Page 16 of For the Love of Lilah
“Our Dr. Quartermain,” Amanda continued, “comes from Indiana, is single and has no criminal record. He’s been on the staff at Cornell for over eight years, and has published several well-received articles. His most recent was an overview of the social-political atmosphere in America prior to World War I. In academic circles, he’s considered a wunderkind, serious-minded, unflaggingly responsible, with unlimited potential.” Sensing his embarrassment, Amanda softened her tone. “I’m sorry for intruding, Max, but I didn’t want to take any chances, not with my family.”
“We’re all sorry.” Suzanna smiled at him. “We’ve had an unsettling couple of months.”
“I understand that.” And they certainly couldn’t know how much he detested the termwunderkind. “If my academic profile eases your minds, that’s fine.”
“There’s one more thing,” Suzanna continued. “None of this explains what you were doing in the water the night Lilah found you.”
Max gathered his thoughts while they waited. It was easy to take himself back now, as easy as it was for him to put himself into the Battle of Bull Run or Woodrow Wilson’s White House.
“I’d been working on the papers. A storm was coming in so the sea was rough. I guess I’m not much of a sailor. I was trying to crawl out on deck, for some air, when I heard Caufield talking to Captain Hawkins.”
As concisely as he could, he told them what he had heard, how he had realized what he’d gotten into.
“I don’t know what I was going to do. I had some wild idea about getting the papers and getting off the boat so I could take them to the police. Not very brilliant considering the circumstances. In any case, they caught me. Caufield had a gun, but this time the storm was on my side. I got up on deck, and took my chances in the water.”
“You jumped overboard, in the middle of a storm?” Lilah asked.
“It wasn’t very smart.”
“It was very brave,” she corrected.
“Not when you consider he was shooting at me.” Frowning, Max rubbed a hand over the bandage on his temple.
“The way you describe this Ellis Caufield doesn’t fit.” Amanda tapped her fingers again as she thought it through. “Livingston, the man who stole the papers, was dark haired, only about thirty.”
“So, he dyed his hair.” Lilah lifted her hands. “He couldn’t come back using the same name and the same appearance. The police have his description.”
“I hope you’re right.” A slow, humorless smile spread over Sloan’s face. “I hope the sonofabitch is back so I can have another go at him.”
“So we all can have another go at him,” C.C. corrected. “The question is, what do we do now?”
They began to argue about that, with Trent telling his wife she wasn’t going to do anything—Amanda reminding him it was a Calhoun problem—Sloan suggesting hotly that she keep out of it. Coco decided it was time for brandy and was ignored.
“He thinks I’m dead,” Max murmured, almost to himself. “So he feels safe. He’s probably still close by, on the same boat. TheWindrider.”
“You remember the boat?” Lilah held up a hand, signaling for silence. “You can describe it?”
“In detail,” Max told her with a small smile. “It was my first yacht.”
“So we take that information to the police.” Trent glanced around the table, then nodded. “And we do a little checking ourselves. The ladies know the island as well as they know this house. If he’s on it, or around it, we’ll find him.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” Sloan glanced over at Max and went with his instincts. “You in, Quartermain?”
Surprised, Max blinked, then found himself smiling. “Yeah, I’m in.”
I went to Christian’s cottage. Perhaps it was risky as I might have been seen by some acquaintance, but I wanted so badly to see where he lived, how he lived, what small things he kept around him.
It’s a small place near the water, a square wooden cottage with its rooms crowded with his paintings and smelling of turpentine. Above the kitchen is a sun-drenched loft for his studio. It seemed to me like a doll’s house with its pretty windows and low ceilings—old leafy trees shading the front and a narrow porch dancing along the back where we could sit and watch the water.
Christian says that at low tide the water level drops so that you can walk across the smooth rocks to the little glade of trees beyond. And at night, the air is full of sound. Musical crickets, the hoot of owls, the lap of temperate water.
I felt at home there, as quietly content as I have been in my life. It seemed to me that we had lived there together for years. When I told Christian, he gathered me close, just to hold me.
“I love you, Bianca,” he said. “I wanted you to come here. I needed to see you in my house, watch you stand among my things.” When he drew me away, he was smiling. “Now, I’ll always see you here, and I’ll never be without you.”
I wanted to swear to him I would stay. God, the words leaped intomy throat only to be blocked there by duty. Wretched duty. He must have sensed it for he kissed me then, as if to seal the words inside.
I had only an hour with him. We both knew I would have to go back to my husband, to my children, to the life I had chosen before I met him. I felt his arms around me, tasted his lips, sensed the straining need inside him that was such a vibrant echo of my own.
