"No. I've tried to. But I don't. I understand loving someone, but not losing yourself to that degree. It's not healthy."
No, thought Summer, it's not. But it's human.
She wondered if Michael De Vere had ever been in love.
But that was one question she was too afraid to ask.
Chapter Nineteen.
Alexia De Vere closed her eyes and tried to enjoy the feeling of the salt breeze in her hair and the warm sand between her toes. For years, her entire twenties, she had avoided beaches. It was the sounds that bothered her most: the rhythmic lapping of the waves, the distant peal of children's laughter. Just thinking about those sounds made her feel sick and anxious. But since Teddy had persuaded her to buy the Gables in the early nineties, she'd slowly rediscovered her love of the ocean. The irony was that Teddy, probably the most English man in the world, had chosen to buy in the States. But Arnie Meyer had offered him a deal he couldn't refuse, and over the years both he and Alexia had come to love Martha's Vineyard.
These days, Alexia found the vastness of the ocean calming rather than frightening. She enjoyed the sense of nature being so big, and her own life and struggles so small by comparison. All her life, Alexia De Vere had struggled to be someone, someone important, someone whose life mattered. A little boy had lost his life because of her, and a decent man had had his life destroyed. She owed it to both of them to make her own life count, to achieve something significant. So it was ironic in a way that the feeling of insignificance the ocean gave her should bring her such profound peace.
"Spit spot, no dawdling!" Lucy Meyer's Mary Poppins impression was embarrassingly bad, but it always made Alexia laugh. Because Lucy truly was Mary Poppins, in so many ways. "We'll never get to the beach by lunchtime if you keep standing there with your eyes closed like Kate Winslet on the Titanic."
It was an unfortunate allusion. Too often these days Alexia felt as if she were aboard the Titanic, sailing inexorably toward her doom. She'd worked things out with the prime minister before Parliament broke for the summer-at least she thought she had. And despite the storm of disapproval within the party over her handling of the flag-burning affair, in all the opinion polls Alexia's popularity rating was high. Even the Daily Mail was changing its tune in support of her tough-on-immigration stance. But the turmoil in her personal life had stopped her from savoring these successes. Not being able to talk properly to Teddy about the pressure she was under was the hardest part of all. Just alluding to Billy Hamlin the other night had sent Teddy into a full-fledged panic. If she hadn't known it before, she knew it now: she had to solve her problems on her own.
"Sorry," she called ahead to Lucy. "Lead on."
Lucy and Alexia had finally found time for their much-postponed hike to the Gay Head Lighthouse. Perilously close to the ever-eroding cliffs, the current redbrick structure had been built in 1844 to replace a wooden tower authorized by President John Quincy Adams, and was a popular tourist attraction on the island. With her encyclopedic knowledge of Martha's Vineyard's sandy tracks and back roads, however, Lucy had devised a route where no other sightseers would bother her and Alexia.
Since their tete-a-tete in Lucy's kitchen two weeks earlier, neither woman had alluded to the "secrets" of Alexia's past. They'd been walking for over an hour now, and still Alexia had said nothing, leaving Lucy to fill the silence with excited prattle about Michael and Summer's burgeoning love affair.
"I'm telling you, I hear wedding bells."
"You always hear bells." Alexia laughed. "You're Quasimodo."
Alexia wanted desperately to talk about Billy Hamlin and her past. But starting the conversation was harder than she'd thought it would be. Back at Pilgrim Farm that first night, buoyed by everybody's kindness and warm wishes, the subject had all come up naturally. Now, in the cold light of day, she would have to begin again.
How does one do that, after forty years of silence?
In the end, Lucy broke the ice for her.
"So," she said, when they finally stopped for lunch at a clearing on top of the cliffs. "Do you still want to talk to me about Billy?"
She remembers the name. She's been thinking about it.
"It's fine if you don't. I just thought I'd ask. In case it's still bothering you."
Lucy said it so casually, between mouthfuls of an egg and watercress sandwich. Even her choice of words was harmless. Billy Hamlin had been "bothering" Alexia. Not terrorizing. Not haunting. Bothering. Like a fly, or a hole in one's sock.
Alexia bit her lip nervously. It was now or never.
"What would you say if I told you I'd once done something terrible? Something that I would give anything to take back, but that I can't change."
Lucy tried not to betray her own nerves when she answered.
"I'd say welcome to the human race. We all have regrets, Alexia. Especially at our age."
Regrets. Bothering. Lucy made it all sound so acceptable, so normal. But then Lucy didn't know the truth. Not yet.
"This is more than a regret. It's something I've buried for almost forty years. Nobody knows about it. Not even Teddy. And if it ever became public, it would mean the end of my political career. Maybe even the end of my marriage."
Lucy Meyer took a deep, steadying breath.
"I'm listening."
Teddy De Vere leaned back in his first-class seat and closed his eyes as the 747 shuddered upward over Boston. He worried about leaving Alexia on her own, especially with Roxie still being so difficult. But his business couldn't completely run itself for an entire summer. Besides, he had other things to deal with in London.
As home secretary, Alexia was a public figure. A certain amount of unwanted attention was inevitable. But she was also Mrs. Edward De Vere, a wife, a mother, and a member of one of the oldest, grandest families in England. Protecting the De Vere family name was Teddy's job. And he couldn't protect it if he only knew half the facts.
It was time for a little chat with Sir Edward Manning.
"How was your hike?"
Summer Meyer was in the kitchen at Pilgrim Farm, arranging the latest bouquet of flowers that Michael De Vere had brought her, when her mother walked in. In her yellow sundress and flip-flops, her newly washed hair hanging damp down her back, Summer was a vision of happiness. But Lucy was oblivious, walking straight past her toward the stairs.
"Mom? Is everything okay?"
"Everything's fine," said Lucy.
She went upstairs to her bedroom and closed the door, sinking down onto the bed. The story Alexia had told her had shaken Lucy deeply. She was grateful to be alone, grateful that Arnie wasn't here to pester her with questions. She needed to think.
She thought about Teddy De Vere. According to Alexia, Teddy knew nothing of her past. Lucy had no reason to disbelieve this. But still the thought of it shocked her to the core. A thirty-year marriage, a rock-solid marriage to all appearances, but built on a sham! Alexia De Vere wasn't a real person at all. She was a character, a fake, an impostor created out of willpower and dust by a girl named Toni Gilletti, almost forty years ago.
An American girl.
A "bad" girl.
A girl with no hope, no future, no prospects.
Lucy Meyer would never have become friends with Toni Gilletti. Never in a million years. And yet Alexia had been her closest friend, almost a sister, for half of her adult life.
In the moment, when Alexia had poured out her confession, Lucy had remained calm and practical, reassuring her that deporting Billy Hamlin had been the right thing to do.
"You did what you had to do to protect yourself and your family. That's it, end of story."
"But he gave up so much, Lucy, to protect me."
"That was his decision. He's responsible for his actions. You're responsible for yours."
Outwardly, Lucy hoped, she'd been supportive, unruffled, staunch. But inside, her emotions raged and roiled like a violent, stormy sea.
There was a tentative knock on the door.
"Only me. Are you sure you're okay?" Summer walked in with a jug of peonies held out like a peace offering. "Can I help?"
Lucy painted her usual smile back on.
"I'm fine, sweetie. I think maybe Alexia and I overdid it on our hike, that's all. I'm really bushed."
"Do you want me to run you a bath?"
Lucy kissed her on the cheek. "No, honey. I'm not that old. I can do it. You should be down at the beach with Michael, having fun."
At the mention of Michael's name, Summer's face lit up like the sun.
Lucy thought: Young love. How wonderful it is!
And how dangerous.
It was young love-Billy Hamlin and Toni Gilletti's-that had caused the tragedy that was to define Alexia De Vere's life. Alexia herself may have thrived and prospered. But other lives had been ruined. Lucy thought about the little boy who drowned. Nicholas. He was the true victim here, not Billy Hamlin, for whom Alexia seemed to feel unaccountably sorry, and certainly not Alexia herself. But somehow Nicholas's story had gotten lost, overshadowed by Alexia De Vere's fame and success. He'd become part of the wallpaper, the backdrop for what happened next.
For what Alexia became. What Alexia achieved. What Alexia now stood to lose, if Billy Hamlin or her other myriad enemies had their way.
Lucy Meyer would remain loyal. There was no question about that. Sisters must always remain loyal. They must stand by their siblings through thick and thin. Lucy Meyer had been raised to believe in family, and she believed in it to this day.
Lucy would keep Alexia's secret.
But after today's revelation, nothing would ever be quite the same between them again.
Chapter Twenty.
It was a typical late-summer night in London: rainy, gray, and cold. As a result, all the pubs were full.
At the Old Lion on Baker Street, Simon Butler was working his usual shift behind the bar when a disoriented man rolled in.
"Watch that one." The landlady, Simon's boss, saw the man too. She immediately recognized the stooped shoulders, staggering gait, blank stare, and unshaven hopelessness of the long-term homeless. "He looks like he's had a few too many already."
The man made a beeline for the bar. "Pint, please." He pushed a handful of dirty change in Simon's direction.
"Coming up."
He's not meeting anybody. He's here to drink. To forget.
As Simon pulled the man his beer, he noticed him muttering to himself. Quietly at first, but then in a more agitated way, the classic confrontational, paranoid ramblings of the schizophrenic. Simon's brother Matty had been schizophrenic. Simon recognized inner hell when he saw it.
"Booze isn't the answer, you know," he said gently, handing the man his beer. Close up he looked even worse than he did from a distance, all sallow skin and bloodshot eyes. He smelled of desperation and dirt, a wisp of unhappy smoke floating aimlessly on the wind.
"She was going to marry me."
The man wasn't talking to Simon. He was talking to himself, to nobody, to the air.
"She loved me once. We loved each other."
"I'm sure you did, mate. I'm sure you did."
Poor bastard. He wasn't dangerous. Just pathetic.
It was a cruel world.
Brooks's is one of the most exclusive gentlemen's clubs in London. Standing on the west side of St. James's Street, it was founded by four dukes and a handful of other aristocrats in the 1760s, and began life as a political salon for Whigs, the liberals of the day.
Nowadays it has a broader membership, but is still heavily frequented by diplomats, politicians, and civil servants. The only true, unspoken conditions of membership are that applicants be male, British, and unquestionably upper class.
Teddy De Vere was not a member, belonging as he did to the Tory Carlton Club just across the street. The two institutions consider themselves gentlemanly rivals, and membership in both clubs is quite unheard of. Teddy was, however, a frequent guest at Brooks's, so today's lunch was nothing out of the ordinary.
"De Vere."
Sir Edward Manning, Alexia's permanent private secretary, greeted Teddy warmly. With the home secretary herself, Sir Edward maintained an appropriately formal distance. But Alexia's husband was another matter. The two men knew each other slightly. As social equals, meeting privately, familiarity was perfectly appropriate.
"Manning. Thanks for seeing me. I'm sure your schedule must be jam-packed."
"No more so than yours, old man."
They ordered gin and tonics, and a pair of rare filet steaks with Brooks's famous crispy fries. Teddy got down to business.
"It's about Alexia."
"I rather assumed it might be. What's on your mind?"
"It's a bit awkward. She alluded to me that she'd been having trouble with a chap she knew years ago."
Not by a flicker did Sir Edward Manning betray his surprise that Alexia had chosen to confide in her husband about Billy Hamlin. The deportation order had been executed so swiftly and secretly that not even the home secretary's own security detail had been informed of it. And at Alexia's request! If Hamlin held a dark key to the home secretary's past, Sir Edward imagined that the very last person she would wish to know it would be her husband, the nice but dim Teddy.
"She suggested this man has been harassing her."
Again, Sir Edward said nothing. Teddy De Vere had not asked a question. He had made a statement. Sir Edward Manning had not risen to the highest ranks of the British Civil Service by responding to statements.
"The bugger of it is, Alexia won't give me the fellow's name. All she'll say is that you've 'dealt with it.' " Teddy sliced off a succulent bite of steak and put it in his mouth. "So what I want to know is: have you?"
"Yes," said Sir Edward, in his usual measured tone. "As far as I'm able."