As they slipped out of sight, a deep ache passed through her like a dark wave on her private beach. Something important was slipping out of her life, and she didn't have the faintest idea how to get it back.
On the trip from Athens to Heathrow, Yank told Susannah what he knew about Sam's sudden determination to sell the company. He offered the details in his customary systematic fashion, laying out the facts as he knew them and refusing to speculate on anything he wasn't certain of.
Sam wanted to sell SysVal to Databeck Industries, an international conglomerate. Databeck had offered to buy SysVal a year ago, and at the time Sam had scoffed at them, even though several of the board members had urged that the offer be considered. No matter how hard she searched, she could find only one explanation for Sam's change of heart. He wanted to get back at her for leaving him. The idea that he would sacrifice the company that meant everything to him just to punish her sent a chill to the very marrow of her bones. How could she have thought she knew someone so well and not have known him at all?
They had to lay over for several hours at Heathrow before their plane left for San Francisco. When they finally boarded, Yank fell asleep quickly, but Susannah couldn't rest. Instead of concentrating on the crisis at SysVal, she kept imagining herself walking into the lobby. Everyone would be watching her. She envisioned the pity in their faces, imagined the whispers behind her back. The images were unbearable, and she forced herself to concentrate on the implications of Sam's turnabout.
They all had been so certain that nothing like this could ever happen. The four partners each held fifteen percent of the company, giving them a controlling sixty percent. The other board members held the remaining forty. They had always felt so safe with this arrangement. But if Sam could unite the board, and if he then threw his fifteen percent in with them, nothing that she, Yank, or Mitch could do would keep the company from being sold.
They arrived in California at six in the morning. Even though it was early, Susannah asked Yank to drop her at Mitch's house. He lived in a charming California-style ranch that sprawled over several acres in Los Altos Hills. As he opened the door, she saw that he was clad only in a pair of running shorts. Sweat gleamed on his arms and darkened the pelt of sandy hair on his chest. He looked surprised to see her, but he was so hard to read that she wasn't certain whether he was pleased or not. The strange, erotic fantasy she'd had about him when she was in Greece slipped back into her mind, and for a moment she couldn't quite meet his eyes.
'Welcome home,' he said, stepping aside to admit her. 'I just got back from my run.' He took her traveling case and led her into the living room. Normally it was one of her favorite places in the house, a happy hodgepodge of Ameri-can Southwest and French Riviera. Chairs and couches were upholstered in nubby, neutral-colored fabrics brightened up with throw pillows printed with colorful geometries. The stucco walls held large canvases splashed with tropical flowers, and tables with curly wrought-iron legs were placed at convenient intervals. But the pleasure she usually felt at being in such cheerful surroundings eluded her.
He set down her case next to one of the couches. 'Give me a minute to take a shower and then we'll talk. There's a pot of fresh coffee in the kitchen.'
She stopped him before he could leave the room. 'You should have told me what Sam was doing when you came to Naxos.' She hadn't intended to sound so condemning, but there still seemed to be some mysterious strain between them and she couldn't help it.
'You had plenty of chances to ask questions,' he replied. 'I don't remember hearing any.'
'Don't you play games with me, Mitch. I expect better of you.'
He picked up a wadded T-shirt from one of the end tables and began to rub his damp chest with it. 'Is that an official reprimand, Madame President?'
A month ago she couldn't have imagined being intimidated by him, but now there was something so forbidding about the way he was looking at her that she had to force herself to hold her ground. 'You can take it any way you want.'
He yanked his T-shirt on, then pulled it down over his chest. 'I tried every way I knew to talk you into coming back, Susannah, but I wasn't going to force you if you weren't ready. We've got a big fight ahead of us, and your personal problems are going to make it more complicated. If Yank and I couldn't have one hundred percent from you, I wanted you out of our way.'
He was acting like she was an encumbrance. 'That wasn't your decision to make,' she snapped. 'What's wrong with you, Mitch? When did you turn into the enemy?'
Some of his stiffness faded. 'I'm not your enemy, Susannah. I don't mean to be abrupt. Sam's called an informal meeting of the board tomorrow at three o'clock. My guess is that he intends to tighten the screws.'
'Forget it,' she said fiercely. 'He can call any meeting he wants, but his partners aren't going to be there to see the show. I'm not going to meet with anybody on the board-formally or otherwise-until I've had a few days to ask some questions. Without us, they can't have much of a meeting.'
'We have to confront the board sooner or later.'
'I know that. But I'm taking the ball into my court for a while. Make sure that you're unreachable tomorrow afternoon at meeting time. I'll take care of Yank.'
Mitch seemed to be thinking over what she'd said. 'I'll give you a couple of weeks, Susannah, but no more. I don't want anyone to think we're running. That'll hurt us nearly as badly as what Sam is doing.'
She didn't like the fact that he was questioning her judgment, but at least some of his stiffness had dissipated. What was happening to the two of them? She'd grown to take Mitch's friendship for granted, and she couldn't imagine losing it, especially now when she felt so fragile. The burst of adrenaline that had kept her going had begun to fade, and she sat down on the couch.
He saw that she was exhausted, and went to get her a cup of coffee. As she sipped it, he told her he had reserved the town house SysVal owned for its traveling executives so she had a place to stay until she got resettled. He had also reclaimed her car from the airport and stored it in his garage. His thoughtfulness made her feel better.
Forty-five minutes later, she climbed the stairs to the town house's second floor, slipped into the freshly made bed and fell into a troubled, dream-ridden sleep. She awoke around noon and telephoned home to make certain Sam wasn't there. When she received no answer, she dressed and drove over.
She half expected to find the locks had been changed, but her key worked without any difficulty. The house looked the same-cold and uninviting. She went into the bedroom with its steel-framed furniture and gray suede walls. Everything was exactly as she had left it. Everything except-
Her eyes widened as she saw a small oil painting hanging on the wall between their matching bureaus. It was a seascape in soft feminine pastels that were at odds with the room's cold gray interior. She had found the painting a year ago in a gallery in Mill Valley and immediately fallen in love with it. But Sam had hated it and refused to let her hang it. This was the first time she had seen it since she had come home from a business trip and discovered that he had sent it back.
She sagged down on the side of the bed and stared at the painting. Tears welled in her eyes. How could he be taking the company away from her on one hand and, at the same time, giving her this painting? The pastels blurred through her tears, swimming together so that the painting seemed to be in motion. The waves of the seascape heaved toward the shore in watery blue and green swells.
She thought of Sam's wave-the wave of the future he had told her about all those years ago. That wave had swept over them just as he had promised, and just as he had promised, they had been changed forever. She stared at the painting, and the great vat of grief that had been sealed shut inside her opened up, sending dark eddies through every part of her. She hugged herself and stared at the painting and rocked back and forth on the edge of the bed while she truly mourned the death of her marriage.
And with the death of her marriage, she mourned the death of the child she had hoped to bear, that dark- haired, olive-skinned child of feisty spirit and soaring imagination who would never be born. She hugged that child to her breast and loved it with all her might, pouring years of maternal care into a few brief moments. She cried it a bleak lullaby, that unconceived child of her imagination, and let her heart tear apart as she laid it in its grave.
When she left the house, she felt as old and empty as a hollowed-out stone.
Chapter 26
