Chapter Nine
Max was whistling as he poured his coffee. It was the penguin’s natty little tune and suited his mood. He had plans. Big ones. A drive along the coast, dinner at some out-of-the-way spot, then a nice long walk on the beach.
He sipped, scalded his tongue and grinned.
He was having a romance.
“Well, it’s nice to see someone in such a bright mood so early in the morning.” Coco sailed into the kitchen. She’d dyed her hair a raven black the night before, and the result had put her in a cheerful state of mind. “How about some blueberry pancakes?”
“You look terrific.”
She beamed and reached for a frilly apron.
“Why, thank you, dear. A woman needs a change now and again, I always say. Keeps men on their toes.” After taking a large mixing bowl from the cupboard, she glanced back at him.
“I must say, Max, you’re looking rather well yourself this morning.
The sea air or... something must agree with you. ”
“It’s wonderful here. I’ll never be able to thank you enough for letting me stay.”
“Nonsense.” In her haphazard way she began dumping ingredients into the bowl.
It never failed to amaze Max how anyone could cook so carelessly with such exquisite results.
“It was meant, you know. I knew it the moment Lilah brought you home. She was always one for bringing things home. Wounded birds, baby rabbits. Even a snake once.” The memory of that made her pat her breast. “This was the first time she brought in an unconscious man. But that’s Lilah,” she continued, gaily mixing as she talked.
“Always the unexpected. Quite talented, too. She knows all those Latin terms for weeds and the migratory habits of birds and things. When she’s in the mood, she can draw beautifully. ”
“I know. I saw the sketches in her room.”
She slanted him a look. “Did you?”
“I...” He took a quick gulp of coffee. “Yes. Do you want a cup?”
“No, I’ll have my coffee when this is done.
” Oh, my, my, she thought, things were moving along just beautifully.
The cards didn’t lie. “Yes, our Lilah’s quite a fascinating girl.
Headstrong like the others, but in such a casual, deceptively amiable sort of way.
I’ve always said that the right sort of man would recognize how special she is.
” Keeping an eye on Max, she rinsed and drained blueberries.
“He’d need to be patient, but not malleable.
Strong enough to keep her from veering off course too far, and wise enough not to try to change her.
” Gently folding the berries into the batter she smiled.
“But then, if you love someone why would you want to change her?”
“Aunt Coco, are you pumping poor Max?” Lilah strolled in, yawning.
“What a thing to say.” Coco heated the griddle and clucked her tongue. “Max and I were having a nice conversation. Weren’t we, Max?”
“It certainly was a fascinating one.”
“Really?” Lilah took the cup from him, and since he didn’t make the move, leaned over to kiss him good morning. Watching, Coco all but rubbed her hands together. “I’ll take that as a compliment, and since I see blueberry pancakes on the horizon, I won’t complain.”
Because the kiss had delighted her, Coco hummed as she got out dishes. “You’re up early.”
“It’s becoming a habit of mine.” Sipping Max’s coffee, Lilah sent him a lazy smile. “I’ll have to break it soon.”
“The rest of the brood will be trooping down any minute.” And Coco liked nothing better than to have all of her chicks in one place. “Lilah, why don’t you set the table?”
“I’ll definitely have to break it.” With a sigh, she handed Max back his coffee. But she kissed Coco’s cheek. “I like your hair. Very French.”
With what sounded almost like a giggle, Coco began to spoon up batter. “Use the good china, dear. I feel like celebrating.”
Caufield hung up the phone and went into a small, nasty rage. He pounded the desk with his fists, tore a few pamphlets to bits and ended by smashing a crystal bud vase against the wall. Because he’d seen the mood before, Hawkins hung back until it passed.
After three calming breaths, Caufield sat back. The glaze of blank violence faded from his eyes as he steepled his fingers. “We seem to be victims of fate, Hawkins. The car our good professor was driving is registered to Catherine Calhoun St. James.”
On an oath, Hawkins heaved his bulk away from the wall. “I told you this job stinks. By rights he should be dead. Instead he plops right down in their laps. He’ll have told them everything by now.”
Caufield tapped the tips of his fingers together. “Oh, assuredly.”
“And if he recognized you—”
“He didn’t.” Exercising control, Caufield laced his fingers then laid them on the desk.
“He never would have waved in my direction. He doesn’t have the wit for it.
” Feeling his fingers tighten, he deliberately relaxed them.
“The man’s a fool. I learned more in one year on the streets than he in all of his years in higher institutions.
After all, we’re here, not on the boat.”
“But he knows,” Hawkins insisted, viciously cracking his knuckles. “Now they all know. They’ll take precautions.”
“Which only adds spice to the game and it’s time to begin playing. Since Dr. Quartermain has joined the Calhouns, I believe I’ll pay one of the ladies a call.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“Have a care, old friend,” Caufield said mildly. “If you don’t like my rules, there’s nothing holding you here.”
“I’m the one who paid for the damn boat.” Hawkins dragged a hand through his short wiry hair. “I’ve put over a month in this job already. I’ve got an investment.”
“Then leave it to me to make it pay off.” Thinking, Caufield rose to go to the window. There were pretty summer flowers in neat borders just outside. It reminded him that he’d come a long way from the tenements of south Chicago. With the emeralds, he’d go even further.
Perhaps a nice villa in the South Seas where he could relax and refresh himself while Interpol ran in circles looking for him. He already had a new passport, a new background, a new name in reserve—and a tidy sum gathering interest in a discreet Swiss account.
He’d been in the business most of his life, quite successfully. He didn’t need the emeralds for the percentage of their value he’d cull by fencing them. But he wanted them. He intended to have them.
As Hawkins paced and abused his knuckles, Caufield continued to gaze out of the window. “Now, as I recall, during my brief friendship with the lovely Amanda, she mentioned that her sister Lilah knew the most about Bianca. Perhaps she knows the most about the emeralds, as well.”
This, at least, made some sense to Hawkins. “Are you going to grab her?”
Caufield winced. “That’s your style, Hawkins. Credit me with a little more finesse. I believe I’ll pay a visit to Acadia. They say the naturalist tours are very informative.”
Lilah had always preferred the long, sunny days of summer.
Though she felt there was something to be said for the long stormy nights of winter, as well.
In truth, it was time she preferred. She didn’t wear a watch.
Time was something to be appreciated just for its existence, not as something to keep track of.
But for the first time in her memory, she wished time would hurry.
She missed him.
It didn’t matter how foolish it made her feel. She was in love and giddy with it. When the feeling was so strong, she resented every hour they weren’t together.
It was stronger. She had fallen in love with his sweetness, his basic goodness. She had recognized his insecurity and, as she had with broken wings and damaged paws, had wanted to fix it.
She still loved all of those things, but now she had seen a different side of him. He’d been—masterful. She cringed at the term that entered her head and would have sworn she found it offensive. But it hadn’t been offensive, not in Max. It had been illuminating.
He had taken charge. He had taken her, she thought with a quick flash of excitement. Though she still resented being compared to a difficult student, she had to admire his technique. He’d simply stated his intentions and moved on them.
She’d be the first to admit that she’d have frozen another man in his tracks with a few well-chosen words if he’d attempted the same thing. But Max wasn’t any other man.
She hoped he was beginning to believe it.
While her mind wandered, she kept an eye on her group. Jordan Pond was a favored spot and she had a full load.
“Please, don’t disturb the plant life. I know the flowers are tempting, but we have thousands of visitors who’ll want to enjoy them, in their natural setting.
The bottle-shaped flower you see in the pond is yellow cow lily, or spatterdock.
The leaves floating on the surface are bladderwort, and common to most Acadia ponds.
It is their tiny bladders that help the plant float, and that trap small insects. ”
In his ripped jeans and tattered backpack, Caufield listened to her lecture.
Behind his dark glasses, his eyes were watchful.
He paid attention, though the talk of bog and pond plants meant nothing to him.
He held back a sneer when the group gasped as a heron glided overhead to wade in the shallows several yards away.
As if fascinated, he lifted the camera strapped around his neck and snapped pictures of the bird, the wild orchards, even of a bullfrog who had come out to bask on a floating leaf.
Most of all, he bided his time.
She continued to lecture, tirelessly answering questions as they moved along the trail beside the glassy water. She spelled a weary mother by hitching a toddler on her hip and pointing out a family of black ducks.
When the lecture was over, the group was free to follow the circular trail around the pond or retreat to their cars.
“Miss Calhoun?”