CHAPTER 4
Food seemed to soothe Fairchild’s temperament. As he plowed his way through poached salmon, he went off on a long, technical diatribe on surrealism. It appeared breaking conventional thought to release the imagination had appealed to him to the extent that he’d given nearly a year of his time in study and application. With a good-humored shrug, he confessed that his attempts at surrealistic painting had been poor, and his plunge into abstraction little better.
“He’s banished those canvases to the attic,” Kirby told Adam as she poked at her salad. “There’s one in shades of blue and yellow, with clocks of all sizes and shapes sort of melting and drooping everywhere and two left shoes tucked in a corner. He called it Absence of Time.”
“Experimental,” Fairchild grumbled, eyeing Kirby’s uneaten portion of fish.
“He refused an obscene amount of money for it and locked it, like a mad relation, in the attic.” Smoothly she transferred her fish to her father’s plate. “He’ll be sending his sculpture to join it before long.”
Fairchild swallowed a bite of fish, then ground his teeth. “Heartless brat.” In the blink of an eye he changed from amiable cherub to gnome. “By this time next year, Philip Fairchild’s name will be synonymous with sculpture.”
“Horse dust,” Kirby concluded, and speared a cucumber. “That shade of pink becomes you, Papa.” Leaning over, she placed a loud kiss on his cheek. “It’s very close to fuchsia.”
“You’re not too old to forget my ability to bring out the same tone on your bottom.”
“Child abuser.” As Adam watched, she stood and wrapped her arms around Fairchild’s neck. In the matter of love for her father, the enigma of Kirby Fairchild was easily solvable. “I’m going out for a walk before I turn yellow and dry up. Will you come?”
“No, no, I’ve a little project to finish.” He patted her hand as she tensed. Adam saw something pass between them before Fairchild turned to him. “Take her for a walk and get on with your…sketching,” he said with a cackle. “Have you asked Kirby if you can paint her yet? They all do.” He stabbed at the salmon again. “She never lets them.”
Adam lifted his wine. “I told Kirby I was going to paint her.”
The new cackle was full of delight. Pale blue eyes lit with the pleasure of trouble brewing. “A firm hand, eh? She’s always needed one. Don’t know where she got such a miserable temper.” He smiled artlessly. “Must’ve come from her mother’s side.”
Adam glanced up at the serene, mild-eyed woman in the portrait. “Undoubtedly.”
“See that painting there?” Fairchild pointed to the portrait of Kirby as a girl. “That’s the one and only time she modeled for me. I had to pay the brat scale.” He gave a huff and a puff before he attacked the fish again. “Twelve years old and already mercenary.”
“If you’re going to discuss me as if I weren’t here, I’ll go fetch my shoes.” Without a backward glance, Kirby glided from the room.
“Hasn’t changed much, has she?” Adam commented as he drained his wine.
“Not a damn bit,” Fairchild agreed proudly. “She’ll lead you a merry chase, Adam, my boy. I hope you’re in condition.”
“I ran track in college.”
Fairchild’s laugh was infectious. Damn it, Adam thought again, I like him. It complicated things. From the other room he heard Kirby in a heated discussion with Isabelle. He was beginning to realize complication was the lady’s middle name. What should’ve been a very simple job was developing layers he didn’t care for.
“Come on, Adam.” Kirby poked her head around the doorway. “I’ve told Isabelle she can come, but she and Montique have to keep a distance of five yards at all times. Papa—” she tossed her ponytail back “—I really think we ought to try raising the rent. She might look for an apartment in town.”
“We should never have agreed to a long-term lease,” Fairchild grumbled, then gave his full attention to Kirby’s salmon.
Deciding not to comment, Adam rose and went outside.
It was warm for September, and breezy. The grounds around the house were alive with fall. Beds of zinnias and mums spread out helter-skelter, flowing over their borders and adding a tang to the air. Near a flaming maple, Adam saw an old man in patched overalls. With a whimsical lack of dedication, he raked at the scattered leaves. As they neared him, he grinned toothlessly.
“You’ll never get them all, Jamie.”
He made a faint wheezing sound that must’ve been a laugh. “Sooner or later, missy. There be plenty of time.”
“I’ll help you tomorrow.”
“Ayah, and you’ll be piling them up and jumping in ’em like always.” He wheezed again and rubbed a frail hand over his chin. “Stick to your whittling and could be I’ll leave a pile for you.”
With her hands hooked in her back pockets, she scuffed at a leaf. “A nice big one?”
“Could be. If you’re a good girl.”
“There’s always a catch.” Grabbing Adam’s hand, she pulled him away.
“Is that little old man responsible for the grounds?” Three acres, he calculated. Three acres if it was a foot.
“Since he retired.”
“Retired?”
“Jamie retired when he was sixty-five. That was before I was born.” The breeze blew strands of hair into her face and she pushed at them. “He claims to be ninety-two, but of course he’s ninety-five and won’t admit it.” She shook her head. “Vanity.”
Kirby pulled him along until they stood at a dizzying height above the river. Far below, the ribbon of water seemed still. Small dots of houses were scattered along the view. There was a splash of hues rather than distinct tones, a melding of textures.
On the ridge where they stood there was only wind, river and sky. Kirby threw her head back. She looked primitive, wild, invincible. Turning, he looked at the house. It looked the same.
“Why do you stay here?” Blunt questions weren’t typical of him. Kirby had already changed that.
“I have my family, my home, my work.”
“And isolation.”
Her shoulders moved. Though her lashes were lowered, her eyes weren’t closed. “People come here. That’s not isolation.”
“Don’t you want to travel? To see Florence, Rome, Venice?”
From her stance on a rock, she was nearly eye level with him. When she turned to him, it was without her usual arrogance. “I’d been to Europe five times before I was twelve. I spent four years in Paris on my own when I was studying.”
She looked over his shoulder a moment, at nothing or at everything, he couldn’t be sure. “I slept with a Breton count in a chateau, skied in the Swiss Alps and hiked the moors in Cornwall. I’ve traveled, and I’ll travel again. But…” He knew she looked at the house now, because her lips curved. “I always come home.”
“What brings you back?”
“Papa.” She stopped and smiled fully. “Memories, familiarity. Insanity.”
“You love him very much.” She could make things impossibly complicated or perfectly simple. The job he’d come to do was becoming more and more of a burden.
“More than anything or anyone.” She spoke quietly, so that her voice seemed a part of the breeze. “He’s given me everything of importance: security, independence, loyalty, friendship, love—and the capability to give them back. I’d like to think someday I’ll find someone who wants that from me. My home would be with him then.”
How could he resist the sweetness, the simplicity, she could show so unexpectedly? It wasn’t in the script, he reminded himself, but reached a hand to her face, just to touch. When she brought her hand to his, something stirred in him that wasn’t desire, but was just as potent.
She felt the strength in him, and sensed a confusion that might have been equal to her own. Another time, she thought. Another time, it might have worked. But now, just now, there were too many other things. Deliberately she dropped her hand and turned back to the river. “I don’t know why I tell you these things,” she murmured. “It’s not in character. Do people usually let you in on their personal thoughts?”
“No. Or maybe I haven’t been listening.”
She smiled and, in one of her lightning changes of mood, leaped from the rock. “You’re not the type people would confide in.” Casually she linked her arm through his. “Though you seem to have strong, sturdy shoulders. You’re a little aloof,” she decided. “And just a tad pompous.”
“Pompous?” How could she allure him one instant and infuriate him the next? “What do you mean, pompous?”
Because he sounded dangerously like her father, she swallowed. “Just a tad,” she reminded him, nearly choking on a laugh. “Don’t be offended, Adam. Pomposity certainly has its place in the world.” When he continued to scowl down at her, she cleared her throat of another laugh. “I like the way your left brow lifts when you’re annoyed.”
“I’m not pompous.” He spoke very precisely and watched her lips tremble with fresh amusement.
“Perhaps that was a bad choice of words.”
“It was a completely incorrect choice.” Just barely, he caught himself before his brow lifted. Damn the woman, he thought, and swore he wouldn’t smile.
“Conventional.” Kirby patted his cheek. “I’m sure that’s what I meant.”
“I’m sure those two words mean the same thing to you. I won’t be categorized by either.”
Tilting her head, she studied him. “Maybe I’m wrong,” she said, to herself as much as him. “I’ve been wrong before. Give me a piggyback ride.”
“What?”
“A piggyback ride,” Kirby repeated.
“You’re crazy.” She might be sharp, she might be talented, he’d already conceded that, but part of her brain was permanently on holiday.
With a shrug, she started back toward the house. “I knew you wouldn’t. Pompous people never give or receive piggyback rides. It’s the law.”
“Damn.” She was doing it to him, and he was letting her. For a moment, he stuck his hands in his pockets and stood firm. Let her play her games with her father, Adam told himself. He wasn’t biting. With another oath, he caught up to her. “You’re an exasperating woman.”
“Why, thank you.”
They stared at each other, him in frustration, her in amusement, until he turned his back. “Get on.”
“If you insist.” Nimbly she jumped on his back, blew the hair out of her eyes and looked down. “Wombats, you’re tall.”
“You’re short,” he corrected, and hitched her to a more comfortable position.
“I’m going to be five-seven in my next life.”
“You’d better add pounds as well as inches to your fantasy.” Her hands were light on his shoulders, her thighs firm around his waist. Ridiculous, he thought. Ridiculous to want her now, when she’s making a fool of both of you. “What do you weigh?”
“An even hundred.” She sent a careless wave to Jamie.
“And when you take the ball bearings out of your pocket?”
“Ninety-six, if you want to be technical.” With a laugh, she gave him a quick hug. Her laughter was warm and distracting at his ear. “You might do something daring, like not wearing socks.”
“The next spontaneous act might be dropping you on your very attractive bottom.”
“Is it attractive?” Idly she swung her feet back and forth. “I see so little of it myself.” She held him for a moment longer because it felt so right, so good. Keep it light, she reminded herself. And watch your step. As long as she could keep him off balance, things would run smoothly. Leaning forward, she caught the lobe of his ear between her teeth. “Thanks for the lift, sailor.”
Before he could respond, she’d jumped down and dashed into the house.
* * *
It was night, late, dark and quiet, when Adam sat alone in his room. He held the transmitter in his hand and found he wanted to smash it into little pieces and forget it had ever existed. No personal involvements. That was rule number one, and he’d always followed it. He’d never been tempted not to.
He’d wanted to follow it this time, he reminded himself. It just wasn’t working that way. Involvement, emotion, conscience; he couldn’t let any of it interfere. Staring at Kirby’s painting of the Hudson, he flicked the switch.
“McIntyre?”
“Password.”
“Damn it, this isn’t a chapter of Ian Fleming.”
“Procedure,” McIntyre reminded him briskly. After twenty seconds of dead air, he relented. “Okay, okay, what’ve you found out?”
I’ve found out I’m becoming dangerously close to being crazy about a woman who makes absolutely no sense to me, he thought. “I’ve found out that the next time you have a brainstorm, you can go to hell with it.”
“Trouble?” McIntyre’s voice snapped into the receiver. “You were supposed to call in if there was trouble.”
“The trouble is I like the old man and the daughter’s…unsettling.” An apt word, Adam mused. His system hadn’t settled since he’d set eyes on her.
“It’s too late for that now. We’re committed.”
“Yeah.” He let out a breath between his teeth and blocked Kirby from his mind. “Melanie Merrick Burgess is a close family friend and Harriet Merrick’s daughter. She’s a very elegant designer who doesn’t seem to have any deep interest in painting. At a guess I’d say she’d be very supportive of the Fairchilds. Kirby recently broke off her engagement to Stuart Hiller.”
“Interesting. When?”
“I don’t have a date,” Adam retorted. “And I didn’t like pumping her about something that sensitive.” He struggled with himself as McIntyre remained silent. “Sometime during the last couple months, I’d say, no longer. She’s still smoldering.” And hurting, he said to himself. He hadn’t forgotten the look in her eyes. “I’ve been invited to a party this weekend. I should meet both Harriet Merrick and Hiller. In the meantime, I’ve had a break here. The place is riddled with secret passages.”
“With what?”
“You heard me. With some luck, I’ll have easy access throughout the house.”
McIntyre grunted in approval. “You won’t have any trouble recognizing it?”
“If he’s got it, and if it’s in the house, and if by some miracle I can find it in this anachronism, I’ll recognize it.” He switched off and, resisting the urge to throw the transmitter against the wall, dropped it back in the briefcase.
Clearing his mind, Adam rose and began to search the fireplace for the mechanism.
It took him nearly ten minutes, but he was rewarded with a groaning as a panel slid halfway open. He squeezed inside with a flashlight. It was both dank and musty, but he played the light against the wall until he found the inside switch. The panel squeaked closed and left him in the dark.
His footsteps echoed and he heard the scuttering sound of rodents. He ignored both. For a moment he stopped at the wall of Kirby’s room. Telling himself he was only doing his job, he took the time to find the switch. But he wondered if she was already sleeping in the big four-poster bed, under the wedding ring quilt.
He could press the button and join her. The hell with McIntyre and the job. The hell with everything but what lay beyond the wall. Procedure, he thought on an oath. He was sick to death of procedure. But Kirby had been right. Adam had a very firm grip on what was right and what was wrong.
He turned and continued down the passage.
Abruptly the corridor snaked off, with steep stone steps forking to the left. Mounting them, he found himself in another corridor. A spider scrambled on the wall as he played his light over it. Kirby hadn’t exaggerated much about the size. The third story, he decided, was as good a place to start as any.
He turned the first mechanism he found and slipped through the opening. Dust and dustcovers. Moving quietly, he began a slow, methodical search.
Kirby was restless. While Adam had been standing on the other side of the wall, fighting back the urge to open the panel, she’d been pacing her room. She’d considered going up to her studio. Work might calm her—but any work she did in this frame of mind would be trash. Frustrated, she sank down on the window seat. She could see the faint reflection of her own face and stared at it.
She wasn’t completely in control. Almost any other flaw would’ve been easier to admit. Control was essential and, under the current circumstances, vital. The problem was getting it back.
The problem was, she corrected, Adam Haines.
Attraction? Yes, but that was simple and easily dealt with. There was something more twisted into it that was anything but simple. He could involve her, and once involved, nothing would be easily dealt with.
Laying her hands on the sill, she rested her head on them. He could hurt her. That was a first—a frightening first. Not a superficial blow to the pride or ego, Kirby admitted, but a hurt down deep where it counted; where it wouldn’t heal.
Obviously, she told herself, forewarned was forearmed. She just wouldn’t let him involve her, therefore she wouldn’t let him hurt her. And that little piece of logic brought her right back to the control she didn’t have. While she struggled to methodically untangle her thoughts, the beam of headlights distracted her.
Who’d be coming by at this time of night? she wondered without too much surprise. Fairchild had a habit of asking people over at odd hours. Kirby pressed her nose to the glass. A sound, not unlike Isabelle’s growl, came from her throat.
“Of all the nerve,” she muttered. “Of all the bloody nerve.”
Springing up, she paced the floor three times before she grabbed a robe and left the room.
Above her head, Adam was about to reenter the passageway when he, too, saw the beams. Automatically he switched off his flashlight and stepped beside the window. He watched the man step from a late-model Mercedes and walk toward the house. Interesting, Adam decided. Abandoning the passageway, he slipped silently into the hall.
The sound of voices drifted up as he eased himself into the cover of a doorway and waited. Footsteps drew nearer. From his concealment, Adam watched Cards lead a slim, dark man up to Fairchild’s tower studio.
“Mr. Hiller to see you, sir.” Cards gave the information as if it were four in the afternoon rather than after midnight.
“Stuart, so nice of you to come.” Fairchild’s voice boomed through the doorway. “Come in, come in.”
After counting to ten, Adam started to move toward the door Cards had shut, but just then a flurry of white scrambled up the stairs. Swearing, he pressed back into the wall as Kirby passed, close enough to touch.
What the hell is this? he demanded, torn between frustration and the urge to laugh. Here he was, trapped in a doorway, while people crept up tower steps in the middle of the night. While he watched, Kirby gathered the skirt of her robe around her knees and tiptoed up to the tower.
It was a nightmare, he decided. Women with floating hair sneaking around drafty corridors in filmy white. Secret passages. Clandestine meetings. A normal, sensible man wouldn’t be involved in it for a minute. Then again, he’d stopped being completely sensible when he’d walked in the front door.
After Kirby reached the top landing, Adam moved closer. Her attention was focused on the studio door. Making a quick calculation, Adam moved up the steps behind her, then melted into the shadows in the corner. With his eyes on her, he joined Kirby in the eavesdropping.
“What kind of fool do you think I am?” Stuart demanded. He stood beside Adam with only the wall separating them.
“Whatever kind you prefer. Makes no difference to me. Have a seat, my boy.”
“Listen to me, we had a deal. How long did you think it would take before I found out you’d double-crossed me?”
“Actually I didn’t think it would take you quite so long.” Smiling, Fairchild rubbed a thumb over his clay hawk. “Not as clever as I thought you were, Stuart. You should’ve discovered the switch weeks ago. Not that it wasn’t superb,” he added with a touch of pride. “But a smart man would’ve had the painting authenticated.”
Because the conversation confused her, Kirby pressed even closer to the door. She tucked her hair behind her ear as if to hear more clearly. Untended, her robe fell open, revealing a thin excuse for a nightgown and a great deal of smooth golden skin. In his corner, Adam shifted and swore to himself.
“We had a deal—” Stuart’s voice rose, but Fairchild cut him off with no more than a wave of his hand.
“Don’t tell me you believe in that nonsense about honor among thieves? Time to grow up if you want to play in the big leagues.”
“I want the Rembrandt, Fairchild.”
Kirby stiffened. Because his attention was now fully focused on the battle in the tower, Adam didn’t notice. By God, he thought grimly, the old bastard did have it.
“Sue me,” Fairchild invited. Kirby could hear the shrug in his voice.
“Hand it over, or I’ll break your scrawny neck.”
For a full ten seconds, Fairchild watched calmly as Stuart’s face turned a deep, dull red. “You won’t get it that way. And I should warn you that threats make me irritable. You see…” Slowly he picked up a rag and began to wipe some excess clay from his hands. “I didn’t care for your treatment of Kirby. No, I didn’t care for it at all.”
Abruptly he was no longer the harmless eccentric. He was neither cherub nor gnome, but a man. A dangerous one. “I knew she’d never go as far as marrying you. She’s far too bright. But your threats, once she told you off, annoyed me. When I’m annoyed, I tend to be vindictive. A flaw,” he said amiably. “But that’s just the way I’m made.” The pale eyes were cold and calm on Stuart’s. “I’m still annoyed, Stuart. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to deal. In the meantime, stay away from Kirby.”
“You’re not going to get away with this.”
“I hold all the cards.” In an impatient gesture, he brushed Stuart aside. “I have the Rembrandt, and only I know where it is. If you become a nuisance, which you’re dangerously close to becoming, I may decide to keep it. Unlike you, I have no pressing need for money.” He smiled, but the chill remained in his eyes. “One should never live above one’s means, Stuart. That’s my advice.”
Impotent, intimidated, Stuart loomed over the little man at the worktable. He was strong enough, and furious enough, to have snapped Fairchild’s neck with his hands. But he wouldn’t have the Rembrandt, or the money he so desperately needed. “Before we’re done, you’ll pay,” Stuart promised. “I won’t be made a fool of.”
“Too late,” Fairchild told him easily. “Run along now. You can find your way out without disturbing Cards, can’t you?”
As if he were already alone, Fairchild went back to his hawk.
Swiftly, Kirby looked around for a hiding place. For one ridiculous moment, Adam thought she’d try to ease herself into the corner he occupied. The moment she started to cross the hall toward him, the handle of the door turned. She’d left her move too late. With her back pressed against the wall, Kirby closed her eyes and pretended to be invisible.
Stuart wrenched open the door and stalked from the room, blind with rage. Without a backward glance he plunged down the steps. His face, Adam noted as he passed, was murderous. At the moment, he lacked a weapon. But if he found one, he wouldn’t hesitate.
Kirby stood, still and silent, as the footsteps receded. She sucked in a deep breath, then let it out on a huff. What now? What now? she thought, and wanted to just bury her face in her hands and surrender. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and went in to confront her father.
“Papa.” The word was quiet and accusing. Fairchild’s head jerked up, but his surprise was quickly masked by a genial smile.
“Hello, love. My hawk’s beginning to breathe. Come have a look.”
She took another deep breath. All of her life she’d loved him, stood by him. Adored him. None of that had ever stopped her from being angry with him. Slowly, keeping her eyes on him, she crossed the front panels of her robe and tied the sash. As she approached, Fairchild thought she looked like a gunslinger buckling on his six-gun. She wouldn’t, he thought with a surge of pride, intimidate like Hiller.
“Apparently you haven’t kept me up to date,” she began. “A riddle, Papa. What do Philip Fairchild, Stuart Hiller and Rembrandt have in common?”
“You’ve always been clever at riddles, my sweet.”
“Now, Papa.”
“Just business.” He gave her a quick, hearty smile as he wondered just how much he’d have to tell her.
“Let’s be specific, shall we?” She moved so that only the table separated them. “And don’t give me that blank, foolish look. It won’t work.” Bending over, she stared directly into his eyes. “I heard quite a bit while I was outside. Tell me the rest.”
“Eavesdropping.” He made a disapproving tsk-tsk. “Rude.”
“I come by it honestly. Now tell me or I’ll annihilate your hawk.” Sweeping up her arm, she held her palm three inches above his clay.
“Vicious brat.” With his bony fingers, he grabbed her wrist, each knowing who’d win if it came down to it. He gave a windy sigh. “All right.”
With a nod, Kirby removed her hand then folded her arms under her breasts. The habitual gesture had him sighing again.
“Stuart came to me with a little proposition some time ago. You know, of course, he hasn’t a cent to his name, no matter what he pretends.”
“Yes, I know he wanted to marry me for my money.” No one but her father would’ve detected the slight tightening in her voice.
“I didn’t bring that up to hurt you.” His hand reached for hers in the bond that had been formed when she’d taken her first breath.
“I know, Papa.” She squeezed his hand, then stuck both of hers in the pockets of her robe. “My pride suffered. It has to happen now and again, I suppose. But I don’t care for humiliation,” she said with sudden fierceness. “I don’t care for it one bloody bit.” With a toss of her head, she looked down at him. “The rest.”
“Well.” Fairchild puffed out his cheeks, then blew out the breath. “Among his other faults, Stuart’s greedy. He needed a large sum of money, and didn’t see why he had to work for it. He decided to help himself to the Rembrandt self-portrait from Harriet’s gallery.”
“He stole it?” Kirby’s eyes grew huge. “Great buckets of bedbugs! I wouldn’t have given him credit for that much nerve.”
“He thought himself clever.” Rising, Fairchild walked to the little sink in the corner to wash off his hands. “Harriet was going on her safari, and there’d be no one to question the disappearance for several weeks. Stuart’s a bit dictatorial with the staff at the gallery.”
“It’s such a treat to flog underlings.”
“In any case—” lovingly, Fairchild draped his hawk for the night “—he came to me with an offer—a rather paltry offer, too—if I’d do the forgery for the Rembrandt’s replacement.”
She hadn’t thought he could do anything to surprise her. Certainly nothing to hurt her. “Papa, it’s Harriet’s Rembrandt,” she said in shock.
“Now, Kirby, you know I’m fond of Harriet. Very fond.” He put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Our Stuart has a very small brain. He handed over the Rembrandt when I said I needed it to do the copy.” Fairchild shook his head. “There wasn’t any challenge to it, Kirby. Hardly any fun at all.”
“Pity,” she said dryly and dropped into a chair.
“Then I told him I didn’t need the original any longer, and gave him the copy instead. He never suspected.” Fairchild linked his hands behind his back and stared up at the ceiling. “I wish you’d seen it. It was superlative. It was one of Rembrandt’s later works, you know. Rough textures, such luminous depth—”
“Papa!” Kirby interrupted what would’ve become a lecture.
“Oh, yes, yes.” With an effort, Fairchild controlled himself. “I told him it’d take just a little more time to complete the copy and treat it for the illusion of age. He bought it. Gullibility,” Fairchild added and clucked his tongue. “It’s been almost three weeks, and he just got around to having the painting tested. I made certain it wouldn’t stand up to the most basic of tests, of course.”
“Of course,” Kirby murmured.
“Now he has to leave the copy in the gallery. And I have the original.”
She gave herself a moment to absorb all he’d told her. It didn’t make any difference in how she felt. Furious. “Why, Papa? Why did you do this! It isn’t like all the others. It’s Harriet.”
“Now, Kirby, don’t lose control. You’ve such a nasty temper.” He did his best to look small and helpless. “I’m much too old to cope with it. Remember my blood pressure.”
“Blood pressure be hanged.” She glared up at him with fury surging into her eyes. “Don’t think you’re going to get around me with that. Old?” she tossed back. “You’re still your youngest child.”
“I feel a spell coming on,” he said, inspired by Kirby’s own warning two days before. He pressed a trembling hand to his heart and staggered. “I’ll end up a useless heap of cold spaghetti. Ah, the paintings I might have done. The world’s losing a genius.”
Clenching her fists, Kirby beat them on his worktable. Tools bounced and clattered while she let out a long wail. Protective, Fairchild placed his hands around his hawk and waited for the crisis to pass. At length, she slumped back in the chair, breathless.
“You used to do better than that,” he observed. “I think you’re mellowing.”
“Papa.” Kirby clamped her teeth to keep from grinding them. “I know I’ll be forced to beat you about the head and ears, then I’ll be arrested for patricide. You know I’ve a terror of closed-in places. I’d go mad in prison. Do you want that on your conscience?”
“Kirby, have I ever given you cause for one moment’s worry?”
“Don’t force me into a recital, Papa, it’s after midnight. What have you done with the Rembrandt?”
“Done with it?” He frowned and fiddled with the cover of his hawk. “What do you mean, done with it?”
“Where is it?” she asked, carefully spacing the words. “You can’t leave a painting like that lying around the house, particularly when you’ve chosen to have company.”
“Company? Oh, you mean Adam. Fine boy. I’m fond of him already.” His eyebrows wiggled twice. “You seem to be finding him agreeable.”
Kirby narrowed her eyes. “Leave Adam out of this.”
“Dear, dear, dear.” Fairchild grinned lavishly. “And I thought you’d brought him up.”
“Where is the Rembrandt?” All claim to patience disintegrated. Briefly, she considered banging her head on the table, but she’d given up that particular ploy at ten.
“Safe and secure, my sweet.” Fairchild’s voice was calm and pleased. “Safe and secure.”
“Here? In the house?”
“Of course.” He gave her an astonished look. “You don’t think I’d keep it anywhere else?”
“Where?”
“You don’t need to know everything.” With a flourish, he whipped off his painting smock and tossed it over a chair. “Just content yourself that it’s safe, hidden with appropriate respect and affection.”
“Papa.”
“Kirby.” He smiled—a gentle father’s smile. “A child must trust her parent, must abide by the wisdom of his years. You do trust me, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course, but—”
He cut her off with the first bars of “Daddy’s Little Girl” in a wavering falsetto.
Kirby moaned and lowered her head to the table. When would she learn? And how was she going to deal with him this time? He continued to sing until the giggles welled up and escaped. “You’re incorrigible.” She lifted her head and took a deep breath. “I have this terrible feeling that you’re leaving out a mountain of details and that I’m going to go along with you anyway.”
“Details, Kirby.” His hand swept them aside. “The world’s too full of details, they clutter things up. Remember, art reflects life, and life’s an illusion. Come now, I’m tired.” He walked to her and held out his hand. “Walk your old papa to bed.”
Defeated, she accepted his hand and stood. Never, never would she learn. And always, always would she adore him. Together they walked from the room.
Adam watched as they started down the steps, arm in arm.
“Papa…” Only feet away from Adam’s hiding place, Kirby stopped. “There is, of course, a logical reason for all this?”
“Kirby.” Adam could see the mobile face move into calm, sober lines. “Have I ever done anything without a sensible, logical reason?”
She started with a near-soundless chuckle. In moments, her laughter rang out, rich and musical. It echoed back, faint and ghostly, until she rested her head against her father’s shoulder. In the half-light, with her eyes shining, Adam thought she’d never looked more alluring. “Oh, my papa,” she began in a clear contralto. “To me he is so wonderful.” Linking her arm through Fairchild’s, she continued down the steps.
Rather pleased with himself, and with his offspring, Fairchild joined her in his wavery falsetto. Their mixed voices drifted over Adam until the distance swallowed them.
Leaving the shadows, he stood at the head of the stairway. Once he heard Kirby’s laugh, then there was silence.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” he murmured.
Both Fairchilds were probably mad. They fascinated him.