Less of a Stranger

  Chapter Eight

  It was difficult for Megan to cope with the two-week influx of tourists and sun seekers. They came, as they did every Easter, in droves. It was a preview of what the summer would hold. They came to bake on the beach and impress those left at home with a spring tan. They came to be battered and bounced around by the waves. They came to have fun. And what better place to find it than on white sand beaches or in an ocean with a gentle undertow and cresting waves? They came to laugh and sought their entertainment on spiraling water slides, in noisy arcades or crowded amusement parks.

  For the first time in her life, Megan found herself resenting the intrusion. She wanted the quiet, the solitude that went with a resort town in its off-season. She wanted to be alone, to work, to heal. It seemed her art was the only thing she could turn to for true comfort. She was unwilling to speak of her feelings to her grandfather. There was still too much to be sorted out in her own mind. Knowing her, and her need for privacy, Pop didn’t question.

  The hours she spent at the park were passed mechanically. The faces she saw were all strangers. Megan resented it. She resented their enjoyment when her own life was in such turmoil. She found solace in her studio. If the light in her studio burned long past midnight, she never noticed the time. Her energy was boundless, a nervous, trembling energy that kept her going.

  ***

  It was afternoon at the amusement park. At the kiddie cars Megan was taking tickets and doing her best to keep the more aggressive youngsters from trampling others. Each time the fire engines, race cars, police cruisers and ambulances were loaded, she pushed the lever that sent the caravan around in its clanging, roaring circle. Children grinned fiercely and gripped steering wheels.

  One toddler rode as fire chief with eyes wide with stunned pleasure. Even though she’d been on duty nearly four hours, Megan smiled.

  “Excuse me.” Megan glanced over at the voice, prepared to answer a parental question. The woman was an exquisite blonde, with a mane of hair tied back from a delicately molded face. “You’re Megan, aren’t you? Megan Miller?”

  “Yes. May I help you?”

  “I’m Jessica Delaney.”

  Megan wondered that she hadn’t seen it instantly. “Katch’s sister.”

  “Yes.” Jessica smiled. “How clever of you—but Katch told me you were. There is a family resemblance, of course, but so few people notice it unless we’re standing together.”

  Megan’s artist’s eyes could see the similar bone structure beneath the surface differences. Jessica’s eyes were blue, as Katch had said, and the brows above them more delicate than his, but there were the same thick lashes and long lids.

  “I’m glad to meet you.” Megan reached for something to say. “Are you visiting Katch?” She didn’t look like a woman who would patronize amusement parks—more likely country clubs or theaters.

  “For a day or so.” Jessica gestured to the adjoining ride, where children flew miniature piper cubs in the inevitable circle. “My family’s with me. Rob, my husband.” Megan smiled at a tall man with a straight shock of dark hair and an attractive, angular face. “And my girls, Erin and Laura.” She nodded to the two caramel-haired girls of approximately four and six riding double in a plane.

  “They’re beautiful.”

  “We like them,” Jessica said comfortably. “Katch didn’t know where I might find you in the park, but he described you very accurately.”

  “Is he here?” Megan asked, trying without much success to sound offhanded even as her eyes scanned the crowd.

  “No. He had some business to attend to.”

  The timer rang, signaling the ride’s end. “Excuse me a moment,” Megan murmured. Grateful for the interruption, she supervised the unloading and loading of children. It gave her the time she needed to steady herself. Her two final customers were Katch’s nieces. Erin, the elder, smiled at her with eyes the identical shade of her uncle’s.

  “I’m driving,” she said positively as her sister settled beside her. “She only rides.”

  “I do not.” Laura gripped the twin steering wheel passionately.

  “It runs in the family,” Jessica stated from behind her. “Stubbornness.” Megan hooked the last safety belt and returned to the controls. “You’ve probably noticed it.”

  Megan smiled at her. “Yes, once or twice.” The lights and noise spun and circled behind her.

  “I know you’re busy,” Jessica stated, glancing at the packed vehicles.

  Megan gave a small shrug as she followed her gaze. “It’s mostly a matter of making certain everyone stays strapped in and no one’s unhappy.”

  “My little angels,” Jessica said, “will insist on dashing off to the next adventure the moment the ride’s over.” She paused. “Could we talk after you’re finished here?”

  Megan frowned. “Well, yes, I suppose . . . I’m due relief in an hour.”

  “Wonderful.” Jessica’s smile was as charming as her brother’s. “I’d like to go to your studio, if that suits you. I could meet you in an hour and a half.”

  “At my studio?”

  “Wonderful!” Jessica said again and patted Megan’s hand. “Katch gave me directions.”

  The timer rang again, recalling Megan to duty. As she started yet another round of junior rides she wondered why Jessica had insisted on a date in her studio.

  ***

  With a furrowed brow, Megan studied herself in the bedroom mirror. Would a man who admired Jessica’s soft, delicate beauty be attracted to someone who seemed to be all planes and angles? Megan shrugged her shoulders as if it didn’t matter. She twirled the stem of the brush idly between her fingers. She supposed that he, like the majority of people who came here, was looking for some passing entertainment

  “You are,” she said softly to the woman in the glass, “such a fool.” She closed her eyes, not wanting to see the reflected accusation. Because you can’t let go, her mind continued ruthlessly. Because it doesn’t really matter to you why he wanted you with him, just that he wanted you. And you wish, you wish with all your heart that he still did.

  She shook her head, disturbing the work she had done with the brush. It was time to stop thinking of it. Jessica Delaney would be arriving any moment.

  Why? Megan set down her brush and frowned into the middle distance. Why was she coming? What could she possibly want? Megan still had no sensible answer. I haven’t heard from Katch in two weeks, she reflected. Why should his sister suddenly want to see me?

  The sound of a car pulling into the drive below interrupted her thoughts. Megan walked to the window in time to see Jessica get out of Katch’s Porsche.

  Megan reached the back stoop before Jessica, as she had been taking a long, leisurely look at the yard. “Hello.” Megan felt awkward and rustic. She hesitated briefly before stepping away from the door.

  “What a lovely place.” Jessica’s smile was so like Katch’s that Megan’s heart lurched. “How I wish my azaleas looked like yours.”

  “Pop—my grandfather—babies them.”

  “Yes.” The blue eyes were warm and personal. “I’ve heard wonderful things about your grandfather. I’d love to meet him.”

  “He’s still at the park.” Her sense of awkwardness was fading. Charm definitely ran in the Katcherton family. “Would you like some coffee? Tea?”

  “Maybe later. Let’s go up to the studio, shall we?”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, Mrs. Delaney—”

  “Jessica,” she interrupted cheerfully and began to climb the open back stairs.

  “Jessica,” Megan agreed, “how did you know I had a studio, and that it was over the garage?”

  “Oh, Katch told me,” Jessica said breezily. “He tells me a great many things.” She stood to the side of the door and waited for Megan to open it. “I’m very anxious to see your work. I dabble in oil from time to time.”

  “Do you?” Jessica’s interest now made more sense. Artistic kinship.

  “Badly, I
’m afraid, which is a constant source of frustration to me.” Again the Katcherton smile bloomed on her face.

  Megan’s reaction was unexpectedly sharp and swift. She fumbled for the doorknob. “I’ve never had much luck on canvas,” she said quickly. She needed words, lots of words, to cover what she feared was much too noticeable. “Nothing seems to come out the way I intend,” she continued as they entered the studio. “It’s maddening not to be able to express yourself properly. I do some airbrushing during the summer rush, but . . .”

  Jessica wasn’t listening. She moved around the room much the same way her brother had—intently, gracefully, silently. She fingered a piece here, lifted a piece there. Once, she studied a small ivory unicorn for so long, Megan fidgeted with nerves.

  What was she doing? she wondered. And why?

  Sunlight stippled the floor. Dust motes danced in the early-evening light. Too late, Megan recalled the bust of Katch. One slanted beam of sun fell on it, highlighting the planes the chisel had already defined. Though it was still rough-hewn and far from finished, it was unmistakably Katch. Feeling foolish, Megan walked over to stand in front of it, hoping to conceal it from Jessica’s view.

  “Katch was right,” Jessica murmured. She still held the unicorn, stroking it with her fingertips. “He invariably is. Normally that annoys me to distraction, but not this time.” The resemblance to Katch was startling now. Megan’s fingers itched to make a quick sketch even as she tried to follow the twisting roads in Jessica’s conversation.

  “Right about what?”

  “Your extraordinary talent.”

  “What?” Meg’s eyes widened.

  “Katch told me your work was remarkable,” she went on, giving the unicorn a final study before setting it down. “I agreed when I received the two pieces he sent up to me, but they were only two, after all.” She picked up a chisel and tapped it absently against her palm while her eyes continued to wander. “This is astonishing.”

  “He sent you the sculptures he bought from me?”

  “Yes, a few weeks ago. I was very impressed.” Jessica set down the chisel with a clatter and moved to a nearly completed study in limestone of a woman rising from the sea. It was the piece Megan had been working on before she had set it aside to begin Katch’s bust. “This is fabulous!” Jessica declared. “I’m going to have to have it as well as the unicorn. The response to the two pieces Katch sent me has been very favorable.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” Try as she might, Megan couldn’t keep up with Jessica’s conversation. “Whose response?”

  “My clients’,” said Jessica. “At my gallery in New York.” She gave Megan a brilliant smile. “Didn’t I tell you I run my own gallery?”

  “No,” Megan answered. “No, you didn’t.”

  “I suppose I thought Katch did. I’d better start at the beginning, then.”

  “I’d really appreciate it if you would,” Megan told her, and waited until she had settled herself in the small wooden chair beside her.

  “Katch sent me two of your pieces a few weeks ago,” Jessica began briskly. “He wanted a professional opinion. I may only be able to dabble in oil, but I know art.” She spoke with a confidence that Megan recognized. “Since I knew I’d never make it as a working artist, I put all the years of study to good use. I opened a gallery in Manhattan. Jessica’s. Over the past six years, I’ve developed a rather nice clientele.” She smiled. “So naturally, when my wandering brother saw your work, he sent it off to me. He always has his instincts verified by an expert, then plunges along his own way notwithstanding.” She sighed indulgently. “I happen to know he was advised against building that hospital in Central Africa last year but he did it anyway. He does what he wants to.”

  “Hospital.” Megan barely made the jump to Jessica’s new train of thought.

  “Yes, a children’s hospital. He has a soft spot for kids.” Jessica tried to speak teasingly, but the love came through. “He did some astonishing things for orphaned refugees after Vietnam. And there was the really fabulous little park he built in New South Wales.”

  Megan sat dumbly. Could they possibly be speaking about the same David Katcherton? Was this the man who had brashly approached her in the local market?

  She remembered with uncomfortable clarity that she had accused him of trying to cheat her grandfather. She had told herself that he was an opportunist, a man spoiled by wealth and good looks. She’d tried to tell herself he was irresponsible, undependable, a man in search of his own pleasure.

  “I didn’t know,” she murmured. “I didn’t know anything about it.”

  “Oh, Katch keeps a low profile when he chooses,” Jessica told her. “And he chooses to have no publicity when he’s doing that sort of thing. He has incredible energy and outrageous self-confidence, but he’s also very warm.” Her gaze slipped beyond Megan’s shoulder. “But then, you appear to know him well.”

  For a moment, Megan regarded Jessica blankly. Then she twisted her head and saw Katch’s bust. In her confusion, she had forgotten her desire to conceal it. Slowly, she turned her head back, trying to keep her voice and face passive.

  “No. No, really I don’t think I know him at all. He has a fascinating face. I couldn’t resist sculpting it.”

  She noted a glint of understanding in Jessica’s eyes. “He’s a fascinating man,” Jessica murmured.

  Megan’s gaze faltered.

  “I’m sorry,” Jessica said immediately. “I’ve intruded, a bad habit of mine. We won’t talk about Katch. Let’s talk about your showing.”

  Megan lifted her eyes again. “My what?”

  “Your showing,” Jessica repeated, dashing swiftly up a new path. “When do you think you’ll have enough pieces ready? You certainly have a tremendous start here, and Katch mentioned something about a gallery in town having some of your pieces. I think we can shoot for the fall.”

  “Please, Jessica, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A note of panic slipped into Megan’s voice. It was faint, almost buried, but Jessica detected it. She reached over and took both of Megan’s hands. The grip was surprisingly firm.

  “Megan, you have something special, something powerful. It’s time to share it.” She rose then, urging Megan up with her. “Let’s have that coffee now, shall we? And we’ll talk about it.”

  An hour later, Megan sat alone in the kitchen. Darkness was encroaching, but she didn’t rise from the table to switch on the light. Two cups sat, her own half-filled with now cold coffee, Jessica’s empty but for dregs. She tried to take her mind methodically over what had happened in the past sixty minutes.

  A showing at Jessica’s, an art gallery in Manhattan. New York. A public show. Of her work.

  It didn’t happen, she thought. I imagined it. Then she looked down at the empty cup across from her. The air still smelled faintly of Jessica’s light, sophisticated scent.

  Half-dazed, Megan took both cups to the sink and automatically began rinsing them. How did she talk me into it? she wondered. I was agreeing to dates and details before I had agreed to do the showing. Does anyone ever say no to a Katcherton? She sighed and looked down at her wet hands. I have to call him. The knowledge increased the sense of panic. I have to.

  Carefully, she placed the washed cups and saucers in the drainboard. I have to thank him. Nerves fluttered in her throat, but she made a pretense, for herself, of casually drying her damp hands on the hips of her jeans. She walked to the wall phone beside the stove.

  “It’s simple,” she whispered, then bit her lip. She cleared her throat. “All I have to do is thank him, that’s all. It’ll only take a minute.” Megan reached for the phone, then drew her hand away. Her mind raced on with her heartbeat.

  She lifted the receiver. She knew the number. Hadn’t she started to dial it a dozen times during the past two weeks? She took a long breath before pushing the first digit. It would take five minutes, and then, in all probability, she’d have no reason to contact him aga
in. It would be better if they erased the remnants of their last meeting. It would be easier if their relationship ended on a calmer, more civilized note. Megan pressed the last button and waited for the click of connection, the whisper of transmitters and the ring.

  It took four rings—four long, endless rings before he picked up the phone.

  “Katch.” His name was barely audible. She closed her eyes.

  “Meg?”

  “Yes, I . . .” She fought herself to speak. “I hope I’m not calling you at a bad time.” How trite, she thought desperately. How ordinary.

  “Are you all right?” There was concern in the question.

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Her mind fretted for the simple, casual words she had planned to speak. “Katch, I wanted to talk to you. Your sister was here—”