Inheritance

by Judith Michael

  "She's right." Paul put his arm around her shoulders. "Shall we go to Damton's for our honeymoon? Or would you prefer Africa?"

  She smiled. "Are those the only choices?"

  "I thought of London and Paris and Rome but everyone goes there— "

  "I don't."

  He stopped walking. "I'm sorry; you've never been to Europe; of course that's where we should go."

  "No, you choose a place you want. I really don't care, but I would like to see Europe someday."

  "You'll see everything, my love. I'll make everything yours." They walked on, silent in the hazy sun that made their shadows long, thin figures trailing lazily behind them. Clusters of students and young executives coming home from work filled the sidewalks, but they barely noticed; they walked in a circle of silence, golden and dreamlike, until they were once more at Paul's building. But as they climbed the stairs to his apartment, the telephone was ringing, and when Paul answered it Laura could hear Rosa's voice, crying, saying over

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  and over, "Mr. Owen . . . Mr. Owen ..." and she knew he must be dead.

  "No," Leni said as soon as they arrived at the hospital. "Not dead. But he had a massive stroke, and Dr. Bergman thinks he might not last the—^" She bit off her words, as if saying them might make them true.

  "Can we see himT* Paul asked. "We'll just look in the door . . ."

  Leni was shaking her head. "They're not letting anyone in. Anyway, he's unconscious; he has been since Rosa found him . . ."

  The waiting room was crowded with family members who arrived as they heard the news and then, as the hours passed, came and went, bringing food and coffee, trying to read magazines, murmuring about Owen and how frail he'd looked lately and how they should have taken him to the Cape early this year. Every hour, Dr. Bergman stopped by and said he had nothing new to tell them. But at midnight, he said Owen was stable. "We don't know the extent of the damage; we'll know better in a day or two. I think you should all go home and get some sleep. We may be in for a long stretch."

  "I want to see him," Felix said flatly.

  Leni put her hand on his arm. "We'll be back early in the morning. I'm sure we can see him then."

  "Perhaps," the doctor said, and the next morning he did let Leni and Felix spend a few minutes beside Owen's bed. He seemed to be strung up with wires and tubes, and Felix kept repeating, "Terrible, terrible"; he could not believe this was his dominating father, this frail-looking figure lying like a puppet with strings hanging lax all around him. But part of Felix's shock was a dizzying wave of anticipation so powerful he felt he could barely stand up. He had been expecting his father's death for a long time—any son would, he told himself, with a father over eighty—but the years had passed and Owen had begun to seem eternal. Everyone still saw him as the head of the Salinger family and the head of Salinger hotels, though for years Felix had been president and fully in charge, even when his father appeared at the office and asked questions or participated in executive meetings. But now

  Judith Michael

  Owen was dying. Felix knew it; this time he was certain, and the certainty unleashed all his expectations with a force so overwhelming it was almost more Uian he could bear.

  He could not show it; he had to share the others' fears and grief with a calm dignity befitting the head of a family. But inside him expectancy flowered and spread, dominating his thoughts. He was fifty-five years old and for the first time in his Uife there would be no shadow over him. Asa would do what he said; there was no one else to gainsay his decisions. Salinger Hotels Incorporated would at last bear his mark, and his alone. In every sense of the v/ord, it would finally be his.

  "Felix," Leni said. Her hand was on his arm and she was leading him out of the room, thinking he was frightened or crushed by the inescapable fact of his father's mortality.

  "I'm going to the office," he said. "I'll come back later." He left, almost scurrying, before she could respond. He had to get out of those long corridors lined with grotesque equipment, patients in wheelchairs, carts loaded with medicines, television screens with green lines peaking and undulating to show heartbeat, brainwaves, whatever they measured in that antiseptic hell. Felix was always healthy; he prided himself on his strength and energy and the force of his will that kept him calm, never losing his temper or feeling fear or panic. But he was almost running as he reached his car, and diat afternoon he called Leni at the hospital and told her there was no way he could return that day; too much depended on him at the office.

  Asa knew Owen's illness changed nothing in the daily business of the hotels, but he also stayed in the office: someone had to keep an eye on Felix.

  So the women kept vigil: Leni; Asa's wife, Carol, and their daughter, Patricia; Barbara Janssen, Allison, Laura, and, frequently, Rosa. Thomas Janssen was on an inspection tour of Salinger hotels in the Nfidwest and flew in to Boston on the weekend, but the rest of the time Paul was the only man who sat with the women in the waiting room, bringing coffee, snatching meals with them in the cafeteria, and finally, after a week, walking beside the gumey as Owen was wheeled to a private room. His uncle could not speak or move his left arm or leg, but he was conscious and not about to die.

  Two weeks later they brought him home. "As long as you

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  have twenty-four-hour nursing, he might as well be there," Dr. Bergman told Leni. "There's nothing we can do that all of you can't do, and he's probably better off in his own home. Make sure Laura spends a lot of time with him; he responds best to her."

  Laura would have been with Owen anyway: she didn't want to be anywhere else. She took an unpaid leave from her job and spent her days beside Owen's bed, reading to him, talking to him even when he made no response, describing the sunrise and the sunset, the hummingbirds in the garden, nannies who pushed baby carriages and strollers along Mount Vernon Street, boys on skateboards, young girls on bicycles, their hair flying behind them, couples with clasped hands and rhythmic footsteps on the cobblestone walk.

  And one day, in the middle of July, Owen smiled. And a few days later he began to talk.

  At first only Laura could understand the slurred and misspoken words. Then, as he grew angry at his clumsy tongue, Owen tried to form each word separately, and others were able to decipher much of what he said. Still, it was easier for Owen and the rest of the family to let Laura repeat his words in her low, clear voice, as if she were translating a foreign language. And so when he suddenly asked for a lawyer, it was Laura who called Elwin Parkinson and greeted him when he was shown to Owen's room.

  She stood up from her chair beside Owen's bed. "E>o you want me to leave?"

  "If you don't mind," Parkinson said.

  "I'll be glad to stay and help you understand— "

  **No, no. We'll get along just fine." He closed the door behind Laura and then sat in her chair and put his head near Owen's.

  "Will," Owen said. He went on, one wrenching word at a time. "Meant to change it. Didn't. Do it now."

  Showing no surprise, the lawyer took out a pencil and a pad of paper. "We can write a codicil; is that what you want? You're adding a new bequest?"

  Owen told him what he wanted. Parkinson frowned deeply, but he wrote it down; then he moved his head so he was directly in Owen's line of sight. 'This is a radical decision to

  Judith Michael

  make on short notice. It would perhaps be prudent to give it more thought; wait until you're better, more yourself— ''

  A harsh sound came from Owen's mouth and it took a minute for Parkinson to realize it was a laugh. "Don't have time. You fool. I'm dying. Last chance . . ." Suddenly his words burst out, clear and firm. "Do it!"

  "Yes, of course, if you insist. I can have it for you to sign —can you sign it?" Owen nodded. "I can have it in a week—^"

  "God—!" His face contorted with rage, Owen tried to raise himself in the bed, and Parkinson, terrified that he would die and everyone would blame the lawyer who was with him, said q
uickly, 'Tomorrow. Is that all right? I can have it for you tomorrow."

  Owen's face grew calm. Closing his eyes, he gestured toward the door.

  "Until tomorrow," Paridnson said, and scurried out. He saw Laura come down the stairs and slip into Owen's room as he left, and wondered where she had been while they talked, and whether she had overheard them. But he was in a hurry and did not pause in his rush down the stairs and past the library where he glimpsed members of the family having tea. Damned odd, he thought, as he drove back to his office through the afternoon traffic. He's had years to diink about changing his will. If he really wanted to do it, why didn't he take care of it sooner? That had always been his way, of course—take a long time to make up his mind and then rush ahead to accomplish whatever he'd decided—but he was a top-notch businessman, and he knew that important decisions should never be made in the midst of a crisis. He could barely talk, barely move, barely think straight—but still he insisted on this radical bequest to a person none of them really, even now, knew anything about. It was damned odd. One could even say it made no sense.

  For Owen Salinger's own good, Parkinson told himself solemnly, it behooves me to learn more about this young woman, before it is too late.

  The family was again at tea when Parkinson returned the next afternoon and went directly to Owen's room. Once again

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  Laura left the two men alone, and as soon as the door closed behind her, the lawyer began speaking in an urgent whisper. "Owen, I have information about that young woman—it will change your mind—it will change everything—^I've found out she has a—^"

  "Will," Owen said, the word almost strangled in his throat.

  "Yes, yes, I have it; it was finished before I got the call from New York, but you mustn't sign it—you won't want to when you know who she is— *'

  "Shut up." Owen's eyes were glaring at Parkinson, his mouth was twisted as he tried to speak through his fury. "Will. Read it."

  "Why? I'm telling you, you won't want to sign— **

  "Read!"

  Angrily, Parkinson pulled a single sheet of paper from his briefcase and read it. The instant he finished, Owen said, "Pen. Pen!"

  "Wait. Listen to me. This woman is a thief, a convicted thief; she preys on old men— "

  Owen's lips worked. "No."

  "It's true, I have the information, I spoke to a police officer in New York—"

  "No! No ... it! No .. . difference. Fool." A ragged sigh broke from him. "Witness. Get Laura."

  "I didn't understand what you said."

  "Get Laura."

  "I want to know what you—^" Paikinson saw Owen's face twist and he sucked in his breath, thinking once again that the old man was about to die. He will die, he thought, but not with me in the room. I've done my best; the hell with the rest of it. "We need someone else," he said. "A beneficiary in a will cannot be a witness to its signing. But the nurses will do. If you'll wait just a minute . . ." He crossed the hall and brought them back.

  "I've asked you to listen to me," he said rapidly to Owen. "I've done my best to make you listen. No one can blame me—" He saw Owen's eyes and clutching fingers. "Yes, yes, yes." He placed a pen in Owen's fingers.

  "Help ..." Owen gasped, and the nurses lifted him to a sitting position high enough to see the document Parkinson

  Judith Michael

  held on a book on the mattress. Owen wrote, his sloping handwriting barely recognizable in the shaky scrawl he left on the bottom line. Then he gave a long sigh that was almost a moan. "Neariy missed," he said with a shadow of a grin at Parkinson as the nurses signed as witnesses. "Last victory." He closed his eyes. "Laura," he whispered.

  "I did warn you," Paricinson said through tight lips. He slipped the document into an envelope and returned it to his briefcase. "I hope someone believes that."

  "Laura," Owen whispered again. One of the nurses was arranging the blankets and the other was unrolling the cuff to take his blood pressure as Parkinson left the room.

  He found Laura on the landing, near the door. "He wants you," he said shortly. At the cold anger in his voice, she looked at him with startled eyes. "He's a sick man," he snapped, but as he said it he saw Laura's eyes change; there was a sadness in them so deep he almost felt sorry for her. But he caught himself. More likely she was just waiting for him to leave.

  "Good-bye," Laura said and went into Owen's room, closing the door behind her. The nurse was rolling up the blood pressure cuff; both of them left as Laura sat beside the bed. "He's a peculiar little man," she said to Owen's closed eyes. "He seems to be angry atx>ut something. Did you shout at him?"

  Without opening his eyes, Owen made the sound that Laura knew was a laugh and held out his hand. She clasped it between hers and he gave a shght nod.

  "Do you want to take a nap?"

  He nodded again. She rose and pulled the heavy velvet drapes across the windows overiookmg the walled rose garden. The room was dark and somber. "Do you want me to stay?"

  "Here."

  She sat beside the bed. "What would you like?"

  'Tell you." His eyes were still closed, his face ashen. "Dearest Laura. Left you a . . . little something ... in ... my will."

  Laura's eyes filled with tears. "Don't talk about it. You're getting better. I saw you move your other hand this mom-ing—

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  "No." He opened his eyes and it was as if he were looking at her from deep within himself. "Love you, my child. Gave me such joy." Laughter trembled in his throat. "Sometimes . . . wished I was Paul. Paul's age. So much love."

  Laura was crying. "Don't go. I love you, Owen. I'll take care of you, I'll make you well, I promise. I love you. Don't leave me, there are things I want to tell you . . . please, please don't go . . ."

  Her head was bent over him, and Owen raised his hand and touched her tears. His fingers rested on her wet cheek. "Dearest Laura. Finish . . . our plans. Yours now. I wish ... I could see . . . them . . ." His eyes closed. ". . . finished." His fingers slipped down her cheek. Laura grasped his hand before it could fall and took it between hers. She kissed it and held it against the tears that streamed unchecked down her face.

  "You gave me my life," she said through her sobs. Her head drooped until her lips brushed Owen's still face and felt the irregular, frail breaths that barely stirred his mustache. "Everything I am. You made me proud of myself. I didn't thank you enough; I didn't even tell you the truth about myself so you'd know how much you did for me. I wanted to tell you; I want to tell you now . . , can you hear me? You gave me my life; you're part of it; part of me . . . Please say you can hear me; I haven't thanked you enough, I haven't made you understand how much you did and what it means to me . . ."

  The room was hushed and dark. Laura wept, her tears falling onto Owen's cheeks so that he seemed to be crying, too. "I love you," Laura whispered at last. "I know you can hear me, because we can always hear when someone gives us love. Can't we? Dearest Owen, I love you.'*

  The next day, without awakening, Owen Salinger died.

  Chapter 10

  FELIX was in his office when Parkinson called. "I've been trying to speak to you for three days—even today, in the cemetery—but I felt uncomfortable about discussing business there."

  "My secretary says you told her it's something about my father's will," Felix said impatiently.

  "More accurately, it's about Laura Fairchild."

  Felix sat straighter. "What about her?"

  "I'd rather tell you in person. I can be there in half an hour."

  "Just give it to me now."

  Parkinson felt a flash of longing for Owen's old-world courtesy. Briefly he considered telling Felix what he thought of him. But he knew that would be unwise: the Salinger account was vastly bigger than El win Paricinson's pride. "Well, then. She has a record, in New York, for theft. She and her brother Clay."

  *Theft," Felix repeated tonelessly. "When?"

  "Seven years ago. She was fifteen; her brother was f
ourteen."

  "And the parents?*'

  "According to the police report they were killed in an autotruck accident the year before. It isn't clear who was their guardian; most likely their aunt. They were released in her custody after the arrest. Melody Chase."

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  "What?"

  "I know it sounds improbable, but that was the name I was given."

  "Probably a fake. What else?"

  "Two years later, when she was seventeen, she was named in a will filed for probate—a bookseller named Hendy. He left her ten books."

  "Anything else?"

  "I wouldn't treat that lightly; it may be significant, especially if the books had value."

  "Why?"

  "Because the day before he died your father changed his will; he added—"

  "He what?"

  "He added a codicil leaving two percent of Salinger Hotels Incorporated and one hundred percent of the Owen Salinger Corporation to Laura Fairchild."

  "Two percent? To that woman? You knew he was going to do this and you didn't tell me?"

  "A lawyer doesn't talk about his client's decisions to others."

  "Not others, you damned fool! His son! What the fuck were you thinking about, letting him do this? Are you out of your mind? His corporation, too? With those four hotels?"

  "And his house on Beacon Hill."

  "Goddam son of a bitch! He broke up his estate? And you didn't try to stop him?"

  "I did try—"

  "Not very hard! Not hard enough!" Felix felt as if his in-sides were twisted into knots; his stomach was taut, his teeth clenched. "He was mad."

  "I don't think so; he knew he wanted to sign it; he even argued with me about it. And he knew it had to be witnessed; he forced me to bring in the nurses. His mind was very clear." Parkinson paused; it was time to make himself indispensable to FeUx. "However, I did have a feeling—^"