A Season of Miracles (14 page)

She held him close to her, reentering the house, closing the main doors and locking them, then leaving the mudroom.

“Jillian?”

It was her grandfather, and he sounded concerned. She walked into the kitchen with the cat.

Connie leapt up, gasping. Eileen, who had been facing the fire, turned, then screamed. “Jeeves!” she cried out.

“Can't be,” Griff protested.

“Of course it's not Jeeves,” Jillian said quickly. “It's all right, it's just another poor cat. The creature was crying, freezing outside on the porch. Agatha, have you seen him before?”

“Never,” Agatha assured her.

“Well, he's got to stay, at least tonight. Maybe he belongs to a neighbor.”

“Jillian, the nearest neighbor here is nearly a mile away,” Daniel reminded her.

“Then, he's my cat now,” she said.

“I'll get him some milk,” Agatha said, rising.

“Give him some of this warm mulled wine,” Griff said cheerfully. “That'll knock him out. Aggie, this stuff has a punch to it. What do you think the alcohol content is?”

“Bosh, now, it's a bedtime drink, to help you sleep,” Agatha told him.

“I'll sleep. Like a rock,” Connie said.

“Even if a Jeeves look-alike has come to town,” Joe muttered.

“The world is full of black cats,” Jillian told him, somewhat amused that big tough Joe was spooked by a cat just because it looked like one that had died.

“Yes, but that one…” Eileen murmured.

“Looks exactly like Jeeves,” Theo finished.

“Exactly,” Eileen said, so softly that the word sounded unintentionally spooky—and funny.

“Maybe Jeeves wasn't really dead,” Theo suggested.

“He was dead, all right. Cold, and stiff as a poker,” Griff murmured.

“It isn't Jeeves,” Robert Marston said suddenly. He had been sitting at the kitchen table, sipping mulled wine, but he stood, then, and walked over to Jillian, who was still holding the cat, which he studied carefully.

He still seemed electric, Jillian thought. Dark hair falling slightly over one eye, his gaze very deeply blue, very intense. He had shed the leather jacket and now seemed like energy and fire in his navy pullover sweater and dark trousers. She held her breath when he was near her, afraid to reach out and still uncertain whether what she felt for him was right.

Especially tonight.

“Are you so sure it isn't Jeeves?” she murmured.

His gaze met hers. “Yes, I'm positive,” he said. “He was cremated, remember.”

“Jillian, come on,” Griff said softly. “We were worried. A black cat dying right on your desk on Halloween? After what had happened at Hennessey's?”

“He died
on my desk?
” Jillian said.

“You said you told her,” Griff accused Connie.

“Forget it,” Jillian said. “We've got this guy to think about now. Agatha, we have a litter box around somewhere, right?”

“We do.”

“I'll keep it up in my bathroom, and keep him with me.”

“What will we call him?” Griff mused. “Jeeves Junior?”

“That's horrible!” Eileen cried.

“Why? We all loved Jeeves,” Jillian said. “Jeeves Junior has a ring to it. Well, good night, all. If you'll excuse me…”

She walked past Robert Marston. He smelled wonderful.

She wished that…

No.

He'd said she was in danger. Well, he was definitely dangerous. It was far too easy to forget everything, absolutely everything, when she was with him.

She had to be careful. Because he had been watching them all again, she was certain. Especially when he announced that the cat had been cremated.

As she kissed her grandfather good-night, she realized that he had been awfully quiet.

Watching as well.

 

It was a fantastic old house, Robert thought. Douglas was rightfully proud of it. He stayed up with Douglas, despite knowing it was going to be an early morning. The film crew and photographers were arriving at eight a.m. And though he had offhandedly assured them at the meeting that he was willing to do whatever they wanted for the ad campaign—an exceptional idea, since it kept him close to Jillian—he was a little edgy about what to expect. He had always been good with figures, concepts and management, he was an accomplished history buff, and he had played sports in school, making a good tackle because of his size and speed. But he'd never envisioned himself as an actor, and he had to admit to a fear of making a fool of himself.

That wasn't going to stop him, though. He had started off at Llewellyn with more curiosity than anything else—not believing seriously that Douglas's dream meant there was any real danger to Jillian. But now he was feeling an
urgency
to be with her. It seemed ridiculous to be away from her; in fact, he felt absurdly as if he had every right to be with her, and it was alarming to feel such real emotion. He was already in love with her, but more than that, he felt oddly as if it were the deepest emotion in the world, as if he'd felt it for years, as if they'd weathered many storms together. And yet he completely understood and respected her feeling that they had to slow down. That…

That it was all crazy.

But today, after seeing Shelley Millet, aka Madame Zena, he felt as if he had a real reason to worry, as if there really were something going on. Forces. Good and evil.

No, he didn't believe in forces, he told himself.

But evil surely lived and thrived in the minds of men.

And there was the whole thing about the cat. He had been late to the graveside service because he'd taken it on himself to do some investigating into the death of the animal. Through Daniel's secretary he had found out that the cat had been taken down to one of the building maintenance men and cremated in the furnace.

The maintenance man must have thought he was insane when he insisted on sifting through the ashes, but he'd bribed the fellow to silence and could only hope that the man would keep his word.

He had brought the ashes to a friend at an uptown police precinct. He wanted them analyzed. He was pretty sure that if any foul play had been done to the cat, there would be some evidence in the ashes. Jeeves had died on Jillian's desk. That seemed an unlucky circumstance, with everything else going on—

“Don't forget to take a look while you're here,” Douglas said.

“I'm sorry?” Robert looked questioningly at Douglas.

Douglas smiled ruefully. “You're worrying, eh?”

He shrugged. “I'm taking your concern seriously, sir, that's all.”

“Even if it came from a dream?”

“Well, I don't actually believe there's meaning in dreams.”

“Maybe dreams warn us of what we see by day but don't really want to admit we see,” Douglas murmured.

“Maybe.”

“You watched everyone when Jillian brought that cat in, didn't you?” Douglas demanded.

“So did you.”

“Aye, that I did.”

“And?”

Douglas shrugged. “Well, everyone knew old Jeeves had died. So I couldn't really tell too much.”

“You think someone in the office
killed
Jeeves?”

“You do, don't you?”

“I have no idea.”

Douglas nodded in reply, staring at the flames that burned low in the kitchen grate beneath the cauldron of mulling wine. “Well, I'm afraid I have no idea, either. I found a pretty good replacement, though, eh?” he said, looking up with a wry smile.

“
You
brought that cat?” Robert said.

“Aye, and shush. Only Henry knows. Do you think I'm an evil old man?”

“Hell, no. I think you're damn clever. And I wish I'd thought of it.”

Douglas laughed and rose, shaking his head as his back creaked. “Old age. It's brutal on the body. Well, as I was saying while you wandered off, don't forget to look in the library while you're here. I understand you like books.”

“I do.”

“Good night, then. You're all settled?”

“Yes. Agatha showed me my room earlier.”

“You're next to her.”

“Pardon?”

“You're next to Jillian. I arranged for it. You will keep an eye on her?”

“Yes, of course.”

Douglas nodded again. “See you in the morning, then.”

Robert watched Douglas go up. Then he rose, drained the last of his wine and set their glasses in the sink. He looked around the kitchen, then instinctively walked around the house, checking the locks on the doors.

At last, he walked up the stairs to his assigned room. There he found another concession to contemporary times. The bathroom was pleasantly modern, and the shower ran very hot.

After showering he toweled dry, slipped into a pair of flannel pajama pants and crawled into bed. Despite the heat of the shower he'd taken, his head seemed to be spinning. The mulled wine, he thought, idly remembering Griff's comment. Man, that wine must have some mean alcoholic level. He hadn't felt the effect of a few glasses of wine in a long time. Maybe it had been more than a few glasses.

He started to doze, then was surprised to hear a door open and close near his own. He crawled from the bed, slipped on a robe and opened his own door. Jillian was just starting down the hall, the black cat in her arms.

He followed her, calling her name quietly in the darkened hallway, lest he startle her. “Jillian?”

She swung around. She was clad in a white velvet robe that hung beautifully on her long, slender frame. In the dusky light, her hair curled over the velvet like a sea of flame. Her eyes seemed huge in the night. He felt a fierce tugging somewhere within him, wanting to reach out and pull her against him. He wanted…

Christmas. The Christmas of a thousand days together, laughter, comfort, the complete knowledge that they belonged together. He wanted to trim trees and dress a house, talk about PTA meetings and even groceries.

“Are you all right?” he asked politely.

“I'm fine. He just seemed hungry.”

“I'll go down with you. I could use a drink of water.”

“Too much mulled wine, huh?” she queried, smiling. “It's potent.”

“It is.”

“According to Agatha, it will allow you to see leprechauns.”

“Only leprechauns?”

“Well, banshees, maybe a few pixies or the like. Ghosts.”

“I'll drink a lot of water.”

They reached the bottom of the grand stairway. Jillian made a right, through the huge paneled parlor to the kitchen beyond. She set the cat on the floor, went to the fridge, and poured a bowl of milk for the cat and a glass of water for Robert.

She leaned against the refrigerator, watching the cat.

“He is a lot like poor Jeeves, isn't he.”

“Yes.” He drank the water, watching her. “You all right tonight?”

She looked at him. “Yes, of course.”

“Well, it's been just a year,” he murmured.

She smiled slightly and nodded. “You would have liked Milo. He was so bright and interested in everything. He loved books, just like you.” She hesitated. “He was a friend from school, like Connie. When he first got sick, I went with him one day to the doctor's office. It was horrible, going to oncology. There were so many people there. Older people, many of them in wheelchairs. Some children. And some young people, like Milo. I was so upset because…I don't know, it seemed so impersonal. So cold, and sometimes so pointless.”

“You thought you could change it all if you married him?”

“I did change some of it,” she murmured. “And I learned that money does talk in America.”

“So you made his life better,” he said.

“He made mine better, too.” She turned back to the refrigerator, ready to get him more water. She paused, pointing to one of the small pictures stuck to the refrigerator with a rose magnet. “That's Milo.”

He moved to stand by her to look at the picture. Jillian and the young man were sitting together, wearing winter sweaters and sharing a bowl of popcorn, in front of a roaring fire. They were both smiling, as if they had been caught in a private moment of laughter and warmth.

Milo had a slender face, blue eyes and curly, dark blond hair. He was wearing a gold-colored sweater and brown pants. Nice looking. He had the look of someone who liked books, movies and art museums.

“You look very happy together,” he said.

“He was the world's best friend,” she said softly.

“I'm sorry. Very sorry. I'm sure I would have liked him very much, if I'd ever had the opportunity to meet him.”