She smiled up at me and laid the newspaper aside. "Nothing at all, Ford. I'm looking human again, don't you think? Did you come to tell me good-bye?"
"No, I came to talk to you."
Again she grew still, as if she didn't want to see me, didn't want to talk to me. Why?
"Jilly, you're my sister. I've known you all my life. I love you. If you tried to commit suicide, just tell me why. I'll do what I can to help. I want to help. Please talk to me."
I knew her well enough to see the lie in her eyes and quickly added, "No, don't tell me you can't remember, like you told Maggie. Tell me the truth. Did you try to kill yourself, Jilly?"
"No, Ford, I'd never try to do such a ridiculous thing. Truth of it was that I lost control of my Porsche. I was singing as loud as I could, driving much too fast, and I lost control coming around a corner. That's it, Ford, I swear."
"Rob Morrison said you speeded up when you drove toward that cliff."
"He's wrong," Jilly said. "Absolutely wrong. I lost control. Maybe I hit the gas when I went through the railing, I don't remember. I suppose it's possible.
"Ford, I'm all right, truly. Go home now. You're still not back to one hundred percent. Better yet, take another week off and go down to Lake Tahoe and get some fishing in. You know you'd really like that."
"I'll think about it."
"Well, if I don't see you again, take care of yourself. You, Kevin, Gwen, and I-we'll get together at Gwen's in New York at Christmas."
It was a tradition, one we'd missed this past year and thus the get-together in February. I leaned down and hugged her hard against me. "I love you, Jilly," I said.
"I love you too, Ford. Don't worry about me anymore. Be sure to call Kevin and Gwen, tell them everything is all right."
The Tarcher house sat on a cul-de-sac at the end of Brooklyn Heights Avenue. It clearly dominated the other three or four pretenders set far apart from one another, separated by spruce and hemlock. The mansion was a good three times larger than Paul and Jilly's place, and looked like an honest-to-God Victorian transplant straight from San Francisco. Its basic color was cream, but there were another four or five accent colors used on the various window frames and sills, door frames, balcony railings, arches, cornices, and various other whimsical things whose names I didn't know. It looked like a huge, fascinating, over-the-edge birthday cake. It had been designed by people with lots of money and an equal amount of imagination.
Four young guys dressed in red shirts and black pants were valeting all the guests' cars. By the time Paul and I pulled up in his Ford Explorer, there must have been thirty cars parked all along both sides of the winding avenue. It looked like the whole town had turned out for the event.
Jilly had wanted to come. She wanted everyone to see she was back in action again, even though her Porsche wasn't. She told me she'd already gotten a towing service to figure out if they could get her Porsche out of the ocean. I'd said fine, you can come if you can walk without assistance from here to the end of the hall. She made eight steps and drooped. But she was fine, according to all the tests Dr. Coates had done on her since early that morning. I'd asked him if he was coming to the Tarchers' party and he'd said he wouldn't miss it unless a set of triplets was ready to slip out. My sister Gwen, who'd had three kids, none of whom, I was sure, had just slipped out, would have slugged him.
I turned to Paul as we stepped out of the Explorer in front of the Tarcher house. "Tell me about Tarcher, Paul."
"His full name's Alyssum Tarcher, and don't ask me where he got the weird name. He's been here some thirty years and he's filthy rich. I wouldn't be surprised if he owns half the state. Everybody here owes him, probably without exception. Nothing happens in this town that isn't run by him first. The mayor, Miss Geraldine, is at his beck and call. She'll do anything he wants. Actually, most of us will."
"Did you have to ask his permission to move back out here from Pennsylvania?"
"As a matter of fact, he helped me come back," Paul said, all cool and formal. "No secret there. He's invested in my current project. He sold Jilly and me our house."
"Ah," I said. So that's how he and Jilly were surviving. But that beautiful house and Jilly's Porsche were far above the survival line. "This is the fountain of youth formula?"
"Good try," Paul said, slamming his door. "Jesus, Mac, I'm so relieved that Jilly lost control of the Porsche. If she'd tried to kill herself, I don't know what I would have done."
"Me either."
One of the young valets dashed up, out of breath, gave Paul a big purple ticket, and drove the Explorer away. "Some house, huh?"
"Incredible," I said, climbing up the deep half-dozen front steps. Lights and mellow chamber music poured out of the house. When we walked into the huge vestibule, I paused a moment, just breathing in the incredible smell of the house. It smelled like standing in the middle of a deep forest with a sliver of sunlight on your face-a hint of flowers, of water-drenched moss, of trees and light, pure air. I inhaled deeply as I turned to see a tall, hawk-nosed man walk toward us. It was, I had no doubt, Alyssum Tarcher, the patriarch of Edgerton, Oregon.
I am six feet, two inches tall, one hundred eighty-five pounds before the car bombing. He was at least two inches taller than me but not any heavier. He was probably around sixty years old, his hair thick, mixed black and white. He was a strong, vigorous man, no paunch, no softness on him. He looked potent. His son, Cotter, was standing behind him-thick-necked and dark, he looked like a thug. It was quite a contrast. He'd probably just shaved, but there was a hint of dark growth on his cheeks. He cracked his knuckles, his eyes studying my face.
"Ford MacDougal?"
Alyssum Tarcher's voice was as deep and rich as the smoothest Kentucky bourbon.
"Yes, sir," I said. He stuck out his hand and I shook it. An artist's hands, I thought, slender, narrow, long-fingered. Too smooth.
"You and Jilly don't look a thing like each other," Alyssum Tarcher said, looking through to my molecules, I thought. This was a dangerous man. Far more dangerous than his bully of a son.
"No," I said. "We don't."
"Of course you're both fine-looking young people and your general coloring's the same. You've met my son, Cotter?"
I shook Cotter's hand and smiled down at him, content to wait to let him begin the pissing contest, which he did, quickly. I managed to twist my hand slightly so that I had better leverage than him. I looked him straight in the eye and proceeded to crush his fingers. I let his hand go when I saw the strain around his mouth. I think Paul was the only one who noticed the locker-room behavior. As for Cotter, oddly enough, he looked both homicidally furious and curiously absorbed. He slowly rubbed his hand, staring at me. It was as if he was trying to get inside my head, trying to see how he could best go about smashing me. I knew I'd made an enemy, didn't really care, but I did wonder what he was thinking now. I hadn't met up with a verifiable sociopath in at least six months.
Cotter never looked away from me. I turned when I heard Alyssum Tarcher say, "Well, Paul, now that Jilly's back with us, you can get to work again. I understand all this has been hard on you, but now, finally, everything will be all right."
"Yes," Paul said. "Jilly wanted to come tonight, but she couldn't walk more than a few steps. Mac and I left her nearly asleep and disappointed. She wants me to assure everyone that she didn't go over that cliff on purpose. She lost control of the Porsche. She also swears that she won't go a hundred miles an hour around any more curves as long as she lives. She sends her love."
"That's a relief," Alyssum Tarcher said. He picked up two flutes of champagne from a waiter's tray and handed one to me and one to Paul. Then he picked up one for himself, raised it, and said, "To the future.