Woman in Black (31 page)

Gallows humor helped, he'd found. Joking about his cancer took his mind off the battle being waged inside his body and the havoc it was wreaking on him, in the form of a persistent, low-level nausea that occasionally flared into full-blown vomiting, strange rashes and night sweats, and, worst of all, this pervasive, bone-deep weariness that he couldn't seem to shake.

Mainly, though, what he felt was scared. Scared in a way that he hadn't felt standing four feet from a crocodile, during a shoot in Brazil's Pantanal wetlands, that had looked as if it were about to eat him for breakfast. Or that time in the Congo basin, when their camp had been attacked by guerrillas and they'd been marched at gunpoint to the bush headquarters of the commandant (who, by some bizarre twist of fate, had gone to Ohio State with one of the other cameramen—their ticket to freedom, as it had turned out). Those brushes with death had been as much an adrenaline rush as a reason to say his prayers. Part of the jazz of what he did for a living was that it was dangerous, even life-threatening at times. Because once the danger was past, that was when you truly felt alive.

This was different. This was a gun-toting thug in a ski mask creeping up on him from behind. A silent, faceless enemy against which the sappy pep talks he gave himself were a feeble defense.
Think positive! You can beat this with the right attitude!
Slogans borrowed from the brigade of cancer survivors, with their pink ribbons and their support groups and their marches to raise money for cancer research, into whose midst he'd been unwillingly thrust.

He wasn't even sure how much faith he placed in Western medicine. With all its high-tech gizmos and wonder drugs, did it offer any more of a guarantee than a traditional healer would? Was he any more safeguarded than the Balinese who painted symbols over their doorways to ward off evil spirits, or the Nepalese who relied on ayurvedic medicine?

It was late in the day by the time they reached his sister's. After a few wrong turns—the only signs along this stretch of road were the ones that read “Private Property” and “No Trespassers Allowed”—they came to the gated entrance of an estate. The gate was locked, but he had the combination, so he rolled his window down and punched in the numbers on the keypad by the intercom. Moments later, they were rolling along a well-tended gravel road lined with open pastures on either side, in which the melting snow from last week's snowstorm formed frozen archipelagos. The road ended a few minutes later in a wide, circular driveway, where the house, a magnificent example of late-nineteenth-century hubris, stood lit up against the purpling sky, twinkling with Christmas lights.

So this is where Abigail lives
—
the famous Rose Hill
, he thought.

By contrast, Lila's accommodations were extremely modest. Stepping inside her small, simply furnished apartment over the garage, he couldn't help comparing it to her old Park Avenue digs. It was a palace compared to some of the places he'd shacked up in—a certain hotel in Botswana came to mind, where he'd had to keep his belongings locked up to prevent them from being pilfered by the monkeys—but a far cry from what Lila was used to.

“Merry Christmas, you two! Thank God you made it. I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost.” Lila relieved Vaughn of the shopping bag full of presents he was carrying, then turned to flash Gillian a grateful smile. “You were a saint to drive all this way. Was the traffic awful?”

“Not too bad. And we only got lost once.” Gillian's gaze swept the room, and he could see from her expression that she was a little taken aback as well. She'd been to Lila's Park Avenue apartment, so she had to be thinking the same thing as he. “Anything I can do to help?” she asked.

“Not at the moment. As you can see, I've got it covered.” Lila gestured with a somewhat ironic flourish toward the kitchen at the other end of the room—or what passed for one. It consisted of a stove and an apartment-sized refrigerator, a pair of cupboards above a sink, and a narrow counter at either end, every square inch of which was jammed with pots and pans and bowls. “It's a bit of a challenge, but we manage,” she said in response to the dubious look Gillian gave her. “The only thing that had me in a bit of a panic was wondering how we were all going to fit around the table. It was Neal's bright idea to put a piece of plywood over it.” Proudly, she pointed out the table, covered in a flowered cloth that looked suspiciously like a bed sheet, against which the Christmas tree was crowded so close that pine needles were sprinkled over it at that end. Folding chairs provided the finishing touch. “Voilà—instant seating for five.”

“Who's the extra guest?” Vaughn asked.

“You don't know him. His name's Karim.” Lila became suddenly animated as she bustled about, stirring pots and peering under lids. Vaughn wondered if the color blooming in her cheeks was due to this sudden burst of activity … or to this Karim fellow.

“He from around here?”

“Yes. He works here, as a matter of fact.”

“Ah.” Vaughn nodded thoughtfully. “So you two must spend a lot of time together.”

“Not really. I take care of the house. He takes care of the grounds.”

“I see. So you were merely taking pity on him?”

Lila shot him a narrow glance. “Of course not. He doesn't even celebrate Christmas. I was just being nice.”

“Nice, huh?” He chewed on this for a moment, keeping his eye on Lila.

At last she whirled to face him, hands on hips. “If there's a point to all this, why don't you just come out with it?”

He threw up his hands in self-defense. “What? Did I say something?”

“I know what you're driving at.”

Vaughn gave a rueful grimace. “Okay, I'm being protective, but is that a crime? You're the only family I have left, Sis. I just want to be sure some sleazy guy isn't putting the moves on you.”

“He's not sleazy, and no one's putting any moves on me,” she said. “Anyway, he'll be here soon, so you can judge for yourself. In the meantime, if you don't mind, I have supper to get on the table.”

Vaughn went over to Lila and put an arm around her shoulders. “Forget I said anything, okay? I'm sure he's as nice as you say, and I promise to be on my best behavior.” After a moment, Lila's stiff posture relaxed, and she dropped her head onto his shoulder. Standing there, side by side with her, Vaughn had that feeling he often got with Lila, of a closeness that transcended their being brother and sister, a
twinness
, for lack of a better word, that made her seem less a separate being than an extension of himself.

“Sorry I snapped at you. It's just that I've been getting it at this end, too,” she told him. “Neal's not happy about the fact that Karim and I have become friendly. Like it has to do with anything other than the fact that Karim's the only adult within fifty miles of here who says anything more to me than hello and good-bye. That is, if you don't count Abby's husband—he's nice.” Vaughn grew instantly alert at the mention of Abigail's husband. He wondered what Kent was like. Abigail didn't talk about him much. “Neal seems to think … Never mind. It doesn't matter.” She drew away, looking as if she thought she'd already said too much, and went back to her preparations.

Gillian and Vaughn exchanged a look.

“Speaking of the devil, where
is
my favorite nephew?” Vaughn inquired.

“With Phoebe, where else?” Lila gave a small sigh.

“Abby's Phoebe?”

Lila nodded. “They're practically joined at the hip these days.”

“What does Abby think about all this?” Vaughn was surprised that Abigail hadn't mentioned it to him. Usually she told him everything that was going on with Phoebe.

“I wouldn't know. I'm not exactly her closest confidante.” Lila's tone was sardonic, but Vaughn caught the faintly wistful look on her face as she bent to open the oven door, and he wondered if she were remembering when she and Abigail had confided in each other about everything.

“It's perfect! I love it!” Gillian clapped her hands together in glee. “She's probably shitting a brick right now.”

Lila peered at the turkey, poking at it with a long fork—more savagely than necessary, it seemed. “Right now, the only thing that concerns me is that she might use this to get back at me. I don't want to see Neal get hurt because of it.”

But Abigail wasn't like that, Vaughn knew. She wasn't the petty dictator Lila imagined her to be, nor was she vindictive. She was just someone muddling through, like the rest of them. He took advantage of the opportunity to point out, “It's not like you and Abby are at war.”

“No, but the fact is, she doesn't like having me around any more than I like being here.” Lila closed the oven door and straightened, going back to the pot she'd been stirring on the stove.

“Maybe if you tried talking to her …”

Instantly Lila was on the defensive. “Oh, so now it's
my
fault?”

Gillian chose that moment to jump in, no doubt in an attempt to forestall an argument. “What's she like, this Phoebe?” She dug an olive from the open jar on the counter and popped it into her mouth.

“She's okay once you get to know her,” Lila said. “Actually, I feel kind of sorry for her.”

“Why is that?” Vaughn was curious. All he knew was what Abigail had told him.

Lila pondered it a moment, frowning. “I don't know. She just seems so sad. Like something's eating at her. Which is kind of ironic, since
she
doesn't eat. Though it's been a little better since she and Neal started hanging out together. She used to just rearrange what was on her plate. Now she actually takes a few bites of whatever I fix.”

“She doesn't exactly sound like Neal's type,” he observed. His nephew usually went for the athletic, outdoorsy sort. Melanie Beck, his girlfriend at Riverdale, where he'd gone to high school, had been captain of the girls' soccer team.

“I know. It's funny how they took to each other. Like a couple of lost souls.” Lila fell silent for a moment, wearing a troubled look, before she roused herself and said with resolute cheer, “Well, there's no point in getting worked up about it. It's not like they're engaged or anything. Besides, they're just kids. How long can it last? I remember when I was that age—one minute I'd be crazy about a boy, and the next I wouldn't even want to hear his name.”

As if on cue, Neal came blowing in through the door just then. “Hi, Mom. Sorry I'm—” He came to a halt as his gaze fell on his uncle, and he broke into a huge grin. “Uncle Vaughn! When did you get here?”

“A few minutes ago. Merry Christmas, Neal.” Vaughn enfolded his nephew in a fierce bear hug, drawing back to inquire, “So what's this I hear about you and this Phoebe chick? Don't tell me you're going Oprah on us?” he teased. Vaughn used to joke that you knew you were in deep with a girl when you switched from listening to hip-hop to Lite FM and started watching
Oprah
.

But Neal didn't find it amusing this time. He merely shrugged in response, obviously not wishing to enlighten his uncle on the subject. “You look different,” he said, studying Vaughn with narrowed eyes.

“You mean no hair.” With a chuckle, Vaughn ran a hand over his newly shaved head. In the old days, Neal would have cracked a joke about it, but now he merely looked uncomfortable, as if Vaughn's cancer were a verboten subject.

“So, are you feeling okay?” he asked tentatively.

Vaughn was quick to reassure him, saying with a heartiness that didn't match his present stamina, “Better than okay. I'll bet you a buck I can still beat you at arm wrestling.”

“There'll be none of that, you two,” Lila chided. “Sit down. Dinner's almost ready.”

Vaughn turned to introduce Neal to his ex-girlfriend. “You remember Gillian?” he said.

Neal shook her hand. “Sure. Hi.” From the look on his face, it was clear that he didn't have a clue who Gillian was.

“Your parents had us over for dinner once,” she reminded him. “You were just a little kid then, so you probably don't remember.”

Neal looked mildly panicked, as if fearing this would lead to a conversation about those days, one he wasn't prepared to have. Lila unintentionally threw him a lifeline when she called over, “Who wants wine?” Neal seized the excuse to mutter, “I'll get it,” before ducking back outside.

“We keep it in a cooler on the porch. No room in the fridge,” Lila explained in a matter-of-fact tone, as if this jury-rigged setup were the norm. Vaughn could scarcely contain his amazement. Was this the same sister who'd once complained that she couldn't find an espresso machine that made real, European espresso?

Lila's new friend, Karim, showed up as she was getting ready to carve the turkey. Seeing him walk in, a muscularly built man of medium height dressed in a navy blazer and corduroys, with dark, close-cropped curls and black eyes alight with lively intelligence, Vaughn was immediately struck by his air of self-possession. Karim may have been a stranger in their midst, but he appeared perfectly at ease. As they shook hands, Karim seemed to size him up just as quickly and, as if recognizing in Vaughn a kindred spirit, instantly found him to his liking. Before long, they were chatting like old friends.

“I was in Kabul once,” Vaughn told him after learning that Karim was from Afghanistan. “It was at the tail end of the Soviet war. Nearly got my ass thrown in jail by the
mujahideen
, for reasons I never could quite make out. I think it had something to do with my having long hair.”

“You're lucky you're an infidel, or you
would
have been arrested,” Karim said with a dry chuckle. He was seated on a folding chair borrowed from the table, looking as relaxed as if he were used to making himself at home here. “Under the Taliban, even to go beardless was a serious offense. I know. I had my own share of run-ins with them.” Vaughn caught a glimpse of something steely in the other man's eyes. As if Karim, however gentle he seemed, wouldn't have hesitated to slit the throat of anyone who'd threatened him or a loved one.