The Blackstone Chronicles - By John Saul Page 0,49

had so uncharitably insisted she was bound to do, given last night’s snowstorm.

Shifting in the seat to ease the tension that always built up in her when she drove on the interstate, Madeline breathed a sigh of contentment. “I don’t know about you,” she said, glancing at her daughter, “but I feel a lot better.”

Celeste—not nearly as sanguine about her father as her mother obviously was—rolled her eyes. “I’m not sure why bankrupting Daddy makes you feel better,” she said. “And I certainly don’t see how it makes up for the awful things he said this morning.”

“It’s really very simple, dear,” her mother explained. “I vented my anger with my credit cards. Your father has atoned for what he said by buying me a perfectly lovely Valentino coat.”

“But he doesn’t know he bought it!” Celeste protested.

“He will when he gets the bill,” Madeline reminded her. “And by then he’ll feel so guilty about what he said that he won’t even blink at how much it cost.”

“But to have implied that you were having an affair—”

“Oh, pooh!” Madeline removed a hand from the steering wheel just long enough to brush her daughter’s words dismissively away. “When you think about it, it’s rather a compliment that he still thinks I’m attractive enough that someone would want to have an affair with me. Especially someone as young and handsome as Andrew!”

“Mother!”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Celeste—don’t be such a prude. By the time you and Andrew have been married as long as your father and I, you’ll understand that things are not always easy. If you don’t, you’ll already be divorced several times by the time you’re my age. There are lots of rough patches in any marriage, dear. You have to learn to deal with them without cutting and running.”

“But what Daddy said was unforgivable—” Celeste began.

But Madeline, having heard it all three times already today, didn’t let her finish. “Everything is forgivable, if you wish to forgive,” she cut in. “And I don’t wish to discuss it any further. Let’s just go home and see how your father is when he comes home from the bank today. All right?”

The sigh Celeste uttered was far more out of resignation than from contentment, but she decided to let the argument go, at least for now. If her mother was determined not to see that something had gone seriously wrong with her father, there would be no talking her out of it. At least not right now. Lapsing into silence, she contented herself with gazing at the wintery scene outside the car. Maybe this weekend she and Andrew would drive over to Stowe and do some skiing. Assuming, of course, that she and Andrew were still together by the end of the week. If her father started spreading his horrible story around the bank, there was no telling what Andrew might do. But maybe her mother was right, and by now the whole terrible incident was over with.

A few minutes later, though, as they pulled into the driveway, Celeste saw the smoke curling up from the den’s chimney and glanced at the clock on the Cadillac’s dashboard. Just a little after four. What was her father doing at home? He never came home before six.

As the Cadillac pulled up under the porte cochere, Celeste saw the tracks in the snow that still marked the path Ed Becker had taken that morning. “Something’s wrong, Mother,” she said. She got out of the car, but instead of going to the trunk to help Madeline carry the packages in, she walked farther up the driveway until she could clearly see the path someone had beaten into the snow. “Mother, it looks like someone was trying to get into the house,” she called out.

“Well, I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for it,” Madeline said a moment later as she stood next to her daughter, her arms laden with packages. “Perhaps your father—”

“Why would Daddy be trying to break into his own house?” Celeste asked. “Maybe we shouldn’t even go in! Maybe we should call the police—”

“Nonsense!” Madeline declared. “For heaven’s sake, child, we’d look like perfect fools. Besides, you yourself just pointed out the smoke coming from the fireplace in your father’s den. Unless the world has changed a great deal more than I think it has, burglars do not build fires to keep them warm while they rifle your house! Bring the rest of the packages in from the car while I go see what’s been going on