A Rush of Wings (35 page)

Noelle closed her eyes. What were these thoughts? Where did they come from? Why now?

———

Rick dropped to a chair in the kitchen, rubbed his face, then rested his head in his hand. The night stretched, but he was too shaken to think, too angry to pray, too spent to feel. He just sat. With the dawn tempering the darkness he dropped his head to his arm.
Lord. . . .
But he couldn't get any further.

The phone jarred him, and he grabbed it. “Yes?”

Detective Spaulding's voice. Rick released a slow breath. “Yes, I'll tell her. Thank you.” He hung up the phone and went upstairs, listened at Noelle's door, but the room was silent, so he went to his own room, showered, dressed, and came back out.

He cracked Noelle's door. She still slept. He didn't want to wake her. The news could wait. He went back downstairs, pulled on his coat, and went to feed the stock. Through the motions of his routine he found some comfort. When he returned to the house he heard the shower running upstairs, and went to the kitchen to make coffee. Twenty minutes later the water still ran upstairs, so he leaned on the counter, watching another ten minutes click by on the clock.

———

Noelle stood in the shower, the water running hot, tepid, then cool down her back. Her bruised body ached. Her mind did not. Shutting off the water, she dried herself and pulled on a sweater and jeans and went downstairs.

Rick leaned on the counter in the kitchen, a mug of coffee cupped
in his hands. His face was drawn, and she felt a ripple of emotion. He set the cup down and reached for her, but she didn't take his hand. His arm dropped to his side. “Detective Spaulding called. They found Michael shortly after we left the mountain. He . . . shot himself before they could take him.”

Another ripple. “He's dead?”

“Yes.”

Dead. She folded her hands together. There was no sense of victory, no sweeping relief, no sorrow. Michael was dead. She closed her eyes. “It's over, then.” And that was how she felt. Like a closed book put back on the shelf.

He started toward her. “Noelle . . .”

“Rick, I need to go home.”

He stopped, then drew a deep breath. “Okay. I'll get us—”

“Alone.” She hoped he wouldn't argue and make it harder than it was.

He leaned back into the counter. “Noelle . . .”

She looked away. “Will you call my father?” If he cared at all, he'd let her leave without a fight.

He waited too long to answer.

“I'd appreciate it if you called. He'll arrange a jet.”

“Fine.” His voice was flat. “How long will you stay?”

“I don't know.” She unfolded her hands and went upstairs to pack. All her clothes fit inside the tote she'd brought from New York and the duffel Rick had provided for their trip to Iowa. She slid the pine box that held her paints onto the dresser top. She wouldn't need them. Then she went down, set the two bags by the front door, and stood at the great room window. Three hours later, they arrived at the airport.

“You can leave me at the curb.”

But he parked and got out of the truck. He carried her bags to the counter, then walked her to the security checkpoint. When she set her purse on the X-ray conveyor belt, she turned. Rick stood, wanting, she knew, to embrace her before she left. But his arms remained at his sides. She kept them there by her will.

“Good-bye.” She passed through the metal detector and left him behind.

W
illiam climbed out of the limousine, which had been cleared to the tarmac where the firm's jet had taxied to a stop. Waiting there, he felt more shaken than he could remember, worse than when Adelle had died.

That, he could not have prevented. This . . . from Michael. Knowing what William had told him of her earlier abduction, how could he do it again? How could he strike and injure and molest her? And how could he have fooled him so completely?

He watched the door of the jet, thankful it did not open immediately. He needed to prepare. How could he prepare? Then she was there, looking like glass, and there was nothing he could do to hide what he felt.

John had come up beside him and took her bags to the trunk. William opened the car door for Noelle himself. They were silent all the way to the estate. He walked her inside the house, then asked, “Do you want to rest?”

“No. I want to talk.”

They went together into the library, and Noelle sat down in the leather wing chair. She stared at the portrait of Adelle. Did she remember her mother? William sat on the matched chair angled to the right of hers.

Eyes still fixed on the portrait, she asked, “What did Rick tell you?”

“All he knew.” William's hand shook on the armrest. He put it in his lap. How could Michael have deceived him? Or had he deceived himself, believed he'd taken an angry, damaged youth and made him . . . what? The perfect mate for his daughter, the ascendant to his throne?

The anger he'd felt since Rick Spencer's phone call drained when he saw Noelle. He felt impotent, bare. “Why didn't you tell me? The first time?”

“He was your protégé, Daddy. Your perfect specimen.”

“And you are my daughter.” Didn't she know how he loved her? “Your best interest has always been my first concern.” He gripped the curved wooden ends of the chair arms.

She turned her eyes on him, lashes drooping. “I know you did your best. Anyway, it doesn't matter now. I just want this put behind me.” She stroked her hair back from her face, let it fall over her shoulder. So like Adelle. “May I have the bungalow?”

“Of course.” He had ordered it readied for her. Then he realized what she was saying. “What about Rick?”

Noelle looked again at her mother's portrait. Make the eyes blue, and Noelle could be the woman he'd fallen so crazy in love with all those years ago in Paris. She could be Adelle. He'd felt so helpless when she died, so utterly useless. He felt it now with his daughter. Was she giving up all she'd fought for days ago, as Adelle had lost the fight for her very life?

Still gazing at her mother's face, she said, “I don't know.”

———

As soon as Noelle walked into the bungalow, she knew it wouldn't work. Michael was too present there. She imagined she smelled his cologne. She walked into the bedroom and looked into the closet filled with her designer wardrobe—mostly Michael's choices.

Michael had shot himself. Why? Yes, it would have been a nightmare for all of them, but he was the brilliant schemer, the dazzling protégé. He had fooled Daddy, fooled them all. He could have pulled it off so no jury believed such a charming, successful man could do the things her fragmented memory suggested he had.

But he was dead. They were flying his body home for burial. Was she glad? She didn't feel that. Sorry? She didn't feel that either. But as Noelle looked over the gowns and outfits he had given her, reaching
out to stroke one silk sleeve, she shuddered. She would never wear it again, none of them. She would donate them somewhere.

She went back out to the great room, an open, flowing space that made the remainder of the bungalow seem larger than it was. Again she sensed him. They'd spent too many evenings by the gas fire after dinner with Daddy. And she felt a hovering of wings. Only a shadow, but enough to drive her back to the main house with a bag on each shoulder.

Daddy pulled open the door himself. “Noelle?”

“May I stay here instead?”

“Of course.” He took the duffel and tote and turned to Donita. “Make up Noelle's bed.”

Noelle followed him to the bar in the study. He poured them each a glass of sherry. As she took the first sweet-fire sip, she thought of Morgan, then that, too, sank into the cotton of her mind. She walked around the room, studying the shelves and shelves of books. Daddy's world. She breathed their scent, not musty but more of a glue-and-leather smell.

A tap on the door and Donita ducked in. “Your room's ready, Ms. Noelle.”

“Thank you.” Noelle turned. “I'd like the closet of the bungalow cleaned out tomorrow. Donate the clothes.” Or keep them. Though Donita was at least ten years older, they were similar in size, and she guessed the woman would help herself. She didn't care as long as she never saw them again.

“Yes, ma'am.”

Her father cleared his throat. “Will you move over there after that?”

She shrugged. “We'll see. For now my room will be fine.” She thought of the small log room at Rick's, where she'd felt so safe and protected. Then a fresh image entered, a new flash of an old memory.
“Noelle, come out of your room. Come see what Daddy and I have for you.” “I don't want to, Mama.” And her mother's hand on her head. “It's over, Noelle.”
But it wasn't.

She went up to the room she'd occupied as a child. For a moment she thought she smelled her mother's fragrance. She must be losing her mind. First Michael's, now . . . but it was gone. She looked at the white steel bed, the Chippendale dresser. She crossed to it, ran her finger over the inlaid wood of her old jewelry box. She opened it, and
the little ballerina stood up and turned to the tinkling notes of the “Music Box Dancer.”

“Thank you, Mama. Thank you, Daddy.” The little dancer could hide, just like she wanted to. She clutched the box to her chest. “Now will you come out of your room?”
Noelle touched the dancer's head, felt it turn beneath her finger. She stretched out her hand. Slowly, she slipped Rick's diamond from her finger, set it inside, then closed the lid.

There was a tap on the door, and Daddy spoke through the wood. “Noelle, Rick's on the phone.”

“Thank you.” She sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hi. I wanted to make sure you made it in all right, that your flight was okay.”

“It was fine. Thank you.”

She heard his breath. “I miss you.”

She swallowed. “I'm sorry. Thank you for calling.” She replaced the receiver, amazed to feel nothing at all.

———

Rick hung up and slammed his fist into the wall. He split the knuckles, but he hardly realized it. He went out and stabled the horses for the night. He slept, rose early, and worked hard, pushing himself.

He called again two days later, the day they would have married. Her voice was soft on the line. “I'm sorry, Rick. I know it's not your fault, but it's a mistake to think we can continue.”

“I love you. That's not going to change.”
Please, God, let her know how much
.

She said nothing.

“I want to do something, Noelle. There must be something.”

Still she wouldn't answer.

“Do you want me to come see you?”

“No. I'm sorry, Rick.”

He held the receiver long after she'd hung up. Then he sat, going over and over in his mind the memories of her. He saw her perched on the stallion like a wild thing. He felt her, limp and broken, as he'd carried her after the fall. He closed his eyes and tasted their first kiss, salty with her tears, the night she told him about Michael . . . and trusted him.

Some of the memories brought a ghost of a smile, some hurt so
bad he could barely stand it, but he played them again and again like a junkie who couldn't get enough. Had Morgan felt that way? Shaking his head, he ran his hand over his face.
Oh, God . . .
What would he do without her?

When morning came he went outside. The air was cold, caught in the stubble of beard on his chin and upper lip. He cared for the horses in the stable, then drove up to check the stallions. He was building them a shelter, so he pulled his tools from the truck and set to work. He took three days to finish it.

He didn't hear from Noelle, so he started on the work he'd intended to do after the wedding. He ripped out all but the support walls in the upper level of the house. He had drawn plans to restructure it in a design more conducive to raising a family. He would modify it to suit Noelle if she had other ideas. Joseph Gregg, his neighbor to the south, offered to help, but Rick declined. With pulleys and levers he could do it alone. And right now he didn't trust himself with anyone.

The master suite took up the back quadrant, with four smaller bedrooms along the landing. One for Noelle's studio. At least until they needed it for kids. Rick wiped his sleeve across his forehead and chugged a soda. He placed a new board and nailed it into place. Maybe he should call again.

He told himself that every day, even sometimes picked up the phone to dial. Then he'd hang it up and give her one more day. Maybe tomorrow she'd call or today if it was still early. Then he wouldn't be forcing her. He'd told her how he felt. Told her he wouldn't change. She could count on that.

He strained to drag a log into position for the next wall. He was losing the daylight, and he had yet to eat. He ought to stop and fix food, but he aligned the log with the chalk line on the floor and took out a spike. He raised the sledge and drove it, then moved down three feet and did it again.

That evening, exhausted after five weeks of labor, he lay in bed in the dark. It was worst then. Who was he kidding? Noelle hadn't called, wouldn't call. She wanted no part of him. But he missed her so much.
Lord, where did I fail? Why did you allow this? Why, Lord?
His whole body ached with fatigue and longing. His spirit trembled with rage. Hands clenched, he pictured her crumpled on the mountain. Death was too good for Michael Fallon, too easy. He'd destroyed everything.

Why didn't you keep her safe, Lord? Or help me to?
He thrashed to
his side. He should never have left her alone. He should have heard, should have known. But how could he? He was only a man. But God had known . . . and kept silent. That's what he couldn't reconcile. Had everything he'd done, believed, trusted, been wrong?

———

William watched his daughter across the table as she conversed with the guests he had asked to dinner.

“Yes, Julliard is a fine school. I enjoyed my studies there.” The turn of her shoulder, the direction of her gaze completely excluded the young man he had invited. She acted as though the Palmers were the only guests present.

Adam Palmer nodded. “I understand you're quite talented.”

“You've been talking to Daddy.” She delivered that with just the right tone, and the Palmers laughed. Young Martin Sternham joined in, for all the good it would do him.

“Would you play for us?” Celeste Palmer fingered the silk scarf she wore to hide the wrinkles at her neck, and her four-carat diamond shimmered.

Noelle folded her napkin beside her plate. “All right.” She stood, and they followed her into the drawing room. As she played, her fingers danced lightly one minute and rose in crescendo to snapping power the next.

William's chest swelled with pride. She played with precision, striking each note without error. Of course, she practiced hour after hour to perfect her skill. Every day he came home from the office to hear her working at the keyboard, and it reminded him of her lessons when she was a child. He'd procured the finest instructor, a woman trained at the Rimsky-Korsakov Conservatory in St. Petersburg.

Noelle finished and Celeste clapped her fingertips together. “Oh, darling, that was marvelous. You could play professionally.”

“But why would she?” Adam tapped his wife's knee. “That's a grueling schedule.”

No more grueling than Noelle pushed herself, William thought. He wished Martin would find his tongue. Though an associate at the firm—Harvard graduate no less—he was reduced to idiocy by Noelle. She stood up and excused herself, leaving him to his guests. William hoped they wouldn't linger.

———

Noelle closed herself into the library and picked up Anne Tyler's
Patchwork Planet
. Right now she could identify with the protagonist's rejection of his wealthy heritage.
Yes, Mr. Palmer. No, Mrs. Palmer. Of course, Daddy
. She flounced onto the couch and opened the book.

Her father found her there. “You were enchanting tonight.”

“Was I?” She didn't look up from her book. The son had just set fire to the dining room curtains.

“What did you think of Martin Sternham?” He took the book from her hands and set it on the table.

“I thought nothing of him.” Noelle rubbed a spot on her index fingernail.

“You were cruel, and I think you enjoyed it.”

She sat up. “Daddy, I want you to stop inviting every eligible bachelor to dinner and disguising them with old people.”

He laughed but it was forced. “Then, what am I to do?”

She stood up and walked to the diamond-paned window. “Let me lead my life the way I want to.”

“Noelle . . .”

She looked back over her shoulder. “I'm considering an apartment. Something in Manhattan.” She said it to jerk his cord. She could hardly leave the house these days. But Daddy wouldn't know that. He'd resumed his normal hours, and they saw little of each other, except on these evenings where he tried to auction her off.

“An apartment would only seclude you more.”

Maybe Daddy was more aware than she thought.

“I think you should see a psychiatrist.”

She smiled. “To learn what's wrong with me?”