Ballet Shoes and Engine Grease (16 page)

Nick curled his hand around Esmeralda’s
plump fingers.
“A
diamond in the rough is still a diamond. Pure and precious. My
father was lucky to have you in his life the final
year.”

Through a film of tears
, blue eyes shone at him. “Oh Nicky, do
you really think so?”

“
Yes,” he said. “I really think
so.”

It was not much, but it
was the first tiny step toward becoming a
better person. Of changing the future, because no one could change
the past.

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Chapter Nine

Around Nick,
a faint predawn light thinned the darkness but the
humid air held the chill of the night. The thick hedge rose to form
high walls that seemed to suck him deeper and deeper into the
past—into some personal nightmare of doubting his worth as a human
being.

H
e found the centre of the maze without trouble. Instinct.
Childhood memories. In the tiny clearing, a stone border on the
ground made up a raised square, perhaps eight feet wide. In the
centre stood a stone monolith, a waist-high column with a sphere at
the top. It made him think of an obelisk with a soccer ball
balanced on top.

He crouched in front of
the monument. The daylight was too weak to
read the engraving. He raised a hand and ran his fingers over the
lichen covered stone. Like a blind man, he made out the
inscription, tracing the numbers and letters one by one, starting
from the base, and moving upward.

The year of his accident.

The year of his birth.

Beloved brother.

Nicholas Constantine.

In the clipped hedge that formed the maze,
birds launched into their morning chorus. Singing their hearts out.
He’d never understood the meaning of the phrase with such clarity.
Scrawny little things, they perched on the branches, heads raised,
throats swelling, and chirped out melodies so potent and beautiful,
surely their tiny hearts would burst with the effort.

Just as his heart felt like bursting
now.

The chill in the air seemed to penetrate
his bones, his very soul. Frozen. Ice. That’s how he felt. Had he
always been like this—looking inward, focused on himself? Had he
lost the chance of being loved because he’d been too bitter to
reach out, too bitter to forgive? Was that why Marcela had dumped
him—because, deep down, he was hard and cold?

Nick
pushed up to his feet and made his way out of the maze. The
first rays of sunshine warmed the eastern horizon, painting streaks
of pink in the ragged clouds. What time was it? He’d left his watch
on the nightstand. After six, he guessed. It was four hours since
his last swig of brandy, and he’d only drunk a few mouthfuls then,
as most of what was left in the bottle had gone into Esmeralda’s
glass.

Judging himself sober, he got into the car
and headed out to the memorial park. His mind was blank, his senses
curiously dull. He drove on instinct, years of routine taking over,
hands turning the wheel, eyes recording the town coming into life.
First commuters heading for the highway. Newspaper boy on his
bicycle. Bakery van making a delivery.

He parked in the empty lot by the stone
wall that enclosed the rolling lawns
of the memorial park and strode along the
crunching gravel path, his feet finding their way. He came to a
halt in front of black granite gravestone. His grandparents. He’d
been to his father’s funeral service at the church, but not to the
graveside. He moved to the right, where the grass had yet to settle
over the fresh mound of earth.

Stephan Constantine.

Tamara Constantine.

Robert Constantine.

So, his father must have adopted Bobby.
According to the law, he had a half brother. A kid brother.
My brother
Bobby
. Finally, the hard
knot of grief inside him began to melt. Tears sprang to his eyes
and spilled in warm trails down his cheeks—tears of guilt, tears of
regret for what could have been. A little boy, disadvantaged in
life, to whom he could have given joy, and who would surely have
returned that joy many times over, if he had been less stubborn and
conquered his prickly pride.

How many marriages broke up?
Half of all? One third? What
did the children of those broken homes do? Some were left behind,
he guessed, lost a parent who for whatever reason failed to keep in
touch. Some made a conscious choice to sacrifice one parent in
order to remain loyal to the other. And most, he suspected, adapted
to the situation, found a way to hold on to at least a small part
of both parents.

But he hadn’t. He’d clung to his hate,
unwilling to forgive. Unwilling to try to understand. Unwilling to
seek a common ground, a middle way, a compromise that might have in
the long run worked out the best for everyone, even his
mother.

Perhaps he really was the bastard Crimson
had made him out to be.

Nick turned and strode away. On the way to
New York City, he hit the rush hour. By the time he got to
Manhattan, it was close to ten. He garaged the car, went up to his
condo and packed a suitcase. A taxi took him to JFK, where he
bought a ticket and boarded the next plane for Tokyo, in an attempt
to put some distance between himself and his regrets.

****

“
Tokyo? Tokyo?” Crimson gripped the
telephone. “What’s he doing in Tokyo?”

M
yrna Constantine spoke in her usual crisp tones. “He rang
up from JFK, said there is some kind of a business problem.
Something to do with electrical components.”

“
Why didn’t he ring
me
?”

Crimson regretted the words as soon they
were out. Needy whining.
After all, she
had
pushed him away. At the time, she’d told herself she was
being sensible, avoiding emotional tangles. But really, had she
wanted to hurt him a little? Be a porcupine with sharp quills? Had
Nick, despite his cocky parting remark, gone off in a
huff?

“
Nick hates leaving messages,” Myrna told
her. “It dates back to the days when he travelled so much. He’d
leave a message for someone, and they’d ruin his sleep by returning
the call without realizing that he was in a different time zone
where it was the middle of the night.”

“
Of course,” Crimson said, trying to sound
calm, unconcerned. “We switched from an electronics supplier in
Pittsburg to a Japanese company six months ago, and there are
teething problems. Nick must have gone off to sort it
out.”

Crimson
put the phone down, pulled on her casual clothes,
and got Esmeralda to drive her to work, even though it was
Saturday. Hank had asked some of the manufacturing crew to come in
at the weekend, to deal with the aftermath of the fire, and she
wanted to be there, to offer her support.

They cleaned, they scrapped, they
salvaged.
She pitched
in, dressed in baggy overalls, making an effort to be a visible
leader, as Nick had instructed her, although she doubted that
scrubbing the concrete floor in the manufacturing hall made a
valuable contribution.

By Tuesday morning
, the plant was in normal
operation.

By Wednesday, the insurance company had
agreed payment.

On Thursday, Esmeralda
announced that she wanted to take the
train to the city to visit Myrtie, leaving Crimson without a
chauffeur. By that time, the small, meaningless lie—omission,
really—had grown into a festering sore. Why hadn’t she been honest
and upfront about her lack of driving skills?

There was only one thing to do.

Turn it into a joke.

****

Crimson
asked Anna to set up a staff meeting in the
cafeteria at lunchtime. When everyone had arrived and was seated,
she stood by the food counter and addressed the crowd. “There’s
something I haven’t told you. A sort of personal secret. I’m
holding a competition for you guess what it is. Answers on a piece
of paper, please, on Anna’s desk by five p.m. tonight. There are
prizes for correct answers.”

“
What’s the prize?” someone called
out.

“
Use of the vintage Panther that belonged
to Stephan Constantine, for one weekend. Glam up a family wedding,
impress a girlfriend, pretend to be rich and famous.” The room
erupted into speculation. She heard snippets of conversation. “A
clue,” she cried out in haste. “My secret does not involve Nick
Constantine.”

At
five o’clock, Crimson sidled up to Anna’s desk. Three
people in overalls were scurrying off across the office
floor.

“
How are we doing?” Crimson
asked.

“
You slipped up, boss. You forgot to
specify one entry per person.” The curvy brunette rattled a shoebox
full of scraps of paper. “I could sort through these tomorrow at
home, in my own time. A sort of penance for getting Gregg into
trouble. I feel terrible about it.”

“
It wasn’t your fault.” Crimson gestured at
the notes. “Is this silly?”

“
No.” Anna unfolded a slip of paper, burst
into laughter, refolded the slip and shoved it back in among the
rest. “It’s great. People needed something to brighten up the mood.
It’s a bit of fun. Really. And will be a riot when we declare the
winners on Monday.”

“
I’m not telling you the
answer.”

“
Then how am I going to check
these?”

“
You’re a high powered executive PA. You’ll
think of something.”

And Anna did.
On Monday morning, she came to work dressed in
tails and a top hat, like a circus ringmaster. She called another
meeting in the cafeteria. When everyone was seated, she dragged out
a flipchart and proceeded with a presentation.

“
We have a total of one hundred and
seventeen votes.” She was playing the crowd like a consummate
actress. “Fifty-three people think Crimson is Stephan Constantine’s
secret love child. Twenty-seven people think she was his mistress.
Five people think Crimson is a criminal wanted by the FBI. Three
people think she is someone else impersonating Crimson Mills. Three
people think she is a really a man. Two people think she is a space
alien. Twenty answers have been disqualified because they involved
Nick Constantine. Four answers have one vote each.”

With ceremony,
Anna unfolded a slip of paper. “Crimson is a
robot. She needs to be plugged into a power supply every night.
That’s why she is never seen around town in the
evenings.”

Another piece of paper, another flamboyant
gesture.
“Crimson is a
set of clones. The Crimson on Monday is never the same as the
Crimson on Tuesday. That’s why she manages to put in so many
hours.”

Before reading the next
entry
, Anna searched the
crowd. “Crimson is in love with Jorge Fernandez.” She pointed at
him. “We all know who wrote that.”

“
Dream on, Jorge,” someone called
out.

“
And last, but not least…” Anna paused.
“Crimson has crashed Stephan Constantine’s Panther. The competition
is a cover-up to get people to accept a replacement.” Anna turned
to Crimson. “Well, boss? What is it? Are you a clone, a criminal, a
robot, an impostor, or more closely connected to Stephan
Constantine than you’ve let us believe?”

Crimson got to
her feet. The sound of clattering pots and pans
faded as the catering company staff behind the counter stilled to
listen. “I’m afraid I wasn’t specific enough,” she told the
audience. “You’ve all come up with
big
secrets. It’s a
small
secret.” She paused. “I’ve never had an intimate affair
with a motor vehicle.”

Anna seized the c
ue. “You’ve never made out on the back
seat?”

“
Jorge will help you with that,” someone
yelled.

“
I said
with
a motor vehicle, not
in
one.
I’ve never stamped my foot on a gas pedal, never lovingly flicked
on lights. Never spun a steering wheel. I don’t know how to drive.”
She made a helpless little gesture. “This nonsense is just my way
of asking for your help. If anyone goes past Longwood Hall on their
way in, I’d very much appreciate a ride. I’ll be in my office for
the rest of the day for any volunteers to drop by.” She offered
them an awkward smile. “I guess the winning entry is the one about
the crashed Panther. And as there is only one winner, they can have
the car for an entire week. I’ll pay the insurance.”

“
Hank Rasmussen,” Anna
announced.

All eyes turned to Hank. Crimson tensed.
Of the three directors, Hank had been the most openly resentful of
her. An old fashioned, macho man, he was big and gruff and didn’t
mince his words. Now, he picked up the salt seller from the table
and toyed with it. “I drive past your house on my way to work,” he
said. “I’ll pick you up. Get a learner permit, and I’ll teach you
to drive.”

“
You…don’t need to…”

A wry
smile hovered over his roughhewn features. “I taught both
my daughters to drive. They’re still talking to me.”