CHAPTER 10
He was an old man.
Not until recently had Daniel Matherly thought of himself as aged. He had refused to acknowledge his elderly status far past the reasonable time to do so. Unsolicited literature mailed to him by the AARP was discarded unopened, and he declined to take advantage of senior citizen discounts.
Lately, however, the reflection in his mirror was tough to dispute, and his joints made an even better argument that he was definitely a ...
graduating senior.
Today, as he sat behind his desk in his home study, Daniel was amused by his own thoughts.
If reflecting on one's life wasn't proof of advancing age, what was? His preoccupation with his degenerating body was a firm indication that it was degenerating. Who else but the very old dwelled on such things?
Young people didn't have the time. They didn't ponder death because they were too busy living.
Getting an education. Pursuing their chosen
#profession. Entering or exiting #########241
marriages. Rearing children. They couldn't be bothered with thoughts of death. "Mortality" was just a word that they kept shelved to think about in the distant future. Occasionally they might glance at it and grow uneasy, but their attention was hastily diverted to matters related to living, not dying.
But the distant future inexorably drew closer until the day arrived when one could no longer save the topic of his own mortality for later contemplation, when one must take it from the shelf and examine it closely. Daniel
wasn't morbidly fixated on the inevitable, but he knew that the time had come for him to address it and consider all its implications.
The faithful Maxine thought that he slumbered peacefully every night, but he didn't. When he told Maris that he slept like a baby, she had no reason to doubt him. As a young man, he had never required more than four or five hours of sleep per night. Those required hours had decreased in proportion to his aging. Now, if he was lucky, on any given night he would sleep for two or three hours.
The others he spent lying in bed reading his beloved books--classics he had devoured as a boy, bestsellers that other houses had been lucky enough to publish and profit from, books he himself had edited and published.
When he wasn't reading, he reflected on his life--his proud moments and, in fairness, those he wasn't proud of. He thought frequently about the prep school friend who had died of leukemia.
If he'd been born several decades later, he probably would have been treated and cured to live a long and fulfilling life. To this day, Daniel missed him and longed for the years of friendship they had been denied.
He remembered the pain of losing his first love to another man. Looking back, he acknowledged that the young lady's choice had been right for both of them, but at the time, he had believed he would die of a broken heart. He never saw her after her wedding day. He heard that she and her husband had moved to California. He wondered if her life there had been happy. He wondered if she was still living.
His first wife had been a lovely woman, and he'd been devastated when she died. But then he'd met Rosemary, Maris's mother, and she had
#been, without question, the love of his life. ####243
Beautiful, charming, gracious, artistic, intelligent, a perfect companion and ardent lover. She had been supportive of a husband who put in long hours at the office and was too often distracted by the pressures of managing a business. He had appreciated her patience and devotion to him and their marriage but was certain he had failed to let her know the extent of his appreciation.
In hindsight, he regretted all the times his responsibilities at Matherly Press had kept him from Rosemary. He wished he had those days back. His choices would be different. He would rearrange his priorities, appropriate more time and energy to his family.
Or, in all honesty, he would probably make the same bad choices, commit the same mistakes all over again.
Thankfully, his regrets were few and minor, although there were a couple of major ones. Once he had fired an editor out of pique, over a silly difference of opinion. Slyly, he had leaked the secret that the man was homosexual, this at a time when it wasn't accepted or even tolerated. He hinted that the man's personal life had begun affecting his work--which was an outright lie. The man was an excellent editor and his work ethic was impeccable.
Despite his qualifications, no one would hire him because of Daniel's rumor. He became a pariah in the industry he loved and ultimately moved away from the city.
Daniel's spite had ruined the man's
promising career and had cost publishing a talented contributor. He would carry the guilt over that to his grave.
Several years following Rosemary's death, he had engaged in an affair he wasn't proud of. It had been difficult for a middle-age bachelor to conduct a romance while living with a teenage daughter. It required finesse and a constant juggling of schedules. The woman had been jealous of his relationship with Maris. She became demanding, continually forcing him to choose between her and Maris. Daniel finally let his head overrule his desire. He realized that he could never love anyone who didn't love and accept his daughter wholly, completely, and without reservation. He ended the affair.
###Through decades he had managed #######245
to maintain his reputation as an excellent publisher. He seemed to have been blessed with a sixth sense for which manuscripts to grab and which to decline. During his tenure, he had increased the company's worth a hundredfold. He had earned more money than he could possibly spend, more than Maris could spend in her lifetime, and probably more than her children could spend.
Money was a nice by-product of his
success, but it wasn't what motivated him. His drive came from wanting to preserve what his ancestors had worked so painstakingly to create.
Before he turned thirty, he had inherited the stewardship of the family business. It had fallen to him to protect and improve it for the next generation.
Which was Maris, his crowning achievement. She was a thousand times more precious to him than Matherly Press, and he was more dedicated to protecting her than he was to protecting his publishing house from the wolves that got bigger and hungrier each year.
He couldn't shelter her completely, of course. No parent could spare his child life's knocks, and even if he could, it would be unfair.
Maris had to live her own life, and integral to living were mishaps and mistakes.
He only hoped that her disappointments wouldn't be too severe, that her triumphs and joys would outnumber them, and that when she reached his age, if she was fortunate to live that long, she would look back on her life with at least the same degree of satisfaction as he had been graced to do.
He wasn't afraid of death. To no one's knowledge, save Maxine's, he'd had several recent discussions with a priest. Rosemary had been a devout and practicing Catholic. He'd never converted, but he had absorbed some of her faith through osmosis. He firmly believed that they would enjoy the afterlife together.
He didn't fear dying.
He did fear dying a fool.
That was the worry that had robbed him of sleep last night. Deeply troubled, he'd been unable to read the nighttime hours away. Morning had brought no relief from this pervasive uneasiness.
He couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something, that a revealing word or deed or demeanor that he would have detected when he was younger and sharper--
five years ago, even one year ago--was
#escaping him. #######################247
Was this paranoia valid? Or a symptom of encroaching dementia?
Before his grandfather's death, Daniel remembered him ranting about his nurse's thievery. One day he accused her of being a German spy on a mission to assassinate U.S. war veterans.
With the conviction of the mentally unhinged, he had claimed that the housekeeper was pregnant with his child.
Nothing could convince him that the
sixty-seven-year-old Englishwoman couldn't possibly be with child.
Was that where he was headed? Was this obscure and unnamed disquiet the harbinger of full-blown senility?
Or--and this is what he chose to believe--was it an indication that he had lost none of his faculties, that he was as astute as ever, and that the intuitiveness that had successfully guided him through fifty years of publishing was still reliable?
Until they proved to be untrustworthy, he chose to trust his instincts. They were telling him that something wasn't right. He sensed it as a stag senses the presence of a stalking hunter from a mile away.
Perhaps he was just overly troubled by Maris's unhappiness. She wasn't as good as she believed at concealing her feelings from him. He'd picked up signals of marital disharmony. The cause and severity of that disharmony he didn't yet know.
But if it was disharmonious enough to visibly disturb Maris, it disturbed him.
And then there was Noah. He wanted to trust the man both as a protégé and as a
son-in-law, but only if Noah deserved his trust.
Grunting with the effort, Daniel brought his leather desk chair upright and opened a desk drawer.
He withdrew his day planner and unzipped it, then removed a business card from one of the smaller compartments.
"William Sutherland," the card read. No company name or address. Only that name and a telephone number engraved in crisp navy blue block letters.
Daniel thoughtfully fingered the card, as he often had since obtaining it several weeks ago. He hadn't called the number. He hadn't yet spoken to Mr. Sutherland personally, but after this morning's ruminations, he felt that the time was right
#to do so. ############################249
It was a sneaky and underhanded thing to do. Merely thinking about it made him feel deceitful. No one ever need know, of course. Unless--God forbid--something came of it. Probably nothing would. Probably he was overreacting. But it wasn't within his makeup to be careless. There was too much at stake to let twinges of guilt overshadow prudence. Given a choice between conscience and caution, there was no choice. The adage applied: Better to be safe than sorry.
As he reached for the telephone, he resolved to be more watchful, alert to nuances in speech and expressions, more attuned to what was going on around him. He didn't want to be the last to know ...
anything.
He didn't fear dying. But he did fear dying a fool.
"You should stay away from it. It's ready to fall down," Mike told Maris as he took a swipe at the mantel with a piece of fine sandpaper.
"If it's that dilapidated, is it safe for Parker to go there alone?"
"Of course not. But try telling him that."
"Mike ..."
Sensing her hesitation, he turned toward her.
"Never mind," she said. "It wouldn't be fair to either you or Parker for me to ask."
"About ...?was
"His disability."
"No, it wouldn't be fair."
She nodded, shook off the solemn mood, and asked, "How do I get there?"
"It could be dangerous."
"I promise to run if it starts to fall down."
"I wasn't talking about the building. I meant you could be in danger from Parker. He doesn't like to be disturbed."
"I'll take my chances. Is it close enough to walk?"
"Do you walk a lot in New York?"
"Every day, if the weather's good."
"Then it's close enough to walk."
After giving directions, he cautioned her once again. "He won't like it when you show up."
"Probably not," she replied, laughing
#lightly. ##########################251
She had spent all day indoors, reading until her eyes felt strained. It was good to get outside, although by no stretch of the imagination could this be referred to as "fresh air." The heat was impossible, the humidity worse. The sunlight was glaring and relentless, but even shade offered little relief from the sweltering heat.
Still, the island was exotically beautiful, and the climate was essential to it. The live oak trees had an ancient, almost mystical dignity that was enhanced by the curly Spanish moss draping their limbs. The dense air smelled of salt water and fish, not altogether unpleasant when mingled with the intoxicating perfumes of the flowering plants that bloomed in profusion.
Maris passed a house that was set well back from the road. Children were playing in the yard. The boy and girl were young enough to dance around the lawn sprinkler without self-consciousness. They squealed in glee as they took turns leaping over the oscillating spray.
At another house, she spotted a large dog lying in the shade of a pickup truck. She crossed the road and watched him warily as she moved past, but she needn't have worried. He raised his head, looked at her with disinterest, stood, stretched, made three tight circles in the dirt, then resumed his original spot and closed his eyes.
She met no cars on the road. Her only company were the cicadas that buzzed loudly but lazily under cover of the thick foliage.
The abandoned cotton gin was located right were Mike had said it would be, although if his directions hadn't been so precise she might have missed it.
The forest had reclaimed the structure. From some angles, it would have been totally camouflaged by the greenery that enfolded it.
To reach it from the road, one had to take a crushed-shell path. It wasn't much of a path, however. Maris regarded it dubiously. It was no more than a yard wide, at most. Tall weeds grew on either side of it. Looking down at her bare ankles, she seriously considered passing up the gin in favor of the island's other points of interest that Mike had recommended.
"'Fraidy-cat," she muttered.
She looked around for a stick, and when she found one that was suitable, she started up the path, reaching
#far out in front of her to beat at the ######253
tall weeds. She wanted to alert any varmints, reptilian or otherwise, to her presence and give them an opportunity to relocate before she saw them.
Thankfully, she made it up the path without encountering any local fauna. She dropped her stick, dusted off her hands, and took a good look at the hulking building. It was, as Mike had described, a structure on the brink of collapse.
The wood was gray and weathered. The tin roof had been corroded by rust. Large patches of the exterior and part of the roof were covered by an impenetrable carpet of vines. One species bloomed bright purple flowers that seemed incompatible with the overall feeling of dilapidation and abandonment.
With misgiving, Maris approached the wide door that was standing open. The interior was even larger than indicated by the exterior. It was cavernous and dark inside, with only an occasional stripe of sunlight shining through a separation in the vertical wooden slats that formed the walls or a miniature spotlight cast on the dirt floor by a hole in the roof.
The rear half of the lower story was covered by a loft. The ceiling of the overhang was built of massive wood beams. A large wheel about ten feet in diameter was situated just beneath this ceiling and was connected to the dirt floor by a wood column as big around as a barrel. Maris had never seen anything like it.
She blinked to adjust her eyes to the gloom.
"Hello?" Receiving no answer, she stepped inside and took a few hesitant steps forward.
"Parker?" After a moment, she repeated,
"Hello?"
"Here."
She jumped and flattened her hand against her heart, coming about quickly. He was in a corner behind her, invisible except for one ray of sunlight coming through the roof and reflecting off the chrome of his chair.
Recovering, she asked crossly, "Didn't you hear me?"
"Are you serious? All that thrashing? You'd never make it as an Indian brave."
"Then why didn't you say something?"
"How'd you get here?"
###"Walked. How'd you get here?" ######255
"How do I get everywhere?"
"You can roll your chair along that path?"
"I manage."
He remained where he was, but she could feel him looking at her and realized that she must appear only a silhouette against the square of light behind her. She advanced farther inside but only a few steps.
"Where'd you get the clothes?"
She glanced down at her casual skirt, shirt, and sandals as though she'd never seen them before. It was an outfit she usually took to their country house for a summer weekend of cookouts and antique shopping. She'd packed it herself in New York just two days ago, but it seemed much longer ago than that and much farther away.
"Mike arranged for my suitcase to be picked up at the hotel and sent over. He went to the dock and met the boat."
"He's gone dotty."
"Pardon?"
"He's got a crush on you."
"He's just being nice."
"We've had this conversation already."
They had. She didn't want to repeat it. The last time, it had ended ... She didn't want to think about how it had ended.
A silence ensued. Her eyes had adjusted to the dimness, but she could still barely see him where he remained in the deep shadows of the corner. To fill the awkward silence, she said, "This is a picturesque building."
"Which you accidentally happened upon?"
"Mike gave me directions."
"Mike talks too much."
"Not that much. He gives away none of your secrets."
"Until a few minutes ago this building was my secret. I come here to be alone."
She ignored the implication that he didn't welcome her company and took a look around. The dirt floor was littered with animal droppings and trash. At one time, someone had built a fire.
Traces of ash and charred wood were still scattered about. A staircase attached to one wall led up to the second level, but many of the steps were missing, and those that remained appeared incapable of supporting anything heavier than a beetle. All in all, it was a spooky old place, especially the rear
#portion with its low overhang and ##########257
antiquated industrial apparatus that looked to her like something an evil giant might use to physically torture an enemy giant. She couldn't imagine why Parker chose to spend time here.
"What's its history?"
"Do you know anything about cotton?"
Cheekily she quoted a popular TV
commercial. "Ìt's the fabric of our lives.`"
To her surprise, Parker laughed. A real laugh, not that scornful sound that usually served as his laughs. Taking advantage of this rarity, she added, "It's also useful when it comes to removing nail polish."
His laughter subsided, making the resulting silence even more noticeable. Then he said gruffly, "Come here."