It was time? She felt it. What did Colette mean? Marie fought down a wave of alarm. She forced a smile, as cheery as she could make it. “You’re being very mysterious.”
With an unsteady hand, Colette picked up an envelope from the bedside stand. “I didn’t know what to believe, what to do, so I did nothing. I just have no idea…”
Colette seemed exhausted. “So I’m passing it on to you. To find out or—I’m so tired,” she said. “I’m sorry. You’ve come all this way, but I think I’m going to fall asleep. It’s all I do lately.”
“Don’t apologize. You need rest. Sweet dreams.” Marie bent and kissed her mother’s cheek again. Already Colette’s eyelids were lowering, but she managed a smile.
Marie studied the envelope, feeling an indefinable uneasiness, and then tucked it into her backpack. She stared at Colette’s face, once smooth and delicate, but now shadowed by illness.
Making her way to the elevators, Marie punched the down button, her stomach queasy with anxiety. She and Colette were not only mother and daughter, but the closest of friends. Colette had to recover. She had to. Life would be empty and loveless without her.
The elevator doors slid open, and Marie blinked in surprise. A cupid, a very tall, chubby cupid, stood inside. At first glance he seemed naked except for a large white diaper and two inadequate wings sprouting from his back. Cupid’s blue eyes widened, and he gave Marie a smile and a leer.
She quickly realized he wasn’t naked, but dressed in flesh tights and a leotard.
A gilded bow hung from one shoulder. Slung over the other was a little gold quiver of darts with pink heart-shaped tips. His mop of curly blond hair was clearly a wig.
“Hello, Dearie,” he said, looking her up and down. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
“It’s a bit early for Valentine’s Day,” Marie returned, hardly in a mood for silliness. She noticed he carried two large pink tote bags, each labeled BNC for Bullock News Corporation and showing a jolly, smiling caricature of its founder, Jackson Bullock.
Cupid jiggled one of the bags, which seemed to be empty. “BNC’s sending me to children’s wards to hand out goodies—candies and crackers and balloons.”
“Very admirable,” Marie said between clamped teeth.
“I got a lovely Scallywag biscuit left. Want it?”
“No, thank you,” she said in the same tone.
“Aww,” he said. “Troubled? You look worried. Shame, a pretty thing like you. You need Dan Cupid in your life. All of him you can get. How about a spot of supper tonight?”
She looked at him as if he were a bug. She rolled her eyes and muttered, “Puh-leese.”
“Please pick you up? With pleasure. What time? Where do you live? Do you like the Pizza Shack?”
She flashed him a disgusted glare. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m not in the mood. Please just leave me alone.”
“Oh, ho!” he said in a hostile tone. “Aren’t you little Miss Snip? What’s the matter? Don’t you like men?”
She was saved by the door opening into the lobby. She was smaller than he was, but trimmer and faster. She sprinted toward the hospital’s main entrance.
“Hey!” he bellowed. “You shouldn’t run off from Dan Cupid. You’ll be sorry.”
She dashed out the door and toward the bike racks. She glanced over her shoulder in case he was following her, but she could see no trace of him. Thank God, she thought. Could life get any more surreal?
She was sick with forebodings about her mother, and now she’d been harassed by an overweight man in a diaper. Things could not get worse.
Seven seconds later, just as she reached her bike, a flash of lightning nearly blinded her, and a thunderclap almost broke her eardrums. The sky was no longer blue but roiling with storm clouds. She felt the first drops of rain.
A strong, wet wind sprang up, almost flattening the hospital’s flower garden, and the rain began to cascade in earnest. She slipped out of her backpack, got out her heavy weather rain cape, shook it out and started to put it on.
Another gale of wind made her stagger, and it ripped the cape from her hands and sent it flying off like a strange yellow bat over the storm-tossed shrubs. It flapped as high as the trees and disappeared. The whipping rain half blinded her.
She’d have to walk the bike home, as fast as she could. She swore softly, then gritted her teeth and told herself to buck up. She needed to be at her job within three hours.
Marie felt like the proverbial drowned rat when she reached the apartment that she and Colette shared. Curious as she was, she knew there wasn’t time to read the mysterious letter. She laid it atop her dresser, showered and got ready for work.
She put on a plain black skirt and another white shirt, this one with frills and clip-on black bowtie. She studied herself in the mirror and thought that her life was a series of changing uniforms. Even when not in a work uniform, she had a sort of uniform. Bush pants and shirt—sturdy and sensible wear.
Now she fluffed her hair to make it look softer and gave thanks that she had a ride to the Scepter Hotel. Her coworker, Izzy, would pick her up and bring her home. Marie chipped in for petrol and Izzy’s trouble.
When Isabella honked, Marie snatched up her raincoat and dashed for the car. She made small talk with Izzy, but didn’t confess her fear that Colette seemed worse. She couldn’t bring herself to put her anxiety into spoken words. She feigned her usual natural cheer.
That night, distracted as she was, she performed her job with utter professionalism, perfect courtesy and genuine charm, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. She spoke Chinese to the Chinese businessmen, Malaysian to the Malay tourists, and Spanish to a traveler from Argentina. She had a gift for languages and had studied them at college. She had a smile for everyone.
Well, almost everyone. Butch Paul, a busboy, had come close to sexually harassing her lately, but if he tried tonight, he’d be extremely sorry.
When other men tried to flirt with her, she acted as if they were only teasing and smiled at them, refusing to get involved. Nobody came to the Scepter to be greeted by a mope. Her business was not hanging her heart on her sleeve, it was hospitality.
Redheaded Mick Makem was a regular customer, and tonight when he joked with her, she made herself banter back as if she were in the best of spirits.
She vaguely noticed that he sat with a dark, lean man who was strikingly handsome, then rebuked herself for paying attention to a good-looking man at a time like this. She’d vowed to keep herself under strict control tonight.
But then it happened. Butch the busboy gave the side of her breast a hard squeeze as she was leaving the kitchen, and she snapped. She spun about and stamped his foot so hard that tears sprang into his eyes. “That’s not fair,” Butch accused. “You know kung fu or something.”
“Yes, I do,” Marie returned coolly. “So don’t ever touch me again. Ever.” She turned and left him glaring after her. She hadn’t spilled so much as a drop from the drinks on her tray.
“Somebody ought to take you down a notch,” Butch sneered.
Marie saw that Mick and his dark-haired friend had seen it all. Mick made an okay sign and grinned at her as she came to their table. “Way to go, slugger,” he said.
The dark man simply stared at her with a strange intensity. He said, “We both saw what he did. Do you want us to report it? He was completely out of line.”
He looked genuinely concerned, but she said, “No thanks. I’ll be fine.”
“You’re sure?” he asked, looking into her eyes.
“Positive,” she said. And she was positive. She had a green belt in karate, and someday she intended to work her way up to black. Colette had insisted she take classes. Darwin had its rough elements, and Marie was so small that Colette wanted her to know how to protect herself.
But physical toughness wasn’t going to get her through this latest crisis. Colette’s illness demanded a different kind of strength, and she wasn’t sure how much she had left.
&nb
sp; And as the work night wore on, she wondered more and more about the contents of Colette’s mysterious envelope. Why’d she give it to me now? What did she mean, it’s time?
Her uneasiness grew.
Andrew and Mick lingered, nursing their drinks until closing time. They had much to talk about, and in the back of Andrew’s mind, he worried about that small blond woman who might be too spunky for her own good.
Sure enough, just as he and Mick were back in Mick’s Jeep, about to pull away, he saw two women dash through the mist toward an older model car. One of them was the little blonde, her head down. The rangy busboy stepped from the shadows and blocked their way. He looked as if he might have helped himself to a drink or two at the bar. He grabbed the blonde’s arm, scowling, hectoring her.
The dark-haired woman looked frightened, the little blonde seemed incensed. Mick started to say something, but Andrew didn’t hear it. He was out of the Jeep, and in six strides he was between the busboy and the blonde. “Look,” Andrew said from between his teeth, “leave the lady alone. You want to pick on somebody, try somebody your own size. Will I do? Huh? Will I?”
The rangy kid swore, but after casting Andrew a filthy look, he turned and quickly sloshed off into the shadows, kicking angrily at puddles. The dark-haired woman was already in the car.
“Get in, Marie,” she called. “Before he comes back.”
“I’ll stay until you’re out of the lot—and watch that nobody follows you,” Andrew said, looking down at Marie. “You have a cell phone in case you need one?”
She stared up at him, her face pale in the parking lot lights. Her pale skin gleamed with moisture from the night’s haze. My God, he thought, she’s lovely.
“A mobile?” she asked. “Yes. Yes, I do. I’ll be fine. Really, I—I can take care of myself. I—I—”
She amazed him by beginning to shake. Not just a slight tremor, but a real shaking, like someone shivering from intolerable cold.
He seized her upper arms in concern. He could feel her muscles jerking beneath her raincoat’s thin fabric. Her lower lip worked helplessly, her chin trembled, and he couldn’t tell if her eyes were moist from tears or from the fine rain.
“Are you okay?” he demanded, leaning nearer.
“Y-y-you’ve been very kind, b-b-but—” She couldn’t seem to get any more words out. He slipped one arm around her, afraid her knees were about to buckle.
“Miss, I’m going to tell your manager about this incident. And if that fool harasses you again, call the police. I mean it.”
She tried to disengage herself, but when she took a step backward, she swayed, as if she couldn’t quite support herself. Instead, she sagged forward, clutching the lapels of his rain jacket. She buried her face against his chest. Her back heaved as if she were sobbing silently.
But only for the briefest of moments. Then, as if by sheer willpower, she righted herself again, drew back and looked him in the eye. “I’m terribly sorry. It’s not him.” She nodded in the direction the busboy had fled. “I’m absolutely okay. Just some—an illness in the family. I’m terribly embarrassed. I apologize. And thank you again. But I’m fine.”
Before he knew it, she’d slipped from his grasp, opened the passenger door, and was sliding into the car beside her friend. She smiled at him, and there was something in that smile that nearly broke his heart.
The car drove off, and he stood in the mist, looking after the disappearing taillights.
Chapter Two
The rain started to drizzle harder as Marie and Izzy left the parking lot. It was just after midnight. Izzy stopped at a light and said, “What was that all about?”
“Butch groped me again,” Marie said in a flat, no-nonsense voice. “I stomped on his foot. That’s why he came after me in the parking lot. Mick and that other man saw it happen. They must have realized Butch wanted to get even.”
“So that handsome guy comes to your rescue?” Izzy asked. “God, I wish Butch’d pinch me so I could stomp on him.”
Marie said nothing, just sat lower in the seat.
Izzy cast her a sideways glance. “That handsome guy? He was watching you tonight.”
“I didn’t notice,” Marie said. And she hadn’t.
“Not notice? How could you not notice? He’s been in the papers, on the telly.”
“I don’t have time for the papers or telly,” Marie murmured, gazing out at the darkness.
“He’s a high muckety-muck in horse racing. American. He’s going to run for some horse-thingy president. Against Jacko Bullock.”
“Uck.” Marie shuddered. Bullock turned up several times a year at the Scepter during the racing season. She thought he looked like and acted like a pig. “Bullock’s nasty. He’s worse than Butch any day. He propositioned me right at the table one night, in front of three other men. I almost poured his drink on his head. I’d have loved to.”
“Well, he’s powerful,” Izzy said. “He’ll gobble that poor Yank up and spit out his bones.”
“Sad but true. The Yank seemed like a nice fellow.” He had, she thought vaguely. An extremely nice fellow.
“I guess,” Izzy rejoined with heavy irony. “And that’s why you ended up in his arms? I thought he was going to plant a big smoochie on you.”
Marie shrugged irritably. “Look, I went wobbly. I had a bad day.”
“Oh, chook,” Izzy said. “I’m sorry. Is it your mom?”
“Yes,” Marie said, her throat tight. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”
And Izzy, who had a kind and sensitive heart, asked no more.
But at home, Marie had to think about her mother. She could think of nothing else. She took Colette’s envelope, sat on the edge of the bed and forced her hands to stay steady as she opened the flap.
She unfolded a sheet of paper, a letter. It was dated just over two years ago and signed “Willadene Gates.” It began:
My Dear Miss Colette Lafayette,
Thank you for writing me, for I think I can answer your questions, as years ago when I was not yet 17 yrs. of age I become an attendant at a home for unwed mothers.
A high-priced place, it promised total discretion, if you get my meaning. I do remember your birth, for your birthday is the very same day as my own, March 9!
“Your mother’s name was Louisa Fairchild. She was 16 yrs. old, unwed & pregnant, & come from quite the posh family.
And I remember you, even after all these years. I said to myself, how could anyone give up such a darling infant? But that girl refused to even speak of you. Cold as ice, she was.
In a few days, her parents come and took her home. Louisa F. walked out of the ward with never a backward look. She never even spoke to her own parents!
Now she’s grown up and grown old. I see her name in the news. She’s rich as Midas and lives on a horse station near Hunter Valley—very hoity-toity! She never married and don’t get along with any relatives, I hear tell.
Should you find her, and she recognizes you as her own, I hope you will not forget your friend, Willadene, what give you this info, as I am now elderly and living in reduced circumstances (although as you see the memory is still sharp!)
Your friend, the first to ever hold & kiss you,
Willadene Gates
At the bottom, Colette had weakly scribbled a note.
I wrote Willadene Gates two months later. The letter came back marked “deceased.” I didn’t know what to do next. My feelings are still mixed about whether I should try to find out more or let the matter go.
Marie, I put some of my nail clippings in a little plastic bag. I pricked my finger and let some blood fall on a piece of cloth. I put them in an envelope in my jewelry box. If we’re related to Louisa Fairchild, your DNA and mine should match hers, if I understand what they say on the telly.
It would be good to know the truth, at long last, but I was never brave enough to search further. I should have done it for your sake and apologize that I did not. I leave it in your capable hands.
>
Your proud and loving mother.
Marie read the letter again, disbelief mingling with suspicion.
How had Colette found this Gates person? Could the woman be trusted? Her words had a slippery coyness that oozed with hunger for reward.
Marie rose and went to her mother’s bedroom and opened the shabby velvet jewelry box on the dresser. An envelope lay in the box’s bottom drawer.
Almost fearfully, she opened it. Inside was exactly what Colette had said, a little bag of nail parings and a square of white cotton with three drops of blood.
She also found a second, smaller paper envelope. Opening it, she saw a newspaper photograph with a short article. The article, eight months old, reported that charges had been dropped against Louisa Fairchild, 80. She’d been accused of shooting and wounding her neighbor Sam Whittleson, 61.
The short piece left Marie even more stunned. As a very young woman, Louisa Fairchild had apparently abandoned her daughter. As a very old woman, she’d shot her elderly neighbor. Such a relative didn’t seem promising.
But the picture of Louisa Fairchild shocked her more. She saw a lean, imperious woman staring straight and almost arrogantly at the camera. Her mouth was a rigid, unsmiling line. Yet her resemblance to Colette made Marie’s nerve ends prickle and chilled her stomach.
Louisa Fairchild still had wide eyes, shaped like Colette’s. She had Colette’s high cheekbones, slender nose and cleft chin. And Marie herself shared these features, too, except for the cleft chin.
She was suddenly overcome with an almost irrational curiosity. The Fairchild woman lived in Hunter Valley. Not long ago, Marie’s uncle had gone to work in that very region. Could he know anything about this woman?
She went back to her room, snatched up her phone and dialed her uncle’s latest number. It was after midnight, but Reynard was a night owl. He answered after only a few rings. “Marie!” he exclaimed. “How are you, love? And how’s my dear Colie?”
Marie heard background noise and supposed he was in a pub. “Rennie, Mama’s not well. She’s very weak—and she doesn’t look good—I’m afraid for her.”
The Secret Heiress Page 2