A Place of Hiding (73 page)

“But it wasn't
like
that,” Deborah protested.

“No? Tell me how it was. Make it sound like my situation with Matt.” China reached for her tea but she didn't drink. Instead, she said, “You can't do that, can you? Because your situation has never been like mine.”

“Men aren't—”

“I'm not
talking
about men. I'm talking about life. How it is for me. How it's God damn always been for you.”

“You're seeing only the outside of it,” Deborah argued. “You're comparing that—the superficial part of it—to how you feel inside. And that doesn't make sense. China, I didn't even have a mother. You know that. I grew up in someone else's house. I spent the first part of my life frightened to death of my own shadow, bullied at school for having red hair and freckles, too shy to make a single request of anyone, even of my father. I was pathetically grateful if someone so much as patted me on the head like a dog. The only companions I had till I was fourteen were books and a third-hand camera. I lived in someone else's house, where my father was little more than a servant, and I always thought Why couldn't he have
been
someone? Why doesn't he have a career, like a doctor or a dentist or a banker or something? Why doesn't he go out to a proper job like other kids' dads? Why—”

“Jesus. My dad was in
prison,
” China cried. “That's where he is now. That's where he was then. He's a dope dealer, Deborah. Do you hear me? Do you get it? He's a fucking dope dealer. And my mom . . . How'd you like Miss USA Redwood Tree for a mother? Save the spotted owl or the three-legged ground squirrel. Stop a dam being built or a road going in or an oil well being drilled but don't ever
—ever—
remember a birthday, pack a school lunch, make sure your kids have a decent pair of shoes. And for God's sake don't ever be around for a Little League game or a Brownie meeting or a teacher conference or anything as a matter of fact because God knows the loss of endangered dandelions might upset the whole fucking ecosystem. So don't
—don't—
try to compare your poor life in some mansion—sniveling daughter of a servant—with mine.”

Deborah drew a shaky breath. There seemed nothing more to say.

China took a gulp of her tea, her face averted.

Deborah wanted to argue that no one on earth ever got to put in a request for the hand of cards they were dealt in life, that it was how one played the hand that counted, not what the hand was. But she didn't say this. Nor did she remark that she'd learned long ago with the death of her mother that good things
could
arise from bad. For saying that would smack of self-satisfaction and supercilious preaching. It would also lead them inevitably to her marriage to Simon, which would never have come about had his family not believed it necessary to get her grieving father away from Southampton. Had they not put Joseph Cotter in charge of renovating a run-down family house in Chelsea, she would never have come to live with, to grow to love, and ultimately to marry the man with whom she now shared her life. But that was dangerous ground for her to tread on in conversation with China. She had far too much to deal with right now.

Deborah knew she possessed information that could alleviate some of China's concerns—the dolmen, the combination lock on its door, the painting inside it, the state of the mailing tube in which that painting had been unwittingly smuggled into the UK and onwards onto Guernsey by Cherokee River, what the state of that mailing tube implied—but she knew she owed it to her husband not to mention any of this. So instead, she said, “I know you're frightened, China. He'll be okay, though. You've got to believe that.”

China turned her head away further. Deborah saw the trouble she had in swallowing. She said, “The moment we set foot on this island, we were someone's patsies. I wish we'd handed over those stupid plans and just taken off. But no. I thought it would be so cool to do a story on that house. And I wouldn't have been able to sell it anyway. It was dumb. It was stupid. It was a just-so-typical China screw-up. And now . . . I did this to us both, Deborah. He would have left. He would've been happy to leave. That's what he wanted to do. But I thought here's a chance to get some pictures, do a story on spec. Which was even stupider than anything else, because when the hell have I ever been able to do a story on spec and sell it? Never. Jesus. I am
such
a loser.”

This was too much. Deborah got to her feet and went to her friend's chair. She stood behind it and dropped her arms round China. She pressed her cheek against the top of her head and said, “Stop it.
Stop
it. I swear to you—”

Before she could finish, the door of the flat popped open behind them and the cold evening December air
whoosh
ed into the room. They turned and Deborah took a step to hurry over to shut it. But she stopped when she saw who was standing there.

“Cherokee!” she cried.

He looked utterly done in—unshaven and rumpled—but he grinned nonetheless. He held up a hand to stifle their exclamations and questions, and he disappeared for a moment back outside. Next to Deborah, China got up slowly.

Cherokee reappeared. In each hand was a duffel bag, which he threw inside the flat. Then, from within his jacket he brought out two small dark blue booklets, each of which was embossed in gold upon its cover. He tossed one to his sister and he kissed the other. “Our ticket to ride,” he said. “Let's blow this joint, Chine.”

She stared at him and then looked down at the passport in her hands. She
said, “What . . . ?” And then as she dashed across the room to hug him, “What happened?
Cherokee.
What
happened?
”

“I don't know and I didn't ask,” her brother replied. “A cop came to my cell with our stuff about twenty minutes ago. Said, ‘That'll be all, Mr. River. Just get your ass off this island by tomorrow morning.' Or words to that effect. He even gave us tickets back to Rome, if that's our pleasure, he said. With the States of Guernsey's apologies for the inconvenience, of course.”

“That's what he said? The
inconvenience
? We ought to sue these bastards to hell and back, and—”

“Whoa,” Cherokee said. “I'm not interested in doing anything but getting out of this place. If there was a flight tonight, believe me, I'd be on it. Only question is, do you want to do Rome?”

“I want to do
home,
” China replied.

Cherokee nodded and kissed her forehead. “Got to admit it. My shack in the canyon never sounded so good.”

Deborah watched this scene between brother and sister, and her own heart lightened. She knew who was responsible for Cherokee River's release, and she blessed him. Simon had come to her aid more than once in her life, but never more rewardingly than at this moment. He'd actually listened to her interpretation of the facts. But not only that. He'd finally heard her speaking.

 

Ruth Brouard completed her meditation, feeling more at peace than she'd felt in months. Since Guy's death, she'd skipped her daily thirty minutes of quiet contemplation, and she'd seen the result in a mind that careened from one subject to another and in a body that panicked against each new onslaught of pain. Thus she'd been running off to meet advocates, bankers, and brokers when she wasn't combing through her brother's papers for some indication of how and why he'd altered his will. When she wasn't doing that, she'd been off to the doctor to try to alter her medication so as to manage her pain more efficiently. Yet all along, the answers and the solutions she required had been contained in simply going within.

This session proved she was still capable of sustained contemplation. Alone in her room with a single candle burning on the table next to her, she'd sat and concentrated on the flow of her breath. She'd willed away the anxiety that had been plaguing her. For half an hour she'd managed to let go of grief.

Daylight had faded to darkness, she saw as she rose from her chair. Utter stillness pervaded the house. The companionable noises she'd known so long, living with her brother, left with his death a vacuum in which she felt like a creature thrust unexpectedly into space.

This was how it would be till her own death. She could only wish that it might come soon. She'd held herself together quite well while she'd shared the house with guests, making Guy's funeral arrangements and carrying them out. But the cost to her had been a high one, and the payment declared itself in pain and fatigue. The solitude she had now provided her with the opportunity to recover from what she'd been through. It also provided her with a chance to let go.

No one to pretend health for any longer, she thought. Guy was dead and Valerie already knew despite Ruth's never having told her. But that was all right, because Valerie had held her tongue from the first. Ruth didn't acknowledge it, so Valerie didn't mention it. One couldn't ask for more from a woman who spent so much time in one's own home.

From her chest of drawers, Ruth took up the bottle and shook two of the pills into her palm. She downed them with water from the carafe by her bed. They would make her drowsy, but there was no one in the house for whom she had to be sprightly now. She could nod over her dinner if she desired. She could nod over a television programme. She could, if she wished, nod off right here in her bedroom and stay nodded off till dawn. A few more pills would accomplish that. It was a tempting thought.

Below her, however, she heard a car crunch in the gravel as it moved along the drive. She went to the window in time to see the rear end of a vehicle disappear round the side of the house. She frowned at this. She expected no one.

She went to her brother's study, to the window. Across the yard, she could see, someone had pulled a large vehicle into one of the old stables. The brake lights were still on, as if the driver was considering what to do next.

She watched and waited, but nothing changed. It seemed that whoever was inside the car was waiting for her to make the next move. She did so.

She left Guy's study and went to the stairs. She was stiff from sitting for her lengthy meditation, so she took them slowly. She could smell her dinner, which Valerie had left on the hob in the kitchen. She headed there, not because she was hungry but because it seemed the reasonable thing to do.

Like Guy's study, the kitchen was at the back of the house. She could use the dishing up of her meal as an excuse to see who'd come to
Le Reposoir.

She had her answer when she finally negotiated the last of the stairs. She followed the corridor to the back, where a door was ajar and a shaft of light created a diagonal slice on the carpet. There she pushed against the panels and saw her nephew standing at the hob, energetically stirring whatever it was that Valerie had left simmering on its back burner.

She said, “Adrian! I thought . . .”

He swung round.

Ruth said, “I thought . . . You're here. But when your mother said she was
leaving . . .”

“You thought I'd be going as well. That makes sense. Wherever she goes, I generally follow. But not this time, Aunt Ruth.” He held out a long wooden spoon for her to taste what appeared to be beef bourguignon. He said, “Are you ready for this? D'you want to eat in the dining room or in here?”

“Thank you, but I'm not very hungry.” What she was was light-headed, perhaps the result of pain medication on an empty stomach.

“That's been obvious,” Adrian told her. “You've lost a lot of weight. Doesn't anyone mention it?” He went to the dresser and took down a serving bowl. “But tonight, you're going to eat.”

He began scooping the beef into the bowl. When he had it filled, he covered it and took from the fridge a green salad that Valerie had also prepared. From inside the oven, he brought out another bowl—this one of rice—and he began setting all of this on the table in the centre of the kitchen. He followed up with a water goblet, crockery, and cutlery for one.

Ruth said, “Adrian, why have you come back? Your mother . . . Well, she didn't say
exactly,
I suppose, but when she told me she was leaving, I assumed . . . My dear, I know how disappointed you are about your father's will, but he was quite adamant. And no matter what, I feel I must respect—”

“I don't expect you to do anything about the situation,” Adrian told her. “Dad made his point. Sit down, Aunt Ruth. I'll fetch you some wine.”

Ruth felt some concern and confusion. She waited where he left her and sought out the larder which Guy had long ago turned into his wine cellar. There she could hear Adrian making his selection from among his father's expensive bottles. One of them clinked on the old marble shelf on which meats and cheeses had once been kept. In a moment, she heard the sound of pouring.

She considered his actions, wondering what he was up to. When he returned moments later, he bore an opened burgundy in one hand and a single glass of wine in the other. The bottle was old, she saw, and its label was dusty. Guy wouldn't have used it for so unimportant a meal.

She said, “I don't think . . .” but Adrian swept past her and pulled out a chair from beneath the table with much ceremony.

“Sit, Madam,” he said. “Dinner is served.”

“Aren't you eating?”

“I had something on the way back from the airport. Mum got off, by the way. She's probably already landed by now. We've washed our hands of each other at last, which William—that's her current husband, in case you've forgotten—will no doubt deeply appreciate. Well, what else can you expect? He didn't plan on taking in a permanent lodger in the person of his stepson when he married her, did he?”

If Ruth hadn't known otherwise about her nephew, she would have seen both his behaviour and his conversation as evidence of a manic state. But in the thirty-seven years of his life, she'd never witnessed anything in him that could be remotely described as manic. This, then, was something else she was seeing. She just didn't know how to label it. Or what it meant. Or how, indeed, she should feel about it.