The Long Road Home Part 38

Esther's eyes were moist but she waved heartily from the window. When she turned and faced forward, her eyes sparked with excitement.

Nora started the engine. In so many ways, this was going to be a long journey to New York, for both of them. She backed out slowly, careful not to hit any dogs, cats, or junk on the front lawn, and eased onto the road. Frank, Katie Beth, and Junior walked the length of the front yard after them, waving. May, Zach, and Sarah watched with solemn faces from the front porch, while Grace and Timmy chased the car down the road calling out, "Bye, bye!"

They hadn't traveled more than a minute when Nora spied a blue pickup speeding down the road after them, honking. She pulled to the side, recognizing the truck as John Henry's. From the corner of her eye, Nora saw Esther's face pale and stiffen.

John Henry parked on the side of the road, just ahead of them. He leaped from his truck, leaving the door wide open, and ran toward Esther's door.

"Oh, no," Esther moaned, with more sadness than irritation, as he approached and yanked open her door.

"Esther, we gotta talk."

"I tried to yesterday but you wouldn't come out. It's too late now. Let it go."

"Es, please. You can't go like this."

Esther glanced at Nora, who promptly nodded and lifted her hand in a signal to get out. She did, reluctantly. They walked a few feet from the car.

"I know you're doing what you always wanted to do," John Henry began, marshaling all his reserve. "I respect you for that."

"Thanks," she whispered, holding herself taut.

"I'm sorry I've been so hard on you-"

"You haven't," she interrupted.

"I have, but it's because I love you so much."

Esther wouldn't look up, afraid to see the pain she heard in his voice. "I care about you too."

John Henry cleared his throat of the cry that suddenly shot up. He stood ramrod straight and he spoke forcefully. "I don't know when you'll be comin' back, or even if you are. Even if you do, I don't know if I'll be waitin'." He paused. "Es, look at me."

Esther raised her eyes, and in the man, she saw the boy. Esther shuddered and willed herself not to cry.

The wind streaked John Henry's brown hair across his cheek.

"Before I go I want you to know that, no matter what, I'll always be here for you, Red. Know that John Henry Thompson will always be your best friend."

Esther stepped forward, slipping her hands from her pockets to go around his neck. She couldn't tell him that she loved him too, for fear he'd take it the wrong way and start to hope again. So Esther just whispered, "Thanks," against the fine short hairs along his neck.

They sealed their pact of friends.h.i.+p with a hug, neither knowing how long it would be before they would see each other again, or whether they would ever be able to touch each other again with such intimacy.

John Henry was the first to break away.

"Good luck, Red," he said heartily with a brave smile and a hasty wave of his palm. Then he retreated to his truck, his pace far too quick for indifference.

"G.o.d, I hope you know what you're doing," Nora muttered when Esther slid back in the car beside her.

"Me too," Esther said gruffly, thinking of the water that pooled in John Henry's eyes as he turned away. She leaned back, rested one worn shoe across her knee and stared out at the mud ditch that John Henry's tires dug in the road.

"Let's go," she said.

Nora had driven this route many times, but the New York Thruway had never before seemed so long. Each mile brought a new knot of tension along her spine, at each exit she fought the temptation to turn around and head back home.

The mountains shrank in size as she headed south. They were spa.r.s.e of trees and thick with ski runs. The traffic picked up and the drivers were more aggressive as the scenery changed from rural to suburban. Nora cut through Westchester, past rows of middle-cla.s.s postwar houses. Then she hit the New York City limits and the scenery changed drastically.

She was back, she realized with a small s.h.i.+ver. She had thought she was ready to face that metropolis of memories, but now, speeding toward its skyline, she wasn't sure. New York, for Nora, was a melting pot filled with too many ingredients. Rich, spicy, hot, sour. She just couldn't digest it.

Esther sat up in her seat and gawked like a tourist at the billboards, the boarded-up buildings, and the high-rise, low-income housing. Nora's face was grim as realization of the transition she must face hit full force. Here she was Mrs. Michael MacKenzie, with all the history that name evoked. Nora hardened her heart, sharpened her wits, and toughened her hide.

This was more than a change in scenery. This was entering another world.

Big-city driving is as much a learned arrogance as an acquired skill, but once you have it, you never lose it. Nora b.u.mped over potholes, cut across lanes, and shot down to the south of Houston.

Jenny Gold came out to greet them and Nora hastily made the introductions. Jenny and Esther stood eye to eye at the gallery's threshold. Both women were tall and angular, but the similarity ended there. It was city mouse and country mouse. Jenny Gold's kohl-lined eyes shrewdly evaluated the simplicity and utter lack of chic in Esther's severe black cotton dress and worn leather flats. It pained Nora to witness Jenny's subtle sneer and hear the thinly veiled contempt in her welcome. Nora closed her eyes, inexplicably weary of the significant subtleties of this world.

To her credit, Esther was neither mincing in manner nor shy. It was as though by her very arrival in the city, Esther had validated her talent and her dreams, cloaking her with a unique aura of confidence. Nora thought Esther was like a brilliant red rose: magnificent, straight, and th.o.r.n.y.

It was Jenny Gold's job to recognize uniqueness in any form, and she was good at her job. Her sneer s.h.i.+fted to a wide, toothy grin and she swung wide the gallery door.

"Do go off to wherever it is you have to go," she blithely informed Nora with a wave of her hand. "I'll see to Esther."

As Nora drove away, Esther flashed her a delightfully discreet thumbs-up sign.

In contrast to Esther's confidence, Nora was shaking in her boots. She parked her luggage in a modest, discreet hotel, then headed straight for the Blair Bank, before her nerves failed her. She had carefully chosen a conservative, well-cut suit of dove gray, a white silk blouse, black low-heeled pumps, and matching black purse, and of course, Oma's pearls. It was her intention to confront Charles Blair with the journal and insist that he pa.s.s out the word that the MacKenzie estate was indeed solvent. As the elevator pa.s.sed floor after floor in the Blair skysc.r.a.per, Nora counted reason after reason why she had to face her enemy.

The doors slid open, revealing a long, well-lit corridor of highly polished wood and stark walls covered with a breathtaking collection of Hudson Valley artists. Along the walls sat sleek desks and behind them sat equally sleek and polished secretaries. This was the anteroom of the executive offices, the inner sanctum of the Blair Bank. Nora smoothed her French twist, clutched Mike's journal, and stepped forward.

Her heels clicked along the bare floors as she walked down the long hall. The eyes of the secretaries discreetly followed her as she pa.s.sed each desk. Their expressions were curious, and Nora knew they were evaluating the expense of her suit and the millimeter of her pearls. Undaunted, Nora continued walking until she faced the largest desk at the end of the hall. Behind it was an imposing wooden door with a discreet bra.s.s plate: President.

"May I help you?" The secretary was a big woman: eyes, bones, belly, and all. With her dark suit, her severely pulled back black hair, and her sharp expression, the woman looked like an SS guard off rations.

Nora raised her chin and spoke with authority. "I want to talk to Mr. Charles Blair. I am Mrs. Michael MacKenzie. It's urgent."

The woman raised her brows and clasped her hands firmly upon her desk. "I'm sorry. Mr. Blair will not see anyone without an appointment."

Nora bristled. "Announce me, please."

"I'm sorry. Mr. Blair will not be disturbed."

"Is he in?" she asked in her most imperious tone.

"Yes." The word was a dismissal.

Nora studied the pinched face of the secretary and knew there would be no coaxing this gatekeeper. She had bigger battles to fight than with this battle-ax. Holding her purse and journal tightly, Nora swung on her heel and swept past the desk.

"Mrs. MacKenzie! Stop! You can't go in there. Mrs. MacKenzie!"

The cries of alarm spurred her forward. She didn't look back. Eyes on the door, heels clicking, she grabbed the door handle, swung wide the door, and marched into the private office.

Light poured in from the large windows. Blinking, she made out a very long, highly polished desk. Behind it was a high-backed leather chair. Nora blinked again, focusing on the man slowly rising from that chair. His long fingers rested on the desk as he stood to face her. A tall, broad silhouette; a familiar image. The seconds seemed like minutes, the minutes like eternity, as her mind recognized, then questioned, then painfully accepted the sight.

They stood separated by the desk, neither moving, neither speaking. Only the secretary fl.u.s.tered about, muttering, "I tried to stop her, Mr. Blair. She stormed right past me!"

"Leave us," he commanded, eyes still on Nora.

The secretary sucked in her breath, clasped her hands again, and scurried from the room, silently closing the door behind her.

Still no one spoke. Nora searched his face. The eyes were the same blue ones she had stared into. The nose was the same angled one she had mused about. His skin was the same tawny fabric she had kissed.

But his wild blond hair had been slicked back and trimmed. His wool suit was expensive, his white s.h.i.+rt was crisp, and his tie had just enough panache to be fas.h.i.+onable yet conservative. But it was his hands that arrested her. Those long, tapered fingers that had explored and excited every inch of her now rested confidently upon the desk of Mike's hated rival.

"C.W. Charles Walker. You left out Blair, didn't you?" Her voice sounded lifeless, even to herself.

"Yes. My full name is Charles Walker Blair."

She raised her eyes to his. When they met she felt burned by the intensity he wore whenever he was reining himself in. He held out his hand to her. A sudden memory stabbed deep. She remembered for an instant how much she loved him.

"I hate you," she whispered.

The pain and hate in her eyes stopped him dead in his tracks. His face mirrored the anguish. "Nora, you must listen."

"Never. Never again!" She thrust her finger out, pointing to the desktop. "Trust me, you said! You deliberately used me to get your hands on those ledgers and papers. To save your own neck, and your blessed bank's, you twisted mine."

Her voice was low and cold. He tried to explain.

"I did need the papers," he said evenly. "But it's much more complicated than it appears. Sit down and-"

"How could you have?" Her chin trembled. "Couldn't you have just stolen the evidence and left? What kind of perverse pleasure could you have gained from working your way into my life? Did you have to pretend you loved me? Did you have to make me love you?"

"Nora, I-" He swept around the desk.

"Stop! Stay away from me!" she shrieked, stepping back with an arresting hand outstretched. She felt her anger rising up and she couldn't stop it. She hated him-she loved him; the two emotions churned in such tumult they overpowered her. She gulped huge breaths of air as she hunched over the journal and stared at him with wounded eyes.

"My G.o.d, you're worse than Mike," she cried. "He used and abused me, but at least he was open about it." The tears were flowing down her cheeks. "At least he didn't sleep with me."

C.W. visibly cringed.

"I hate you, Charles Walker Blair. Not for what you did to Mike. But for what you did to me. Take your evidence," she said, throwing the journal at him. As he ducked, she swept her hand across his desk, sending the papers and ledger cras.h.i.+ng to the floor. "Keep them, I don't care."

She squared her shoulders and stared into his eyes. She saw his pain, she saw his desolation, and it took every ounce of strength to muster hatred instead of love.

Nora turned sharply and walked to the door, each click of her heels sounding like a death knoll in her ears. With her hand on the handle, she turned and faced him one last time. He hadn't moved a muscle.

"Don't worry about your reputation," she said, her voice even. "My shame has bought my silence."

She swung open the door and fled down the corridor, oblivious to the open-mouthed stares of a long line of secretaries.

In desperate silence, C.W. watched her run down the hall. He stared without moving as she turned in the elevator and faced him, chin trembling but high. The bronze mirrored elevator doors silently closed.

He stood there for several minutes, staring ahead at the doors that had closed tight against him.

"Excuse me, Mr. Blair. Should I clean up the mess?" asked Mrs. Baldwin.

He looked at her face and saw no one. Around him C.W. saw only the rows of meaningless diplomas and awards, the shelves of unremembered books, the walls of an impersonal bank that seemed to be closing in on him. At his feet, Mike's papers lay scattered.

33.

"THERE IS NOTHING MORE I can do."

It was the first day of her auction. Nora stood at the door, dressed in funereal black, with Oma's pearls at her neck and ears.

"I see," replied Walton. His gaze swept the spa.r.s.e crowd milling about the room seeking out seats. "Pretty straight group," he summed up. "A few artsy types, a few private shoppers." He shrugged. "A lot of top dealers."

Nora glanced at the dealers. Some of them shot speculative glances across the room, a few pairs huddled together furiously scribbling notes in their catalogs. Still others, the well prepared, sat with impa.s.sive faces waiting for the auction to begin. Clearly, this was an "inside" crowd. Most of the seats were unoccupied.

"It's my worst nightmare." Her hand briefly touched her forehead before she collected herself and stood straight once again. "I went to every bank involved," she stated, a flush creeping along her neck. "They wouldn't see me."

Walton frowned, guessing at the truth behind the gross understatement.

Nora read the understanding in his eyes and her color deepened. Would her shame never end? Bank presidents, men she had entertained in her home, had turned her away without so much as an interview.

The two that did see her spent the time in a tirade against Mike and his schemes until she managed to excuse herself and leave with her tail between her legs. At least as the grieving widow she had been inviolate. Now, however, they'd felt justified in venting their anger against Mike, demanding their pound of flesh. What they didn't realize was that her heart had already been torn out.

The image of C.W. standing behind his powerful desk flashed through her mind with a blinding pain. Closing her eyes tight, she felt physically ill at the memory.

"Are you all right?" asked Walton.

"Yes, quite. I'm just tired. It's been a long couple of days."

Walton reached out and touched her elbow.

She smiled gratefully. "Shall we start?"

Mustering her courage, she put on her mask and paraded past the hushed whispers to her seat. Once there, she pretended to study her program, ignoring the naked stares, praying for the auction to be over with.

It began late. At 10:05, Walton stepped forward before the beige-curtained stage where some of Nora's antiques of as sorted pedigree had already been set up. He silently acknowledged her presence. His thick shock of white hair fell over his equally white collar as he perused the crowd above his bifocals. After a final glance at his watch, he cast a frustrated look at Nora and raised his thin shoulders. Despite the house's careful marketing and publicity, the audience remained far below expectations.

Walton stepped to the auctioneer's post to the far right. He bandied with his a.s.sistants, cajoled the bidders, and drew attention to whimsical details on vases and furniture, hoping to lighten the mood. The crowd twittered and bidding commenced.

The jewelry went first. Mike's gold cufflinks, tie clasps, watches, cigarette cases. Nora remembered how he'd looked in each of them. Her collection of Victorian jewelry followed, then her Russian vermeil eggs. The bidding was slow but steady. When her personal jewelry was presented, she began to harbor hope. Her spectacular pearl and diamond necklace neared its estimated value; she felt her first rush of relief.