The Tides Of Memory - The Tides Of Memory Part 28
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The Tides Of Memory Part 28

I'm never coming back. New York and college and my internship at the Post. They're all part of another life. Meaningless and puerile. None of it matters without Michael.

Summer took the long way back to Michael's flat, through the maze of alleyways that ran behind Exeter and Lincoln colleges down toward Magdalen and the river. Her mother's visit had left her feeling anxious and unhappy, unable to enjoy the warmth of the late-summer sun on her back or the beauty of the spires that towered above her. The streets of Oxford were filled with smiling lovers in shorts and sunglasses, taking pictures of themselves amid the "dreaming spires" or kissing on the ancient bridges. As Summer walked, willow trees bathed their branches languidly in the Cherwell's gently flowing waters. Children ate ice cream cones and skipped and cooled their toes in the water, as a family of swans glided regally by.

Everybody's happy. Everybody's living their lives as if nothing has happened. As if the world hasn't stopped.

Summer looked at strangers with wonder and then with anger, an irrational resentment taking root in her heart. How dare life go on? How dare it? With Michael fighting for breath just a few miles away.

But another voice in her head, her mother's, was equally insistent.

What happened to Michael was an accident.

It was nobody's fault.

Just come home.

Was her mother right? Was Summer looking for meaning in what was really a simple act of fate, a motorcycle accident, an everyday cruelty that happened to millions of people all over the world? Maybe. But right now she needed to believe there was a reason Michael had crashed that day. There was something she needed to know, something she was supposed to find out. Whether Michael wanted her to or not. She would look at it like a job, like a story she'd been assigned to investigate.

All her investigative instincts told her to start with Michael's mother, the steely, ruthless Alexia De Vere.

Back at the apartment, Summer kicked off her shoes and padded into Michael's study. His computer was still on the desk, set to hibernate, as if he might walk back in at any moment and pick up where he left off. Next to it, messy stacks of paper spilled everywhere-receipts, lists, bills, most of them having to do with the Kingsmere party. More were stuffed into the various drawers, or piled on top of the printer, chair, and sofa that filled the small work space. Clearly, Michael hadn't been a big believer in filing. Summer wondered idly how on earth he'd managed to run a successful business amid such chaos, and whether Tommy Lyon's desk looked the same. Or perhaps Tommy was the sensible one, the one who held it all together while Michael shot off ideas and plans and concepts like fireworks from his brilliant, scattered mind?

I must call Tommy.

Sitting down in Michael's chair, she was surprised to feel her heartbeat spike when she turned on his computer. Was it really only a couple of weeks ago that she'd taken the train up to Oxford, convinced she'd catch Michael cheating on her? He'd reassured her that night, made her believe in him again, believe in the two of them as a couple. But now, alone in his study as she was, doubts began to creep back in. Did Summer really want to go through Michael's in-box, his photos, his Facebook contacts? What if she couldn't handle what she found?

Password. The screen blinked at her demandingly.

Stupid of me. Of course, the computer's password protected.

She typed in Michael's pin number: his zodiac sign and date of birth. Obvious, but you never know. No joy. Next she tried various permutations of his family members' names, adding her own name on a whim, but again, nothing. Oh well. I'll have to get a professional to hack into it later. Unless maybe Tommy or Roxie knows.

Pushing the laptop to one side, Summer began to leaf through the nearest pile of papers. Not knowing what she was looking for, and with nothing better to do, she began to sort them methodically into piles. Invoices to the right, receipts to the left. She divided everything into business, personal, or junk, running to the kitchen for a trash bag to use for envelopes, flyers, and other rubbish. The work was consuming. By the time she looked up, it was already six P.M. and the sun was beginning its long, slow descent into the horizon, casting orange beams through the shutters and onto the study floor.

Summer stood up and stretched like a cat. She was just about to fix herself a drink when a box in the corner of the room caught her eye. Everything else in Michael's home office was messy to the point of being deranged, but this box-crate really-had been carefully divided into color-coded sections, with newspaper and magazine clippings as well as photocopied letters stacked sensibly together. It had also been wedged between the bookcase and a large fire extinguisher, not hidden exactly, but definitely moved to a safe place, out of plain sight and where it wouldn't be contaminated by the general mayhem.

Carefully, Summer pulled out the box and carried it into the kitchen. The clippings were organized by date. Almost all of them related to cases affected by Alexia's sentencing reform laws.

Some of the stories were genuinely harrowing.

Daya Ginescu, a Romanian immigrant originally given four years for shoplifting but who'd seen her sentence increased to seven years, had not been allowed to be at her son's bedside when he died of leukemia.

Others were cheap sob stories, whipped up to tragic proportions by the press. Summer found it hard to feel much compassion for Darren Niles, for example, a career burglar whose fiancee had jilted him at the prospect of a further eighteen-month wait for their wedding date.

But the overwhelming bulk of the coverage related to one man, Sanjay Patel. Convicted for drug trafficking on what his supporters clearly believed to be trumped-up evidence, Patel had hanged himself in prison in despair over a lengthening of his sentence.

Summer traced her fingers over the pictures of Patel's face. There was something sweet about him, sweet and gentle and sad. If Sanjay Patel had smuggled heroin, she could see why the cartels chose him. He had the perfect face for a drug mule, utterly guileless, his dark eyes shining with innocence and integrity even from beyond the grave.

His so-called friends, however, were far from innocent. Next to the Patel clippings, Michael had kept photocopies of three threatening letters sent to his mother. Two of them were handwritten, if you could call it writing-the spelling and grammar would have made a five-year-old blush-and were clearly from the same individual. A man, judging by his liberal use of the C-word and other explicitly sexist, borderline gynecological slurs. But it wasn't the language in the letter that shocked Summer so much as the hatred resonating from each line. The writer wanted to slash Alexia's "throte" until she screamed like a "squeeling fucking pig." He looked forward to "slicing" her tits off, making her pay "for what you done, you stinking c-t." The third letter was much more erudite, liberally quoting scripture and invoking the wrath of a vengeful God, in punishment for Alexia's "sins." Summer didn't know which of the letters chilled her more. She was no fan of Alexia's, especially not at the moment. But the letters made even her blood run cold.

She wondered how Michael had gotten hold of them and why he kept them. Were they connected to this secret, whatever it was, this "bad thing" that someone close to him had done? Or was he merely concerned about his mother's safety generally, or her security at the Kingsmere party in particular?

Possibly. But that didn't really add up either. As home secretary, Alexia had plenty of police and secret-service protection at her disposal 24/7. She wouldn't have needed Michael's amateurish efforts. Something wasn't right.

There were other things in the box that Summer found curious. In the middle of the file, diligently tagged with dated yellow stickers, was a stack of documents relating to the prime minister. Some were letters that Henry Whitman had written to Alexia around the time of her appointment as home secretary. Others were copies of replies that Alexia had sent him. Still others bore no obvious relation to Alexia at all. There were articles about Whitman opening a hospital, about his wife, Charlotte, attending a charity event. Innocuous pieces about the prime minister's commitment to renewable energy projects, each one carefully cut out, dated, and filed. Michael-or someone-must have thought them significant.

Why?

The telephone rang, scaring her half to death. Who on earth would be calling here? As far as she knew, no one used Michael's landline number as a contact number for her. Except the hospital. For emergencies. Oh God, no.

"Hello?" The panic in her voice was audible.

"You sound terrible, my dear. Is everything all right?"

"Teddy!" She let out a long breath. Thank God. "I'm fine. I thought it might be the hospital calling."

"No, no. Only me. Now listen. Your ma rang earlier and asked me to keep an eye on you while you're in Oxford. I'm to make sure you're not wasting away in that gloomy flat or starving to death on hospital food."

Summer laughed. "You can tell my mother I've been cooking for myself for some time now. Years, actually."

"Be that as it may, I was hoping you might want to join us at Kingsmere for dinner."

Join "us." Did that mean Alexia too?

As if reading her mind, Teddy said, "Alexia's away in London, so Roxanne and I are rattling around here on our own like two lost pebbles. You'd be doing an old man a favor."

Suddenly Summer wanted to see Teddy and Roxie, kind, familiar faces of people who loved Michael as much as she did. They too were infrequent visitors at the hospital, but somehow Summer could tell that their absence at Michael's bedside was born of heartache, not callousness, like his mother's.

"All right. That would be lovely, thanks. What time would you like me to arrive?"

"Now, my dear. My driver should be with you at any minute."

"Now? But I haven't changed or showered or-"

"Never mind that. Just pack an overnight bag and hop in the car."

An overnight bag? Summer considered protesting but changed her mind. Why not get away for a while? As long as she was back in Oxford by tomorrow night, in time for her daily visit to Michael.

Throwing some clothes into a bag, she waited for the doorbell to ring. How thoughtful of Teddy to send a driver. He really was the kindest man in the world.

Chapter Twenty-six.

Gravel crunched satisfyingly beneath Summer's feet as she pushed Roxie De Vere's wheelchair down the long drive at Kingsmere.

"It's so beautiful here. You must wake up every morning and pinch yourself."

Roxie smiled. "Not exactly. But it is lovely. I'm not sure I could live anywhere else."

After a hearty breakfast of kedgeree and strong black coffee, the girls were out for a morning walk. Whether it was the cloud-soft, goose-feather bed in the guest room, last night's wonderful food and wine, or the simple pleasure of being in the company of old friends, Summer didn't know, but she felt revived and refreshed this morning in a way she hadn't felt in a long time. The blue sky, and slight crispness to the air, somehow brought a sense of hope, and the rooks cawing in the treetops seemed to be heralding a new start.

The two girls reached the end of the drive. A winding country lane snaked in front of them, bordered by tall hedgerows and overhung with ancient oaks, giving it the feel of a tunnel.

"Left or right?" asked Roxie.

"What's the difference?"

"Left is the village, right is the farm."

"Left then," said Summer. "Your father said he wanted a newspaper, and I've never seen the bright lights of downtown Kingsmere."

Roxie was pleased Summer had agreed to spend the night. The two girls had been close as children, although, of course, they had both changed so much since those innocent, carefree days. The Summer that Roxie remembered from holidays on Martha's Vineyard had been fat and withdrawn and painfully, agonizingly shy. Back then she, Roxie, had been the confident one, not to mention the great beauty. But now it was Summer Meyer who had the world at her feet. How strange life was.

"You must think I'm awfully heartless," Roxie blurted out. "Not going to visit Michael."

"I don't think any such thing," Summer assured her.

"The truth is, I simply can't cope with it. Hospitals still give me dreadful panic attacks. That hospital in particular."

Summer had forgotten that Roxie had recuperated at the John Radcliffe after her suicide attempt. No wonder she couldn't face the place.

"I totally understand. And so would Michael."

"Daddy's been twice, but he hates it too. He says he feels like a spare part. He doesn't know what to say or do."

"I'm not sure it matters what you say. And he's doing something just by being there."

"Spoken like a true woman. But you know men, especially British men. They want to 'fix' things. I don't think Daddy can stand the fact that he can't fix this for Michael. Just like he couldn't fix things for me. He thinks it's history repeating itself."

"The curse of the De Veres," Summer mumbled under her breath.

"The only curse on this family is my bitch of a mother," Roxie said bitterly. Pushing the wheelchair from behind, Summer couldn't see the cloud of hatred contorting Roxie's face.

They walked on in silence. Eventually the village hove into view, a pretty cluster of wisteria-clad, stone cottages huddled around a triangular green, in the shadow of a squat Saxon church. A sleepier, more idyllic spot than Kingsmere would have been hard to imagine. Summer half expected Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle to emerge from one of the cottages, or to discover that Jemima Puddle-Duck was the proprietress of the village store.

This isn't a place where bad things are supposed to happen.

In reality, the village store was owned by a grumpy old woman with prodigious facial warts called Rose Hudgens. Rose nodded a curt acknowledgment to Roxie when they walked in, but blanked Summer completely when she bought Teddy's paper, returning her smile with a sullen scowl.

"Is she always like that?" Summer asked Roxie after they left the store.

"I'm afraid so. Rose isn't too keen on newcomers. Especially Americans."

They'd been walking for an hour and Summer still hadn't broached the subject of Michael's list, or of the mysterious secret he'd alluded to the night before his accident. Now seemed as good a time as any.

"I've been meaning to ask you, did Michael say anything to you, anything unusual, in the run-up to your father's summer party?"

Roxie looked up sharply. " 'Unusual' in what way?"

"In any way."

"No, I don't think so. Why?"

"It's probably nothing. But the night before his accident, when I came to Oxford to see him, he said something to me about a secret. He said he was talking hypothetically, but I got the feeling that he wasn't. That he'd found something out and that it was worrying him deeply. I thought he might have mentioned it to you."

"No. He never said anything like that. All he talked about was the party, to be honest. He was consumed by it in those last few weeks, especially building this ridiculous folly for Dad. That was stressing him out, because it was all going wrong and he didn't want Dad to worry. Do you think that could have been it? Although I can't see why it would have been a secret."

"Like I say, it was probably nothing." Summer smiled reassuringly. It wasn't fair to burden Roxie with her fears and suspicions. Not unless she had hard evidence to back them up. Whatever Michael's dark secret was, clearly he had not confided in his sister.

Back at the house, Roxie delivered Teddy his Times while Summer went upstairs to make her bed and pack. She'd just zipped up her overnight bag when a voice behind her made her jump.

"You will stay for lunch?"

Teddy stood in the doorway. He was wearing a yellow sweater stretched tightly over his paunch, giving him the look of an elderly Winnie-the-Pooh. It occurred to Summer for the first time that he looked absolutely nothing like Michael. Not one grain of De Vere genes seemed to have been passed down from father to son.

"You scared me! I thought you were downstairs with Roxie."

"I was, but she told me you were leaving, so I came up straightaway. Surely you don't have to disappear so soon?"

"I'm afraid so. You've been incredibly kind and hospitable, but I have to go and see Michael."

"Yes, but that won't take all day."

"I also have things to do back at the flat."

"What things?"

"Just paperwork. But there's a lot of it, believe me." She yawned loudly. Teddy enveloped Summer in a big, paternal bear hug.

"If I may say so, my dear, I think you're overdoing it. Your parents are right, you know. You should go back home to America."

"I couldn't possibly leave Michael." Summer sounded shocked.

Fighting back his emotion, Teddy said, "Michael's gone, Summer."

"He isn't gone."

"Not in body, perhaps. But in every way that really matters. His mother's right."

"His mother is not right!" Hot tears stung Summer's cheeks. "I'm sorry, Teddy. I know you love Alexia. But she's not right about this. She wants to turn off those machines because it would be easier for her. Because it would put an end to a situation she doesn't want to deal with."

"That's not true, my dear."