Chapter 39
Sydney paused at the entrance to her mother's study. The air was fragrant with beeswax; she could see that the desk at which her mother sat had been polished until it glowed. Her eyes flicked around the room casually and she noted that it was much as it had been when she had been there as Julia.
"Was I expecting your visit?" queried her mother, turning in pleasure to see her daughter.
"I happened to be in the neighborhood," replied Sydney, giving her mother a careful hug to avoid the sling.
Irina looked at her quizzically.
"I was meeting with Sloane's lawyer in Zurich."
Irina's expression remained one of polite interest, concealing an inward surge of antipathy. She still couldn't believe Jack had put Sloane out of his misery. If it had been up to her. . . she allowed herself to fantasize for a moment.
"He. . . I'm. . . his primary beneficiary," said Sydney in a rush, interrupting Irina's thoughts and looking distinctly ill at ease. "Of course, he's still officially listed as missing. It will be years before. . . "
". . . before you become a very rich young woman?" finished her mother. She looked at her daughter shrewdly. "Which part of that makes you uncomfortable?"
"All of it," confessed Sydney miserably, looking down. "I know he meant it as a gift of love, but I can't help thinking about where that money came from."
Gazing at the floor, Sydney missed the brief tightening of her mother's face. What would Sydney's reaction be in the future to her own bequest? She pushed the thought out of her mind. "Perhaps," her mother said easily, "you could consider supporting some of the charities Arvin obviously thought important in later life? Children's health programs, medical research? That way you could be true to his memory as well as your own conscience." She gritted her teeth. The things she did for her daughter. . . go into hiding for months. . . risk death. . . mention Sloane and charity in the same sentence. . .
Sydney smiled gratefully. "I'll think about it, Mom. Thanks." She stepped towards the window and admired the garden. "It's always so peaceful here. Serene."
Since Sydney and Jack had left, thought Irina to herself. "How's your father?" she asked off-handedly, her tone deliberately light.
Sydney's shoulders tightened as she studied the garden a moment more. "You know, every time you see me you ask about Dad." She turned around and gave her mother a piercing glance. "Perhaps you should ask him yourself?" she said, a slight edge to her voice. "Or doesn't your phone work?"
"Sydney - ,"
"Oh, please," said Sydney, exasperated. "What, exactly, is preventing you from talking to him? This time?"
Irina's expression closed. "I don't think my relationship with your father is an appropriate topic -,"
Sydney snarled in frustration. "Fine. You want to know how he is? He's been to hell and back over the past 16 months. He's been betrayed, imprisoned, humiliated, lied to, and shot by his daughter while having not a single clue about what was really happening. He's lonely and he's heartsick. And he blames himself for everything that happened to me, even though it was one mistake 25 years ago. There," she said, eyes flashing. "Have I answered your question?"
"Yes. Thank you." Irina's face had whitened, but her voice was even. Only her eyes betrayed her, a brief stricken glance quickly concealed.
"Mom," said Sydney repentantly, taking a step forward and placing her mother's hand between hers, "why is it so difficult?" She rubbed her mother's cold hand soothingly.
Irina shook her head wearily. "I don't know, Sydney. It just is. I was hoping that once your father learned the truth about what had happened – from you, from Lazarey, from Sloane – that he might begin to understand. But I think he's been burned too many times to trust again. Nothing I can say or do will make one bit of difference."
"But -,"
"Just leave it, Sydney."
**
Irina sat immobile at her desk after Sydney left, staring blindly at the papers in front of her. Nothing I can say or do will make one bit of difference. Damn Sydney for forcing her to say that aloud. To acknowledge that if Jack had not yet come, he was not coming at all.
She ran her hand over the smooth, polished surface of the aged desk. Time, her ally. Her vision blurred; it was time. . . to move on.
**
Jack picked dispiritedly at his dinner, finally pushing the plate away. "How was your trip to Zurich?" he asked his daughter, who sat across from him at his dining room table.
"Fine," she responded testily. In fact, she had spent the entire trip back on the plane fuming about the intransigence of her parents. And plotting elaborate strategies that would result in the two of them being trapped on a desert island. For a month.
"I don't suppose," Jack began diffidently, "you had a chance to -,"
"I'll clear," said Sydney, jumping to her feet in irritation. If he asked her about her mother, she would scream. Perhaps it wouldn't need to be a desert island, she thought; a small prison cell or a locked broom closet would work just as well. Scooping up the plates and utensils, she made her way into the kitchen. Jack heard the kitchen faucet, then, "Dad, what're these?"
Jack looked up and, to his consternation, saw Sydney flipping through one of the files on his kitchen table. "Nothing," he said, jumping to his feet and coming along side of her. Firmly he removed the file from her hand. "Leave the plates. I'll clean up later."
"Nice try," replied Sydney dryly, picking up another and flipping through it. Her eyes widened. Jack ran his hand through his hair and waited as Sydney scanned through several more. "Planning a reunion?" she asked quizzically.
"Funny." Jack paused, a hint of red creeping up his neck. "I'm trying to find one person in particular."
Sydney's hand froze in mid-air as she took in Jack's words and heightened color. "Um, Dad? Is this something that could be categorized as too much information? Because if it is," she said, dropping the file in her hand as if she'd been scalded, "you don't need to tell me." She took a deep breath. "I'll always love you, of course. . . ," her voice trailed off as she bit her lip uncertainly.
Jack stared at his daughter for a moment, puzzled, then barked a laugh. "Sydney, solitary confinement is *solitary*. I'm not looking for my boyfriend."
"Of course not," Sydney stammered, relief evident on her face. "But then what *are* you doing?"
"Remember I told you that there was one particular prisoner with whom I played chess?"
Sydney nodded.
"I thought I'd.. . . uh. . . look him up."
"Oh," said Sydney in understanding. She shot a glance at her father. Yes, he could certainly use a friend. "And which one of these fine, upstanding citizens will you be introducing yourself to?"
"Still to be determined. I don't think I've seen all the files."
She scanned the table. "So you must really like chess, if you're going to all this trouble. Can't you find someone else to play with?"
Jack shrugged. "Prison does funny things to you. The smallest kindness becomes incredibly important in your life. He was there when I needed it most. . . someone I could count on. I'd like to repay the favor."
Sydney's brow furrowed. "I don't think I remember seeing you play chess when I was growing up."
"No," replied her father. "Your mother didn't play, and I was waiting until you were six or seven to teach you. . . ," He paused, his eyes turning bleak. "I guess. . . I guess I never got around to it."
Sydney gave him a quick hug. "You could teach me now," she offered. "It will give you someone to play until this guy turns up."
Jack stared down at his daughter, momentarily overcome. "You. . . you are. . . ," he swallowed. "Come with me," he said abruptly. He took her by the hand and led her into his library. "Pull up a chair." He waved at the chess set in the corner, an antique with beautifully carved ivory and ebony pieces.
They spent an enjoyable hour together. Sydney was pleased at the end to have checkmated her father; Jack was pleased that he'd avoided beating her in five moves.
Sydney leaned back in her chair, examining her queen in the light. "Mom's got a set like this," she observed. "Why didn't the two of you ever play together?"
Jack snorted. "Your mother? She hated chess. Called it a boring game for old men. I'm surprised she even has a chess set."
"She has two, actually. She keeps them in her study."
"Did you say. . . two?" Jack's attention, which had been wandering, was now riveted on Sydney. "They weren't there when you and I were there last."
"I think she usually travels with them. She must have unpacked them after we left. They were there when I visited her yesterday," said Sydney unconcernedly. She shifted in her chair and began to set up the pieces again. "Want to play another game?"
Hearing no response, Sydney looked up at her father, who was looking thunderstruck. "Sydney," Jack asked as he refocused on his daughter, voice studiously casual, "Those chess sets. Were the pieces all lined up like you're doing now? As if she were about to start a game?"
"No, actually." Sydney smiled ruefully. "I remember one time, while waiting for her to get off a phone call, I started straightening up one of the boards. She was not. . . happy."
"I see," said Jack, standing up purposefully.
"Where are you going? What about our game?"
"I just realized," he said, looking happier than Sydney could remember, "I have another game to finish."