He told her gently that he thought he knew her mother, that if he remembered correctly her mother’s name was Lorraine.
She said yes to that in a small, broken voice.
“You can tell me anything, Christine,” he said. “I’m on your side, honey. You understand?”
“My mom says we can never talk to my father, never tell him about us, about me and my brother, but I know my father wants to know!”
He didn’t ask the obvious question—which was, Who is your father? He let her go on.
And suddenly it all came pouring out of her, how she wanted to see her father, how she’d run away from her house in San Rafael to see her father. Her twin brother, Jamie, didn’t care about their father. Jamie was so “independent.” Jamie had always been “independent.” Jamie didn’t need a father. But she did. She did with all her heart. She had seen her father at the Christmas gala and she knew he was a priest, but he was still her father, and she just had to see him, really, really had to see him. And on the news they said terrible things about her father, that someone had tried to kill him. What if her father died without her ever talking to him, without ever knowing he had a daughter and a son? Couldn’t she stay here until her father was found? “I am praying and praying for them to find him.”
In a quaking voice she laid out her dreams. She’d live at Nideck Point. Surely there was a little room where they could put her, and she wouldn’t be any trouble. She’d walk to school. She would do chores to earn her food. She’d live here in this house, if there was just the smallest place for her, and her father would see her, and he would be happy to see her, to know he had twins, a daughter and a son. She knew he would. And she could live here and see him in secret and nobody would ever have to know that he was a priest with two children. She would never tell another soul. If there was just the smallest room, the smallest room in the attic or in the basement, or in the servants’ wing out back. They’d taken a little tour at the party, and they’d seen the servants’ wing. Maybe there was a really, really small room out there that nobody else wanted. She wouldn’t be any trouble at all. She didn’t expect anyone to help. If only Reuben would tell her father, just let him know.
Reuben thought for a long moment in silence, holding her tightly, still stroking her hair.
“Of course you can live here, you can live here forever,” he said. “And I will tell your father right away that you’re here. Your father is my brother, as you know. I’ll tell him just as soon as I can. I’ll tell him all about you. And you’re right. He’ll be happy, oh, happier than you can imagine to know you’re here. And he’ll be happy to see your brother, Jamie. Don’t you worry about this.”
She sat still staring at him as if she were out of breath. She didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She was amazed. She was a lovely little girl as far as he was concerned, and he was once again fighting back tears. She was precious, adorable … all that. She embodied those endearing words and more. She was sad, however, terribly sad. He couldn’t remember if her mother was half as pretty. If she was, then she was a beautiful woman.
“You really think he’ll be happy,” she said in a timid voice. “My mother said he’s a priest and it would be terrible for him if people knew.”
“I don’t think that’s true at all,” he said. “You and your brother were born before he ever became a priest, isn’t that right?”
“My grandmother wants us to go back to England,” she said, “without us ever talking to my father.”
“I see,” Reuben said.
“She calls my mother every week, telling her to bring us back to England. And if we go back to England, I’ll never see my father again.”
“Well, you’re going to see him,” Reuben said. “And you have grandparents here, your father’s parents, who will be happy too.”
Reuben and Christine sat there alone for a long time in silence. Then Reuben stood up and prodded the oak fire. There was a wild explosion of sparks up the chimney and then a steady leaping orange flame.
He knelt down in front of Christine, looking up into her eyes. “But honey,” he said, “you have to let me call your mother. You have to let me tell her that you’re safe.”
She nodded. She opened her little black patent leather purse and took out an iPhone. She punched in the call to her mother and gave Reuben the phone.
As it turned out, Lorraine was already on her way to Nideck Point. She had been hoping and praying she’d find Christine there. “This is all my fault, Mr. Golding,” she said in a lovely British accent, quite as lilting and fluid as her daughter’s. “I am so sorry. I’m coming to get her now. I’ll take care of everything.”
“It’s Reuben, Mrs. Maitland,” he said, “and we’ll have supper for you when you arrive.”
Meanwhile, the situation with Jim grew worse.
Grace called to say that the archdiocese was becoming alarmed. They admitted to Grace that they didn’t know where Jim was. Father Jim Golding had never disappeared like this. They’d called the police. Jim’s picture had been on the six o’clock news.
Reuben’s heart was breaking.
He had gone into the darkened conservatory to take the call, sitting down with Elthram and Phil at the marble table.
There was the usual fire in the white enameled Franklin stove, and scattered candles flickered here and there.
Elthram rose without a word and slipped away, obviously to give Phil and Reuben privacy.
Reuben tried again to reach Jim, ready to blurt out everything, if the phone would just go to voice mail. But it did not. It had never gone to voice mail, not since Jim had disappeared.
Phil wanted to tell Grace all about Lorraine and the children now.
But that didn’t seem fair to Reuben. Jim had to know first.
“If only he’s all right, if only—.”
“Now look,” said Phil. “You’re doing everything that you can. You went down to Carmel. You couldn’t find him. If we haven’t heard from him by tomorrow, we’ll tell your mother. And for now, just leave this in God’s hands.”
Reuben shook his head.
“And what if he hurts himself, Dad? What if he’s there in Carmel, in some little B&B, and he’s stocked up on booze, and he’s gone on a bender? Dad, lots of the people who commit suicide do it while they’re drunk. You know that. Don’t you understand what’s happened? He asked me to get rid of that damned Blankenship. He asked me because he didn’t have anyone else to turn to! And now he’s dying of guilt from it, I know he is. And these kids … why, he thought he killed Lorraine’s baby! With Jim, it’s guilt and guilt on top of guilt. He’s got to know about these kids, he has to.”