The Secret of the Villa Mimosa (49 page)

Nick ignored the speed limits. It would normally take him a couple of hours to Cavaillon, but tonight he cut thirty minutes off that. It was a silent drive; both he and Phyl were too worried to talk.

Besides, Phyl thought, staring out at the countryside, they had discussed it endlessly. What more was there to say?

They were cruising along the N100, searching for the Café Saintons. In the deepening dusk they almost drove past it. It was, after all, just an anonymous little roadside stop like a hundred others along the route. There were a couple of pickup trucks parked outside and a blue Opel Rekord with German plates, but Bea’s white Mercedes was not there. Nor was the black Ferrari.

The patron lifted his eyes from the sports section of his newspaper and looked at them sourly. “
Bon soir, m’sieur, ’dame
,” he said, folding the paper and lighting another cigarette. The other customers flicked interested glances in their direction as Nick ordered two Kronenbourgs and asked the owner if he had seen a red-haired young woman earlier.

The patron removed the beers from the refrigerator and slapped them onto the zinc with a couple of damp glasses. He shrugged indifferently. “It’s possible, m’sieur. Many people come in here; it is a popular café.”

Nick stared at him with exasperation. “A pretty young woman, short red hair. She had a large brown dog—”

“Ah, the dog. Of course, m’sieur, why did you not say so?” He ground out his cigarette and wiped the damp circles slowly off the bar with a wet rag. “She was here,” he said. “She was waiting for a telephone call. After it came, pfff, she was off like a rocket. ‘Out of
here,’ as they say in the movies” he added in a terrible approximation of an American accent.

“Do you know where she went?”

“How would I know? I’m no mind reader.”

Nick looked at Phyl. “There’s only one place we can try. The family’s summer home was near Bonnieux.” He threw some money on the counter and grabbed Phyl’s hand as they ran from the café.

The patron stared after them. He looked at the two untouched beers and the money. He glanced at the other customers and shrugged in disbelief. “Mad foreigners,” he said, taking a swallow of the Kronenbourg and returning to the sports page.

They almost missed the Bonnieux turnoff, a narrow little road leading through flat fields of vineyards, then snaking steeply up to the village perched on top of the hill. It was dark when they finally got there. The steep cobblestoned streets were empty, and the medieval stone houses already shuttered for the night, but they found a couple of cafés open, and a gallery selling the works of local artists and craftsmen. And the proprietor knew where Johnny Leconte Jones lived.

“Everyone does, of course,” he told Nick, regarding him suspiciously. “But he was a very private man. He needed his solitude for his art, and we respected that privacy. No one around here would tell you where Monsieur Jones lived.”

“But it’s urgent,” Phyl said desperately. “His daughter, Marie-Laure, is a friend of mine. In fact, she is my patient. She needs help, I’ve come all the way from San Francisco to help her … please, m’sieur….”

Bea sat on the terrace waiting for Brad. She had been there an hour, and there was still no sign of him. Now it was almost dark. Her stomach was tied in a thousand knots, and her heart thumped rapidly as a dozen different scenarios passed through her mind: the children bleeding, abandoned, shot … or maybe
pushed over a cliff, like her…. “Dear God,” she prayed, “just let him free the children, I’ll do anything, just let them go unharmed … I promise.”

She remembered the first time Brad had called her all those months ago. She had just returned home from France, where she had gone after her parents’ funeral. She hadn’t yet contacted any friends to let them know she was back, and she was in the middle of unpacking in the sad, silent house when he called.

“Hi, I’m Brad Kane,” he said. “I don’t know if you’ve heard about me, but I think I have some explaining to do. Some amends to make for the things my grandfather Archer Kane did.”

She had recognized the name instantly, of course, from her father’s story, and she had been on her guard. “How did you know about me?” she asked warily.

“I read your father’s obituary in
The New York Times
, and I saw a photograph taken at the funeral in a magazine. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

He sounded so warm, so sincere she felt herself wanting to believe him. Still, she asked herself why he was calling now, after all these years. Her father had never wanted anything to do with the Kanes. “Let sleeping dogs lie,” he had warned.

“Look, maybe this is a bad time,” Brad said hesitantly. “I don’t want to upset you. In fact, quite the opposite. I’ve been learning a bit about my own family history.
Our
history, Marie-Laure. After all, we are related. In fact you may be my only living relative.”

And you may be mine
, she thought with surprise.

“I need to get things off my mind, expiate my grandfather’s sins. That’s why I need to talk to you. Marie-Laure, the Kanoi Ranch is one of the largest in America. And half of it legitimately belongs to you. I’d like you to come out here to Hawaii and see it. See for yourself what your grandmother’s money helped create. I think, I hope, she would be proud of it, despite
everything. And I’d like to think Johnny Leconte’s daughter would be, too.”

“My father didn’t want any part of the ranch. He didn’t want to know anything about the past,” she said passionately. “He hated Jack Kane.”

“I know,” Brad said sadly. “And with good reason. But I am not Jack. I am his son, and I have to live with the guilt. Please, for my sake as well as yours, Marie-Laure, won’t you allow me to make amends? Don’t let me go on feeling all this guilt. At least come and see the ranch. Maybe you’ll even fall in love with it.”

He sounded so nice, as though he really wanted to see her. In her loneliness the thought of Hawaii and the ranch was tempting. It would be fascinating to see the place where her father had grown up. Perhaps Brad was right; perhaps they could finally make up for all the past evil. She forgot her father’s warning and went.

A sleek Gulfstream IV was waiting in San Francisco to fly her to Honolulu, and then a small two-engine Cessna took her the short last hop to the ranch. Brad was waiting for her at the airstrip, and she was surprised to see how handsome he was. She hadn’t known what to expect, but she remembered her father had said the Kane men were blond and good-looking, and she thought Brad must look like them. He was wearing jeans and a denim work shirt and boots, and as she shook his hand, she told him that he looked like a real working rancher.

“Of course I am,” he said, looking deep into her eyes. “Your photograph did not do you justice,” he added. “I didn’t expect anyone as pretty as you.”

He was so relaxed she felt instantly at home. They drove up the long avenue of banyans to the little ranch house built by Archer Kane. He showed her the flower gardens and the sprawling acreage with the pedigree herds of the finest cattle. He took her to see the little town built by the Kanes for the paniolos and their families
and the school and the medical facility and the church that Kane money had built.

“Just so you don’t go on thinking we were all bad,” he said lightly, smiling at her. “And so you’ll know that your grandmother’s money was put to good use.”

At the end of the long day they drove back to the airstrip. As they climbed back into the Cessna, he said casually “And now I’m taking you to Kalani.”

Kalani. The beautiful, terrible island where her father had been kept prisoner for ten long years. Brad saw what she was thinking, and he leaned over and took her hand. “Marie-Laure,” he said gently, “let’s both go and exorcise our ghosts.”

Brad piloted the Cessna himself. He circled the island, pointing out the twin volcanic peaks, the great cliffs on the northeastern tip, and the forested gulches, and the meadows with the contentedly grazing prize Herefords. In the Jeep on the way to the lodge, Marie-Laure tried to imagine the skinny little “Monkey” and his lonely life here. There had been happy times, her father had told her, when Jack and Archer were away and he was left alone with Maluhia and Kahanu. And then he had discovered painting, and that had given new meaning to his life.

The lodge was a long, low white house with a palm thatch roof. “It doesn’t look much different from when your father lived here,” Brad said easily as a Chinese servant came running down the steps to collect her bag. “In fact, I’ve put you in his old room. I thought you would like that.”

She threw him a grateful glance; he seemed to think of everything.

Her father’s old room was small; there was just enough space for a narrow brass bed and a night table. A braided blue rug covered the dark wood floor, and some old black-and-white photographs of Kalani hung on the walls. French doors led out onto the lanai and the glorious view of the gardens and the ocean.

Marie-Laure lay down on the bed. She put her hands behind her head, staring out at the lawns and the palm trees and the ocean. Her father must have lain here, just this way, looking at the very same view, and praying that Jack Kane would not come back. How many mornings, she wondered, had the little five-year-old boy woken in that familiar haze of misery, wondering what fresh torture Jack would have in store for him that day? How many nights had he lain here wondering how he could escape.
Wondering if he would ever escape
.

Yet from all that madness, all that violence, Brad Kane had emerged unscathed. He was gentle, and good, and sympathetic. He understood that what Archer and Jack had done was wrong. She was smiling as she showered, anticipating the evening ahead, and it occurred to her that she hadn’t felt like smiling since her parents died. Perhaps it was good that she had come to Kalani after all. She put on a simple cream silk shirt and long black skirt and the new red sandals she had bought on an impulse in Avignon just last week. She hesitated at the door, looking back at her father’s old house with a sudden flash of doubt, remembering his words of warning. She was looking forward to seeing Kalani, but she still did not want anything from Brad Kane.

He was standing on the lanai, leaning against the rail with a drink in his hand, watching a pair of red cardinals greedily pecking scraps from a dish. Two enormous black Dobermans crouched on either side of him, their burning eyes fixed on the birds.

“Don’t worry,” he said, seeing her look of horror. “The dogs are well trained. They won’t go near the cardinals. Unless I give them the word, of course.”

“But you won’t,” she said anxiously.

“Of course I won’t. The birds come every night to be fed, just as they have done for decades. Your father would have known them well.”

He poured her a glass of champagne and said, “I
think this merits a toast. To the reunion, finally, of the Lecontes and the Kanes.” He raised his glass and touched it to hers. “To us, my dear Marie-Laure. The survivors.”

“To us,” she repeated, wondering uneasily what her father would have thought.

Brad was the perfect host. The dogs sat docilely behind his chair as they ate the simple meal of freshly caught mahimahi and he talked to her about the history of the ranch and about Kalani. He told her the story of Archer’s Hawaiian first wife and how the island she had named Kalani—Heaven—was their wedding gift and became the cornerstone of the ranch and the Kane family fortune.

“And half of that fortune is now yours,” he said, holding her eyes with his own.

She could see he meant it, and she was touched. She reached out and took his hand across the table. “I don’t need it, Brad,” she said. “I don’t want it. The past is the past. Kanoi Ranch belongs to you. Besides, I can see how much you love it, and it means nothing to me.”

“You are very generous, Marie-Laure,” he said, with an odd little smile.

“It’s not generosity. My father felt that his inheritance blighted his life. It was the cause of his unhappiness, and he wanted nothing to do with it. Nor do I.” She hesitated. “Except perhaps for the Villa Mimosa.”

Brad threw back his head and laughed. “I offer you half the Kanoi Ranch and you tell me all you want is the Villa Mimosa. Do you know, I’ve never even seen it?”

“I have. Just once,” she said. “It’s beautiful. Kalani is your place, but the villa belongs to my family. It was my grandmother’s house; my father was born there. He was happy there, for a while, until …” She didn’t want to say any more. Brad Kane knew the story of
Johnny Leconte’s abduction from the Villa Mimosa just as well as she did.

“Then of course, it is yours,” he said abruptly. “And now I’ll say good-night, Marie-Laure. I have some paperwork to do.”

“Good night, Brad,” she called after him, puzzled as he strode away. The two huge black dogs followed silently at his heels, like shadows.

She slept soundly that night in her father’s old room. The soft slap of the waves hurling themselves onto the shore lulled her dreams. And when she woke and saw the pearly dawn sky and the flocks of brightly colored birds chirruping outside her window, she smiled and thought that Lahilahi had named her island well. It was truly “heaven.”

A Chinese servant brought a tray with hot coffee and rolls. The tropical colors of the sliced fresh fruits looked like a jeweled mosaic on a plate.

Curiously she asked the servant how he had known she was awake.

He smiled mysteriously. “We always know, missy,” he said, busily setting out the dishes on the table on the lanai.

He looked frail and thin as a reed in his white cotton mandarin jacket and black trousers, and though his delicately boned face had almost no lines, Marie-Laure knew he must be very old. She asked him how long he had worked for the family.

“For many years, missy, since I was a young man,” he said clasping his hands and bowing his head courteously. “First I worked a long time for Mr. Jack at Diamond Head. Then, after he died, for Mr. Brad. And now, when I am an old man, I stay here mostly on Kalani. Mr. Brad says it is easier here for me.” He smiled mischievously at her. “He want me to retire, but I say no. No retire. Like your father, I work till I die.”