Mark decided. Her one stubborn bid for freedom, that of having her baby born in the States, seemed to have caused their deaths.
Morgan pulled herself together with effort; she was not one to allow emotional trauma to take her to the hysterical stage. ‘You should be getting back, Sam,’ she told him in a firm voice. ‘I shall be all right now, and you do have that scene to finish.’
‘Jerry told me to stay with you.’
‘But I don’t need “being with"!’ She sounded brittle, highly strung, knowing she needed to be alone for a while to come to terms with her loss. She deeply appreciated Sam’s gentle care, but no amount of talking was going to help her through the next few hours as she waited for Alex Hammond’s call. ‘Really, Sam,’ she insisted as he made to protest. ‘I need time to—accept.’
‘Time alone,’ he nodded understandingly, having lost his young wife in an automobile accident four years ago when they had only been married a year. He stood up, tall and assuring. ‘If you need me, any time day or night, just call, hmm?’ He framed her face tenderly with his large capable hands.
She appreciated his lack of argument, knowing she didn’t have the strength to fight him if he insisted on staying. ‘Thank you,’ she blinked back the tears. ‘Until I get this call from Alex Hammond my hands are tied. I can’t go to England where the crash happened, and I can’t go to Dad either.’
Sam bent and kissed her lightly on the lips. ‘I’m sure he won’t be long.’
But the evening passed, and then the night-time hours, and still Alex Hammond hadn’t called her. Morgan paced the room most of the night, the time dragging slowly, until finally in desperation she telephoned the Hammonds’ house herself. She wasn’t proud, and if they wouldn’t come to her then she would go to them.
It took some time to convince Symonds, the Hammond butler, that she really was Glenna’s sister and not a reporter trying to get a story. It seemed the Hammond telephone hadn’t stopped ringing since the news broke.
‘Mrs Hammond has been sedated and is in her bedroom,’ she was informed in a haughty voice, and for a moment it took her back that the Mrs Hammond he was talking about was Rita and not Glenna. ‘Mrs Fairchild,’ he spoke of Mark’s married sister, ‘is at home with her own family.’
‘And Mr Hammond?’ she asked breathlessly, not giving a damn where Rita and Janet were, not having taken to either of them at the wedding. Mother and daughter were too much alike, both narrow-minded and condescending, believing all actresses to be promiscuous sirens.
‘Mr Hammond isn’t at home,’ she was told.
‘Not there?’ she frowned.
‘No, miss,’ the man sounded affronted that she should dare to question his statement, ‘he left the house several hours ago.’
‘To go where?’ she demanded impatiently.
‘I wouldn’t know, Miss McKay.’ Symonds sounded surprised by such a question. ‘Mr Hammond doesn’t inform me of his movements.’
‘Then in the circumstances he damn well should!’ Morgan slammed the receiver down, too angry to question more.
Damn the man! Where could Alex Hammond have disappeared to, and apparently without telling anyone where he was going? No doubt Rita Hammond knew of her son’s whereabouts, but it seemed she was taking the joint deaths as badly as Morgan’s father had. From what she had been able to tell, Mark was the favourite son, a late edition to the family who had been cossetted by all around him. Rita Hammond would have felt his death severely.
But all this didn’t change the fact that Alex Hammond had promised to call, that she had held off calling the hospital about her father in case she missed that call, and now he had disappeared. She had been relying on his authority to find out what was happening, having called the airline herself only to be told things were too confused and panicked at the moment for any information to be given out by them. It was their way of saying they didn’t know what was happening either!
But that didn’t help her now, and after calling the hospital to check that both her mother and father were sleeping comfortably she rang the airport to book a flight out to England, only to be told the first available seat was late morning. She took it, knowing she was doing no good sitting here.
Dawn saw her seated at the breakfast bar in her galley-kitchen, drinking the remains of her third pot of coffee, the heavy look in her eyes evidence that she hadn’t slept at all, her almost fixed gaze on the wall telephone telling its own story. Alex Hammond still hadn’t called.
Her mother telephoned a short time later to assure her that her father was doing well, that he seemed a lot better. She seemed as perplexed as Morgan over Alex Hammond’s silence.
Her suitcase was packed, her creased denims changed in favour of a tailored dress, her hair flowing freely about her shoulders, and she couldn’t stand to sit here in her apartment another minute longer waiting for a call that obviously wasn’t going to come, so she telephoned for a cab to take her to the airport.
When the doorbell rang a few minutes later she expected it to be the driver, but she opened the door to a barrage of questions and flashing intrusive lights.
‘How do you feel about your sister’s death, Morgan?’
‘Will the funeral be here or in England?’ asked another reporter.
‘Will Glenna and her husband be buried together, Morgan?’ persisted another.
Morgan had blanched at the sea of faces outside her apartment door; microphones and cameras were pushed into her face, a couple of them for television.
She had remained undisturbed by reporters all night, as her address was known to few but her closest friends, although it now seemed someone had released the wolves at her heels.
‘Were you close to your sister, Morgan?’ a beautiful, chic female asked at her continued numbed silence, and this avid curiosity about her grief sickened her.
‘We hear your father collapsed when told of the crash—can you confirm this, Miss McKay?’ one determined reporter pounced.
Morgan swallowed hard, unable to comprehend this hounding over such a private grief. What sort of people were they, to ask her such questions!
‘Did you—–’
‘That will be enough!’ rasped an authoritative voice, startling the members of the media into stunned silence.
A man was pushing his way through the crowd to Morgan’s side, although he didn’t need to push for long, for people stepped aside as they recognised a force stronger than themselves.
Alex Hammond. It could be no other man. She might only have met him once, but the memory of him had stayed indelibly printed on her brain for some unknown reason. Possibly because she had never met anyone quite like him before.
Tall, taller even than Sam, he had a force of energy and determination that would make him stand out in any crowd; the dark hair was showing signs of greying at the temples now, the eyes were still the same icy grey she remembered, his nostrils flaring angrily now in his displeasure, his mouth thinned for the same reason. He wore a dark three-piece suit and snowy white shirt, and looked for all the world as if he
