The President's Daughter (31 page)

She turned the key again, then downshifted into neutral, held the clutch, and gunned the engine. In what Dina would later recall as a sort of slow motion, the Jeep lurched forward.

And struck the figure that had seemed to come from nowhere directly into the path of the accelerating vehicle.

The thud had been unexpected. The tires bumped as the Jeep ran over some solid thing, and it was a moment before Dina realized with sickening clarity exactly what it was that was tangled beneath the vehicle.

“Sweet Lord.” Dina jumped from the Jeep and crawled on her hands and knees to the body that lay between the front and back wheels and looked into the upturned face, the blue eyes that stared into her own. “Sweet Lord, she’s still alive. . . .”

“Okay, this is number seven,” Simon said as Betsy pulled up a long straight driveway as directed by Jude and sat in front of the rambling Queen Anne–style farmhouse. “And it looks as if someone is still living in this one as well. We haven’t done so well in tracking down these deserted places.”

“There are five more on the list, Betsy, so turn around and head back out to the left.” Jude appeared to study the landscape, as if trying to remember something. “Take the next right,” she said, pointing to the upcoming intersection. “It seems I did hear about a property that was coming up for sale on Henderson Creek Road, but it’s not on the list. Slow down now, Betsy. I think it was the old Matthews place.”

Betsy leaned forward and squinted. “Is that smoke I see back behind those trees?”

“Looks like it.” Simon nodded. “Where is this property?”

“There, over to the right, there’s a FOR SALE sign.”

Betsy slowed, looking for a road. “Where do I turn?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe farther down the . . . yes, there, by that crooked tree. Turn there.”

The road was pocked with holes, but its dry surface bore recent tire marks. Maybe, with any luck . . .

“Look,” Betsy spoke up. “Over there, by the barn. And there, see that shed? There’s the source of the smoke. And there, that’s my Jeep. . . .”

The woman on the ground looked up at Dina even as she struggled to breathe.

Dina fumbled in her bag for her cell phone, punched in 911 before realizing the battery in her cell phone had gone dead.

Sarah coughed, hacking spasms that left her all but breathless.

Dina leaned down and sought the woman’s pulse, found it faint, erratic.

“Maybe the adapter for the phone is in my purse. . . .” Dina stood up and took a step toward the Jeep just as the van raced into view.

“Don’t . . . bother . . .” the woman whispered as she closed her eyes.

“Dina!” Simon called as he slammed on the brakes and leapt from the van.

Dina looked up at his approach. “I tried to call nine-one-one for an ambulance, but my phone is dead. I don’t think she’s going to make it.”

“Oh, sweetheart, thank God you’re alive!” A tearful Jude embraced her daughter. “Thank God. . . .”

“I swear I didn’t mean to hit her. She just came at me, at the Jeep, and slammed into the front of it, fell under the wheels . . .” Dina began to shake as the realization of what had happened began to sink in. “I didn’t mean to hit her. . . .”

Simon reached for Sarah’s wrist to search for a pulse. There was none.

“She said she killed Blythe.”

“She did,” Simon told Dina. “Sarah Decker. Graham’s daughter.”

“She was my half sister,” Dina whispered. “She was my half sister, and she tried to kill me.”

Dina looked up as Betsy wheeled across the dry dirt road.

“I’m sorry,” Dina said as if in a fog. “I broke your headlight. I dented your car. And it’s all shot up—”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t driving it myself,” Betsy said, her face stony. She looked up at Simon and asked, “Is she dead?”

Simon nodded. “It’s over.”

“Do you have an adapter for your phone?” Simon asked Dina.

“I was just going to look for it,” she replied blankly. It was clear to Simon that she was going into shock. “My bag is on the front seat.”

“Blankets?” Simon asked Betsy.

“In the back of the van.” Betsy nodded. “Are you going to call the police?”

“Not yet,” Simon said as he ran toward the van.

He returned in moments with two blankets and a bottle of water, which he handed to Dina.

“Sip at it,” he reminded her as she lifted the water gratefully to her dry lips. “Don’t guzzle.”

He placed one blanket over the woman who lay motionless on the ground, her eyes open to the sky. The other he handed to Jude to wrap around Dina; then he returned to the van.

When he finally rejoined the three women, Dina looked up and asked, “Will an ambulance be here soon?”

“Yes. But it may take a while.”

“I think it will be too late,” Dina said.

“Maybe for her, but not for you.” Jude bit her lip, gingerly holding on to her daughter’s bloody hands.

Simon knelt down and searched for the source of blood on the back of Dina’s shirt.

“It stings.” Dina winced.

“Looks like you were shot,” he said, moving to look at the wound from the front.

“I guess that’s why it stings.” Dina nodded and forced a weak smile.

“It appears that the bullet only grazed your shoulder, though.” Simon looked up as several black cars sped into view.

“That’s not the Henderson police.” Jude frowned.

“No.”

“Who are they?” Dina asked as several men got out of each car.

“FBI. They’ve been looking for you. I called Norton, told him where we were, and he directed them here.”

“How can he do that?” Dina was becoming slightly groggy.

“He apparently has friends in high places. Now, listen to me. I want you to let me do the talking. We’re going to tell them that you’re in shock, which won’t be a lie. But you must listen very carefully to what I say. You will have to be able to repeat the story later. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but—”

“Listen very carefully,” Simon insisted. “It’s very, very important that you know exactly what to say. . . .”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

From the evening news . . .

Sarah Hayward Decker, daughter of the late President
Graham Hayward, Sr., and sister of Rhode Island congressman and rumored presidential candidate Graham
Hayward, Jr., died early this afternoon of injuries she
sustained in what’s been described as a freak accident.
According to Sgt. Thomas Burton of the Henderson,
Maryland, Police Department, Mrs. Decker was meeting
with a landscape designer at a property she and her husband, a retired navy Admiral, were thinking about buying when she was accidentally struck by a vehicle driven
by the landscaper. Congressman Hayward declined comment, requesting privacy for his family. Calls to the home
of former First Lady Celeste Hayward were unanswered.

No charges were filed against the driver of the vehicle
in connection with the accident.

In other national news . . .

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“Hi.” Simon poked his head through the door and looked around the small shop. “I was looking for Dina.”

“Oh.” The woman behind the counter smiled. “You must be Simon. Dina said you’d be coming by this morning.” She walked toward him with her hand out and took his when it was offered. “I’m Polly. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Oh?” Simon grinned. “All good, of course.”

“Of course. You’re the white knight who saved Dina from the bad guy.”

Simon laughed. “I’d love to take the credit, but the truth is that Dina didn’t need much saving by the time I got there. She’s a pretty amazing lady.”

“That she is. Now, to find that amazing lady, you’ll go out this door and down the path that leads through the trees to the greenhouse.”

“I know the way. Thanks, Polly. It was good to meet you.”

“I’ll see you again, I’m sure.”

Polly pulled the curtain aside and watched until Simon disappeared through the trees.

“Nice,” she said aloud, nodding her head in approval. “Very, very nice . . .”

The door to the greenhouse swung open and Dina stepped out, a flat of low-growing plants in her arms.

“Hey!” Simon called to her.

“Hey, yourself!” she called back.

She was wearing jeans that were just a bit snug and a tiny bit dusty and a tank that fit her torso like skin. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders and down her back, and it was all Simon could do to keep from sinking his fingers into those dark curls.

“You think you should be lifting that?” Simon stepped forward to take the flat from her hands. “Weren’t you just shot a few days ago?”

“It’s not at all heavy,” Dina told him as he drew closer, “and it wasn’t much of a wound, though I will admit that my shoulder’s a bit stiff.”

She let him take the flat from her hands. “I’m glad you called. I was hoping you would.”

“I wanted to give you just a little time to catch your breath.”

“I’ve caught it.” She smiled, and something deep inside him twisted and turned.

“Good. You’re feeling all right, then?”

“I’m fine. No permanent damage.”

“I’m glad.” He nodded. “Glad you’re okay.”

“I was just thinking about taking these seedlings out to the field. They need to be hardened a bit before we can offer them for planting in the ground. Want to take a walk? I’ll show you around.”

“Sure.”

Simon carried the flat for her, then placed it where she directed, on the ground in the shade.

“Shouldn’t they be in the sun?” he asked.

“These are young plants. They have to get used to natural light and temperature,” she told him. “A little each day. Otherwise, if they go right from the greenhouse to someone’s garden, they’ll die.”

He nodded as if he understood when, in truth, he was so dazzled by being this close to her again that he could barely comprehend a word she’d said.

“Want to see the lake?” she asked, holding out her hand for his.

“Sure.”

They walked through fields still muddy from last night’s rain, Dina pointing out what she’d planted here and there, Simon barely listening. All of his senses seemed to jumble. All he really knew for certain was that he was here with her and there was no place else he wanted to be. Ever.

“...and next week we’re going to film a piece for the local TV station,” she was saying, “about drying hydrangea. I thought I’d let Polly do that, though she doesn’t know it yet. She’s so good with the dried flowers.”

“Uh-huh,” Simon responded because he thought a response was expected at that point in the conversation, though he couldn’t have repeated what she’d said.

“We’re thinking about doing a little more with the fruit trees this year. We pruned better last fall, and we’re thinking that we might just do a pick-your-own thing this summer if we actually get any fruit. You know, where you let people come in and pick what they want and just pay by the basket, or whatever.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

Dina nodded. “I hate to see all those apples and peaches go to waste. Unfortunately, neither Polly nor I have time to deal with them.”

“Is Mulch-boy still working for you?”

Dina laughed. “You mean Will? Yes, but he’ll be here only through the end of the summer. Then he’ll be off to college. Some of the fruit matures in the fall, and he won’t be around then to pick.”

“Maybe I could give you a hand. You know, be your new Mulch-boy.”

“That would be one hell of a commute.” She led him down toward the pond. “From Arlington to Henderson just to sling a little mulch and pick a few apples? I don’t know how long that old Mustang would hold up.”

“My lease is month-to-month, and I wasn’t planning on renewing. There’s nothing to keep me there,” he said pointedly.
Nothing to keep me anywhere but here . . .

“Where would you go?”

“I was thinking a nice old fixer-upper in a nice, quiet small town might be nice.”

“Plenty of those around.” She sat on a fallen log overlooking the pond and tugged on his hand to join her. “Nice place to live while you’re writing that story.”

“Which story would that be?”

“The one that brought you to Henderson in the first place.” She no longer smiled, and her eyes focused on something across the pond.

“Oh, that story.” Simon sat down next to her, his hands dangling between his knees.

“Ummm.”

“When I first told Philip what I was on to—Blythe, Graham, then you—he asked me to consider what would happen to the people involved if the story was printed. What would happen to your lives.”

“And . . . ?”

“Well, at the time, I couldn’t understand what had gotten into him, that he’d ask me to put a story aside. It made no sense to me at all. I’m a journalist. I find the story, I write it. I was taught—by Philip, incidentally— that nothing was more important than the truth.”

“I sense a ‘but’ in here somewhere—”

“But . . . I look at you—at all of you—and I see so much damage. I see Celeste Hayward, haunted by the truth of her husband’s infidelity and broken by the death of her daughter. I see Gray wrestling with all that he’s learned about his family, knowing that if he runs for office he will have to either lie and perpetuate the myth about his father or reveal some truths that some—you included—do not want revealed. I see Jude, whose biggest sin was to love you enough to want to keep you safe at any cost, enough to tell you the truth even when she knew it could turn you away from her. And at the center of it all, I see you. It all revolves around you. . . .”

Simon seemed to struggle for words. Finally, he said, “I just don’t think it’s the right time for this story to be told. Maybe someday . . . but not right now.”

He turned her face toward his and for a long moment looked into her eyes.

“How could you give it up?” she asked. “
Why
would you give it up?”

“Because I don’t want to be responsible for what will happen to you once the full story is told. I think you’ve had enough to deal with for a while. You’ve had your life turned upside down, found out you weren’t who you thought you were. You’ve been hit over the head, locked in a burning building, shot at—”

Dina smiled weakly. “Don’t forget the mice.”

“What mice?”

“The mice in the shed.”

Simon’s thumb traced the side of her face. “There were mice in the shed?”

“All night long.” Dina shook her head. “Party, party, party.”

Simon raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Sarah threw some dried corn into the shed before she left me there. Just to make sure I didn’t have to spend the night alone.”

“That was thoughtful of her.”

“It was the longest night of my life.” Dina shivered. “And you left out the fact that I was responsible for Sarah’s death.”

“Dina, there’s no one who doesn’t know that that was an accident.”

“I just never saw her until the last second, and even then, she almost appeared like a shadow. I will never forget what those minutes were like, knowing she was dying, knowing I was responsible for taking a life. Even
her
life. You don’t forget something like that easily, Simon. I doubt I ever will.”

“No one could forget, Dina, but you can’t focus your life on that moment, either. Sarah’s death was an accident, and frankly, if anyone was responsible, it was Sarah herself. Her intent in luring you there was to find out where Jude was, so that she could kill her, then kill you, too. Not to make light of the situation, but Sarah Decker wasn’t an innocent party. She was a murderer. And while you can’t change what’s happened, you can try to put it behind you.” Simon drew her to him. “You can start over and go on from here. After all, you have a new life, a new family to get to know.”

“Will you be part of my starting over, Simon?” She touched his face. “Will you be part of my new life?”

“I hope so. I want to be.”

Simon lowered his mouth and kissed her, long and hard, all of the emotions of the past week swelling inside and taking him over. He kissed her again, ignored the pounding in his head and the sweet licks of heat that invaded his body. Her mouth was hot and sweet and all Simon knew for certain at that particular moment was that he was one hell of a lucky guy on this overcast morning.

“Simon.” She placed one finger over his lips, her face flushed, her mouth so ripe that he could barely hear her voice for staring at it. “I just want you to know that I do appreciate that you’ve postponed writing the story. Maybe someday you’ll decide to write it, but for now, I appreciate that you’ve put it aside. I don’t have words to thank you. It’s a hell of a lot to give up.”

Simon shrugged. “Actually, I pretty much gave it up when I gave the story to the Henderson police after Sarah’s death. I couldn’t very well come back later with something else. Unless, of course, I have a desire to go to prison for giving false statements to the police. Obstructing justice. That sort of thing.” He paused, then nibbled at her bottom lip. “I have desires right now, but they have absolutely nothing to do with defending myself in court.”

“Well then, why don’t you tell me about them?” Dina rose and pulled Simon with her. “You can do that while I show you my carriage house.”

“Sounds like one hell of a plan.” Simon took the hand she offered and fell in step with her.

“Oh, it is.” She closed the gap between them and quickened her step. “I think you’ll like it. . . .”

Dina turned over the sign on the greenhouse door to read CLOSED as they walked past. She unlocked the carriage house door and held it open for Simon, then locked it behind them.

“My home,” she said simply.

“Strong colors on the walls and the furniture, enough flowers to make it feminine, enough clutter to make it homey. I’d say it reflects you well.”

“Thank you.” Dina started up the steps. “But I think you should see the rest of the place before you pass judgment.”

“Hmmm. You have a point.” Simon nodded. “I sure wouldn’t want to make any hasty conclusions. . . .”

From the top of the steps, Simon could see into Dina’s bedroom—the old four-poster bed upon which an old quilt spread comfortably, the sheer curtains that blew aside in the gentle morning breeze. Dina stood at the side of the bed, her hands pulling back her hair as she watched him pause in the doorway. Every nerve in her body seemed to hum as he walked toward her, his arms opening, then closing her inside.

She sought his mouth with her own, parting her lips for his tongue, easing back against the side of the bed and taking him with her. She backed onto the quilt, leading him with her hands and her kisses, bringing him along, easing his body onto hers.

“How’s the shoulder?” he asked.

“A bit tender,” she admitted.

“I’ll be gentle.”

“I’m counting on it.”

Her blood pounded in her ears and her breath quickened as Simon’s lips sought the hollow of her throat. His hands found the softness of her breasts and her body arched slightly, offering more.

This, Dina told herself, was chemistry at its best.

A sigh escaped her lips and she smiled to herself. This was exactly what she’d waited for, all her life. Exactly the right feeling, exactly the right man. She tugged her shirt over her head, then helped Simon off with his. She felt herself melting slowly into his body even as he entered hers, and closed her eyes and let herself be washed away on the tide that rose between them, coming to rest only when it finally ebbed.

“You were right,” Simon said when his brain began to function again and his breathing returned to normal. “This was one hell of a plan.”

“I thought so.” Dina lay back against the pillow and smiled.

“Hey, maybe you could give me that job picking apples. You could close down the greenhouse every day around this time.”

“I have to admit it’s tempting, but I think that Polly might start to get suspicious after a while.”

“Would it hurt so much to keep her guessing?”

“Maybe not for a time.” Dina shifted her legs slightly, then asked, “Were you serious about looking for a place to rent in the area?”