The azaleas had faded, but nearly every house had a colorful year-round garden, including her own. She’d constructed her own garden, a haphazard profusion of lilies, begonias, and impatiens. She’d even planted a magnolia tree.
It was everything she’d ever pictured, ever wanted, as a child.
And now it had been violated. She turned around and went back inside, wincing at the destruction.
She waited for what seemed like an eternity before the doorbell rang—an impatient, authoritative ringing, not that of a casual caller. She tensed, and then wondered whether she would always brace herself whenever she heard a loud sound. She thought she’d moved beyond that fear.
She put a hand on Ben, reassuring him, when she was the one who really needed reassurance. When she looked out the window, Ben stayed at her side, his tail between his legs as if he’d condemned himself for failing as a watchdog.
Police. She opened the door.
Jessie settled in her chair at the bookstore and opened the mail she’d grabbed from the mailbox as she left the cottage after a very unsatisfactory meeting with the police. She was still fuming.
For the first time, she didn’t take pleasure in being alone in the bookstore that had become her second home. Rob had been gone when she arrived, and Sol was off on one of his research trips. She looked around the book-crammed shop, seeking the familiar sense of contentment. Every inch of shelf space was taken, and boxes full of additional books blocked much of the floor. Sol couldn’t resist an estate sale, and usually she couldn’t wait to open new crates and discover new treasures.
The Olde Book Shoppe specialized in rare books, and it smelled of leather and old paper and mustiness; even the latter usually gave her pleasure. It denoted substance. Stability. Books whose appeal lasted throughout decades, even centuries. She was seldom lonely here. These were the books of her childhood and youth and adulthood. They were closer to her than any human being had been.
But their comforting presence didn’t help today. She reached down and touched Ben. He seemed to have shaken whatever had happened—or been given—to him. His tail wagged at last, and she felt better. A little.
She went back to the mail. Bills. Catalogs. Credit card offers.
Then she opened the odd-looking envelope that had been stuck in a catalog. It looked personal, but then she had previously received advertisements or pleas for money in deceptively benign packaging.
Her grumpy mood made her rush to that conclusion, and she held it for a minute or so before opening it.
Ben nudged her, as if aware her attention had wandered away from him. She reached down and touched him, and he settled under her feet again, happy with just that small touch.
She opened it, read the invitation, then reread the address on the envelope again. Jessica Clayton. Her name. Her address. It was obviously some kind of ironic mistake.
An invitation to a family reunion.
A family she’d never heard of.
She didn’t need this today. She didn’t need reminders that she had no family. Not even a distant cousin.
Even the words family reunion summoned up images. Warm, wonderful pictures of everything she’d once dreamed about. So many childish dreams. Whenever her father had stumbled into their rented quarters, smelling of whiskey or beer or cheap wine, she would close her eyes and wish for a mother, a sister, a doting grandfather. She would wish for the type of family she’d seen in television series or read about in books.
Her fingers stroked the envelope. No return address, but many invitations didn’t have return addresses. And there was no phone number inside. It was an informal invitation, obviously computer-generated, with horses galloping across the top. There was no R.S.V.P.
It was, in fact, an announcement more than an invitation, obviously sent to people who knew the phone number, the address, the sender. She couldn’t even tell the mail carrier to return it to the sender. The rightful recipient would never receive it.
As someone who had never received such an invitation, she felt regret for that unknown person, that person with her name. But probably she would be notified by another member of the family. Close families kept in touch. At least, she’d always thought so. Her imaginary family had.
For a moment, she let herself believe it was for her. She slowly released a breath, just realizing that she’d bottled it up in her throat. Her fingers had dropped the invitation and were stiff with tension. Or was it memories? Memories she’d tried to erase. But all of them had returned today. Fear had returned, and so had the insecurity.
Her family had never been more than a father. A father who was distant at best, an angry drunk at worst. This card was a mocking reminder.
She saw him now in her mind’s eye. His defeated eyes. His blustering defiance when he was fired once again for drinking, his absences when she had to try to find something to eat in empty cabinets, the smell of alcohol when he returned late at night, mumbling words she didn’t understand.
Still, she had loved her father. He was older than most fathers, having married late in life. Her mother had been a waitress, far younger than him. She had left them when Jessie was only two, and neither of them had ever heard from her again. Jessie had never tried to find her, but instead had steeled herself emotionally from the realization of being unwanted by one of the two people who should have loved her most, and being considered a … burden by the other. She never knew whether her mother’s desertion had turned her father into the embittered man she knew, but sometimes she had seen grief, even longing, in his eyes. And each time he got that look on his face, he would disappear for a day or two or even three.
He would lose his job and they would move again. States faded one into another. New York. Maryland. Kentucky. Tennessee. As she grew older, she’d asked about her mother, but she never got an answer. She grew accustomed to the shadows that never disappeared. Or perhaps he had been the shadow.
The only thing that had saved them was his reputation as a horse trainer. He’d been able to extract every measure of speed from the horses under his tutelage. He understood them as few others did, and in return they gave him everything they had. But eventually he would be fired. They would move to another place where someone else was willing to give him still another chance.
She glanced down at the invitation again and tried to blink away tears. She never cried. Never. Ever. Not since the night that had led to his death. But today … today was too much.
Even the police had lectured her instead of doing something useful, like collecting fingerprints. She’d been foolish to go inside. She should have called the police. They had also been unimpressed with Ben, who, despite his timidity, had a huge heart. At that moment, however, he’d chosen to hide behind her legs, thinking himself invisible.
“Not much of a guard dog,” one officer noted.
“He wasn’t meant to be,” she’d snapped.
“You might think about trading him in,” the second officer said.
“I would rather trade you in,” she retorted. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”
“Make a list of your stolen items,” he said indifferently, “and take it to the police station. Then file with your insurance company.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” he replied without apology.
“No fingerprints?”
“Look, lady, we don’t have the resources to investigate every small burglary.”
But it wasn’t a small burglary to her. It was one huge violation even if whoever had invaded her home hadn’t taken much. Perhaps she’d returned before he’d been able to collect his booty. He had, however, obviously gone through her desk and bookcases, apparently searching for something of value. He’d left books on the floor, papers messed. The only thing she’d found missing, though, was a little cash she’d kept in her desk for emergencies.
The greatest loss was her precious illusion of safety.
She fingered the invitation. The burglary brought back so much. Sna
pshots flipped through her mind. A violent struggle. Pain. The soul-searing shame that followed. And Mills. Her hero. She remembered the contempt on his face, the icy triumph after he’d raped her. It happened long ago, but the mental photos were sharp. So were those of her father’s face two days later when he was fired. It was the last time she’d seen him alive.
She hadn’t told him why he’d lost his job, that this time it hadn’t been his fault. It had been hers.
Jessie had lived with that for the past ten years.
She had fled all connections to that last farm in Kentucky. She’d tried to flee from her father’s death, from the betrayal she’d felt from the one person she’d trusted. She’d found her refuge in books and finally in this small, barely profitable bookstore on the edge of a university.
Damm it. She had allowed that invitation to open emotional boxes she’d believed locked forever.
She read it over again.
The Biannual Clements Family Reunion
June 25–27, 1999
The Clements Ranch and Quest Resort
Sedona, Arizona
Then, most puzzling of all, a handwritten note at the bottom: “Jessica, please come, Sarah.”
Clements? She’d never heard the name before. But the invitation came to her. Jessica …
Another Jessica somewhere. She didn’t think Jessica was a common name. And who was Sarah?
She reminded herself it had nothing to do with her.
Still, she suddenly realized that the shy, wistful girl she thought had turned into a pragmatic adult had not disappeared. The books that had become her friends were cold comfort when she glimpsed a couple together or a lighted house at holidays.
She’d kept telling herself she was strong, independent. She could be as aggressive in business as anyone, and she had worked at conquering the insecurities lurking inside. But in a particularly honest frame of mind, she knew she was hiding among the books, that she’d wrapped herself in a cocoon that made few demands. It certainly didn’t require any real courage, any risk.
She liked it that way. No risks, no danger.
And now … her cocoon had been penetrated.
Impatient with herself, she shoved the invitation out of sight under a pile of orders. She had no time for what ifs. Still, for some reason she did not destroy it or toss it in her wastebasket. It remained on her desk like a burning brand, announcing over and over again her aloneness. Maybe tomorrow, she would try to find the telephone number and tell them the invitation went astray. Tomorrow when the memories had faded.
She dismissed it from her mind and turned back to the list a professor had e-mailed her. It contained three titles, all out-of-print books. Such books were the store’s specialty and the reason for the survival of a small independent bookstore among the behemoths that had taken over the book business.
Sol had collected and cultivated book sources throughout the years. Since he had semiretired two years ago, he had taught her how to contact them, how to talk with them. Many were now long-distance friends, and she yearned someday to visit them. More dreams, but those were of a more realistic type than yearning after a family that didn’t exist.
She leaned down and petted a sleeping Ben, then picked up the telephone and dialed Dickens Books in London. No more daydreaming today. No more fanciful visions.
SEDONA, ARIZONA
They gathered in the sprawling main room of the ranch house. Tension vibrated in the room.
Ross Macleod leaned against the wall, watching.
Mentally, he counted the votes, as he had so many times before. He’d lost another voting member today. One more, and he would lose everything. He tried to keep the simmering resentment from showing. He was the poor relation. Always had been. Always would be. He meant nothing to them other than what he could offer in skills.
There were only two survivors of the original progeny of Hall and Mary Louise Clements. Sarah was seventy-six, her brother Halden, ninety-one. Then there were what he called “the first cousins”—the second generation. There were six: Marc, Cullen, Katherine, Elizabeth, Andrew, and Melissa. Between them—the first and second generations—they held the fate of the ranch in their hands.
Marc and Cullen, though, were the main players in the current drama. Brothers, they had talked their father, Halden, and the owners of two other shares into voting to sell the Sunset. Only Sarah stood firm against them.
“How in the hell did that invitation go out?” Marc Clements asked as he paced back and forth. Tall, lean, and charismatic, he looked every inch the congressman he was and the senator he wanted to be. He had been Ross’s ally until the past year, when he needed money for his campaign. Now he had become one of the enemies.
Sarah, Ross’s adoptive mother, grimaced. “I know we had an agreement,” she defended herself. “We were all to wait until after Alex talked to this woman. But I thought he was going three days ago. I didn’t know he would be held up with a court case. I did so want her to feel welcome.”
Marc sighed. “Are you sure you just didn’t want to get to her first?”
“Now Marc, I would never do that.”
But she would. Ross knew it. The others knew it, too.
Cullen’s eyes were angry. He had been the one to set the terms. No one would approach the woman before she arrived, until after Alex, the family attorney, had met with her. Otherwise, it was feared any number of the family members might camp on her doorstep with a varying assortment of bribes.
None of them knew much about the prospective heiress; nor did they know if she knew anything at all about the family. It had been decided at an earlier meeting that Alex would explain the situation, then ask her to come to the already scheduled reunion and meet the family.
If this woman knew even some of the hidden agendas, she would probably run like hell.
Marc’s stern expression softened. “Probably no harm done, Sarah. Alex said he will fly to Atlanta right after the court hearing this afternoon.”
Ross watched Sarah’s face flush. She had called the family meeting when she realized that Alex had not contacted Jessica Clayton prior to the time she should have received the invitation. She’d protested that the invitation was to be an added incentive, a warm welcome. But Ross wondered about that. Sarah could be as Machiavellian as any member of the family, and that was saying a great deal.
Despite any protestations she might make, he suspected she’d wanted to ingratiate herself on Ross’s behalf.
Dammit, he didn’t need or want a champion. Yet he was the only so-called cousin without Clements blood. He was the only one not to have a share in the Sunset. He had only his sweat.
And now a newcomer no one knew could well splinter the fragile truce that held the family together. She could also take away the only livelihood he knew. He couldn’t quite tamp down the resentment, or the thought of the emptiness that would cause. The ranch was the only home he knew. Even if he’d never quite belonged, it was the only place that held good memories. Dammit, despite opposition, he’d dragged it into the twentieth century. He’d squeezed out a profit when every other ranch in the Southwest was going broke or being sold out. He’d worked all his life for the Clementses, and now a stranger could step in and take it all away. His stomach churned at the thought of losing the Sunset and what it would do to Sarah.
Cullen, Marc’s brother and the oldest of the second generation, looked at Sarah. “Do we know any more about her?”
Sarah shook her head. “Only that the detective is sure he’s found Harding’s only heir. The man he thinks is Harding died ten years ago when she was seventeen. We know that she is part owner of a struggling bookstore.”
“Then she will want to sell,” Cullen said with satisfaction. Cullen, an older, larger version of his brother, thought the end-all of life was money. No, that wasn’t exactly true. Money and the Quest, his resort development that ate up the former.
Sarah didn’t blink. “Sam Davis said she doesn’t seem to care too much about money.”
“Has he seen her?”
“She’s twenty-seven, auburn hair, hazel eyes,” Sarah said with great satisfaction. “Just like most of the family,” Sarah said. “It has to be her.”
“There’s about ten million people of the same description,” Marc said dryly. “We won’t know until we have a DNA test.”
Sarah stood. Ross reminded himself she was seventy-six now. She acted younger. She still rode daily, and her mind was quick. But her face looked older than her years; her skin was dry and wrinkled by the sun. She’d shunned hats, saying she preferred the wind in her hair, the sun against her face. “Perhaps Alex can tell us more in the next few days. He reads people well.”
“Don’t depend on her to side with you, Sarah,” Cullen warned. “She won’t have the sentimental attachment that you have.”
“Don’t you count your chickens before they hatch, nephew.”
“I just want you to think about selling, Sarah. You can build a home at the resort and stare out at those rocks all day long. You can even board old Daisy there.”
Sarah glanced over toward Ross. “It wouldn’t be the same. Clementses have lived in this house for a hundred years. I don’t understand how you can even think of selling it. Your grandfather would turn over in his grave.”
“Now Sarah, you know the land is good for development.”
“With a hundred little ugly houses every eighty feet. Over my dead body. And Ross is making a profit now.”
“A damned little one.” Marc turned toward Ross. “It’s just not fair to the other members of the family. You know that.”
“I know nothing of the kind, and I don’t expect Jessica will either,” Sarah retorted. “Not if she’s a true Clements.”
The old girl really knows how to place her daggers, thought Ross. But then she’d aimed enough of them at Ross. He knew she could usually bully all the other members of the family, but not on this one issue. She was alone in this.
Her only hope was the missing heir, which is why she’d commissioned the search. They had fought her on it, but in the end she’d won. Sarah had even insisted on selecting the search firm, afraid that the others might find one that wouldn’t be diligent enough.
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