endlessly wondering. Who was the artist? Phillip had said it was Jess. She had believed it was Mark.

Should she ask Jesse? Could she just bluntly ask him if his son had stolen his painting? Or should she try to find out in a more subtle, less aggressive way? Elleny wasn’t sure she could manage either approach.

There was a sound on the stairs and then the glow of illumination as the hallway light came on. Elleny glanced over her shoulder, knowing by the footsteps it was Jesse, feeling the pulsating beat of her heart against her rib cage. Here, perhaps, was her opportunity, but she wasn’t prepared. She had to know, but she simply wasn’t ready to ask.

Jesse stood in the doorway for a minute watching her, his face shadowed, his expression hidden. “Restless tonight?” His voice was mellow, hoarse and deep, and for the first time in a long time, he sounded as if he wanted to hear her answer.

Was this the moment? Should she blurt out the question now? No, not yet. She tried to smile but turned out a dismal effort. “Just some things on my mind.”

He nodded and came to her side, slowly. He stood next to her in silence, resting his hands on the curved handle of his cane and looking at the painting just as she was. She turned her gaze to him, studying him, searching for a clue that would negate the need to ask. But she knew that words were her only hope. Maybe, after all, a subtle probing would be best. If she could just get him to talk to her.

“Quiet is good for the soul,” Jess said softly.

And suddenly, oddly, Elleny felt at peace, a state of mind that had eluded her all evening. Yet now it came, along with the acceptance of the bond she shared with Jesse. A bond formed because of their love for Mark and strengthened by their love for A.J. A bond that gave her new understanding. And new courage.

“Why did you stop painting, Jess?” The question came from her heart, though she already knew the answer. She supposed a part of her had known all along. And Jesse would confirm it if she didn’t push for answers, if she took the conversation one slow step at a time.

“You know why.” He lifted a hand in explanation. “I can’t paint anymore.”

“The doctors have told you therapy would help restore the use of your hands, Jess. You just don’t
want
to paint anymore.”

He pursed his mouth in a grim line. “Since Mark died, I don’t have the heart for it.”

“Since
he died, Jesse? Or did it happen sometime before that?” She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t, but she placed her fingers on his arm to make the contact that seemed so necessary. “Please tell me. I need to understand.”

In the stillness she heard her heart beat and in her memory she heard the teasing, pleasant sound of Mark’s laughter. She remembered his smile. She looked at the painting and felt the sadness as if she were the dying summer clinging to a past that was fading with each heartbeat.

“If you’re asking, Elleny, you must already know.”

She closed her eyes against a denial that came too late. What she had hoped not to ask was the very question that now she had to voice. “You painted this, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

With Jess’s admission, her hand trembled against his arm. “If he hadn’t died, he would have gotten caught, wouldn’t he?”

“Eventually. I think I did a fair job in covering for him.”

“Why? Why didn’t you stop it in the beginning?”

“The beginning.” Jess shifted his weight and sighed. “Now that’s something I’ve pondered long and hard. But I don’t know. I just don’t know when the beginning was. Did it start the first time Mark put brush to canvas because he wanted to be just like his dad? Or did it begin on the day he was born and I passed out cigars? I think I must have told the whole world that my son would be the greatest artist who ever lived.”

Elleny smiled in bittersweet reminiscence. “Mark told the world something similar on the day A.J. was born. Do you remember?”

“I know that anyone Mark didn’t tell, I did.” Jesse’s lips curled slightly with the memory, then returned to the solemn line of the present. “I pushed Mark too hard, Elleny. Expected too much of him. Nothing he painted was quite good enough. If he ever had a thought of choosing another career, he was afraid to tell me. I taught him everything I knew about art, but I neglected to teach him anything of real value.”

“That isn’t true, Jesse. The Mark I knew and loved was a son you can be proud of. And there’s a stubborn part of you that clings to that pride, no matter how faded.”

“Is there a stubborn part of you, too, Elleny?”

“I guess there must be.”

He lifted one hand from the cane and patted her fingers where they lay against his arm. “Good night, Elleny. I believe I can rest now.” He turned and began the long walk upstairs.

Elleny waited a few minutes, took a last lingering look at the summer painting before turning off the light and following him. She was tired, suddenly, more tired than she’d been in a very long time. Yet she, too, thought that now she could rest. Rest in the understanding that no one was totally good or totally bad, no single perspective totally right or wrong. And there was comfort in knowing that Jesse, although disillusioned, still loved, still treasured that part of Mark that had been good.

At the top of the stairs she paused to watch Jesse. Was it her imagination, or did he seem to have a lighter step? For years she had thought of him as a moody, contrary, ill-tempered old man, but tonight he was touchingly human. Perhaps, all along, her problem with him had been simply a matter of perspective. Maybe she shouldn’t let the discussion end. There were things she hadn’t told him. Maybe she should tell him about the van Warner and about Phillip being an insurance investigator. Wasn’t it wrong not to warn Jesse that despite his efforts, Mark still might be exposed as a thief and forger?