Free Another Eden by Patricia Gaffney Page A

"Make yourself a drink, Mr. McKie, and—just—go anywhere." She wanted to be a good hostess, but her mind was so distracted.
    "I'll be fine," he assured her, smiling slightly.
    She almost smiled back, then turned away from him to help a silent Tasha up the stairs.
    Alex wandered down the hall toward the blue parlor, turning lights on as he went. He remembered the liquor cabinet—a hideous rococo affair of laquered teak—and poured himself a strong scotch whiskey. He sipped it slowly, brooding. There was a door standing open at the far end of the room; it had been closed before—he'd thought it a closet, but now he could see it was a room. Carrying his drink, he went to investigate.
    No light switch on the wall, just an old-fashioned gaslight sconce by the door. He turned it on. The room was tiny, hardly bigger than a pantry. The sole furnishings were a shallow desk built into a recess between bookcases on either side of a casement window, an armchair, a padded leather footrest, and a standing electric lamp. A Persian rug in bright shades of ruby and wine took up most of the floor.
    The wall that wasn't covered with bookcases to the ceiling was covered with paintings and photographs. The photos were all of Michael, all imposed, some even blurred, as if they'd been taken with a box camera by someone more doting than talented. Sara, of course. The paintings were interesting, in themselves and in their variety. More than half were signed "L. Hubbard," and Alex remembered the eccentric-looking friend he'd met here on Sunday. They were landscapes and nudes, still-lifes and portraits, suggesting the artist hadn't settled on her true subject yet. What they had in common was exuberance and a muscular disregard for convention. There were also two small Corots, as well as a few of the Impressionist painters—Manet, Cezanne, a Degas. That was a rare sight in the homes of the American nouveau-riche, Alex knew, where the safe and respectable Old Masters usually had pride of place.
    He carried his glass to the bookcase closest to the chair, sat down, and perused the shelves. Another eclectic collection—Dickens, Zola, Twain, books in French on landscape gardening, Italian poetry, the sonnets of Shakespeare, all of Jane Austen, a dog-eared Henry James. All of them looked read, even reread, but he smiled to see that what was lying open on the desk this evening was the newest issue of
Women's Fashion Gazette
. He chose a magazine from the shelf at random, an old
Scribner's
, and began to read.
    "So, you've found me out."
    He lifted his head, surprised to see her leaning in the doorway; he hadn't heard a sound. She looked tired, but she'd repinned her hair and tidied herself up; once again she was neat and cool and composed. "You told me to go any-where," he reminded her.
    "Indeed I did."
    "Besides, you can't hide secret rooms from me—I'm an architect."
    "I should've known."
    He gestured. "I like this room. It's my favorite."
    "Mine, too."
    "I know." He stood up slowly, holding her gaze, and moved toward her. She stepped back. "Let me make you a drink," he said smoothly, and passed by her in the doorway without touching.
    "Yes, all right. Please."
    "Sherry?"
    "Anything. Yes, sherry." She followed him, restless.
    "How is she?"
    "She's stopped talking. She had a bath and now she's asleep. She fell asleep instantly," she said wonderingly, still amazed.
    "A defense."
    "Yes. A good one." Her low voice contained a touch of envy.
    "Have you called the police yet?"
    "No. The doctor, but not the police."
    "Do you want me to call them?"
    "Thank you—but no, I think it's better to wait until tomorrow. What could they do tonight anyway, except upset her even more? She says she never saw the man, couldn't even describe him."
    "Did he rape her?"
    She looked up quickly, shock in her eyes. But his steady gaze steadied her, and she nodded. "Yes." She swallowed what was in her glass and handed it back to him. In silence, he poured more sherry, then