Intrusion: A Novel (3 page)

FIVE

T
he private ballroom of the spa hotel, designed with Italian marble and crystal lights, had French doors running along one side that were open to a pool, softly lit and surrounded by rocks, palms, and cacti. Kat, nervous, paused at the entrance.

“Come on,” Maggie said. “It’s an open bar.”

A couple of dozen people milled around, sipping cocktails, and the noise level was at an animated conversational pitch. Mike Miyamoto, the managing partner of Scott’s law firm, stood just beyond the open doors with his wife, Phannie. He greeted Kat warmly, welcomed Maggie.

“Thank you so much for inviting me,” Maggie said. “It’s an impressive place.”

“It is indeed,” said Miyamoto, before turning back to Scott. “Lafitte’s here already. We should make introductions.”

Scott glanced at Kat. She read his concerned expression and nodded.

“Go ahead. We’ll get a drink.”

“An excellent idea,” said Maggie.

Kat found that with Maggie close by, and a regular supply of drinks, she was able to survive the first hour with surprisingly little discomfort. She endured the bear hug from one of the older partners, and a tight, sad hug from his wife, their sympathy for her making them virtually inarticulate. Most of the younger partners and their wives said hello, chatted a little, and then moved on. Glenda, Scott’s bright, Harvard-educated associate, came over, kissed Kat on the cheek, murmured a welcome, and then drifted off toward easier company. A few minutes later, one of the young male associates did the same.

James Dempsey found them eventually and stopped to talk. Introduced to Maggie, he studied her, shaking his head.

“It’s amazing. You two are not a bit alike. Not in looks, anyway. One blonde, one redhead. My brother and I are just peas in a pod. Of course,” James added, grinning, “you’re both gorgeous.”

Kat and Maggie exchanged looks and smiled just as Scott joined them.

“Going well, boss,” James said. “Ted Lafitte’s pleased. Where’s the head honcho of that European group? I thought we were getting an introduction.”

“It’s a woman,” Scott said. “Miyamoto said she’s on her way. Wait, is that her?”

James turned and looked in the direction of the door.

“Oh, Christ. Oh, bloody hell,” said Maggie sharply.

Kat turned to look. There was an obvious stirring at the edge of the room from the arrival of a late guest. A slender brunette stood alone in the entrance. She posed with her chin tilted, as if expecting photographers. Her hair was swept to one side, held back with an emerald clasp, and she wore an elegant cream silk gown. A beautiful woman, quite used to attention. She smiled serenely as Miyamoto, his wife close behind, hurried forward to greet her. Kat, rigid with shock, simply stared. The same smile, the same air of absolute confidence. A natural grace that Kat had once envied and tried hard to copy. Sarah Cherrington, twenty years later.

“Sarah,” she whispered. “I don’t believe it.”

“What the bloody hell is she doing here?” asked Maggie.

Scott looked from one to the other. “You know her?”

“Knew her years ago,” Kat said. “We were at school together.”

“Hey, that could be good.”

“Do not be so sure,” Maggie said.

“Think she’ll remember you?” Scott asked.

“Oh, yes,” Kat said. “We were at the convent school together. Then, at university we were flatmates. We were best friends once. Good grief, what a surprise.”

“Shock, more like,” said Maggie.

Scott placed an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “You moved in gilded circles, sweetheart. She’s a possible new client.”

“I thought it was a conglomerate or something,” Kat said.

“It is. She heads it. She’s Sam Harrison’s widow. She inherited the entire estate.”

“Well, that makes sense,” Maggie said. “Sarah was destined to marry some old geezer and inherit everything.”

Scott looked at his sister-in-law, frowning.

“He was not exactly an old geezer, Maggie. He was in his fifties, I think, when he died last year. Had cancer. And she’s quite the businesswoman herself, according to Miyamoto.”

Maggie, unrepentant, shrugged, and Scott caught the look she flashed to her sister.

“You don’t like her?”

“No. I don’t,” said Maggie. “But don’t mind me. A client’s a client. Rich widow or not.”

“Mags,” said Kat in an undertone, “she’s probably changed.”

They both looked over at Sarah, smiling warmly at the group surrounding her. The clear green eyes, slanting slightly, the golden skin, had seemed exotic, Kat remembered, to the other schoolgirls with their freckles and English rosebud looks. Rumors about her had swept the convent school regularly. It was said she was from one of England’s oldest aristocratic families, that she had been expelled from four previous schools, including Elmwood Hall, the exclusive girls’ school in Sussex. She was an orphan; there was talk of her mother’s death as a suicide and speculation as to her real father. She had been thirteen years old when her mother died, just one year before Kat met her. At fourteen, she had riveted an entire convent school. At twenty, as a university student, she attracted both gossip and envy, and had almost as many enemies as friends. But she had always commanded attention, just as she did now at the Palm Island Country Club. Sarah looked older but essentially unchanged.

“You want to go over and say hi?” Scott asked.

As he spoke, Sarah turned her head. She seemed to stiffen, looking hard at Kat, then she gave a smile of recognition and a small shake of her head. She patted the arm of Mrs. Miyamoto, excusing herself, and moved across the room, the green eyes never leaving Kat’s face.

“Caitlin! Dear gods, how is this possible?” she asked, hugging Kat.

The voice was the same: low and melodic. A voice so soft it indicated gentleness and was dangerously deceptive. Sarah was unusual at St. Theresa’s Convent School because she had no discernible accent: not the cultured caw of the upper-class girls, nor the rough Midland of the few day girls. Private tutors and a mother educated in European finishing schools had modulated her voice.

“Sarah, you look exactly the same,” Kat said. “I don’t believe it.”

“Nonsense. I look older. And so do you.”

Sarah held Kat’s shoulders and stood back to study her.

“Though you’re still lovely.”

Maggie’s voice, clear, loud, interrupted her.

“Hello, Sarah,” she said.

Sarah turned, frowning.

“Maggie? Maggie, too? Oh, my goodness. This is just unbelievable.”

Maggie’s smile remained in place, and she extended her arms so that the two women hugged stiffly, barely touching.

“Quite a surprise,” Maggie said.

Sarah looked at her steadily. “Well, well, dear Maggie, you haven’t changed a bit.”

“Honestly?” Maggie asked. “I thought I’d grown.”

“You don’t appear to be blushing, however,” Sarah noted. “I seem to remember you did that all the time.”

“I only blush with pleasure these days,” Maggie said.

“Of course you do,” Sarah said, and turned back to Kat. “It’s been, heavens, how many years since we—?”

Her question was directed at Kat, but Maggie answered.

“Twenty-one. Twenty-one years come the twenty-first of June.”

Sarah turned to look at her.

“The last time we saw you,” stated Maggie, “was on my wedding day. And our anniversary is June twenty-first.”

“Oh, you’re right,” said Sarah slowly. “Your wedding. I do remember. You were so young, Maggie.”

“Old enough,” said Maggie. Though her sister was still smiling, and her voice controlled and pleasant, Kat recognized her look. Maggie was alert, wary, clear dislike in her eyes. “Doesn’t seem like twenty years, does it, since you turned up on our doorstep that night?”

Kat, aware of Scott at her side, interrupted quickly.

“Sarah, do meet my husband. This is Scott.”

“Scott Hamilton,” he said, reaching to shake Sarah’s hand. “One of the partners involved in the project.”

“Really?” Sarah said, appraising him. “Delighted to meet you.”

“And this is James Dempsey, my associate.”

James shot forward, holding out his hand.

“Pleasure, ma’am.”

“Oh, don’t call me ma’am. It’s Sarah. Please.”

Sarah shook his hand, but her attention moved immediately back to Kat, and very lightly she tugged at Kat’s arm to move her away from the group.

“If you will excuse us? We haven’t seen each other in such an age,” Sarah said.

“Of course,” said Scott.

Kat allowed herself to be led away, risking a quick glance at Maggie. Her sister watched Sarah as one would a snake or a rabid dog.

“We must talk,” said Sarah, squeezing Kat’s arm. “It’s been too long.”

Sarah led Kat into the corridor. They were outside a conference room, in an open hallway lit with crystal wall lights and furnished with long linen sofas. She sat down on one of them, pulling Kat down beside her.

“So? Tell me everything,” she said. “How are you?”

Kat returned her look, noting now in the cooler, brighter light, the small age lines, a weariness in the eyes not apparent before.

“Oh, fine. It’s just—” Kat paused, not wanting to go on.

“It’s just? It’s just what? I knew there was something wrong. Knew the moment I saw you. That lost look. Tell me. What’s happened to you, Kat?”

“It’s—our son died,” Kat said. “In an accident.”

“Oh no. I’m so sorry.”

“I really can’t talk about this now, Sarah.”

Sarah moved to touch her hand.

“Of course not. Not here. You must tell me later. When we have time. When we’re alone.”

“Yes. You’ve had a difficult time also? Scott said you lost your husband,” Kat said.

“I did. But I was prepared. He was ill for some time.”

“But that’s hard, too. A long illness.”

“Yes. Those last few months—” Sarah shivered. “He was at home, you see. I had help, of course. And a delightful doctor who came every day. But my nursing skills? Well, you can imagine. But please. Go on. Tell me other things. You’re still a journalist?”

“Not anymore,” Kat said. “I work in a PR agency now. Press releases, brochures. Not the kind of writing I used to do.”

“Then why do it? You were so talented. And such big dreams.”

“The hours are regular. Nine to five. Better than newspapers. When Chris came along, I wanted something less demanding,” Kat said. “And you? What about you?”

“My dreams were rather different from yours, remember? White weddings. Children. No. Not for me. I was tired of being poor. I wanted to change that. And I have.”

Sarah gave a small smile and looked down, twisting the cabochon emerald ring off her finger, then holding it for a few seconds, as if checking its weight, before replacing it.

Kat remembered clearly then, the day before her sixteenth birthday on the cliff edge near Brighton. A gusty, gray day; the Channel had been choppy, a few boats making their rolling way to the Brighton Marina. They had been staying with Sarah’s aunt Helen, at Lansdowne, her huge mansion near the Sussex coast, and the young Sarah wore her weekend outfit: old blue jeans; a thick, black knee-length sweater with holes in the sleeves. She had been pulling at the grass, and whispered in a small, harsh voice.

“I wanted to buy you that pearl ring we saw in the Lanes for your birthday. But I didn’t have enough allowance left. I hate this. Not having enough money. Hate it.”

Only Kat, of all Sarah’s teenage friends, knew that Sarah’s ragged appearance was not, as some of the girls believed, a pose; a bohemian, artistic image that she affected. It was due to lack of funds. Hers was a genteel, aristocratic British poverty, but poverty nevertheless. Kat, even with her working-class, council-house background, had more pocket money to spend.

“Don’t be silly. I don’t need a ring,” Kat had said. And she didn’t. She had no interest in jewelry, would rather have had a book or a CD. But Sarah loved Victorian jewelry and prowled the Brighton Lanes and the many antique shops like a hungry cat. Sarah produced the pearl ring a few days later and gave it to Kat with sullen defiance. Kat was quite certain that Sarah had stolen it. The thought both thrilled and horrified her. She was never able to comfortably wear the ring, was nervous about giving it away lest it had been reported as stolen, and so she had it still, somewhere at the bottom of a drawer.

“You’re very successful in business,” Kat said now. “So says Mr. Miyamoto.”

“Mr. Miyamoto who would like me for a client?” asked Sarah, laughing. She had the same rich, full laugh that Kat remembered from years ago. “Well, he’s quite right. I am.”

She was still smiling when Scott turned the corner. Maggie followed a few steps behind.

“There you are, Mrs. Harrison. Some of my partners are searching for you.”

“Oh, call me Sarah, please,” she said. “And do take me to them.”

Sarah took Scott’s arm, leading him back to the ballroom. She was smiling up at him, her chin raised, shoulders perfectly straight. It was a regal posturing that caused Maggie, following behind with Kat, to whisper.

“Will you look at her? Who does she think she is?”

“Maggie—cut it out.”

But Sarah had swept Scott into the throng, the guests parting to let them through until they reached Miyamoto and his entourage. Then, the group surrounded them again, like a sea tide ebbing back.

“She’s so over the top,” said Maggie. “Way over the top.”

“That’s just how she is. She’s always been like that,” said Kat. “She’s not hurting anyone.”

“No? Wait. Just wait and see.”