"Phyllis A. Whitney - Spindrift" - читать интересную книгу автора (Whitney Phyllis A)

She didn't answer me right away, but fumbled for a cigarette, fumbled with the silver lighter Adam had given her in contrition after one of his gambling bouts. When smoke curled up she blew it away and flung herself down in Joel's big armchair.
"I know you didn't like me in the beginning, Christy. And I don't blame you much. You were young, and how could you like someone you thought was taking your father away? I've always understood that. But after you came home from college and married Joel, I thought we'd come to be fairly good friends."
"Adam was alive then," I said.
She winced. "He's gone, but now I still have to live-you shouldn't blame me for that. He didn't leave me anything but debts, as you know. Theo lets me help her as a sort of privileged social secretary. But that doesn't mean I can forget that you're Adam's daughter."
But she had seemed to forget, staying away, coming so seldom
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to see me-as though she had something on her conscience. Nevertheless, I relented a little and sat on the sofa opposite her, pushing books aside. I didn't want to be hard on her, but I knew I had to be careful.
"We both loved him," I said. "I know that."
Tears came into her eyes, where none sprang to mine. I was beginning to feel very cold and quiet and clearheaded, as one must be when there is danger ahead.
"Yes, I loved him," she admitted. "Perhaps more than you've ever loved a man."
"I loved him too," I said, still quiet in the face of her obvious turmoil.
She seemed to dismiss that as though what I felt didn't matter. "Anyway, I didn't come here to quarrel with you. I came because I'm concerned for you. Don't go to Spindrift, Christy."
My tentative resolve was hardening in the face of her opposition. "Who is Theo taking with her this time?"
"The usual staff. Bruce and Ferris will be there. And I'll stay with her."
I knew Brace Parry and Ferris Thornton, of course. Both were unmarried. Bruce was Fiona's age and from a distance I had thought him attractive, though a bit formidable. I had never known him well because Joel didn't like him. The job he had done for Hal Moreland could never be pinned down with a title, but he was there when some high-level negotiation was needed. Perhaps he had been a sort of vice president in charge of troubleshooting, accountable only to Hal, and now to Theo. Secretary of State to the Empire. Ferris Thornton was high level too. He was in his sixties and he had been in on the Moreland-Keene partnership from the early days when he was graduated from Harvard Law School and from then on handled all matters of law for Hal and Adam. I'd always liked him and he had come to see me whenever it was possible while I was ill. I had thought of him as my father's friend, though I always remembered that he was Theo's friend first.
"Joel says Theo is taking Peter to Spindrift with her. Is that true?" I asked.
"Of course. She hardly moves without htm these days."
"That's what I'm afraid of. That's why I'm going to Spindrift. Peter's been in her hands too long. I'm his mother, after all, Fiona, and I want him back. I will have him back."
"She can do more for him than you can at the moment."
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"That's not true. You've been brainwashed. He belongs with Joel and me."
Fiona crushed out the half-smoked cigarette in an ash tray. "Can you possibly be strong enough to stand up to her?"
"I'm strong enough," I said, hoping I spoke the truth.
"You're still terribly young. And she's cold and crafty and strong-willed."
"You don't know me any more," I said. "I'm Adam's daughter, but I'm trying to be my own woman besides."
There was that wince again, at mention of Adam's name-the stab of a reminder that I knew all too well. "All right, Christy. I give up. I can't change your mind, though I think you're being foolish."
"Why? What can she do to me?"
Her look was pitying. "If I were in your shoes I wouldn't want to test her. But do what you will. I've had my try at changing your mind."
"What do you know about what happened that night?"
She didn't need to ask "What night?"
"You know as much as I do. You found him while he was still alive, Christy."
"But you came right after. And they said you'd quarreled with him that night. Why? What happened between you? Was he worried about something?"
Fiona left her chair and walked to the door with her long, rangy gait. I watched her and when her hand was on the knob she turned back and stared at me.
"That only concerns Adam and me. It had nothing to do with his killing himself."
"Do you believe that he was mixed up with a crime syndicate?"
"Of course I don't. Not Adam Keene."
"Have you told Theo that?"
"What good would it do? Theo believes what she wants to believe."
"Then how can you work for her? How can you stand to?"
Strangely, the nervousness seemed to leave her. A mask of her old serenity came down over her face so that the lines of worry were smoothed away and her mouth relaxed. I had seen a pantomime artist do the same thing by moving a hand across his face to erase one expression and leave another.
"You worry too much, Christy," she said. "Let what has happened go. Learn to live with it. I'm learning."
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By sheer will power? I wondered. Had that masking been as deliberate as I felt? I jumped up and ran to stand beside her in the small hall area before the door.
"Don't you want to clear Adam's name, Fiona? Don't you want to help me clear it?" The cold and the quiet had left me, and I heard the cry of anguish in my voice.
She gaped at me, the mask of serenity cracking for an instant, then repairing itself. She smiled at me pityingly, kindly.
"Christy darling, leave well enough alone. I think Adam died because he knew too much. It's better not to know too much and I don't intend to. Better for you as well."
"Then you don't believe he killed himself?"
"I didn't say that. I think he was being hounded in some way."
"But not to the point of taking his own life. He never would."
Without answering me, she let herself out the door and pulled it softly shut behind her. I couldn't hear her carpeted steps as she walked away toward the elevator. Leaning my back against the door, I stared at my own reflection hi the mirror opposite. Soft cap of curly brown hair, still short from my illness, a too delicately etched face with a pointed chin and eyes that were too large and a very dark brown. I had my mother's fragihty, they'd told me, her delicacy and small bones. And I hated all that. I turned my back on it, wanting to be free of my own body and my face. Wanting to be strong and big and able to cope. Wanting to look like a woman who could cope. People put me down too easily because I was small. And yet-Theodora Moreland was small too. Tiny. But there was no lack of force in her, and I wondered if she had ever rebelled against her size. Was her personality a case of overcompensation? I didn't want that either. I felt torn and sore and unsure of myself.