Page 1 of Magnificent Folly

  Iris Johansen

  Magnificent Folly

  One

  The man on the cliff was watching Cassie again.

  Fear made the muscles tense in Lily Deslin's stomach. She stood on the deck of the beach house for only a few moments longer, then rushed down the steps, her pace quickening until she was running along the beach path toward Cas­sie 's small figure playing in the surf.

  She was being foolish. The man presented no threat, Lily told herself. Though he had been there on the cliff every evening for the past three days, she was sure he had not attempted to speak to Cassie. He merely had sat on the boulder on the cliff and watched her daughter play on the de­serted beach.

  Waiting. It seemed he was just waiting.

  No. She was blowing this all out of proportion. The man was no more than a dark silhouette against the blazing scarlet of the sky. She couldn't even see his features, so how could she know that

  he had any purpose here other than to enjoy the spectacular view over the water of the Oregon sunset?

  She knew.

  "Cassie!" Lily tried to keep the panic from her voice as she crossed the last few yards separating them. "Time for supper. Gome along, now."

  "In a minute, Mom." Cassie kicked at the foam ruffling the waves. "It's nice now. Sort of. . ." She hesitated. "Peaceful. Don't you feel it?"

  Lily forced a smile. "It will be just as nice in the morning. You're going to be as pruney as the raisins in that crazy TV commercial if you don't get out of the water." She reached down and picked up Cassie's crimson Peanuts beach towel, on which a moody Schroeder played his toy piano.

  "Okay." Cassie heaved a resigned sigh and turned and trudged toward the beach. "But it Won't be, you know."

  Lily quickly draped the towel around Cassie's shoulders. The man was still watching. She could feel the force of his gaze as if it were a touch. "Won't be what?" she asked as she lifted Cassie's single brown braid free from the folds of the towel.

  "Just as nice in the morning. You said that it would be just as nice then as it is now."

  "Sorry. I guess I lost my train of thought." Lily gave her daughter a gentle push toward the path leading to the beach house and said jokingly, "Old age setting in, I reckon."

  Cassie's brow creased in a thoughtful frown as she started toward the path. "I used to like morn­ings better here when we first came, but I don't

  anymore. During the last week I decided that this time of day is best. It makes me fed . . . beautiful."

  Cassie was beautiful, Lily thought with a sud­den rush of passionate tenderness. Oh, perhaps not picture-book pretty, but small and sturdy, endearingly freckled by the sun and gleaming with the golden sheen of childhood, Lily tugged teas-ingly at her daughter's damp braid. I guess you're not so bad."

  Cassie shook her head. "No, inside. I feel beau­tiful inside. Warm and sort of glowing and filled with something"—she made a helpless gesture with one hand, as if reaching for words—"special. Kind of like when I play Brahms."

  "Sounds more like Mozart."

  Cassie made a face. "You're making fun of me."

  Lily shook her head. "No way. Just trying to make you think in more precise terms. Mozart can be peaceful. Brahms has more sweep and power. Which is It?"

  "Maybe a little of both." Cassie nodded with satisfaction. "Yes, two parts Mozart and one part Brahms."

  Lily's laughter pealed out. "Well, that's precise enough."

  "I want to put it down on paper."

  Lily tried to hide a start of surprise. Cassie hadn't done any type of composing since before the tour the year before, and Lily had begun to think she was rejecting creating anything new to avoid another onslaught of publicity such as the introduction of her first concerto had brought. "After supper," she said firmly. "Shower, supper.

  dishes, piano. If it's worthwhile, it will stay with you."

  "But I want to—" Cassie broke off as she glanced up at her mother's face. "Shower, supper, paino," she said as a counter-offer. "You do the dishes tonight. 111 take your turn tomorrow."

  "Deal."

  They walked in companionable silence while the blazing scarlet of the sky turned to smoky lavender.

  "You're not old," Cassie said abruptly. "Why did you say that? You'll never be old."

  "Everyone grows old, Cassie."

  "Not you." Cassie's clasp tightened on her hand. "You're like a Bach fugue, strong and memorable, with every note crystal-clear. You'll always be like that."

  "Trust you to compare me to a fugue." Lily tried to keep the throatiness from her voice. "Are you trying to get out of doing the dishes tomorrow, too, young lady?"

  Cassie glanced up, her round face alight with mischief. "If it works. Does it?"

  "Nope."

  "What about if I compare you to Mozart?"

  Lily shook her head.

  "You're pretty tough. Mozart sparkles like a diamond."

  Cassie sparkled with the same many-faceted ap­peal, alternating between the mischief of a child and the wisdom of an adult. A feeling of profound thanksgiving suddenly surged through Lily. What had she ever done to deserve a miracle like Cas-

  sie? "I have to be tough, with a con artist like you in the house."

  "I don't try to con you."

  Lily raised a skeptical brow.

  "No, really, I don't," Cassie insisted. "I'd never try to . . ." She giggled. "Well, almost never."

  "Almost and never?" Lily clucked reprovingly. "Precision, love."

  Cassie grimaced. "You're as bad as Professor Kozeal. Precision is boring. I like the thundering flourishes better."

  "I know you do. But you have to have both in a piano concerto." Lily paused. "And in life, Cassie."

  Cassie turned to look at her. "You don't," she said gravely. "You don't have any thundering flour­ishes. Why don't you do—"

  "You provide quite enough flourishes for both of us," Lily replied, interrupting quickly. "Maybe I'm more Rachmaninoff than you think, brat."

  Cassie shook her head positively. "Bach." They were approaching the weathered cedar cottage on the rise when Cassie abruptly stopped. "Wait. I forgot to say good-bye."

  "What?"

  Cassie started to turn around. "I forgot to say good-bye to him."

  Lily stiffened. "Him?"

  Cassie was waving at the shadowy figure on the cliff. As Lily watched, the man lifted his arm and waved in return. It was a casual gesture, free of any hint of menace, yet Lily felt the chill return. She kept her tone carelessly casual. "Who Is he, Cassie? Has he ever spoken to you?"

  "No." Cassie waved again and turned away, "But he's always there. Haven't you noticed?"

  "Yes." Lily was silent a moment, trying to find the right words of caution that wouldn't frighten. "Sometimes it's not wise to be too friendly to strangers. If he ever tries to speak to you I'd like you to—"

  "Oh, Mom, he's not one of those creeps you told me about who tries to give candy to kids." Cas-sie's tone was impatient. "He's okay."

  "You can't be sure. It's always better to be careful."

  "I'm sure." Cassie frowned. "He . . . likes me."

  "For heaven's sake, Cassie. You just said he's never even spoken to you. How can you know that?"

  Cassie's jaw was set stubbornly. "He likes me."

  Lily knew she would get no further in trying to influence Cassie when her daughter's characteris­tic obstinacy was in full bloom. She would have to drop the subject and approach it later from an­other angle. She smiled. "What's not to like?"

  A little of Cassie's belligerence eased. "He's not a creep."

  "If you say so."

  They walked in silence for a few moments, and they were climbing the steps when Cassie spoke again. "Andrew."

  Lily glanced at her i
nquiringly.

  "You asked if I knew who he was. His name is Andrew."

  "How do you know?"

  Cassie frowned in puzzlement. "I'm not sure."

  Then her expression cleared. "I must have heard someone call his name sometime. Right?"

  Lily nodded slowly. 'That seems reasonable."

  But it was the middle of September, and this section of the beach was nearly deserted. Lily had never seen anyone else on the cliff. No one at all. She shivered as she threw open the door. "Shower," she said as she gave Cassie a gentle nudge toward her room. 'Then put on your pajamas and robe while I make supper. Fifteen minutes."

  Cassie nodded, and a minute later the door of her room slammed behind her.

  Was he still there? Lily turned slowly and looked out over the rock-strewn dunes toward the cliff. Darkness had almost entirely enveloped the sky, but she could still discern the shadowy figure on the cliff. There was no sunset to enjoy any longer, so why the hell didn't he go home?

  As if in answer to her question the man rose to his feet. He stood quite still for a moment, a slim, powerful figure staring down into the darkness. Then he turned and walked away.

  Lily breathed a sigh of relief before tension gripped her again. Now that he was no longer in sight he could be doing anything, going anywhere. He could even be coming down the cliff path toward the beach . . . and their cottage.

  Lily slammed the door and shot the lock and then immediately felt foolish. She was being in­credibly stupid. The man was probably a bespec­tacled accountant renting one of the cottages down the beach; perhaps he climbed the cliff even' eve­ning to watch the sunset and to get away from his

  wife and kids. Togetherness could be overpower­ing in these postage-stamp-size cottages. Yes, it was only her imagination that was inflating that solitary shadow into a figure of power and mystery.

  She turned and walked briskly toward the kitchen. The unknown was always frightening. The next evening she would march up the cliff path and introduce herself to the man. If he proved a decent sort, perhaps she'd invite him to the cottage for a cup of coffee. If he was some kind of weirdo she would handle that, too, even if it meant pushing the creep off the damn cliff.

  Lily smiled with satisfaction as she opened the refrigerator door and began to riffle through the vegetable crisper for lettuce and tomatoes. Elimi­nate the mystery and any situation could usually be handled, and some of the mystery surrounding the man on the cliff was already beginning to be dispersed. The shadow had a name.

  Andrew.

  "Mom, it's Professor Kozeal on the phone," Cas­sle called from outside the frosted-glass shower enclosure. "Shall I tell her to call you back?"

  Lily grimaced. She had expected Mara Kozeal to track them down, but she'd hoped it would take longer than a week. "No, talk to her for a minute. Ill be right out."

  "I was afraid you'd say that," Cassle muttered, her shadow fading away from the shower door. She won't like it. She'll yell at me, you know."

  "She never yells at you. Shell just ask questions."

  "Same difference." Cassle closed the door of the bathroom behind her.

  Lily smiled ruefully as she turned off the spray, slid back the door of the shower, and reached for a towel. Cassle was right. The professor's ques­tions often sounded like the third degree, and there was no question but that she was avoiding confronting Mara Kozeal's interrogation herself. Mara believed Cassle was a child prodigy on the scale of Mozart, and would be furious to have her plans for her thwarted. Well, Lily would just have to gird herself for the battle. Mara was an excep­tional teacher, and heaven knows Lily never would have been able to afford to hire anyone half so good if Mara hadn't believed in Cassie's genius enough to teach her for practically nothing, but there was no way she was going to have Cassle exploited. The national concert tour the previous year might have brought Cassle a good deal of critical acclaim, but the constant travel and papparazzi attention had given her a fine-drawn, haunted look by the time the tour had ended. Cassle possessed extraordinary talent, but she was still a little girl, with a child's needs, and Lily was not going to let her be robbed of that childhood.

  She slipped on her terry-cloth robe and tied the belt before striding into the bedroom and picking up the extension. "Hello, Mara. Okay, Cassle, you can hang up now."

  " "Bye, Professor Kozeal." Cassle sounded dis­tinctly relieved as she hurriedly hung up the ex­tension in the living room.

  Fifteen minutes later Lily replaced the receiver,

  feeling as if she'd gone through a major Isattle, Lord, the woman was stubborn. She marched into the living room and over to the upright piano, where Cassie was sitting. "Bed." she announced. "It's after ten."

  "Five minutes more." Cassie scrawled another note on the sheet in front of her. "Ill sleep late in the morning."

  "You never sleep late." Lily strode across the room, took the pencil from Cassie's hand, and put it on top of the piano. "Get up at dawn and work before breakfast. That will give you all night to let the music play in your head. That always helps you."

  Cassie looked longingly at the sheet already half covered with notes and then gave up. "Okay." She got off the bench and padded barefoot toward her room. "I could tell Professor Kozeal was mad. She kept muttering something about your dragging me from San Francisco to the wilds of Oregon. Did she give you hell?"

  "No cursing, young lady." Lily followed her into the bedroom and pulled back the coverlet on the bed as Cassie took off her robe, "She was very understanding when I explained. She just thinks you'd be better off in San Francisco, where she can give you lessons." She made a face. "I'm sure she'd have a heart attack if she saw that upright piano I rented for you. She'd never understand why I left the Steinway in the apartment,"

  Cassie climbed into bed and nestled back against the pillows. "Are we going?"

  Lily tucked the coverlet around Cassie's shoulders. "This cottage is kind of shabby, and there's no Steinway. Do you want to go back?"

  "No."

  Lily smiled as she leaned down and brushed a kiss on Cassie's temple, "Then we won't go back until we're both good and ready. I have a lease on the cottage for another five weeks."

  "Good." Cassie's eyes closed. "I like it here. It's so pretty."

  "Yes. it is."

  Cassie yawned and turned on her side. "And the music. There's never been so much music. The wind and the sea . . ."

  Lily picked up the music box on the bedside table, wound it, and set it down again. Nighttime rituals. She loved them as much as Cassie. She turned off the bedside lamp. 'That's nice, love."

  Cassie's voice was a drowsy murmur over the silvery melody of the music box. "Isn't it funny? It's hard to hear the music except at sunset. Then it's so clear. It's beautiful, Mom."

  Lily felt a tightening in her throat. 'Then you'd better go to sleep so that you can get it all down on paper tomorrow."

  "Yes, tomorrow 111 ..." Cassie's words trailed away as her breathing deepened.

  Lily stood looking down at her daughter. She should go to the darkroom and get to work on those photographs. She had at least three hours' developing and enlarging to do before she could get into her own bed, and the commission for the lobby of the Landaur Building was due in two weeks. Cassie didn't need her any longer. She was sound asleep, worn out from a day of swimming and collecting shells and listening to the music ho one could hear but her. Dear God, she was sweet. Honest, sensitive, mischievous, sometimes a child, sometimes an adult, always loving. If Cas­sia's extraordinary gift vanished the next day, she would still be a very special child. There had been a time last year when Lily had almost wished Cassie were an ordinary child, when she had seen her daughter grow quieter and more and more bewil­dered under the barrage of publicity that had sur­rounded her when the world discovered her genius. Yet how could Lily wish for the music to vanish, when it brought Cassie so much joy? There had to be a way for Cassie to have the joy of creation without being in the glare of the spot­light, and by he
aven, Lily knew she would find it. It wouldn't be easy—but then, nothing had been easy since the moment she had made the decision to have a child, and she had never regretted the choice. From the moment she had felt Cassie stir­ring in her womb she had known only passionate gratitude and the determination to give her child all the love and care she would ever need or want. She straightened, and then turned and moved toward the door. Well, taking care also meant fi­nancial support, and she was wasting time. Her own career as a photographer was just beginning to flourish, and it was difficult enough to make ends meet these days. There was work to be done. Lily was quietly closing the bedroom door be­hind her when she heard a half-audible murmur from the bed across the room. She paused, waiting to see if Cassie would stir into wakefulness. Then, when there was no further sound, she started to swing the door shut again. The drowsy murmur came once more, clearer this time, and Lily stiffened, her hand clenching the doorknob. "Andrew......"

  The man wasn't on the cliff the next evening.

  Lily had made sure she was available to oversee Cassie's entire stay on the beach, and had so primed herself to do battle, she felt flat when denied the opportunity. She sat down in the sand and linked her arms around her bare knees as she watched Cassie wade into the surf. "Your friend Andrew seems to have deserted us."

  Cassie plopped down in the water, her fingers digging into the wet sand. An abstracted frown creased her brow as she gazed out at the scarlet streaks mirrored on the water. "What?"

  "Never mind." Cassie was hearing her music, and Lily knew the child was lost to her for the time being. For a moment a wave of loneliness surged through her, before she firmly dismissed it. "It doesn't matter."

  "Oh, you said ..." Cassie buried her fingers deeper in the sand. "Andrew's around some­where."

  "How do you know?"

  "Hello." The deep baritone voice behind Lily made her jump. "How are you this evening, Cassie? Ms. Deslin?"

  •Lily tensed as she glanced sharply over her shoul-

  der. A tall man was walking toward them. The brilliant light of the sunset made it impossible for her to see his features, but the way he moved was unmistakable. Then, as he came closer, she felt a little of the tension ease from her rigid muscles. This young man didn't look at all threatening. He couldn't have been- over twenty-four or twenty-five, and had the lean, sensual grace of one of the college men on a USC calendar. His sun-faded jeans were rolled up to reveal muscular calves, and his navy blue sweat shirt was bleached by salt and sun until its original color was scarcely discernible. Barefoot, his toes curled with evident pleasure in the softness of the sand as he strolled toward them.