Читать книгу Gabriel's Mission - Margaret Way - Страница 8

CHAPTER TWO

BEFORE she left Friday, Chloe popped her head around the door of McGuire’s office. He was on the phone and he gave her a quick warning look: Don’t interrupt.

“Right, what is it?” he gritted when he finished what was clearly an aggravating call.

Unbelievable! Why had she accepted his offer to drive her to the party?

“I wasn’t sure if you knew where I lived.”

“Piece of cake, I’ve run past the house several times.”

“Whatever for?”

He looked back at her, a tight smile at the corner of his mouth. “Why not? I like to know all I can about the staff. Bit big for you, isn’t it?” It was a beautiful old Colonial, the family home, he had since been told, but it had to be a drain on her resources, physical and financial.

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” she said simply.

He was sympathetic to that. “So see you, then.”

“Fine. Wonderful.” She backed out quickly, muttering under her breath. Maybe he would be in a better mood tomorrow. If not she would simply call a cab.

Saturday morning found her shopping for the week’s supplies. Nothing much. She lived on fresh fruit and salads. She bought ham and cheese from the delicatessen, a roast chicken, a couple of loaves of bread she could pop into the freezer. There was no time to cook.

Mostly she didn’t have the inclination. Not after long hours on the job. Occasionally she and her friends went out to dinner when she made up for the slight deprivations. Early afternoon was spent in the garden trying to bring some semblance of order to the large grounds she was gradually turning to low-maintenance native plants. Her mother had adored her garden. So had her father when he had the time. Now they were both gone from this place.

A sense of loss beat down on Chloe but she tried to fight it back. In the early days after the double tragedy, she had experienced an overwhelming debilitating grief, a sense of futility and emptiness. How could she live without her father and mother? But when her mother had come out of the coma and into a waking dream state Chloe had started to fight back. She wanted to be around when her mother was returned to full life, even when the doctors told her day after day that was never going to happen.

Her skin glistening with tears, Chloe dug in a flowerbed overflowing with daisies, petunias, pink and white impatiens, double pelargoniums with a thick border of lobelia. A magnificent Iceberg rose climbed all over the brick wall that separated the house from their neigh-bour’s, spilling its radiance all over the garden. Her mother loved white in the garden, the snow white of azaleas, candytuft, the masses and masses of windflowers she used to plant. The azaleas continued to bloom prolifically in Spring but she couldn’t afford the time for all the rest. Eventually she supposed she would have to sell the house. McGuire was right. It was too big. Once they had been very comfortably placed. Not rich, but her father had been a well-established specialist physician. Now money was going out at a frightening rate. It worried her dreadfully she might have to shift her mother from her nursing home. “Jacaranda Hill” was one of the very best, a large converted mansion with beautiful grounds and a reputation for excellent care. Chloe couldn’t fault the way her mother was being looked after, but it was very expensive.

Mid-afternoon found her pushing her mother’s wheelchair across the nursing home’s lawn, finding a lovely shady spot under one of the many magnificent blossoming jacarandas that gave the nursing home its name. A man-made lake had been constructed some years back in a low-lying area of the garden, now its undulating edge was totally obscured by the lush planting of water iris, lilies, ferns and ornamental aquatic grasses. A small section of the large pool was taken up with beautiful cream waterlilies but the important thing for the patients was the sparkle and reflection of the water, the way the breeze rippled over its surface, marking the green with molten silver.

Chloe in jeans and a simple T-shirt sat on the grass beside her mother’s chair, holding lovingly to her mother’s quiet unresponsive hand. Strangely, despite all evidence to the contrary, Chloe never had the feeling her mother didn’t recognise her, though the blue eyes so like her own seemed to be looking into the next world already. Totally without fear, but inturned. Maybe she was seeing visions, Chloe thought. Maybe she was in spirit with her husband and son, or there could be dozens of responses trapped inside her head. Chloe never saw her intense dedication to her mother as a duty. Being there was simply a measure of her love. As always on her visits, Chloe told her mother what was happening in her life. She spoke as though her mother was fully present and as interested in what Chloe had to say as she had been in the old days when life was full of sparkle and neither had questioned the happiness and stability of their family life. She spoke about her ongoing dealings with McGuire, what she was doing around the house and garden, her various assignments and, of course, the extraordinary incident of the day before. The really odd thing was, Chloe’s own memory of it was beginning to blur. She had to really concentrate before it all faded.

“I don’t believe I was holding him at all,” she confided to her mother in remembered amazement. “I could feel the warmth of this solid little boy’s body. I could see the sheen of perspiration on his skin. The crowd was speechless. There I was waltzing around with Archie quite calmly. It just doesn’t make sense. It was like I was transformed. McGuire thought we were having him on. He told me to go home and get a good night’s sleep. But it did happen. That’s the mystery. What do you think?”

Then came the shock.

“What?” Chloe, who had been looking out toward the lake whilst she was speaking, shot a startled upward glance at her mother. Her warm voice had clearly sounded in Chloe’s mind.

But Delia Cavanagh’s expression was unchanged. A frisson of something that was almost awe rippled through Chloe’s body from brain to heart to the tip of her toes. Was she going mad? In some way she couldn’t possibly fathom, she was convinced her mother had spoken to her at some level. Some subtle communication.

“Mumma!” She clutched her mother’s hand more tightly, finding what was happening difficult to grasp, but there was no response on her mother’s tranquil face nor did a muscle move.

“Oh, God!” Chloe tried desperately to collect herself before she burst into tears. She wasn’t entirely right in the head. That was it. Psychological damage from severe trauma was a reality of life. Yet she had caught that whisper as it rippled past her ear. She had. She had. What else did she have to cling to but hope? Her faith in God had lessened over this terrible time.

Chloe struggled to her feet, upset and without direction, only, she realised with a rush of sensation, someone was giving her a helping hand. On her feet she stopped abruptly as though she could very easily bump into them. She even rubbed her hands together waiting for the electric little tingle to subside.

“This is insane,” she said out loud, causing a passing nurse to stare at her. Yet there was comfort, an easing of her grief.

Chloe dusted off her jeans and began to push her mother’s wheelchair in the direction of the pretty little summerhouse at the far end of the lake. A beautiful pink rose clambered over the white lattice walls, and the pair of stone deer donated by a patient’s grateful family, flanked the entrance. It was their usual route. What was unusual was her extraordinary notion this third person, this invisible person, accompanied them on their journey. The person who had taken her by the hand.

Spirit power, Chloe thought, giving her mother’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. She was going to have to start saying her prayers again. Renew the communication she so abruptly had broken off with a great and loving God.

Chloe had never taken as much trouble over a party; never spent so much time trying on different dresses, or regarding herself so long and critically in the minor. She was down to two dresses now. The lime green silk, long with a halter neck, or the floral-print chiffon, sleeveless with a ruffle around the crossover V-neck and a sort of handkerchief skirt. Each conveyed a certain look. Cool and classic, or that delicate ethereal look she couldn’t seem to escape. Neither dress was new. She didn’t feel she had the right to spend the money anymore, but they were still in fashion. Maybe the flowered chiffon had the edge. The very feminine look was in and the fabric was beautiful, rose pink peonies with a tracery of jade leaves on a turquoise ground. The chiffon would have to do. She could be the Spring fairy.

A very strange feeling ran through her all the time she dressed. Pleasurable anticipation, normal enough in the circumstances, but she was haunted by the element of sexual awareness. Since when did she find McGuire sexy? Since when was she all atremble at the thought of being close to him? She disliked the man, was highly wary of him and had said so at length. Nevertheless she was excited and it sparkled in her looks.

Chloe opened the front door to McGuire as the grandfather clock in the living room was chiming eight She’d known it was to be a black tie occasion but she hadn’t expected to see him look so—gosh, she couldn’t avoid the word splendid, in evening dress. She almost had to look away.

“Hi,” he offered with dark, gleaming eyes. “You look enchanting.” A rare enough quality, but it was true. Tonight she wore her marvellous hair—red, amber, gold, a combination of all three—in an unfamiliar style. Pulled back off her face and arranged in a thick upturning roll but molten little tendrils sprang out around her face and nape. Her deep blue eyes, large and liquid, had picked up the colour of her dress, her skin was blushed porcelain, her mouth surprisingly full, tender, even a little pouty. He wondered as he always did what it would be like to kiss it, to open soft lips with the tip of his tongue.

She was always immaculately turned out in her little blouses and skirts, the snappy little suits, but he had never seen her in an evening dress before. The frothy shimmering ruffle of the bodice plunged low to reveal the shadowed cleft between her delicate breasts. He had to fight down the irresistible urge to reach for her. He knew she would only recoil in dismay.

“Why, thank you.” She dropped a graceful little bob, some note in his voice had got to her. This was McGuire, remember? Her old combatant and sparring partner. “Would you like to come in for a moment?” Keeping him on the doorstep was impossibly rude.

“Yes, I would.” He stepped across the threshold, looking like someone who could very easily mix it with the mega-rich. “This is a wonderful old house,” he said almost wistfully, glancing down the wide hallway with its glowing parqueted floor and rosy Chinese rug. A circular rosewood library table holding a jade horse on a carved stand and a large crystal bowl massed with white roses stood midway between the graceful arches that led to the formal rooms.

“I love it.” Chloe smiled, standing at his shoulder. “Let me show you through, that’s if we have time.”

“I’d like that.” Amazingly his whole expression had softened. “The house was built by your great-grandfather, I understand.” It had heritage listing he knew.

Chloe paused, lifting her chin. She so hated people talking about her. “Who told you that?”

He gave an easy shrug of his powerful shoulders, breaking the slight tension. “I do a lot of checking.”

“I suppose it goes with the territory,” she answered wryly.

“You should know, Chloe.”

At the use of her Christian name, so honeyed and intimate, a mild giddiness overtook her.

“If one could really chart the course of one’s life, this is just the sort of house I’d have liked to live in,” he said.

“Really? I thought you’d like something very modern, very strong, with sweeping clear places.” And terrible pictures that looked like cubic puzzles on the walls.

Once again his black eyes roved over her, checking out her too innocent expression. “I won’t say I don’t like to integrate old and new, but in terms of architecture I love these old Queensland Colonials with their sweeping verandah and white iron lace. They’re perfect for the subtropical climate. I particularly like the high ceilings and large rooms.”

“A big man would.” She was surprised by how sweetly that came out. They walked side by side, Chloe in her exquisite flowered chiffon, McGuire in his beautifully cut evening clothes. It was all so extraordinarily civilised.

“Someone had a very graceful hand with the decorating,” he commented.

Chloe felt her throat tighten. “My mother.” She couldn’t say a word more.

He admired the classic elegance of the living room, the mix of fine antique pieces with overstuffed chintz-covered sofas and armchairs in shades of ivory, peach and rose. A huge gilt-framed antique mirror hung over the fireplace with its beautiful white marble surround, and he walked towards it, studying the detail. “It must comfort you to have the stamp of her personality all around you.”

“Sometimes,” Chloe said softly, surprised by his perceptiveness. “Other times it hurts dreadfully.” She gestured towards an adjoining room. “Come through to the library. It’s my favourite room.”

The instant before she turned on the lights, Chloe came close to believing someone was sitting in her father’s wing-back chair beside the fireplace. She even drew in her breath.

“Everything okay?” McGuire stood very close, tall, powerful, protective.

“Of course.” It had to be an optical illusion. Particularly when she had the sense of someone small. Her father had been almost as tall as McGuire, but a completely different build, very spare with long, elegant limbs. She didn’t feel ready to deal with the odd things that were happening to her. She couldn’t dismiss them, either.

“You’ve gone a little pale.”

“I’m fine,” she said huskily.

“Do you ever feel nervous by yourself?”

“I’ve got my guardian angel on call.” Her eyes mirrored the sudden comfort that wrapped her soul.

“I’m glad.” His finger touched the tip of her nose, gentle as a feather, then he turned to inspect the large, graceful room.

He looked around keenly, showing considerable interest in everything, Chloe thought, the plaster work, the cedar panelling, the inbuilt floor-to-ceiling bookcase, the leatheround gold-foiled volumes. Even the 19th-century French gilt chandelier. If she gave him enough time he might make an offer for house and contents. “You must have enjoyed growing up here,” he murmured, the slight moodiness of his expression lending him the disturbing charm of Jane Eyre’s Rochester.

She couldn’t speak for a moment until her voice was under control. Though he was far from her ideal, he was, she began to realise, a ruggedly handsome man who carried himself superbly. “Where did you grow up?” she asked gently. The graciousness of her own surroundings were definitely having their effect on her, but he smiled his familiar taut smile.

“A small town outside Sydney, but I guess what you’d call the wrong side of the tracks.”

For once a sharp retort was easy to resist. “But you’ve come a long way.”

“That was the intention, Chloe. As far away as I could get.” The intonation was harsh. He shot back a cuff and glanced down at his gold watch. “Thank you for showing me your beautiful home. I’d like to see more, but I think we should be on our way.”

“Of course.” She flushed a little and as he passed her, he very gently stroked her cheek. “Now I know why you’re such a princess,” he said in a deep, low voice.

They were gliding away from the house before she could contribute another word. “I didn’t know you drove a Jaguar?” It was, in fact, a late model.

“I’ve been promising myself one since I was a kid.”

“It’s my kind of car.” She smiled.

“Of course. You didn’t think I was going to pick you up in what I drive to work?”

“I didn’t think at all.”

“Why’s that, Cavanagh?” He shot her a challenging glance.

“Hey, you’ve been calling me Chloe,” she protested for a second, strangely hurt.

“And you’ve been calling me nothing at all. To my face. I know what you call me behind my back.”

“Oh, please, don’t believe it all.” Chloe was embarrassed. “We’re going to a party, remember?” She realised with a sense of shock she wanted to maintain the unusual harmony that flowed between them.

“So, say it, then,” he prompted gruffly.

“Say what?” Inside the soft enfolding darkness of the beautiful car with its smell of fine leather mingled with her own perfume, the atmosphere was oddly intimate.

“My name,” he answered, shooting a glance at her. “Gabe, Gabriel, whatever you like.”

Chloe sucked in her breath. “Gabriel, the Messenger of God. You must admit it’s a shade incongruous with your powerful physique and dark colouring.”

“You’d relate better to Lucifer?”

She could see his eyes, dark and shimmery like the night. “Even for you that’s too scary. What do you say to a truce? I’ll call you Gabriel for the night, if you continue to call me Chloe. We can revert to our normal selves Monday morning.”

“Suits me.” He nodded. “I mean, can you imagine us being friends?” He sounded openly mocking and he had good reason.

“You know what they say, anything’s possible,” Chloe replied jauntily.

“I don’t think you could handle it, Cavanagh.” He glanced at her briefly. God, she was exquisite.

“You gather conectly.”

“I’m just your normal guy.”

She laughed, a sound of pure rejection. “No, you’re not.”

“I’d still like to get this whole thing cleared up. What exactly about me bothers you so much?”

Everything. Your looks, your force of character. “Gabriel I have no problem with you at all,” she said sweetly.

“Oh, but you do. Don’t smile about it.”

“Well...” She considered. “You really like to stir me up.”

He made a deprecating sound. “I have to admit I do.”

“And you have your own reasons for it.”

“True. But I seek to help you, Chloe, before you run yourself ragged. I might be a bit abrasive at times but I believe my intentions are good. You did what you liked under your old boss.”

Chloe admitted that inwardly. “Clive went a lot earlier than he should have.”

His smile was faintly crooked. “You’re just prejudiced. We’re on the same side, you know, even if our relationship hasn’t been all that smooth.”

“Clive didn’t bark at me.” She smiled.

“And what do you think the answer to that may be? You can’t twist me around your little finger, neither can you march in and out of my office uninvited.”

The colour in Chloe’s cheeks deepened. “That’s not true. I always knock.”

“When you remember to. Anyway that’s all camouflage. I think the problem is physical.”

She was glad of the darkness to cover her shock. This was unchartered country. “Well, you do have a lot of presence,” she managed. In fact it was particularly powerful.

“Really? You make me feel like Conan the Barbarian.” His glance mocked them both. “All those haughty little high-born expressions.”

“I can’t see what I think should bother you at all.”

“Hey! I’m asking the questions,” he drawled.

“All right. Fire away. I’ll have to rack my brains for a soothing answer. If it’s any comfort to you, I know at least a dozen women in the building who find you extremely attractive.”

“Fourteen at the last count,” he said laconically.