Ken Grimwood - Replay

They parked under the wide portico, grateful for the shelter from the steadily increasing snowfall. An ornate brass knocker was mounted on the front door of the house, but Jeff found the doorbell and pressed that instead.

A matronly woman in a severe brown dress with a white bib collar answered the door. "Can I help you?" she asked. "Is Mr. McCowan in, please?"

The woman frowned above her pince-nez bifocals. "Mr…"

"McCowan. Stuart McCowan. Doesn’t he live here?"

"Oh, dear me, Stuart. Of course. Do you have an appointment?"

"No, but I believe he’s expecting us; if you’ll just tell him it’s his friends from New York, I’m sure—"

"Friends?" Her frown deepened. "You’re friends of Stuart’s?"

"Yes, from New York."

The woman seemed flustered. "I’m afraid … Why don’t you come in out of the cold, have a seat for a moment? I’ll be right back."

Jeff and Pamela sat together on an overstuffed, high-backed settee in the musty entrance hall as the woman disappeared down a hallway.

"There is more than one of them," Pamela whispered. "He doesn’t even own this house, apparently. The maid only knew him by his first name. It’s some kind of commune, some—"

A tall, gray-haired man in a tweed suit emerged from the hallway, with the plump woman in the pince-nez glasses behind him. "You say you’re friends of Stuart McCowan’s?" he asked.

"We’re, ah … We’ve been in correspondence with him," Jeff said, standing.

"And who initiated this correspondence?"

"Look, we’re here at Mr. McCowan’s express invitation. We’ve come all the way from New York to see him, so if you could just let him know—"

"What was the nature of your correspondence with Stuart?"

"I don’t see that that’s any of your business. Why don’t you ask him?"

"Everything that concerns Stuart is my business. He is in my care."

Jeff and Pamela exchanged a quick look. "What do you mean, in your care? Are you a doctor? Is he ill?"

"Quite seriously. Why are you interested in his case? Are you journalists? I will not tolerate any invasion of my patients' privacy, and if you’re from some newspaper or magazine, I suggest you leave immediately."

"No, neither of us is a reporter." Jeff handed the man one of the business cards that identified him as a venture-capital consultant, and introduced Pamela as his associate.

The wary tension in the man’s face eased, and he gave an apologetic smile. "I’m so sorry, Mr. Winston; if I’d known it was a business matter … I’m Dr. Joel Pfeiffer. Please understand that I was only trying to protect Stuart’s interests. This is a very exclusive, very discreet facility, and any—"

"This isn’t Stuart McCowan’s home, then? This is some sort of hospital?"

"A treatment center, yes."

"Is it his heart? Are you a cardiologist?" The doctor frowned. "You’re not familiar with his background?"

"No, we’re not. Our connection with him is strictly … business-oriented. Investment matters."

Pfeiffer nodded understandingly. "Whatever his other problems, Stuart retains a tremendous sense of the market. I encourage his ongoing involvement in financial affairs. Of course, all his profits go into a trust now, but perhaps someday, if he continues to make progress…"

"Dr. Pfeiffer, are you saying—Is this a mental hospital?"

"Not a hospital. A private psychiatric unit, yes."

Christ, Jeff thought. So that’s it; McCowan said too much to the wrong people at some point, and they’ve committed him. Jeff glanced at Pamela, saw that she, too, had understood immediately. They’d both recognized the risk that too open an admission of their experiences might lead to an outsider’s assumption that they were insane; now here was living proof of that danger.

The doctor misunderstood their interchange. "I hope you won’t hold Stuart’s problems against him," he said with concern. "I assure you, his financial judgement has been impeccable throughout all this."

"That won’t be an issue," Jeff told him. "We understand it must have been … difficult for him, but we’re well aware of the sound management he’s continued to apply to his portfolio." The lie seemed to ease Pfeiffer’s worry. Jeff guessed that the McCowan trust was responsible for a large share of the operating costs of this place, perhaps even its initial endowment.

"Could we see him now?" Pamela asked. "If we’d known the circumstances in advance, naturally we would have arranged an appointment through you, but considering we’ve already come all this distance…"

"Of course," Dr. Pfeiffer assured her. "We have no set visiting hours here; you can see him right away. Marie," he said, turning to the gray-haired woman behind him, "could you have Stuart brought down to the sitting room, please?"

A pretty young woman in a lacy yellow dress sat in a window alcove of the room Dr. Pfeiffer showed them to. She was watching the snowfall, but turned expectantly as they walked in.

"Hello," the girl said. "Are you here to see me?"

"They’re here to see Stuart, Melinda," the doctor told her gently.

"That’s all right," she said with a cheerful smile. "Somebody’s coming to see me on Wednesday, aren’t they?"

"Yes, your sister will be here Wednesday."

"I could bring Stuart’s guests some tea and cake, though, couldn’t I?"

"If they’d like some, certainly."

Melinda descended from her white-backdropped perch. "Would you care for some tea and cake?" she asked politely.

"Yes, thank you," Pamela said. "That would be very thoughtful."

"I’ll go get it, then. The tea is in the kitchen and the cake is in my room. My mother made it. Will you wait?"

"Of course, Melinda. We’ll be right here."

She went out a side door of the room, and they could hear her rushing footsteps on the stairs. Jeff and Pamela examined their surroundings: comfortable leather chairs arranged in a semicircle around the brick fireplace, where two logs burned brightly; muted blue wallpaper dotted with a subtle fleur-de-lis pattern; a Tiffany lamp hanging in the opposite corner of the room, above a mahogany table where someone had half-completed a jigsaw I puzzle of a monarch butterfly. Plush, dark blue drapes were I opened to reveal a snowy hilltop vista.

"This is quite nice," Jeff said. "It doesn’t look at all like—"

"Like what it is?" The doctor smiled. "No, we try to maintain as normal, and as pleasant, an environment as possible. No bars on the windows, as you can see; none of the staff members wear uniforms. I believe the atmosphere speeds the recovery process and makes the transition back to everyday life much easier when a patient is ready to go home."

"What about Stuart? Do you think he’ll be ready to leave here soon?"

Pfeiffer pursed his lips, looked out the window at the steady snow. "He’s made excellent progress since his transfer here. I have high hopes for Stuart. There are complications, naturally, a number of legal hurdles to be—"

A slight, sallow-faced man in his early thirties came into the room, followed by a muscular young man in jeans and a gray wool sweater. The paler man wore blue slacks, well-polished Italian loafers, and an open-necked white dress shirt. His hair had begun to recede and was thinning somewhat on top.

"Stuart," the doctor said expansively. "You have unexpected visitors. Business associates, I believe, from New York. Jeff Winston, Pamela Phillips; Stuart McCowan."

The prematurely balding man smiled pleasantly, extended his hand. "At last," he said, gripping first Jeff’s hand, then Pamela’s. "I’ve waited a long time for this moment."

"I know how you feel," Jeff responded quietly.

"Well," Dr. Pfeiffer said, "I’ll leave you to your meeting. I’m afraid Mike, here, will have to stay. It’s a stipulation imposed on us by the court; I have no choice in the matter. But he won’t be in your way. You can speak as privately as you wish."