Dawn in Eclipse Bay (15 page)

“Does that mean you don't know what you're doing? Or that you don't think I know what I'm doing?”

“I came here to Eclipse Bay to paint. You came here to recover from a bad case of burnout. Neither of us planned to get involved in a relationship.”

Understanding hit him.

“What happened between us last night scared the hell out of you, didn't it?” he asked softly.

Her nails made little indentations in the screen.

“Maybe we should both be a little scared, Gabe.”

“If it's Mitchell you're worrying about, forget it. I'm pretty sure he bought that story you gave him about walking over here for coffee this morning. He doesn't know you spent the night.”

She looked down the long drive to the place where Mitchell's SUV had disappeared.

“He knows,” she said.

“Where's that damn cell phone?” Mitchell asked.

Bryce took one hand off the wheel long enough to reach into the small space between the seats. He picked up the phone and handed it to Mitchell without comment.

Mitchell found his reading glasses, fished a notebook out of his pocket, flipped it open and located the number he wanted. He carefully punched the digits on the phone, peering carefully at the display to make sure he'd struck the right ones. It wasn't easy. The arthritis made some things harder than they had been in the old days.

“Why do they make these buttons so damn tiny?” he asked.

“People like small phones,” Bryce said. “Small phones require small buttons.”

“That was what they call one of them rhetorical questions.” Mitchell listened to the phone ring. “You weren't supposed to actually answer it.”

“You ask me a question, you get an answer,” Bryce said.

“You'd think I'd know that by now.”

“Yes, sir, you would think that.”

The phone rang a third time.

“Shoot and damn,” Mitchell said. “He'd better be there. I don't have time—”

The fourth ring was cut short.

“Hello?” Sullivan Harte said.

Mitchell grunted with satisfaction at the sound of the cool, graveled voice. He and Sullivan hadn't had much to do with each other in the years since the destruction of Harte-Madison and the infamous brawl in front of Fulton's Supermarket. They hadn't even had a civil conversation until Hannah and Rafe's wedding a few months ago. But some things you didn't forget, he reflected. The voice of the man who had fought alongside you in the green hell of jungle warfare was one of those things.

“This is Mitch.”

“What's wrong?” Sullivan asked immediately.

“Your granddaughter is shacking up with my grandson.”

There was a short silence.

“Got news for you, Mitch.” Sullivan chuckled. “It's okay now that they're married.”

“I'm not talking about Hannah and Rafe.”

There was another brief pause.

“What the hell
are
you talking about?” Sullivan no longer sounded amused.

“Lillian and Gabe.”

“Sonofabitch,” Sullivan said very softly.

“You referring to me or my grandson?”

“Sonofabitch.”

“You've made your opinion real clear,” Mitchell said. “Point is, what are you gonna do about it?”

“Gabe is
your
grandson.”

“And Lillian is
your
granddaughter. I fixed things last time. It's your turn.”

“You
fixed
things? What the hell do you mean, you—”

Mitchell punched the button to end the call, cutting Sullivan off in midsentence.

He looked at Bryce and grinned.

“This,” he said, “is gonna be downright entertaining.”

Claire Jensen dropped an overstuffed leather briefcase onto the vinyl seat and slid into the booth across from Lillian. She was flushed and a little breathless.

“Sorry I'm late,” she said. “Marilyn wanted to go over some talking points for an interview she's doing tomorrow and we had to make some last-minute changes in the schedule for the Leaders of Tomorrow open-house event. Hey, you're looking great, Lil.”

“Thanks. So are you. It's good to see you again. Been a while.”

“Too long.”

Claire laughed and Lillian felt the years fall away. Claire had always been fun. She was a bright, high-energy woman who bubbled with personality and plans.

“You're right,” Lillian said. “Much too long. Where did the time go?”

“Life happens. Not like we both haven't been busy for the past few years.”

They had met when Claire had been a student at Chamberlain College. Lillian had been attending a college in Portland but she had always spent her vacation breaks with her family in Eclipse Bay. She and Claire had both gotten jobs as waitresses at a pier restaurant one summer. Claire had needed the money. Strictly speaking, Lillian had not needed the income but she had needed the job. The Harte family believed very strongly in the work ethic. All Harte offspring were expected to work during summer vacations.

Initially she and Claire had had little in common, but the long hours spent dealing with stingy tippers and rude tourists had forged a bond between them. They had hung out together after work and talked a lot about the important things: guys and the futures they were planning for themselves.

Claire was the first person and, for a long time, the only person to whom she had confided her dream of becoming an artist. In what some would call typical Harte fashion, she had been very focused on her goal but, acutely aware of her family's opinion on the subject of art as a career, she hadn't discussed it much. It had been exciting to share her secret with someone who understood an impractical dream.

Claire had had some very impractical dreams of her own in those days. She had wanted to go into politics.

“This place certainly hasn't changed much, has it?” Claire commented. “Snow's Café looks just like it did when we used to come here back when we were in college.”

The décor of Snow's Café had always reflected Arizona Snow's unique view of the world, Lillian thought. The walls were hung with a mix of faded rock band posters and enlarged satellite photos of the terrain around Area 51 and Roswell, New Mexico. The clientele consisted mostly of students from nearby Chamberlain College.

“What about the menu?” Claire asked. “Is it still the same?”

“Let's see.” Lillian plucked the plastic laminated menu out from its position between the napkin holder and the little carousel that held the condiments. She surveyed the offerings. “Still heavy on veggie burgers, french fries, and coffee drinks.”

“The three basic food groups for college students. Arizona knows her clientele,” Claire mused. “I'm so glad you called. How did you know where to find me? I didn't even know that you were in town.”

“I saw Pamela McCallister in Fulton's Supermarket. She mentioned that you were up at the institute, plotting Marilyn Thornley's campaign. How's it going? Think she can step into Trevor's shoes?”

“No problem,” Claire assured her. “One thing's for certain, she'll look a whole lot better in them than he did.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Didn't you hear the rumors that went around after Trevor pulled out of the running?” Claire leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Word has it that Trevor liked to have sex in high heels and women's lingerie.”

“Oh,
those
rumors.”

Claire sat up and settled back against the seat. “Gossip among the campaign staff has it that he was forced to quit the race because he was being blackmailed with some old videos that showed him prancing around in frilly underwear. It was a shock, you know?”

“The campaign staff never had a clue?”

Claire sighed. “Of course not. The staff is always the last to know.”

“What made Marilyn decide to become a candidate?”

“She's always been extremely ambitious. But I think that until recently she saw herself in the role of the candidate's wife. The power behind the throne, as it were.”

“I heard she put a lot of her family's money into Trevor's campaign.”

“True.” Claire made a face. “Between you and me, when Trevor imploded, she was absolutely furious. I've never seen anyone in such a rage. I overheard a massive fight between the two of them one afternoon. She told Trevor that she could do a better job of running for office herself and that she was going to prove it. Said a lot of things about how much time she had wasted on him. She dropped the divorce announcement on the staff the next day.”

“How did you end up as her campaign manager?”

“I was in the right place at the right time. She and I had worked together a lot in the course of Trevor's campaign. She knew me. Knew what I could do. Most of all she wanted someone she could trust to head up her campaign. When she offered me the job, I jumped at the chance. That woman is going places.”

“And you're going to go with her, is that it?”

Claire laughed. “You got it.” Her grin faded to a thoughtful expression. “You know, it's funny. Back at the beginning, when I used to dream about getting into politics, I pictured myself as the dynamic female senator from the great state of Oregon. Then I found out how much cash it takes just to run for dog catcher, let alone to get a shot at a state or national office. Short of marrying money, the way Trevor did, there aren't a lot of options. So I decided to carve out a career behind the scenes.”

“Still dream of becoming a candidate?”

Claire shook her head decisively. “Not anymore. I love what I do. There's real power and a real rush in running a good campaign. And there's very little downside if it fails. The candidate may disappear from the face of the earth after a big loss but a good strategist just moves on to another campaign.”

“I'm glad things worked out for you, Claire.”

“You and me both. What's up with you? How long will you be in town?”

“I'm here for a month.”

“A whole month?” Claire asked in surprise.

“I've made the big move. I closed down Private Arrangements. I'm going to devote full time to my painting and see what happens.”

Claire's lips parted on a silent
wow
. “Good for you. No risk, no glory, I always say. Staying at your folks' cottage?”

“Yes.”

“Funny how you Hartes and Madisons keep coming back to Eclipse Bay, isn't it?” Claire commented. “Hannah and Rafe are full-time residents now.”

“They love it here.”

“I'll tell you one thing, those of us up at the institute can't wait until they get Dreamscape open. As it is now, when people come for seminars and receptions like the Leaders of Tomorrow event, we're forced to put them up in one of those low-budget motels out on the highway.”

“They're planning to open in the spring. Assuming the Willis brothers cooperate, of course.”

Claire grinned. “What a pair. I practically had to get down on my knees and plead with them to come out to my place a couple of weeks ago just to unclog a toilet. They charged me a small fortune. I didn't have any choice but to pay it, of course, and they knew it.”

Gabe dropped Lillian off at the entrance to her apartment building shortly before ten o'clock on Monday morning.

“I'll pick you up at seven,” he said when she made to slide out of the Jag.

She stood and looked at him through the open door. Tension coiled in the pit of her stomach. He was dressed for business once again in the legendary Gabe Madison war armor: steel-gray jacket and trousers, charcoal-gray shirt secured with silver-and-onyx cuff links, silver-and-black striped tie. When he moved his hand on the wheel, the dark-gray edge of his shirt cuff shifted, revealing the gleaming stainless-steel watch on his left wrist.

He looked good, she thought. Exciting. Powerful and predatory and wholly in control. You'd never guess that he was suffering a bad case of burnout. But, then, what did burnout look like?

“Fine,” she said. “I'll be ready.”

She hurried toward the building's secured entrance and punched in the code. Gabe waited until she was safely inside the lobby before he drove off in the direction of his downtown office.

He was wrong to accuse her of being nervous about their relationship, she thought a few minutes later when she twisted the key in the lock of her apartment door. She had spoken the truth the other morning when she had tried to explain herself to him. They both needed to think things through. Neither one of them could trust their own judgment at the moment.

A man dealing with burnout was certainly not in the best position to make sound decisions regarding his personal relationships. As for herself, she had arrived at a major turning point in her life. Getting involved in an affair with a man who was going through his own emotional crisis was the last thing she needed.

Probably be best to write off that night at his cottage as an ill-advised one-night stand.

It all sounded so logical. Why did she feel depressed by her own clear reasoning?

She opened the door and walked into the apartment. They had made good time on the long drive from Eclipse Bay this morning. She had most of the day ahead of her to tidy up some of the loose ends that she had left dangling when she had rushed out of town a few days ago. She had a number of things on her agenda, not the least of which was deciding what to wear to the dinner tonight.

The atmosphere of the apartment had the closed-up feeling that accumulates quickly when a residence has been uninhabited for a few days. She walked through the rooms, cracking open windows to allow fresh air to circulate.

She did the living room first and then went down the hall to her bedroom. At the entrance, she paused. A tingle of eerie awareness drifted through her.

There was something different about the room. Something wrong.

She looked around with her artist's eye, noting the small details. The bedding was undisturbed. The closet doors were firmly closed. The dresser drawers were shut.

The closet doors were closed. Completely closed.

Her attention snapped back to the mirrored closet. She stared at it for a long time.

She was certain that she had left it partially ajar because of the way the slider got hung up when it was pushed fully closed.

Almost certain.

She had been in a hurry the other morning when she had left for Eclipse Bay, she reminded herself. Perhaps she had forced the door closed without thinking about it.

She crossed the room, gripped the handle and tried to open the slider. It stuck. Just as it had been sticking for the past two months. She took a firmer grasp, braced herself and forced it open.

The slider resisted for a few seconds and then reluctantly moved in its track. She stood back and surveyed the interior of her closet. The clothes on the hangers seemed to be in the same order they had been in when she had packed. The stack of plastic sweater boxes on the shelf looked untouched.

This was ridiculous. She was allowing her imagination to get carried away.

She reached for the handle of the slider again, intending to close the door. She went cold when she saw the smear on the mirrored glass at the far end next to the metal frame.

She allowed her hand to hover over the smear. It was right where the heel of a palm would rest if one were to take hold of the frame at the far end in an attempt to force the slider closed. But the mark was a little higher than one she would have left if she had grasped the frame.

Right about where a man or a woman a couple of inches taller than herself might put his or her palm.

She stepped back quickly.

Someone had been in this room.

Take deep breaths. Think about logical possibilities.

Burglary.

She whirled around, examining the scene once more. Nothing appeared to be missing.

She rushed back out into the living room and threw open the doors of the cabinet that housed her entertainment electronics. The expensive equipment was still safely stowed in place on the shelves.

She went cautiously down the hall to the small second bedroom that she used as a study. Halting in the doorway, she studied the interior. The most valuable item in this room was the art glass vase her parents had given her for her birthday last year. It glowed orange and red on the shelf near her desk.

She was definitely overreacting here. Maybe she was on edge because of the tension of dealing with Gabe.

More deep breaths. Other logical possibilities.

The cleaning people
.

She had canceled the weekly appointments until further notice. But there could have been a mix-up about the dates. The cleaners had a key. Perhaps they had come in last Friday on the usual day.

It made sense. One of them might have tried to close the closet door. But surely a professional housecleaner would have wiped off the smear on the mirror?

Then again, perhaps the cleaner had been in a hurry and hadn't noticed the smudge.

The light winked on the phone, snapping her out of her reverie. Belatedly it occurred to her that she hadn't checked her messages during the time she had been away in Eclipse Bay. She pulled herself out of the doorway, crossed to the desk and punched in the code.

There had been two calls. Both had been received the night before last between ten and eleven o'clock. In each instance the caller had stayed on the line long enough for the beep to sound. But no one had left a message.

A shiver went through her. She listened to the long silence before the hangup and fancied she could hear the unknown caller breathing.

Logical possibilities.

Two wrong numbers in a row. People rarely left messages when they dialed a wrong number.

This was crazy. She needed to get a grip and fast.

She grabbed the phone and dialed the number of the agency that cleaned regularly. The answer to her question came immediately.

“Yes, we sent the crew in last Friday,” the secretary said apologetically. “Sorry about the mix-up. We'll give you a free cleaning when you restart the service.”

“No, that's all right. I just wanted to know if you had been into the apartment, that's all.”

She put the phone down and waited for her heart to stop pounding. It took a while.

She did the little black dress bit for the dinner. The darkened hotel banquet room was filled to capacity with members of both the business and academic worlds. She sat at the head table, next to the wife of the guest of honor, and listened, fascinated, to Gabe's introductory remarks. She had known this event was important to him but she had not been prepared for the deep and very genuine warmth of his words.

“…Like so many of you here tonight, I, too, was profoundly influenced by Dr. Montoya…”

He stood easily in front of the crowd, hands braced on either side of the podium frame, speaking without notes.

“…I will never forget that memorable day in my senior year when Dr. Montoya called me into his office to discuss my first five-year plan, a plan which, in all modesty, I can only describe as visionary…”

Laughter interrupted him for a moment.

“…‘Gabe,' Dr. Montoya said, ‘with this plan, I sincerely doubt that you could attract enough venture capital to put up a lemonade stand…'”

The audience roared. Beneath the cover of applause, Dolores Montoya, a lively woman with silver-and-black hair, leaned over to whisper in Lillian's ear.

“Thank goodness the committee chose Gabe to make the introduction. At this kind of event half the crowd is usually dozing by the time the guest of honor gets to the podium. At least he's keeping them awake.”

Lillian did not avert her attention off Gabe. “Trust me, he won't let anyone fall asleep. This is important to him. I hadn't realized just how important until now.”

“My husband has told me more than once that Gabe was the most determined student he ever had in the classroom,” Delores told her.

At the podium, Gabe continued his remarks.

“…I'm happy to say that I finally got my lemonade stand up and running…”

This understatement was greeted by more chuckles from the crowd. Likening Madison Commercial to a lemonade stand was somewhat on a par with comparing a rowboat to a nuclear submarine, Lillian thought.

“…in large part because of what I learned from Dr. Montoya. But looking back, I can see that it wasn't just his nuts-and-bolts advice on how to survive market downturns and nervous investors that I took with me when I left his classroom.” Gabe paused for a beat. “He gave me something much deeper and more important. He gave me a sense of perspective…”

The crowd listened intently.

“…Dr. Montoya gave me an understanding not only of how business works in a free country but of what we who make our living in business owe to our communities and our nation. He showed me the connections that bind us. He gave me a deep and lasting appreciation of what it takes to maintain the freedoms and the spirit that allows us to succeed. He taught me that none of us can make it in a vacuum. And for those teachings, I will always be grateful. I give you now, Dr. Roberto Montoya.”

The gathering erupted once again as Dr. Montoya walked to the podium. This time the applause was led by Gabe. It metamorphosed into a standing ovation. Lillian got to her feet and clapped along with everyone else.

No wonder Dr. Montoya was important to Gabe, she thought. This was how a kid from a family that could not provide any successful male role models became one of the most successful men in the Northwest. He found himself someone who could teach him how to get ahead and he had paid attention.

“I'm the one who's supposed to be crying.” Dolores handed her a tissue.

“Thanks.” Lillian hastily blotted her tears, grateful that the lights were all focused on the podium.

The applause died away and the members of the audience took their seats again. The spotlight focused on Roberto Montoya. Gabe made his way back through the shadows to the chair beside Lillian. She felt his attention rest briefly on her profile and sensed his curiosity. She hoped he hadn't seen her dabbing at her eyes with the tissue.

He started to lean toward her, as if about to ask her what was wrong. Fortunately his attention was distracted a moment by Dr. Montoya, who had just launched into his own remarks.

“Before I get to the boring parts,” Dr. Montoya said, “there is something I would like to clarify. I taught Gabriel Madison many things, but there is one thing I did not teach him.” He paused to look toward the head table. “I did not teach him how to dress. That, he learned all on his own.”

There was a startled silence and then the crowd howled with delight.

“Oh, hell,” Gabe muttered, sounding both resigned and amused.

Dr. Montoya turned back to the audience. “Five years ago when I approached Gabe to try to talk him into participating in a program that would place college seniors in local businesses during their final semesters, he said—and I recall his exact words very clearly—he said, what the hell do you expect me to teach a bunch of kids about business that you can't teach them?”

There was a short pause. Montoya leaned into the microphone.

“‘Teach 'em how to dress for success,' I said.”

When the fresh wave of laughter had faded Montoya continued. “He took me seriously. Every semester when I send him the current crop of business students, he takes them to meet his tailor. What's more, he quietly picks up the tab for those who can't afford that first all-important business suit. Tonight, some of his protégés have prepared a small surprise to thank him for what he taught them.”

The spotlight shifted abruptly to the far end of the stage. Two young men and a woman stood there. All three were dressed in identical steel-gray business suits, charcoal-gray shirts, and black-and-silver striped ties. All three had their hair combed straight back from their foreheads. Three sets of silver-and-onyx cuff links glinted in the light. Three stainless-steel watches glinted on three wrists.

The Gabe Madison clone on the right carried a box wrapped and tied in silver foil and black ribbon.

They walked forward in lockstep.