Kaleidoscope II

KALEIDOSCOPE II
Cynthia Hatch

PART 23

She didn't set the alarm, knowing no one at the office would begrudge her if she came in late, not caring much if they did. For weeks her head had been filled with thoughts of the investigation, and she had wanted only to see it to its conclusion, so that she could be free to think of him, to begin searching for a way to be together. Now all the facts about the case could be swept from her mind, relegated to records and files, but somehow she couldn't think clearly at all. The contradictory messages whirled around in her brain, leaving her muddled.
Sometimes the words she'd longed for would fill her mind, piercing her heart with such radiance that she would tremble with their memory, with the impossible joy of their implications. Then she would hear only his rejection, only the enigmatic conviction that the choices were hers, though she hadn't recognized them.
She found herself still in the spotlight. The media was not about to let go of the gold mine this story had been for them, pursuing her as the unlikely heroine that had delivered the city from a madman's plot. She had difficulty seeing Martin Pruitt -- such a mousy, sad little man really -- in the role of an arch villain, and even more in accepting herself as a brilliant crusader, but the requests for interviews, for the story of her life persisted.
"This is the good news that everyone's always claiming never gets into print," Joe pointed out. "It's not often that there's something positive to write about -- that'll still sell papers. You're it, right now, Radcliffe, and it isn't hurting our political position one bit."
"But it's crazy, Joe. Look at this. A features editor wants to do a story for the Sunday supplement on my apartment -- what kind of pictures and art I have in my own place. What does that have to do with anything?"
He shrugged. "Just another human interest angle. Are you going to do it?"
"You think I should, don't you?"
"I'm not about to tell you what to do, Cath, but what could it hurt? It's not like they're going to give your address, and it's great PR for this office."
"You know," she said, exasperated, "you're starting to sound an awful lot like a certain politician whose methods you couldn't wait to dump on not so long ago."
"Hey, not guilty," he said with injured innocence. "It's your career that's getting the boost here, kiddo, not mine. I'm just the guy that was smart enough to hire you in the first place. Of course, if I was really smart, I'd send you off deep-sea fishing and hang around here bragging about how I taught you everything you know -- just to make sure I've still got a job."
"Your job is perfectly secure, Joe. Believe me. I'm not interested."
"Seriously, Cath -- you can't really be content to stay where you are?"
She wished he hadn't dropped his teasing look, wished he hadn't phrased the question quite that way, and for the life of her she couldn't come up with an appropriate answer.
Her mind was brimming with questions -- trick questions, they seemed to her, especially the most crucial ones of all. The words torn from him that night on the stairway had seemed to her the answer, but he had assured her they were not, that the answer could only come from her, and now she distrusted her own reasoning abilities, afraid of making some wrong assumption that would only widen the breach.
It was true that everything happening to her now seemed a confirmation that she was very much a part of this world, not just the inordinate attention she was drawing in the public eye. That, she knew, was ephemeral, destined only to last until something more interesting -- or shocking -- caught people's imaginations. But the fact that she had played a part in the solution of the case, had made a contribution with her persistence, marked her as more than a passive resident of that world.
Still, he knew her so well. How could he think that any of that was as important to her as the possibility of being closer to him? His perfect harmony with her own soul -- how could it fail to understand that nothing could compare to realizing the promise of their love? The answers eluded her.
On Thursday she was returning from lunch, when she felt a tug at her linen blazer. It was a little disorienting to look down, here on a busy Manhattan street in the noonday sun, and find herself looking into Eric's expectant face.
"Eric? What on earth . . . is something wrong?"
"No," he grinned up at her. "I just came to bring you a message. I never saw where you worked before."
"Well, this is it. Not much different than a lot of other buildings, is it?" She smiled at him, noting with relief that his mismatched outfit was not so peculiar it would be likely to draw attention from jaded passersby.
"I'm glad I saw it anyway. Now I can tell the other kids." He handed her a folded piece of paper and, mission accomplished, turned away. "Bye, Catherine, see you later."
"See you, Eric -- thanks." She opened it right there on the busy sidewalk, disappointed to see that the handwriting was unfamiliar. The note was from Gillian, asking her if she'd like to come below tonight -- to discuss a party. She slipped it into her pocket, puzzled at its contents, and absurdly dismayed that the invitation should seem yet another reminder of her status as a topsider. Galloon already fit into the world below. Obviously, she was taking part in its plans, while nothing awaited her here, but a tedious mess of paperwork and the inevitable odd reporter eager to probe what he thought to be the secrets of her life.
Her palms were a little sweaty as they gripped the ladder, leading from her subbasement. The nervousness was equal parts anticipation and dread. There was the fluttering excitement, the racking need to see him again, and the fear of what their encounter would bring with nothing settled between them.
She stepped down onto the solid floor and started when she turned to see Gillian standing at the opening. It was, after all, Gillian who had asked her to come, but she was so used to seeing another figure filling that space, a space that in her own mind belonged to the two of them, that for a moment she felt violated.
"Surprise! I can't believe I actually found this place. Mouse gave me the directions and he's so thrifty with his words -- it was kind of the Reader's Digest version -- I was afraid we'd end up on opposite sides of town. I'm glad you could make it."
Gillian's warmth was so genuine that Catherine felt slightly ashamed of her initial reaction to seeing her here. "It was nice of you to come to meet me. You've got me curious -- a party? What's the occasion?"
"Well, apparently next week is the anniversary of Mouse's naming day -- you know, like a birthday. I don't suppose anyone knows when his real one is. We were talking about doing something special for him, and I can tell he's really fond of you, so I thought you might like to help. I'm pretty hopeless when it comes to planning social events -- no imagination, remember?"
They had started making their way back towards the central tunnels, and Catherine smiled at her enthusiasm. "I don't really know how these things are celebrated here."
"Oh, I'd say it's pretty much up for grabs, especially with Mouse as the party boy. Whatever might be fun for him would work. Wait --while we're still alone, I'd like to get your opinion on something.' Gillian stopped and swung the denim bag she'd been carrying from her shoulder, drawing out a small wooden chest of a simple but elegant design. "What do you think of this."
"It's beautiful." Catherine let her fingers trace the warm sheen of the lid. "Did you make this, Gillian?
"Yeah. One of the guys who worked for my mom was really good at woodworking. He taught me how." She opened the lid, showing her how the bottom lifted out to reveal a hidden compartment. "I thought it would come in handy for somebody who likes to collect things."
"It's perfect. Mouse will love it."
"Oh, it isn't for Mouse. I'm sorry -- it's for Vincent. I haven't decided what to give Mouse yet."
"For Vincent? But why?"
"No special reason. He's just the kind of person you want to give things to. Do you think he'll like it?"
"Yes . . . I'm sure he will." She wasn't proud of the twinge she felt -- though she wasn't even entirely sure what it indicated. Whatever it was, she sensed its nature was petty. Jealousy that she wasn't capable of making him such a gift? Resentment that someone else should want to please him? "This must have taken a lot of work, Gillian. When did you find time to do it?"
"At night, mostly." The girl was slipping the chest back into her bag, and Catherine wondered if it was only a trick of the light that made her appear to be blushing. "You know," she continued as they resumed walking, "he's always so together, so calm, always there for everyone who has a problem, but sometimes . . . sometimes I think there's such sadness in him, even though he hides it well."
"What makes you say that?" Her own heart ached with a secret sorrow at the thought, and she could only hope that her voice didn't betray it.
"He seems distracted sometimes, preoccupied. Yesterday when we were working, Mary came down to bring us some lunch, and he didn't even hear her coming. He growled when she walked up behind us, and I swear the poor woman nearly dropped the soup. He was embarrassed. I felt so bad for him. And sometimes, when he thinks no one is watching, he gets this faraway look in his eyes. There's such pain in that look, Catherine, such an impossible longing that it breaks your heart. But you're close to him. Surely, you've noticed it."
"I . . . I don't know." She couldn't think what to say, her heart was so full of the sympathetic reflection of that longing, the misery of knowing she was its cause.
Gillian cast her a curious look. "You'll probably think I'm nuts for saying this, but for a while I wondered if you and he were more than friends. I thought maybe there was something -- you know --romantic between you. I hope that doesn't make you uncomfortable. I know I was wrong."
Once again, Catherine felt trapped between conflicting emotions. She wanted to guard their secret, to protect the privacy of his feelings, but to allow Gilllan to think she was oblivious to his pain, that she was so shallow she had accepted Father's taboo -- it was too much. "I love him, Gillian," she said quietly.
Gillian accepted the statement as if she'd said his eyes were blue. "What's not to love? Everybody who knows him loves him. But I meant something else. I thought that there was a chance you loved him . . . the way a woman loves a man." She hurried on, concerned no doubt that she might have affronted some prudish sensibility. "But I've noticed the distance you keep between you, and I realized that if you two were really in love, you'd hardly be living topside. He's so incredibly intense. Any woman lucky enough to break through that wall that surrounds him would probably find herself pretty overwhelmed. I can't imagine that she'd want to leave him for a minute, which only goes to prove I should stop trying to second guess people and stick to what i know, but I am glad he has you for a friend, Catherine. You're an awfully good listener."
She didn't feel like a good listener. Every word she was hearing struck her as a reproof, an accusation that she had somehow failed him, hurt him. Listening was painful; speaking was impossible, and she was grateful when Gillian abandoned the subject to chatter on about the progress of the aqueduct. The woman's observations had been far more astute than she realized, but she had missed one crucial fact.
Truth had always seemed like a simple concept until recently, when suddenly so many things were turning out to be far more complex than they appeared. To the world right now, she was a success, and to herself she had never felt more inadequate. Just when everything she had ever dared to dream of was within her reach, she seemed hopelessly incapable of grasping it.
At the doorway to Father's study, Gilllan stopped. "We were going to meet here -- to discuss plans for the party. You go on in, and I'll run and drag Vincent away from the project -- if I can. He's been driving himself on this thing day and night, but I bet he'll take a break if he knows you're here. Be back in a jiffy."
The girl tripped off down the tunnel, light as a fairy -- a wise fairy for all her misconceptions. He knows I'm here, Gillian, Catherine corrected her inwardly. I can feel it. The knowledge did nothing to quiet her turmoil, nor did the discovery that Father was alone, as he greeted her entrance with what she couldn't help feeling was an appraising look.
"Ah, Catherine, I'm glad to see you could join us. I understand the demands of your investigation haven't ceased with its solution."
She looked at him questioningly, and with a crooked smile he pulled a newspaper from the desk drawer. "Kipper brought this down to us today. I must admit that it's gratifying to see your work appreciated, though one could question the editorial tone."
He tossed it on the desk, and she looked down at a picture of herself in a low-cut formal gown, her hair swept up to reveal her mother's diamonds at her ears. It must have been taken at some charity affair, long ago, and it only took a glance at the caption, where the words "heiress attorney" jumped out at her accusingly, to make her shove it away, sinking back in her chair with an air of weariness. As long as they had chosen to print that particular part of the truth, why not go all the way? Why not just say 'Catherine Chandler --prisoner of her own good intentions, permanent resident of this place."
"Has Vincent seen this?"
"No." He gave her a scrutinizing look. "Would you rather he did not?"
"It doesn't matter," she said listlessly. The thought of his seeing it depressed her. The thought of willfully keeping secrets from him was even worse. But, after all, what difference would it make? He needed no reminders that she still had ties to that world. His conviction that it was so was what had left them at this impasse.
"Catherine." Father spoke hesitantly, and it was a moment before he looked at her directly, as if he questioned the wisdom of breaking the silence. "I don't mean to pry, but I have sensed an uneasiness, a sadness in you -- in both of you -- in recent days. Vincent has been uncommonly moody, and you, despite the happy outcome of this demanding investigation, seem . . . distressed as well. If there's anything I can do . . . anything you'd care to talk about . . .?"
"No. It's nothing." Her voice sounded tight with the same tension that knotted her muscles.
Father nodded uncertainly, and the silence returned. The worry in his eyes was obvious. He felt the pain, although he couldn't know its cause, and she suddenly regretted that his love and concern had made him the third victim of their misery.
"It has to do with something you told me. Remember when you warned me that . . . certain feelings, once recognized and . . . and acted upon . . . could be impossible to put aside? That letting them surface would only add to our unhappiness at being apart? Well, you were right, that's all." She stole a look at him, but his expression betrayed nothing of satisfaction or vindication. There was only a sad sympathy.
"I am truly sorry, Catherine. I wish there was something I could say or do, but I know my place is basically irrelevant."
She gave him a wan smile. "It's crazy, Father. What we're . . . feeling, what we're trying to cope with, isn't the most important part of our relationship. We both know that, and yet it seems to have taken over everything. We can't even really talk to each other the way we want to, the way we always have -- without this overpowering . . ."' The need to explain was overcome by a tide of embarrassment, and she let the sentence die out.
"What you're confronting," he said gently. "is a force of nature, and nature, Catherine, is a formidable opponent. She would not have the omnipotence she does, if it were easy for her creatures to rebel against her rules. You needn't blame yourself for being unable to ignore them."
"It's just so hard to keep things in perspective. I know I should be able to find a way, but sometimes I feel so confused, so guilty. The one thing I never wanted to do was to hurt him, but I know I have. If I could stop that I would, but somehow I don't even have the resources to do that."
"Catherine, whatever pain you have caused him could not possibly outweigh the joy, the love you've given to him. You must be aware of that. "
"I don't know." She shook her head. "The other night when I was down here. I saw Gilllan saying something to him and he laughed -- he actually laughed, and I realized how seldom I've seen him do that, even though I want more than anything for him to be happy."
"Oh, well, Gillian always amused him. She's such a blithe spirit -- she makes us all laugh. But it's one thing. Catherine, to enjoy a cheerful conversation with good companions and quite another to expect that the seriousness of the relationship you share would give rise to frivolity. Everything you say to him, everything you do, has such import to him . . . He takes it so to heart. I scarcely think you could expect him to joke about it."
"I suppose, but I looked at Gillian tonight, and I thought, here's someone who cares for him, who understands him, someone who has a useful place in this world..."
Father was giving her an incredulous look. "Surely, you don't imagine that."
"I don't imagine anything. It just struck me how much better off he'd be with someone like her." She didn't add the other thought conjured by her vexed mind. Gilllan couldn't have children. The uncertainty surrounding that particular issue troubled Father greatly, she knew, but with Gillian there would be no question of that. She could love him...
A wave of rebellion, almost of nausea swept through the rational thoughts she was trying so desperately to line up in an objective way. It was hopeless. She simply wasn't capable of the unselfishness he deserved.
"Catherine, really. You are ignoring one minor detail, one indisputable fact. It is you that he loves with a passion no ordinary man could withstand. It is to you he's given his whole heart, his soul. Don't torture yourself with impossible visions, no matter how noble."
"But you were the one who saw from the first how unfortunate that was. I know you were afraid the circumstances could destroy him. If you can see a way, Father, that we can make this work, please -- tell me."
He shook his head sadly. "If I saw it, Catherine, believe me I would point it out to you. You have become as dear to me, as my own child. It grieves me terribly to see your love causing you such pain.' He reached across the desk, squeezing her hand. 'I sometimes feel that the two of you occupy a space the rest of us are incapable of entering, some charmed circle that Fate has inscribed for you alone. None of us on the outside can help you. But simply because we cannot see the way does not mean it doesn't exist. Perhaps it's up to you --and Vincent -- to find it."
"What if there isn't a way?" she whispered, all the pain and doubts and exhaustion, pushing the words out of her, begging for reassurance.
"Catherine, if that were true, you could never have embraced the challenges so selflessly, faced the obstacles with such courage. What you two share has an extraordinary power. We can only trust that it has a purpose as well."
Suddenly she was aware of a sweeping sensation, as if a warming wind, laden with sweet and intoxicating scents, was blowing through her, scattering the worries that burdened her mind before it. She knew what it meant and had serious doubts about her ability not to crumble under its force. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself and turned to meet his eyes.
She knew he must have spoken to her, that she must have answered. Vaguely she registered the fact that Jamie and Gillian were speaking as well, taking their places around the desk, but his presence shook her with that overwhelming sense of love and longing that only seemed to intensify with time and with the vital resistance it called upon her to maintain. It was shocking how close she'd come to flying into his alms, and she sat, gripping the arms of her chair, trying to focus on the subject under discussion.
Gilllan had chosen a seat at the other side of the desk, but still Vincent didn't take his customary place. He remained standing, and she wondered if he wasn't poised for a fast exit should the tension pulsing in the chamber became too unbearable.
"Vincent. for heavens sake, aren't you going to sit down?"
"I can only stay a moment, Father. The structure for the aqueduct must be put into place before the foundation hardens."
"Oh, well, I'm glad to hear it's progressing so well. You didn't have to come all the way up here, you know. Gillian could have conveyed your thoughts on the party to us."
His son didn't reply. The mild expression in the blue eyes didn't alter. It was up to the rest of the little group to react, and they did. Father cleared his throat with the air of one who's said something foolish. Catherine felt the blood rushing to her cheeks. Jamie shifted uncomfortably in her chair, and Gilllan scanned their faces, trying to read the underlying dynamics that had caused the innocuous statement to have such an odd effect.
"Very well, then. Let's get on with it. I suppose we'll want the usual festive food. and there will be presents, of course."
"That's so boring, Father," Gillian scoffed. "We can have that stuff, but Mouse is different. He ought to have a different kind of a party."
"Well, what do you suggest, Gilllan?"
"Beats me. Jamie, you know the kinds of things he likes. What would he consider fun?"
"He likes to make things and find out how stuff works, but his favorite is finding and --"
"Stealing," Father finished. "Yes, we're painfully aware of that particular shortcoming. I hardly think, Jamie, that a mass raid on the world above would be an appropriate form of celebration."
"The word is 'taking,' Father," Vincent corrected him gently. He was standing, arms folded, looking so heart-stoppingly beautiful that Catherine rushed to join the conversation in an effort to calm her turbulent feelings.
"What about a scavenger hunt or some kind of treasure hunt with clues? He might enjoy his gifts all the more, if he had to search for them."
"That's a terrific idea." Gillian's enthusiastic endorsement was immediate. "I'd be glad to write the clues. Would you be willing to help me, Jamie? You know these tunnels better than I do."
"Sure, I--" Jamie stopped, looking toward the entrance, where Mouse stood frowning down at them.
"Couldn't find anybody. Everybody's here. Why?"
Catherine thought it was hardly an exaggeration. Of the select circle of friends the boy had shyly let into his deepest affections, most of them were, in fact, here.
"Actually, Mouse, we were discussing plans for your naming day," Father offered. "I see no reason that we shouldn't be sure of your approval before we progress. Catherine has suggested a treasure hunt with clues, so that you could find your gifts and . . . ooh . . . take them."
"Okay good." The ingenuous face lit up like a summer sun, but almost immediately a cloud passed over it. "Just Mouse -- by himself?"
"Would you rather share the adventure, Mouse?" Vincent asked him.
"Well. that's a point," Gilllan agreed. "What are the rest of us supposed to be doing while Mouse is wandering hither and yon?"
"We could make it for everyone," Catherine suggested. "Maybe have a prize for the person who completes all the clues."
"Or several, so everybody wouldn't go to the same places at once."
"Would that please you, Mouse?" Vincent asked.
"Yeah. Everybody looking. Everybody finding." The Idea seemed to strike him as the epitome of social refinement, and he grinned broadly.
"Well, that's settled then," Father declared with satisfaction. "But we must exercise some restraint. We can't have half the community lost in the catacombs."
"Oh, we'll figure out that part, Father." Gillian assured him. "Don't worry,"
"I should be getting back," Vincent said quietly, and Catherine's heart lurched. She hadn't expected anything else, but even the excruciating tension that accompanied their being in the same room together was preferable to his absence. His eyes came to hers then, the love in them unmistakable, the resolve as well, and she tried not to let the misery dim her own trusting expression.
"Me too, Vincent? Mouse can help."
Gillian had risen, and Vincent turned to her. "You can stay if you like, Gillian."
"Are you kidding? And miss all the fun? Catherine, thanks a bunch for coming. I just knew you'd have a good idea." She hopped from the chair, and joined Mouse who was frowning again, and Catherine was suddenly sure he sensed something amiss in the unusual scenario of Vincent's leaving her here.
"We'll see that Catherine gets safely back," Father promised. pretending to direct the comment to no one in particular.
For a moment he looked at her again, and she thought it would take hours to sort out all the feelings she saw in his eyes, but she suspected she'd have plenty of time to do so, and she hoped he could feel the unfaltering strength of her love as he turned and left the chamber.
She stayed a little longer, glad to be included in the planning, and Jamie insisted on walking back with her. Beneath their conversation about the party, Catherine thought she sensed some discomfort, and as they reached the ladder, it came spilling out.
"Catherine, is there something wrong between you and Vincent? It's not just me. Mouse thinks so too, and it would be really awful if you guys didn't love each other anymore."
"Oh, Jamie." Impulsively Catherine hugged the girl. "There's nothing wrong exactly. It's just that things can be pretty complicated sometimes. Vincent and I . . . we could no more stop loving each other than Mouse could stop fooling with his gismos . . . or Pascal could get tired of his pipe chamber. It's part of who we are."
"I don't think I understand love," Jamie said warily. "I'm not sure anybody does. I didn't think I was going to like Gillian." Catherine wondered if the remark was quite the abrupt change of subject that it seemed. "I kind of didn't want to like her, but she's really okay."
Catherine nodded. "I know just how you feel, Jamie, Have you decided on a present for Mouse yet?"
"Yeah, I'm making him a tool belt -- one with lots of loops."
"That sounds perfect. You know, if you want, I could get him the tools to go in it -- if you could let me know what he needs most." She felt that she continually walked a tightrope when it came to giving things to the people of this world. Part of her wanted to indulge all the extravagance she could afford, but there was a point, she sensed, where her generosity could threaten their dignity. She dreaded crossing some line that would make them see her as patronizing, mark her even more clearly as an outsider.
"Okay. I'll make up a list. See you, Catherine."
"Good night, Jamie." She watched the girl go, wondering if some secret, feminine longing might linger beneath the tough exterior, and feeling an innate sympathy for her if it did.

"You can't be serious, Joe,"
It was Friday, and he had once again totally thrown her with his reaction to what she saw as an unreasonable request. A spray of roses had been waiting on her desk that morning, along with an invitation from Byron Stark to attend a party tonight, celebrating the return of the Vermeer to the museum. "A month ago . . . a week ago, you had no use for the man, and now you want me to go out with him?"
"Not out with him. Cath, not like on a date. This party's a big deal, right? Stark's gonna announce some humongous bequest to the museum in an effort to get back into the public's good graces. This whole story is more yours than his. I'm just saying it makes sense for you to be there."
"Well, I don't see how I can turn down his personal invitation and still show up."
"Exactly. Hey, weren't you the one that felt sorry for the guy? You kept telling me he wasn't as bad as I thought, so why not put in a couple of hours raising the poor sap's image?"
"Oh, I just know you're losing sleep over the state of Byron's image, Joe."
He had the grace to look sheepish. "Well, the more we can remind the public of your part in all this, the better it is for all of us."
"Remind them? Joe, I can't even walk down the street without some stranger coming up to me and making a comment. I can't pick up a paper, unless I want to see some ludicrous account of what was really a routine investigation. Tomorrow I have photographers coming to my apartment to take pictures of my pictures. What next -- ads in the subway, my face on a milk carton?"
"Whoa! Radcliffe, take it easy. I withdraw the suggestion. It was only a suggestion, you know -- not an order."
"All right." She struggled to get her raw emotions back in check. "It's just that I've told you I won't be taken advantage of. I won't have my outside life exploited, and it feels like that's what's happening."
"Okay." He nodded, trying to meet her halfway, "I know you value your privacy and that the press has gone off on some pretty weird tangents, but it's your career that's gathering steam here, Radcliffe. You could go places in this city."
She knew he didn't understand the mirthless laugh that escaped her at his last remark. The places she wanted to go only seemed less and less accessible with every piece of hype that he thought opened doors for her. "Joe, shouldn't you be home packing or something? Don't you need to go out and dig worms for your fishing trip?"
"Nice, Radcliffe. You're gonna miss me next week when I'm gone."
"You're right, I will, but maybe I'll be able to get some real work done, so I can stop feeling like the poster girl for law and order."
Despite her resolve, she found herself agreeing to one more extracurricular activity. She had expected Byron Stark to take the tack that her presence at tonight's affair would be good for the District Attorney's office, for her own reputation, and her resistance to that argument was guaranteed, but instead when he called, she felt the faint stirrings of sympathy that she never seemed able to ignore.
"I really blew it, Cathy. There's no one to blame but myself, and I tell you, it's not the easiest thing in the world to get out there and face those same reporters who've got me pegged as a complete jerk. You'd be doing me a real favor if you could be there. Everybody loves a winner, and just the idea that you'd lend your support to something I'm sponsoring would give me back a little credibility. Would you be willing to do that?"
His blunt honesty did what no highly perfected snow job could have pulled off, and she agreed to come.
He sent a limo for her, and she was just as glad he hadn't come along. It felt so strange to once again be mixing with the wealthy and powerful at an elegant reception, strange and yet familiar. All the proper moves came back to her -- the smiling, the gracious, if shallow, conversation, the instincts that led her to introduce certain people to each other. It amazed her how many of those present she knew, at least casually, though she'd seen little of any of them for quite some time.
It was nearly two hours before she spent any time with Byron, who apologized for leaving her on her own.
"I thought I'd let you charm the crowds, Cathy. without the stigma of my loser image hovering over your shoulder. I can't tell you how much I appreciate this."
"Oh, come on, Byron. You're still the same person you always were. Your charm is still intact. So you made a blunder -- we both know how short the public's memory is. In a little while they'll have forgotten all the bad jokes, and you can get on with your political career. "
"I hope you're right. I guess if you go out on a limb often enough, sooner or later you're going to hit the ground."
"Well, I'm not sure why you feel the need to do that. You've got some good ideas, a lot of people who believe in you. Why cheapen it with a bunch of grandstand tactics? You know, if I were you, I'd switch PR firms." She felt lately like an unwilling expert in the realm of public relations.
He gave her a self deprecating smile over the rim of his champagne glass, and she noted once again the too perfect tan, the too perfect teeth. "I do have a tendency for overkill. Do you think this donation is going to be misinterpreted? Sure, I'm hoping it will win me some points, but I want to do this, Cathy. You know I've always supported the arts."
"How much are you donating. Byron?"
"Half a million -- the same I was willing to put up for the ransom." At her incredulous expression, he hurried on. "Christ, Cathy, I can afford it -- you know that. I get pretty damned tired of people resenting me just because I happen to have money and would like to see it doing some good."
"I understand that, Byron. I do -- believe me, but I wonder if somehow you might feel better about it, if your generosity wasn't so blatant. It's fine to want to support the museum, but lots of people do that. There are so many other causes out there that deserve attention. Have you thought about the place where Martin Pruitt worked? If you took half that money and gave it to them, there's no telling the number of people they could help. You might feel pretty good, knowing you'd done that."
"I don't know, Cathy. Wouldn't that look like just another ploy to take advantage of the headlines?"
"Not if you did it secretly." she challenged him, eyes sparkling.
"You mean without an announcement of any kind?" It seemed as though the concept had never occurred to him before.
"Not even a carefully crafted leak, Byron."
"I'm not sure that could be done."
''Oh, it can be done," she said with an enigmatic smile. 'I don't want to sound presumptuous . . . or self-righteous, but it seems to me that your major problem right now is self-respect. If you could regain a little of that instead of working so hard to buy the respect of other people, it might do you more good in the long run."
He nodded slowly. "All right. I'll do it. You're a remarkable woman, Catherine Chandler. I'd like to see a lot more of you in the future -- get to know you better. Do you think that might happen?"
"Not a chance, Byron," she smiled with utter conviction.
She stayed long enough to hear the announcement of Stark's contribution -- a quarter of a million dollars to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and had his limo take her home. At least the evening hadn't been a total waste, though she'd found no residue of enjoyment in the empty socializing.
All night she'd had to squelch the images that rose of herself, making small talk, moving among the expensively dressed guests, while somewhere below, a bright pixie in blue jeans worked side by side with Vincent, chasing the clouds of his melancholy with her cheerful chatter, and loving him, Catherine was sure.
She hated the part of her that begrudged him that love. It seemed such damning proof of her own innate selfishness. Didn't she want the whole world to love him? Didn't she find it impossible to accept that anyone could not? Her jealousy (And it was jealousy. Her scrutiny of the feeling couldn't whitewash the fact.) arose not from any insecurity about Vincent's feelings or any distrust of Gillian whom she genuinely liked. It arose from the painful knowledge that Gillian's relationship with him presented none of the obstacles that she herself seemed to carry with her like a curse.
Gillian did face one small obstacle, she chided herself. He didn't love her. That wasn't going to change, no matter how much Gillian might want it to, no matter how much easier his life would be if he did.
The weekend was devoted to sorting out her feelings, trying to understand what convinced him she wasn't ready to let go of this world. She spent long hours on the terrace, staring at the little rosebush, flourishing still in the late summer sun, hoping it would inspire her to find her way.
The sunlight. She loved it. She always had, but given the choice of its familiar warmth or the brilliant, spiritual light of his love, there was no contest. Her friends, the people she cared most about. There were really so few that she was close to anymore. Jenny and Nancy -- Joe. She loved them all and knew it would be hard to withdraw from them with so little explanation, but it wasn't so very different from falling in love with someone who lived on the other side of the country -- or the world. People did that all the time -- picked up and left to follow their hearts, and no one thought it strange.
It had to be the work. He knew she found it satisfying, that the emptiness of her life before she'd known him had found fulfillment at last in her efforts to help other people. Could he. truly not see that whatever small contributions she could make were nothing next to the possibility of loving him, of spending every moment of her life trying to give him the happiness he deserved? And the promise of fulfilling her own desperate longing for him, knowing the ultimate completion of their bond -- what could compete with that? Stalwartly, she pulled her mind away from that particular issue, needing to keep a rational perspective.
Where she came up hardest against the unknown was in imagining what she would do as a citizen of the tunnel world. It wasn't a matter of fearing that she'd be bored or that she couldn't adjust to the comparatively primitive conditions. That world was endlessly fascinating. She would try as hard as she could to learn the skills that could contribute something to the society, and she was sure even the smallest task would seem significant, knowing she did it for him, knowing her commitment to that place would keep her only a heartbeat from him.
What bothered her was his own acceptance of herself in this role. He took such pride in her courage - in her determination, in the small victories she won in the name of justice. Hadn't he said as much more than once? Amazingly, she had seen in his eyes the same awe for her spirit and bravery that she felt for him. How could he possibly feel the same way about her, if she was to become interchangeable with the other women of his world? If only she had something special to offer, something of significance that might compensate for the loss of her usefulness as an investigator, as an attorney. Neither skill offered anything to the life style lived below. She sifted relentlessly through the list of her special talents, which seemed woefully limited. Nowhere could she find one sufficient to earn his respect, to replace the contributions he so clearly admired in her present life.
She felt no closer to an answer on Monday morning, and the week left little time to explore it further. With Joe gone, the workload increased tremendously. She knew how badly he'd needed this vacation and was determined he wouldn't return to such a mess that he'd be reluctant to take one again. Still, she'd never realized how demanding his schedule really was. There were night meetings, breakfast meetings, things she felt duty bound to attend in his absence, hoping to take up much of the slack that persisted despite the cooperation of other people on the staff.
It was just as well, she told herself. The hours thwarted any temptation to go below. To go there, to see him would only be to repeat the painful tension of their last encounters. The torment they felt in each other's presence had reached such a debilitating peak that there was little hope of being able to ignore it long enough to have a rational conversation. Nor did she fool herself that they could somehow back away from it. The time for that was past. The desire they shared, that now swept through their bond with such volcanic power, could only go forward. Attempting to deny it would surely drive them both mad. Somehow she had to find the key that would convince him she'd made a voluntary choice, but still it eluded her.
On Wednesday she managed to leave the office at a reasonable time, though laden with paperwork and a list of appointments that needed to be juggled. It was still light out, and she changed to a jogging outfit and pushed herself, running the busy sidewalks, in an effort to wring the tension from her body. After a shower and a light supper, she felt better and curled up on the couch with her briefcase to attack its contents in a more relaxed frame of mind. Still, it wasn't long before she realized she wasn't reading the words on the pages in front of her. Instead, she was hearing his voice, gently assuring her that there was some commitment she still embraced -- something or someone, he had said.
She thought about that 'someone,' trying to make it fit any of the people she knew and cared about. She'd already run through a catalogue of the friends it would be hardest to leave, but the simple exercise of turning the situation around, imagining what they would say if she could tell them the truth, convinced her that all of them --Jenny, Nancy, Joe -- would give her their blessing. True friends were glad for you when you found real happiness. Nowhere could she locate a person among her acquaintance who would be damaged by her decision to go below. There was no one who depended on her in that way -- certainly no men in her life to whom she owed that kind of sacrifice.
The thought of the men she had been involved with brought Gillian to mind again. Vincent was the one who had someone near him -- whether he recognized it or not -- who might very well grieve if he made a life for himself with someone else. Or was that simply her imagination -- her oversensitive emotions ascribing too much to Gillian's fondness for him, her appreciation for some of those attributes that ought to be obvious to anyone? It wasn't Gillian's fault that she got to spend so much time with him or that she was the one who could lighten his mood, when she herself only seemed to be bringing him heartache. She ought to be grateful for the woman's presence in his life, and intellectually she was, but a small part of her, she had to admit, was having a very hard time with what Vincent would call "poisonous feelings of envy."
A knock on the door broke her reverie. Just as well, she thought, since she seemed to be making no progress with either the office work or her own quandary. She hurried to throw back the locks and found herself staring, open-mouthed, at Gillian.
'Hi, Catherine.," she grinned. "Hey . . . I know you're used to seeing me in candlelight, but do I really look that bad?"
"What? Oh, I'm sorry, Gillian. I'm just so surprised to see you --out of context. Please -- come in." In fact she had the disconcerting impression that she'd summoned her like an accusing genie with her own uncharitable thoughts. 'Can I get you something -- iced tea, a soft drink?"
"Tea, I can get plenty of, but I could really go for a Coke about now. You know, it's the little things that are hardest to adjust to doing without down there -- things you never even think about.'
Catherine brought them both a glass and invited her to sit down. 'Did you come up just to see me?"
'No, I'm practicing to see if I can do it without Father having a fit. Actually, I had some business to settle, but I promised Jamie I'd bring you this list of tools that Mouse could use."
'Oh, good -- thanks." She accepted the piece of paper, asking, 'How's the treasure hunt coming?"
'Pretty well. The hardest part is figuring out where to hide things so they won't be found before the search actually starts."
'I'm sorry. I know I got you into this. I should be helping, but my boss is away, and the work's really piling up."
'It's not your problem, Catherine. It was kind of nervy of me to ask for your help in the first place. You have a life up here. We shouldn't expect you to have to worry about what goes on below."
It was meant sincerely, she knew, but the last thing she needed right now was a reminder that her place was above and that Gillian had the right to say 'we" when she referred to the world below.
'I really like your apartment, Catherine. It's so feminine, so pulled together. It looks like you."
She had to laugh at that. 'I don't feel very 'pulled together' but you're right, the apartment helps. It's more serene than I am."
'You know," Gilllan grinned. "I'm having a hard time picturing Vincent sitting here. What does he think of your abstracts -- all those soft pastel colors?"
Catherine didn't answer. Her guest was already giving her a peculiar look, but still she sat staring into her glass, watching the little bubbles flee the ice cubes.
"He does visit you, doesn't he? Mouse said something about Vincent breaking Father's rules -- coming to see you."
'He does, yes . . . He used to, but . . . just the balcony . . . not inside."
'Oh." For a moment Gillian seemed equally at a loss for words. Catherine could almost see the wheels turning, trying to make sense of this bit of information and what it revealed about their relationship. If she explained, the girl would probably understand, knowing Vincent as she did, but for so long his visits here had been their secret, never spoken of to anyone else. However benevolent Gillian's interest, those moments belonged only to the two of them, and she remained silent.
'Can I ask you something, Catherine? I know it seems like none of my business, and I don't know how to put it delicately, but it isn't just idle curiosity. It's important to me. Do you think of Vincent as ...as less than human?"
"Gillian!"
"I'm sorry, but I'm just trying to figure out whether-- Catherine, he needs somebody. He deserves to have someone who loves him."
The grey-blue eyes were filled with genuine distress. Any reproof in them was based, she knew, on the girl's own misconceptions, but there was no way to correct them -- not without speaking of things that even she and Vincent hadn't clarified yet, and she said simply, "You're right, he does."
'Well." Gillian's usual bubbly enthusiasm seemed lost under some distraction.
'How about a refill?' Catherine picked up the two glasses and headed for the kitchen, hoping for a reprieve from the subject at hand.
'Okay, sure . . . but then I should really be going, I have this uneasy feeling that I may get back to the tunnels to find Father sternly tapping his watch -- telling me I can't go above again till the winter solstice or something. He could give a whole new meaning to the word grounded.'
'I wouldn't worry," Catherine called to her, laughing. 'I don't think I've ever seen him wear a watch.' She returned to the living room to find her visitor leafing through a book on the coffee table. 'That was a gift," she said quietly, 'from Vincent.'
'Shakespeare -- I might have guessed.' Gillian accepted the drink, gulping it down hurriedly. 'I really have to go, Catherine. Thanks for the Coke. I guess I'll see you then on Saturday.'
'I'll be there," Catherine promised, as she walked her to the door, 'and Gillian, in answer to your question -- I think of him as more than human."
For a moment the girl seemed stricken by some emotion that subdued her usual impish sparkle, but then she smiled -- a little uncertainly, Catherine thought. 'Saturday, Catherine. Goodbye.'
She faced the approaching day of Mouse's party with the familiar pressing need to be with Vincent and the dread of what that would mean when she hadn't succeeded in grasping the solution.
The party was to take place on Saturday. On Friday she sat at her desk, a bundle of nerves and unresolved dilemmas, when the phone rang, jarring her from her unseeing study of the deposition in front of her.
"Hi, Cath. It's Nancy."
"Oh, Nance, I can't tell you how glad I am it's you."
"What's the matter? You sound upset."
It's not easy to explain. Where are you?"
"I'm here in town. Paul has to go to a testimonial dinner that I'd just as soon skip, and I wondered if you happened to be free."
"I'm so free it hurts, Nance. You're a godsend. Please -- come on over to my place. I'll pick up something at that Thai restaurant you like and meet you there -- about six-thirty?"
"Terrific -- see you then."
She hung up feeling like a positive omen had suddenly materialized. Nancy was the one person in whom she could confide some part of her turmoil, and more than that she seemed like a good luck charm. Hadn't it been Nancy's sympathetic logic that had helped her once before? With renewed vigor she set to work, making sure that when Joe returned he wouldn't think she'd spent all her time campaigning for his job.
"Cathy, you look really frazzled," Nancy observed, as her friend spooned the contents of the carryout cartons into serving dishes in an effort to add a touch of decorum to the meal.
"Can I assume, roughly translated, that means I look like hell?"
"No, honestly. It's just that the last time we saw each other you were almost serene . . . content. Is it this horrible case we've heard so much about?"
"No. That was only a crazed criminal. This is worse. This is love."
"Uh-oh." Nancy followed her to the dining table, balancing the rest of the dishes. "Nothing like love to play havoc with your sanity. Has something gone wrong between you and Vincent?"
'Not really." Catherine sat down and began to spoon out the food. 'In a way, it's really gone quite normally, as normally as possible under the circumstances anyhow. It's just that we've come to a place where some decisions have to be made, and they're not as straightforward as they seem. I want to be with him, Nance. I want that more than I've ever wanted anything."
"Has he asked you?"
Catherine shook her head. "He wouldn't even let me ask him, but I know...from certain things he's said that he wants it too."
"So what's the problem?"
"He has this feeling that there's a part of me that isn't ready to let go."
"And what are you feeling?"
"Desperate," she admitted ruefully. "I've tried to figure out what he's sensing in me, and all I can guess is that I'm really worried about what he might think of me, how his feelings could change if I wasn't doing the work he respects."
"From what you've told me about him, Cath, he loves you -- not your work."
"But how do you separate that out? It's part of who I am now."
"Do you know what Paul said to me one time? He said it was love at first sight for him -- not love for me, but for the photographs I'd taken. There I was giving up photography, so we could start a home and a family and suddenly I'm having an identity crisis. How can this work, when I'm not going to be the same person he fell in love with? You know what he said when I told him?"
"What?" Catherine had stopped eating to hang on her friend's words.
"He said what he meant was that he fell in love with the person who could see the world the way I captured it in my pictures -- that what he loved was my way of looking at things, my attitude and that wouldn't change no matter what I was doing. You'll still be the same person, Cath. The qualities that Vincent sees in you -- your caring and giving and resourcefulness -- those will still be there."
"Maybe," she answered doubtfully. "If you could see his world, Nance -- everybody there has those qualities. I just don't know what I can do that will make me special -- make him proud."
Nancy took a deep breath. "Are you still trying to impress people, Cathy?"
"What do you mean by that?"
"Now don't take this wrong -- please, but it always seemed to me that you felt you had to be outstanding at everything, that somehow people wouldn't like you if you weren't perfect. Maybe it was because you were used to being perfect--"
"Nance!"
"No, wait a minute. You were so pretty, so smart. You had all the right clothes -- everything, and it seemed to me that you were sometimes scared of doing things that might spoil that image. Isn't that why you went into corporate law -- because you were scared to death you'd ruin your father's image of daddy's little girl if you didn't?"
Catherine nodded. "That, or because it was just easier than doing something else."
"Easier? Cathy, you were miserable at that job. Don't try to tell me you weren't. You just hated to disappoint your father."
"But I did disappoint him -- finally -- after I found the courage to do what I wanted. I did shatter that image he had of me."
"I'm sure he was disappointed, but did he stop loving you? Did he lose respect for you?"
"'No... no, he didn't."
"Well, if Vincent loves you, what kind of work you do isn't going to make a difference."
"I want to believe that, Nance. I just wish there was something of value I could bring to him that they don't already have there. The last thing they need is an attorney, and I've never even thought about being anything else."
"Well, that's certainly not true," Nancy said emphatically, picking through the noodles for an elusive prawn. She looked up to meet Catherine's blank expression. "For heavens sake, Cathy, we're not that old . . . you can't have forgotten. There was always something you wanted to be a lot more than an attorney."
Catherine stared at her, and somewhere in the design of things -- like a primary color that no one had ever seen before -- something beautiful and inevitable slipped quietly into place.
That night she dreamed -- a brief, vivid dream, deceptively simple, incredibly real. She was kneeling on the floor of the tunnel again, where the children's imaginations spilled out to decorate the walls with brilliant colors. They were gathered around her now, giggling and chattering, though she couldn't see their faces. Her attention was on the toddler she held in her lap, no more than a baby really, his sturdy legs kicking with excitement.
She leaned forward, unable to resist brushing a kiss across the finespun curls, holding him so that he could reach the smooth, grey wall. A piece of chalk gripped tight in a chubby fist scrubbed away with a vengeance, enlivening the dull stone with an explosion of color. "Boo!" he gurgled triumphantly to the children's delight.
She hugged him close, her own rich laughter bubbling up to join his. Kissing the downy little nose, she said, "Yes, blue -- beautiful, beautiful blue, just like your eyes."
She was instantly awake, the dream so uncannily real that she reached out reflexively for the warm little body that had slipped her grasp. For a moment she felt its absence like unendurable pain, then gradually the vision moved away from her, not to fade, but to hover somewhere just out of reach.
It was unlike any dream she'd ever had before, and as she lay there aware of the unfamiliar warmth that still curled deep in her heart, it seemed to her not a dream at all, but a vision of something no less real for the fact that it was not yet to be. She thought somehow that she had been allowed to glimpse, at last, a little of what lay at the end of their journey. They seemed to have lost their way. She wasn't sure how long it would take to find it again or what other obstacles might lie in their path. but she felt as though some kindly deity had taken pity on their plight, and shown her that the rewards of their struggle could be richer than she'd ever dared to dream.
And if the vision was only wishful thinking? Well, hadn't it been just such thinking that had guided them all along, keeping them safe through every ordeal, bringing them ever closer when everything around them conspired to keep them apart? And wasn't that wishing simply another name for faith? For so long, she had hidden her desire, but its time had come. For so long she had kept the idea of having children separate from her thoughts of him. Father wasn't sure such a thing was possible, but then Father hadn't imagined that he would know how to please her. She smiled with the irony of that one. Their physical longing, however they tried to deny it, had grown inherently from what they shared. Perhaps the promise of this vision that glowed with that same inner light was the natural blossoming of all that had come before. The ultimate gift to them both -- priceless and predestined as their bond.
Briefly, she wondered if he had shared this vision, as he sometimes shared her dreams, but she doubted that he had. He hadn't been included in it, though she had felt his presence, seen his reflection in the beautiful baby face laughing up into hers. Its magic seemed like a gift to her, more precious than any she could have imagined, but one she was eager to embrace.
For him, still struggling with the reality of love itself, it would have come too soon. He was fighting to accept the belief that he could love her as a man, beginning to win over the fear, but the thought of this unimaginable miracle might not be the comfort to him that it was to her. The possibility was so far outside his own rigid expectations that the thought of it would only stir up more of his long-held terrors. He would worry that he might not be able to give her the child she longed for, that the pregnancy could be dangerous. He would fear the very nature of the child itself. Once again she had to acknowledge the wisdom that had led him to insist they take this journey slowly. They would defeat the demons one at a time.
It was, after all, a mother's dream. Yes, Nance, I do remember what I always wanted to be. She drifted gently into sleep, the words Kristopher had spoken -- perceptive, elusive Kristopher -- twining through her fading thoughts: "Your love was meant to happen, Cathy. It has to happen for wonderful things to exist."