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“It’s all right. It’s just that remembering makes me emotional.”
His expression was slightly dubious, but he said, “Let me see if I have it straight. After your mother passed away, your family came here. You lived with your grandparents. Your grandfather’s agent retired that same year, and your father took over his job.”
Emerson nodded her head yes. She sniffled and squeezed the handkerchief. Her fingers still prickled from his touch. “Yes. Felix Mettler was the agent. We called him Uncle Felix. He died, too. Of pneumonia. Fourteen years ago.”
That, she thought, was information Eli probably had anyway, and it wasted his time. She stole a glance at the watch. He’d been here a full ten minutes, and he hadn’t pried anything out of her yet.
She was doing well, she told herself. She was doing just fine.
This man wasn’t so formidable, after all.
FOR TEN MINUTES Eli had let her fend him off. If he gave her five more minutes, she’d get cocky. And when she got cocky, she’d get careless. And then he’d spring his trap.
She was an amateur, but he had to admit she was good. For a few disturbing seconds, he’d believed her tears were real. Well, they were real, but his gut instinct was that she’d summoned them by willpower.
So she’d played the tears card, which was dirty fighting, and he’d played the sympathy card, which was just as dirty, but it gave him an excuse to touch her. Because from the moment she’d opened the door, he’d wanted to touch her. He wanted it so much his blood pounded with it.
Good Lord, but she was something. When she pulled her flirtatious act, he had to control his expression until his face ached from it.
Now he toyed with the blue goblet as it sat on the table, turning it first one way, then the other. For a moment he didn’t allow himself to look at her. Why hadn’t Merriman fallen down at her feet and begged to take her photo? Was he gay? Crazy? Was it possible he was the world’s only blind photographer?
“So,” he said, his voice neutral. “Your grandparents had a big part in raising you.”
“Mmm. Yes. They were wonderful. In every way. He was such fun, and she was so sweet—”
He cut her off as he kept playing with his glass. “Did you know, when you moved here, that your grandfather was a famous artist?”
“My sister and I knew he was an artist. I don’t think we understood he was famous. To me, famous meant being on television. Or in movies. Mickey Mouse was famous. Mel Gibson was famous. We knew the Captain was kind of important, but we didn’t know why.”
He let her babble in that vein a bit, knowing she thought she was running down the clock. He would treat her gently for a while, asking simple questions. He stared at the light dancing on the blue goblet and tried his best to look harmless.
“And his nickname was the Captain because he grew up around boats? In Maine, yes?”
“Yes. His father had a fishing boat. When he went off to college in New York somebody nicknamed him the Captain. It stuck.”
“But he didn’t finish college. A bit of a rebel, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. Most good artists have a rebellious streak. He took off to see the world. He wanted to study non-Western art. And to go to Paris. Don’t all painters want to go to Paris?” She sounded relieved, as if these questions weren’t as bad as she’d feared.
Eli stole a look at her, and the sight of her slammed him like a blow. She sat in that ornate white chair, wearing that simple, perfect turquoise gown and holding a goblet the same color. Something really was wrong with Merriman. Very wrong.
His breath stuck in his chest, but he got his question out with no change in tone. “He went to north Africa first?”
She nodded, and he watched her lips as she answered. “Morocco. Egypt. Tunisia. Algeria. Oh, yes. He spent time in all of them.”
“And then he went to Paris and met your grandmother…”
“Yes.” She didn’t elaborate, and Eli knew better than to push much further. Nathan Roth had always been vague about how he had met and married his wife. She had avoided the spotlight, even in the days her husband had gloried in it.
Still, Eli had to seem to try. “I’ve heard conflicting stories. That she wasn’t actually born in France. That her family came from Egypt? Algeria? Morocco?”
Emerson smiled vaguely. “That’s something you should ask her.”
He allowed himself to smile back. “Will she tell me?”
She raised the goblet to her mouth. “Perhaps.”
“Tell me,” he said, “when you were a child, what did you think of the paintings? Or is that too personal for you to say?”
The will-o’-the-wisp smile touched her lips again. “I thought they were squiggles. Pretty, but just squiggles. I didn’t know why people bought them.”
He nodded to encourage her. “Now you do. Because you sell them.”
“No. The dealer sells them. Gerald Krystol. He and I talk over the prices and so on. I’m only the agent.”
“What do you think of the paintings now?”
She sat a bit taller in the chair. A look of pride crossed her face. But there was something more, as well. He realized it might be love. “They’re great. They’re a national treasure.”
Suddenly, she rose. “Would you like to walk on the beach? It’s one of the Captain’s favorite places. This may be your only chance. The weather’s supposed to get worse the next few days.”
He gazed up at her, her gown rippling in the wind. His throat tightened. “Yes. I would.”
“Then come with me,” she said, moving toward the gate. She turned and glanced over her shoulder, then made a beckoning motion.
Suddenly he wondered if he really was the one in charge here. He followed her as if powerless to do otherwise.
COMING BACK from the beach, Merriman met Eli and the Roth woman on the path. He grinned, feeling uneasy. She was pretty, but in too flamboyant a way. He liked faces that were subtler; they were more interesting to him.
Besides, Emerson Roth struck him as too edgy. She and Eli had been engaged in a complex fencing match from the get-go. Eli might relish such games, but Merriman did not.
He said to Emerson, “I’d like to do some more exterior shots, but closer up. That okay with you?”
Her eyes went wary, but only for a split second. She gave him a nod of permission. “As long as there are no people. Not even the groundsman. And he’s been told not to talk to either of you.”
“I understand,” said Merriman, mentally adding Your Highness. He saw Eli looking her over, as if trying to figure out exactly who lived behind that glamorous face. Merriman shrugged a goodbye to them both, then trudged back up the path. The wind was rising, and the clouds rolling in thicker and darker.
The pool area had a garden next to it, and the garden lured him. He liked the lushness of its tropical flowers, their startling spectrum of colors.
But he stopped before reaching the house and glanced again at Eli and Emerson Roth. Their backs were to him. Beyond them, the sea stretched, colored like steel, and the sky had turned dark gray. Even the sand looked grayish.
Eli wore wheat-colored jeans and a red shirt. The woman was a splash of turquoise beside him. Except for the muted greens of a few plants, he and she offered the only bright colors; they caught the eye and held it.
To hell with it, he thought. Permission or no permission, he’d take a few shots. She couldn’t object to having her back photographed could she? He raised the camera and snapped them, one, two, three times.
Then he turned toward the house and let himself in through the iron gate. He sniffed the air and could scent the smell of oncoming rain mingling with the heavy fragrance of the flowers. He walked slowly through the garden until an unbelievable tree caught his interest.
The tree was huge, but looked as if dozens of smaller trees had grown together, fusing into one. From above it dropped dozens of new roots to the ground, so that it seemed like a one-tree jungle. It was surrounded by a colorful stand of other plants.
He tried to make his way around this bizarre tree, to see it more closely. But then a flower caught his eye, a peculiar flower of gold and purple and scarlet.
Momentarily distracted, he dropped to his knee and began to take shots of this odd blossom. Suddenly he heard a rustling in the foliage. It sounded like the rustling of something large.
Merriman went still as a stone, wondering if the Keys were so tropical that they harbored things like anacondas or man-eating pythons. He knew there were alligators or crocodiles, but would they come this near to a house?
The rustling came closer, and Merriman held his breath. Of course, alligators crept around buildings—weren’t there always horror stories in the paper about them eating pet poodles and the occasional hapless tourist?
He vaguely remembered, from watching Peter Pan, that alligators had yellow eyes and could move with lethal speed. Something made a scuttling sound, almost next to him now, and Merriman whirled and stared down—into a pair of glinting yellow eyes.
After a split second of horror, he was relieved to see that the eyes belonged to the fattest cat he’d ever seen. Blue-gray, with a white nose, breast and paws, it stared at him with a disdain as massive as its body.
Well, thought Merriman, if he couldn’t snap the family, he could snap the family cat. This rotund beast had a fancy collar, and a tag shaped like a mouse. Say cheese, thought Merriman, looking through the lens.
Then, from behind his tree, Merriman heard light footsteps. The cat heard them, too, and cocked its head in that direction. It hunkered lower to the ground, as if trying to hide.
“Bunbury! It’s no good. I see you.”
The voice was feminine and breathless—and nearby. More rustling, and the animal cringed lower, its ears flattening. A pair of slender hands struggled to grab the cat by its fat middle.
Merriman found himself looking into a young woman’s face. Her eyes widened, and her mouth formed a small, perfect O of shock.
“Oh, goodness,” she breathed, and she looked paralyzed, crouched there, her hands motionless on the cat’s gray fur.
Merriman lowered his camera. The sight of her was like a kick in his chest. She was lovely. Her hair was the dark golden brown of honey, and so were her eyes. Her skin was a paler shade of honey, and she wore a T-shirt that matched her hair.
A woman made out of honey, Merriman thought illogically, but his system, ignoring logic, said Yum.
She seemed in dismay, almost terror. “You can’t take my picture.”
“I—I wasn’t,” he stammered. “Just the cat’s.”
“You can’t take the cat’s picture.” Her voice was panicky.
“I’m sorry,” Merriman said with all the sincerity he could muster. He meant it. She was such an appealing creature, the last thing he wanted was to upset her. “I didn’t know the cat was here. When I saw him, it was an automatic reflex. I didn’t mean—”
She snatched the cat up and clutched it protectively against her breast. She seemed too upset to gather her thoughts. “He’s not supposed to be out here. I was supposed to get everything inside.”
He couldn’t stop looking at her. “Everything?” he echoed.
“All the animals. I couldn’t find him. You know—cats.”
“I know cats. Yes. Independent. I used to be one. I mean, I used to have one. Do you want me to help you? He looks heavy.”
“No. No.” She struggled to rise, but she was trying not to crush the foliage and still balance the cat. She had her arms wrapped round him under his forelegs, so he was staring at Merriman over the great mound of his belly. He looked like King Henry VIII.
The woman almost lost her balance, so Merriman sprang to his feet, putting out a hand to steady her. She went stock-still. “I didn’t know you were out here,” she said. “I looked out and saw Bunbury—”
He kept his hand on her upper arm, just to make sure she was all right and to convey his concern. “Bunbury is?”
“The cat.” She swallowed. “I didn’t see any people. Why were you behind that tree?”
“I never saw a tree like that. I just wanted to look closer.”
“You were squatting down behind it, hiding,” she accused. Her cheeks had flushed an enticing pink.
“There was a flower. A strange flower. That one.” He pointed an accusing finger at it. “I was kneeling to take a picture, that’s all.”
She hugged the cat more tightly to her. It screwed up its face in protest and emitted a sound that was more like a hoarse chirp than a meow. Merriman realized the woman was staring just as intently at him as he was at her. He still had his hand on her arm, but she made no protest, so he was happy to keep touching her.
Her face was gentle, not flamboyantly pretty like her sister’s, but pretty with a natural sweetness that almost hypnotized him. Her hair was brushed in a soft wave away from her face and hung nearly to her shoulders.
“I’m Merriman, the photographer,” he said, extending his free hand. “Please shake hands so I know you forgive me for startling you. I apologize. From the heart.”
From a heart that ached oddly and pleasantly, he realized. She looked doubtful, but then tried to reach for his hand. But that entailed juggling the cat, who protested with another of his weird, grating chirps.
“Let me take him for you,” Merriman said, scrambling to get one arm around the cat. He managed, and Bunbury dangled like a sulky sack of grain in his hold.
Almost shyly, Merriman offered his hand again. She studied it, then, far more shyly, took it. He stared down at her, tongue-tied. Her grasp was light and cool, yet firm.
“I’m Claire Roth,” she said. “I—I saw you walking down on the beach. I didn’t know you’d come back here.”
Merriman reluctantly let her draw her hand away. She was edging back from him, clearly about to make a quick escape. He didn’t want her to go. Desperately, he said, “The flowers—the trees. I’m taking pictures, but I don’t know what I’m taking pictures of. This tree—what is it?”
“A banyan,” she almost whispered.
“It looks like sixteen trees grown together. Those things dropping down, are they roots, or just vines? How big will the thing get?”
“It’s all one tree. Yes, they’re roots. It could grow a hundred feet tall. But it probably won’t.”
Her eyes rose to the sky. “Storms.” She looked worried.
“Hurricanes?” He should have glanced at the sky, too, but he didn’t have to. He could sense the morning darkening and the wind rising. And he couldn’t stop taking in her face.
A gust of wind lifted her hair, revealing a delicate ear that had never been pierced. She nodded. “Hurricanes. Tropical storms. We lose branches.”
Something about her made him feel giddy as a schoolboy. “There’s a watch or a warning. Does it scare you?”
She nodded. “A little. I—I need to go in now.”
“I’ll carry the cat,” he offered.
Her expression went uncomfortable, and hastily he added, “Only to the door. That’s all. Do you have to go in? I’d sure like somebody to tell me the names of all these plants.”
He was pleased to see her hesitate. She shook her head. “I didn’t mean to talk to anybody.”
“I wouldn’t ask you anything personal,” he vowed, forgetting that he owed any loyalty to Eli. “If you could just tell me the names, and I could write them down. Like that thing— I don’t know what it is.”
Still clutching Bunbury in a one-armed hold, he pointed at the peculiar flower of purple and gold. “I’ll get back, develop all this stuff and not know how to look it up.”
