Love After All (18 page)

T
hey arrived in darkness beneath a cloud-covered sky, but even then she could see the beauty of his home. Silhouetted beyond the narrow driveway, the entrance, surrounded by spiked palm trees and sweet-scented scrubs, dipped down, shadowing itself at the front of the house as a smoked-glass exposed entrance stood regal, large and comfortable. She heard the sound of surf lapping on sand as she got out of the car. “So this is what a California beach house looks like,” she said.

“Yes,” he said, breaking the stony silence during their long drive to his home. He led the way to the front door carrying her suitcase. He opened the door and waited as she passed. The sweet salted breeze mingled with his spicy cologne and sent her senses into overdrive. An instant flash of memories of bungalow number twelve drifted through her mind. Jillian's words came to light: “Having a man around every now and then is a good thing.” She walked into the darkness of the foyer as automatic sensor lights slowly brightened.

“This is yours?” she asked, looking around.

“Yes,” he answered, placing her bag by the staircase and turning to the small panel against the wall. Tiny lights blinked as a steady, slow-paced beep hummed. He pressed a few buttons, ending the hum, then turned on the living-room lights and pressed a third button. Instantly, a succession of lights turned on all over the house and soft jazz began playing.

“Nice,” she said, impressed by the computerized system.

“I'm glad you approve. Can I get you something to drink or maybe something to eat or—”

“No,” she said quietly, interrupting him before he finished. “I'm fine, thanks.”

Then, just as he was about to continue, the phone rang, startling the quiet surrounding them. They both turned to look at the phone lying on the coffee table, then turned back to each other.

“Where is the, uh…” she began.

“The powder room is down the hall, second door on the left, and the kitchen is at the end of the hall, just in case you change your mind about something to eat or drink,” he said as the phone rang a second time.

“Thanks, I'm gonna…” she said, turning.

“Sure,” he responded as it rang a third time.

Samantha nodded and walked toward the powder room hearing his slow, even footsteps as he walked into the living room. As she stepped inside, she heard him pick up the phone and answer.

She closed the door and placed her purse on the counter, then turned on the cold water full blast. Her nerves had eaten at her from the beginning. Now they were frayed to near nonexistence. The cool, calm exterior she professed belied the doubt and turmoil churning inside. This was not her calling, yet here she was. Doing a favor and doing a deed and praying every step of the way that she wasn't going to make matters worse.

Not sure she was up to the challenge, she tried to steady her resolve, determined to see this situation through. She dipped her hands in the water. The sudden chill awakened her senses. Like the snap of a whip she was back in the resumed role.

She dried her hands on the towel and braced them on the counter, knowing that the next few days would either make or break her. Her head bowed, she closed her eyes and considered, just for an instant, walking away. After all, this wasn't her mess. Her only connection was Jefferson, and of course, Eric.

Sure, she wanted to get even with him for the stupid con he'd pulled on her, putting half of New York on her back, but getting even with a jerk and saving somebody's life were two different things. This wasn't her fight and there was no real reason she should even be here.

But when Jefferson asked for her help, there was no way she could turn him down, even with her own life circling the drain like the water in the sink now. She couldn't say no. She opened her eyes, turned off the water and looked up at her reflection in the gilded mirror and grimaced. Everything was happening so fast. First Jefferson, then the plane ride, then Jackson and now Inspector Lincoln.

Her hands shook even as she thought about it. She was in way over her head. She reached into her purse and grabbed the phone Jefferson sent to her at Oz. She opened it and called, but there was no answer. Not trusting her voice to leave a succinct message, she began writing a brief but detailed text message as her thoughts flew in every direction.

This wasn't working for her. No more games, no more cryptic messages from strangers, no more surprises. She needed to talk to her brother now. This, whatever it was, was bigger than she thought. The simple favor he asked had gotten complicated and it had involved far more than she had anticipated.

When she finished, she grabbed her purse and opened the door. Hearing that Jackson was still on the phone in the living room, she turned in the opposite direction toward the kitchen.

Reaching the doorway, she saw that the lights were already on. She peeked inside. A warm glow illuminated the large kitchen, bathing it with recessed lighting in the ceiling and from a hidden source above the countertops. Everything was beautifully designed, with every modern convenience; she looked around, wondering exactly how often Jackson actually used the gourmet appliances.

Walking farther in, she continued around the marble-topped center island and traced a path into the adjacent den. Manly, yes, definitely, she decided. Built-in dark-wood wall panels surrounded a fireplace on one end of the room with two large wing chairs comfortably placed on either side. Books, awards and sports paraphernalia were neatly displayed and tucked into the bookcase openings.

On the other side of the room was a large-flat screen television, seemingly suspended from the ceiling. Two overstuffed sofas were angled with a coffee table between that seemed to serve more as a desk area since there was a laptop, files and several stacks of paper on top.

She turned and went back to the kitchen. Setting her purse down, she opened it and pulled out the envelope from Lincoln and placed it on the table, then walked over to the sliding glass doors. Unlocking and opening the door and stepping outside, she felt a gentle breeze caress her face and body as a warm glow illuminated the outside. She stood on the deck a moment and inhaled the salted air, letting the sweet breeze blow all remaining doubts away; at that moment, she knew she was doing the right thing.

Walking to the railing, she noticed a gate leading down to a path that led directly to the beach below. Inspired, she removed her high-heel sandals, opened the gate and headed to the warm sand below.

 

“Where have you been? I've been trying to contact you all day and half the night,” Marcus began, obviously on a rampage. “Did he contact you yet?”

“Hello, Dad, I'm fine, thanks,” Jackson remarked sarcastically.

“You obviously have no idea how important this is. Did he contact you yet?”

“Yes, we spoke.”

“Good,” Marcus said, the angst in his voice immediately shifting from panicky tension to eager anticipation. “When will you get the originals?”

“It's a bit more complicated than that,” Jackson confessed, moving back to the foyer and seeing that Samantha was heading toward the kitchen.

“What do you mean, more complicated? Does he have the originals or not?”

“Apparently, he's working with someone who does.” Jackson paused, deciding not to tell his father about Eric just yet.

“He's lying.”

“I don't think so.”

“Fine, we'll deal with that later. How much do they want?”

“I don't know yet.”

“What did he say?”

“He said that Mom worked as a con woman years ago and that you knew about it.” Marcus went silent. “He also confirmed that the money was used to help Daley Communications when my grandfather went into the red. Is it true?”

“Truth, as it were, unlike beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. First of all, it was your mother's money, make no mistake about it. If some idiot dupe was gullible enough to just hand over his money to her, it's fair game. So don't go feeling sorry for the fool who fell for her plot. They got exactly what they deserved.

“Secondly, I was the one who was against it from the beginning. I didn't want to take the money, so take that holier-than-thou attitude someplace else. I suggested to your grandfather to sell the radio stations and buy television. But he didn't listen. I wanted to sell the company.”

“Like you do now?”

“Whatever it takes, however much it costs, get the originals,” Marcus demanded, not answering the question.

“You realize, of course, the information is still out there. If he found it, someone else eventually will, too. This is only the beginning,” he said, walking down the hall toward the kitchen.

“We'll ride that out if or when the time comes,” Marcus said. “In the meantime, do whatever you have to do to get those originals. Take as much time away as you need, just do it. This information can't come out, not now. There's too much at stake.” Jackson didn't answer. His thoughts lingered on a sudden gentle breeze.

“Did you hear me?” Marcus asked.

“Yes, I heard you,” he said automatically, still focused on Samantha.

“Then take care of it.”

After hanging up, he stood there a moment, realizing that whatever respect he had for his father had long since vanished. The rivalry that replaced it had built an impenetrable wall that thickened as the days passed, in as much as it seemed that neither he nor his father wanted to move past that point.

They had become comfortable in the place where anger was born. After his mother's death, the wall had gotten higher, wider and thicker. And each subsequent conversation with his father was like a hangman's noose. Strangled and asphyxiated by words left said and unsaid.

Jackson walked to the kitchen and looked around. Samantha's purse was on the table along with the envelope from Lincoln. He walked over, picked up the envelope, then put it back on the table and turned to the outside deck. The illuminated motion sensors on the deck had been activated. He slid the glass door aside and stepped out. He opened the gate and went down to the beach.

It was well past midnight; the moon with its sharp white edges crested and closed brilliantly in the night sky as stars dotted the heavens. The sight was breathtaking. He looked out and saw a solitary figure standing at the water's edge. He walked over to where Samantha stood facing the view. Side by side they stood, both lost in their own thoughts.

Samantha, looking up at the stillness of the moment, was humbled as the heavens displayed their flawless perfection. Black as coal with the moon shining the radiant brilliance of day and the stars each separate and dazzling united to fill the sky with a beyond the imaginable spectacle. “What a show. This place is magnificent.” She said, knowing he was by her side even without turning to him.

Jackson looked up, nodding. “Awesome, isn't it?”

She smiled sadly. “Sometimes I forget to look up and appreciate what's right in front of me. Sometimes I'm so focused on looking back at the dramas of my life that I miss the important things.”

Jackson listened, knowing that Samantha had just let her guard down. “I've always heard that the smog and pollution are the reasons we have such beautiful skies.”

“I guess we all have to take the good with the bad,” she said more to herself than to him.

“You're right, we do,” he answered anyway. “I call this my own private slice of heaven. I come out here in the middle of the night and just sit and gaze up, appreciating.”

They drifted into an easy silence.

“I received an envelope a few days ago,” Jackson began. “Inside, among other damaging documents, was a copy of a personal check my mother wrote to my grandfather twenty years ago. It was for half a million dollars. That money saved Daley Communications. I suspect that's the key reason that my parents married. She got credibility and the Daley family got much-needed cash at a time when sharks were circling. She bought her way in. It was never about love.” He stopped as emotion gripped him. The helplessness of her plight, hidden for years, had hastened her illness and accelerated her death. “She carried this secret all her life,” he added, still choked up.

“It was her choice.”

“No, she didn't have a choice.”

“So, what, you're after revenge now?” she asked.

“Isn't that why you're here? Revenge?”

“Partly, yes,” she said.

“Partly? What's the other part?” he questioned, sounding suspicious.

“I'm not working with Lincoln, if that's what you think.”

He didn't respond.

“I have my own drama to deal with,” she added.

“Eric?”

“Among other things,” she said cryptically.

“Okay, this is the second time you've alluded to something more going on. If you know something, tell me.”

“There's nothing to tell,” she shot back instantly, turning to his hard, unwavering stare. “Look, we each have separate problems and it seems that at some point they intercepted. Lincoln seems to be the key to helping both of us. He has something you want and he has something I want. I say we do what we have to to get the job done.”