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  ‘We had lunch together around noon, just like always. But she left a little after three to go to the dry-cleaners. She hadn’t been able to go there since she went to Paris, and was very concerned that you would need shirts.’

  The women looked everywhere but at one another.

  ‘The dry-cleaner?’ Mark was pacing now. ‘Either she didn’t go, or she went somewhere afterwards, because I don’t have a damned shirt in my closet.’

  Sasha turned her back on the other women, fearing they would make each other laugh again. ‘That’s tough, Mark. But that’s all I can tell you. Hey, call me the minute she comes home, will you? I won’t sleep a wink. Night.’

  ‘Wait!’

  ‘Yes Mark?’

  ‘Today at lunch. How did she seem?’

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean?’

  ‘Did she say anything … about us, me, I mean?’

  It was hard for Sasha not to let her dislike of the man show in her voice. ‘Just the usual: how great you are, how lucky she is to be married to you. Frankly, Mark, it makes us all kind of sick when she talks like that.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Well, you know, the rest of us bitch about our lives, and there she sits, married to Mr Perfect. We’re all just jealous, I guess. Gotta go.’ She hung up the phone carefully.

  ‘Do you think he bought that?’ Julia asked.

  ‘Hard to say.’ Sasha was pensive. ‘The guy lies for a living.’

  Over on Sasco Creek, Mark sat in his study, looking at the phone. She knows something, he muttered under his breath, thinking it through. The throwaway phone on the desk rang sharply. Mark answered it before the first ring was finished. ‘Mark Saunders.’

  ‘I got your text, giving me particulars. The cell-phone number you gave me is not giving off a signal.’

  ‘I thought you could track an iPhone anywhere.’

  ‘Not if it’s been destroyed.’

  ‘Damn!’

  ‘Don’t give up so easily. Does her car have a tracking system?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Text me her licence-plate number and we’ll find it. My flight is boarding. See you in the morning.’

  Mark checked a file in his desk and texted the licence number. He ended the call, headed for the bedroom and fell asleep instantly, satisfied that it was only a matter of time before Claire was home. With him.

  Sixteen

  ‘We met in a London taxi.’ Claire was sitting on the bed, so lost in her memory that she was only faintly aware of Sister Mary Theresa. ‘It was pouring rain, and I was late for class, so I flagged down a cab. Just as I was getting in through one door, I looked up to see this guy getting in through the other. Well, not just a guy. He was drop-dead gorgeous, with sandy hair and hazel eyes that crinkled up around the edges when he smiled at me; as a bonus, he had this hunky body.’

  She stopped, realising who she was speaking to. ‘Sorry, Sister.’

  ‘I believe I understand the word. I wasn’t born a nun, you know. Go on.’

  ‘I had forgotten my umbrella, so I was soaked to the skin and late for my class. He was soaked, too, so we decided to share the cab. I was shivering from the cold, and he reached over and rubbed my hands to warm them. A shock, literally like a bolt of electricity, went through my body. I think … well, I know he felt the same thing.

  ‘By the time we got to the Royal Academy of Art, where I was studying, we were talking as though we’d known each other for ever. We both still had so many things to say that we agreed to meet for dinner that night at the Queen’s Head and Artichoke. It’s an adorable little pub near the Royal Academy of Music.’

  ‘Queen’s Head and Artichoke. Certainly sounds adorable. So he was English?’

  ‘He was born in London, but he had spent most of his life in New York. His father was an American. A lawyer for the FBI in the Organised Crime Division. His mother was English. We talked and talked, and when the pub was ready to close we still had so much to say that we decided to walk. So we walked and walked, and we didn’t stop walking until the sun came up.’

  Claire was clearly revived by the memories. Sister Mary Theresa barely moved, not wanting to break the mood.

  ‘I should be embarrassed to tell you this, Sister, but I’m not, because it was inevitable. We skipped class that day, went to the room I was renting, packed up my things, and by tea time I had moved into his tiny two-room apartment over a Chinese restaurant.’

  Claire laughed, remembering. ‘It was a squeeze for sure. Half the living room was taken up by an enormous grand piano. I couldn’t imagine how he got it up to the second floor, but I soon found out that if Walker made up his mind, there was nothing he couldn’t do.’

  ‘He was a musician?’ Sister Mary Theresa asked.

  ‘He was studying composition at the Academy, but he was already a brilliant pianist. So we’d both go off to class in the morning, and then race home … because five hours away from one another felt like for ever.’

  Claire had to stop to gather herself, as the memories triggered long-hidden emotions. After a moment or two, she went on.

  ‘The owners of the restaurant downstairs sort of adopted us and gave us dinner most nights. We’d have a Chinese feast and then I’d curl up in a corner of the living room to work on my sketches, and he would go to the piano. First he would play whatever composition he was working on at the Academy, and we’d talk about what had inspired him, and what he was trying to accomplish. Really, it was thrilling to be part of that.

  ‘He, of course, would pore over my drawings, and listen to me talk about art. And finally, when we were both done with work for the next day’s classes, I got to choose a composer. Rachmaninoff, I’d say, and he would play Rachmaninoff. And I had to guess what it was – a sonata, a rhapsody, an étude. I got a first-class musical education just by falling in love.’

  Sister Mary Theresa couldn’t help but notice how Claire’s face was changing as she fell back into her memories, and into another time. She seemed younger, even more lovely, if that was possible. The sadness written on her face when she arrived tonight was fading away.

  ‘To this day,’ Claire said, ‘when I pass a Chinese restaurant, I can’t help but smile, no matter how badly things turned out. Those five months were the happiest of my life. Except when Deborah, my daughter, was born.’

  ‘What a beautiful name. The original Deborah was a prophetess and a warrior. What is your Deborah like?’

  ‘Certainly a warrior. Nothing fazes her. She’s a girl just bubbling over with energy and curiosity and joy.’ Claire thought about whether or not to say more, then decided to go for it. ‘She’s also a brilliant musician, a pianist.’

  ‘I see.’ Sister Mary Theresa was careful now about what she said. ‘Is that a coincidence or an inherited talent?’

  ‘She’s Walker’s child. Although he’s never seen her. But she’s Mark’s daughter. He adopted her when she was not quite two. She has never known another father, and she has no idea that Walker even exists.’

  ‘My goodness, child, you certainly have been carrying a lot in your heart. One thing I have learned over the years is that secrets are tricky. One way or another, they are usually revealed.’

  ‘This one won’t be. Ever. That was my agreement with Mark when he adopted her,’ Claire said.

  ‘She was a child then. Now she’s a woman. Do you think it’s wise to continue the pretence?’

  ‘Nothing would be gained by her knowing. Mark has his faults, but he loves Deborah. I think one of the things that makes him behave the way he does is the fear that her birth father will come back, and that he will lose her love.’

  ‘Has he ever hurt her?’

  ‘Never! He would never ever abuse her! I told you he adores her.’

  ‘Did you ever imagine he would abuse you?’

  ‘Oh, Sister, I can’t even let myself think of such a thing. But if he lifted a hand against her, she would not put up with it. Like Deborah in the Bible, she would be a
warrior.’

  ‘Are you not a warrior, too? The girl you just described to me, the young woman who dared to love at first sight, certainly seemed like one.’

  ‘I’ve changed.’

  ‘Would it help to tell me about the ending? Certain things, emotions we hold inside for too long, have a way of chewing us up, of breaking the heart.’

  Claire studied the older woman. ‘You seem to know more about life than I would have imagined. How did you become so wise, living away from the world like this?’

  Sister Mary Theresa smiled. ‘As I said earlier, I was not born here. But my life before is between me and my confessor. Now, tell me what happened to you and Walker.’

  ‘It was the middle of June. Walker’s father was working in New York, on a big trial of some famous Mafia boss. I can’t remember the name. Anyway, he called Walker and asked if he could come home at once. He wanted him to be at the trial.’

  ‘Did you go with him?’

  ‘I had another week of classes, so no, I didn’t go, even though Walker wanted me to. I had already planned to come back to the States, and – this is silly, I know, but we had seen this old movie at a film festival: An Affair to Remember.’

  ‘Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr, I remember it well. A three-hanky movie, to be sure. They were to meet at the top of the Empire State building—’

  ‘If their love lasted. So we decided that on the Fourth of July we would meet there at noon. He would have arranged everything. A Justice of the Peace would marry us right there; then we’d celebrate by watching the fireworks on the East River and live happily ever after.’

  Claire, who was beyond tears by now, got up and poured herself a glass of water. She stood looking out of the room’s only window at the peaceful Sound below. The gentle colours of dawn were creeping across the great lawn.

  ‘He didn’t come?’

  ‘He didn’t come. I never saw him again.’

  ‘Dear girl.’ Sister Mary Theresa went and stood near Claire, looking thoughtfully out through the window with her. ‘Surely you searched for him? In the movie there had been an accident.’

  ‘There was no accident, although at first I thought there must have been. I didn’t know where his family lived and I had no way of finding out. People didn’t have mobile phones or iPads in those days. Because of his high-profile work, his father’s phone number was not in the phone book. But I had been following the trial in the papers, so I knew when Mr Kennedy would be at the court-house. When he arrived for the first day of the trial, I was waiting for him on the court-house steps.

  ‘I called to him, and all of a sudden the policemen who were guarding him were swarming around me, questioning me. But Mr Kennedy moved them aside, and said, “You’re Claire, aren’t you?” It was as though he had been expecting me.’

  ‘I was frantic, asking if Walker was sick, or in the hospital, or worse. He told me Walker knew I would find him, and he handed me an envelope and left. Just walked up the court-house steps and into the court-house with his bodyguards.’

  Sister Mary Theresa sighed and sank onto the bed. ‘Sometimes life is so hard. I ask the Lord about it all the time. Why? Why?’

  Claire sat next to her. ‘Does he ever answer?’

  ‘In His way. My faith teaches me that life on earth is not perfect. Life thereafter is sublime. It’s a matter of faith, I suppose, and I, like everyone else on this earth, have sometimes found that answer to be not good enough. But it’s the only one I have.’

  ‘It was the typical Dear John letter. He would always love me but we were just not meant to be. Have a nice life, he wrote. Have a nice life.’

  Sister took her hand. ‘Did you ever try to find him?’

  ‘Of course I did. I was like a crazy person. But he was just gone, vanished. So I never got to share the surprise I was saving for the Empire State Building. He never knew I was going to have his baby.’

  There was nothing left to say. Claire curled up in the narrow bed, and Sister Mary Theresa tucked the quilted cover around her, so she was in a little cocoon of warmth.

  ‘Sleep now, dear girl. I must be at my work in an hour. I have patients to see. But I will come to see you at lunch. Sister Margaret is right down the hall, and will bring food or anything else you need. Try not to think any more. You are in a place of healing.’

  ‘There’s a hospital here?’ Claire was already drifting off to sleep.

  ‘We Sisters run a hospice here. We help people learn how to die well. It is my wish that we may help you learn how to live.’

  Claire was asleep before the door had closed.

  Seventeen

  Morning brought with it grey skies and a biting wind. Mark, however, didn’t notice the weather as he focused on the task at hand. He was pacing around the parking lot in front of Green Earth Cleaners, when Mr Park opened the doors at eight a.m. sharp. Mark was careful to be on his best behaviour. He put on a politician’s smile.

  ‘Good morning! Mark Saunders. I don’t think we’ve met.’

  ‘No, I would have remembered,’ Mr Park said politely. ‘Of course I have had the great good fortune to know Mrs Saunders for many years. You know, sir, when I was a boy in Korea, my father always was telling me that if you choose the right woman to wed, half of what you need to do in life will be done. You, Mr Saunders, have chosen well.’

  Mark pushed down a sudden flare of anger. Another fan of Claire who believed she walked on water. Was he the only person in Westport who could see the truth of who she was? Did no one else see the lies, the betrayal? But the smile never left his face. ‘I’m a lucky man, no question about that. I’m just on my way home from the airport and thought I’d save her a trip and pick up my own shirts for a change.’

  In Mark’s line of work, lying was called diplomacy.

  ‘I believe your wife picked everything up yesterday afternoon, but I’ll be happy to check.’ He hurried back inside. Mark followed, watching as the man checked his records. ‘No, nothing left. She took everything.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. As you say, she’s a wonder.’ Mark made as if to turn away, then stopped. ‘Do you happen to remember about what time she was here?’

  ‘Same time as always: three fifteen. We close at four on Saturdays.’

  ‘Thanks. Next time if I want to help out, I’ll know I have to get here before that.’

  Mark was heading out the door when Mr Park, nervous in the presence of the great man, chatted on. ‘I hear the back door open on Saturday. The plastic rattles and I know it’s Mrs Saunders coming. Nobody else uses that door.’

  ‘The back door? Why does she do that?’

  ‘Busy lady. Smart lady.’ He laughed. ‘Front parking lot on Saturday is like a party. She has better things to do than gossip. Please give her my regards, Mr Saunders.’

  ‘Sure will.’ Mark left the shop. He had more questions, but to ask them would attract attention. It wouldn’t do for him to be going around Westport tracking down his wife.

  The back door? Who was she meeting back there? He wanted to drive around and have a look, but he could see Mr Park watching him through the window, so he got into his car and drove away.

  He didn’t need to be doing this anyway, he reminded himself. Someone was on the way who was an expert at finding people who didn’t want to be found.

  Eighteen

  It was midday in London, but Deborah had been at the piano for several hours. She had managed to scan Rhapsody for Claire into her computer before she went to bed last night. It was morning before she put her head on the pillow. She hadn’t slept well because the phone call from her father had troubled her.

  Her dad had not been himself for a while now. When she thought about it, things had begun to change soon after she had committed to becoming a concert pianist, and had begun to study at Juilliard. She had hoped he would be proud of her for her talent and work ethic. Sadly, his reaction had been just the opposite. He hadn’t even come to her senior solo concert at Alice Tully Hall. Despite the full ho
use, it had been hard to hide her disappointment when he did not show up.

  Deborah forced these concerns from her mind and went back to the music. She was determined to master the complex piece by the time her mother came for her concert in June. However, learning this would not be easy. She spanked the piano keys in frustration: so many moods, such a mix of colours and tone. She got up and stretched, wriggled her fingers, sank into her favourite yoga pose, the lotus, and closed her eyes. Her mother had taught her that when stress was greatest, it was best to close your eyes, breathe deeply and take your mind to another place. Breathe, she told herself. Breathe. In through your nose and out through your mouth. Let your mind take a holiday.

  Something was wrong between her parents. She’d known it for a couple of years now. They both tried to hide their feelings but, even though they never exchanged a cross word when she was there, she could feel the tension between them. Her father was only partly there, not fully. And her funny, happy, wonderful mother had a sadness about her that hadn’t been there before.

  Mavis wandered in from her bedroom, wearing her ridiculous pink flannel pyjamas patterned with white and black sheep. ‘Is lying underneath the piano a new way to absorb music?’

  ‘I might do better down here than I was doing at the keyboard. That piece is a nightmare.’

  Mavis joined her under the piano. ‘Your guilt at becoming a music thief is blocking your talent.’

  ‘I like the term “bandit” better than “thief”, if you don’t mind. It sounds more romantic. Did I wake you up banging on the piano?’

  ‘I needed to get up anyway. I have a ticket for the lunchtime concert at St Martin-in-the-Fields.’

  ‘Aren’t you a little late for that?’

  ‘I’ll make it by the interval.’ Mavis yawned and stretched. ‘You know, it’s very nice under here. We should do this more often.’

  ‘I think my parents should get a divorce.’

  ‘What?’ Mavis propped herself up on an elbow and studied her friend’s face. ‘I thought they were the perfect couple.’