Carla Neggers - Cut and Run

Hendrik laughed again, and this time she could see how his eyes crinkled up at the corners. “She always reminded me of Wilhelmina.”

Wilhelmina and their mother. Yes, they were alike, tough-minded and cynical, unwilling to give anyone the benefit of the doubt but, in their own way, loving. Realists, they called themselves. Perhaps it was so. They had guessed what Hendrik was long before anyone else.

Catharina started to her feet, the spell broken. Hendrik de Geer had never been dashing or brave, and her girlhood was long lost. She stumbled because she was stiff from kneeling and not so young anymore, and because Hendrik was there and hadn’t been in such a long, long time. From the moment she’d spotted him at Lincoln Center, she’d guessed he would come, eventually. Perhaps she’d even wished it.

He grabbed her arm and helped her up, and she stood close to him as the wind gusted down the wide empty avenue. She felt lightheaded and for no reason at all thought of the cinnamon rolls she’d planned to make that morning, an old, comfortable recipe, and wondered if she’d ever get to them.

“What are you doing here?” she asked softly.

He smiled, his hand lingering on her arm. Through her old, heavy fisherman’s sweater, she could feel the imprint of his thick fingers. He’d always been so solid. So strong. Even now, almost seventy, wearing his watch cap and old peacoat, he looked so very handsome and reliable. If only she didn’t know better.

He said, “I wanted to see you.”

“Yes.” She looked away, at nothing. “Rachel…”

“I’m sorry she’s gone.”

“You knew she was after you.”

He nodded, although she’d needed no confirmation. “Rachel wanted vengeance, Catharina.”

“No, Hendrik.” She pulled away from him, and his hand fell awkwardly to his side. “She wanted justice.”

He looked pained. “I did what I had to do in Amsterdam, to save you-”

“To save yourself! I won’t live with that guilt, Hendrik.” But she did, every day.

“They were difficult times, Catharina,” he said as if to a child. “The past is done.”

“The past isn’t over, not for any of us. It never will be, Hendrik.” Her eyes were fierce and unforgiving. “Did you kill Rachel?”

“No!” He seemed so appalled, as if he’d never contemplated such a wrong. “No, Catharina. I couldn’t.”

“Not even to save yourself?” she asked with contempt, but then fatigue crept in-and sorrow. “Oh, Hendrik, just go away. Disappear as you did before.”

He was shaking his head. “I’ve already tried. It’s what my mind tells me I should do, but my heart tells me otherwise. Catharina, the people I’m involved with have found out about the Minstrel’s Rough. They want it, and they’ll stop at nothing to get it. Believe me, my dear, I know these men.” He paused, his eyes as soft as they could ever be in a man who’d lived such a cold, hard life. “Let me take you away until I can satisfy them that the Minstrel doesn’t exist.”

Catharina blinked rapidly, over and over, but the tears flowed anyway, whipped from her eyes by the wind. She tried to brush them away but remembered the gloves and peeled them off, letting them drop onto the sidewalk. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably. My God, she thought, will they never stop? It seemed they’d been shaking since Rachel had walked into her bakeshop after forty years.

The Minstrel’s Rough…damn that horrible stone!

“No,” she said at last, in a choked whisper. “You’re not going to save me and let others suffer. I won’t let you!”

“I can save everyone.”

She scoffed, sobbing. “As you did in Amsterdam?”

“Catharina, listen to me. Nothing will happen to you or your daughter-or to Wilhelmina. I promise you.”

“And Johannes? You took him to Amsterdam, didn’t you? You tried to make him give you that damned diamond. Hendrik, Hendrik, you never change.”

“His heart was no good. There was nothing I could do.” He took her hands and held them tightly, and she was surprised his were so warm. “You don’t believe me.”

“Hendrik, please.” Her voice caught, and she was angry with herself for her tears, for thinking, hoping, he’d changed-for wanting to believe they both could pretend Amsterdam had never happened. “I can never believe you again.”

He looked wounded, and yet at the same time not surprised, almost welcoming the blow. Then the earnestness, the frustrating, endearing, appalling optimism, the unshakable belief in himself, took over. “I can stop this, Catharina. If you tell me where the Minstrel is-”

“No!” She pounded him once on the chest with her fist. “Damn you, Hendrik, no! Even if I knew I’d never tell you. The Minstrel died with Johannes. Now go-for the love of God, Hendrik go.”

“Catharina…”

She shook her head and resisted the impulse to run. Willie wouldn’t; their mother wouldn’t. And she had to protect Juliana. Catharina made herself look at him, into the eyes that had never told anything that was true. “Understand me, Hendrik; leave my daughter out of whatever trouble you’re in this time. If you touch Juliana-if anyone connected with you touches her-there’s nowhere you can go, nowhere you can hide that I won’t find you. If you should die before I do, you’ll see me in hell.”

Hendrik swallowed and licked his chapped lips, and he whispered, “Don’t hate me, sweet Catharina.”

“I don’t, Hendrik,” she said, so tired. “I never did.”

She pushed past him, knocking over the bucket as she ran inside and shut the door hard behind her, clicking shut the deadbolt lock. The sound echoed in the quiet shop.

Hendrik de Geer stood in the dirty water, and he looked without expression toward the shop. Catharina warned herself that he was the same thoughtless, selfish coward he had been in Amsterdam. How could she feel any pity for him after what he’d done? Nothing had changed. Not Hendrik, not herself, not their past.

She watched him through the window. He bent over, righting the bucket, and picked up one of her rubber gloves. He pressed it to his lips. Catharina bit back a cry as he walked over and hung the glove on the doorknob.

He said nothing, and then he walked off slowly down Madison Avenue, alone.

Juliana had changed into J.J. Pepper to keep herself from being followed to LaGuardia Airport and then changed back into herself in the Gazette ladies’ room, leaving J.J.’s clothes in a paper bag under the sink. Then she proceeded to the newsroom. She was dressed in a chocolate wool gabardine suit with a Hermès scarf at her neck and her hair pulled back. She thought she looked distinctive, if not brass tacks. A reporter pointed out Matthew’s desk, which was as yet unoccupied. She went over and sat on the straight-backed chair next to it, glancing at the notes and papers on his desk. She saw the obituaries on Rachel Stein and her uncle and felt her expression turn grim.

A tall woman with dark horn-rimmed glasses came over and asked if she could help her. Juliana introduced herself. “I’m Alice Feldon,” the editor said, eyeing her. “So you’re Stark’s piano player.”

Juliana winced. “When’s he due in?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“It’s very important I see him. I-I have new information for him; I’m sure he’ll want to know.”

“Don’t count on it.” She picked up a scrap of paper and a pencil, jotted down something, and handed both back to Juliana. “That’s his home number and his address. You decide what you want to do.”

Alice Feldon marched back to her desk, and Juliana picked up the phone but stopped herself from dialing. If Matthew answered, what would she tell him? I was just wondering when you were coming in to your office. He’d ask why; she’d tell him because she was there waiting for him. He’d tell her, “Then wait, goddamnit.”