“Who would do such a thing?” said Gerald. “And why, for heaven’s sake? What was to be gained?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Diane’s father. “The market has been down lately. You remember the Wolcotts were very unhappy with the performance of their portfolio. Very unhappy. They lost quite a sum of money. Money makes some people do strange things.”
“The FBI, the Bureau of Prisons, and the federal marshals will all come out of this looking bad,” said Diane. “They will want to know who got into their files.”
“I agree,” said Gerald. “But enough about all that for now. Like you said, Nathan, this is the time to celebrate. Diane, tell us about the museum. It’s a large operation, isn’t it? Annual budget in the millions?”
Diane described the dinosaurs, the Egyptian exhibit, the elegant rocks, butterflies, seashells, the huge paintings of dinosaurs on the walls containing hidden unicorns in each one, the nature trail, the restaurant and even the museum store.
“Christopher loved the collection of model dinosaurs you sent him for Christmas,” said Gerald. “Especially that big-what do you call it-brachy-something?”
“Brachiosaur.”
“Yeah, that’s it. He really liked that one. Carried it around by the neck all the time.”
“And what is your position in the museum?” asked Alan.
“She’s the director,” said Susan.
“The director?” her father said. “Isn’t that wonderful? I’m proud of you, Diane.”
Diane had been estranged from her family so long, she’d forgotten they didn’t really know what she did for a living.
And his response surprised her. She had never recalled that her parents had expressed pride in what she did. She was always doing things that were so opposite of what they wanted. She grew up thinking that it was her grandparents’ job to be proud of her.
“Director. Impressive,” said Alan.
“I suppose you like not having anyone to answer to,” said Susan.
“Oh, I’m sure she has a board to answer to,” said Alan. “That’s the way museums are set up.”
“Actually,” said Diane, “the board answers to me.”
“What? You have them intimidated?” said Alan.
“No. The governance of RiverTrail Museum is set up differently than most. The board is advisory. All final decisions are mine. A man named Milo Lorenzo, the founder of the museum, wanted it that way.”
“I know him, don’t I?” said Diane’s father. “Wasn’t he a teacher at the college in Rosewood? Didn’t you take some advanced something-or-other there when you were in sixth grade? Went back a few summers to take courses after we moved, if I recall.”
Diane was shocked that her father remembered that small a detail about her from so long ago.
“History,” she said. “He was a professor. I took his history course and some others during the summers in a special program.”
“As I recall, he was rich,” said her father.
“Yes, he was. He endowed the museum very well. He didn’t like the idea of committees making decisions. So he set up the museum the way he wanted it. He was to be the director, and hired me as assistant director. Unfortunately, he died suddenly, but all his power went to me when I stepped into the position.”
“You must like that,” said Alan. “Absolute power.”
“Not absolute, but close.”
Diane was getting uncomfortable with the conversation. Alan was turning it into something about her personality. She searched for another subject to talk about, but everything she liked-caves, bones, even science fiction-was a red flag for either Alan or her family. She settled on another subject.
“We have an new geology exhibit opening in a few months. It should be very popular with the kids. It’s designed to look like they are traveling down through the layers of the Earth.”
“Gerry would like that,” said Susan. “He’s crazy about rocks.”
“Then you need to come to the opening. We always have a gala to celebrate a new exhibit. Usually black-tie. It’s a lot of fun.”
The phone rang in another part of the house. The ringing stopped abruptly as the housekeeper picked it up.
“Oh, Mr. Fallon,” she said as she came running in with the phone. “It’s Mrs. Fallon. She’s on the phone.”
Chapter 23
While her father talked to her mother on the phone, Diane wandered onto the terrace with a cup of coffee. Alan followed.
“You’ve done well for yourself,” he said.
“Yes, I have. I have a good life.”
Diane tried to remember living with Alan. She couldn’t really-not the day-to-day life they shared for eighteen months. Just events. Arguments. Regrets. Nothing to make a scrapbook of. Nothing she wanted to remember.
“If we’d stayed together, we’d be married seventeen years next month,” he said.
“Where’s your wife?” asked Diane. She had noticed that she was conspicuously absent, but just assumed she didn’t want to dine with her husband’s ex-wife.
“We’re separated.”
“I’m sorry.”
It was twilight and still hot. Diane would have taken off her blazer, but hadn’t wanted to explain her bandage. She sat down at the wrought-iron table with her coffee, trying to think of some polite way to tell Alan to go away. But he sat down opposite her. In the coming darkness he looked younger and handsome. He had always been a good-looking man and had always known it. Alan had the upbringing of an only child with doting parents.
“I loved you,” he said. “I really did.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Even in the shadows, she could see the flush rise in his face.
“Don’t tell me what I felt.”
“When we were married you wanted to change everything about me. I had too much desire to get an education. I was too adventurous. I had a smart mouth, and my hair was too short. There was nothing about me that you liked.”
“I just wanted you to be happy.”
Diane felt her face getting hot and the anger rising. After all these years, he could still goad her into an argument. “I was happy doing all those things you didn’t like. You wanted me to be happy doing what you wanted me to do. That just wasn’t me.”
“If you had just tried. . You didn’t try.”
“Do you have any idea how that sounds? God, Alan. Why are we having this conversation? You know, in the divorce papers there was this line that said our relationship was now like we had never been married. Our marriage is history and should stay that way.”
“You never really loved me, did you?”
That was the way their arguments always went. Alan would ignore Diane’s response and go on to the next thing he wanted to take issue with. Alan could certainly suck the joy out a celebration.
“Don’t, Alan. It’s been seventeen years. Let it go.”
She suddenly felt like making a dash for the door. She rose and started back into the house.
“Dammit, Diane, can’t you just listen for once?”
Alan grabbed her arm. His fingers pressed hard against the tender incision. Searing, crippling pain shot through Diane’s arm. Bile rose in her throat.
