Megan's Mate

  Colleen shook her head, and for one moment she looked so unbearably sad that Megan reached out. But the old woman held herself stiff, her head high.

  “You'll have the satisfaction of knowing you es­caped the trap of marriage, just as I did. Do you think no one ever asked me? There was one,” Colleen went on, before Megan could speak. “One who nearly lulled me in before I remembered, before I turned him away, before I risked the hell my mother had known.”

  Colleen's mouth thinned at the memory. “He tried to break her in every way, with his rules, his money, his need to own. In the end, he killed her, then he slowly, slowly, went mad. But not with guilt. What ate at him, I think, was the loss of something he'd never been able to fully own. That was why he rid the house of every piece of her, and locked himself in his own private purgatory.”

  “I'm sorry,” Megan murmured. “I'm so sorry.”

  “For me? I'm old, and long past the time to grieve. I learned from my experience, as you learned from yours. Not to trust, never to risk. Let Coco have her orange blossoms, we have our freedom.”

  She walked away stiffly, leaving Megan to flounder in a sea of emotion.

  Colleen was wrong, she told herself, and began to fuss with napkins again. She wasn't cold and aloof and blocked off from love. Just days ago she'd de­clared her love. She wasn't letting Baxter's shadow darken what she had with Nathaniel.

  Oh, but she was. Wearily she leaned against the doorjamb. She was, and she wasn't sure she could change it. Love and lovemaking didn't equal commit­ment. No one knew that better than she. She had loved Baxter fully, vitally. And that was the shadow. Even knowing that what she felt for Nathaniel was fuller, richer, and much, much truer, she couldn't dispel that doubt.

  She would have to think it through, calmly, as soon as she had time. The answer was always there, she as­sured herself, if you looked for it long enough, care­fully enough. All she had to do was process the data.

  She tossed down her neatly counted napkins in dis­gust. What kind of woman was she? she wondered. She was trying to turn emotions into equations, as if they were some sort of code she had to decipher be­fore she could know her own heart.

  That was going to stop. She was going to stop. If she couldn't look into her own heart, it was time to...

  Her thoughts trailed off, circled back, swooping down on one errant idea like a hawk on a rabbit.

  Oh, God, a code. Leaving the linens in disarray, she flew down the hall to her own bedroom.

  Fergus's book was where she'd left it, lying neatly on the corner of her desk. She snatched it up and be­gan flipping frantically through pages.

  It didn't have to be stock quotations or account numbers, she realized. It didn't have to be anything as logical as that. The numbers were listed in the back of the book, after dozens of blank sheets—after the fi­nal entry Fergus had written. On the day before Bianca died.

  Why hadn't she seen it before? There were no jour­nal entries, no careful checks and balances after that date. Only sheet after blank sheet. Then the numbers, formed in a careful hand.

  A message, Megan wondered, something he'd been compelled to write down but hadn't wanted prying eyes to read. A confession of guilt, perhaps? Or a plea for understanding?

  She sat and took several clearing breaths. They were numbers, after all, she reminded herself. There was nothing she couldn't do with numbers.

  An hour passed, then two. As she worked, the desk became littered with discarded slips of paper. Each time she stopped to rest her eyes or her tired brain, she wondered whether she had tumbled into lunacy even thinking she'd found some mysterious code in the back of an old book.

  But the idea hooked her, kept her chained to the desk. She heard the blast of a horn as a tour boat passed. The shadows lengthened from afternoon to­ward evening.

  She grew only more determined as each of her ef­forts failed. She would find the key. However long it took, she would find it.

  Something clicked, causing her to stop, sit back and study anew. As if tumblers had fallen into place, she had it. Slowly, painstakingly, she transcribed num­bers into letters and let the cryptogram take shape.

  The first word to form was Bianca.

  “Oh, God.” Megan pressed her hand to her lips. “It's real.”

  Step by step she continued, crossing out, changing, advancing letter by letter, word by word. When the excitement began to build in her, she pushed it back. This was an answer she would find only with her mind. Emotions would hurry her, cause mistakes. So she thought of nothing but the logic of the code.

  The figures started to blur in front of her eyes. She forced herself to close them, to sit back and relax un­til her mind was clear again. Then she opened them again, and read.

  Bianca haunts me. I have no peace. All that was hers must be put away, sold, destroyed. Do spir­its walk? It is nonsense, a lie. But I see her eyes, staring at me as she fell. Green as her emeralds. I will leave her a token to satisfy her. And that will be the end of it. Tonight I will sleep.

  Breathless, Megan read on. The directions were very simple, very precise. For a man going mad with the enormity of his own actions, Fergus Calhoun had re­tained his conciseness.

  Tucking the paper in her pocket, Megan hurried out. She didn't consider alerting the Calhouns. Something was driving her to finish this herself. She found what she needed in the renovation area in the family wing. Hefting a crowbar, a chisel, a tape measure, she climbed the winding iron steps to Bian-ca's tower.

  She had been here before, knew that Bianca had stood by the windows and watched the cliffs for Christian. That she had wept here, dreamed here, died here.

  The Calhouns had made it charming again, with plump, colorful pillows on the window seat, delicate tables and china vases. A velvet chaise, a crystal lamp.

  Bianca would have been pleased.

  Megan closed the heavy door at her back. Using the tape measure, she followed Fergus's directions. Six feet in from the door, eight from the north wall.

  Without a thought to the destruction she was about to cause, Megan rolled up the softly faded floral car­pet, then shoved the chisel between the slats of wood.

  It was hard, backbreaking work. The wood was old, but thick and strong. Someone had polished it to a fine gleam. She pried and pulled, stopping only to flex her straining muscles and, when the light began to fail, to switch on the lamps.

  The first board gave with a protesting screech. If she'd been fanciful, she might have thought it sounded like a woman. Sweat dripped down her sides, and she cursed herself for forgetting a flashlight. Refusing to think of spiders, or worse, she thrust her hand into the gap. She thought she felt the edge of something, but no matter how she stretched and strained, she couldn't get a grip. Grimly resigned, she set to work on the next board.

  Swearing at splinters and her own untried muscles, she fought it loose. With a grunt, she tossed the board aside, and panting, stretched out on her stomach to grope into the hole.

  Her fingertip rang against metal. She nearly wept. The handle almost slipped out of her sweaty hand, but she pulled the box up and free and set it on her lap.

  It was no more than a foot long, a foot wide and a few pounds in weight, and it was grimy from the years it had spent in the darkness. Almost tenderly, she brushed away the worst of the dust. Her fingers hov­ered at the latch, itching to release it, then dropped away. It wasn't hers to open.

  “I don't know where she could be.” Amanda strode back into the parlor, tossing up her hands. “She's not in her office, or her room.”

  “She was fussing in a closet when I saw her last.” Colleen tipped back her glass. “She's a grown woman. Might be taking a walk.”

  “Yes, but...” Suzanna trailed off with a glance at Kevin. There was no point in worrying the child, she reminded herself. Just because Megan was never late, that was no reason to assume something was wrong. “Maybe she's in the garden.” She smiled and handed the baby to Holt. “I can go look.”

 
“I'll do it.” Nathaniel stood up. He didn't really believe Megan had forgotten their date for dinner and gone walking in the garden, but looking was better than worrying. “If she comes in while I'm gone—” But then he heard her footsteps and glanced toward the doorway.

  Her hair was wild, her eyes were wide. Her face and clothes were smeared with dirt. And she was smiling, brilliantly. “I'm sorry I'm late.”

  “Megan, what on earth?” Dumbfounded, Sloan stared at her. “You look like you've been crawling in a ditch.”

  “Not quite.” She laughed and pushed a hand through her disordered hair. “I got a little involved, lost track of the time. Sloan, I borrowed some of your tools. They're in the tower.”

  “In the—”

  But she was crossing the room, her eyes on Col­leen. She knelt at the old woman's feet, set the box in her lap. “I found something that belongs to you.”

  Colleen scowled down at the box, but her heart was thrumming in her ears. “Why would you think it be­longs to me?”

  Gently Megan took Colleen's hand, laid it on the dusty metal. “He hid it under the floor of the tower, her tower, after she died.” Her quiet voice silenced the room like a bomb. “He said she haunted him.” Me­gan pulled the transcribed code out of her pocket, set it on top of the box.

  “I can't read it,” Colleen said impatiently.

  “I'll read it for you.” But when Megan took the sheet again, Colleen grabbed her wrist.

  “Wait. Have Coco come in. I want her here.”

  While they waited, Megan got up and went to Na­thaniel. “It was a code,” she told him, before turning to face the room. “The numbers in the back of the book. I don't know why I didn't see it—” Then she smiled. “I was looking too hard, too closely. And to­day I knew. I just knew.” She stopped, lifted her hands, let them fall. “I'm sorry. I should have told you as soon as I'd solved it. I wasn't thinking.”

  “You did what you were meant to do,” Lilah cor­rected. “If one of us was supposed to find it, we would have.”

  “Is it like a treasure hunt?” Kevin wanted to know.

  “Yes.” Megan drew him close to ruffle his hair.

  “I really don't have time right now, dear.” Coco was arguing as Amanda dragged her into the room. “It's the middle of the dinner rush.”

  “Sit and be quiet,” Colleen ordered. “The girl has something to read. Get your aunt a drink,” she said to C.C. “She may need it. And freshen mine, while you're at it.” She lifted her eyes, bird-bright, to Me­gan's. “Well, go on. Read it.”

  As she did, Megan slipped her hand into Nathan­iel's. She heard Coco's quick gasp and sigh. Her own throat was raw with unshed tears when she lowered the page again.

  “So... I went up and I pried up some floorboards. And I found it.”

  Even the children were silent when Colleen placed her thin hands on the box. They trembled once, then steadied as she worked the latch free, and opened the lid. Now it was her lips that trembled, and her eyes filled. She drew out a small oval frame, tarnished black with age.

  “A photograph,” she said in a thick voice. “Of my mother with me and Sean and Ethan. It was taken the year before she died. We sat for it in the garden in New York.” She stroked it once, then offered it to Coco.

  “Oh, Aunt Colleen. It's the only picture we have of all of you.”

  “She kept it on her dressing table, so that she could look at it every day. A book of poetry.” Colleen drew out the slim volume, caressed it. “She loved to read poetry. It's Yeats. She would read it to me some­times, and tell me it reminded her of Ireland. This brooch.” She took out a small, simple enamel pin decorated with violets. “Sean and I gave it to her for Christmas. Nanny helped us buy it, of course. We were too young. She often wore it.”

  She caressed a marcasite watch, its pin shaped like a bow, and a carved jade dog hardly bigger than her thumb.

  There were other small treasures—a smooth white stone, a pair of tin soldiers, the dust of an ancient flower. Then the pearls, an elegant choker of four delicate strands that had slept the decades away in a black velvet pouch.

  “My grandparents gave her these as a bridal gift.” Colleen ran a fingertip over the smooth orbs. “She told me it would be mine on my wedding day. He didn't like her to wear it. Too plain, he said. Too or­dinary. She kept them in the pouch, in her jewel case. She would often take them out and show them to me. She said that pearls given with love were more pre­cious than diamonds given for show. She told me to treasure them as she did, and to wear them often, be­cause—” Her voice broke, and she reached for her glass, sipped to clear her throat. “Because pearls needed warmth.”

  She closed her eyes and sat back. “I thought he'd sold them, disposed of them with the rest.”

  “You're tired, Aunt Colleen.” Suzanna went qui­etly to her side. “Why don't I take you upstairs? I can bring you a dinner tray.”

  “I'm not an invalid.” Colleen snapped the words out, but her hand covered Suzanna's and squeezed. “I'm old, but I'm not feeble. I've wit enough to make some bequests. You.” She pressed the brooch into Suzanna's hand. “This is yours. I want to see you wear it.”

  “Aunt Colleen-”

  “Put it on now. Put it on.” She brushed Suzanna away and picked up the book of poetry. “You spend half your time dreaming,” she said to Lilah. “Dream with this.”

  “Thank you.” Lilah bent down, kissed her.

  “You'll have the watch,” she said to Amanda. “You're the one who's always worrying about what time it is. And you,” she continued, looking at C.C. and waving Amanda's thanks away, “take the jade. You like to set things around that gather dust.”

  Her eyebrow cocked at Jenny.

  “Waiting for your turn, are you?”

  Jenny smiled guilelessly. “No, ma'am.”

  “You'll have this.” She offered Jenny the stone. “I was younger than you when I gave this to my mother. I thought it was magic. Maybe it is.”

  “It's pretty.” Delighted with her new treasure, Jenny rubbed it against her cheek. “I can put it on my windowsill.”

  “She'd have been pleased,” Colleen said softly. “She kept it on hers.” With a harsh cough, she cleared her voice to briskness again. “You boys, take these, and don't lose them. They were my brother's.”

  “Neat,” Alex whispered, reverently holding a per­fectly detailed soldier. “Thanks.”

  “Thanks,” Kevin echoed. “It's just like a treasure box,” he said, grinning at her. “Aren't you going to give anything to Aunt Coco?”

  “She'll have the photograph.”

  “Aunt Colleen.” Overcome, Coco reached for her hankie. “Really, you mustn't.”

  “You'll take it as a wedding gift, and be grateful.”

  “I am grateful. I don't know what to say.”

  “See that you clean that tarnish off the frame.” Bracing her weight on the cane, Colleen rose and turned to Megan. “You look pleased with yourself.”

  Megan's heart was too full for pretense. “I am.”

  For a moment, Colleen's damp eyes twinkled back. “You should be. You're a bright girl, Megan. And a resourceful one. You remind me of myself, a very long time ago.” Gently she picked up the pearls, letting the glowing strands run through her bent fingers.

  “Here.” Megan stepped toward her. “Let me help you put them on.”

  Colleen shook her head. “Pearls need youth. They're for you.”

  Stunned, Megan dropped her hands again. “No, you can't give them away like that. Bianca meant them for you.”

  “She meant them to be passed on.”

  “Within the family. They.. .they should go to Coco, or-”

  “They go where I say they go,” Colleen said impe­riously.

  “It isn't right.” Megan searched the room for help, but found only satisfied smiles.

  “It seems perfectly right to me,” Suzanna mur­mured. “Amanda?”

  Amanda touched a hand to the watch she'd pinned to her lap
el. “Completely.”

  “Lovely.” Coco wept into her hankie. “Just lovely.”

  “Fits like a glove,” C.C. agreed, and glanced at Lilah.

  “Destined.” She tilted her face up to Max. “Only a fool fights destiny.”

  “Then we're agreed?” Suzanna took a quick sur­vey and received nods from the men. “The vote's in.”

  “Ha!” Though she was enormously proud, Col­leen scowled. “As if I needed approval to dispose of what's mine. Take them.” She thrust them into Me­gan's hands. “Go upstairs and clean yourself up. You look like a chimney sweep. I want to see you wearing them when you come down.”

  “Aunt Colleen...”

  “No blubbering. Do as you're told.”

  “Come on.” Suzanna took Megan's arm to lead her from the room. “I'll give you a hand.”

  Satisfied, Colleen sat again, thumped her cane. “Well, Where's my drink?”

  Later, when the waning moon had tipped over the edge of the sea, Megan walked with Nathaniel to the cliffs. The breeze whispered secrets in the grass and teased the wildflowers.

  She wore blue, a simple summer dress with a full skirt that swirled in the wind. The pearls, glowing like small, perfect moons, circled her throat.

  “You've had quite a day, Megan.”

  “My head's still spinning. She gave it all away, Na­thaniel. I can't understand how she could give away all the things that mattered so much.”

  “She's a hell of a woman. It takes a special one to recognize magic.”

  “Magic?”

  “My practical, down-to-earth Megan.” He tugged on her hand until they sat on a rock together, looking out over the churning water. “Didn't you wonder, even for a moment, why each gift was so perfectly suitable? Why eighty years ago Fergus Calhoun would have been compelled to select just those things to hide away? The flower brooch for Suzanna, the watch for Amanda, Yeats for Lilah and the jade for C.G.? The portrait for Coco?”

  “Coincidence,” Megan murmured, but there was doubt in her voice.

  He only laughed and kissed her. “Fate thrives on coincidence.”

  “And the pearls?”

  “These.” He lifted a finger to trace them. “A sym­bol of family, endurance, innocence. They suit you very well.”

  “They— I know I should have found a way not to accept them, but when Suzanna put them on me up­stairs, they felt as though they were mine.”

  “They are. Ask yourself why you found them, why, with all the months the Calhouns searched for the emeralds, they never came across a hint of the strong­box. Fergus's book turns up after you move into The Towers. There's a numbered code. Who better to solve it than our logical CPA?”

  Megan shook her head and blew out a laughing breath. “I can't explain it.”

  “Then just accept it.”

  “A magic rock for Jenny, soldiers for the boys.” She rested her head against Nathaniel's shoulder. “I suppose I can't argue with that kind of coincidence. Or fate.” Content, she closed her eyes and let the air caress her cheeks. “It's hard to believe that just a few days ago I was frantic with worry. You found him near here, didn't you?”

  “Yes.” He thought it best for her peace of mind not to mention the dicey climb down to the ledge. “I fol­lowed the bird.”

  “The bird?” Puzzled, she drew back. “That's odd. Kevin told me about a bird. A white one with green eyes that stayed with him that night. He's got a good imagination.”

  “There was a bird,” Nathaniel told her. “A white gull with emerald eyes. Bianca's eyes.”

  “But—”

  “Take magic where you find it.” He slipped an arm around her shoulders so that they both could enjoy the sounds of the surf. “I have something for you, Me­gan.”

  “Mmm?” She was comfortable, almost sleepy, and she moaned in protest when he shifted away.