The Blackstone Chronicles - By John Saul Page 0,41

the package, and then the paper. A moment later he’d opened the box itself and found himself looking at a small silver locket.

A locket in the shape of a heart.

His fingers shaking, he picked the locket up and opened it.

Where a picture might have been—should have been—there was nothing.

Nothing, save a lock of hair.

Closing the locket, Jules clutched it in his hand and gazed up the stairs toward the floor above. Suddenly an image came into his mind.

An image of Madeline.

Madeline, whom he’d loved for more than a quarter of a century.

Whom he’d thought loved him too.

But now, in his mind’s eye, he could see her clearly.

And she was in the arms of another man.

As he put the locket in his coat pocket, Jules Hartwick felt the foundations of his world starting to crumble.

Chapter 3

“Mother, for Heaven’s sake, look outside!” Celeste Hartwick said as she came into the breakfast room the next morning and poured herself a cup of coffee from the big silver carafe on the table. “It’s fabulous!”

But even with her daughter’s urging, Madeline barely glanced at the sparkling snowscape that lay beyond the French doors. Every twig of every tree and bush was laden with a thick layer of white, and the blanket of snow that covered the lawns and paths was unbroken save for a single set of bird tracks, apparently made by the cardinal that was now perched on a branch of the big chestnut tree just outside the window, providing the only splash of color in the monochromatic scene.

“Okay, Mother,” Celeste said, seating herself in the chair opposite Madeline. “Obviously something’s wrong. What is it?”

Madeline pursed her lips, wondering exactly what to say to Celeste, for the truth was that though something was, indeed, wrong, even she herself had no idea what it was. It had begun last night, when Jules had come up after seeing Andrew out and closing the gate. When he entered their bedroom, he’d barely looked at her, and when she’d spoken to him, asking if something was wrong, he positively glared at her and informed her that if something were wrong, she would know it better than he. Then, before she could say another word, he’d disappeared into his dressing room and not come out for nearly thirty minutes. When he finally appeared in his pajamas, he slid into bed beside her, then turned out the light without so much as a good-night, let alone a kiss. Having picked up very clearly that he was in no mood to communicate with her, she’d decided that rather than make this unexpected situation worse by trying to drag the problem out of him in the middle of the night, she would let it go until morning. She’d managed to sleep—at least sporadically—but every time she awakened, she could feel him lying stiffly next to her. Though she’d known by the rhythm of his breathing that he was as wide awake as she, he’d made no response when she’d spoken to him.

Now she asked her daughter, “Were you still up when your father came in last night?”

Celeste nodded. “But I didn’t see him. I heard him come up, but I was in my room. Did something happen?”

“I don’t know—” Madeline began. “I mean, I think something must have happened, but I haven’t the slightest idea what. It was the most peculiar thing, Celeste. When your father came to bed last night, he was barely speaking to me. He—”

“Do you tell everyone what happens in our bed, Madeline?”

Recoiling from his words as if she’d been slapped, Madeline’s whole body jerked reflexively. Coffee splashed from her cup onto the table. As Celeste quickly blotted the spill with a paper napkin, Madeline shakily set the cup back onto its saucer. “For heaven’s sake, Jules, will you please tell me what’s going on? Did Andrew say something last night that upset you?”

Andrew, Jules thought. His hand, shoved deep in his pocket, closed on the locket, its metal so hot it seemed to burn into his palm. Could it be Andrew? But Andrew was in love with Celeste, not with Madeline. Or was he? It wouldn’t be the first time a young man had fallen in love with a woman old enough to be his mother. “Why do you ask?” he said aloud.

The shock of his words giving way to impatience, Madeline picked her napkin off her lap and began folding it slowly and neatly, pressing each crease flat with the palm of her right hand. It