At the mention of Catherine, Zoe’s pulse quickened. “I don’t understand.”
Trevor touched her shoulder. “It’s all right. I got one, too.”
Zoe gave him a baffled look.
“It’s a letter,” Monica explained. “She left it with her will.”
Zoe’s spine tingled when she took the envelope. The sight of her name traced out by her mother’s flowing penmanship triggered a cascade of emotions—astonishment, grief, nostalgia, and love. She fingered the flap. “Should I open it now?”
“I’d save it for a quiet moment,” Monica said.
Zoe shook her hand and walked with Trevor to the elevator.
“Is Dad still in D.C.?” she asked.
He shook his head. “He’s on the Vineyard. He needed to get away.”
She took a sharp breath, wondering at the irony. “I’m coming with you.”
Her brother grimaced. “It could get ugly.”
“I don’t care. I need to be there.”
chapter 32
Martha’s Vineyard
May, 2012
The Gulfstream III executive jet touched down on Martha’s Vineyard a few minutes before six in the evening. The plane was the oldest in the triumvirate that made up Jack Fleming’s fleet. The “Three,” as they called it, was Sylvia’s favorite, but Trevor had no difficulty requisitioning it from Westchester County Airport for the short flight to the Vineyard.
They rented a car at the airport and drove east through the plantations and pine groves of the island, reaching Edgartown just as the sun fell behind the trees. Zoe inhaled the moist air rolling in through the open window and allowed the tranquility of the village to soothe her nerves. As pristine as a museum piece, Edgartown was both the haven of her childhood and the scene of her worst memory. She cherished the place and resented it at the same time.
Trevor made a series of turns and took them toward Eel Pond. Zoe saw the gray-blue sea through a break in the trees. Then the water became the horizon, presided over by blushing clouds. She saw the house next—the gabled roofline, the gray clapboard siding and white casement shutters. Two members of the Senator’s security team greeted them at the gate. The men recognized Trevor and admitted them without delay.
They drove up the winding drive and parked behind Sylvia’s Porsche and the Senator’s Mercedes. Zoe took a breath, wishing she could still her trembling hands.
“Why don’t you go for a walk?” Trevor said, sensing her mood. “Let me talk to him.”
“No. I’m not going to run from this.”
“Suit yourself.”
He led the way to the porch, where a third security officer was sitting in a lounge chair.
“The door’s unlocked,” the man said, making no move to get up.
They entered the foyer together. Built just after the turn of the century, the house was a throwback to a simpler architectural era—low ceilings, square rooms, and wide-plank floors minimally polished. Over the years, Sylvia had begged Jack to remodel it, but Jack had resisted, prompting her—out of his hearing—to nickname the property “the shrine of St. Catherine.”
Zoe inhaled the familiar scent of lavender and spice. She heard voices coming from the kitchen. A fluffy white Bichon Frisé lapdog skittered up to them and sniffed her toes.
“Maria, is that you?” her father called out when Trevor pulled the door closed.
“It’s me, Dad,” Trevor announced, glancing furtively at Zoe.
Zoe braced herself at the sound of her father’s footsteps. When he reached the foyer, he stopped and blinked, staring at her. Zoe looked back at him, her heart pounding like a charging horse. From the floridness in his cheeks, she could see that he had been drinking.
“Hey, Dad,” Trevor said, trying to affect nonchalance.
“A family reunion,” the Senator said ambivalently.
“Who is it, Jack?” Sylvia called. Seconds later, she appeared beside her husband and stopped cold. She scooped up the dog and stared at Zoe without a word.
“We’re here to talk,” Trevor said. “There are some things I need to understand.”
“Let’s talk then,” the Senator replied, leading the way to the living room.
Zoe walked to the bay windows and looked out at the scene that lived in so many of her memories—the sugar maple that shaded the servant’s cottage, the path through pines and thistles that led to the marsh at the edge of their land, the sandy beach where she had learned to swim, and, beyond, the Atlantic, restless beneath a darkening sky. After a moment, she went to the couch and sat beside Trevor. Her father took a seat in his favorite leather chair, and Sylvia remained standing, petting the Bichon Frisé.
“What do want me to tell you?” the Senator began.
“Clay Randall,” Trevor said. “I want to know why you didn’t do anything about it.”
Jack gave his son a deliberate look. “It wasn’t clear what happened.”