The Chase: A Novel (55 page)

Claire watched him, with excitement. Would life ever be the same? she wondered happily. “Hey, Ian?”

“What,” he said, dialing.

“Want a partner?”

At first he didn’t get it, then he dropped the phone and stared. “You’re kidding, right?”

Claire grinned.

One year and several months later

The doorbell rang. But Jilly was already barking.

It was Friday, and Claire had left work at noon. She had taken office space to continue all of her charitable work, just a few blocks from their new apartment—after their wedding eight months ago, they had realized they would need a three-bedroom, at least. On Fridays she liked to get home early and prepare a festive family dinner, one far more elaborate than usual. In a way, it was her tribute to Eddy and Rachel.

The microdots they had found stuck between the canvas and the frame on the Courbet had been the photographs taken by Eddy just before he died. In them, he had captured the young Lionel Elgin meeting a German U-boat officer, and at Lionel’s side had been a young woman in men’s clothes: Elizabeth.

Her trial was pending in another month. She was having the book thrown at her, and there was little doubt that she would be convicted for every single one of her crimes.

Jean-Léon remained in Tiburon, completely immersed in the world of art. They spoke over the phone every week or so, and once in a while Claire saw him when he came to New York on business.

William had sold every single one of the homes he had shared with his wife. He had bought a penthouse apartment in New York, where he spent most of his time, although he had also purchased a villa in St. Lucia. Claire saw him several times a week, and they had become very close. He had not spoken to or seen Elizabeth since her incarceration. As far as he was concerned, she had died.

If he was grieving for what he had thought he had, Claire did not know. He seemed to be going on with his life in a forceful and determined manner. He would be joining them for dinner that night—he never missed a Friday-night dinner unless he was out of town.

Now Claire wiped her hands on a kitchen towel, wondering why the dog-walker hadn’t let herself in, as it was about that time.

But the doorbell rang again. Obviously it wasn’t the dog-walker, who had keys.

“Should I get it?” Ian called from one of the bedrooms. He tried to take half days on Fridays, as well.

“No, I’ll get it.” Claire crossed the hall and opened the door, Jilly on her heels.

And she almost fainted.

The young man half smiled and fidgeted nervously, finally removing a pair of sunglasses. Green eyes met hers.

“Eddy?” Claire whispered, stunned. He was a dead ringer for Eddy Marshall. The curling black hair, the fair skin, the height, the build. He was even about the same age; Claire pegged him at twenty or so.

“Ma’am?” He hesitated. “I’m sorry to just drop by.” He spoke with a British accent. “I’m looking for Mr. and Mrs. Ian Marshall.”

“Ian!” Claire called, trembling now. “Come in, come in,” she said to the young man.

“My great-aunt seemed to think I could call on you and that it wouldn’t be terribly improper,” he continued, fiddling with his sunglasses.

“Your great-aunt?” Claire whispered in shock.

“Hannah Blenheim, but she used to be Hannah Greene.”

He was Rachel and Eddy’s grandson!

Ian came out of the office, holding Rachel Anne in his arms. She was only two months old, and she was watching her father with wide, unwavering blue eyes. Ian saw the young man in the baggy jeans and backpack standing in their foyer, and he turned white, halting in his tracks.

“And you are?” Claire whispered.

The young man flushed. “I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Neal Marshall.” He smiled uncertainly.

Ian handed Claire the baby and said, staring as if Neal were one of the ghosts he did not believe in, “You’re Eddy Marshall’s grandson.”

Neal nodded. “I guess I should have called. I don’t know. But I finally got the courage to meet you.”

“You didn’t have to call—we’re so pleased to meet you,” Claire cried.

He glanced at her uncertainly. “My father died a few months ago of a heart attack. My mother’s in a nursing home. Ever since, I’ve been obsessed with finding my family. There’s only Hannah left on the Greene side, and one cousin from my mother’s side. But my father always said there were Marshalls in New York.”

“I’m your cousin,” Ian said softly. “Eddy was my uncle.”

Neal smiled a little, still uncertain.

Ian clasped his back.

Claire blinked back hot tears. They looked so much like father and son.

“How old are you?” Ian asked. “How long are you here? Can you stay with us? The rest of my family will want to meet you.”

Claire bit back her smile. Neal had no idea what he was getting into—their small, intimate wedding had numbered 105 guests. Claire had invited only a dozen of her closest friends, William, and Jean-Léon. Every other guest had been a Marshall: an aunt or uncle, brother or sister, cousin or in-law. No to mention their kids.

“Actually, I’m going to NYU this year. I’m a junior,” Neal said. “I’m going to finish up my B.A. over here. I’ve always wanted to live in America.” He shrugged as if that made no sense.

“That’s great!” Ian exclaimed. “Can you stay for supper?”

“Well, yeah,” Neal said, looking from Ian to Claire.

“We would love to have you,” Claire said softly.

Suddenly Ian grabbed him. “Hey, do you like to fly?”

Neal brightened. “I love to fly! I’ve been flying ever since I was thirteen years old.”

“That’s great! I keep a twin-engine out at Teeterboro. Want to take her for a little spin tomorrow?”

Neal’s eyes were wide. “I’d like nothing more,” he said.

Rachel Anne had fallen asleep in bed between them. Claire was reluctant to move her to her crib just yet. She stroked her downy hair, filled with a mother’s infinite love.

Ian leaned over the baby toward Claire. “I can’t get over it.”

“I know.” She met his shining eyes. “It’s almost a miracle, Ian. Rachel gave birth before she was killed. Her sister Sarah raised the boy. And today their love lives on in Eddy’s grandson, Neal.”

Ian smiled at her. “You are so romantic.”

“I am so happy.” They smiled at each other. “Ian, this feels so right. I mean, the moment I saw him, before he even said who he was, I was overcome. He feels like family.”

“He is family, Claire,” Ian said firmly. “He’s our family.”

Claire sighed and stroked the soft crown of Rachel Anne’s head again. “If I ask you something, will you promise not to laugh at me?”

“I promise,” Ian said, kissing the baby’s tiny little hand.

“Do you think that maybe, just maybe, we could buy a bigger apartment—just in case Neal needs his own room to come to now and then?”

Ian smiled, but he did not laugh. “How come we think alike?” He leaned over to her until their lips were brushing.

“Great minds,” Claire whispered.

“Yeah, Red,” Ian said—a long time later.

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ARTIN’S
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The phone call came at one in the morning.

It would change her life.

She hung up the receiver, stunned. And for one moment, Kait was simply paralyzed. After all these years—how many had it been?—Lana had walked right back into her life.

Kait fought to breathe, fought to think. Lana had sounded frightened and tense, which was completely uncharacteristic for her. What did she want? All she had said was that they had to meet, and now, and that there was no time. Oh, God. Something had to be terribly wrong for her sister to so suddenly reappear in her life this way.

Kait leapt from the bed, sweating, even though it was a pleasant autumn night. Memories of the past began to dance around her, taunting, teasing, tearful—expectant. She was afraid—but she was also hopeful.

How many nights had she lain in bed, her mind straying to the twin sister who had chosen to walk away from their relationship, who had almost completely disappeared? How often had she thought of hiring an investigator to find out where Lana was and if she was all right? But just when she was a heartbeat away from doing so, Lana would call, telling her that she was in Paris or Rio, asking how she was, reassuring Kait that all was well. Those calls were few and far between. They lacked detail and substance. But they had always given Kait hope, which she had clung to.

And now Lana was here, in Manhattan, insisting that they meet.

Kait dashed to the closet, grabbing jeans. She
had
to go. It never even crossed her mind to say no, because this telephone call, unlike the others, signaled that something was terribly wrong.

Five minutes later, she was hurrying down Central Park West, past several doormen, who regarded her with bleary eyes from behind the locked front doors of the buildings they kept. She veered left, fully alert and no longer dazed, but tense now with worry. Possibilities flooded her mind. What did Lana want? When had she last spoken to her? The phone call, coming like this, felt like an emotional mugging. Kait not only didn’t know what to think, she didn’t know how to feel. She was frightened, but, dear God, this time, Lana wasn’t going to walk out of her life again.

In spite of the tears that burned the backs of her eyelids, Kait was determined. Somehow, this phone call would be a new beginning for them.

The coffee shop on Columbus Avenue was brightly lit and surprisingly busy. Her steps slowed as she approached, her heart lurching and then racing with overwrought nerves. Fear of rejection made her want to turn around and run away, but Kait pushed open the door firmly instead. If Lana wanted to resume their relationship, she would not be calling in the middle of the night. Clearly she wanted something else. Whatever it was, Kait intended to deliver, for that might bring them together. But their estrangement had begun so many years ago, in late childhood and early adolescence. And Kait had never understood
why
.

She inhaled harshly, stepping through the glass door and into the illumination of the too-bright interior lights. As she did she caught a glimpse of her frighteningly pale reflection in the mirror on one wall—she had never been this starkly white, the contrast almost gruesome with her short, dark hair. And even from a short distance, there was no mistaking the trepidation in her blue eyes.

What
could
Lana want? What
had
happened?

And why couldn’t this have been a simple reunion, in the light of day?

She turned, her gaze swinging out over the crowd in the coffee shop. Most of the patrons were in their twenties, having had that one extra drink and now eating off the effects. The atmosphere was oddly festive and extremely noisy, a glaring contrast to her own nerves and state of mind.

Lana stood up from a booth where she had been sitting alone.

Kait saw her and froze.

And the words rang in her head, so loudly, she expected the diners in the café to turn and look at her.
Please let me have a sister now.

She told herself that people did change, and even if Lana hadn’t, maybe she needed her only family now as much as Kait did.

Lana was her sister, her twin, and she had never stopped loving her, even if the hurt had been so insidious, an inflicted wound so tiny and microscopic at first that it had been years and years before she had ever recognized its terrible presence.

Tears blurred her vision. But she was there; she was really there.

“Kait,” Lana whispered. “Kaitlin!”

She swallowed and somehow pulled herself together, moving toward the stunning brunette who could have been herself. “Hello, Lana.” She paused at the edge of the table within the booth.

Lana stepped swiftly out—her restless energy had hardly dimmed, Kaitlin thought. Nor had she really aged—she appeared to be in her late twenties, and their last encounter had been about seven years ago, when they were twenty-five.

Lana was five foot five, her face a perfect oval, her complexion naturally fair, but brushed now with the slight bronze glow of one who lived a healthy, outdoors life. Her dark hair was cut in a bob that was just above her shoulders, and she remained a perfect size six with Susan Lucci curves. Kaitlin was thinner, and she had had her hair cut gamine- short with flirty layers and trendy little wisps that poked about however they pleased. She realized that Lana was also surveying her.

“You look like a kid in that cut,” Lana said with a sudden, strained smile.

“You’re still gorgeous,” Kaitlin heard herself reply. Now was not the time to cry.

“Do you hate me?” Lana’s eyes met Kaitlin’s, pointed and direct.

“I never hated you,” Kaitlin cried, the truth. “I’m so happy to see you!”

Lana’s tension visibly decreased. She smiled, and went from gorgeous to breathtaking. “I miss you, Kait.”

The hope flared. It became consuming, full-blown. “I miss you, too.” There was so much Kait wanted to ask, but words failed her now. Where did Lana live? What was she doing for a living now? But, mostly, she wanted to know why they weren’t real sisters, why they weren’t friends. Their mother had died of cancer when they were children, but several years ago their father had died as well, and Lana was the only family Kait had.

“Kait? Let’s sit down. I don’t have a lot of time.”

Kait didn’t move. “But—you only just got here,” she began.

Lana gripped her hands. “I’m in terrible trouble. I need your help. I know I’ve been a rotten sister, but that’s going to change now, Kait, really. I need your help, just for a couple of days.” Suddenly she released her hands, withdrawing a sealed envelope from her handbag. “This letter will explain everything.”

Kait was reeling. “What do you mean you’re in trouble? What’s wrong? And of course I’ll help, you know I’d always help you, Lana, always!” But even as she spoke, meaning her every word, she was sick, because Lana was clearly leaving her again, and it was too soon, too much; Kait simply couldn’t digest what was happening.