Sweet Caroline (2 page)

10

Sweet Caroline

by Micqui Miller

Fully awake, Caroline turned in her seat and glanced up and down the aisle. Children didn't go missing in the middle of a flight, and neither had Virginia's. Mick held both of them. Franklin sat in his lap, pounding grubby little fingers on the keyboard of Mick's laptop while Miranda slept contentedly in the crook of his arm. He was whispering to Franklin, his words mesmerizing the child.

Caroline leaned forward and pulled her purse from beneath the seat in front of her. She rummaged through it until she found her compact. She could touch up her make-up and take a leisurely look at Mick as well.

She saw that his dark red hair was as curly as hers. Had he not worn it cropped so close, it would have been a mass of tangled knots. The advantage of being a man was no bad hair days. His eyebrows were far darker than hers, too, and the shadow turning into a full beard, looked brown. Dark circles of fatigue ringed his eyes yet he seemed to be enjoying himself with the little boy. In spite of his rumpled look, Caroline grudgingly admitted Mick was someone she might, in a weak moment, find attractive. Given another time and place, of course. Within the next twenty minutes, they'd land. She'd go her way and he'd go his. Just as well, too. How could you trust a man who looked that good, who obviously knew it, and still charmed the chips out of everyone? She guessed he'd enjoyed irritating her, yet he'd been compassionate enough to put aside his own discomfort so an elderly couple could sit together, and to give a tired mom a much-needed break.
Dang! A veritable Saint Mick.

* * * *

11

Sweet Caroline

by Micqui Miller

BEYOND WEARY, MICK squirmed in his seat. He'd spent the last two weeks working grueling twenty-hour days in a place where the temperature never dropped below oneeighteen. A place devoid of foliage, hope, or joy. Covering his mouth with the back of his hand, he yawned mightily. If the child on his lap noticed, it didn't stop him from his mission to destroy the laptop.

Mick had seen the novelty of flight wear off for the kids somewhere over Atlanta, and by their layover in Dallas, they were bored and cranky and a big handful for a mom traveling alone. Mick had seen that look of weary frustration often enough in the faces of his sisters and sister-in-law. Virginia had hesitated only a second at his offer to take Franklin and Miranda for a few minutes. Those few minutes were going on three hours.

Miranda had stopped fussing over El Paso and dropped into deep slumber. Franklin still fought the good fight. Unfortunately, "Uncle" Mick was now losing the battle. They were landing, and these two were going back to Mommy as soon as he could get a flight attendant's attention. In the meantime, what better way to take his mind off the stiffness in his back, the pain in his tailbone from sitting too long, and Franklin's reeking diaper, than to concentrate on the fabulous redhead he had to admit he'd treated rudely. He saw that she was awake now and viewing him using one of the oldest tricks in the book: a mirror.

"Very good, Franklin. Now try this." He guided the youngster's pudgy little forefinger to one of the keys that 12

Sweet Caroline

by Micqui Miller

would start a new program. Over Franklin's squeals and the hum of the plane's engine, Mick dared a glance across the aisle. A few more tendrils had escaped from her topknot and curled against the back of her neck. When she raised her chin, he saw the litheness and posture of a dancer, a longlegged ballerina, who must have towered over her frou-frou partners.

He wondered if she danced as a child, and the frustration she must have known growing too tall too soon. But if she'd ever been called an ugly duckling, she'd blossomed into a swan.

She was dressed in business attire, except for the strapped sandals. Mick remembered seeing a laptop draped over her shoulder, and that she'd carried a briefcase, too. Probably flying to a meeting in San Francisco then catching a late flight back to Dallas.

What a shame. She was the first woman in a long, long time who'd piqued his interest. Creeping up on forty, he'd sometimes wondered, as his sisters suggested, if he were turning into an old curmudgeon.

Not if I can still appreciate legs like that.
He almost regretted being so arbitrary about staying in her seat. They'd likely be heading in opposite directions and their paths would never cross again. "Missed opportunities"—his mother's favorite assessment of his personal life. "Mick," he could hear her saying, "good women are not like buses. If you miss one, another will
not
come along in ten minutes." 13

Sweet Caroline

by Micqui Miller

True, but not even the venerable Sheila DeSantis understood why her eldest son never married. Why he never would and never could.

* * * *

CAROLINE HATED LANDINGS the most. She always feared the landing gear would fail, the retro rockets refuse to fire, or that whatever could go wrong would, and the plane would slide on its belly in suds right through the control tower. Worse, the kids had returned. Miranda had woken from her nap and hadn't stopped screaming since, and Franklin smelled like something left in the sun too long.

To distract herself, Caroline slipped an envelope out of her purse and peeked under the open flap. Good. She'd remembered the postcard. She glanced over her shoulder to make certain no one watched and pulled the tip of the card out of the envelope about an inch. The same chill she felt the first time she saw it raised gooseflesh on her arms again. A computer-generated photograph of a family gathering was pasted to the front of the card. She'd counted the family members time and again—twenty-eight in all. The original photograph, she'd decided, was taken from a distance because the faces blurred under magnification. Nothing unusual about that besides the fact that someone had gone to a lot of trouble to trim a photo of her, one she never recalled posing for, and paste it over a couple of the family members. She stood out among the group like a giantsized paper doll. 14

Sweet Caroline

by Micqui Miller

At first Caroline thought it was just another "tall" joke except she'd found the postcard hidden with her birth certificate and a birth certificate for "Baby Girl Smith" born four days earlier than Caroline in a town in New York state too small to pinpoint on a map. Separately these things meant nothing. Even together they meant nothing. But why had her mother taped the postcard and birth certificates to the underside of a drawer? A place to hide a secret, and Adina Spring had taken that secret to her grave.

The magnifying glass had revealed only one clue—a banner that hung between two trees with the words

"Mahoney Family Reunion" spray-painted across it. No date, location, or inscription existed, the only clue a postmark from a city in California named Sebastopol. The card had been mailed a little more than a year ago.

Neither she nor Travis knew what the card meant, but as surely as that little boy sitting beside her had a date with a hot bath and a fresh diaper, Caroline would spend the next eight weeks finding answers to the questions she could no longer ask her mother.

* * * *

TO CAROLINE'S SURPRISE and relief, the landing gear functioned properly and the fire department did not have to lather the runway with flame retardant foam. The plane even arrived on schedule.

While waiting outside the terminal for the rental-car shuttle, Caroline saw Mick one last time. He strolled a few steps ahead of two dark-skinned men wearing business suits 15

Sweet Caroline

by Micqui Miller

and the traditional Saudi Arabian headdress of cap and
ghutra
, the red-and-white checkered scarf that fell below their shoulders. The three men headed toward a black stretch limousine that idled boldly in a no-standing zone. Small flags with the crest of an Arab sheikdom billowed in the breeze from the front fenders. Caroline stood too far to see the license plate, but it was clearly not the same borne by the cars lined up in the passenger-loading zone.
Hmmm.
She shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun. Anything was possible, but a fair-skinned, red-haired sheik named Mick? Not likely.

16

Sweet Caroline

by Micqui Miller

AN HOUR LATER, Caroline zoomed across the Golden Gate Bridge and into Marin County. Once the heavier traffic thinned, she picked up her cell phone from the passenger seat where she'd tossed it and dialed the number she'd memorized while waiting for her rental car.

"Good afternoon, ZyQyx," a cheery voice answered.

"Good afternoon. Ian Foy, please." On the first ring, an even cheerier voice answered, "Mr. Foy's office, this is Gerard."

"Good afternoon, Gerard. It's Caroline Spring."

"Oh, Ms. Spring, you're early," he chirped. "Mr. Foy will be so delighted. You're calling from the parking lot?"

"I'm not early at all. I've just crossed into Marin so I'll be at least another thirty minutes. Mr. Foy never mentioned all the construction in San Francisco."

"I know, I know. Isn't it a horror?"

"May I speak to him? I'd like to let him know I'll be late."

"Not to worry, dear." Gerard's voice dropped to a more confidential tone. "He's tending to some last minute details. He's ordered in so you two can have a nice visit without starving."

"How thoughtful."

"Oh, to a fault, to a fault. If you only knew."

"Please tell him I'll be there shortly."

"You know the off ramp, and exactly where to park?"

"Yes, I do. See you in a few."

17

Sweet Caroline

by Micqui Miller

The day could not have been nicer. San Francisco had been mostly gray, an overcast 60 degrees with tiny cracks of sun. Marin, only a few miles across the Bay, was sunny and warm, without the oppressive 100 degrees she'd left behind in Dallas.

Following the directions Gerard had given her, she easily found ZyQyx headquarters. A pristine white building rising four stories, nestled in an age-old stand of cypress and pine. Caroline knew that both she and Ian Foy had the right to walk away from their agreement without penalty at the end of today's meeting. If they didn't mesh, if something didn't "feel right" about the investigation, or they agreed to disagree, no harm done. Another investigator from her firm would be on a plane to San Francisco in the morning. But it would take something catastrophic to pull her off this job. According to the map, Sebastopol, CA was approximately 10 miles northwest of ZyQyx headquarters. Before she set foot on a plane again, she'd know the mystery of the postcard and the answer to the puzzle her mother had left behind. Caroline made sure the tendrils of loose hair were back in place, the topknot secure, and her lipstick refreshed. Satisfied with what she saw in the rearview mirror, Caroline was ready. Some buildings seemed alive, others felt empty and dead, hung with the silence of a mausoleum. Not so with ZyQyx. From the art on the walls to the clack of Caroline's heels against the terrazzo floor, she sensed vitality often missing in the places she consulted.

Three women waited at the elevator, laughing and enjoying their break. They did not stop their conversation at 18

Sweet Caroline

by Micqui Miller

her approach but smiled hellos. Happy employees. Another good sign.

Caroline saw, too, that while business casual was the order of the day, these women were impeccably groomed in slacks and shirts that looked as expensive as the suit she wore. Obviously, good salaries contributed to the happy mix. The elevator doors on the fourth floor opened into the executive suite. Marble floors, teak and leather furnishings, oriental rugs that reeked of money—and Gerard. He looked exactly as she'd envisioned him, late twenties, slender, fastidious.

"You must be Ms. Spring." He jumped from his chair and came around the desk, arm stretched, hand out to greet her.

"Caroline, please."

"Aren't you kind?" With a hand on her elbow, he led her to a set of teak double doors. "Mr. Foy said to bring you right in."

In the current downsized economy, Caroline was surprised at the opulence of Foy's office. It was two to three times larger than the digs of most of her client CEOs and furnished with starkly modern Scandinavian that leapt right off the pages of
Architectural Digest
.

"Mr. Foy, Ms. Spring is here," Gerard announced. The desk chair, high-backed black leather, faced the window. It turned slowly forward and Ian Foy stood to greet her.

Caroline did not know what she expected, but what she saw shocked her silent. In his late forties, Foy stood several inches taller than she, straight and robust, except for a waist 19

Sweet Caroline

by Micqui Miller

paunch that bent the belt on his trousers almost in two. But it wasn't his height, or his hair, strawberry blond and gray, curly and worn long that caused the knot in her throat. No. It was a strange familiarity about him.

She saw he sensed it, too. For a moment, his expression changed from pleased and gracious to wary and baffled.

"Ms. Spring ... Caroline," he said. "I feel like we've met before."

With an ironic grin, she answered, "I know what you mean."

"Please, have a seat." He pointed to one of the low-slung leather guest chairs in front of his desk. "Gerard, give Ms. Spring a few minutes to get settled then have lunch brought in."

"Yes, sir. Coffee now?"

"Coffee, Caroline? A latté perhaps?"

"Coffee's fine."

Ian began talking, but Caroline failed to focus on what he said, unable to stop staring at him, wondering where they'd met before. She blamed some of the cobwebs on the aftereffects of Dramamine and the close, stale air of the plane. The rest was a sense of familiarity that grew stronger each time Foy turned his head, gestured with a wave of his hand, or spoke. For some odd reason, he gave her the shivers—not from excitement, but from uneasiness and that unsettled her more. She'd spoken to him by phone several times, visited the ZyQyx website, reviewed his annual report. His photo was all over the site and in the report, studio portraits touched up 20