Echoes in the Dark. Gayle Wilson

INTERVIEW HAD GONE more easily than she had anticipated. The elegant and expensive office had intimidated her at the beginning, but the lawyer had been very kind. He had gone over her résumé with polite interest, not even glancing at the letters of reference she’d handed him. She had been sure that she wouldn’t be called in when she had seen the mob in the outer room. The women waiting there had looked as formidable as the suite of offices they all had been asked to come to for the interviews.

      She had dressed carefully, but her suit was not of the same quality that several of the applicants who had entered his inner sanctum before her had worn. However, he had never even glanced at her suit or the carefully polished shoes, her only pair of real leather ones. He had been far more interested in her background, in whom she had worked for and her education. Her limited schooling was another weak point she had attempted to present in as strong a light as was possible. Then he had asked the question she had dreaded from the beginning.

      “There’s a time period here that is unaccounted for professionally, Ms. Evans. If there’s a problem, then it is far better to let us know now than to have it turn up in our later investigations. The truth is always better coming from your own lips,” he said gently, like her grandfather.

      She smiled at the sudden mental comparison to the old man who had instilled in her his values. He had tried so hard to make her whole, to repair the ravages of her parents’ failures. He had given her the only home she had ever known, a sanctuary from that pain in the small, peaceful village he had taken her to. Simply thinking about him gave her courage, so she was able to answer calmly, “A problem? As if I were dismissed for failing in some way to satisfy my employer? That sort of problem? Then, no, I assure you that’s not the explanation.”

      “And?” he said, waiting.

      She should have known she wouldn’t be able to fob him off. The gray eyes were also, like her grandfather’s, far too shrewd. She had never been able to hide from the old man’s keen insight. He had seen into the depths of her soul. If only he had been there when she finally came out of the long darkness, she thought again with regret.

      “I was ill. For a long time. An illness caused by depression.”

      The lawyer spoke only when it was evident she had nothing else to add. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to bring back unpleasant memories. I apologize for forcing you to talk about that time.”

      “It’s all right. There are no unpleasant memories of ‘that time.’ No memories at all—” She stopped, and then tried to explain the unexplainable. “Whatever caused the depression, whatever trauma, I’ve forgotten. Blocked or repressed it, the doctors said.”

      “You’ve never remembered?” he asked softly, wondering if this was the key to what he had been ordered to do.

      “My childhood. Growing up.” She paused, the bleakness of the memories that had returned affirming that the ones her mind still denied must be much worse. She continued finally, telling him a truth she never talked about. “Then...” she whispered, “there’s just a void. Whatever happened to cause that blackness, I’ve never remembered, and now they believe I won’t. My mind doesn’t want me to.” She didn’t tell him about the punishing headaches that were the price she paid for trying to delve into that emptiness, to find those lost memories.

      Instead, she forced herself to speak more strongly, with a confidence she was far from feeling. “As you can see, that was a long time ago. All my references are since that period. My amnesia doesn’t affect my work. It’s better, perhaps, that I can’t remember whatever happened.”

      “I’m sorry,” he said again, and she thought that he did regret forcing the painful admission.

      “I’ve learned to expect the question. Some interviewers assume...all sorts of things. Being fired and wishing to hide it is only one of the scenarios they imagine.”

      “Have you had so many interviews? Your skills seem more than adequate.”

      “No one seems to need a permanent bilingual secretary whose skills are, by today’s standards, as we both know, merely adequate. The larger corporations are looking for someone whose training covers a broader range of computer knowledge. My training was of a different sort.”

      “Yet it seems very suited to the position we have in mind. Not one of the other applicants I’ve seen today has a Swiss finishing school in her background.”

      “I spent five years there. Not that it’s done me much good,” she admitted, smiling. “Most people think that only means I’m qualified to be some minor diplomat’s wife and not much else.”

      “Or someone’s social secretary,” he suggested, and she knew then he was seriously considering her for the position. She dared, for the first time, to hope.

      “I haven’t done that before, but I’m sure I can.” She was pleased that she could hear the conviction in her own voice.

      “There are, however, several conditions that you’d have to consider if we decide to offer you the position.”

      “What kind of conditions?” she asked carefully. She had known there was a catch to this. It had smelled too good to be true, had smelled from the beginning of fine leather and old money.

      “For one thing, it would mean a relocation. My client lives on an island in the Îles des Saintes. It’s a rather isolated situation for someone as young and attractive as you.”

      “Excuse me,” she said, smiling at him again. “I told you my education had been lacking in all but the social skills. The Îles des Saintes?”

      “They are part of the Lesser Antilles. You would be working on one of the smaller islands, privately owned by Madame Rochette’s family. She’s living there to recover from the recent death of her husband, after a prolonged illness. You would be not only her secretary but, I suppose, a companion. She’s not so many years older than you, I should imagine.” He glanced at her résumé and then at her face, and she saw the swiftly hidden surprise.

      “I’m twenty-five,” she said quietly, knowing that she looked older. Something in her eyes, people often told her, not intending to be unkind.

      “Then more than I believed, but still the difference between thirtysomething and twentysomething isn’t so great,” he said. “Would you be willing to relocate for an unspecified time? Or do you have commitments here in Paris that would make that impossible?”

      “I have no commitments, no ties of any kind. I am literally the most uncommitted person you are ever likely to meet.”

      She laughed softly at the reality of that, and when she saw he didn’t understand, she shook her head to reassure him.

      “I’m sorry. That’s not really funny.” She realized she was about to blow it, to miss this opportunity, so she tried again. “I’m very interested in the position. I would have no problem in relocating, and I think your client will find I have the skills to handle her social correspondence and her companionship. I hope I’ll have the opportunity to meet her and convince her of my qualifications.”

      “I’m sorry. I thought you understood that I’m to make the decision. Madame Rochette prefers not to return from the Caribbean. I’ll be in touch, whatever the outcome of the other interviews. Thank you for your time.”

      “Thank you. I hope...” She paused, trying to keep the desperation hidden. “How long before you’ll have reached your decision?”

      “We’ll decide within the next few days. I have your number.”

      She could think of nothing else that she might tell him to convince him of her qualifications, so she rose, walking from his office with the grace taught at that expensive finishing school her grandfather had finally rescued her from.

      The solicitor tented his fingers, appearing to study the file before him, but his mind was on what the woman had told him. He knew she was perfect. It all fit. However, the one who would have the final say on that had not