Children of Dynasty (9 page)

When the service ended, Mariah joined the receiving line between her father and Tom, greeting men and women who were mostly strangers. All the while, she waited for Rory.

When he got to Tom, she heard him say, “I hadn’t seen Charley in years, but I’ll miss knowing he’s there.”

“Thanks for what you did last night, Campbell.” Tom sounded grudging. “Those ‘On The Spot’ people are scum.”

Rory moved to stand before Mariah, compassion and sorrow in his dark eyes. She took an instinctive step forward into his arms. Though by now she’d hugged a dozen people she didn’t know, casual yet intimate connections forged by common grief, Rory’s embrace was different. Warmth, not of desire, but of comfort, seeped through her. The same sense of relief she’d not been ready to accept the night of the accident. Drawing a shuddering breath, she felt how tightly wired she was and tried to relax. One of his hands rubbed between her shoulder blades.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered.

Fresh tears for Charley welled. Rory’s arms tightened. With her cheek against his wool lapel, she caught her father’s gray gaze.

Despite John’s obvious disapproval, when Rory set her away from him she wasn’t ready. Perhaps he wasn’t either, for he bore an expression of frustration like the one she was trying to hide. Drawing a business card from his jacket pocket, he pressed it into her hand. “My cell number’s there. If you decide to go sailing, call. I’ll be at my place until around noon.”

Rory stepped away to face her father. Mariah watched the two men shake hands briefly and with less warmth than the evening before. “Sir,” Rory said before turning away.

Her fingers clutching his card, she watched him leave without looking back at her. Only then did she glance down at the crisp white paper with black lettering:
Davis Campbell Interests.

When the receiving line began to break up, it was too soon. For once the last car was out of sight, the gravediggers’ backhoe would cover Charley’s vault with earth.

Her father took her arm and drew her away from the open hole. Without discussion, they both turned their steps in the direction of the Grant family plot. At the base of the headstone on her mother’s side rested a sheaf of white roses wrapped in florist’s paper. The offering was as familiar as the granite’s texture, for whenever the previous flowers began to wilt a fresh bouquet replaced them.

John bent and touched a creamy petal, then straightened and bowed his head.

Mariah ran her gaze along the words carved below “beloved wife.” “Catharine Mariah Stockton Grant,” she murmured.

He must know she had heard it a thousand times, but, “We named you for her middle name, also her mother’s name.”

Mariah might be the end of the line; if she continued as she had for the past eight years, devoted to career and loving no man, there might be no more passing on of family names.

She came out of her reverie to find Grant’s director of public relations April Perry at her elbow. Copper-haired, with a porcelain complexion and prime time television makeup, April wore a bright blue dress that looked out of place among the mourners. She had not attended the funeral, staying behind at the office this morning.

“What are you doing here?” Mariah asked.

“There’s a pack of news crews camped out at Grant,” April said. “Not the usual one or two lurking reporters. I couldn’t reach your cells.”

John reached to his belt to turn his electronic leash back on. “After ‘On The Spot’ failed to run that footage from the funeral home last night, I was hoping things were settling down.”

April looked troubled. “I guess they want to make hay out of the service being today.”

“I’m surprised that Cypress Lawn security kept them out of here,” Mariah said.

John sighed. “We’ll have to show our faces sooner or later. How about if we go and get it over with?”

Wendy clutched Tom’s arm. “Not you.”

“Not you today either, Dad.” There wasn’t any use in putting it off, but she thought he needed at least the weekend of rest. “What if we all check into a hotel until Monday morning?” she suggested.

“How about the Nikko?” Tom agreed. The tall white tower with its modern décor and exclusive Japanese restaurant was a common stop for Oriental travelers. “We locals ought to be able to hide out there.”

The mention of hiding out made her think of Rory’s invitation. From their position on the hill, she could see blue ocean, hazy in the distance. Charley would never again see the rippling of the bay or a sail’s billow, but for her, life, motion, and the man she once loved beckoned.

A few minutes later, after the limousine had returned to the Barrett’s house, she told her father casually, “I’m going to run by my place for an overnight bag. I’ll see you at the Nikko later.”

“Watch out for the press,” John cautioned.

She flashed a grin. “What can they do to me? If I see them I’ll say I have ‘no comment’.”

Leaving the Barretts, she did drive toward her Marina District apartment. Though it was eleven thirty, she thought there’d be time to change into sailing clothes and pack for the weekend at the Nikko before phoning Rory.

Turning into her street, she saw two TV vans parked in front of her house.

“Full court press,” she muttered, slamming on the brakes.

With a fast U-turn she headed back the other way. She couldn’t tell if they’d seen her as she went around a corner.

Rory’s business card lay on the seat beside her. She managed to read and stab out the number for his cell phone on hers. On the fourth ring, he answered.

“The press are camped out at my place,” she told him. “I’m not sure if they saw me.”

“Listen carefully.” He was all business. “I’m at my townhouse. On Vallejo, up high, on the right.”

She checked her rearview mirror and saw a white van with roof-mounted satellite equipment a few lengths back in the other lane. Speeding up, she whipped her car around the first turn on the way to Vallejo.

“Where should I park?” she asked Rory.

“I have a two-car garage. You drive in, I’ll close it.”

All the way to Vallejo, the news crew stayed with her, so close that she was able to identify the “On The Spot” logo. They were right behind her when she drove into the open garage and watched daylight disappear with the lowering metal panel.

Rory waited in the doorway from the garage into his townhouse. Instead of the suit he’d worn to the cemetery, he’d changed to casual navy pants and a red long-sleeve pullover.

Mariah left her car and followed him into his kitchen to see how he lived. The place was bright, decorated in a nautical theme of white and dark blue. No sign of a bachelor’s dirty dishes in the gleaming stainless steel sink.

The doorbell rang. She jumped.

“You’re safe here.” Rory’s protective tone both surprised and warmed her.

She followed him into his living room, decorated in the same white and dark blue, with red and gold accents. “Did you choose all this?”

“I did.” He grinned. “I let Elizabeth keep pretty much everything and started over.” On a mirrored shelf in his dining room, he pointed out an array of tall ship models. “I put those together myself.”

“They’re wonderful.”

The doorbell rang again, and the sound of heavy knocking came from around the corner in the front hall.

Trying to ignore the would-be intruders, Mariah continued to look around. On an end table beside the couch was a picture of Rory at age five or six. In the cockpit of a sailing vessel, the small determined boy stuck out his skinny chin and manned a wheel taller than he was. Behind him, Davis stood watch, a father’s softness in his eyes.

Rory moved to stand beside her. “It’s strange. Sometimes I can’t deal with him, yet …”

A wave of longing for things to be different swept over her.

The news crew kept exhorting someone to come to the door.

“What if they don’t leave?” she asked.

Rory arched a brow and moved closer. “We can stay here.” His expression suggested he was all too aware they were alone with the world locked out.

Before she could react, he bent and touched his mouth gently to hers. How well she knew the shape and texture of his lips, yet how different this kiss was from ones they’d known long ago. Then, he’d been urgent and eager, rushed by the single-minded passion of youth. Now she sampled a more complex recipe.

How easy it would be to get lost in this, but she managed to remember. “I need to get to the Hotel Nikko. My Dad and the Barretts are going to stay there this weekend.”

“I thought you’d let me take you sailing,” Rory said with obvious disappointment.

She gestured toward the front door. “Won’t ‘On The Spot’ follow us?”

“I can outrun anything they’ve got in my Porsche. Come on, go with me.” Taking in her black suit, he said, “I’ll find you some sweats or something to wear.”

Mariah’s determination wavered. Her father and Tom were the best of friends. They and Wendy would spend the afternoon and evening in discussions of people she didn’t know, the way generations failed to cross-communicate.

“Please,” Rory entreated. “Think of what you need right now … and what I need.”

Sausalito hadn’t changed much. A few more bungalows and townhouses on the hillside above, a few more galleries and shops than when Mariah first came to Davis Campbell’s yacht.

Midday sun cast sharp shadows between the close-packed stucco buildings, flowers rioted in window boxes. Waves slapped at the breakwater, sending up a salt tang to mix with aromas of cooking seafood and other delicacies.

As Rory parked his Porsche in the marina lot, Mariah’s sense of unreality increased. None of this fit the expectations she’d had waking up this morning for a funeral.

Although she’d changed into workout clothes and shoes from a gym bag in her car, she had trouble keeping up with Rory. He hurried past a fountain surrounded by pigeons, making a beeline for a little Italian market. When he apparently recalled that her short legs were no match for his stride, he waited for her with a rueful smile.

Inside the shop, colored peppers and garlic hung in strands from the ceiling, red ripe tomatoes and bright oranges overflowed bins, and wooden shelves groaned under the weight of canned goods and olive oil tins. Despite her lack of appetite the past few days, the mingled aromas of spices and fresh-baked bread made Mariah’s stomach growl.

With interest, she watched Rory select a thick crusty boule, then hold up Fontina, Brie, and vintage Chianti for her approval.

Walking toward the marina took her back to the day they’d sailed with Charley. Even more of a rowdy kid then, Charley had been like a younger brother going along on his sister’s date. Through misty eyes, she smiled at the houseboats and the forest of sailboat masts.

When she and Rory stepped onto the dock, the music of the shrouds grew more melodious, a blend of pitch as lines beat against the hollow tubes of the masts. About halfway down the pier, Rory indicated a sailboat with a royal blue hull and white decks. No ostentatious yacht like his father’s, it looked older than the other vessels, lifting and lowering with the swell. Its teak trim had faded to a gentle gray.

When she stepped on the rail, the boat didn’t move. It only dipped a fraction of an inch when Rory joined her aboard.

“Pearson Rhodes ‘41,” he said with pride. “Built in ‘65, back when they didn’t know the strength of fiberglass. Her decks are this thick.” He held up his thumb and forefinger two inches apart. “She’s fast, too. I like the zip of a smaller boat than
Privateer.”

“What’s her name?”

Rory looked thoughtful. “That’s a puzzle. When I bought her earlier this spring her name had been painted over. I haven’t had a chance to decide on one.” He cocked his head and grinned. “I could always call her ‘Mariah.’”

Her heart thudded at the suggestion he’d put her name on his pride and joy in foot-high letters, but paint was cheap, and perhaps he’d made the same offer to Sylvia Chatsworth.

At her lack of reaction, Rory’s smile disappeared, and he turned his attention to unlocking the companionway slide. She sensed his withdrawal and felt ashamed of what she’d thought, but couldn’t figure out what to do about it.

Mariah put the sack she carried onto the deck, waiting for instructions. It might go against feminism, but one thing she recalled about sailing was that the captain made the rules. “When you have your own boat,” Rory had told her long ago, “you’ll be in charge.”

Remembering details as they went along, she helped him prepare to cast off. Together, they removed blue canvas covers from the sails and brought up cockpit cushions along with lifejackets.

The engine started with a roar, exhaled a cloud of blue exhaust, and subsided to a gentle putt-putt as Rory backed out of the slip and steered toward the Bay. Once in open water, Mariah took the helm while he clambered forward to raise the mainsail. It caught the wind, and the boat heeled.

Untying the sheets from the huge jib sail wrapping the front stay, Rory threaded color-coded lines back to the rear winches. He unfurled the jib and called for her to shut off the engine.

Immediately, the loud laboring was replaced by the smooth hiss of water against the hull.