Reuben and Christine sat there alone for a long time in silence. Then Reuben stood up and prodded the oak fire. There was a wild explosion of sparks up the chimney and then a steady leaping orange flame.
He knelt down in front of Christine, looking up into her eyes. “But honey,” he said, “you have to let me call your mother. You have to let me tell her that you’re safe.”
She nodded. She opened her little black patent leather purse and took out an iPhone. She punched in the call to her mother and gave Reuben the phone.
As it turned out, Lorraine was already on her way to Nideck Point. She had been hoping and praying she’d find Christine there. “This is all my fault, Mr. Golding,” she said in a lovely British accent, quite as lilting and fluid as her daughter’s. “I am so sorry. I’m coming to get her now. I’ll take care of everything.”
“It’s Reuben, Mrs. Maitland,” he said, “and we’ll have supper for you when you arrive.”
Meanwhile, the situation with Jim grew worse.
Grace called to say that the archdiocese was becoming alarmed. They admitted to Grace that they didn’t know where Jim was. Father Jim Golding had never disappeared like this. They’d called the police. Jim’s picture had been on the six o’clock news.
Reuben’s heart was breaking.
He had gone into the darkened conservatory to take the call, sitting down with Elthram and Phil at the marble table.
There was the usual fire in the white enameled Franklin stove, and scattered candles flickered here and there.
Elthram rose without a word and slipped away, obviously to give Phil and Reuben privacy.
Reuben tried again to reach Jim, ready to blurt out everything, if the phone would just go to voice mail. But it did not. It had never gone to voice mail, not since Jim had disappeared.
Phil wanted to tell Grace all about Lorraine and the children now.
But that didn’t seem fair to Reuben. Jim had to know first.
“If only he’s all right, if only—.”
“Now look,” said Phil. “You’re doing everything that you can. You went down to Carmel. You couldn’t find him. If we haven’t heard from him by tomorrow, we’ll tell your mother. And for now, just leave this in God’s hands.”
Reuben shook his head.
“And what if he hurts himself, Dad? What if he’s there in Carmel, in some little B&B, and he’s stocked up on booze, and he’s gone on a bender? Dad, lots of the people who commit suicide do it while they’re drunk. You know that. Don’t you understand what’s happened? He asked me to get rid of that damned Blankenship. He asked me because he didn’t have anyone else to turn to! And now he’s dying of guilt from it, I know he is. And these kids … why, he thought he killed Lorraine’s baby! With Jim, it’s guilt and guilt on top of guilt. He’s got to know about these kids, he has to.”
“Reuben, I’ve never believed the old cliches about things happening for the best,” said Phil. “Or that this or that coincidence is a miracle. But if ever there was a situation that seemed to be designed by God, it’s this one. He’s at his lowest ebb and now these children appear—.”
“But Dad, this is only going to work if he finds out about the children before he does harm to himself.”
Finally, Reuben asked to be alone. He just had to be alone to think about all this. Phil understood of course. He’d go see how little Christine was doing. And he would leave the decision on all these things to Reuben.
Reuben folded his arms on the marble table and rested his forehead against them. He prayed. He prayed to God with all his heart to take care of Jim. He prayed aloud. “Lord, please don’t let him take his life because of what I’ve done. Please. Please don’t let him be destroyed by all this. Please restore him to us and to his children.”
He sat back, his eyes closed. He whispered his prayers aloud, in a desperate attempt to have faith in them.
“I don’t know who You are, I don’t know what You are,” he whispered. “I don’t know if You want prayers or listen to prayers. I don’t know if Marchent’s with You, and whether she or any other power between heaven and earth can intercede with You. I am so scared for my brother.” He tried to think, to think and pray and think it all through. But his thoughts ended in confusion.
Finally, he opened his eyes. In the light of the flickering candles, in the light of the flickering fire, he saw the purple blossoms of the orchid trees dripping down from the airy shadows. A sudden sense of peace came over him, just as if someone was telling him that things would be all right. And it seemed for a moment he wasn’t alone, but he couldn’t figure why he had that feeling. Surely he was the only one in the vast shadowy conservatory with its black glass and dim candlelight. Or was he?
It was about seven o’clock when Lorraine and Jamie came in the front door. By then, bedrooms had been prepared for all of the Maitlands on the front and the east side of the house.
Lorraine was extremely attractive, a tall very delicate woman, perhaps too thin, with a narrow very sweet face. It was one of those faces that seems incapable of guile or malice of any kind. Great vitality to her eyes, and a generous mouth. She wore what was obviously a fine vintage suit of some sort of ivory-colored grosgrain material trimmed at the pockets with black velvet. Her long straight blond hair was free over her shoulders, and girlish. She didn’t have a hat.
Christine flew into her mother’s arms at once.
Beside them stood Jamie, about five foot four inches tall, and very much the man of twelve in his blue blazer and gray wool pants. He was blond like his mother, with a short neat Princeton haircut, but the resemblance to Jim was striking. He had Jim’s clear, almost fierce gaze, and he had at once extended his hand to Reuben.
“I’m delighted to meet you, sir,” he said gravely. “I’ve followed your articles in the
“The pleasure’s mine, Jamie,” said Reuben. “You can’t imagine. And welcome to the house, both of you.”
Immediately Lisa and Phil encouraged the children to come with them, and to let Reuben have a few words alone with Lorraine.
“Yes, darlings, now both of you go with Mr. Golding, please,” Lorraine said. “You don’t remember me, Professor Golding, but we did meet once in Berkeley—.”
“Oh, I do remember,” Phil said at once. “I remember it perfectly. Garden party at the dean’s house. And we talked, you and I, about the poet William Carlos Williams, and that he’d been a doctor as well as a poet. I remember that well.”
This surprised and delighted Lorraine and put her at ease immediately. “And you actually remember that very afternoon!”
“Of course I do. You were the prettiest woman there,” said Phil. “And you had on the most beautiful hat. I never forgot that hat. You looked so very British in that big brimmed hat. So like the queen and the queen mother.”
Lorraine blushed as she laughed. “And you, sir, are such a gentleman,” she said.
“But come,” said Lisa, “let’s get this young man some supper, and Christine, dear, you come with us too; we have hot cocoa in the breakfast room, and let Master Reuben and Mrs. Maitland talk alone.”
At once, Reuben led Lorraine into the library, to the inevitable Chesterfield couch before the fire that all the household preferred to the couches and hearth of the cavernous front room.
He took the club chair as always, as if Felix were sitting in the wing chair when in fact no one was sitting there.
“This is all my fault, as I told you,” Lorraine said. “I’ve handled this badly.”
“Lorraine, these are Jim’s children, are they not? Please let me assure you, we are not shocked and we are not disapproving. We are happy, happy for Jim, happy ourselves. And Jim will be happy as well when he knows. My father and I want you to understand this immediately.”
“Oh, you are so very kind,” she said, her voice darkening slightly with feeling. “You are so like your brother. But Reuben, Jamie, I mean Jim, does not know about these children. He must never know.”
“But why in the world do you say that?”
She broke off for a moment, as if to collect herself and her thoughts, and then, in a rush of lilting and silvery British speech she gently explained.
The children had known that Jim was their father since they were ten years old. Professor Maitland, their
