Amanda (12 page)

Amanda paused only to close and lock the door to the hallway, then dropped her tote bag and went to get her luggage from the closet. In less than a minute, the bag was open on her bed, and she had one of Christine Daulton’s journals in her hand.

She remembered, dimly, the passage; it was in the Glory journal and had been written near the beginning of that last summer, but it took her several minutes to find it. Finally, she did. It was dated June third, and it was brief.

There was nothing particularly memorable about the passage, and Amanda had thought it odd only after her third or fourth time reading the journals. It was odd because, until that date, Christine Daulton had never mentioned her dreams in any of the journals; after that date, during what would be her final weeks at Glory, she mentioned the storm dream frequently.

A dream of a storm … a metaphor for an affair?

Amanda turned the pages slowly, scanning the entries from June third on, halting to read only when key words caught her attention.
The wind lashed me until I could hardly hear it … the driving rain touched my skin like needles of fire … the thunder seemed to echo all through my body like a heartbeat … I was carried away by the storm … swept away by the wind … caught up in its fury, helpless … I could only bend, submit, give in to a force greater than any strength I possessed to fight it …

Underneath the vivid descriptions that were in themselves a bit unusual for Christine’s entries lurked a distinct and striking sensuality. The images she evoked were filled with the senses and with a kind of primitive fury that certainly depicted a storm—or possibly the stormy intensity of an affair.

Amanda closed the journal and sat there on her bed gazing down at the small book. She thought, as she had before, that secrecy was not an issue. None of the journals had locks, and they’d probably been kept in a desk or nightstand drawer where anyone might have seen them. Perhaps read them.

If she had kept a journal anyone might have read, Amanda thought, she would have been careful what she wrote—and how she wrote it.

Had Christine Daulton, wishing to record the overwhelming emotion of a secret affair but hide it from curious eyes, created her own private code for the journals? The recurring “dream” of a violent storm as a metaphor for passionate encounters? And, if so, were all the other cryptic entries on those lined pages also metaphors for sensitive subjects and events Christine had cannily hidden from prying eyes?

In some things, she had been blunt, and Amanda had come here already aware that Christine had not
been a particularly happy woman during those years. She had not tried to conceal her general dissatisfaction with her life, commenting in the journals more than once—particularly early in her marriage and again that last year—that she felt “totally useless” as a person and wished she had not dropped out of college. And she had recorded her opinions of the people she knew, usually candid and frequently—Amanda realized now, having met some of those people—shrewdly intuitive.

But sprinkled in amongst the frank entries were whole sections seemingly filled with a kind of vague stream-of-consciousness outpouring that made little sense—
unless
Christine Daulton had indeed hidden her most intimate feelings, thoughts, and experiences behind a veil of obscure references and metaphors.

Which was going to make sifting the vital from the unimportant a bit difficult.

Amanda opened the Glory journal again and turned to the last entry, which was dated two days after Christine had left.

Amanda slept most of the way, poor baby
, she had written. I
think she’s still in shock. But at least she’s safely away from Glory. At least we both are. And we can never go back. Neither of us can ever go back.

“Damn,” Amanda said quietly in the silence of her bedroom. “Now what?”

There was no one to answer her. She put the journal away and returned the suitcase to her closet. She took a shower to wash away the pool’s chlorine, dried her hair and tied it casually back with a silk scarf, and dressed in jeans, a short-sleeved cream blouse, and a loose denim vest.

All the time she was getting dressed, she brooded over what Victor had told her. Could she believe him? Or, perhaps more accurately, could she disbelieve him? What, after all, did he have to gain by lying
about something that supposedly happened twenty years ago, especially when the principals involved were either gone or dead? Nothing, as far as she could see. And the journal entries seemed to provide, if not actual confirmation, then certainly at least the possibility of an affair.

And why not, after all? In 1975, Christine Daulton had been in her thirties, very much a sexual creature no matter what a little girl might have thought. Her marriage had not, Amanda knew from the journals, been without its problems, and Brian Daulton had more often than not left his wife here at Glory for long stretches during the summer while he’d followed the show circuit through the Southeast.

Christine had tolerated rather than liked horses and though she had been able to ride, she had not, apparently, done so often; it would be ironic if she had conducted her affair in the “smelly” stables she had so often deplored.

“If you want proof—”

Amanda wondered what proof Victor had meant. Surely he hadn’t hidden in the stables and secretly photographed the affair? Then again, perhaps he had. For his own titillation, maybe, or because he’d wanted a raise in pay and thought a spot of blackmail might be more effective than anything else.

Or maybe she was wronging Victor.

In any case, she had to talk to him. He knew something, or thought he did, about the goings-on that summer—and may have seen something helpful that last night. It was probably a long shot, but Amanda had to ask him. She had to find out what had happened that night; it was one of the reasons she had come here, after all.

Amanda went downstairs, encountering Maggie in the entrance hall, where the housekeeper was sorting
mail at a marble-topped table, and asked her if Victor was still here.

“No, he’s gone,” Maggie replied. “Kentucky, for a broodmare sale.”

“When will he be back?”

Maggie shrugged. “Not for at least a week, and probably longer. But there’s a phone in the van if you need—”

“No.” Amanda conjured a smile. “it’s just … well, he was here twenty years ago, and I thought he might be able to help me fill in a few blanks.”

“That’s what you two were talking about out at the pool? I thought he was just hitting on you.”

“That too,” Amanda said. “I got the feeling it was sort of automatic for him.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. He doesn’t hit on every woman—just the ones under sixty-five. But he values his job too much to do anything stupid, so you shouldn’t have any problems with him.”

Amanda nodded, then said hesitantly, “Maggie? Is there anything you can tell me about that summer? You were here.”

Maggie had turned her attention back to the mail she was sorting and didn’t look up. “I was here. But if you’re asking me if I know why Christine left, the answer is no. She seemed the same as always that summer.”

After waiting a moment, Amanda said, “She and— and my father hadn’t fought?”

“No more than usual.”

“I don’t remember them fighting.”

Maggie looked at her then. “No, you wouldn’t. Whatever else they were, Brian and Christine were good parents. They never argued around you. As a matter of fact, they never argued around any of us.”

“But you know they did argue,” Amanda said slowly.

Maggie looked at her then, her mouth curved in a small smile. “This is a big house, and the walls are thick. But if you spend enough time in the same house, you learn a lot about the people you share it with. And I’ve been here forty years. Daulton men are possessive about their women and always have been— sometimes to the point of obsession. Brian was obsessed with her, I’d say. Unfortunately, Christine was … a bit of a flirt. She liked men, and she liked being noticed by men. And sometimes she made sure Brian saw other men watching her. Or so it seemed to me.”

“Why would she have done that?”

“To make him jealous, to get his attention—I really don’t know. It was a long time ago, and I didn’t think much about it at the time. It wasn’t my business. Christine and I weren’t close, so she didn’t confide in me. I was busy with my own life, and I just … didn’t notice much else. No one knew that summer would be important, Amanda. I suppose if we had known, we would have paid more attention. But we didn’t.” She shrugged. “I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

“So am I.” Amanda smiled. “But I really didn’t expect this to be easy. Finding out what happened, I mean. As you said that first day, twenty years is a long time.”

Maggie nodded, then handed Amanda a stack of mail. “Why don’t you take this to Jesse in his study?”

“And offer myself up for another chess lesson?”

“It would be,” Maggie said, “the dutiful thing to do.”

A
MANDA SPENT THE HOUR OR SO UNTIL
lunch having another chess lesson, and did well enough to earn a smile from Jesse. She couldn’t help wondering why he was bothering to teach her—or, indeed, even to play at all—when he had so little time left, but assumed he was giving her lessons because it gave them time together and the latter was true because he was determined to lead as normal a life as possible.

She hadn’t decided how she felt about Jesse’s illness (which he had yet to tell her about). He was still very much a stranger, and because of that she was generally able to view him with more detachment than emotion; grief had not come into it, at least not yet. She wasn’t sure it ever would.

Jesse was not a particularly likable man, as far as she
could see. He ignored his daughter and treated one of his grandsons with an edge of contempt and the other with heavy-handed domination; though his employees clearly respected him and gave him their loyalty, it was also clear to Amanda that they felt little if any affection. Not that he cared, apparently, since he made no effort to endear himself to those around him.

With Amanda, however, Jesse seemed to put his best foot forward—though how much effort that required was difficult to gauge. Still, it made their time together pleasant, especially since he so clearly accepted her as his granddaughter.

After lunch, Jesse casually told her he had to drive to Asheville—the only city of any size in this part of the state—on business, and wouldn’t return until early evening. He didn’t ask her to come with him, and it wasn’t until Maggie explained while they saw him off that Amanda found out the “business” was actually the weekly treatment for Jesse’s illness and that he always went alone.

“He hates to have anybody with him,” the housekeeper explained after the big Cadillac, with Jesse seated regally in the back, was out of sight.

“I guess the treatments leave him feeling … pretty bad,” Amanda said, remembering some of the horror stories she had heard. Standing beside Maggie on the front porch, she gazed after the now-vanished car and felt a pang of compassion.

“Bad enough,” Maggie said. “The doctors have to throw everything they’ve got at the cancer, of course. It’s the only way to beat the thing.”

Amanda looked at the older woman in surprise. “Beat it? But I understood—that is, Sully told me it was incurable.”

It was Maggie’s turn to look surprised—even annoyed. “Nonsense. It would take more than a few tumors
to get the best of Jesse. He’s going to be fine. Just fine.”

“I hope so, of course,” Amanda said slowly.

Maggie smiled at her. “Oh, he will. Did you say you were going for a walk, Amanda?”

“I thought I would. Explore a bit away from the house.”

“Do you have the map?”

Amanda patted the back pocket of her jeans. “Jesse made me a copy. Don’t worry, I won’t get lost.”

“Well, stay on the trails and paths, and watch out for snakes.”

Amanda smiled an acknowledgement, and waited until Maggie had gone into the house before she went down the broad steps to the sidewalk. The dogs, as usual, were with her, and as usual she talked to them as she walked.

“Which way should we go, fellas?” Both Dobermans merely looked up at her, responsive but not particularly helpful. They were quiet creatures; she had yet to hear either one of them bark. Amanda sighed and looked across the neat lawn toward the beginning of the path that led to King High, and unconsciously shook her head. No. Not that way.

According to the map, trails and paths abounded all over Glory, most used for working the horses being trained for cross-country events. That fact made her just a bit wary, but since horses were hardly known for sneaking up on people, she knew she’d have time to get off a trail should they gallop through. Surely.

“Northwest,” she decided arbitrarily after examining the map. “Lots of trails on that mountain. Okay, guys?”