For the Love of Lilah Read online

  "Book?" Lilah interrupted. "Do you mean a jour­nal, a diary?"

  "I suppose that's what it was. I saw her writing in it sometimes when I brought her up some tea. She'd always thank me, too. Call me by name. 'Thank you, Millie,' she would say, 'it's a pretty day.' Or. 'You didn't have to trouble, Millie. How is your young man?' Gracious, she was." Millie's mouth thinned. "Now the master, he wouldn't say a word to you. Might as well have been a stick of wood for all he noticed."

  "You didn't like him," Max put in.

  "Wasn't my place to like or dislike, but a harder, colder man I've never met in all my years. We'd talk about it sometimes, me and one of the other girls.

  Why did such a sweet and lovely woman marry a man like that? Money, I would have said. Oh, the clothes she had, and the parties, the jewelry. But it didn't make her happy. Her eyes were sad. She and the mas­ter would go out in the evenings, or they'd entertain at home. He'd go his own way most other times, busi­ness and politics and the like, hardly paying any mind to his wife, and less to his children. Though he was partial to the boy, the oldest boy."

  "Ethan," Lilah supplied. "My grandfather."

  "A fine little boy, he was, and a handful. He liked to slide down the banisters and play in the dirt. The mistress didn't mind him getting dirty, but she made certain he was all polished up when the master got home. A tight ship he ran, Fergus Calhoun. Was it any wonder the poor woman looked elsewhere for a little softness?"

  Lilah closed a hand over Max's. "You knew she was seeing someone?"

  "It was my job to clean the tower room. More than once I looked out that window and saw her running out to the cliffs. She met a man there. I know she was a married woman, but it wasn't for me to judge then, or now. Whenever she came back from seeing him, she looked happy. At least for a little while."

  "Do you know who he was?" Max asked her.

  "No. A painter, I think, because there were times he had an easel set up. But I never asked anyone, and never told what I saw. It was the mistress's secret. She deserved one."

  Because her hands were tiring, she let them still in her lap. “The day before she died, she brought a little puppy home for the children. A stray she said she'd found out on the cliffs. Lord, what a commotion. The children were wild about that dog. The mistress had one of the gardeners fill up a tub on the patio, and she and the children washed the pup themselves. They were laughing, the dog was howling. The mistress ruined one of her pretty day frocks. After, I helped the nanny clean up the children. It was the last time I saw them happy."

  She paused a moment to gather her thoughts while two butterflies danced toward the pansies. "There was a dreadful fight when the master came home. I'd never heard the mistress raise her voice before. They were in the parlor and I was in the hall. I could hear them plain. The master wouldn't have the dog in the house. Of course, the children were crying, but he said, just as cold, that the mistress was to give it to one of the servants and have it destroyed."

  Lilah felt her own eyes fill. "But why?"

  "It wasn't good enough, you see, being a mutt. The little girl, she stood right up to him, but she was only a wee thing, and it made no> difference to him. I thought he might strike her—his voice had that mean­ness in it—but the mistress told the children to take the dog and go up to their nanny. It got worse after that. The mistress was fit to be tied. I wouldn't have said she had a temper, but she cut loose. The master said terrible things to her, vicious things. He said he was going to Boston for a few days, and that she was to get rid of the dog, and to remember her place. When he came out of the parlor, his face—I'll never forget it. He looked mad, I said to myself, then I peeked into the parlor and there was the mistress, white as a ghost, just sitting in a chair with her hand pressed to her throat. The next night, she was dead."

  Max said nothing for a moment. Lilah was looking away, her eyes blind with tears. "Mrs. Tobias, had you heard anything about Bianca planning to leave her husband?"

  "Later I did. The master, he dismissed the nanny, even though those poor babies were wild with grief. She—Mary Beals was her name—she loved the chil­dren and the mistress like they were her own. I saw her in the village the day they were to take the mis­tress back to New York for burying. She told me that her lady would never have killed herself, that she would never have done that to the children. She in­sisted that it had been an accident. And then she told me that the mistress had decided to leave, that she'd come to see she couldn't stay with the master. She was going to take the children away. Mary Beals said she was going to New York herself and that she was going to stay with the children no matter what Mr. Calhoun said. I heard later that she'd gotten her po­sition back."

  "Did you ever see the Calhoun emeralds, Mrs. To­bias?" Max asked.

  "Oh, ayah. Once seen, you’d never forget them. She would wear them and look like a queen. They disappeared the night she died." A faint smile moved her mouth. "I know the legend, boy. You could say I lived it."

  Composed again, Lilah looked back. "Do you have any idea what happened to them?"

  "I know Fergus Calhoun never threw them into the sea. He wouldn't so much as flip a penny into a wish­ing well, so close with his money he was. If she meant to leave him, then she meant to take them with her. But he came back, you see."

  Max's brows drew together. "Came back?"

  "The master came back the afternoon of the day she died. That's why she hid them. And the poor thing never had a chance to take them, and her children, and get away."

  "Where?" Lilah murmured. "Where could she have put them?"

  "In that house, who could say?" Millie picked up her work again. "I went back to help pack up her things. A sad day. Wasn't one of us dry-eyed. We put all her lovely dresses in tissue paper and locked them in a trunk. We were told to clear the room out, even her hair combs and perfume. He wanted nothing left of her in there. I never saw the emeralds again."

  "Or her journal?" Max waited while Millie pursed her lips. "Did you find the journal in her room?"

  "No." Slowly she shook her head. "There was no diary."

  "How about stationery, or cards, letters?"

  "Her writing paper was in the desk, and the little book she kept her appointments in, but I didn't see a diary. We put everything away, didn't even leave a hairpin. The next summer, he came back. He kept her room locked up, and there wasn't a sign of the mis­tress in the house. There had been photographs, and a painting, but they were gone. The children hardly laughed. Once I came across the little boy standing outside his mother's room, just staring at the door. I gave my notice in the middle of the season. I couldn't bear to work in that house, not with the master. He'd grown even colder, harder. And he took to going up to the tower room and sitting for hours. I married Tom that summer, and never went back to The Towers."

  Later Lilah stood on the narrow balcony of their hotel room. Below she could see the long blue rectangle of the pool, hear the laughter and splashing of families and couples enjoying their vacation.

  But her mind wasn't on the bright summer sun or the shouts and rippling water. It was on the days eighty years past, when women wore long, graceful dresses and wrote their dreams in private journals.

  When Max came up quietly behind her to slip his arms around her waist, she leaned back into him, comforted.

  "I always knew she was unhappy," Lilah said. "I could feel that. Just as I could feel she was hopelessly in love. But I never knew she was afraid. I never picked up on that."

  "It was a long time ago, Lilah." Max pressed a kiss to her hair. "Mrs. Tobias might have exagger­ated. Remember, she was a young, impressionable woman when it all happened."

  Lilah turned to look quietly, deeply into his eyes. "You don't believe that."

  "No." He stroked his knuckles over her cheek. "But we can't change what happened. We can't help her now."

  "But we can, don't you see? By finding the neck­lace, and the journal. She must have written every­thing she felt in that book. Everything
she wanted, and feared. She wouldn't have left it where Fergus would find it. If she hid the emeralds, she hid the book, too."

  "Then we'll find them. If we follow Mrs. Tobias's account, Fergus came back before Bianca expected him. She didn't have the opportunity to get the em­eralds out of the house. They're still there, so it's only a matter of time before we find them."

  "But— "

  He shook his head, cupping his hands around her face. "Aren't you the one who says to trust your feel­ings? Think about it. Trent comes to The Towers and falls in love with C.C. Because of his idea to renovate and turn part of the house into a retreat, the old legend comes out. Once it's made public, Livingston or Cau-field or whatever we choose to call him develops an obsession. He makes a play for Amanda, but she's already hooked on Sloan—who's also there because of the house. Caufield's impatient, so he steals some of the papers. That brings me into it. You fish me out of the water, take me into your home. Since then we've been able to piece more together. We've found a photograph of the emeralds. We've located a woman who actually knew Bianca, and who's cor­roborated the fact that she hid the necklace in the house. It's all connected, every step. Do you think we'd have gotten this far if we weren't meant to find them?"

  Her eyes softened as she linked her hands over his wrists. "You're awfully good for me, Professor. A little optimistic logic's just what I need right now."

  "Then I'll give you some more. I think the next step is to start tracking down the artist."

  "Christian? But how?"

  "You leave it to me."

  "All right." Wanting his arms around her, she laid her head on his shoulder. "There's another connec­tion. You might think it's out of left field, but I can't help thinking about it."

  "Tell me."

  "A couple of months ago, Trent was walking the cliffs. He found Fred. We've never been able to figure out what the puppy was doing out there all alone. It made me think of the little dog Bianca brought to her children, the one she and Fergus argued about so bit­terly only a day before she died. I wonder what hap­pened to that dog, Max." She let out a long sigh. "Then I think about those children. It's difficult to imagine one's grandfather as a little boy. I never even knew him because he died before I was born. But I can see him, standing outside of his mother's door, grieving. And it breaks my heart."

  "Shh." He tightened his arms around her. "It's better to think that Bianca had some happiness with her artist. Can't you see her running to him on the cliffs, stealing a few hours in the sun, or finding some quiet place where they could be alone?"

  "Yes." Her lips curved against his throat. "Yes, I can. Maybe that's why I love sitting in the tower. She wasn't always unhappy there, not when she thought of him."

  "And if there's any justice, they're together now."

  Lilah tilted her head back to look at him. "Yes, you are awfully good for me. Tell you what, why don't we take advantage of that pool down there? I'd like to swim with you when it wasn't a matter of life or death."

  He kissed her forehead. "You've got a deal."

  She did more floating than swimming. Max had never seen anyone who could actually sleep on the water. But Lilah could—her eyes comfortably closed behind tinted glasses, her body totally relaxed. She wore two tiny scraps of leopard-print cloth that raised Max's blood pressure—and that of every other male within a hundred yards. But she drifted, hands moving gently in the water. Occasionally she would kick into a lazy sidestroke, her hair flowing out around her. Now and again, she would reach out to link her hand with his, or twine her arms around his neck, trusting him to keep her buoyant.

  Then she kissed him, her lips wet and cool, her body as fluid as the water around them.

  "Time for a nap," she said, and left him in the pool to stretch out on a chaise under an umbrella.

  When she awoke, the shadows were long and only a few diehards were left in the water. She looked around for Max, vaguely disappointed that he hadn't stayed with her. Gathering up her wrap, she went back inside to find him.

  The room was empty, but there was a note on the bed in his careful handwriting.

  Had a couple of things to see to. Be back soon.

  With a shrug, she tuned the radio to a classical station and went in to take a long, steamy shower.

  Revived and relaxed, she toweled off, then began to cream her skin in long, lazy strokes. Maybe they could rind some cozy little restaurant for dinner, she mused. Someplace where there were dim corners and music. They could linger over the meal while the can­dles burned down, and drink cool, sparkling wine.

  Then they would come back, draw the drapes on the balcony, close themselves in. He would kiss her in that thorough, drugging way until they couldn't keep their hands off each other. She picked up her bottle of scent, spritzing it onto her softened skin. They would make love slowly or frantically, gently or desperately, until, tangled together, they slept.

  They wouldn't think about Bianca or tragedies, about emeralds or thieves. Tonight they would only think about each other.

  Dreaming of him, she stepped out into the bed­room.

  He was waiting for her. It seemed he'd been wait­ing for her all of his life. She paused, her eyes dark­ened by the candles he'd lit, her damp hair gleaming with the delicate light. Her scent wafted into the room, mysterious, seductive, to tangle with the fra­grance of the clutch of freesias he'd bought her.

  Like her, he had imagined a perfect night and had tried to bring it to her.

  The radio still played, low romantic strings. On the table in front of the open balcony doors two slender white tapers glowed. Champagne, just poured, frothed in tall tulip glasses. Behind the table, the sun was sinking in the sky, a scarlet ball, bleeding into the deepening blue.

  "I thought we'd eat in," he said, and held out a hand for hers.

  "Max." Emotion tightened her throat. "I was right all along." Her fingers linked with his. "You are a poet."

  "I want to be alone with you." Taking one of the fragile blooms, he slipped it into her hair. "I'd hoped you wouldn't mind."

  "No." She let out a shaky breath when he pressed his lips to her palm. "I don't mind."

  He picked up the glasses, handed her one. "Res­taurants are so crowded."

  "And noisy," she agreed, touching her glass to his.

  "And someone might object if I nibbled on you rather than the appetizers."

  Watching him, she took a sip. "I wouldn't."

  He slid a finger up her throat, then tilted her chin so that their lips met. "We'd better give dinner a try," he said after a long moment.

  They sat, close together to watch the sun set, to feed each other little bites of lobster drenched with sweet, melted butter. She let champagne explode on her tongue, then turned her mouth to his where the flavor was just as intoxicating.

  As a Chopin prelude drifted from the radio, he pressed a light kiss to her shoulder, then skimmed more up her throat.

  "The first time I saw you," he said as he slipped a bite of lobster between her lips, "I thought you were a mermaid. And I dreamed about you that first night." Gently he rubbed his lips over hers. "I've dreamed about you every night since."

  "When I sit up in the tower, I think about you— the way I imagine Bianca once thought about Chris­tian. Do you think they ever made love?"

  "He couldn't have resisted her."

  Her breath shuddered out between her lips. "She wouldn't have wanted him to." With her eyes on his, she began to unbutton his shirt. "She would have ached needing him, wanting to touch him." On a sigh, she ran her hands over his chest. "When they were together, alone together, nothing else could have mattered."

  "He would have been half-mad for her." Taking her hands, he brought her to her feet. He left her for a moment, to draw the shades so that they were closed in with music and candlelight. "Thoughts of her would have haunted him, day and night. Her face..." He skimmed his fingers over Lilah's cheeks, over her jaw, down her throat. "Every time he closed his eyes, he would have seen it.
Her taste..." He pressed his lips to hers. "Every time he took a breath it would be there to remind him what it was like to kiss her."

  "And she would have lain in bed, night after night, wanting his touch." Heart racing, she pushed the shirt from his shoulders, then shivered when he reached for the belt of her robe. "Remembering how he looked at her when he undressed her."

  "He couldn't have wanted her more than I want you." The robe slithered to the floor. His arms drew her closer. "Let me show you."

  The candles burned low. A single thread of moon­light slashed through the chink in the drapes. There was music, swelling with passion, and the scent of fragile flowers.

  Murmured promises. Desperate answers. A low husky laugh, a sobbing gasp. From patience to ur­gency, from tenderness to madness, they drove each other. Through the dark, endless night they were tire­less and greedy. A gentle touch could cause a tremor; a rough caress a soft sigh. They came together with generous affection, then again like warriors.

  Each time they thought they were sated, they would turn to each other once more to arouse or to soothe, to cling or to stroke, until the candles gutted out and the gray light of dawn crept into the room.

  Chapter Eleven

  Hawkins was sick and tired of waiting around. As far as he was concerned every day on the island was a day wasted. Worse, he'd given up a tidy little job in New York that would have earned him at least ten grand. Instead, he'd invested half that much in a heist that looked more and more like a bust.

  He knew Caufield was good. The fact was, there were few better at lifting locks and dancing around the police. In the ten years of their association, they had pulled off some very smooth operations. Which was why he was worried.

  There was nothing smooth about this job. Damn college boy had messed things up good and proper. Hawkins resented the fact that Caufield wouldn't let him take care of Quartermain. He knew Caufield didn't think he had any finesse, but he could have arranged a nice, quiet accident.

  The real problem was that Caufield was obsessed with the emeralds. He talked about them day and night—and he talked as though they were living things rather than some pretty sparklers that would bring in some good, crisp cash.

  Hawkins was beginning to believe that Caufield didn't intend to fence the emeralds after all. He smelled the double cross and had been watching his partner like a hawk. Every time Caufield went out, Hawkins would pace the empty house, looking for some clue to his partner's true intentions.

  Then there were the rages. Caufield was well-known for his unstable temper, but those ugly tan­trums were becoming more frequent. The day before, he had stormed into the house, white-faced and wild-eyed, his body trembling with fury because the Calhoun woman hadn't been at her station in the park. He'd trashed one of the rooms, hacking away at fur­niture with a kitchen knife until he'd come to himself again.

  Hawkins was afraid of him. Though he was a stocky man with ready fists, he had no desire to match Caufield physically. Not when the man got that gleam in his eyes.

  His only hope now, if he wanted his rightful share and a clean escape, was to outwit his partner.

  With Caufield out of the house again, haunting the park, Hawkins began a slow, methodical search. Though he was a big man, often considered dull wit-ted by his associates, he could toss a room and hardly raise the dust. He sifted through the stolen papers, then turned away in disgust. There was nothing of use there. If Caufield had found anything, he would never have left it in plain view. He decided to start with the obvious, his partner's bedroom.

  He shook out the books first. He knew Caufield liked to pretend he was educated, even erudite, though he'd had no more schooling than Hawkins himself. There was nothing in the volumes of Shakespeare and Steinbeck but words.

  Hawkins searched under the mattress, through the drawers in the bureau. Since Caufield's pistol wasn't around, he decided the man had tucked it into his knapsack before setting off to find Lilah. Patient, Hawkins looked behind the mirrors, behind drawers, beneath the rug. He was beginning to think he had misjudged his partner when he turned to the closet.

  There, in the pocket of a pair of jeans, he found the map.

  It was crudely drawn on yellowed paper. For Haw­kins, there was no mistaking its meaning. The Towers was clearly depicted, along with direction and dis­tance and a few out-of-proportion landmarks.

  The map to the emeralds, Hawkins thought as he smoothed out the creases. A bitter fury filled him while he studied each line and marker. The double-dealing Caufield had found it among the stolen papers and hidden it away for himself. Well, two could play that game, he thought. He slipped out of the room as he tucked the paper into his own pocket. Wouldn't Caufield have a fine rage when he discovered his part­ner had snatched the emeralds out from under his nose. Hawkins thought it was almost a pity that he wouldn't be around to see it.

  He found Christian. It was so much easier than Max had supposed that he could only sit and stare at the book in his hand. In less than a half day in the library, he'd stumbled across the name in a dusty vol­ume titled Artists and Their Art: 1900-1950. He had patiently dug away through the A's, was meticulously slogging through the B's, when there it was. Christian Bradford, 1884-1976. Though the given name had caused Max to perk up, he hadn't expected it to be so easy. But it all fell into place.

  Though Bradford did not come to enjoy any real success until his last years, his early work has become valuable since his death.