Authors: Danielle Steel
“What did you make of that?” O'Connor asked in an undertone before Taylor left the kitchen.
“It's probably all lies, but I'll ask her.”
“She don't look the type.” O'Connor shook his head. Maybe the boyfriend had taken the kid. It was certainly a possibility if she was involved with someone other than her husband. And you never knew. It was always the quiet ones who surprised you.
“No, she doesn't look the type,” Taylor agreed almost sadly. But if it was true, he was even more anxious to talk to her before the return of her husband. As he walked into the library, he saw her sitting there, almost as though she hadn't moved, but she seemed to be shaking harder than ever. The house was warm, but she was clearly in shock, and in spite of himself, he felt sorry for her.
“Would you like a drink, or a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you,” she said sadly. “Did they know anything?” she asked him hopefully, but he shook his head. “Do you think it's possible they took him and left him somewhere, and came back?” It was a thought she'd had while he was talking to them, and she was anxious to share it.
“Possible, but not likely. I'll see them both again tomorrow morning. But I think they've probably just been out dancing and drinking.” Like her, he was disappointed. It would have been so simple if they had him.
“Neither of them is very fond of me.” Few people were, in Malcolm's house, but she was embarrassed to say it. Malcolm was their only boss, as far as they were concerned. No matter how kind she'd been to them, they were still cold and rude and surly, and more than they knew it, it hurt her.
Being married to Malcolm wasn't always the easy life it appeared. There had been many long nights when she'd been unhappy and lonely. There'd been years of them now, and yet she was faithful to him, and honorable, decent, and a good mother to Teddy. But no one gave her credit for that. Sometimes, she thought, not even Malcolm.
Taylor was watching her face then, and wondering something. “Why do you think they don't like you?” It wasn't that he disagreed with her, he had seen the hatred in Patrick's eyes, and the look on Edith's face when she talked about her dresses.
“I think they're jealous. Most of them have been here since before we were married. I was an intruder, as far as they were concerned. They had their arrangements with my husband, and suddenly there I was, and they didn't want to be bothered. Everyone has an angle in a house like this, something they're doing, something they want, something they shouldn't have done, but did, and they don't want to get found out. I'm a headache for them, and they don't like it.” Something about what she'd just said reminded him about her headaches. It was an odd thing that had stuck in his mind, and he couldn't help wondering, in light of everything else the driver had said, if she and Malcolm were happily married.
“Maybe you're right.” The investigator from the FBI was noncommittal. “What about what I asked you before I left the room?”
“I can't think of anything else.” She was still struggling with her conscience and her terrors, and her unwillingness to believe that Charles would take Teddy, no matter what he had said. He couldn't have meant it.
“You're sure?” Two uniformed policemen wandered by, and Taylor gave them a high sign and asked for a cup of tea for her, and coffee for himself, if they could find it. It was three o'clock in the morning by then, and just watching her shiver made him feel cold and tired.
“Do they have any news at all?” She had to fight back tears as she asked, and he shook his head. She still couldn't let herself believe that if she went upstairs, she wouldn't find Teddy. He had to be there …but in her heart, she knew he wasn't.
“Mrs. Patterson,” he said slowly, after the tea had arrived and the policeman who'd brought it had left again, leaving the library door ajar. Taylor stood up and strode over and closed it. “I want to tell you something your driver said. I want to discuss this with you myself. Because if the press get hold of this, it's going to make a hell of a story.” She knew before he said anything what the story was going to be, and maybe in some ways it would be a relief to tell him. “Mr. Reilly says you have a 'boyfriend.' “ His face was without expression as he said the word, and Marielle smiled. It was so absurd that she had to smile, but she also knew how vicious Patrick was, and she could imagine the story.
“That's an interesting term.”
“Is it accurate?” She could feel him pressuring her. He wanted to know everything about her, for the sake of her child's life. And if he had to, no matter how pretty he thought she was, he would be ruthless.
She sighed, and looked at him. “No, it's not accurate.” It was almost funny to even think of Charles as her “boyfriend.” “He's my ex-husband, and I hadn't seen him in almost seven years until two days ago. We ran into each other at Saint Patrick's Cathedral.”
“Was the meeting prearranged?”
She shook her head solemnly, and the way she looked at him, he believed her. Her eyes were full of grief, and he sensed that behind the new sorrow was old grief.
“It was totally coincidental that we met. He's been living in Spain …fighting against Franco.”
“Oh Christ, one of those.” Taylor took a long sip of coffee. It had already been a long night, but he needed to be alert as the night grew longer. He wanted to talk to her himself, and to hear her story before her husband came home. “Is he a Commie?”
She smiled again. That was another funny word to apply to Charles, although nothing was funny now. Now that Teddy was gone, nothing would ever be funny again … or happy … or nice … or even worth staying alive for …but he would return. It would be different this time. It had to be. The story would have a happy ending. “I don't think he's actually political. He just spends his life tilting at windmills. He's an idealist and a dreamer and writer. He's gone to Pamplona to run with the bulls. He's close to Hemingway. I think he just saw a fight in Spain, and he went to fight it. I don't know. I haven't seen him in years. I haven't spent any real time with him since 1929 … I haven't seen him at all since 1932 when I came back to the States, and married Malcolm.”
“And why now? Why is he suddenly here? To see you?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Family obligations. His father is very old, and probably dying, or close to it.”
“Did he call you when he arrived, or write to you?” She shook her head. “Do you think he followed you? Is he angry at your remarriage?”
She sighed and looked at the inspector long and hard.
£
? don't know if he has followed me, I don't think so. He hasn't called …and yes … I think he is angry at my remarriage …and about Teddy … he didn't know. I told him on Friday that I'd remarried, but I didn't …say anything …about Teddy. And then yesterday, he saw him.”
“Yesterday?” John Taylor looked intrigued as she continued.
“In Central Park. We went to the boat pond, but it was frozen.” Taylor nodded and wondered about the second meeting.
“Did you agree to meet him there?”
“It was coincidence again. His home is just outside the park, at the level of the boat pond.”
“Did you want to meet him there?”
“I never thought about it.” She looked straight at him, and she was still trembling.
“Did you think about him?”
She nodded, her eyes boring holes in his. She had thought about nothing but since she'd seen him at Saint Patrick's.
“Don't you think that two coincidental meetings is a bit much to believe after seven years? You don't see him in seven years, and suddenly there he is twice in two days. Don't you think he was looking for you on purpose?”
“Perhaps.” It was possible. She had asked herself the same questions.
“Did he want anything from you?” Taylor's eyes searched everything about her.
She hesitated, and then nodded. “Yes … he wanted to see me.”
“Why?”
“I'm not sure … to talk … to talk about things that no longer matter. It's all over now …it's gone … it was a long time ago. I've been married to Malcolm …my husband … for six years …” Her words drifted off as she looked sorrowfully at John Taylor. He had come into her life at a terrible time, and she barely saw him. She saw his face and heard his voice but she didn't know who he was, she didn't know anything. She felt numb, and desperately frightened every time she thought of Teddy.
“When were you married to him?” His voice droned on, gentle but ever probing.
“In 1926 …when I was eighteen …” She looked at him very hard then, and decided that she had to tell him. “My husband doesn't know about this, Inspector. He believes that I 'misbehaved' in Europe when I was eighteen. I think my father implied to all his friends that I had a 'serious flirtation with an inappropriate suitor.' Nothing more. My father was a dreamer. The truth was, as my father well knew, that I was married for five years, and we lived in Europe. I tried to tell Malcolm that when he asked me to marry him, but he didn't want to hear it. He said we each had a past, and it was better left untouched and undisclosed. What he had heard was the story my father had circulated to save himself embarrassment, I don't think he ever admitted to any of his friends that Charles and I were married. We lived in France …” There was a faraway look in her eyes …”And we were very happy.” She looked even more beautiful as she said it.
“And what changed that?” His voice was deep and husky as he asked, trying not to be distracted by her.
“A number of things.” She was evading him and he immediately sensed it. Only one thing had happened to shatter their dream. One thing. One hideous afternoon, from which neither of them had ever recovered.
“Mrs. Patterson …Marielle … I need to know what happened … for your sake … for Teddy's.” What he said went straight to her heart, and tears filled her eyes as she looked at him.
“I can't talk about it now. I never have …” except with her doctor at the clinic.
“You have to.” He was determined and powerful, but she continued to resist him.
“I can't.” She got up and walked around the room, and for a long time she stood and stared out the window. There was darkness outside, and somewhere out in that darkness, there was Teddy. She turned to look at the inspector then, and he had never seen so much pain in his life. More than ever, he wanted to reach out and touch her.
“I'm sorry. I hate doing this to you.” He had never said that to anyone before, but he had never felt like this about any woman. There was a purity and a gentleness to her, and at the same time a fragility that genuinely scared him. “Marielle.” He allowed himself the use of her first name without even asking her, but he had to do everything he could to bring her closer. “You have to tell me.”
“I have never told my husband …perhaps if he knew … if he had known …” Perhaps there would never have been Teddy, or even a marriage.
“You can tell me.” He wanted her to trust him.
“And then? You tell the press?” Her eyes bored into his, but he shook his head slowly.
“I can't promise you anything. But I give you my word. I'll do my damnedest to keep your secrets, unless they mean Teddy's safety. Is that a deal?”
She nodded in answer, and looked away again out into the garden. “We had a son, Charles and I … a little boy named Andre …” She could feel her throat tighten as she said his name. “He was born eleven months after we were married … he had shining black hair, and big blue eyes. He was like a little angel … a little fat cherub, and we adored him. We took him everywhere.” She turned to look at John again, suddenly she had to tell him the story. “He was so beautiful, and he was always laughing.
Wherever we went with him, people knew him.” John was watching her as she spoke, and he didn't like the look in her eyes, or the way she told the story. “Charles adored him …and so did I …and one year we went to Switzerland for Christmas. Andre was two and a half years old, and we had a wonderful time, playing in the snow. We even built a snowman.” There were tears beginning to slide down her cheeks, tears of pain, and he didn't interrupt her. “One afternoon, Charles wanted to go up the mountain to go skiing, but I wanted to stay in Geneva. So Andre and I took a walk around the lake, we talked and we played, and the lake was frozen, and there was a group of women and children, and we stopped and chatted. And I was talking to one of them, about little boys his age …” She could barely speak now, but she still went on, fighting for air as she struggled with each word. “You know how women are, they love to talk about their children, so she and I were talking about how mischievous two-year-old boys are, and as we spoke … as we spoke …” she touched her eyes with a trembling hand, and without thinking, he reached out to her, as though to help her on, and she clung to his fingers “… while we were talking, he ran out on the ice with some other children, and then suddenly, there was this terrible …terrible …” She could barely go on, the room seemed so airless, but John squeezed her hand as tightly as he could and she continued. She was unaware of him now, she was lost in a time that had almost killed her.
“…There was a terrible crackling noise … almost like thunder …and the ice cracked …three of the children fell in …one of them was Andre … I rushed out on the ice, with the other women, and people were shouting. I was the first one to reach the hole …I got both of the little girls out … I got them,” she sobbed … “I got them …but I couldn't get him … I tried … I tried so hard … I tried everything I could … I even climbed into the water, but he had slipped under the ice, and then I found him …” Her voice was distorted by pain, and as he listened John Taylor was crying…. “He was all blue, and he lay in my arms so tiny and cold and so still. … I tried everything … I tried to breathe for him, I tried to warm him …the ambulance came and we took him to the hospital, but …” She looked up at John, seeing him again then, and they were both crying for the little boy who had died beneath the ice in Geneva. “They couldn't save him. He had died in my arms, they said, when I first pulled him out …but he wasn't even breathing then …how could they know when he died?” And what did it matter? “It was all my fault … I should have been watching him, and I wasn't. I was talking to those damn women …about him …and then he was gone …one moment of talking to them, and I killed him….”