Hidden Paradise

chapter TWENTY-FIVE



Rob

He and Di sat on the front steps of the house, throwing pieces of gravel back into the driveway, an easy pastime since there were always pieces of gravel on the steps, a seemingly infinite amount. This was a sloppy, lazy sort of day, nearly everyone hungover and short of sleep, standards relaxed. In the two hours he’d been off duty last night, there had been no terrible disasters—nearly everyone was drunk, someone had vomited in the rosebushes, and one of the cooks had gone crazy and waved a knife around, insisting someone had stolen his stash of marijuana.

And Di had been dumped by her worthless boyfriend, which made Rob feel bad for her—he hated to see her weepy and sad—but also vaguely hopeful about his chances, because he liked her. He really did. They got on, and she’d come to him first with the bad news—or nearly first. She’d talked to Lou.

“I thought she was standoffish, you know?” Di said to him now. “But she’s okay. Nice. She said I should stay on here, because I wasn’t alone here, even though I feel like flushing my head down the toilet.” She sniffed, her needle darting in and out of a bunch of cloth on her lap. “I don’t know. I might take a few days off. How about you?”

“I don’t know.” He yawned and apologized.

He threw a piece of gravel and watched it skip and sparkle in the sunlight. He hated the idea of offering himself to Di as some sort of first reserve—boyfriend dumped you? Never mind! Here I am, infinitely shaggable good old Rob—but he also didn’t want to find she was going out with someone else because he’d misjudged the timing. Neither did he make the mistake of saying Di’s boyfriend must be a real jerk, because what did that say about Di?

“Rob?” He turned to see Ivan at the front door. “They want you in the office.”

Oh, shit. Maybe there’d been some almighty cock-up last night and he was about to get a bollocking. He stood up, brushed off his breeches, and Di reached up to tug his coat straight. He ran through his mind what could have been left undone from last night or today, but everything had gone well, even though very few people had shown up for breakfast or nuncheon. Dinner, in an hour or so, might be better attended, as it should be, since it was the farewell dinner for this particular group of guests.

He went round the outside of the house to the office. Peter and Chris were there, their faces serious, with a tall slender woman in jeans and T-shirt. She looked familiar and the sight of a woman’s legs made him a little lightheaded.

“Lou?” he said in surprise. “Mrs. Connolly, I mean.”

She nodded. Her face was tight and strained, her arms crossed tight over her front as if to protect herself. She propped herself on the edge of Peter’s desk. Shit, he thought. What had happened?

“I’m leaving this afternoon, Rob,” she said. “I’ve got a flight out early tomorrow.”

What the hell? “I’m sorry to see you go,” he said politely, since they weren’t alone.

She nodded. “Yes, originally my plan was to stay on and do a little work here for Peter and Chris, but I’ve accepted an offer on the ranch, so I need to go home and attend to it.”

Was it his imagination or was there the slightest pause before she said the word home?

“We were wondering,” Peter said, “what your plans for the next few weeks are. Our next trial run is in mid-August and we hope Lou will be back by then, and as you know there’s plenty of work to be done around the place. But in the meantime…” He looked at Lou.

“I need someone to help me clear out the ranch, sort things, put stuff into storage and so on, within the next month. You can come over on a tourist visa—I’ll pay your fare and a small stipend for a couple of weeks. Peter and Chris have very kindly agreed to spare you if you’re interested.”

“Wow. The States!” he blurted out.

“It’s Montana. Beautiful and isolated, very rural, but there’s certainly no reason why you shouldn’t travel for a bit while you’re over.”

He had the distinct impression he wasn’t being invited for a two-week bonk fest, but he saw a sudden appeal in her eyes—help me, help me. Naturally, like the sucker he was, he prepared to saddle up his white charger.

“Think it over. Let Peter and Chris know in the next couple of days, please.” She held out her hand, the ice queen bidding her subject to depart. “You’ve been terrific, Rob. Thanks.”

He shook hands with her, but something felt off. This was wrong, all terribly wrong.

The office door closed behind her. He looked at Peter and Chris, whose faces both held stunned, resigned expressions. “What is going on?”

“We don’t know,” Peter said. “But we think it may be Mac.”

Rob ran out after her. “Lou! Wait.”

She stopped, turned and ran into his arms, pushing her face against his shoulder. “I can’t talk about it, Rob. I’ll tell you one day. But not now. I’m sorry.”

“What did he do to you?” The bastard, the bastard.

“Who?” She looked up at him. She wasn’t crying, as he thought she might be, but she looked vulnerable and shaken.

“Mac. I’ll kill him if—”

“He didn’t do anything. It has nothing to do with him.”

He believed her, sort of. But what else could it be?

“I don’t get it, Lou.”

She sighed. “I don’t expect you to, but trust me. Please come over. I won’t be a mess then, I promise. I need a bit of time alone.” She put her arms around him and hugged him. “You’ve been great, Rob.”

“Don’t go,” he said, his voice going all wobbly and strange.

“I’m sorry.” She kissed him and he watched her walk away.

Another woman walking out of his life for no reason he could understand. He swore and kicked the paneling—it was okay, it wasn’t original—and gave himself a satisfying stubbed toe. But it didn’t help.

* * *


Mac

THE DIMNESS OF THE DRAWN BED curtains made him sleep until well into the afternoon and Lou, of course, had wandered off somewhere. He considered lounging around sexily to wait in the bed that smelled of her, but really more of him and Rob.

He considered. Did he feel gay today? Not particularly. Horny yes, but only where Lou was concerned.

And then it came back in a rush of excitement, the scrap of paper with its familiar signature, the implications of what they’d found, what it would do for Paradise Hall and all of the people he cared about here. Particularly Lou, his lovely Lou, who’d achieve fame, if not fortune, who’d establish herself as an unmatched Austen scholar with the discovery.

Hardly anyone was around, and he remembered the current crop of guests would disperse within the next few days, but the house was pretty much deserted. Nuncheon had come and gone, and the kitchen staff was more surly than usual, telling him they were tired of him begging for food at odd hours, which meant they’d eaten all the leftovers. One of the cooks relented and fried him a couple of eggs. Mac had to listen to his long, bloodthirsty monologue of what he’d do to the villain who’d had stolen his stash, which didn’t improve Mac’s appetite.

Wandering around the house, he came across footmen taking naps in odd corners, but no Lou. He was on his way to the lodge to see if she was still at Viv’s when he saw someone sitting on a bench, staring out over the lake. He had to look twice; he wasn’t used to seeing women in pants anymore.

“Lou!” he waved at her.

She raised one arm about halfway and gave a restrained wave.

He strode along the path, expecting her to run to meet him, but she simply stood up and waited, aloof and unmoving.

When he moved to take her in his arms, she held up one hand to stop him. “I can’t do it, Mac.”

“Can’t do what?”

“I can’t break the story. I’m leaving now. There’s a car coming for me any minute.”

“Lou, honey, what’s wrong?”

“I can’t do it,” she repeated. “It’s a violation. It was her life, Mac. Something terrible happened to her, a betrayal of trust. Let someone else do it. I won’t.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a bit melodramatic? You’re jumping to a lot of conclusions from those few words.”

“What else could they mean?”

Out on the lake, the swans floated into view, followed by four small gray blobs. He hadn’t even known they had eggs hatching.

She dabbed at her eyes. “You said it yourself—strong language. Passion, inconstancy. Don’t make this harder for me than it is.”

“Harder for you! You said it yourself—this is huge. We’ll handle it with tact. What the hell did your advisor say?” He stared at her in disbelief. Was she out of her mind?

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I have to go back to Montana. There’s an offer on the ranch. Look, you don’t understand the implications of this. Millions of people would have their illusions of Austen destroyed. They don’t want to think of her as a woman who’s wrecked by passion. They want her to be the epitome of happy endings and true love.”

“So? A few old biddies might reach for the smelling salts, but—”

“Austen lovers are not old biddies!” She glared at him. “What about your mom?”

“Oh, she wouldn’t mind being called an old biddy,” he lied. He took a step toward her and seized her hand. “For Christ’s sake, Lou, run away back to the cows if you want, but this story will break whether you want it to or not. You should take credit for it, whatever the truth of the matter is. You know there’s going to be an immense amount of scholarly interest—you could make your career with this.”

“I know.” Her hand was like ice.

“So? Come on, Lou. You and me, as soon as you come back. Otherwise I’ll break it on my own. I’ll tell Peter and Chris today. They should know. I’ll show them the rat’s nest. We’ll work out a media plan—”

She took her hand from his. “My car’s here. I have to go.”

She walked past him toward the lodge where a car had pulled up. The driver got out, popping the trunk open.

“I’m sorry, Mac.”

She walked away from him. He followed, and even at this moment he couldn’t bear to see her go. Even now, when he hated her for what she was doing. She disappeared into the lodge and he watched as she came out with a purse on a strap over her shoulder and a battered leather bag that the driver put in the car. Viv stood in the doorway, waving goodbye as the car drove off.

To hell with her and her scruples. What was wrong with her?

He marched back to the house, sick at heart, and went to the east wing. The Paint Boys, uncharacteristically languid, lounged at the tables, Jon doing a crossword puzzle, Simon staring at a computer screen. The trays filled with plastic bags were now empty.

He headed for the filing cabinet. “Can we help you?” Simon asked.

The shelf where Lou had left her box was empty except for boxes of pens and staples.

“Lou left me a box with her name on it.”

“In there?”

“Yes. It’s a box about this big.” He measured with his hands. “Like the empty ones on the shelf there.”

“Oh, a large artifact box.” Jon yawned and stretched and laid his crossword puzzle aside. “You’re sure it was in there? We don’t use the filing cabinet for artifact storage. What was in it?”

He improvised. “She brought me here last night to see the conservatory and her necklace broke. So she put it in a box to pick up later and she asked me to get it for her before she left this afternoon.”

They looked at each other and shook their heads.

“Can you think where it might have gone? If someone had picked it up, say, and thought it was one of yours, and figured it was in the wrong place?”

“The only people who would have done so would have been me or Simon,” Jon said.

“Where do you keep stuff if it isn’t in this room? Could you have moved it?”

“Nothing here, I’m afraid. We take sorted and classified artifacts to a museum storage facility. In fact, I’m just back from a delivery.”

“Where is it?”

Simon smiled maliciously. “That information is not divulged to the public or the media. And even if someone did discover its whereabouts, they would have to deal with a very sophisticated security system.”

“We have over five thousand pieces in storage there,” Jon said.

“Many of which are stored in artifact boxes of many sizes.”

“Fragments of china, scraps of cloth, coins, nails…”

“Pieces of wallpaper, the occasional earring, pins, beads, the ever popular unidentified metal object…”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” He left them, wondering if they would continue their litany whether he was there or not.

Maybe she’d hidden the box somewhere else in the house.

Or maybe she’d taken it back to the States with her.

But more likely, and far worse, she’d destroyed it and everything else that they’d planned, including their future together.

* * *

DINNER THAT EVENING WAS A subdued affair, guests picking at their food, footmen yawning and spilling sauce. Even Rob was off his game, responsible for dropping and breaking a platter in a spray of gravy and shattered china.

“You may have noticed, Mac,” Peter said, carving hefty slices from a huge cut of beef, “our handling of media is a little haphazard. We are in dire need of someone to handle press for us, write some white papers and so on, do clever things on the website.”

“I’ll see if I can come up with some names for you.”

“Forgive me for being obtuse. We were thinking of you.” A large slice of beef, bleeding slightly, thudded onto his plate.

“Well, I don’t know. It’s real good of you to consider me.”

“On the contrary, I think you’d be very good for Paradise Hall. Do think it over, Mac. I know you’re pining for our Loulou, but she’ll come around. After all, she’s going to curate our education center.”

“When we get the funding and when she’s recovered from her sulk,” Chris said.

“Well, there’s a reason she’s not herself today,” Peter said. “I thought it was you, Mac—that you’d committed some dreadful act of depravity on her person—but of course I realized too late, after she’d gone, why she was out of sorts.”

“You did?” Mac said.

“It was her wedding anniversary, poor darling. I wish she hadn’t rushed off, but she is rather a private person. But you’ll let us know soon, won’t you, Mac, about the job?”

“Think it over,” Chris said.

“Sure,” Mac said. “Thank you for thinking of me. I appreciate it.” Of course you want me as a press officer. I’m the ideal candidate. I’ve been complicit in losing you the story of the century.

* * *


Ten days later

Rob

“REMEMBER,” MAC SAID AS HE turned the Land Rover into the airport entrance, “rubbers are erasers. Maryland doesn’t rhyme with fairyland. If they’ve never been here, they’re convinced this is a country of warm beer and London fogs. And don’t forget to ask Lou about the box.”

“What’s in that box anyway?” Rob asked. Why the hell did Mac have to make everything so complicated and mysterious? He had a suspicion that the box was a code word between Lou and Mac that would result either in her shrieking with laughter or banishing him from her house, leaving him alone in the wilds of Montana.

“Nothing much.”

It was what he said every time the issue of the mysterious box came up.

“Feeling gay today?” Mac asked.

Rob pretended to consider the question. It had become a running joke between them. “Not particularly. How about you?”

“About the same as yesterday. Your dad asked me what color he should paint the cottage downstairs and I told him camouflage green. Something very butch.” Mac glanced at him. “I don’t know about the stubble on you, though. You still look too damn pretty.”

Rob fingered his chin. “Shit. I thought I’d better try and look older in case Lou, well, you know, I mean, she may have puritanical Midwest neighbors.”

The traffic slowed as they entered the passenger drop-off area. “They’re five miles away, so unless they have radio surveillance on her house and can read the date of birth on your passport, you’re safe,” Mac said.

And, Rob thought gloomily, she might not want to have sex with him anymore. Perhaps it had been the livery, or the whole playacting thing that turned her on, and back home she might just regard him as the equivalent of one of her students and consider him off-limits.

“What are you going to do now?” he asked Mac.

“I turned the piece on Paradise in to my editor this morning, so I’m off the hook and free to scrape around for more freelance assignments. I’ll go to London and visit my kid. She’s the same age as Graham, but she likes pink things and ballet, not football.” He cleared his throat. “Have you heard from Lou?”

Poor bastard, he asked every day. Viv had threatened to ban him from the lodge, he lurked around there so much asking to check his email.

“No. Only through Chris and Peter and only stuff about travel.”

A car pulled out in front of them with a screech of tires and Mac steered into its vacated space. “Okay, this is it. Have a good flight.” He popped the boot. “Email if you want, let me know how everything goes.”

Rob nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for the ride.”

Rob went round to the back of the car and grabbed his bag. He ran a mental checklist—passport, iPod, mobile—and Mac appeared at his side and swung him around, enveloping him in his arms.

“What the f*ck if it does look gay?” he said. “I’ll miss you, kid. Keep in touch.”

They lurched together in a clumsy, affectionate hug. Rob let Mac go, giddy with excitement again at the thought of going to the States, hefted his backpack onto his shoulder and headed for the automatic doors. He looked back and waved and Mac, grinning and looking like anyone else in jeans and a regular shirt, waved back. He wasn’t Mr. Darcy anymore. He was a friend.