The Cove

Dillon grunted. “Hand me the coffee. Another hour and we’ll be there.”

“It took time for her to sell the Olds and buy the clunker. It cut down on her lead. Let’s say she’s got two hours on us. That’s not too bad.”

“Let’s hope she doesn’t realize you’re anywhere in the vicinity, like you seem to believe she did last time at her mother’s.”

“She did know. Listen to this. Mr. Franklin Oglivee Harrison is the president and CEO of the First Philadelphia Union Bank. He owns three clothing stores called the Gentleman’s Purveyor. His father owned the two largest steel mills in Pennsylvania, got out before the bottom fell out, and left his family millions. As for Mrs. Harrison, she comes from the Boston Thurmonds, who are all in public office, lots of old money from shipping. Two daughters, Amabel and Noelle, and a son, Geoffrey, who’s got Down’s syndrome and is kept at a very nice private place near Boston.”

“You want to stop at that gas station in Wilmington? We’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Let’s do it. Someone will remember the kind of car she was driving.”

“If she got something for three hundred bucks, it would really stand out.”

But the guy who’d sold her the gas had gone home. They drove straight on to Philadelphia.

Sally looked from her grandfather Franklin to her grandmother Olivia. She’d seen them two or three times a year every year of her life, except this past year.

Their downstairs maid, Cecilia, had let her in, not blinked an eye at her huge man’s coat over the too tight blouse and jeans, and calmly led her to the informal study at the back of the house. Her grandparents were watching Seinfeld on TV.

Cecilia didn’t announce her, just left her there and quietly closed the door. Sally didn’t say anything for a long time. She just stood there, listening to her grandfather give an occasional chuckle. Her grandmother had a book on her lap, but she wasn’t reading, she was watching TV as well. They were both seventy-six, in excellent health, and enjoyed the Jumby Bay private resort island off Antigua twice a year.

Sally waited for a commercial, then said, “Hello, Grandfather, Grandmother.”

Her grandmother’s head jerked around, and she cried out, “Susan!”

Her grandfather said, “Is that really you, Susan? By all that’s holy, my poor child, whatever are you doing here?”

Neither of them moved from the sofa. They seemed nailed to their seats. Her grandmother’s book slid from her lap to the beautiful Tabriz carpet.

Sally took a step toward them. “I hoped you could give me some money. There are a lot of people looking for me, and I need to hide someplace. I only have about seventeen dollars.”

Franklin Harrison rose slowly. He was wearing a smoking jacket and an ascot—she hadn’t known those things were still even made. She suddenly had an image of him wearing the same thing when she’d been a very young girl. She remembered how he’d held her and let her stroke the soft silk of the ascot. His white hair was thick and wavy, his eyes a dark blue, his cheekbones high, but his mouth was small and tight. It seemed smaller and tighter now.

Olivia Harrison rose as well, straightening the silk dress she was wearing. She held out her hand. “Susan, dear, why aren’t you with that lovely Doctor Beadermeyer? You didn’t escape again, did you? That’s not a good thing for you, dear, not good for you at all, particularly with all the scandal that your father’s death has produced.”

“He didn’t just die, Grandmother, he was murdered.”

“Yes, we know. All of us have suffered. But now we’re concerned about you, Susan. Your mother has told us how much Doctor Beadermeyer has done for you, how much better you’ve gotten. We met him once and were very impressed with him. Wasn’t that nice of him to come to Philadelphia to meet us? You are better, aren’t you, Susan? You aren’t still seeing things that aren’t there, are you? You’re not still blaming people for things they didn’t do?”

“No, Grandmother. I never did any of those things.” Strange how neither of them wanted to come close to her.

“You know, dear,” her grandmother continued in that gentle voice of hers that masked pure iron, “your grandfather and I have discussed this, and we hate to say it, but it’s possible that you’re like your uncle Geoffrey. Your illness is probably hereditary, and so it isn’t really your fault. Let me call Doctor Beadermeyer, dear.”

Sally could only stare at her grandmother. “Uncle Geoffrey was born with Down’s syndrome. It has nothing to do with mental illness.”