Echoes in the Dark

“There’s a time period here that is unaccounted for professionally, Ms. Evans. If there’s a problem, then it is far better to let us know now than to have it turn up in our later investigations. The truth is always better coming from your own lips,” he said gently, like her grandfather.

She smiled at the sudden mental comparison to the old man who had instilled in her his values. He had tried so hard to make her whole, to repair the ravages of her parents’ failures. He had given her the only home she had ever known, a sanctuary from that pain in the small, peaceful village he had taken her to. Simply thinking about him gave her courage, so she was able to answer calmly, “A problem? As if I were dismissed for failing in some way to satisfy my employer? That sort of problem? Then, no, I assure you that’s not the explanation.”

“And?” he said, waiting.

She should have known she wouldn’t be able to fob him off. The gray eyes were also, like her grandfather’s, far too shrewd. She had never been able to hide from the old man’s keen insight. He had seen into the depths of her soul. If only he had been there when she finally came out of the long darkness, she thought again with regret.

“I was ill. For a long time. An illness caused by depression.”

The lawyer spoke only when it was evident she had nothing else to add. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to bring back unpleasant memories. I apologize for forcing you to talk about that time.”

“It’s all right. There are no unpleasant memories of ‘that time.’ No memories at all—” She stopped, and then tried to explain the unexplainable. “Whatever caused the depression, whatever trauma, I’ve forgotten. Blocked or repressed it, the doctors said.”

“You’ve never remembered?” he asked softly, wondering if this was the key to what he had been ordered to do.

“My childhood. Growing up.” She paused, the bleakness of the memories that had returned affirming that the ones her mind still denied must be much worse. She continued finally, telling him a truth she never talked about. “Then...” she whispered, “there’s just a void. Whatever happened to cause that blackness, I’ve never remembered, and now they believe I won’t. My mind doesn’t want me to.” She didn’t tell him about the punishing headaches that were the price she paid for trying to delve into that emptiness, to find those lost memories.

Instead, she forced herself to speak more strongly, with a confidence she was far from feeling. “As you can see, that was a long time ago. All my references are since that period. My amnesia doesn’t affect my work. It’s better, perhaps, that I can’t remember whatever happened.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again, and she thought that he did regret forcing the painful admission.

“I’ve learned to expect the question. Some interviewers assume...all sorts of things. Being fired and wishing to hide it is only one of the scenarios they imagine.”

“Have you had so many interviews? Your skills seem more than adequate.”

“No one seems to need a permanent bilingual secretary whose skills are, by today’s standards, as we both know, merely adequate. The larger corporations are looking for someone whose training covers a broader range of computer knowledge. My training was of a different sort.”

“Yet it seems very suited to the position we have in mind. Not one of the other applicants I’ve seen today has a Swiss finishing school in her background.”

“I spent five years there. Not that it’s done me much good,” she admitted, smiling. “Most people think that only means I’m qualified to be some minor diplomat’s wife and not much else.”

“Or someone’s social secretary,” he suggested, and she knew then he was seriously considering her for the position. She dared, for the first time, to hope.

“I haven’t done that before, but I’m sure I can.” She was pleased that she could hear the conviction in her own voice.

“There are, however, several conditions that you’d have to consider if we decide to offer you the position.”

“What kind of conditions?” she asked carefully. She had known there was a catch to this. It had smelled too good to be true, had smelled from the beginning of fine leather and old money.

“For one thing, it would mean a relocation. My client lives on an island in the Îles des Saintes. It’s a rather isolated situation for someone as young and attractive as you.”

“Excuse me,” she said, smiling at him again. “I told you my education had been lacking in all but the social skills. The Îles des Saintes?”

“They are part of the Lesser Antilles. You would be working on one of the smaller islands, privately owned by Madame Rochette’s family. She’s living there to recover from the recent death of her husband, after a prolonged illness. You would be not only her secretary but, I suppose, a companion. She’s not so many years older than you, I should imagine.” He glanced at her résumé and then at her face, and she saw the swiftly hidden surprise.

“I’m twenty-five,” she said quietly, knowing that she looked older. Something in her eyes, people often told her, not intending to be unkind.

“Then more than I believed, but still the difference between thirtysomething and twentysomething isn’t so great,” he said. “Would you be willing to relocate for an unspecified time? Or do you have commitments here in Paris that would make that impossible?”

“I have no commitments, no ties of any kind. I am literally the most uncommitted person you are ever likely to meet.”

She laughed softly at the reality of that, and when she saw he didn’t understand, she shook her head to reassure him.

“I’m sorry. That’s not really funny.” She realized she was about to blow it, to miss this opportunity, so she tried again. “I’m very interested in the position. I would have no problem in relocating, and I think your client will find I have the skills to handle her social correspondence and her companionship. I hope I’ll have the opportunity to meet her and convince her of my qualifications.”

“I’m sorry. I thought you understood that I’m to make the decision. Madame Rochette prefers not to return from the Caribbean. I’ll be in touch, whatever the outcome of the other interviews. Thank you for your time.”

“Thank you. I hope...” She paused, trying to keep the desperation hidden. “How long before you’ll have reached your decision?”

“We’ll decide within the next few days. I have your number.”

She could think of nothing else that she might tell him to convince him of her qualifications, so she rose, walking from his office with the grace taught at that expensive finishing school her grandfather had finally rescued her from.

The solicitor tented his fingers, appearing to study the file before him, but his mind was on what the woman had told him. He knew she was perfect. It all fit. However, the one who would have the final say on that had not yet been consulted, so he pushed himself to his feet like an old man and moved to the open door that she had apparently never noticed in the deliberate dimness of the office.

His client was seated in a high-backed chair just beyond the open doorway. The solicitor walked around the chair and stood for a long time facing the tall, dark figure. The smile that played around those lips was not a display of pleasure or amusement. He wondered again about the purpose of this search that had involved his staff now for more than a year.

“Well?” he asked finally and watched the smile broaden.

“You’ve done very well, Beaulieu, very well, indeed.”

“She fits every qualification you gave me. Will she do? Is she what you wanted?”

“She is exactly what I wanted.” The man in the chair controlled the triumph in his voice with an effort. “You understand the necessity of complete confidence.”

“That’s always our policy. You’ve depended on us in the past. Have we ever given you cause to question our integrity?”

The listener could hear the stifled anger in the lawyer’s voice, but he was paying him enough to put up with a few insulting questions. It was vital that no one should be able to trace her here or to him.

“Does she look like the picture I gave you?” he asked suddenly, surprising himself by his curiosity. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer, but when it came, it was only what he had expected.

“Their mothers couldn’t tell them apart,” the solicitor said. There was no pleasure over the success of the search in his voice, only regret for the woman. He had found himself liking her quiet, self-effacing humor. He didn’t, however, ask any of the questions that stirred darkly in his mind. That wasn’t part of his job. He had done what he had been paid to do, and any misgivings he had he would keep to himself, but he didn’t envy the woman he had found. He already knew far more about all this than he wanted to, far too much for his own peace of mind.

Chapter Two

The flight to Guadeloupe had been restful. There was something to be said for flying first class and being waited on. It was an experience she thought she could grow accustomed to. All she needed were a few more opportunities to try it, she thought in amusement.

The call had been unexpected in spite of the approval she had sensed in the lawyer’s attitude. She had learned in the past few years not to expect anything good. She would have rejected that thought as self-pitying, would never have consciously allowed it to form, but it was true, and it colored her view of the world. The offer of this job had been, to her, truly a miracle.

She watched the islands unfold below the plane in a seemingly endless chain of green dots rimmed with the white pearl of surf against an iridescent shimmer of blues. The scene looked like something out of a travel film, except she was here. She was to be the social secretary to a wealthy widow whose family owned an island. She smiled at the image of herself in that setting, but the reflection in the plane’s window mocked her doubts. She certainly looked as if she belonged.

She had put her long, sun blond hair up today and had worn more makeup, in hopes, she supposed, of making a good impression. She had even bought a new dress—an emerald linen, very businesslike, except for what it did to the green of her eyes. There would never be anything businesslike about her eyes.

She had followed to the letter the lawyer’s instructions about what to pack. She had also read the friendly note from her future employer so many times the paper threatened to come apart at the folds. It had been reassuring, warm and inviting. Of course, Madame Rochette had been under no obligation to write at all, so the gesture seemed to indicate that she would probably enjoy their relationship as much as she hoped. She tried not to, but she found that she was, indeed, hoping that this all would work out to be as pleasant as it seemed.

The lawyer had given explicit instructions about arrangements for reaching the island, including travel from the airport, ferry times, an endless list of minutiae that she also intended to carry out to the letter. She was surprised to find, however, that when she came through customs and presented her passport, there was an immediate flurry of officialdom that led her eventually to the door of a private office while her escorts went rushing off to find her bags. She followed their instructions, entering the office to find it occupied by someone quite different from the officials she had encountered so far.

“Ms. Evans?” he asked, unfolding his long body from the leather chair. He had been reading a newspaper, comfortably invading someone else’s office with a tall, cool-looking drink within arm’s reach. A tropical-weight tan jacket draped broad shoulders and fell loosely to his narrow hips. The lean length of the legs below was emphasized by the skintight and well-worn jeans he wore. His hair was darkly curling and long by current standards. It fell below the collar of the jacket, but on him it looked right, finished the picture of a man who was perfectly at ease with the persona he had chosen, perfectly suited for the tropics. He was, of course, deeply tanned, the contrast as sharp between the crystal blue of his eyes and the dark gold of his skin as it was between the flash of white, even teeth in the smile he gave her.