Intrusion: A Novel Page 7

  Kat stood, puzzled. Scott took the dress out of her hands, pulled his own suit from the case, and handed them to the maid.

  “Thank you.”

  He turned to Kat as the young woman left.

  “Hey, and laundry service, too,” he said. Kat, noting his smile, felt a surge of irritation.

  “So?” she said.

  Scott turned to her again.

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing. You’re just so happy because you have a maid and a fancy shower.”

  His eyes had lost their warmth as he regarded her.

  “I am not so happy, Kat. And you know that.”

  She shrugged, turned away.

  “I know, I know. Sorry.”

  It was said ungraciously, and Scott did not acknowledge it. Instead, he put his clothes away, then minutes later stepped through the door that led to the shower. Kat heard the rush of water as the shower gushed. She stood, balling her nightgown tightly in her fists, aware that she was being unreasonable. She remembered the first few days after Chris’s death when Scott would answer the phone and say simple things such as Oh, hello. How are you? Things one says by rote, automatically, not thinking. And it would incense her because he sounded quite willing to chat. She had never told him about those surges of unwarranted rage. She was glad now that she hadn’t. The only time she reacted was when she overheard his conversation with the coroner’s office about moving Chris’s body to the funeral home. Scott had said, And you will transfer—the deceased, and she ran crying into the room.

  “Don’t say that! Don’t say the deceased. He’s Chris. Chris!”

  And Scott had looked at her, lost, his eyes so sad, and said, “I don’t know what to say. I don’t know the language for this.”

  God, she had been out of control then. She was losing control again. She took a few long, deep breaths, telling herself that she had only to get through one evening, one night and a morning. That was all. It seemed like an eternity.

  “Sarah, you have excellent taste,” Mrs. Miyamoto said in her tiny, tinkling voice. “I think the English know how to do things.”

  “Not all of them,” said Sarah. “We’ve been in homes, haven’t we, Kat, that one would not describe as tasteful?”

  Kat was not sure whether Sarah was making some reference to her family’s home or just pulling her into the conversation. They sat around the elegant lounge after a dinner of poached salmon and duck. They had studied the model of the country club that was set up in the wood-paneled den, and they had inspected the grounds. Kat knew that she had said little throughout the evening.

  “Taste is so individual, though, isn’t it?” she said with an effort. “Scott and I don’t agree on a thing when it comes to furnishings.”

  “Oh, that’s not true,” said Scott indulgently.

  “We should defer to the women in these matters,” said Miyamoto. “Right, Phannie?”

  His wife gave a shy nod.

  “Your aunt’s house was like this?” she asked Sarah.

  “Yes. Aunt Helen had a home in Sussex. Lansdowne. Beautiful old house.”

  “And you lived with her?”

  “From age twelve on. She was the only one who would take me in. The other aunts couldn’t handle me.”

  “Why couldn’t they handle you?” asked James, leaning forward. He and Glenda were both fascinated by this woman, Kat thought. Their eyes were fixed on her. “You were such a bad kid?”

  “Very bad. Helen was strong stuff, though. Old school.”

  “Ah, the British are an interesting people,” said Miyamoto. “Right, Scott?”

  “Yes, indeed. Once you get over feeling like a Loud Uncouth American everywhere you go.”

  “My goodness, you felt like that with Kat’s family, too?” asked Sarah, winking at Kat.

  “Oh no. They were good to me,” Scott said. “We got on just fine.”

  “They were impressed because he got served so fast in our local pub,” Kat said, remembering her father’s delight. “They didn’t realize that the bar staff made a beeline for him because he gave them huge tips.”

  “Well, I didn’t know it wasn’t the custom,” Scott said. “I had a good time there. A few of those fancy country places, though, I felt like the Marlboro Man. Frontier man. A cowboy. Aware of my loud voice.”

  “Scott, you are a cowboy,” said James, grinning, and the group laughed.

  Kat realized that Scott had been drinking a lot; he was talking more than he had talked for weeks. As the group relaxed, mellowing in the soft light of the room, Sarah’s butler appeared to switch on lamps and bring fresh drinks. Miyamoto sat in an armchair, his wife on the sofa beside James Dempsey. Glenda, her short cap of chestnut hair shining in the lamplight, looked pretty this evening; her angular face was relaxed, and she wore eye makeup for a change, so that her blue eyes sparkled. She perched on the arm of the sofa, her arm draped along the back where James sat, her fingers occasionally brushing his shoulders, just the slightest proprietary touch. Kat wondered briefly about their relationship. They were at least close friends, she guessed. At the very least. And likely more than that.

  Kat sipped her white wine, noticing that somehow, without her being aware of it, her glass had been refilled. Deep in the armchair, she thought how easy it would be to get used to this level of comfort, the ease of absolute wealth. To have someone light lights, refresh drinks. At some unseen request from Sarah, a maid came in with cheese, crackers, fruits, and various kinds of pâté and set them down. The drapes were drawn. Sarah need not concern herself with chores to be done or dishes waiting. It was hard to imagine living like this, every day.

  Eventually, Miyamoto rose from his chair, yawning.

  “If you will excuse us, I think it is bedtime for us. We have an early start.”

  Mrs. Miyamoto stood delicately, hovered as her husband said his good nights, and then Sarah walked the couple to the staircase. Glenda also stood, stretched, and gave James Dempsey a tap on the head.

  “Have to hit the road. Busy day tomorrow. You want a ride back?”

  James regarded her with amusement. He, too, had drunk a little too much and he had a sleepy smile.

  “We could get an early start in the morning.”

  “You drove up together?” Scott asked.

  “Yep. My car,” Glenda said. She turned back to James. “Last chance.”

  Sarah, coming back into the room, intervened.

  “Oh, no. Stay, please. I have rooms ready all over the house.”

  James raised an eyebrow and looked at Glenda.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “You stay,” said Glenda. “But I gotta go.”

  “You’re not going to drive back with Glenda?” Scott asked James. “It’s a heck of a long drive for her alone, this late.”

  “Really, people, come on! James should stay and Glenda, too,” said Sarah.

  Glenda remained firm, shaking her head.

  “Can’t do it,” she said, picking up her purse. “I’ve got a hearing first thing. And an opposition I promised to help with.”

  “A hearing?” Scott asked. “Not for our department. What’s the opposition?”

  “Litigation department. Opposition to a motion for summary judgment. For Mitt Lindsay.”

  “When’s it due?”

  “Day after tomorrow.”

  Scott and James both groaned.

  “Why do you volunteer for this stuff?” asked Scott, an edge to his voice. “You’ve got enough to do in our department.”

  “Because she’s just a girl who can’t say no,” said James. Glenda slapped him playfully.

  “Someone can give you a ride in the morning?”

  “We’ll drop him off,” said Scott. “Is the Lindsay case the whistle-blower one?”

  He followed her to the door, listening as she explained the problems with the complex litigation.

  Kat had noted Scott’s stern look from James to Glenda, the irritated tightening of his mouth, and she wondered wh
ether Scott was annoyed because James was staying or because Glenda was going. She knew the signs well, and he was clearly annoyed about something. Sarah refilled James’s glass and then waved the decanter at Kat, who shook her head.

  “Will Scott have another drink?”

  “Probably.”

  Sarah glanced toward the door, where Scott was still talking to Glenda.

  “He’s so wonderful with his associates, isn’t he?” said Sarah softly. “No wonder they all adore him.”

  James pulled himself to his feet and strolled to the door.

  “Let me escort the lady to her car,” he said. Glenda gave him an amused look, but allowed him to lead her out. Scott, back in his chair, sipped the brandy. Kat glanced at him.

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.”

  A few minutes later, James came back through the front door, singing to himself. He opened his arms wide.

  “You gotta come look at this,” he said. “Come on. Up!”

  He opened the French windows so that the lake was visible. Moonlight shone right onto it; shafts of silver illuminated the willow trees at the bank and the rippling water.

  “How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!” James quoted grandly. Sarah moved to stand beside him. Scott and Kat followed.

  “This is absolutely one of my favorite views at night,” Sarah said. “Do you want to walk around the water’s edge? There’s a beautiful little path.”

  James turned in anticipation, but Scott shook his head.

  “No, Sarah, not tonight,” said Scott. “I think we’re all beat. Kat, you ready for bed?”

  “I am,” she said, turning from the window, promising herself that she would look at the view from the bedroom.

  James took Sarah’s arm.

  “Lead me to the lake, my lady,” he said.

  Scott’s voice was quiet but firm.

  “It’s late, James. We’re setting off early tomorrow. You’ve got a ride with us, remember.”

  Sarah smiled at James.

  “Maybe another time,” she said.

  James gave Scott a long, measured look, but Scott stared back unperturbed. Kat realized then that this was a side of Scott she rarely saw: the senior partner, the man who made the decisions.

  “Okay, boss,” said James.

  Scott seemed about to speak, took a breath, patted James on the shoulder.

  “See you in the morning,” he said.

  “You were pretty bossy with James,” said Kat when they were in the bedroom. “He didn’t like that at all.”

  “So? I am his boss.”

  She opened the windows so that the soft air scented the room. Kat could smell the ocean. It was a beautiful night.

  “What were you so worried about?” she asked eventually, turning to him. “That he was going to make a play for Sarah?”

  Scott, folding his pants onto a hanger, looked over at her.

  “He should have driven back with Glenda. That’s a long trip alone. And you don’t start coming on to the client. Okay? I’m sorry, but you just don’t.”

  “He wasn’t coming on to her. He was just being himself. Friendly.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Let me tell you something, Scott,” said Kat, getting into bed. “If Sarah has decided she is going to screw James, she will screw James. And nothing you can do will change that.”

  “Jesus,” said Scott.

  Kat woke early, as the sun was rising and the light changing from gray to gold in the luxury bedroom. She had a metallic taste at the roof of her mouth and a slight pain behind her eyes: last night’s wine extracting penance. She slid from bed and gazed out the window. The gardens, with their fine morning mist, looked enchanted. She stood still for a while, breathing it all in, until she noticed that the patio doors were open and, as she watched, Sarah, in a cream-silk shirt and loose pants, came out, followed immediately by a maid who laid out coffee and newspapers. Sarah had a telephone in her hand, and after she had dialed a number, she pulled a newspaper closer and began scanning columns, her pen moving down the page. Kat watched, curious. Sarah spoke into the phone, her voice low and serious. She wore small glasses and seemed entirely focused. Sarah Harrison, the businesswoman, at work.

  Kat noted the long, salon-pampered fingernails as Sarah tracked something in the paper. In the morning light, they looked a deep burgundy shade, glossy and perfect. As a schoolgirl, and even during their university years, Sarah had bitten her nails savagely, right down to the quick. Kat remembered those stubby fingers, strangely raw at the ends. According to Sarah, one of the meaner nannies of her childhood had tried to cure her of nail biting by painting the ends of her fingers with a caustic, bitter substance. Sarah, in an attempt to remove it, had used boiling water and burned the ends of her fingers, leaving mottled pigment and tiny scars. Kat wondered if the scars were still there, under the perfect nails.

  From the bed, Scott gave a low groan and Kat turned quickly.

  “Morning,” she said.

  “Morning to you. You want to try out the pool?” he asked, stretching.

  “Not sure. You going in?”

  “Yeah. Think so. Clear the head a bit.”

  “I think I’d rather borrow your power shower,” she said.

  When Kat, dressed, strolled down to the patio, Sarah was still talking on the phone, her laptop open, newspapers surrounding her. Seeing Kat, she clicked off the phone and waved.

  “Morning, Caitlin,” she called. “You’re not swimming?”

  “Not me. I can’t bear to see myself in a bathing suit at the moment. The Miyamotos up yet?”

  “They left early,” Sarah said. “An hour ago. He’s an early riser, Mr. Miyamoto. Phannie came down for a tray for him and insisted on carrying it up herself. Such a devoted little geisha.” Sarah laughed, shaking her head. “Come on. Breakfast will be a few minutes. Pour yourself some coffee and we can look at the ocean.”

  Kat poured coffee, followed Sarah to a small curved bench at the far end of the patio. From there, the ocean was visible, a series of changing strands of gray and silver, sparkling in the morning sun.

  “Oh. This is beautiful,” Kat said, sitting next to Sarah on the bench and looking out.

  “Does it remind you of anywhere? The way the coast curves? The rocky areas?”

  Kat looked again.

  “Of course. The Sussex coast. The view from the house.”

  “Exactly. Heartbreaking to see that house demolished. I saw them go in with bulldozers. I was staying at the cottage at the time and watched with Mrs. Evans. Remember her? Helen’s housekeeper? Sam persuaded the new owner to keep her on, part of the sale package, but she stood with me as they tore the house apart, tears rolling down her face.”

  “Mrs. Evans was crying?” Kat said, finding it hard to imagine the dour housekeeper showing any kind of emotion. “Really?”

  “Oh, I know you were scared of her. She’s not so bad. She keeps an eye on the cottage for me. Cooks for me when I visit.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes until Kat, uncomfortable, found that Sarah was studying her.

  “What is it?” she asked, turning.

  “You haven’t lost that stillness. It’s astonishing.”

  Sarah had remarked on this, years ago. The first words Sarah had said to her had baffled Kat. The newcomer, exotic and unknown with her clear voice and perfect posture, had been told to sit next to Kat in the advanced English class at St. Theresa’s. Although Kat, after two years in the school, had a small number of friends, none of them qualified for this English class, and she was still uncomfortable among some of the middle-class girls. Sarah, for different reasons, seemed equally out of place: they were two outsiders, from extreme ends of the social scale. Kat—intimidated by the glowing confidence of the pampered girls, with their talk of riding lessons, of skiing, of travels abroad—was grateful that at least someone was sitting next to her, that the attention of the bored girls would be deflected.

  The young S
arah had turned to her at the end of the class.

  “You’re so quiet,” she said. “And very still. I’m glad.”

  “You said that years ago,” Kat said now to Sarah. “At St. Theresa’s. I didn’t know whether you meant I was dull.”

  “Dull? No. God, no. You have this stillness. A serene still point. You were different. Quite different from all those bouncing, braying girls.”

  “I was different because I was Scholarship. And poor. And worried all the time that I didn’t fit in.”

  “I know. I soon discovered that. But it wasn’t obvious. Not at first.”

  Sarah leaned back against the bench, stretched a little.

  “We were both misfits,” she said. “My default state, actually. But it was so nice to find another one. Quite amazing in fact. I think we surprised them all when we became friends.”

  And surprised me most of all, Kat thought, but did not say. Sarah’s friendship had caused her life at the school to change in a number of ways. Her status as Sarah’s confidante protected her from the more snobbish, terrifying girls at the school who were in awe of Sarah’s background. But some of the quieter, kinder girls, who had been her friends before Sarah’s arrival, were wary of Sarah’s sharp tongue and gradually drifted away. Both outsiders, they had that in common, but Kat and Sarah were such a mismatched duo that even the nuns occasionally remarked on their friendship.

  The two women sat in silence for a few minutes longer.

  “I know what grief feels like,” Sarah said eventually, in a quiet voice. “If I can help you through this terrible time, please just ask, Kat.”

  “I’m fine,” Kat said. “But thank you.”

  Sarah reached into her pocket, pulled out a card, and handed it to Kat. It had a cell phone number in gold lettering but no name, no address, nothing else.

  “My private cell,” she said. “Please don’t share it with anyone else, not even your charming husband. It’s for personal matters. Not for work.”

  “I understand.”

  Soon, a young woman called from the patio that breakfast was ready, and Sarah stood.