I'll Be Seeing You (25 page)

He jumped out of the car and yanked his suitcase away just as Bernie floored the accelerator. Bernie cut through side streets. He'd better go home. Otherwise he'd go back and smash that big mouth.

He began to take deliberate deep breaths. That's what the prison psychiatrist told him to do when he felt himself getting mad. “You've got to handle that anger, Bernie,” he'd warned him. “Unless you want to spend the rest of your life in here.”

Bernie knew he could never go back to prison again. He'd do anything to keep that from happening.

On Tuesday morning, Meghan's alarm went off at 4 A.M. She had a reservation on America West Flight 9, leaving from Kennedy Airport at 7:25. She had no trouble getting up. Her sleep had been uneasy. She showered, running the water as hot as she could stand it, glad to feel some of the taut muscles in her neck and back loosen.

As she pulled on underwear and stockings she listened to the weather report on the radio. It was below freezing in New York. Arizona, of course, was another matter. Cool in the evenings at this time of year, but she understood it could be fairly warm during the day.

A tan, lightweight wool jacket and slacks with a print blouse seemed to be a good choice. Over it she'd wear
her Burberry without the lining. She quickly packed the few things she'd need for an overnight stay.

The smell of coffee greeted her as she started down the stairs. Her mother was in the kitchen. “You shouldn't have gotten up,” Meg protested.

“I wasn't sleeping.” Catherine Collins toyed with the belt of her terry-cloth robe. “I didn't offer to go with you, Meg, but now I'm having second thoughts. Maybe I shouldn't let you do this alone. It's just that if there is another Mrs. Edwin Collins in Scottsdale, I don't know what I could say to her. Was she as ignorant as I about what was going on? Or did she knowingly live a lie?”

“I hope by the end of the day I'll have some answers,” Meg said, “and I absolutely know that it's better I do this alone.” She took a few sips of grapefruit juice and swallowed a little coffee. “I've got to get going. It's a long ride to Kennedy Airport. I don't want to get caught in rush-hour traffic.”

Her mother walked her to the door. Meg hugged her briefly. “I get into Phoenix at eleven o'clock, mountain time. I'll call you late this afternoon.”

She could feel her mother's eyes on her as she walked to the car.

The flight was uneventful. She had a window seat and for long periods of time gazed down at the puffy cushion of white clouds. She thought of her fifth birthday when her mother and father took her to DisneyWorld. It was her first flight. She'd sat at the window, her father beside her, her mother across the aisle.

Over the years her father had teased her about the question she'd asked that day. “Daddy, if we got out of the plane, could we walk on the clouds?”

He'd told her that he was sorry to say the clouds wouldn't hold her up. “But I'll always hold you up, Meggie Anne,” he'd promised.

And he had. She thought of the awful day when she'd tripped just before the finish line of a race and had cost
her high school track team the state championship. Her father had been waiting when she'd slunk out of the gym, not wanting to hear the consoling words of her teammates or see the disappointment on their faces.

He had offered understanding, not consolation. “There are some events in our lives, Meghan,” he'd told her, “that no matter how old we get, the memory still hurts. I'm afraid you've just chalked up one of those events.”

A wave of tenderness swept over Meghan and then was gone as she remembered the times when her father's claim of pressing business had kept him away. Sometimes even on holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas. Was he celebrating them in Scottsdale? With his other family? Holidays were always so busy at the inn. When he wasn't home, she and her mother would have dinner there with friends, but her mother would be up and down greeting guests and checking the kitchen.

She remembered being fourteen and taking jazz dance lessons. When her father came home from one of his trips, she'd shown him the newest steps she'd mastered.

“Meggie,” he'd sighed, “jazz is good music and a fine dance form, but the waltz is the dance of the angels.” He'd taught her the Viennese waltz.

It was a relief when the pilot announced that they were beginning the descent into Sky Harbor International Airport, where the outside temperature was seventy degrees.

Meghan took her things from the overhead compartment and waited restlessly for the cabin door to open. She wanted to get through this day as quickly as possible.

The car rental agency was in the Barry Goldwater terminal. Meghan stopped to look up the address of the Palomino Leather Goods Shop and when she signed for a car asked the clerk for directions.

“That's in the Borgota section of Scottsdale,” the clerk said. “It's a wonderful shopping area that will make you think you're in a medieval town.”

On a map she outlined the route for Meghan. “You'll be there in twenty-five minutes,” she said.

As she drove, Meghan absorbed the beauty of the mountains in the distance and the cloudless, intensely blue sky. When she had cleared the commercial sections, palms and orange trees and saguaro cactus began to dot the landscape.

She passed the adobe-style Safari Hotel. With its bright oleanders and tall palms, it looked serene and inviting. This was where Cyrus Graham said he had seen his stepbrother, her father, nearly eleven years ago.

The Palomino Leather Goods Shop was a mile farther down on Scottsdale Road. Here the buildings had castlelike towers and crenellated parapet walls. Cobblestone streets contributed to an old-world effect. The boutiques that lined the streets were small, and all of them looked expensive. Meghan turned left into the parking area past Palomino Leather Goods and got out of the car. She found it disconcerting to realize that her knees were trembling.

The pungent scent of fine leather greeted her when she entered the shop. Purses ranging in size from clutches to tote bags were tastefully grouped on shelves and tables. A display case held wallets, key rings and jewelry. Briefcases and luggage were visible in the larger area a few steps down and to the rear of the entry level.

There was only one other person in the shop, a young woman with striking Indian features and thick, dark hair that cascaded down her back. She looked up from her position behind the cash register and smiled. “May I help you?” There was no hint of recognition in her voice or manner.

Meghan thought quickly. “I hope so. I'm only in town for a few hours and I wanted to look up some relatives. I don't have their address and they're not listed in the phone book. I know they shop here and I hoped I might be able to get the address or phone number from you.”

The clerk hesitated. “I'm new. Maybe you could come back in about an hour. The owner will be in then.”

“Please,” Meghan said. “I have so little time.”

“What's the name? I can see if they have an account.”

“E. R. Collins.”

“Oh,” the clerk said, “you must have called yesterday.”

“That's right.”

“I was here. After she spoke to you, the owner, Mrs. Stoges, told me about Mr. Collins' death. Was he a relative?”

Meghan's mouth went dry. “Yes. That's why I'm anxious to stop in on the family.”

The clerk turned on the computer. “Here's the address and phone number. I'm afraid I have to phone Mrs. Collins and ask permission to give it to you.”

There was nothing to do but nod. Meghan watched the buttons on the phone being rapidly pressed.

A moment later the clerk said into the receiver, “Mrs. Collins? This is the Palomino Leather Goods Shop. There's a young lady here who would like to see you, a relative. Is it all right if I give her your address?”

She listened then looked at Meghan. “May I ask your name?”

“Meghan. Meghan Collins.”

The clerk repeated it, listened, then said goodbye and hung up. She smiled at Meg. “Mrs. Collins would like you to come right over. She lives only ten minutes from here.”

F
rances stood, looking out the window at the back of the house. A low stucco wall crowned by a wrought-iron rail enclosed the pool and patio. The property ended at the border of the vast expanse of desert that was the
Pima Indian Reservation. In the distance, Camelback Mountain glistened under the midday sun. An incongruously beautiful day for all secrets to be laid open, she thought.

Annie had gone to Connecticut after all, had looked up Meghan and sent her here. Why should Annie have honored her father's wishes, Frances asked herself fiercely. What loyalty does she owe to him or to me?

In the two-and-a-half days since she'd left the message on Edwin's answering machine, she'd waited in an agony of hope and dread. The call she'd just received from Palomino was not the one she'd hoped to get. But at least Meghan Collins might be able to tell her when she had seen Annie, perhaps where Frances could reach her.

The chimes rang through the house, soft, melodious, but chilling. Frances turned and walked to the front door.

When Meghan stopped in front of 1006 Doubletree Ranch Road she found a one-story, cream-colored stucco house with a red tile roof, on the edge of the desert. Vivid red hibiscus and cactus framed the front of the dwelling, complementing the stark beauty of the mountain range in the distance.

On her way to the door she passed the window and caught a glimpse of the woman inside. She couldn't see her face but could tell that the woman was tall and very thin, with hair loosely pinned in a chignon. She seemed to be wearing some sort of smock.

Meghan rang the bell, then the door opened.

The woman gave a startled gasp. Her face went ashen.

“Dear God,” she whispered. “I knew you looked like Annie, but I had no idea. . . .” Her hand flew up to her mouth, pressing against her lips in a visible effort to silence the flow of words.

This is Annie's mother and she doesn't know that
Annie is dead.
Horrified, Meghan thought, It's going to be worse for her that I'm here. What would it be like for
Mom if Annie had been the one to go to Connecticut and tell her I was dead?

“Come in, Meghan.” The woman stood aside, still clutching the handle of the door, as though supporting herself on it. “I'm Frances Grolier.”

Meghan did not know what kind of person she had expected to find, but not this woman with her fresh-scrubbed looks, graying hair, sturdy hands and thin, lined face. The eyes she was looking into were shocked and distressed.

“Didn't the clerk at Palomino call you Mrs. Collins when she phoned?” Meghan asked.

“The tradespeople know me as Mrs. Collins.”

She was wearing a gold wedding band. Meghan looked at it pointedly.

“Yes,” Frances Grolier said. “For appearance sake, your father gave that to me.”

Meghan thought of the way her mother had convulsively gripped the wedding band the psychic had returned to her. She looked away from Frances Grolier, suddenly filled with an overwhelming sense of loss. Impressions of the room filtered through the misery of this moment.

The house was divided into living and studio areas extending from the front to the back.

The front section was the living room. A couch in front of the fireplace. Earth-tone tiles on the floor.

The maroon leather chair and matching ottoman to the side of the fireplace, exact replicas of the ones in her father's study, Megan realized with a start. Bookshelves within easy reach of the chair. Dad certainly liked to feel at home wherever he was, Meghan thought bitterly.

Framed photographs prominently displayed on the mantel drew her like a magnet. They were family groups of her father with this woman and a young girl who might easily be her sister, and who was—or rather had been—her half sister.

One picture especially riveted her. It was a Christmas scene. Her father holding a five- or six-year-old on his lap, surrounded by presents. A young Frances Grolier
kneeling behind him, arms around his neck. All wearing pajamas and robes. A joyous family.

Was that one of the Christmas Days I spent praying for a miracle, that suddenly Daddy would come through the door? Meghan wondered.

Sickening pain encompassed her. She turned away and saw against the far wall the bust on a pedestal. With feet that now seemed too leaden to move she made her way to it.

A rare talent had shaped this bronze image of her father. Love and understanding had caught the hint of melancholy behind the twinkle in the eyes, the sensitive mouth, the long, expressive fingers folded under the chin, the fine head of hair with the lock that always strayed forward onto his forehead.

She could see that cracks along the neck and forehead had been skillfully repaired.

“Meghan?”

She turned, dreading what she must now tell this woman.

Frances Grolier crossed the room to her. Her voice pleading, she said, “I'm prepared for anything you feel about me, but
please . .
. I must know about Annie. Do you know where she is? And what about your father? Has he been in touch with you?”