Blue Willow (31 page)

“About five years ago, I think,” Maude replied. “I remember, because Lily got the phone call about it during the middle of Stephen’s first birthday party.”

Big Sis cocked her head to one side, her eyes as bright as a crow’s. “Who called her? Artemas?”

“No, no, that damned Tamberlaine called. He always kept her up on Artemas’s doings, whether she wanted him to or not. I’d like to have strangled him, that day.”

“What’d Lily do?”

“Well, what could she do? She cried and told Richard a friend’s wife had died. Which was all she needed to tell him, as far as it went. Richard, bless his heart, never realized there’d been more than a childhood friendship between Lily and Artemas. It just never occurred to him. Lily never gave him any reason to wonder about it, you know. She told me there was no point worrying him over something that didn’t matter anymore.” Maude stared at Little Sis. “So why are you bringing it up now?”

Little Sis frowned. “When did Artemas hire Richard and Frank to design the Colebrook Building?”

Maude thought for a moment. “He hired them about two years after his wife died.”

“Ah! See? Soon as enough time had passed for folks not to gossip, he put himself right back in Lily’s life, even though she was married and had a son.”

“Didn’t do him any good,” Big Sis interjected hotly. “Lily never encouraged him, did she?”

Little Sis slammed the remote control down on a coffee table. “Of course not!”

“Then what are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying that now,
nothing
stands between him and her. You know what’s got to happen, don’t you?
Fate’s
got to happen, that’s what.”

Maude gaped at her, then said sarcastically, “Nothing stands between them?” She beat a hand on her knee. “A bunch of people are dead, including Richard, and Stephen, and Artemas’s sister, and his brother’s lying in a hospital with his leg torn up, and there are terrible questions about why that bridge collapsed and who’s responsible for it—that’s
nothing
?”

With a savvy nod to her less intuitive sisters, and in a tone as profound as a minister’s, Little Sis said, “You’ll see.”

Cold February rain slid down the limousine’s windows. The scenery beyond them was washed in gray hues—a low, hovering sky, drab, rolling hills blanketed in groves of wintry silver hardwoods and dull pines, where pockets of elite, upscale subdivisions could be glimpsed among the hills through gated entrances along the two-lane road. Occasionally a private drive curled off through the woods to some large house set on a hill by itself. Lily’s house was one of those. Tamberlaine remembered, because he had come to see it not long after she and her husband finished it—she hadn’t known he’d visited—so that Artemas could learn how she lived.

Tamberlaine knew the area would have been beautiful and peaceful, given any other time of year and circumstance.
The communities in the foothills north of Atlanta’s urban sprawl were being carved out of old farmland, and the aura of sequestered privilege mingled with tiny white farmhouses, old pastures, and here and there a dairy barn converted into a swank stable for expensive riding horses.

That was slim consolation for Lily’s never getting her family’s home back from Hopewell Estes—how often she had tried to persuade the man, Tamberlaine knew, and how diligently Alternas had tried for her. The situation had ended badly, and Estes would probably keep the land for the rest of his life, if only out of bitterness toward Artemas.

He sank back on the car’s plush leather seat and tried to ease his mind with the deceptive serenity of its dark, whisper-soft interior. He glanced at Artemas across the way from him, staring with hollow lack of interest out the other window, probably not seeing the landscape at all.

The tailored black overcoat and exquisitely cut black suit, the gleaming black dress shoes and slender Cartier watch, marked a man of immense wealth and power. The set of the face was stamped with grim maturity; the body was heavier but still lean, thicker in the shoulders and chest than a young man’s. The dark hair held featherings of gray at the temples, but those had appeared recently, almost overnight. The disgraced and powerless teenager Tamberlaine had met twenty years ago was only a pale memory.

Tamberlaine had been so close to the changes that he hadn’t been aware of their accumulation. But all those years had merged in the past few weeks, since the tragedy at the new office complex. Since past and present had collided.

There was nothing youthful or spontaneous about this man he knew so well—as well as a son, Tamberlaine had often thought with affection. When had the change first become noticeable? Ah, that was easy to mark. After the trip to Georgia, twelve years ago. And each year since had added its own shade to the darkening patina.

Not a shedding of integrity or kindness—no, those qualities were still with him. But the ability to laugh, the
flash of unfettered enthusiasm, a well of patience for his own failings and those of others—those attributes had dwindled. The marriage to Glenda, Lily’s to Richard Porter, Glenda’s death, now, what—five years past? And certain sorrows encountered by his brothers and sisters—each had left its mark.

Elizabeth was divorced. Michael’s wife had died. Michael’s asthma remained as virulent as it had been in childhood, and his grief was a deep, permanent wound. The family worried about him constantly.

Cassandra’s obsession with her weight had resulted in a frightening bout with anorexia a few years ago, until Artemas and the others had strong-armed her into therapy. She had traded one obsession for another—a penchant for bedding, mistreating, and casting aside men. Artemas despised her irresponsible behavior but was powerless to prevent it.

Tamberlaine bowed his head, remembering Julia’s stint of pure, lazy self-indulgence, and her steely determination to reclaim the family’s respect. After graduating from college, she’d run with a pampered, useless crowd of Euro-trash and whining New York socialites, horrifying her siblings with visions of their parents’ idle, depraved lives. But she’d redeemed herself with the Colebrook project. Dear God, how hard she had worked to prove herself to Artemas and the others.

He sighed. There were joys to count, also. He wished Artemas recalled them as easily as he could. The brothers and sisters had worked together with such pride and diligence, all proving themselves and earning respect in the family’s expanding business interests.

Colebrook International had become what it was today because Artemas had understood the needs of an industrial world. Electronic and automotive components, surgical instruments, foundries for creating brick and tile—all were part of the empire. Crowning that empire was its smallest, but most beautiful, jewel: Colebrook China. Artemas had guaranteed its reputation and its future.

What they had built was rare in corporate America—a
network of expertly managed companies with well-treated employees. The withdrawal of Colebrook International from industrial ceramics involved in military uses had been a cause for celebration.

Though Elizabeth’s marriage had failed, she had a pair of beautiful little boys, one now two years old, the other four, both a happy addition to the family. James and Alise had married and were devoted to each other, though James would never admit such maudlin pleasure. He had waited years before proposing to her, clinging to his independence until Alise’s wounded patience had forced him to make the right decision.

Artemas and his siblings now shared a fortune. They maintained, either separately or together, a dozen magnificent homes, both here and in Europe. They collected art, endowed charities—Michael and Elizabeth supervised the family’s philanthropic ventures—and were widely regarded as having reclaimed the respect their parents and uncle had squandered.

Yet Artemas was still driven by his work. He had few interests outside the family and its businesses. He did not play, or indulge himself. There had been a few women in his life since his wife. Each had been pleasant, intelligent, successful—but not one had been capable of holding his attention for long.

Now, as if some great, heavy doors had finally closed, not even a flicker of light showed through. It was lost—with Julia’s death, with James’s maimed leg, lost in the family’s stark grief, lost in the horrible suspicions and unanswered questions emerging from the destruction at Colebrook’s new offices—lost, most of all, in the knowledge that Lily MacKenzie Porter was permanently and irretrievably bound up in the disaster.

“When we arrive at her house,” Artemas said slowly, not veering his deadened gaze from its place, “I want to talk to her alone. I brought you with me for appearances’ sake, and because you’ve been the only link between us for
so long. Seeing you might make her feel more comfortable. But primarily I want you to keep the others distracted.”

Tamberlaine nodded slightly. “I believe I can charm—or at least distract—three aged ladies who, quite possibly, will be more upset about my presence than with the reason for your visit.”

“Maude and her sisters are bizarre, perhaps, but not bigoted. You should know—you met them once.”

“Not under amicable circumstances. I had the distinct impression they despised me.”

“Only because you were there as my representative.”

“Then what kind of welcome do you think either of us will receive today—regardless of the fact they’re expecting us?”

“The same as I’ve gotten from the three of them over the past month. Alternately defensive and kind.”

“And from Lily?” Tamberlaine asked the question gently. Nonetheless, he saw Artemas’s eyes narrow with pain. Deep lines radiated from the corners.

“As usual, she’ll answer when she’s asked a question,” Artemas said finally. “She’ll look at me when she has to, and she’ll be sure to say something kind about Julia and James. If she thinks I’m hurting too much to keep my control, she’ll put her arms around me. Otherwise, she’ll simply … she won’t be there. She’ll simply
exist
, with a look in her eyes as if she’s holding on to her sanity with every ounce of strength and can barely wait until you and I and everyone else leave her alone.”

Artemas steepled an arm atop the window’s ledge and bent his head to his fingertips, rubbing the groove of tension between his brows. “The person I knew is … some part of her died with her son and husband. She’ll never be the same.”

Neither will you, Tamberlaine thought sadly. But both Artemas and Lily could heal, given time. Whether the healing might bring them together was another matter. Even their poignant, troubled friendship might not survive
the investigations and accusations looming ahead. The worst, in some ways, was yet to come.

Tamberlaine cleared his throat. He had been their ambassador, intermediary, and counselor for so many years. He prayed that the skill would not fail him now. “She came to New York and stood in the background at Julia’s funeral, crying for you and your family,” he reminded Artemas. “Just as you came here, to Atlanta, to stand behind the crowd at the funeral of her son and husband. The
friendship
you and she have always shared still exists.”

Artemas dropped his hand to the window ledge and resumed staring at the cold, bleak scenery moving them closer each second to their destination. “Not after today,” he said. “Not after she learns why I’ve come to see her.”

“Lily? Sweetie, you have to get up. They’ll be here any minute. You don’t want them to see you this way.”

Get up. Keep moving. Pretend you have the strength
. Lily stirred, moved a hand vaguely, found the matted hair hanging across her eyes, and pushed it aside. Her arm brushed the plump pillow she’d drawn to her chest. She opened her eyes and stared at the pastel ponies and cowboys on the pillowcase. She and Richard had planned to buy Stephen a Shetland in March. Richard had already marked off half of their ten acres to be fenced. He’d drawn a blueprint for a small barn. She’d spent hours walking the land, planning the riding trails.

Looking at the pillowcase became an exercise in fresh horror. If she didn’t force herself to move, she’d stare at it until sleep blacked out the sight again. “I’m ready,” she lied, pushing herself upright on Stephen’s small bed. She braced her arms, squinted at Stephen’s cheerful little bedroom, afraid of what else her grief would lock onto, and waited for the dulling release to come. It did. She simply couldn’t imagine that any of this was happening, that Stephen and Richard were gone. She became numb.

Aunt Maude and the sisters were gathered around her. They looked so old, so worn. They had moved in without a word—simply showed up with their suitcases a few
hours after the deaths. Even Little Sis, with her bright red sweater and tight jeans, her gray hair hanging in a jaunty braid, seemed to have aged. Big Sis leaned heavily on the lion’s-head cane Lily had given her for her birthday a few years ago, frail as a shadow in an oversized blue jumper and print blouse. Aunt Maude’s sturdy body had a slight hump at the shoulders, which she tried to conceal with the enormous shoulder pads of a double-breasted gray suit-dress.

But she still mastered her sisters—and now Lily—standing beside the bed with her gray pumps braced apart, holding out an outfit from Lily’s closet. It was a dark wool jacket with gold buttons up the front and a slender matching skirt. “Get yourself out of those faded ol’ jeans and that wrinkled flannel shirt,” she ordered. “And let’s get your hair brushed and pulled up.”

“Where’s Lupa?” Lily looked around frantically. “Where is she? She was right here next to the bed when I lay down.”

“Oh, hell, I forgot about her,” Little Sis said. “I put her outside to pee about an hour ago.”

Lily bounded off the bed and ran downstairs. The gleaming hardwood floors covered in bright braided rugs made no sound under her bare feet. Richard had said a house that creaked was an embarrassment. He’d built their house to last. She darted through a foyer lined with a Shaker sideboard and soft watercolors of mountain landscapes on the walls, including a picture of her old farm, which she’d hired an artist to paint from photographs. Out on a wide front porch she looked around desperately. There was no big, funny-looking yellow dog parked near the heavy rocking chairs, no muddy paw prints on the welcome mat.