Abigail nodded, but her eyes were cloudy. “I keep looking for signs of her mother,” she said. Michael understood. Family was a powerful force-it could shape you, build you up or ruin you-and it was that force that made Michael’s days so unexpectedly difficult to endure. Abigail and Julian shared a connection built over years, and there was so much history there, so much understanding that Michael felt apart. They were mother and son, for better or worse, and it was hard to watch an intimacy he would never share, hard to know the truth and feel such love in secret.
She was his sister, but only in blood.
They were brothers, but so very far apart.
They all tried, of course, but Michael found, as two days grew to five, that he thought often of Otto Kaitlin. Like Abigail and Julian, they’d walked a bridge built on decades of trust and time and mutual sacrifice. And bridges like that were strong; they felt good under one’s feet. So while Michael would always be welcome, while Abigail and Julian worked day and night to make him
“Where will you go?” Abigail asked.
“I’m not exactly sure.”
“Will we see you again?” Julian’s voice broke when he said it, and every ounce of new confidence melted as he tried very hard not to beg. “We’re just getting started… We’re just…” He looked from Abigail to Michael. “Come on, man. You can’t just leave.”
“It won’t be like it was. We’ll see each other before you know it.”
“Do you promise?”
“I do.”
The boy came out in Julian’s face, all the fear and need. “Do you swear?”
Michael hugged him fiercely. “I swear.”
They said their good-byes at the house, in private, then Jessup drove Michael to airport in Raleigh. They spoke little, but that was okay. “Where do you want me to drop you?” Jessup asked.
“American Airlines.”
“Abigail said you don’t know where you’re going.”
“I don’t.”
“Okay.” Jessup followed signs to American Airlines, then pulled to the curb and stopped. Through big glass walls they saw a crush of normal people doing normal things. “Here you go,” he said, but Michael made no move to get out.
“Victorine and Julian may get serious,” he said.
“Yeah, maybe.”
“The senator’s dead. I’m leaving.”
“What’s your point?”
Michael turned in his seat. “She may find herself very alone.”
“You mean Abigail.”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“She’ll think I’m after her money.” He shook his head sadly. “It’s been twenty-five years…”
“She needs you.”
The line of Jessup’s jaw grew firm. “I’ll always take care of her.”
“It’s not the same and you know it.” Michael opened his door. “You should speak your mind.”
“And you should leave a man to tend his own business.”
Michael stared long enough to see Jessup swallow once, then climbed out and leaned back in to study the older man’s face. He saw strong lines etched by sacrifice and worry; saw want and need and deep, abiding fear. He dug for words of encouragement, but in the end said nothing. Because Jessup was right: a man should tend his own business, especially when it involved the heart. He would find the strength or not; live alone or take her hand. “Thanks for the ride,” Michael said.
“Anytime.”
Michael closed the door and thumped the roof. He went inside-no luggage or ticket-then turned before the crowd could swallow him. He saw Jessup through the glass. Pale and still, he stared a thousand yards into nothing. Michael watched for several minutes, then the man dipped his head once and the car pulled slowly away.
It took Michael another ten minutes to find the man he was looking for. Same clothes, same hat. “Do you remember me?” Michael asked.
“Hey, thousand-dollar man!”
The skycap’s face lit up, teeth big and white. Michael eased a thick wad of cash from his pocket. “How’d you like to make another five?”
“Thousand?”
“Thousand,” Michael said, and started peeling off bills.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Michael sat in a crowded cafe in the heart of Barcelona. His table was by the window, and he looked up often to watch people pass. A pretty girl brought him more coffee, and smiled as he tried new Catalan words and got them wrong. She corrected him, then flashed a bright smile and laughed as she moved on to another table.
Michael made a note in the margins of a thick, battered book. This was his regular place, and though everyone knew his name, that was about all they knew. He was a quiet American who kept to himself and tipped well. He lived on a narrow, cobbled street around the corner, in an apartment with a red door. He was always polite, but some of the waitresses found him sad, and worried at the cause. More than one had tried to take him home at the end of a long night, but he always gave the same answer.
And that’s how Michael saw it, as a wait. He told himself the same thing every day.
Yet, five months had passed. The skycap could tell Michael only that Elena had caught the flight to Madrid; after that, he had no idea. Not much for five thousand dollars, but Michael considered it a bargain just to know. So, he’d flown to Madrid, and from there to Barcelona, which was the beating heart of Catalonia. He didn’t expect to find her here-the city had millions of residents-but that was okay, too. He just wanted to be close.
To be near.
So, he found an apartment on a narrow, crooked street. He ate local food and studied Catalan because that was the language Elena’s father spoke, and because his child would one day speak that language. What surprised Michael was how much he enjoyed learning it. How much he enjoyed life in a strange country. How much he enjoyed life. It was only at night that he doubted, and the hours before dawn were often long with worry and regret. But the sun always rose, and each day began with the same thought.
Michael sipped his coffee and touched the window with a finger. It was cold outside, winter. He took a last sip and paid his bill. As he stepped outside, he thought of all the villages high in the Pyrenees and wondered which was hers.
He rounded onto his street and ducked his head as cold wind hit. It whistled over cobblestones
