For All Their Lives (44 page)

Casey did her best to explain her belief. They'd never discussed religion, and now she wondered why. She told him about the votive candles at St. Gabriel's when she was a child, and he immediately promised himself that he would light every single candle at the cathedral tomorrow before he went to the hospital.

Casey was out of the car in a flash, her gloved hands scooping at the snow near the curb. The moment Alan climbed from the car, she pelted him, laughing and giggling. Snowballs in hand, they circled each other warily, laughing shrilly, to the delight of the chauffeur. They were covered with snow, their shrieks of delight echoing up and down the quiet street, when a chauffeur-driven limousine pulled to the curb. Neither Casey nor Alan paid the slightest attention until Marcus Carlin said, “Merry Christmas, Alan.” Casey's arm froze in midair as she whirled to see where the voice was coming from.

“Marcus, you're early,” Alan said, dropping a snowball to grasp the judge's hand.

“Actually, I'm a half hour late, but obviously you've lost track of the time. It is beautiful out, isn't it? We didn't get any snow in Virginia.”

“I'd like to introduce you to my houseguest. Mary, this is my old friend, Marcus Carlin. Marcus, this is Mary Ashley. Come along, let's go inside where it's warm,” Alan said in a voice Casey had never heard before. Poor dear, she thought, he's actually flustered.

The whole house smelled like evergreens, Marcus commented.

Casey smiled and excused herself. “You two must have a lot to talk about, and I have some things to attend to.” Her voice was as flustered as Alan's.

She closed the door behind her, saw that the maid had already made the bed and carried away the coffee cups. She was trembling so badly, she could hardly light her cigarette. Mac's father here in this house. The odds of that happening had to be one in ten million. And yet it had happened. At some point during his visit, he was bound to mention his son and family. Unless, of course, Alan got all of those questions out of the way before she made her appearance. No, of course not, that was in her past. Why would he think about her at all? She inhaled deeply and blew a steady stream of smoke toward the window. Casey Adams was dead.

How long could she stay up here? she wondered, as she lit a cigarette from the stub of the old one. An hour? Two? More like an hour and a half. Dinner was scheduled for three o'clock. Alan would serve drinks first. That would take at least half an hour. Dinner would last an hour and a half. Coffee would be served in the study. That would take another thirty minutes, possibly forty-five. Another fifteen minutes to say good-bye. By five-thirty Marcus Carlin would be on his way to the Waldorf-Astoria, where he always stayed when he was in New York.

She could get through these next few hours. All she had to do was smile and speak when she was spoken to. She hoped she would remember to respond to the name Mary.

How was she to spend her time until it was the right moment to go downstairs? She'd read all the books on the shelf. She could look through the packet of papers Alan had given her last night. She could go through the mountain of boxes the maids had carried to her room while she was in church. The suitcases had to be packed. That would take some time. The packet beckoned. She lit another cigarette and withdrew the thick sheaf of papers from the manila envelope. The word dossier flashed through her mind. “Hello, Mary Ashley,” she said with a sob in her voice. How could all these things be phony? They looked so real. She knew without a doubt her passport would pass muster anywhere in the world. Even her picture was a good one. She noticed the stamps on the first several pages: London, Zurich, Greece, Rome, Paris. Mary Ashley liked to travel. Mary Ashley was a United States citizen. Her home base, when she wasn't traveling, was New York City. She was a graduate of New York University. She looked at her degree with clinical interest. Her birth certificate said she was born in Barnesboro, Pennsylvania. Her family moved to New York City when she was seven years old. She had a small inheritance. She also had tax returns. If she interpreted them correctly, the Internal Revenue Service owed Mary Ashley thirty-seven dollars and twelve cents. She looked at her Social Security card, memorizing the numbers. Her driver's license said she wore glasses. She didn't know how to drive, but as of last evening, she owned a car. The Ford Mustang was listed on the car insurance policy. Alan had thought of everything. Except, she thought wryly, what she'd done for a living. She flipped through the tax returns to see if she had a job description. She burst out laughing when she saw the words teacher and waitress. She'd done that too, back in France. It was really funny. Mary Ashley went through four years of college and waited on tables
after
she graduated.

“I feel like a criminal,” she muttered. It's not too late, she told herself, you can still get out of all this. But to what end? So she could be Casey Adams again and confront Mac and call him a liar, tell him he was of the same ilk as Eric Savorone? To pick up her profession? She never wanted to see a hospital again. If she did tell the truth now, it would take years before she could get her army pay, and she'd have to pay back the money they'd paid Nicole on her insurance. There was no reason at all to resume her real identity. Alan had taken care of everything. As of tomorrow morning, she was Mary Ashley.

Casey crossed her fingers and whispered, “Let Mary Ashley be better at handling her life than Casey Adams was at hers.”

 

I
N THE STUDY
, with the lights of the Frazier fir twinkling festively, Alan sat behind his desk. Marcus sat on the other side. “I don't understand why you're giving me such an argument, Marcus. I'm simply substituting one name for another on this will. It's five minutes out of both of our lives. I want this done
now
. Mary knows nothing about this. My housekeeper and butler and you will be the witnesses. Furthermore, it's not necessary for you to understand
why
I'm doing this. I'm doing it, and that's the bottom line. As you can very well see, I'm in my right state of mind. It's what I want, Marcus,” Alan said coolly.

“Very well, Alan, but it goes against my better judgment.” He was about to say more until he saw the chiseled look on his old friend's face.

“I want your word, Marcus, when the time . . . comes, be it three days from now or three years from now, that you won't give the girl one speck of trouble. This is to be airtight, and if it isn't, make it that way,
now
.”

“You and I know that
I
drew up this will, Alan, though your lawyer will add his signature to it. It's as airtight as it can be. I take umbrage at your statement,” the judge said huffily. “What in the world has gotten into you? First you tell me Mary Ashley is your illegitimate daughter, now you tell me she's a good friend and you want to provide for her. This is your business, and I wouldn't be a very good judge or lawyer if I didn't point out to you certain . . . elements. We've said enough. The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can enjoy our holiday. By the way, what are we having for dinner?”

“Duck.”

It took exactly twenty-one minutes to change Alan's will. A phone call brought Noah Richards, Alan's lawyer, to the brownstone. He quickly read over and approved the judge's handiwork, intimidated by the presence of a Supreme Court justice. He signed the will, and then the housekeeper, the butler, and Marcus Carlin signed their names, as witnesses, their faces solemn. Richards left immediately afterward.

“Done,” Marcus said curtly. “The bequests to the servants stayed the same. All we changed was the principal beneficiary. We're attaching a photo of Mary Ashely to the will. You can rest easy now, Alan. Just out of curiosity, is this why you invited me to have dinner with you today?”

“Of course not,” Alan said tartly. “We've been doing this for years. Your coming here merely saved me a trip to Washington. Now, let's you and I have a stiff drink, and you can tell me what's going on in the nation's capital. By the way, how's that son of yours? He must be enjoying his holiday. Children make all the difference. How is it that you aren't playing grandfather today?”

If Alan hadn't turned then to replace the wine bottle on the small bar, he would have seen the scowl that crossed his friend's face as Casey entered the room. When he did turn, what he saw was a look of hopelessness.

“Jennifer gets overexcited. Alice plays down Christmas. One day it's the tree, the next day a big dinner and a present a day. It seems to work well for everyone.”

Casey smiled. Alan smiled. The judge remained sober-faced.

“So what did Santa bring you?” Alan boomed.

At first Marcus was tempted to lie. He forced a smile. “Mac gave me a humidor; Alice gave me a new bow and a box of arrows for my collection, and the gift that had Jennifer's name on it was a box of cigars. How about you, Alan?” he asked curiously.

“Absolutely wonderful things. Take a look at these,” he said, holding out his foot. “Mary knitted these for me. A book of Keats's poetry that I read until almost dawn. Thoughtful, wonderful presents.”

“And you, Miss Ashley, what did Santa bring you?” Marcus asked, sipping at his wine.

“Bonbons.” Casey smiled wickedly.

Conversation was easy, even friendly, Casey thought. Over dinner, they discussed the white Christmas, the state of the world, the glamorous Washington parties for which Marcus said he had no stomach.

“How's Mac doing?” Alan asked. “Did he take to Washington politics the way you thought he would? I never did understand why he changed races. Thought he was all set for the governorship. It was an eleventh-hour kind of thing, wasn't it?”

“You know Mac,” Marcus said lightly. “He's really into Asian affairs. I'd say he's doing well. He doesn't smile much anymore, if that means anything. Politics leaves very little to smile about,” the judge said smoothly.

“I saw the change in him when he got back. I was at the victory celebration, remember? It must have been terrible for him. How's Alice?”

“Wrapped up in Jenny and her husband. Neither Alice nor Mac are into the glamorous social side of Washington you read about in the papers,” Marcus said quietly.

“You sound disappointed, Marcus,” Alan said.

Alan's needling him, Casey thought in stunned surprise. And, he doesn't really like him. The thought bothered her. Until this very moment she'd thought Alan didn't have a devious bone in his body. Her stomach lurched. Surely he didn't . . . how could he . . . her stomach lurched a second time.
My God, does he know about Mac?
Did she babble while she was coming out of her numerous bouts of surgery? The thought was so devastating, she dropped her fork on the fine china plate. The sound was like thunder in the quiet dining room. Two pairs of eyes stared at her, one set full of. . . dear God, it wasn't pity, was it? The other set full of . . . speculation and suspicion. She forced a huge smile as her stomach lurched yet again. It
was
pity she read in Alan's eyes. Pity for her. She was convinced he knew. She forced the smile even harder. “Carry on, gentlemen,” she said brightly.

“I would like to see Mac more visible, but I think it's safe to say he's leaving his mark. He's dedicated, and that's the backbone of any good public official. Why all this concern about Mac, Alan? It almost sounds as if you're preparing to write a book.”

“Actually, I am. I'm going to do my memoirs. Oh, I didn't tell you about my retirement, did I? It starts officially tomorrow. Perhaps memoirs isn't the right word. I rather thought I'd sort of work it in, if you know what I mean. Ah, that doesn't make sense either. I'm going to compile a list of my more memorable patients and do a little history on each of them. You know, my observations, family reactions. I don't expect it to be a runaway best-seller or anything like that. I may never even publish it, but I am going to document it. Take Mac now. When he was in that car accident, and I did the surgery on his ear and eye. I gave that boy a new ear, so, naturally, aside from our personal friendship, I feel a . . . certain closeness to him. I did find it rather strange that neither you nor his wife visited him in the hospital. That's the kind of thing I'm talking about. I want to understand the circumstances of my patients. After the fact, of course. My findings might help some other doctor. Like my student, Singin, in Thailand. We discussed this not too long ago, and he's the one who suggested I do it. I haven't been this excited about a project in a long time,” Alan said spiritedly.

“Have you given any thought to the legalities of such a project?” the judge asked tightly.

“Quite a bit, as a matter of fact.” Alan beamed. “I expect you'll be the first one who sees the finished product. A definite challenge, wouldn't you say?” Alan pushed his plate away.

You sly old dog, Casey thought. Later, when she was alone, she was going to spend a lot of time thinking about this conversation to try and put the pieces together.

Judge Carlin pushed his plate to the side. He sipped daintily at the fine wine in his glass, his eyes on Alan. “Life is one challenge after another, don't you agree, Miss Ashley?”

“Please, call me Mary. Yes, all of life is a challenge. I, for one, wouldn't have it any other way,” she said cheerfully. “Tell me about your granddaughter. I adore little children.”

“Early in my career I made a promise to myself not to discuss my family with the media or . . . anyone else for that matter. I'm sorry if that offends you, Mary.”

“Not at all. Children have a way of perking up a conversation. This one,” she said sprightly, “seems to be getting intense. It is Christmas, after all, and shouldn't we be discussing sugar plums and Broadway plays?”