Tangled Vines (34 page)

His eyes were dark, almost black with anger, but when he spoke, his voice was softer, its tone gentler than she had ever heard it. “They do. Just as you did.”

His quiet understanding was almost her undoing. Kelly had to fight to keep back the tears. “I guess that's why if I can help just one,” she said huskily, “if I can keep just one child from suffering the physical and psychological abuse that I did, it will be enough.”

“One won't be enough. I think we both know that. It's too personal.”

And it was a subject she still wasn't comfortable talking about because of that. “Anyway,” she said and took a deep, sobering breath, releasing it and forcing a smile. “Besides those two things, I have another: a Brentwood rocker I picked up at a flea market. It must have about twenty coats of paint and I've only managed to strip off half of them.”

“It can wait. All of it can wait a few days. You don't need to leave yet.”

She shook her head. “I need to work.” Not wanting Sam to misinterpret that, she added quickly, “It isn't a question of money. I've managed to save quite a bit, enough to keep me going for a while and still pay the legal bills.”

“Pretend this is a vacation,” Sam reasoned. “Lie around. Give things a chance to die down.”

He made it all sound very logical; still, Kelly hesitated. “I don't know.”

“I want you to stay, Kelly.”

He wanted more than that from her. She could hear it in his voice. She was disturbed by it – by the things it made her want.

“I'm not ready for this, Sam,” she said, then realized she was being only half honest. “I'm not ready for you.”

“I don't think I'm ready for you either. But what does that change? Nothing.”

“But it should.”

“Maybe. And maybe some things can't be changed. Maybe they just have to be accepted.”

“I don't believe that.”

“Don't you? Then believe this: right now I need you here with me. And I think you need to be with me.”

“No.” Her protest was swift and insistent.

“Deny it all you want, Kelly. But with you and me, it's not a matter of if. It's a case of when.” He pushed the coffee mug away and got to his feet. “As much as I would like to continue this discussion, I have to get back out and see how the guys are doing.” Pausing by her chair, he trailed the tip of his finger across her cheek. “I'll see you later.”

“Right,” Kelly murmured, unnerved by the certainty in his voice.

Not until his footsteps had faded was she able to shake it off, retrieve the newspaper from the chair seat, and begin to read.

The baron's death had not only rated front page, but it also stretched over two full pages on the inside. In all there were three related stories. The first, a factual account of the circumstances of his death and the subsequent arrest of her father for the crime. A second story was basically background on Baron Emile Fougere with quotes from various dignitaries and fellow vintners on the man and his contribution to the wine industry, including one from Gil Rutledge stating: “The world has lost a great vintner and a gentle man.”

A photograph of Kelly headed the last story, although the article focused mainly on her father and relegated a recap of her career in television news to three small paragraphs. Some of the information on her father read like a police report, the dry facts fleshed out with interviews from people who knew him and vaguely remembered her, and gave a fairly comprehensive recount of his past misdeeds, proving again that small towns have long memories.

Sighing, Kelly pushed it away from her. Sam had been right; it was just about what she expected. There was consolation in knowing that by tomorrow's edition, the story would be little more than a short column, buried somewhere in the inside pages.

Her coffee was cold when she tasted it. Kelly made a face and got up to add more hot coffee to it from the urn. A set of light footsteps approached the morning room at a subdued pace. Kelly glanced at the archway, smiling in anticipation that it would be Katherine.

But it was Baroness Fougere who walked into the morning room and paused uncertainly. She wore a simple black sheath, no jewelry except her wedding rings. Her dark hair was drawn back in a smooth chignon. There had been a valiant attempt to mask her pallor with makeup and disguise the puffiness around her eyes, but nothing could hide the tortured look of grief in her eyes. They grew wide in their regard of Kelly, surprise and dismay in their haunted depths.

“You are the television reporter.” Her voice was pained in its accusation.

“I was,” she began, only to be cut off.

“How did you get in here?”

“I'm staying here. Sam invited me.” Kelly couldn't go on letting the woman think she was only a television reporter. “Forgive me, Baroness, but you must know that I'm Leonard Dougherty's daughter.”

Her frown had a blankness to it. “I do not understand.”

Guilt. Kelly felt it, and try as she might, she couldn't rationalize it away. “He has been accused of killing your husband.”

There was a paling of her face as Natalie half turned her head away. “I knew a man had been arrested. If I was told his name....”

There was no hysteria, no raging storm of accusations, no fit of weeping, just a deep, silent anguish that Kelly found unbearable. That half-formed conviction that it was a mistake to stay here crystallized into a certainty.

“I'm sorry, Baroness. My being here will only upset you. I'll go at once.” Leaving her cup on the sideboard, Kelly moved quickly toward the door.

Before she'd taken three steps, the baroness raised a hand to stop her. “No, please.”

Katherine walked in, her sharp eyes quickly taking in the scene. “Natalie. How good of you to join us. You remember Kelly Douglas, of course.”

“Formerly Dougherty,” Kelly insisted firmly. “I told her who I am.”

Katherine smiled smoothly, showing no surprise. “Kelly has become the unfortunate victim of a great deal of media attention due to the actions of her father. Sam suggested she take refuge with us, and I agreed.”

“And I'm grateful, but I think, under the circumstances, it would be best if I left.”

“Nonsense.” Katherine reacted strongly and would have said more, but Natalie Fougere's soft voice interposed.

“There is no need for you to go.”

Kelly shook her head. “That's very kind of you , but my being here can only be a constant and unpleasant reminder of all that's happened.”

The baroness seemed surprised by that. “How can you remind me of something I cannot forget? With each breath I draw, the pain of Emile's death is with me. Your presence cannot make it worse, but it would hurt me to know I am the cause if you would leave here.”

Kelly tried to argue, but Katherine stepped in. “Natalie is right. You will stay, and we will hear no more of this talk about leaving.”

Trapped, Kelly could think of no argument to make. She gave in, as graciously as she could, and made an excuse to go to her room on the pretext of penning a letter to a nonexistent friend. In her room, she felt even more confined and restlessly prowled its limits until she was summoned for the noon meal.

An ominous bank of clouds loomed on the western horizon, a foreshadowing of rain in their darkness. The sun rode high in the sky, blithely ignoring them as it blazed over a valley of vineyards.

From the French doors in the main salon, Katherine gazed at the threatening clouds, their blackness matching her troubled mood. They were far off yet, always with the chance they would miss the valley altogether. It was true of other things as well, but that thought failed to comfort her.

She was getting old, she told herself. She'd started seeing things that weren't there. Seeing ghosts. And perhaps Natalie would see ghosts now. She thought of Emile's widow in the library, making all those distressing calls, handling so many tiresome details, dealing with various important matters that seemed so unimportant, just as she herself had once done so very long ago.

The air in the room suddenly seemed close, suffocating. Katherine threw open the doors and stepped onto the terrace. The splashing of water pulled her attention from the dark line of clouds beyond the Mayacamas. Following the sound to its source, she saw the slender shape of Kelly Douglas slicing through the water in the swimming pool, her long legs kicking, the powerful, reaching strokes of her arms driving her across the length of the pool. In a race with demons, Katherine suspected, and exhaustion the trophy. Once she too had worked until she was too tired to think, to feel.

She watched as Kelly made three more laps of the pool at the same killing pace before she stopped and hauled herself out of the water. A tall, wand-slim woman, her arms and legs glistening with moisture, her shoulders and chest heaving from the exertion, the gold swimsuit, one of several Katherine kept for guests, gleaming brighter than the sun. She slicked back her long hair and let it hang down her back in a dark curtain, faintly glinting with red.

Distantly came the chime of the doorbell, Katherine turned with a frown. No one was expected this afternoon. Who would arrive unannounced?

Her curiosity aroused, Katherine went back in the main salon and through to the marbled hall, arriving as Mrs. Vargas opened the front door. Katherine stiffened when she saw the distinctive silver-gray mane of hair that could belong only to her son Gil. A second later it was confirmed when she heard his voice inquiring after Natalie. His son, Clay, it appeared, was with him.

“Show them in, Mrs. Vargas,” she instructed and walked the length of the marbled hall to the front door, her cane tapping the floor with each step.

She nodded to the housekeeper in dismissal and faced her son, noting his guarded expression and the watchfulness in his eyes. “You came to see Natalie. Is that wise?”

An eyebrow lifted smoothly. “Courteous, I believe. We came to offer our condolences, and our assistance.”

“Of course.” She accepted the excuse he gave, recognizing it for what it was.

“How is the baroness?” Clay inquired, his handsome face wearing an expression of appropriate concern.

“She has recovered from the initial shock of Emile's death,” Katherine replied. “Time will take care of the rest.”

“Will you let her know we're here?” Gil requested, his eyes silently challenging, his hostility carefully banked. Katherine longed to tell him it was wasted, but he wouldn't believe her, just as he had not believed her at the party the other night.

“She is in the library.” She leaned heavily on her cane for an instant, then turned and led the way, listening to their following footsteps, one set quick and firm, the other slow and calculated. Yet in some way both were similar.

What was that banal phrase? Like father, like son. But Gil was nothing like his father, her beloved Clayton. That ambition, that single-minded determination to succeed, Gil had gotten from her. He'd passed it on to his son, along with cunning and guile. Each possessed traits that could have been good if they hadn't become twisted. Was Gil right? Was the fault hers?

Her sigh was a silent sound as Katherine paused before the closed library doors. She knocked lightly and walked in. Natalie sat in the leather wing chair by the dead fireplace, as if seeking warmth from it. Her gaze was fixed on its blackened interior, her features pale and drawn, a sheaf of faxed messages gripped loosely in her fingers.

“Natalie.” Katherine stood in the doorway, observing the startled turn of the woman's head, the blank look that was replaced by momentary confusion. “You have visitors.”

“Visitors?” She rose uncertainly to her feet. Her hesitation increased, accompanied by a sudden rush of color to her cheeks, when she saw Clay and Gil Rutledge standing in the hall outside the doors. “I . . She fumbled with the papers, then turned away, touching her lips, then bringing her hand down to rest against her throat. “Please, show them in.”

Katherine stepped aside to admit them, one hand staying on the brass doorknob. She was slow to leave, covertly watching as Gil approached Natalie first, clasping both her hands and raising them to his chest, murmuring words of sympathy. Yet it was Clay Natalie's glance went to. Katherine walked out, deliberately leaving the door open.

The music room was but a short distance down the corridor from the library. Drawn by the sight of the ebony black piano, Katherine walked in and moved slowly to it. She lowered herself onto the hard piano bench and ran a hand over the smooth black wood that concealed the piano keys.

She smiled faintly, remembering the hours of lessons both her sons had taken. It had been years since anyone had played the piano. No doubt it was dreadfully out of tune. Which wouldn't have troubled Jonathon at all, Katherine recalled, the curve of her lips increasing with amusement and fondness. The poor boy had been tone-deaf, completely unable to recognize when he struck a wrong note. Gil had taunted him unmercifully about it. But Gil had been so much more musically skilled, mastering the piano with the ease of a natural.

“Would Madam care for some tea and cakes?” The housekeeper's voice broke across her thoughts, scattering them.

“That would be fine, yes.” Katherine flicked a hand in impatient dismissal, then lowered it to her lap. Once there her fingers fidgeted anxiously with the material of her dress.

Katherine stared at the piano, her eyes dark again, troubled again, the worry lines of anxiety and confusion back again. She longed to stop this wondering. She should have asked them, confronted them, but she was too uncertain in her own mind...and too afraid she wouldn't be able to distinguish between truth and lies.

She hated growing old. She hated this body that could no longer be trusted, this mind that kept wandering, these eyes that looked at the present yet sometimes flashed images from the past.

Voices, subdued and indistinct, drifted to her from the library. Katherine managed to separate the sound of Gil's from the others. A moment later she heard footsteps in the corridor. They belonged to Gil. Even after all these years she could recognize his quick, firm tread. He had always been in a hurry, always determined to get where he was going.