She shrugged with an easy smile, and waved at a publisher she knew. "I don't have time for much of that stuff. Nothing much has changed as far as that goes. It's hard to have a career and a real life."

"But it can can be done," he always pointed out to her, "if you want to." be done," he always pointed out to her, "if you want to."

"Maybe I don't" She was always honest with him. "Maybe I don't want more than I've got. My typewriter and my old nightgowns."

"El, that's terrible. It's a h.e.l.l of a waste."

"No, it's not. I never really wanted all that other stuff. I would have hated having kids."

"Why?" It seemed so wrong to him. People were meant to have children. He had wanted one for the past twenty years. It just hadn't worked out for him to have one.

"They're too demanding. Too distracting. I'd have to give too much of myself. That's why I was such a lousy wife to you. I wanted to save it all for my books. I guess that's crazy, but it makes me happy." And he knew it did. They were both better off the way things were now. And then suddenly he laughed.

"You were always too d.a.m.n honest. I was just going to tell you I met a great woman in this case." Eloise raised an eyebrow with interest. "She just happens to be married to a French baron, and not exactly available."

"She sounds a lot better than your ballerina."

"She is. But she's totally wrapped up in her proper life. It's a d.a.m.n shame too ... she's lovely."

"You'll find the right one, one of these days. Just stay away from the artsy ones. They make lousy wives. Take it from me. I know!" She smiled ruefully, and leaned over to kiss his cheek as they left the table.

"Don't be so hard on yourself. We were both young."

"And you were terrific." She stopped to say h.e.l.lo to her editor-in-chief, and they walked out into the sunshine together. Then John wished her luck on her new book, hailed a cab for her, and walked back to his office on East Fifty-seventh.

And there was a windfall waiting for him when he got back to the office. One of his a.s.sistants had found the Abramses in San Francisco.

"Are you serious?" He was jubilant. They had tried everything and turned up nothing. But they had finally given up looking for David, and in doing so had found Rebecca. It turned out that they had left Los Angeles in the early sixties and gone to the deep South to march with Martin Luther King and partic.i.p.ate in sit-ins and voter registration campaigns. They had provided free legal service to blacks in Georgia, Louisiana, and Mississippi, and had eventually set up a full-scale legal aid office in Biloxi. And eventually from there they had gone to Atlanta. It was only in 1981 that they had finally gone back to California, but David had retired after extensive surgery, and Rebecca had joined an exclusively female practice in San Francisco, to defend women involved in feminist causes. For all their lives, they had been the cla.s.sic liberals.

John's a.s.sistant had explained nothing to them. John had left strict orders that once Megan was located he would make contact. He had his secretary make an appointment with Rebecca Abrams, and he was set to fly out the following afternoon, which was perfect. Sasha was still on tour, and there was something he had wanted to do for days. It was something he hadn't done himself in years, but he knew now that he had to do it. It was part of what he had tried to explain to Eloise at lunch ... part of being haunted.

He left the office just before four o'clock and took a cab to the network. He flashed a security badge and a police pa.s.s downstairs, both of which had been hard-earned and almost impossible to come by, and the network security were satisfied and instantly let him into the inner sanctum.

He took the elevator upstairs, and waited inconspicuously in the reception area. He picked up a phone there and dialed her extension, and her secretary told him she was in a meeting.

"In her office, or upstairs?" He sounded like someone who knew and the secretary was quick to give him the information.

"She's here. She's with Mr. Baker."

"Any idea what time she'll be through?"

"She said she's leaving at five-thirty."

"Thanks." Chapman hung up the house phone and the secretary had no idea who had phoned, but she a.s.sumed that it was someone who knew Hilary, obviously someone higher up at the network.

She came out at exactly five-fifteen, and John recognized her at once, even without the receptionist's good night as she sped past. "Good night, Miss Walker." Hilary turned to glance at her sharply and then nodded, she didn't seem to notice anyone else in the waiting area, or John as he followed her to the bank of elevators and stepped into one beside her. He almost felt weak at the sight of her, he could see every strand of the shining black hair twisted into a knot, the graceful hands, the long neck, he could even smell the crisp scent of her perfume. She walked with a sure step, a long stride, and when he b.u.mped into her once, she looked up at him with green eyes that pierced straight to his soul, eyes that said don't touch me, don't even come near me. She got on a bus on Madison Avenue, instead of fighting for a cab, and she got out at Seventy-ninth Street. She walked two blocks farther north, and then he realized she was going to a doctor's appointment. He waited patiently outside, and then followed her again when she took a cab and went to Elaine's where she met another woman. He sat in a booth close to theirs, and was intrigued by what might be said. The other woman was a well-known anchor from the network, and she looked upset. She started to cry once, and Hilary looked unmoved. She watched her, unhappy, but not sympathetic. And then finally John remembered as the two women shook hands outside the restaurant, that the woman who was the anchor had been fired when he was in Paris. It had created an enormous stir, and she was either pleading with Hilary for her job, or telling her side of the story. Her firing had supposedly come from higher up, but maybe she thought if she could gain Hilary's ear, she might get back in. But it was obvious from the unhappy look on Hilary's face as she walked slowly downtown alone, that she couldn't help her. She stopped to glance in shop windows once or twice, and walked with a purposeful stride, yet a feminine sway to her hips, which kept him riveted as he watched her. She turned on Seventy-second Street finally and walked all the way to the river, to an old brownstone set near a tiny park. It was a pretty place, yet everything he sensed about her told him she was lonely. She had a solitary air, and a kind of hardness and determination about her that suggested walls she had built long before and never taken down since. As he had when he read her file, he felt intensely sorry for her, and he felt sad as he walked the few blocks back to his own apartment. She lived so nearby, yet she seemed to exist in a universe of her own, a universe filled with work and little else, and yet it was not fair for him to make that judgment. Maybe she was happy after all, maybe she had a boyfriend she was deeply in love with, but everything about her present and her past suggested a solitary person with no one to love and no one who loved her. And when he walked into his apartment and turned on the light, he had an overwhelming urge to call her, to hold out a hand, to become her friend, to tell her that Alexandra still cared ... all was not lost ... yet ... or maybe she wouldn't care. As he had explained to Eloise at lunch, he felt as though he were being haunted.

He tried to get some sleep, but he tossed and turned, and finally, for lack of something better to do, he turned on the light and called Sasha in Denver. She was in her room, she had just gotten in from the concert hall and her feet were killing her.

"I'm glad nothing's changed." He laughed as he lay on his back, thinking of her. He wondered if he'd been too hard on her when he talked about her at lunch. She still excited him in some ways, and that night he missed her. "Want to meet me in San Francisco?"

"When?" she sounded noncommittal.

"I'm going tomorrow. I should be through in a couple of days. When do you finish in Denver?"

"Tomorrow. We go to Los Angeles. San Francisco canceled."

"I'll meet you in L.A."

"I don't think you should." There was a long silence, and he frowned.

"What's up?"

"It might upset some of the other dancers," she said vaguely and he sat up slowly in bed. He was no fool, and he had played this game before. But it was not a game he liked playing.

"Would it upset anyone in particular, Sasha?"

"Oh I don't know. It's too late to talk about it tonight." And as she said it, he heard a male voice in the background.

"Is that Dominique, or Pierre, or Petrov?"

"It's Ivan," she said petulantly. "He pulled a hamstring tonight, and he was very upset."

"Tell him I'm sorry. But tell him after you explain to me what the h.e.l.l's going on. Sash, I'm too old for this kind of bulls.h.i.t."

"You don't understand the pressures of being a dancer," she whined into the phone, and he sank back against his pillows.

"Well, I've tried for chrissake. What is it that I don't understand exactly?"

"Dancers need other dancers."

"Ah ... now we get to the root of the problem. You mean like Ivan?"

"No, no ... well ... yes ... but it's not what you think."

"How the h.e.l.l do you know what I think, Sasha? You're so busy worrying about yourself and your feet and your a.s.s and your tendons you wouldn't notice what anyone thought if they wrote it out in neon."

"That's not fair!" She was suddenly crying, and for the first time in months he found he didn't care. Suddenly, in the s.p.a.ce of one phone call, it was over. He had had it.

"It may not be fair, baby," he spoke in his deep, gentle voice, "but it happens to be true. I think maybe you and I had better take our bows, and step back gracefully while the curtain comes down. If I read the program correctly, the fourth act just ended."

"Why don't we talk when I get back?"

"About what? Your feet ... or about how dancers need other dancers? I'm not a dancer, Sash. I'm a man. I have a very demanding job, I have a full life I want to share with a woman I love and who loves me. I even want to have children. Can you see yourself doing that?"

"No." At least she was honest. The thought of it horrified her. She had no intention of giving up dancing for a year at any point in her life, and then fighting to get back all her muscles. "Why is that so important?"

"Because it just is, and I'm forty-two years old. I can't waste my time with games like this anymore. I gave to the artistic community once. I made my contribution. Now I want something different."

"That's what I mean ... you don't understand the pressures of being a dancer. John, babies aren't important."

"They are to me, little one. And so are a lot of other things you don't have room for. You don't need me. You don't need anyone. Be honest with yourself." There was a long empty silence as she listened, and suddenly he wanted to get off the phone. There was nothing left to say. They had said it all, and run out of words a long time since. They just hadn't noticed. "Good-bye, Sash ... take it easy. I'll see you when you get back. Maybe well have lunch or a drink." He knew she'd want the things she'd left in his apartment, but the truth was that he wasn't even anxious to see her.

"Are you really telling me it's over?" She sounded shocked and he could hear the male voice in the background again. He wondered if they were sharing a room, not that it really mattered.

"I guess I am."

"Is that why you called me?"

"No. I guess it just happened. It was time."

"Is there someone else?" He smiled at the question.

"Not really." In a funny way there were three of them, the three women he was searching for day and night who filled his thoughts and his heart now, but not in the way Sasha had meant it.

"No one important ... take it easy, Sash." And with that, he quietly hung up and turned out the light. And he smiled to himself as he went back to sleep. He felt free for the first time in months, and he was glad he had called her. It was finally over.

PART FOUR.

Megan

Chapter 24.

The flight to San Francisco was easy and he arrived at two in the afternoon, local time, which gave him plenty of time to get to Rebecca's office at four o'clock. When he got there, it was an old Victorian in a rundown neighborhood. But he was surprised when he stepped inside, to find the house well maintained, pleasantly decorated, and filled with plants, and Rebecca Abrams herself was an attractive woman. She was in her early sixties and wore her gray hair in a single braid down her back. She wore clean blue jeans and a starched white shirt, red espadrilles and a red flower in her hair, and she looked like a very attractive, very intelligent, well-kept elderly hippie. She smiled warmly at John, and ushered him into her office. She had no idea what he wanted, and didn't look perturbed when he left his suitcase in her outer office.

"You don't look like most of our clients, Mr. Chapman." She smiled warmly at him and pointed to a sunny little kitchen off her office. "Would you like some coffee or tea? We have about a dozen different kinds of herb tea." She smiled at him again and he shook his head. He hated to upset her, but he suspected that he was going to.

"I'm here on a personal matter, Mrs. Abrams. I've been looking for you and your husband for quite some time, and I had a little trouble finding you. My last address for you was in New York, in 1957."

Rebecca Abrams smiled again, and sat back peacefully in her chair. She had been doing yoga for years, and it showed in her tranquil manner. "We've moved around quite a bit over the years. We spent a lot of time in the South, and then we came back here when my husband got ill. He had a quadruple bypa.s.s six and a half years ago, and we both decided that it was time for him to take it easy and enjoy life. So now I'm practicing solo, or rather with a group of women I enjoy very much. But it's a different kind of practice than I had with David, although some of the concepts aren't so different. We deal with a lot of cases that involve discrimination and civil rights. We've been doing this for many years."

"And your husband?"

"He teaches twice a week, at Boalt. He gardens. He's busy doing a thousand things he enjoys."

"And your daughter?" Chapman held his breath.

"She's fine. She's still in Kentucky. How do you know our family, Mr. Chapman?" She frowned slightly but the smile still didn't leave her eyes.

"I don't. I'm afraid I come to you rather indirectly. I'm an attorney too, and I run a firm called Chapman a.s.sociates in New York. Unlike you, I've never been terribly in love with the law, and I got hooked on investigations years ago, so that's what I do. And my client, in this case, is Arthur Patterson. I don't know if the name rings a bell, but he was instrumental in bringing Megan to you in 1958. I'm sure that now you remember."

She nodded, the smile had faded now in earnest. "Is something wrong? Why would Mr. Patterson wish to contact us now?" She looked frightened, as though he could still take her away from them. That was what she had always been afraid of.

"Simply put, Mrs. Abrams, he's dying. And he wants to know that the girls are all right, that they're happy and well, and not in any kind of need. And he hopes to bring them together once before he dies, so that they have the benefit of knowing their sisters."

"Now?" She looked horrified. "After thirty years? Why would they possibly want to meet their sisters?" She looked as though she were about to throw him out of her office.

"He felt it might mean something to them, and I can appreciate your feelings. Thirty years is a long time to wait before having any contact."

She shook her head as though in disbelief. "We told him at the time of the adoption that we wanted no continued contact with him or the other girls. That was the main reason why we left New York and went to L.A. I don't think it would be fair to Megan to drag her past out now."

"Maybe she should make that choice. You mentioned that she is still in Kentucky."

"She's finishing her residency there, in Appalachia. She's a doctor. She's specialized in obstetrics." Rebecca said it with deep pride, but she looked at John with open hostility.

"May I contact her there?" To him it was a formality, but to her it was an offense and she half rose in her seat as she answered.

"No, you may not, Mr. Chapman." She sat back down again and glared at him in outrage. "I can't believe you'd come to us after all these years and expect us to expose Megan to that pain and confusion. Are you aware of the cause of her parents' death?"

"I am. Is Megan?"

"Of course not. In fact, I will tell you very bluntly, Mr. Chapman, this whole thing is totally out of the question. My daughter doesn't know she's adopted." She looked him straight in the eye and he felt his heart stop. How could they not tell her? As liberal as they were, and as freethinking, they had never told her she was adopted. It certainly complicated the matter for them.

"Do you have other children, Mrs. Abrams?"

"No we don't. And my husband and I felt she had no need to know. She is our only child, and she came to us when she was a baby. There was absolutely no reason to tell her as she got older."

"Would you be willing to tell her now?" He looked deep into her eyes and was frightened of what he saw there. Rebecca Abrams was not going to make this any easier for him. But at least he knew where Megan was now. If he had to, he would find her in Kentucky. It seemed a cruel thing to do, but she had a right to know about her sisters.

Rebecca hesitated for a long time. "I don't know, Mr. Chapman. Honestly, I don't think so. I'm going to have to discuss this with my husband, and with his doctor first. He's not well, and I don't want to upset him."

"I understand. Will you get back to me in a day or two? I'm staying at the Mark Hopkins."

"I'll get back to you when I can." She stood up to indicate that the interview was over, and she might as well have been wearing a navy blue pinstripe suit. She looked as formidable as if she'd been wearing one. "Will you be going back to New York in the meantime?"

"I'd rather wait for the answer here, in case your husband would like to see me."

"I'll let you know." She shook his hand, but the look in her eyes was not warm as she led him to the door and closed it behind him. And when she went back to her desk after he was gone, she put her head down on her arms and cried. It was thirty years later, but they were still going to try to take away her baby. They were going to awake a curiosity she had never had, and bonds she never knew, and introduce her to blood relatives she had never longed for. It wasn't fair after all they had done for her, and given how much they loved her.

She went to see David's doctor that afternoon, and he felt that David was strong enough to hear the news. But it took her two days to get up the courage to tell him, and when she did she sobbed in his arms, and poured out all her fears and he stroked the long gray hair and held her close and told her how much he loved her.

"No one's going to take Meg away from us, sweetheart. How could they?" He was touched by her reaction. When Megan had been a little girl, she had worried about the same things. She had wanted Megan to be theirs, and no one else's.

"All of a sudden, she'll want to know everything about her biological parents."

"So we'll tell her."

"But what if she feels different about us after that?"