Intrusion: A Novel (7 page)

“She’s got a house in Ojai? I thought she lived in Malibu?”

“Malibu is her beach house. I’m hearing that the Ojai place is huge. Anyway, she asked if you would come, too.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Kat said.

“You’re not curious about her house? How she lives? James has been out there, says it’s quite something.”

“No. I’m not curious.”

Scott sighed.

“Look, she asked if you would come when Miyamoto was right there in the conference room,” he said slowly. “Miyamoto asked if his wife was also invited. And Sarah said yes. I think if you don’t go, well, Mrs. Miyamoto might feel uncomfortable. The only wife there.”

Kat stood and took a breath before looking into her husband’s eyes.

“I don’t care if Mrs. Miyamoto feels uncomfortable,” she said. “Mrs. Miyamoto has a daughter at Yale. A daughter, alive and healthy and beautiful, who has been home for the summer. Okay? Do you see the difference here, Scott, between Mrs. Miyamoto and me?”

Scott got to his feet at once, moved toward her, and held her by the shoulders.

“Of course I do. But it’s just an overnight trip. A small group. You know them. You like them. They like you. It’s my job, Kat. It’s work.”

Kat pulled back. She had become, she realized, so self-centered, so self-absorbed, she could not see anything beyond her own pain.

“Okay. I’ll think about it. I’d prefer you went alone though.”

“I don’t want to go alone. I want you with me.”

EIGHT

S
cott turned off the 101 and took a narrow road up into the hills. The GPS on the dash showed that they were on the right street, but no signs or numbers were visible and the homes they passed were set way back from the road, surrounded by walls and electronic gates. Sarah’s house was right at the top of the hill; James had said it had a distant view of the ocean.

Kat stretched in the car, flexing her shoulders. She wore tailored pants and felt corseted and tethered.

“What exactly did she do to Maggie?” Scott asked unexpectedly. “Sarah Harrison?”

Kat thought for a moment.

“To Maggie,” she said. “And to me.”

“You?”

He glanced at her quickly.

“A boy I was involved with. Sven. They had an affair.”

“Involved? How involved were you?” Scott asked.

“We dated for one semester,” said Kat. “I thought I was in love with him. I thought he felt the same about me. I was thinking about doing an exchange-student year in Denmark.”

“It was serious, then?”

“It was serious at the time,” Kat said, trying to be honest. “I think I might have got bored with him eventually. He was very attractive. But a bit—solemn. Sven was Paul’s best friend. They’d been pen pals for years and used to spend summers together, and it was Paul who persuaded him to do the course in the UK. He was going to be the best man at Maggie and Paul’s wedding. The day before the wedding, I went back to the flat. I’d forgotten my satin shoes. My bridesmaid shoes. And Sven was there, with Sarah.”

“He was with her? You mean screwing her?” Scott asked.

“Pretty much. Sven didn’t turn up for the rehearsal dinner that night. Paul couldn’t track him down and he was so worried and upset. They had to ask another friend to be best man at the last minute.”

She did not want to discuss with Scott the scene in the early hours of the morning of Maggie’s wedding day, when Sarah came to their house, sobbing out apologies. Maggie had confronted her, their raised voices echoing between the houses, while Kat stayed crying in the bedroom.

“In the middle of the wedding reception, Paul got a call from the hospital that Sven had been badly hurt,” she said. “Maggie and Paul canceled their honeymoon because of it.”

Scott gave her a swift look.

“He recover?”

“I don’t know. He was taken back to Denmark. We all lost touch after that.”

“And Maggie blames Sarah?”

“Yes. She thought Sven was just a pawn in one of Sarah’s little games. She’s never forgiven her.”

“You never talked about this,” Scott said quietly.

Kat bit her lip, rested back in the seat.

“No. It was a long time ago.”

How to explain to Scott the odd mix of guilt and pain she had felt? The sympathy heaped on her by friends made her uncomfortable, as did their anger at Sarah. They behaved as if her loss was huge, as if her soul mate had been snatched from her. It had not felt like that, she admitted to herself. Not at all. If she had loved Sven, it had been a pale, diluted love compared to what she would feel later, when she met Scott.

“What was he like, this Sven guy?” Scott asked casually, after a minute or two.

“Good-looking. But not as good-looking as you. Not as sexy as you. Not as intelligent, as charming, or as altogether masculine—”

“Fine, fine,” he said, smiling. “I only asked.”

They drove another half mile along a wooded lane that came to a dead end at a walled estate hidden behind wrought-iron gates. Scott studied the GPS.

“This is it.”

He moved forward to the gates, looking for an entry phone or keypad.

“It’s like a movie set,” he said to Kat.

She stared at the high gates, looking for a bell or button to push.

“Fortress,” she whispered. Immediately, the iron gates opened.

“You whisper ‘Open Sesame’?” Scott asked.

“Must have an electronic eye.”

“With our picture programmed in?”

Kat was not listening. She gazed at the gardens, clouded with a late-afternoon mist, and saw manicured lawns and, beyond them, the glimmer of a lake. The driveway was edged with a series of silver birch and beech trees with leaves that shimmered in the breeze. Far in the distance, a grayish-blue line, the ocean, was just visible.

“Lord, will you look at this,” she said.

Scott glanced sideways.

“Pretty yard,” he said.

It was all Sarah dreamed of and more, Kat was quite certain. The intense young girl with her patched-up sweaters who wanted so badly to be rich. This was about as rich as any reasonable person needed to be. As they turned a corner, she saw the house: a mansion in the Georgian style, silvery-white in the misty light, with graceful long lines and elegant frontage.

“Wow, it’s beautiful,” Kat said. “It’s just like Lansdowne, the house in Sussex her aunt had. Except newer. And maybe bigger. And in much better shape.”

“It’s certainly big,” said Scott.

A sweeping gravel driveway curved in front of the house, and a uniformed attendant waited for them.

“And valet parking, too,” said Scott. “Miyamoto will be a happy camper. He loves this stuff.”

As they climbed out of the car, Scott studied the house.

“Make a good country hotel,” he said.

Kat smiled, just as Sarah appeared at the top of the front steps.

“At last! Come in.”

She hurried forward to hug Kat and shake hands with Scott, then ushered them into her house. Both Scott and Kat paused in the hallway. The house was furnished with French and English antiques, and yet it was a light and airy home with high ceilings and French doors that stretched the entire length of the living areas, showing off the acres of wide green lawn and rose gardens. To the south, a paved path of pastel slate led to tennis courts and a pool.

“Come on, come see your room,” Sarah said, leading them upstairs. “It’s one of the nicest, I think.”

Scott stood at the bedroom door as Sarah held Kat by the arm and led her into the room.

Kat gazed at the four-poster with drifting cream lace and chiffon, the window seat with tapestry cushions, a French writing desk. Casement windows opened to the gardens below.

“It’s beautiful, Sarah. It reminds me of Lansdowne.”

Kat moved to the writing desk, stroked the smooth wood. A silver bowl containing white roses and gardenias had been placed on it. She could smell their sweet scent.

“Remember the desk in Aunt Helen’s bedroom?” Sarah asked. “Took me ages to find one just like it. That beauty had to be shipped from France.”

“It’s lovely.”

“I knew you’d like it. I remember how you just flipped when you saw Lansdowne. And remember . . . remember Aunt Helen’s bathroom? The big, grotty old tub with the claw feet? I’ve tried to reproduce it. See?”

Sarah opened the door to the bathroom and Kat felt disoriented for a moment. It looked just like the old bathroom in the Sussex mansion. But there the paint had been peeling, the tub old and stained. Here, the textured walls were carefully decorated with an expensive color wash.

“It’s exactly right,” said Kat. She turned to Sarah. “You loved that house.”

“Yes. I did. I suppose I cared for Helen, prickly old gal though she was.”

“She was a character,” Kat said, recalling the patrician Englishwoman, in her pearls and shabby tweeds, pouring tea into porcelain cups. “You couldn’t keep the house after she died?”

“No. I really, really wanted to buy it, but Sam said absolutely not. It was triple-mortgaged and had been so badly maintained. It needed everything replaced or repaired. So someone else bought the land, demolished Lansdowne, and built a hideous modern structure. I kept the gatehouse, though, at the edge of the estate. Remember that? Overlooking the water?”

“The little cottage with the view?” asked Kat. “Yes. Of course I remember it. How lovely. Do you visit it?”

“I do. Once in a while I go back and hike the cliffs. It refreshes me.”

Sarah laughed, amused at herself, and then turned to Scott.

“You’d prefer something more modern, Scott?”

He nodded.

“Yep. Maybe.”

“There’s a shower room through this door, just for you.”

Sarah opened the door of what looked like a closet and revealed a modern tiled steam shower, pristine, with clear glass doors.

“Perfect,” he said.

“See you in about an hour,” Sarah said. “For cocktails.”

When the door closed behind her, Scott turned to Kat.

“It’s not going to be so bad, sweetheart. At least we’ll be comfortable.”

“Comfortable indeed,” said Kat. She had pulled her dress out of the suitcase and was shaking it to remove the wrinkles when someone tapped on the door. Scott moved to open it.

“Steam and press available for evening clothes,” said a young woman in a starched apron. “Please give me.”

Kat stood, puzzled. Scott took the dress out of her hands, pulled his own suit from the case, and handed them to the maid.

“Thank you.”

He turned to Kat as the young woman left.

“Hey, and laundry service, too,” he said. Kat, noting his smile, felt a surge of irritation.

“So?” she said.

Scott turned to her again.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. You’re just so happy because you have a maid and a fancy shower.”

His eyes had lost their warmth as he regarded her.

“I am not so happy, Kat. And you know that.”

She shrugged, turned away.

“I know, I know. Sorry.”

It was said ungraciously, and Scott did not acknowledge it. Instead, he put his clothes away, then minutes later stepped through the door that led to the shower. Kat heard the rush of water as the shower gushed. She stood, balling her nightgown tightly in her fists, aware that she was being unreasonable. She remembered the first few days after Chris’s death when Scott would answer the phone and say simple things such as
Oh, hello. How are you?
Things one says by rote, automatically, not thinking. And it would incense her because he sounded quite willing to chat. She had never told him about those surges of unwarranted rage. She was glad now that she hadn’t. The only time she reacted was when she overheard his conversation with the coroner’s office about moving Chris’s body to the funeral home. Scott had said,
And you will transfer—the deceased,
and she ran crying into the room.

“Don’t say that! Don’t say
the deceased
. He’s Chris.
Chris!
”

And Scott had looked at her, lost, his eyes so sad, and said, “I don’t know what to say. I don’t know the language for this.”

God, she had been out of control then. She was losing control again. She took a few long, deep breaths, telling herself that she had only to get through one evening, one night and a morning. That was all. It seemed like an eternity.

“Sarah, you have excellent taste,” Mrs. Miyamoto said in her tiny, tinkling voice. “I think the English know how to do things.”

“Not all of them,” said Sarah. “We’ve been in homes, haven’t we, Kat, that one would not describe as tasteful?”

Kat was not sure whether Sarah was making some reference to her family’s home or just pulling her into the conversation. They sat around the elegant lounge after a dinner of poached salmon and duck. They had studied the model of the country club that was set up in the wood-paneled den, and they had inspected the grounds. Kat knew that she had said little throughout the evening.

“Taste is so individual, though, isn’t it?” she said with an effort. “Scott and I don’t agree on a thing when it comes to furnishings.”

“Oh, that’s not true,” said Scott indulgently.

“We should defer to the women in these matters,” said Miyamoto. “Right, Phannie?”

His wife gave a shy nod.

“Your aunt’s house was like this?” she asked Sarah.

“Yes. Aunt Helen had a home in Sussex. Lansdowne. Beautiful old house.”

“And you lived with her?”

“From age twelve on. She was the only one who would take me in. The other aunts couldn’t handle me.”

“Why couldn’t they handle you?” asked James, leaning forward. He and Glenda were both fascinated by this woman, Kat thought. Their eyes were fixed on her. “You were such a bad kid?”

“Very bad. Helen was strong stuff, though. Old school.”

“Ah, the British are an interesting people,” said Miyamoto. “Right, Scott?”

“Yes, indeed. Once you get over feeling like a Loud Uncouth American everywhere you go.”

“My goodness, you felt like that with Kat’s family, too?” asked Sarah, winking at Kat.

“Oh no. They were good to me,” Scott said. “We got on just fine.”

“They were impressed because he got served so fast in our local pub,” Kat said, remembering her father’s delight. “They didn’t realize that the bar staff made a beeline for him because he gave them huge tips.”

“Well, I didn’t know it wasn’t the custom,” Scott said. “I had a good time there. A few of those fancy country places, though, I felt like the Marlboro Man. Frontier man. A cowboy. Aware of my loud voice.”

“Scott, you
are
a cowboy,” said James, grinning, and the group laughed.

Kat realized that Scott had been drinking a lot; he was talking more than he had talked for weeks. As the group relaxed, mellowing in the soft light of the room, Sarah’s butler appeared to switch on lamps and bring fresh drinks. Miyamoto sat in an armchair, his wife on the sofa beside James Dempsey. Glenda, her short cap of chestnut hair shining in the lamplight, looked pretty this evening; her angular face was relaxed, and she wore eye makeup for a change, so that her blue eyes sparkled. She perched on the arm of the sofa, her arm draped along the back where James sat, her fingers occasionally brushing his shoulders, just the slightest proprietary touch. Kat wondered briefly about their relationship. They were at least close friends, she guessed. At the very least. And likely more than that.