The Runaway Heiress

by Meg Tilly

  She hadn’t seen Mick since the night he’d had her come to his study to work on the script, but she would hear him arrive home. Watch the lights in the house flick on. She’d imagine him going into the kitchen, opening the fridge and cupboard doors, finding all the tasty options she had placed in there. In the morning, she’d listen to him depart again, the purr of his high-octane sports car. The man might present himself like a lowlife, but he was no slacker, she’d give him that. He worked incredibly long hours. When Sarah had accepted the post, she had expected a steady stream of disreputable people marching in and out of the house. But as far as she could observe, once Mick came home, he kept to himself. Although, she thought with a huff of laughter, it is Friday. Who knows what craziness the weekend will bring. And on the heels of that thought came a tiny flare of jealousy, which didn’t make any sense at all.

  Sarah turned into the laundry room. She enjoyed how her days were falling into a peaceful pattern, which allowed her to daydream that she was someone else and had a regular life. After eating breakfast, she’d enter Mick’s house and begin the day’s work. She’d always start in the kitchen and add to the list she had created with notes on which foods had been eaten. She was getting a pretty good idea of what foods he preferred and how much to purchase. As she worked through the day, she could feel his presence. It was like having a conversation, a relationship with an imaginary friend. He didn’t have any photos lying about, which was odd; but then, she didn’t have any either. Hadn’t had a chance to grab some before she ran. Every now and then she would duck into a public library and look her parents up online to see their beloved faces at a past gala or a fundraiser. She would magnify the photos and trace her fingers over the familiar planes of their faces, longing to print them out so she would have something concrete, but it was too risky. Someone might discover them. All she had was her mother’s robe, which Auntie Jane had brought to the hospital the night before she ran. Why didn’t Mick have any family memorabilia lying about? Did he have brothers and sisters? Were his parents alive? Maybe he was an orphan. That would make sense, as there was a wounded wild wolf quality wrapped around him like a cloak, a loneliness beyond the brash mask he wore, which seemed to have burrowed bone deep. She did find a worn hard copy of the children’s book Amelia Bedelia tucked in the bottom of his underwear drawer when she was putting away laundry. The library’s borrowing card was still tucked in the pocket toward the front. Goldfield Elementary School. Did he go there? And why this book? But other than that the only personal objects were his clothes and a couple of books on his bedside table: Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet, Ingmar Bergman’s The Magic Lantern, Andre Dubus’s The Times Are Never So Bad, George Saunder’s Tenth of December, and Charles Baxter’s Burning Down the House. In his office was a Golden Globe and an Oscar for the movie Run, and another Oscar and Golden Globe, as well as a Prix de la mise en scène and a Palme d’Or, for The Spider’s Kiss. But the rest of the objects in the house, the cut crystal, the choice of furniture, the artwork and decorative touches, seemed at odds with the man. It felt almost as if Mick had arrived with a suitcase and a couple of books and was squatting in someone else’s home.

  Sarah opened the door to the washing machine and stuffed the armload of linens inside, feeling oddly bereft as she closed the washing machine door on the subtle scent of him lingering on the linens. She added soap to the dispenser, turned the cycle to sheets, and started it up. Then she took the load of darks from the dryer and began to fold his things, her hands sliding along the fabric, folding jeans, T-shirts, socks, briefs.

  Mick had reiterated the other night that she could hire a cleaning service, and she would. Eventually. But for now she was enjoying the solace of solitude, the puttering around, putting the place to rights. There was a pride to be had in a job well done. Plumping the pillows, polishing the furniture, cleaning the windows, making things shine. It felt almost as if the home and the contents were living, breathing entities. And in the doing and caring, she was receiving as well. Earning her way and showing her gratitude for the safe haven this place provided in her small day-to-day gestures of goodwill.

  Once the laundry was folded, she began ironing his shirts and hanging the completed ones on the back of the laundry room door. Her mind wandered past her musing on Mick to alight on her parents, and the sudden stab of sorrow had her hand pressing hard against her chest, as if trying to cauterize a wound. Grief was like that sometimes. Four years since the accident. Four years since she lost everyone and everything that meant anything to her. For the most part, time had softened the ragged edges of her sorrow, but every once in a while, it would sneak up and grab her from behind, steal her breath, and force her to her knees.

  17

  “I’m sorry I can’t be more help,” the Art Expressions Gallery owner said to Phillip, her hands neatly folded on the desk before her. The artwork in Zelia Thompson-Conaghan’s gallery was quite impressive. Surprising, considering Solace Island was quite small. Who were her clients? Driving through the small town of Comfort, Phillip doubted any local resident would have the means to acquire the art showcased in her gallery, let alone the taste. How did the woman afford the overhead? The staff? “This Sarah Rainsford looks nothing like my ex-employee Mary Browning. I can say with confidence I’ve never met this woman.”

  “I suppose it was too much to hope for.” Phillip sighed. He had squandered two days chasing a ghost. He shook his head. “Lieutenant Hawkins was certain they were the same person.”

  “No.” The abrupt way the woman answered had him studying her more closely. He could see tension around her mouth, her eyes.

  Vicki must have noticed too, because she spoke up, which was unusual when they were in a professional capacity. “I can’t stress enough”—Vicki leaned forward, her hand out, palm upward—“how vital it is that we reach Sarah before Lieutenant Hawkins does. He is a dangerous predator on the hunt. We believe she is in extreme danger. Indeed, her very life could be at stake.”

  The art gallery owner’s sharp intake of breath was audible.

  “So, if something springs to mind . . .” Vicki gentled her voice. “A coincidence or additional information, please don’t hesitate to text, email, or call. Anything that you can think of that might be helpful in our search.”

  The gallery owner nodded. She seemed pale as she carefully placed the business card Phillip handed her into the top right-hand desk drawer.

  * * *

  * * *

  Vicki had been silent since they’d left the Art Expressions Gallery. Come to think of it, she hadn’t spoken much that morning either, and when she had, her responses had been rather sharp. Clipped. Perhaps she was on her monthly. In a day or two, the grumpiness would pass.

  Phillip took a deep breath of the brisk ocean air. He had tucked her hand through the crook of his arm. What a pleasure it was to be out in public as if they were a couple, as if she were his wife. He enjoyed the warmth and vitality of her body nestled next to his. Phillip patted her hand with his free one. The texture of her skin had changed over the decades. The veins in her hand were more prominent now. A multitude of minuscule lines rippled outward as he caressed the back of her hand with his thumb. Vicki’s hand twitched. Reminded him of a horse attempting to rid itself of a pesky black fly. He ceased the movement, suppressing a sigh as he turned his gaze to the ocean and the multitude of small islands beyond. Their relationship had changed in the last few years. She was more impatient. Found him clingy. Odd that. The more she pulled away, the more deeply and desperately he loved her.

  “She was lying.” Vicki sounded almost angry. She was such an emotional creature, so full of fire and passion, unlike his wife, who was placid as a cow in the field chewing her cud. “Sarah Rainsford was here. One hundred percent. You told me she was dead.”

  “No. I remember quite clearly. I said I thought she was dead. After all, no one had heard hide nor hair from her. She hadn’t touched a cent of her mone
y.”

  “Well, clearly she’s alive.”

  Phillip nodded. Maybe Sarah was. Maybe she wasn’t. It wasn’t worth getting in an argument over.

  “What next?”

  Phillip tucked down a little deeper into the comfort of his cashmere coat. The March wind off the ocean had an insidious damp chill that crept into his bones. “I was thinking a nap might be nice.”

  “No, you old goat.” Vicki took a jerky step backward, placing her fists on her hips. “I am not in the mood for a snuggle. I’ve worked too hard and too long and I’m tired, I tell you.” Her voice had gone sharp and shrill. “Tired!” She turned abruptly and started walking away from him, but not before he caught sight of the angry tears filling her eyes.

  “Vicki, what’s going on?” He hobbled after her as best he could, the damp air aggravating his hip, causing it to flare up.

  She turned on him, teeth bared. “Everything you’ve ever said to me has been lies. ‘I love you.’ ‘I’m going to leave my wife. I promise.’ But did you? No! Twenty-eight years. Twenty-eight years of my life I’ve wasted on you.”

  “I’m going to—”

  “Shut up!” She jabbed her finger into his chest hard. Her face thrust up close into his. Scared him a little and turned him on as well, all that rage and passion. “There was always some damned excuse. ‘The boys are going through a rough time.’ Then they were at university, but your wife got cancer. Of course you couldn’t leave then. What kind of monster would? But now I wonder, did she actually have ovarian cancer? Or was that just another thing you lied about?”

  He felt rather like he was drowning. Tried to bluster his way through. “I don’t lie to you. I never have.”

  She laughed, brittle as glass. “ ‘You’d need to get licensed with FINRA,’ you said, ‘in order to pull a salary on the trust accounts.’ ” Her face was bitter and her voice high-pitched and mocking. “Well, I worked hard, all those nights and weekends that I sat waiting around for you to show up for an hour or two. I got licensed with the Financial Industry Regulatory Authority. Still you hesitated, so I took an online course and got my CFP. I’m a frigging certified financial planner. ‘Ah,’ you said. ‘Wonderful! Congratulations, my beloved! Let’s crack open a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon.’ But did a damn thing change? No.” Suddenly all the fight seemed to drain out of her. She seemed smaller. Older. Depressed and defeated. And he felt ashamed for having turned the bright, loving, trusting person she had been into this. She looked at him. No artifice. No smile. He could see the sorrow and disillusionment in her eyes. “You thought I’d never know, didn’t you? You thought I’d take your word. That I’d trust you.” She shook her head, her face wet with tears. “And I did. But all this time you’ve been running a con on me.”

  “What are you talking about, Vicki?” he asked, but he knew. The stew of guilt in his stomach was churning in overdrive. “Let’s go back to Mansfield Manor, have a nice cup of tea.” He reached out for her arm, but she shook him off. Turned away, both of her hands gripping the rough wooden railing as if she were contemplating hurling herself over it into the frigid ocean below. “Vicki, my lovey-dove-dove—”

  “Don’t.” There was no bite in her words, no accusation, which was somehow scarier. “I never would have known if I hadn’t pulled the Rainsford trust documents. I thought maybe you would need them to verify who you were to the authorities. I glanced through them this morning while you were in the shower, wanting to make sure everything was in order for you. Surprise. My name doesn’t appear anywhere on that trust document. There is no codicil or addendum. I’ve been doing all the work, and it’s all in your name. Legally, only you are entitled to the bragging rights, the credit, and most importantly, the fees. Now, I’m curious, as you can imagine, so I pulled up other trust documents on my laptop. The Smith trust, the Davidson one, the Phil Stork trust. All these, mind you, are documents you’d told me I was now co-trustee on. Nothing.” Her voice quiet, flat, emotionless.

  “Vicki, I can’t add your name as a trustee. You should know that. It’s basic 101. Only the person who set up the trust or the courts can add or change a trustee. Barbara and Ryan are dead. The only way the terms of the Rainsford trust can be changed or a co-trustee added is if Sarah is found and she applies to the courts to make a change. Same goes for the other trusts I handle—”

  She whirled to face him, anger flooding her face, which oddly was a relief from the flat detachment. “Then why did you send me on that goose chase? Why encourage me to get my FINRA and CFP designations?”

  “I didn’t think you would.” She took a step toward him, her mouth tight, fists clenched. Phillip made the decision to take a couple of steps back. She looked magnificent in her fury, as if she might actually haul off and slug him. “And then,” he added hastily, appealing to her reason, “when you actually started . . . I don’t know.” He turned his hands upward, aware of the pleading quality that had entered his voice. “I guess you were so excited and proud, and I was, too.” He attempted to reach for her, but she jerked away, her arms crossed.

  “So where did the extra salary come from? The bump in pay, since I wasn’t actually entitled to collect a fee on those accounts.”

  “Out of my pocket.”

  “So I was an amusing little charity case? The safety net I thought I’d built for my future—the ongoing monthly fees from managing the trusts that were supposed to keep me fiscally safe when you passed away—was all an illusion. You die and the cash cow dies with you, the probate court steps in, assigns their person to the Rainsford trust, and I’m left out in the cold. How you must have laughed at me. ‘Stupid little Vicki, how gullible she is—’ ”

  “No. It wasn’t like that.”

  “I’m done.” Her words hit him like a sledgehammer to the gut. “I quit.” Her face was pale and determined, her eyes red-rimmed, her nose, too, and he had never loved her more. “Get yourself some other sucker to gaslight. You and I are done. I will write myself a glowing reference letter using your letterhead and courier it to your office. You will sign and return it along with the contents of my desk, which you will box up and send to me.”

  “Vicki—”

  She held up her hand, palm out. “Don’t even, old man. Seriously, after everything you’ve put me through? It’s the least you can do.” Vicki didn’t wait for a response. She turned on her heel and strode away.

  * * *

  * * *

  Phillip left the door of their hotel room unlocked, stayed up late pretending to read, but she didn’t return to their room. He tossed and turned all night, and in the morning, when the limo arrived with her inside, quiet and unresponsive, her face turned to the window, he knew what he needed to do. No more words. It was time for him to step up, be a man, or he would lose the only person he’d ever loved.

  18

  Sarah’s hand hovered over the boxed pies. Cherry or apple? Since rereading Amelia Bedelia, she’d gotten it in her head that perhaps Mick, like Mr. Rogers, would appreciate some pie. She picked up an apple one. It looked kind of tired. How long had it been sitting on the shelf? Her mind flashed to the delectable home-baked pies that Maggie whipped up daily for the customers of the Intrepid Café on Solace Island. On the heels of that sudden mouthwatering craving came an image of her last boss, Zelia Thompson, bustling into the gallery carrying Intrepid’s signature white pastry box wrapped in red string. “When I fall off the wagon, I do it with gusto!” Zelia had exclaimed. “I bought out the shop, so you better be hungry.” Her head had tipped back, infectious laughter bubbling out.

  Sarah slapped the boxed pie down, and the next thing she knew, she was in the produce section stuffing apples into a bag. Why not? she thought with a shrug. How hard can pie be? And if I mess up, who cares? It’s the weekend. My time is my own.

  Once the apples were in her cart, Sarah trundled to the baking aisle, snagging some butter on the way. She threw a bag of fl
our, some sugar, and cinnamon into her cart. She’d never made pie on her own. The idea of attempting it was both scary and kind of thrilling, too. Sarah had helped her mom make it when she was young, standing on a chair so she could reach the countertop. Her mom didn’t cook often. But every once in a while, she’d take Sarah’s hand and they’d venture into the kitchen, where their elderly cook, Berta, reigned supreme.

  “You got the cooking bug again, ma’am?” Berta would say, her face a wreath of smiles.

  “I sure do,” Sarah’s mom would say, opening a drawer and tying an apron around her waist.

  “Me too,” Sarah would say, and her mom would smile as she tied another apron around Sarah’s waist and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. Berta would “leave them to it.” By the time they finished baking, the kitchen would be filled with the cozy smells of loving goodness. Sometimes it would be peanut butter cookies, sometimes a raspberry trifle, and every once in a while . . . pie! Didn’t matter what kind. Dad loved them all. Granted, the desserts created during their kitchen forays never looked as nice as Berta’s offerings. A little charring or a soggy crust was not unusual, but Sarah, her mom, and her dad would dig in with gusto, and her dad would always declare that he could taste the love embedded in the creation. Over the years, they had attempted chocolate cream pie, lemon meringue, peach, and apple. Sarah wasn’t certain what all went into apple pie. Hopefully, she had gotten the majority of the ingredients. Would have to Google a recipe when she returned to the house and had access to a computer.

  At the cashier, Sarah separated the pie ingredients from the rest of Mick’s groceries. She paid for it with cash Mick had left on the kitchen counter Friday morning. An envelope stuffed with cash, her first week’s pay. If the pie didn’t turn out, Sarah would eat it anyway. But if she were able to pull the culinary feat off, the homemade apple pie would be her thank-you gift to Mick, and hopefully—even though the gesture was small—it would help her feel less beholden. She had to do something because that extravagant dinner at The Palm restaurant had been an act of charity on his part. It embarrassed her to think about that night, how hungry she’d been, how noisy her stomach, but remembering also filled her with a sense of gratitude. When they’d arrived home, Mick had insisted she take all the leftovers. There were a ton of leftovers. Sarah had demurred at first. But he’d marched to the side of the house where the garbage cans were, lifted the lid, and insisted that if she didn’t want the food, he was going to throw it out. Said he’d “just asked the waiter to wrap the extra food up so the cooks in the kitchen wouldn’t be offended.” Sarah had snatched the food from him. Hadn’t realized until the food was safely in her arms, clutched against her beating heart like a lost child, that the “throw the food away” had been an elaborate bluff. It wasn’t anything he said that clued her in. It was the sudden happiness beaming out of his eyes. Pride was insisting she shove the bags of food back at him, but she didn’t. She’d said, “Thank you.” Granted her tone had been a little stiff and her cheeks flaming, but at least she had thanked him before she turned and fled up the stairs to the safety of her little apartment, the door locked securely behind her.