by Laura Moore
“And the banks are relentless these days. I bet they’ll foreclose by the end of the month.”
“Well, that farm will be snatched up in a nanosecond. Prime Hamptons property. There aren’t many parcels like that left out there, snuggled nice and cozy between ocean and pond.”
“It’s terrible, terrible, the whole story. To think that someone like that, as talented as Steve Sheppard, would just blow it away.”
“Snort it away, you mean.”
“You’ve said barely three words since we sat down, Ty, and you haven’t even touched your risotto. Watching Emma eat isn’t making you lose your appetite, is it?” There was a smile on Lizzie’s lips, but her voice held a note of concern. The evening had been a rousing success, both for the charity and for her riding program at Cobble Creek. It surprised her that Ty was so unnaturally silent and preoccupied. Ty roused herself from her bleak thoughts. She shrugged her shoulders, making her gown shimmer in the soft candlelight of the restaurant’s dining room. “I’m sorry. I’m truly lousy company tonight. It’s just that I overheard a conversation at the gala that really threw me. Did you know there were stories circulating about Steve Sheppard?”
“Yes, something about one of his horses dying. It sounded awful. But I didn’t really pay attention to it. Since Michael, since our divorce, I’ve learned that the stories you hear tossed about as gospel truth are usually ninety-nine-percent fiction. Things get mangled and changed, edited and elaborated, until it’s like that game of telephone kids play. You know, the original message is ‘I think Jimmy’s cute,’ and it ends up as ‘Dolores stole her mother’s pantsuit.’ ”
“Is there any way we can find out for sure?”
Lizzie thought for a minute and then glanced at her watch. “Well, if we leave now, we can reach Vicky before the Times goes to bed for the night.”
“Vicky?”
“Vicky Grodecki. One of the best female sports writersin the business. She covers figure skating, equestrian events, gymnastics . . . you know, stuff the guys don’t want to touch with a ten-foot pole. She’ll definitely know anything about Sheppard that’s worth knowing— he and Fancy Free were Olympics material. I’d use my cell phone and call from here, but Giorgio would never forgive me,” she said, referring to the restaurant’s owner. She looked pointedly at Ty’s plate. “And you’d better eat some of that risotto. He’ll be mortally wounded otherwise, and there’ll go our chance at getting our favorite table next time we come.”
Ty looked down at her plate of risotto with porcini mushrooms. Her stomach clenched. Then she looked at her goddaughter, who was singing a song about “ washing the spider out” as she waved a spoon coated with acorn squash puree. “Emma, sweetie, have you ever tried risotto?” With a bright smile, she scooped up a small amount on the edge of her fork. “Mmm, doesn’t this look good!” she exclaimed enthusiastically.
Lizzie laughed. “Go for it, Ty. I’m more than ready for a change of color in Emma’s diet.”
They were back at Ty’s apartment, Emma having fallen asleep on the ride back uptown, her tummy full of squash and risotto. Ty had volunteered to tuck her into the guest-room bed where she and Lizzie would be spending the night, while Lizzie called Vicky Grodecki.
She could still hear Lizzie’s voice in the quiet of the apartment as she shut the bedroom door carefully behind her. Not wishing to interrupt, she wandered into the kitchen and flicked on the lights. From the glasspaneled wooden cabinets overhead, Ty took out two cups and saucers and a pair of dessert plates. She filled the copper kettle and turned the gas range on high. The box of loose-leaf chamomile tea and a tin of Florentine cookies were tucked away in the cupboard to the right. Waiting for the kettle to boil, she rinsed a box of fresh strawberries and set them out on a white china plate. In the time it took to arrange everything on a large bamboo tray, a thin cloud of steam rose from the kettle’s spout. Ty carried the laden tray into the living room and set it down upon the kaleidoscope-like mosaic surface of the coffee table.
Lizzie was just hanging up.
Silence settled over the room as Ty lifted the teapot’s lid. Chamomile blossoms were floating on the surface, their gentle aroma wafting upward. Replacing the china lid, Ty poured the steaming golden liquid into the two china cups. With an expectant glance, she leaned back against the sofa. “Well?”
A sigh escaped Lizzie’s lips. For a moment she appeared absorbed in the random patterns her fingers traced against the silk of her pale sea-green evening dress. At last she turned toward Ty, her face uncommonly grim. “It sounds really bad, Ty. Vicky confirmed that Fancy Free’s dead, that Steve Sheppard killed him. It’s also true that the police were called in and must have found something, because Steve was taken down to the police station—although he was released first thing the next morning.”
Ty drew a shaky breath. Somehow she’d refused to consider that the gossip she’d heard earlier at the gala might contain even an ounce of truth. But there it was; Fancy Free was dead. With a concentrated effort, she blocked out the image of that wonderful horse, lying in its stall, shot by its owner. Hands suddenly unsteady, she reached for the cup and saucer, hoping the herbal infusion would settle her nerves. Lifting the delicate china cup to her lips, she took a slow sip.
“And those other rumors, are they true as well?”
“Hard to say. Vicky tried to interview Steve, but he’s not talking. Refuses to speak to anyone. His partner, Jason Belmar, was taken to the emergency room but later released. The police hauled him over to the police station, too. Booked him on drug charges. Vicky found out that the only call Jason Belmar made was to his lawyer. The lawyer came and posted bail for him and must have told Belmar to keep his lips buttoned, because he’s not talking, either.”
“Well, that’s probably the smartest thing they can do, given the stories flying around already.”
Lizzie nodded, reaching for her cup of tea. “That’s what Vicky said. What surprised her is that even the police are playing this close to the chest, which is pretty unusual. She can generally count on someone to toss a juicy morsel of information her way. Her take on it is that the cops want to avoid a drug-related scandal hitting the headlines that might involve very important rich people . . . the owners. Not only would the media and the police risk being nailed with a libel suit, but the golden image of the Hamptons as the carefree playground for big money might get tarnished.”
Ty rolled her eyes in disgust. “Right, whatever.” She’d seen the rich and famous all over the world at their various “playgrounds.” More often than not, it was a pretty sordid sight. “And did she say anything about the financial situation?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Lizzie replied with a glum nod. “It’s a mess, and the bankers, unlike everybody else involved, are more than willing to talk about that, as you can well imagine. Except for three horses that he owns free and clear, Steve Sheppard’s got nothing. His house, his farm, and all the rest are mortgaged and doublemortgaged. His bank balance couldn’t buy him a Happy Meal. They’re going to foreclose on him by the end of the month—that’s just over three weeks from now—and Vicky says that nothing short of a miracle will save Southwind.”
Lizzie paused and helped herself to a strawberry from the plate. Leaning back against the plump cushions, she twirled the stem between her fingers, watching the plump fruit dance and spin. Her bright blue gaze held Ty’s. “So, you feeling like a miracle worker, Ty?” she asked, her lips parting in a small smile before opening wider to pop the strawberry into her mouth, enjoying the dual sweet sensation of the moment, the ripe sugary taste invading her mouth, the look of embarrassed surprise coloring her friend’s pale skin. “Gotcha!” She laughed, reaching for a second strawberry. Ty conceded the fact with a rueful shake of her head. “I didn’t realize I was so transparent.”
“Come on, give me a break! How many years have we known each other? I’d have been shocked, desperately worried, even, if you hadn’t decided to go and save Steve Sheppard in his darkest hour. I k
now you weren’t wearing it tonight,” Lizzie commented, nodding at the pearl pendant hanging from Ty’s slender neck, “but you still have that medallion he gave you, don’t you?”
Ty’s blush answered for her.
“Right. Well, then, you haven’t forgotten what a decent guy he was to us back then, when we were goofy teenagers, either. Face it, Ty, it’s time to strap on those wings of yours and fly to his rescue.”
“I don’t know, Lizzie. It sounds like such a messy situation. There may not be much I can do.”
Waving Ty’s doubts away, Lizzie leaned forward, her expression eager. “What are you talking about? Of course you’ll be able to help him. Of all the people I can think of, you’re the best person, Ty!” She raised her hand when Ty would have interrupted her. “No, I’m serious. Remember, I’ve seen you in action. You were Emma’s and my avenging angel. You came through for me a thousand percent. You got me out of that eternal hell of a divorce proceeding, had that SOB Michael begging for mercy and promising he wouldn’t contest my custody of Emma. It was truly wonderful watching him eat humble pie and act like he was loving every bite. And when the divorce finally came through, you not only helped me pick up the pieces of my life, you also helped me start a new one.”
“Please, Lizzie,” Ty protested, “I didn’t do anything that you wouldn’t have done if our positions had been reversed. After my father behaved the way he did toward you, blowing you off when you came for help . . .”
“Let’s not talk about your father,” Lizzie interrupted. “These strawberries are too good for me to lose my appetite. The way things worked out, I prefer to believe that everything that happened was for the best. Who knows how long it might have taken you to break free of those manipulative mind games otherwise?”
“Maybe you’re right. Twenty-odd years of Father saying ‘Jump’ and my asking ‘How high?’ was probably enough.”
“That’s for sure. It’s time to move on, girl, and work wonders for someone else. And a good thing, too, because I’m a little overdue myself. I’ve got to learn to stand on my own two feet.”
A frown crossed Ty’s face as she shook her head. “But, Lizzie, there’s still tons to do at Cobble Creek. The summer program . . .”
“Will get organized, one way or the other,” Lizzie interrupted calmly. “This evening was a huge boost in getting the word out. You know how much I want the barn to be a success. But I’m never going to forget that I already have the most important thing in the world: Emma. Don’t worry about Emma and me, or Cobble Creek, Ty. We’re going to make it. But now it’s Steve Sheppard who needs your help.”
“But who’s to say he’ll want it? You’ve been my best friend. He’s just . . .”
“One of the top riders in America, plus someone for whom you’ve had a soft spot for . . . jeez, I can’t even count the years. But that’s beside the point, anyway. What I know is this: my divorce showed me just how quickly things can go down the tube. Steve Sheppard is learning that as we speak. His best horse is dead, his shot at the Olympics has vanished like a puff of smoke, his reputation is tarnished if not ruined, and sure as God made little green apples, his land is going to be grabbed right out from under his feet. And you know as well as I whose hands will be the first grabbing hold of it. If you don’t do something to help him, Ty, you’re not going to be able to live with yourself,” Lizzie predicted darkly. She was right, Ty conceded with an inward sigh. Lizzie knew her only too well. Ty could never sit back and watch Stannard Limited steal Steve Sheppard’s land. She knew the standing order her father had issued to the Eastern Seaboard Resort Communities Division. It had become Stannard Limited’s battle cry: Buy every piece of prime land in the Hamptons over ten acres. If its location is even close to the beachfront, be ready to pay more than thirty percent above market price. If the property’s auctioned, bid aggressively. Don’t let it get away from you. And then develop, develop, develop. There was no way her father’s orders would be disregarded, even if she begged the head of the division, who was a friend. He wouldn’t risk putting his head on the block. So, unless she stepped in before it came on the market, Southwind wouldn’t remain open farmland for very long.
“Hey, what are you doing?” asked Lizzie in surprise as Ty picked up the phone and began punching in numbers.
“If I’m going to keep my father’s paws off Southwind, there’s no time to lose. I’ve got to call my lawyer to arrange a meeting, figure out the best way to approach Steve Sheppard. I doubt I can get enough money out of my mother’s trust fund, so I’ll have to make a list of all my assets, figure out which ones I should sell—I’ll need all the cash I can get. The tricky thing will be finding out whether the bank has already worked out a deal with my father’s people.”
“Can’t you call someone at Stannard Limited?”
“They’d never tell me. Wouldn’t dare. And it might tip them off that I’m interested in the property. Believe me, they’d move fast to stop me. No, we have to use the element of surprise.”
“How are you going to get the information, then, break into Daddy’s office?”
Ty smiled. “Nothing quite so drastic. Remember Sam Brody? He runs a firm now that specializes in corporate security systems. It should take him about five minutes to run through the computer files at Stannard Limited. That’ll give me the information I need.”
“Isn’t that illegal?” Lizzie asked worriedly. She hadn’t seen Sam Brody in years. But now that she was an adult, a mother, too, chills of horrified embarrassment raced down her spine when she recalled the shenanigans she’d pulled while Sam Brody worked as Ty’s bodyguard.
Ty shrugged. “More like bending the law. Since Sam’s firm has ties with the government, he has carte blanche to investigate just about any company he chooses.” An enigmatic smile curved her lips.
“Something tells me he won’t mind gumming up the works for Father, especially if it’s to help me out.”
10
H e still had time for another drink. In the month since the night of the storm, Steve had poured more alcohol into his system than in all his previous years of casual drinking. It wasn’t the quickest way to commit suicide, but efficiency wasn’t the goal. He wanted, no, he needed to make sure he suffered before he finally died, just as Fancy Free had suffered before Steve put a bullet in him. So he’d drink and torture himself with memories of that night until his body and mind could endure no more. It took only the minute shift of his head and the slight raising of his index finger to have the bartender, who’d been standing off to the side drying tumblers with a soft white dishtowel, to set aside cloth and glass and reach for the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Wordlessly, he poured a double shot into Steve’s empty glass.
Fucking unbelievable, thought Steve with equal parts admiration and disgust. He’d never understood this about bars before, that a person’s alcoholic need could be catered to without a single word passing through one’s lips. God bless bartenders everywhere. He slapped a crumpled ten-dollar bill on the dark, scarred surface of the bar, idly wondering whether he’d have enough money for the tolls back out to Long Island. Hell, maybe he’d be able to bum a twenty off Tyler Stannard once he signed away his property to the man. His throat clenched spasmodically as the image of his home, his barn, his horses flashed in his mind.
Oh, God, how had his life come to this? Since the moment he’d raced into the pitch-dark confines of his barn, his hair and clothing plastered against his skin from the torrential rain, his heart slamming wildly, Steve had known, from the fear and dread twisting his gut, that he was about to face a living nightmare. The keening scream of a horse in unbearable agony pierced the night, louder even than the thunder rolling all around. He’d been right. His life had become an unending torment of tragedy, betrayal, loss. Maybe it was time to finish it, finish it for good. He’d just tidy up a few loose ends first. Shifting his lean frame to the left, he shoved his right hand into his sportcoat pocket, rummaging, finding, then drawing out the creased letter from its de
pths. There, on the head of the stationery, in boldly embossed letters, read a string of WASPy-sounding names, the founding partners of one of New York’s most prominent law firms. Representing Tyler Stannard, the lawyers were writing to request Mr. Steve Sheppard’s presence at their midtown office at two-thirty P.M. to discuss a business agreement concerning his thirty-eight-acre parcel of land, known as Southwind.
Steve’s first reaction had been to rip the letter into confetti, except that his lawyer, Jeff Wallace, received a copy, too, and had telephoned him immediately, urging him to listen to their proposal. If he was extremely lucky, Steve might avoid having to file for bankruptcy. So Steve was here, in this dimly lit bar in Manhattan, because some small part of him still cared enough to want to avoid that final, devastating humiliation. But it was a real small part of himself, Steve acknowledged with a glance at his watch. Twenty-seven past two, and he was about eighteen blocks south of the address on the letterhead. He picked up the glass of bourbon and took a slow sip. Yeah, there was still time for another drink. The press of the ceiling-to-floor picture window felt cool against her bowed forehead. From the thirtyseventh floor, the people on the street below looked like overfed ants, hurriedly passing one another in muted shades of brown, gray, and black, an occasional red. She wondered whether he was down there somewhere. Perhaps he wouldn’t even bother to show.
For the hundredth time she asked herself if this was the best way to approach him. But time was of the essence. Above all, Ty had wanted a meeting arranged as quickly as possible, and the contract ready and waiting Steve Sheppard’s signature. Otherwise she’d have no chance against her father’s company. Ty’s personal lawyer, Douglas Crane, had assured her his firm could provide both. After speaking to Ty on the phone the other night, he’d suggested she come to his office the following morning to discuss the idea further.
“My dear Ty.” Douglas Crane had risen from behind his desk to greet her as Crane’s secretary ushered her into the spacious corner office. “Can Carol get you anything? An espresso, tea, mineral water perhaps?”