hung onto her hand. She whispered something and he pulled himself together. Constance wanted to know how old he was. He told her in bashful, gentlemanly accents, calling her "Mrs. Cheyney" when his mother prompted him. Mrs. Donovan said she had a boy at home almost his age, he would have to come over and play with him sometime. He thanked her politely, his serious face indicating that he would take the suggestion under advisement.
He shook hands with the men next. When Alex's turn came, he reached into his pocket and handed Michael the Indian arrowhead he'd picked up on the site in Newport and wrapped in a piece of drawing paper. As the boy gazed down, bemused, at the rough piece of flint, Alex caught the clean smell of soap and sun-dried flannel, and had a most unexpected urge to put his arms around Michael and give him a hug. Instead he explained what the gift; was, to the child's highly gratifying amazement and delight. They were speculating on the age of the artifact and the tribe it might have come from when Cochrane interrupted with brusque, senseless seventy that it was past Michael's bedtime and he wanted him upstairs
now
.
Alex's
eyes flew to Sara's, surprising a quickly hidden look of distress. Instantly obedient, Michael spun around and ran to his father. Cochrane put his beefy arms around him in a bear hug that looked more like a punishment than a demonstration of affection. Alex looked away, reaching for his drink and pushing back dark, long-ago memories best left buried.
Michael went away with Mrs. Drum, and soon after Sara stood up and announced that dinner was ready. Alex put his glass down and moved toward Constance, but Cochrane beat him to her, offering his arm with a fatuous smile and leading her out of the room. The Donovans followed. Sara waited beside the door with her hands clasped together, smiling tensely. More than anything, he wanted to make the smile real. He said, "I almost called you. A number of times." Her gray-blue eyes softened, and he came closer. But then she asked, "Why?"
Three or four answers sprang to mind. All of them would change everything, alter for good the fragile friendship they were sharing. Tentative as it was, he found he didn't want to risk losing it. "I wondered how your friend is, and if the police found out anything."
"Ah." She turned aside before he could discover if the new look in her eyes was disappointment. The girl named Tasha was still living in the house, she told him, recovering slowly; she hoped to find her a job soon, sewing clothes for a New York couturier. The police had discovered nothing and had no clues.
He said something sympathetic. Then, "Have you been all right? I thought you might be looking a little tired."
"Oh no," she said quickly, "I'm quite all right. How did you find Newport?"
"A bit empty yet. Ben tells me you'll be spending most of the summer there."
"With Michael, yes. We're looking forward to it."
He studied her tense cheeks, the strain in the fine blue-white skin around her eyes. He didn't believe she was looking forward to it, nor that she was quite all right. But they didn't have the sort of relationship that would have allowed him to challenge her.
As if she sensed his skepticism but had no resources to deal with it, she turned aside, murmuring about dinner and the other guests, and slipped through the door. Following, he took her arm in a gentle clasp. They moved down the hall together without saying anything more.
Dinner was skillfully prepared, beautifully served, and as strained a meal as Alex had ever sat through. Later that night Constance would tell him how pleasant she'd found the evening—an amazing reaction until he considered that he was beginning to perceive things that went on in the Cochrane household through Sara's eyes and ears. He sat in uncharacteristic silence throughout most of the meal, but he watched and listened, and against his will he learned.
Bennet Cochrane was a bully. He'd known that for months,
He shook hands with the men next. When Alex's turn came, he reached into his pocket and handed Michael the Indian arrowhead he'd picked up on the site in Newport and wrapped in a piece of drawing paper. As the boy gazed down, bemused, at the rough piece of flint, Alex caught the clean smell of soap and sun-dried flannel, and had a most unexpected urge to put his arms around Michael and give him a hug. Instead he explained what the gift; was, to the child's highly gratifying amazement and delight. They were speculating on the age of the artifact and the tribe it might have come from when Cochrane interrupted with brusque, senseless seventy that it was past Michael's bedtime and he wanted him upstairs
now
.
Alex's
eyes flew to Sara's, surprising a quickly hidden look of distress. Instantly obedient, Michael spun around and ran to his father. Cochrane put his beefy arms around him in a bear hug that looked more like a punishment than a demonstration of affection. Alex looked away, reaching for his drink and pushing back dark, long-ago memories best left buried.
Michael went away with Mrs. Drum, and soon after Sara stood up and announced that dinner was ready. Alex put his glass down and moved toward Constance, but Cochrane beat him to her, offering his arm with a fatuous smile and leading her out of the room. The Donovans followed. Sara waited beside the door with her hands clasped together, smiling tensely. More than anything, he wanted to make the smile real. He said, "I almost called you. A number of times." Her gray-blue eyes softened, and he came closer. But then she asked, "Why?"
Three or four answers sprang to mind. All of them would change everything, alter for good the fragile friendship they were sharing. Tentative as it was, he found he didn't want to risk losing it. "I wondered how your friend is, and if the police found out anything."
"Ah." She turned aside before he could discover if the new look in her eyes was disappointment. The girl named Tasha was still living in the house, she told him, recovering slowly; she hoped to find her a job soon, sewing clothes for a New York couturier. The police had discovered nothing and had no clues.
He said something sympathetic. Then, "Have you been all right? I thought you might be looking a little tired."
"Oh no," she said quickly, "I'm quite all right. How did you find Newport?"
"A bit empty yet. Ben tells me you'll be spending most of the summer there."
"With Michael, yes. We're looking forward to it."
He studied her tense cheeks, the strain in the fine blue-white skin around her eyes. He didn't believe she was looking forward to it, nor that she was quite all right. But they didn't have the sort of relationship that would have allowed him to challenge her.
As if she sensed his skepticism but had no resources to deal with it, she turned aside, murmuring about dinner and the other guests, and slipped through the door. Following, he took her arm in a gentle clasp. They moved down the hall together without saying anything more.
Dinner was skillfully prepared, beautifully served, and as strained a meal as Alex had ever sat through. Later that night Constance would tell him how pleasant she'd found the evening—an amazing reaction until he considered that he was beginning to perceive things that went on in the Cochrane household through Sara's eyes and ears. He sat in uncharacteristic silence throughout most of the meal, but he watched and listened, and against his will he learned.
Bennet Cochrane was a bully. He'd known that for months,
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