The Summer Bones (2 page)

Only to be replaced with a new anxiety to gnaw at her nerves.

“Still dwelling on the purse thing?”

She jerked out of her abstraction. “Sorry. No … no. I'm not. I was just thinking about something else.” Her fingers curled around her wineglass and she took a quick, guilty sip.

Leaning back in his chair, Michael studied her face with an intensity that made her want to squirm. “Well, then, to us.” He lifted a glass of white burgundy with a light flourish as understated as his choice of wine for dinner.

“Us.” How could she not agree? Her glass went up.

“The future.” He held her gaze.

“Yes.” Her voice sounded hollow.

She cleared her throat. Her fingers were damp from the moisture on her glass and a sudden onslaught of nervous tension. The fish in her stomach seemed to be jostling for position with a load of butterflies.

Michael carefully set down his glass and reached into his pocket. By now, the tiny velvet box he produced was no surprise. Nor was the theatrical way he tugged at the leg of his pants to allow him to slide to one knee by the side of the table.

Panic flared, sending heat into Victoria's face.

He reached for her hand.
Oh, Lord, what am I going to say?

The telephone chose that moment to begin to ring.

Saved by the bell …

“Ignore it,” Michael ordered. His fingers tightened on hers. “Darling … I think you know how I—”

The telephone pealed again. Michael grimaced, manfully conquering his disgust at the destruction of his grand moment by trying to raise his voice.

“You know how I feel about you. I've done nothing but—”

The machine clicked loudly and picked up the call. A new voice replaced Michael's, booming into the apartment with all the force born of genuine anger, not waiting for her recorded request to leave a message. “Victoria, pick up the phone! Pick it up. I want to talk to Emily.”

Michael's mouth tightened in true annoyance.

The voice went on. “Pick up now! Please, Vicky … or Emily, honey, pick up.”

Victoria's gaze swiveled away from Michael's face momentarily to where the telephone sat on an antique table in the nearby hallway by the front door. She bit her lip. The machine clicked again, cutting off any more demands. She said hesitantly, “That was Ronald.”

“Is that so? Who the hell is Ronald?”

“Actually, he's—”

“No, wait, I don't care about Ronald.” Michael took a steadying breath, retaining his supplicant pose, his grip on her hand. “Tell me later about Ronald. Can I continue?”

The phone started to ring again.

“Shit,” he muttered blackly.

Victoria raised her shoulders apologetically, easing her hand out of his grip. “He's like this. If he really thinks Emily is here, and it sounds like he does, he'll just keep calling. I'd better just answer it.”

“By all means,” Michael said, shoving the box unopened back into his pocket and standing up stiffly to let her go past him.

Victoria ran to the phone, picking it up just before the machine went back into action. “Saved by the bell” was only too appropriate a phrase. She hoped her face hadn't registered any of her relief. Michael was no idiot and reading people was a good deal of his job.

“Hello?”

“Vicky, is that you?” Heavy breathing whistled down the line, a symptom of the agitation that had caused such persistence. “I knew you were there. Just let me talk to Emily.”

“Emily isn't here.”

“Bullshit.”

Intensely aware of Michael sitting back down as he listened to her end of the conversation, Victoria spoke carefully. “Why would she be here, Ron? What's happened?”

“Nothing!” The reply was a shout, not at all surprising since she knew her brother-in-law so well. Ronald was fond of shouting. For that matter, her sister was fairly fond of making him shout. He and Emily had fights that sent echoes into space.

Silence.

More breathing.

“I haven't heard from her lately,” Victoria settled on saying. “Not since April when she was here. You probably know we had a disagreement.” That statement was a short version of the hard truth.

“Then where is she?”

“You aren't listening. I wouldn't know.” Victoria plucked at the hem of her dress. Glass clinked against crystal behind her. Michael was supplementing his wine. “How long has she been gone?”

“Three days.”

“Three days!”

“Yes.” It was a clipped answer—a snapping of the jaws. He was still breathing loudly, his exhalations whistling against the receiver like a thin wind.

Victoria frowned, her hand going still. “You had a fight.” It was a declaration, not a question. She knew her sister. She knew Ronald. And Emily had left him before. True, it had been years ago, but she had twice decamped furiously, and for a while the family thought the marriage was over.

“I'm telling you there was no fight. She left for work Monday morning and just never came home. Gail is having a fit, as if the whole thing is my damned fault.” He sounded more aggrieved than worried.

Gail Benedict, Emily's partner in an interior design business, might well be entitled to her fit. While Emily created brilliant rooms of style and color, Gail ran the financial end of their enterprise. She was the rudder steering a wild creative ship. Without her tempestuous and stormy designer, Gail had no business.

“What about Dad? Or Mom? Surely she's called the farm?” It was a weary question. If it wasn't for the rift in April, Victoria would have been more worried. Emily had run, but not to her—simple as that. She was somewhere else, crying on someone else's shoulder.

“No one has seen her or heard anything.”

“Odd.”

“Odd? Is that all you have to say? Are you sure you aren't lying, Vicky? She could always talk you into anything. Please … I'm serious here. I need to talk to her.”

“I'm not lying. Maybe you should call the police, Ronald.”

The line went dead—no good-bye, no apologies.
Leave it to Emily
, Victoria thought with jaded amusement,
to intrude on one of the most important moments in my life
. Emily had always taken center stage without remorse.

Turning around, she saw that Michael was polishing off the rest of the wine, his glass tipped to his mouth. Who could blame him?

He had also worked a few things out.

“Ronald. Ronald Sims. Your brother-in-law, the famous artist?” he said pleasantly enough. “Married to your sister, Emily. The twin.”

“Yes.” Victoria came back to her seat, feeling guilty. There was a sip or two left in her glass, which was a relief. Drinking it gave her something to do.

“The next time you talk to him, tell him he has crappy timing.” It was only half a joke.

“I will.”

“So where do you think she is?” Michael, never slow, had not just been drinking wine while she talked. He'd been listening closely. And he seemed disinclined to go back to his knee. There was a betraying tightness around his mouth that belied the casual tone. He was annoyed.

“Emily? Hard to say. She's always been a bit unpredictable.” Victoria fingered her empty glass, glancing up from under her eyelashes. “Michael, I'm so sorry … I just knew that Ronald would keep on calling and calling—”

He interrupted shortly, “You don't seem worried. Three days is a long time.”

So
, she thought with resignation,
he is going to pout
. She felt more relief, tinged with more guilt.

“She's staying with a friend, I'm sure of that. Em has the unique ability to convince sane people to do things against their better judgment—such as lying to Ronald. I adore her, but she can be … exhausting. She's just that way—emotional, thoughtless, but also very charming. You should meet her. People just fall at her feet.”

Outside, the rain had finally stopped. She could hear the swooshing of tires on the wet pavement and the faint sound of sirens headed to some disaster.

Disaster. Emily.
She felt a faint tremor, quickly squelched.
Three days is a long time. Even for Emily.

“You don't sound much alike,” Michael commented.

Her smile was unwilling, a glimmer. “Thanks a lot.”

“I simply meant she sounds flighty and insubstantial. Not like you at all, Victoria. You go the other way, my dear.” His tone was deliberate, a bit sardonic. “Your curse is that you overthink things. Overcomplicate them. Not everything can be a certainty in life. You have to take a chance or two.”

A pause. Awkward. She felt the childish urge to chew on her fingernails.

He added blandly, “It isn't like we've rushed things—quite the opposite. We've dated for some time now.”

So he
had
known. Sensed her apprehension, felt all the churning uncertainty. Damn, lawyers were hard to fool.

She shook her head and tried desperately to think of what to say.
I want to say yes, Michael. I want the ring, the wedding, the life we both imagine. I'm just not sure you're the one.
That would hardly do.

Michael solved her dilemma. “Maybe next week, we'll have dinner again,” he murmured. “I have this wonderful French Cab I found a few months ago. Is it a date?” His gaze was direct. His expression said that he was willing to wait, but not forever. Another week was plenty of grace.

A week. Time to think. That's what she needed, wasn't it—just a little time?

“Yes,” she murmured in a stammer. Dipping her head, she skimmed the edge of the tablecloth with her finger.

“Victoria?” Michael smiled finally, relaxing his shoulders against the back of his chair.

“What?”

“Next week … unplug the phone, will you?”

She smothered a nervous laugh with the back of her hand.

* * * *

Mitchell Williams leaned back in his black leather chair, ignoring the protesting groan of the springs. He wore out more chairs that way—tilting them backward beyond their capacity to bend. He did it out of habit, and of his habits, it seemed the least offensive to bother exerting effort to cure.

“Cigarette?” He eyed the young woman across from him, opening the gold case on his desk as he spoke. When she shook her head, he studied her face for signs of overt disapproval, and seeing nothing but polite attention, lit one for himself.

“You wanted to talk to me?” he asked genially. The request had been a little surprising.

Michael Roberts had made it quite plain that an engagement was in the works, so if Victoria Paulsen had a problem, it seemed logical that she would go to Michael, or even her future father-in-law, John, who was a partner in the firm.

“I'd like to take a leave of absence.” Victoria Paulsen made the announcement quietly, crossing one slim leg carefully over the other and unobtrusively tugging at her short navy skirt. “Mrs. Byrnes is my supervisor. She said I had to clear it through you or one of the other partners.”

Mitchell did admire the way Mrs. Byrnes did her job. The Paulsen girl was a part-time secretary, but Byrnes made no exception to the rules, not even for a student who barely worked fifteen hours a week. Not even for someone who might someday be married to the son of a partner. Good for her. Byrnes was quite a stickler.

Again, the question, why not go to Michael or John?

Mitchell nodded, narrowing his eyes against the smoke. “That's our policy, certainly. Is there some sort of problem?”

“Family problem.”

Her eyes, an unusual shade somewhere between blue and green, gazed past him toward the window.
Lovely eyes
, Mitchell thought absently, drawing smoke into his lungs with an almost sexual enjoyment,
and the rest of her not bad either. Not bad at all. Michael is a bright young man.

“I see. How many hours a week do you work?”

“Fifteen—sometimes only ten. I go to Northwestern. Journalism.”

“Hmmm. I'm sure we can work something out. When will you be back?”

The beautiful eyes swiveled back toward his face, then her gaze dropped. “I don't know. I can't actually say how long I'll need.” A small swallow twitched the muscles of her throat. “I was hoping to leave immediately.”

Thirty-plus years of practicing law gave Mitchell Williams the ability to recognize true distress, to sort it from the playacting and the hype. “Does this have anything to do with Michael?” he asked bluntly, not wanting to mince words. Lord, that was all they needed, some sort of argument between a part-time secretary and one of their top lawyers. A sexual harassment suit would be a financial nightmare for the firm. The cigarette made an automatic arc to his mouth.

Surprise made her face blank for the split second before she grasped his inference. “No, sir.” Color began a slow climb upward from her neck, staining her cheekbones with reddish blotches. “This has nothing to do with Michael. In fact, I came to you in order to keep him and his father out of this. I'd like to think that no one here could say I was shown any specific preference.”

That was a distinct relief, but he didn't show it. “I'm sure,” he said, his smile condescending, “that no one thinks you get special treatment. I hope nothing is seriously wrong?”

There was a palpable hesitation before she answered. “My sister has disappeared.”

“Really?”

She gave another self-conscious tug on her skirt. “Her husband called me three days ago. At first we thought maybe she'd left him, but it's been nearly a week now and no word. My family is beginning to get frantic.”

“I imagine.”

A brief smile, one that seemed tinged liberally with irony, touched her mouth. “I have no idea why they think I need to be there, but they have asked me to come home.”

Mitchell's chair creaked. “Never underestimate the value of moral support, Miss Paulsen.”