Through my eyes, p.1
Through My Eyes, page 1
Through My Eyes
Barbara Delinsky
1
Bad vibes. From the start, I had bad vibes about the plan. But I ignored them, because Cooper was in trouble and given all Cooper had done and been for me in the past six years, I reasoned that a small sacrifice on my part was the least I could do in return. So I swallowed my pride and called home. Cooper needed counsel, and who was more qualified to give me the name of the best criminal lawyer money could buy than my mother, the judge?
Peter Hathaway, she’d said.
I didn’t recognize the name, but Mother assured me that he was the best in the business. She hadn’t actually seen him in action, since she sat in Philadelphia and he practiced in New York, but she’d heard plenty about him. She sounded delighted to have an excuse to call him. That made me uneasy.
Then Dad checked him out with his friends the Humphreys who, after making their millions in pharmaceuticals, had hired Peter Hathaway to defend them against charges of falsifying research data. Lovely reference source, the Humphreys. They’d been found guilty and been heavily fined. Still, they’d praised Peter Hathaway to the hilt. That made me even more uneasy.
It didn’t help matters when suddenly the whole family was involved in my affairs. I shouldn’t have been surprised. It had always been that way. But I’d been removed from it for a while, so I was jolted when my brother Ian felt called upon to phone and inform me, in his own inimitably arrogant manner, that Peter Hathaway was serious legal business. Then Ian’s wife, Helaine, always the vamp, added—a little too suggestively, I thought—that the lawyer was a lady-killer. My sister Samantha went so far as to say that if she divorced David, which she was seriously considering doing because he hadn’t yet begun to recover the hundreds of thousands of dollars he’d lost in the stock market crash of ’87, she’d go after Peter Hathaway herself. He had the Midas touch, she said.
I wondered how she knew, but I wasn’t about to ask.
In any case, the endorsement was unanimous. It was the first time I could remember my family agreeing on anything—with the exception, of course, of their disapproval of my life-style—and that made me the most uneasy of all.
Peter Hathaway. He was big city, big name, big bucks—everything I’d rejected. And Cooper knew it, which was one of the reasons he was angry. He argued that Adam would never have called in reinforcements from home. Cooper may have been right. But Adam had been dead for six years. And Adam had never been charged with smuggling stolen goods.
It had been nearly a decade since I’d left what my parents considered to be civilization, but that didn’t mean I was out of touch. I read the papers. I knew what Cooper would face if he was convicted. So, bad vibes or not, I hired Peter Hathaway sight unseen.
That was on Tuesday. On Friday, I steeled myself for his visit. I prepared myself for a man who was whistle smooth and arrogant, who was direct to the point of curtness and who would very likely cross-examine me even before he got to Cooper. If he ever got to Cooper. I hadn’t yet convinced Cooper to agree to be represented.
I hadn’t told Peter Hathaway that, of course. I doubt he’d have agreed to come all the way to Maine if the fact of a client had been in doubt. Then again, I’d offered him his own private, shore-front hotel for the weekend, and if that wasn’t lure enough, I’d promised that a retainer would be waiting when he got here. I assumed that was adequate incentive. Still, I was going to have some explaining to do—to Peter and Cooper both.
A simple life. That was all I’d ever wanted. How things had suddenly gotten so complex, I didn’t know. But then, there were lots of things I didn’t know.
Like why Adam had abandoned me.
Like how Elizabeth Taylor could love my work.
Like who put a cache of stolen diamonds on Cooper’s boat.
I did know how I got the headache that was building behind my eyes. I got headaches when I agonized over those things I didn’t know. Adam’s remedy had been a gentle forehead massage, accompanied by soothing songs sung in his soft tenor. Cooper’s remedy was a dark, silent room, a comfortable bed, a warm cloth on my eyes.
Given that neither Adam nor Cooper was around, I settled for three aspirin and a cup of strong, hot tea, which I carried to the window. My front yard was looking wild and windblown, understandable since the small stone house in which I lived stood high on a bluff overlooking the ocean. I’d always found the view beyond the poor, misshapen pine to be hypnotic. Wave after wave swelled from the horizon, rolling toward the shore and imminent destruction against the rocks. I couldn’t see the crash from where I stood, but its thunder was second nature to me, as was the high spray of sea foam that rose by my bluff.
I loved the ocean. Bleak as it was, particularly now that Columbus Day had come and gone, I was drawn to it. I felt at home here. I could be me. I could pull my hair into a ponytail and wear jeans and a sweater whether I was throwing clay, visiting with friends at Sam’s Saloon, or waiting for a hotshot lawyer from Manhattan to arrive.
I would have glanced at my watch if I’d had one, but it had been years since I’d cared whether it was one or two or three. So I concentrated on drinking my tea with a mind toward relaxation.
All too soon the cup held little more than bits of leaves that had escaped the tea bag. They weren’t much more than shadows against the porcelain; still, I studied them. I turned the cup, swirled the leaves in the few drops of tea that lingered. I imagined I saw weird configurations, shapes with no patterns, and wondered what a tea reader would say. Better still, I wondered what a psychiatrist would say. Not that it mattered. I was comfortable with myself and my life.
Tipping my head back, I swallowed the lingering drops of tea and with them any configurations of leaves, weird or otherwise. Lowering the cup, I was turning toward the kitchen when a movement at the side window caught my eye. A black car rolled to a halt on the pebbled drive. I hadn’t heard a sound; the whip of the wind would have drowned it out even if it had managed to penetrate the thick, double-paned windows of the house. But then, a Jaguar would purr so softly that there would be little to hear.
Uh-huh. A Jaguar. Peter Hathaway—legal eagle, lady-killer, man with the Midas touch—would be the Jaguar type.
For a split second, every one of those bad vibes I’d experienced in the past few days belted my insides, and in that split second I felt utterly insecure. Then I caught myself, took a deep breath, looked around. This was my house, my world. I had no cause to be insecure.
Life was what you made of it. Adam and I had always believed that, and for the most part I still did. Cooper needed help; I was going to see that he got it. To do that, I had to approach this interview with confidence.
Drawing myself to my full five-foot-four even as I held the empty tea cup to my chest, I leveled a glance out the window. The first thing I noticed was that the car wasn’t a Jaguar, but a more sedate-looking Saab. It was an incidental point, likely insignificant, since the car was probably a rental, but it occupied my mind for those few brief moments until its driver stepped out.
He wasn’t what I’d expected at all. I’d expected a three-piece suit, not a sweater and slacks. I’d expected silver hair, not dark brown. I’d expected a slick veneer, not a rakish one.
The vibes came again, stronger than ever, setting off tremors in my stomach while the rest of me stood stock still.
I’d expected European handsome, not American handsome, but American handsome was defying the wind to stand straight and tall by his car, making a slow study of his surroundings. He looked out toward the sea; his shoulders broadened with the deep breath he took, and I could have sworn I saw a fleeting smile. More straight-faced, perhaps assessingly, he took in the front yard, its small, sad pine, the clumps of scrub grass that valiantly battled the elements. Then he looked at the house, at the roof, the fieldstone siding, the window.
Suddenly his gaze penetrated the glass and caught mine. I didn’t move. It wasn’t that his eyes pinned me to the spot, because if I’d wanted to leave it I could have. But I didn’t want to look skittish. I didn’t want to look nervous or uncertain. It seemed important that he know I wasn’t afraid. It seemed important that I know it.
So I held his gaze until he turned and strode confidently toward the house. By the time he passed the front window, I was on my way to meet him. Confidence demanded confidence; so I’d been taught as a child, and though I’d spurned others of those childhood teachings, this one survived. Peter Hathaway barely had time to cross the small, sheltered porch and lift a hand to knock when I opened the old oak door.
Very slowly that hand lowered, but I was already looking beyond it to his face. I had to look up; he stood at least six foot two. His broad shoulders and lean hips suggested man at his best. Nothing I saw in his features dispelled that notion.
His hair wasn’t just brown, it was a rich mahogany and unfairly thick. Its texture appealed to the artist in me, though it didn’t take an artist to realize that the tossing the wind had given it simply improved on the work of a skilled stylist.
He wasn’t tanned. I wasn’t sure if I’d expected him to be, and in any case, it didn’t matter because his skin had a healthy glow. It, too, was textured—rougher where he shaved, creased where he squinted, laughed or frowned—and there was a small scar on his cheekbone that gave him a mysterious air.
But it was his eyes that grabbed me. They were pale green, almost to the point of luminescence. I’d never seen any like them. On the one hand they were eerie, on the other enticing. They probed with an intensity that fri ghtened me, then soothed in the next blink. I tried to look away, but couldn’t. Nor could I control the sudden, wild beating of my heart.
“Jill Moncrieff?”
His deep voice cut through the thunder of the sea and the echo of the wind to say my name, and I’ve never been more grateful for anything in my life. For, God help me, in those few short moments when I’d been bound by his gaze, I’d forgotten who I was.
A single, hard swallow brought me back. “Yes,” I said with all the composure I could muster in a matter of seconds. I extended my hand. “You must be Peter Hathaway.”
His hand was large and warm, enveloping mine with the same confidence that surrounded the rest of him, but I didn’t have long to dwell on it when he did something that drove all other thoughts from my mind.
He smiled.
Actually it was more of a half smile, a lopsided curve of his mouth. It held surprise, smug pleasure and utter maleness, reflecting the thoughts I assumed to be swirling through his head. It was a dangerous smile if ever there was one, but for the life of me I couldn’t look away.
“So you’re Judge Madigan’s daughter,” he announced in a soft, self-satisfied tone of voice. Still holding my hand, he made a slow sweep of my body, and while his gaze was more curious than insolent, I had to work not to squirm. He was a man with far greater experience than I possessed, and I felt vulnerable.
Reacting against that, I retrieved my hand, steadied my chin in a self-assured manner and said quietly, “That’s right.”
“You don’t look the way I expected you would.” His eyes caught mine again, this time in mild challenge.
“What had you expected?”
“A dog.”
I couldn’t believe he’d said that. “Excuse me?”
“I figured that being a Madigan heiress, there’d have to be something desperately wrong with your looks for you to be stashed away up here.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my looks.”
The lazy half smile came again, along with an appreciative, “So I see.” Then the smile faded. “I’d also expected someone a little older. I met your brother at a party not long ago. It turned out he went to Penn with a high school buddy of mine. You must be fifteen years younger than us.”
Slowly I shook my head. “If that was meant as a compliment, you missed. I wouldn’t want to be twenty-five again for the world.”
“Why not?”
“When I was twenty-five, my husband died. My career was in limbo. I went through a rough time.” In a chilly reminder of those dark days, the wind chose that moment to gust through the door. “That, was six years ago, Mr. Hathaway,” I said, holding back the hair that wanted to blow into my eyes. “I’ve come a long way since then. I’m quite happy with my life now, except for this little problem with Cooper.” I stood back. “It’s chilly. Why don’t you come in and let me close the door?”
I wasn’t sure whether I’d shocked him with my blunt revelation about Adam. I hoped so. It bothered me that he should think me an innocent, when I wasn’t. While I wouldn’t call my life in Maine as sophisticated as the one I’d once known, I’d probably seen more hardship and pain—and more joy—in the past ten years than any of my classmates at Penn.
Keeping his feelings well to himself now, much as I would have expected from a smooth city boy, Peter Hathaway stepped over my threshold and into the living room. Instantly the room seemed smaller than usual, which was absurd, I told myself. Cooper was every bit as tall as Peter Hathaway, perhaps even broader. When a little voice inside me whispered something about an aura of virility surrounding Peter, I tuned it out.
“Have a seat,” I suggested, hoping that if his body were folded I wouldn’t feel as threatened.
But he started to wander around the room, pausing before a table here, a shelf there, to study my work. “Your mother said you were a potter.” He examined a pair of candlesticks that were irrevocably entwined. “She said that your things are shown in some of the best galleries in New York, but that you choose to work here for the sake of concentration.”
“Mother would say that,” I remarked, though not unkindly. I’d mellowed enough over the years to allow my family its excuses for what they considered to be my bizarre behavior.
“Is it untrue?” he asked. His back was to me, but I could see him touch a small vase that looked all the more delicate in contrast to his long, blunt-tipped fingers.
“To some extent. Life here is simpler than it is in the city, and in that sense it’s easier to concentrate. Then again, there are many artists who work in city garrets and do just fine. Where one lives is a matter of personal choice. I’ve chosen to live here for reasons that have nothing to do with concentration.”
He did turn then, and I half wished he hadn’t. Facing him head-on, I suffered that same inner jolt that I’d felt earlier. Something about the way he looked at me made my heart catch.
“If I asked what those reasons are,” he said, “would you tell me?”
I forced myself to breathe normally. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re not here to talk about me. You’re here to talk about Cooper.”
“Then why isn’t Cooper here?” he asked, with a blunt and simple logic that put me quickly on the spot—which was where, when I thought of it, I’d felt from the moment Peter Hathaway had appeared at my door.
“Cooper isn’t here,” I said slowly, wishing all the while that Peter Hathaway was short, fat and balding, “because I wanted to talk with you first. There are certain things you should understand before you meet Cooper.”
Peter slipped both hands into the pockets of his slacks, drawing the fine gray fabric more snugly across his hips. I don’t know why, but my eyes fell, then bobbed back up on a silent command, and I prayed that my face didn’t look as warm as it felt.
Gesturing beseechfully toward a chair, I again urged him to sit. “Please.” When he seemed determined to simply stand there, so tall and straight and beautifully masculine, looking at me, I tried a different diversion. “Did they serve you anything on the plane? Have you had lunch?”
“I didn’t fly. I drove up.”
That surprised me. “All the way from New York?”
“I got an early start,” he explained. “I enjoy driving. I don’t get to do it enough.” He paused for an instant before adding, “Besides, the alternative was flying into Boston and switching to a small commuter plane. They can be harrowing. I avoid them at all costs.”
Big city, big name, big bucks, afraid of flying? I had trouble believing that. If his reputation was indicative of his practice, he flew all the time. I wasn’t quite sure whether he was trying to charm me into forgetting the danger of his smile by presenting me with a flaw, but if so, I wasn’t buying.
“It would have been faster to fly,” I told him. “I’m prepared to spend whatever it takes to clear Cooper’s name. Still, the well isn’t bottomless. If I’m paying you for travel time—”
“You’re not,” he cut in, looking around again. “If I choose to take the longer route, I cover myself. Besides, I’m not on retainer yet. I haven’t agreed to take this case.”
“Oh.” Thanks for nothing, Mom. “I’m sorry. I was misinformed.” And for that I’d offered my house for the weekend? Thanks for nothing, Mom.
Peter Hathaway didn’t look at all disturbed. “No problem,” he said and crossed to the small table that Adam and I had picked up so long ago in Nanny Walker’s attic. Like most of the furniture in the room, it was a local relic. Like most, it had been stripped, sanded and restained. I loved doing things like that, loved thinking of the artisan who had originally made a piece, loved caressing the curves he or she had so painstakingly carved. After all, I was an artist, too, a partner in obsession.
This particular table was a round mahogany piece that stood on an intricately crafted pedestal and had delicate fluting around its rim. On its surface was a small, gently swirling candy dish of my own making and two photographs, each mounted in strikingly unusual metal frames made by my friend, Hans, who lived in Bangor.
Peter raised the larger of the two. It was a picture of Adam and his crew in front of the Free Reign. “Who’s who?” he asked.
Knowing that the sooner he started learning names, the better, I crossed to where he stood and moved a light finger over the glass. “Adam … Cooper … Jack … Tonof … Benjie.”
