Inheritance

by Judith Michael

  He yanked out the drawer and set it on the floor. There was a crack at the back; the envelope he had been tugging had been stuck there. He pulled it free and pondered a way to find a hidden compartment. He opened the doors flanking the kneehole opening and peered inside with his flashlight. At the back of one of them was a removable panel, held with four brass screws.

  Beyond the window he saw the first pale light of dawn. His heart pounding, he used a small screwdriver he kept in his pocket to remove the screws and lift out the panel. But there was no hidden compartment: the panel was simply an access for repairing the desk. One envelope lay at the bottom of the narrow opening, nothing else. Goddam it, I wasted all this time, he thought, and was about to put back the panel when he saw the name written on the envelope. Laura Fairchild.

  He snatched it up. It was thick, a long document of some kind, and Laura's name was written in a bold, sloping handwriting he recognized as Owen's. This must be Owen's desk after all, he thought— and this is the letter he wrote her, the one she couldn't find. It must have slipped through the crack in the drawer. And it's been hidden since he died.

  The room was growing brighter, and Qay's heart was pounding in his ears. He hated the daylight. He was taking too long. He tucked the letter into the inside pocket of his jacket, replaced the four brass screws, returned tibe papers and envelopes and the eelskin wallet to the drawer, and slid it into place. He made a quick survey of the room. Everything neat; everything in order. Carrying his artist's case, he sped down the stairs to the entrance, careftiUy reset the alarm, and slipped through the front door, locking it behind him.

  A car passed; he flattened himself against the door until it

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  was out of sight. He checked the street to right and left, then strode the long block to Lexington, past stUl-sleeping houses. At the comer, a taxi was approaching. He casually hailed it and was driven away.

  When the family left for the summer compound at the Cape at the beginning of July, Leni agreed to come, too. Felix had insisted, angry with her and alarmed, and Allison had made wistful comments about how little any of them saw her now that she spent most of her time in New York. And so she agreed. She knew she had to talk to Felix sometime; she had been avoiding him ever since her talk with Ben at the Plaza six months earlier.

  Six months of seeing as little of him as possible, after more than a year of refusing to share his bedroom. It had been a long time since she bothered with excuses; she simply told him she wasn't interested. She wondered how long he would contain whatever rage he felt. He was consumed with the company. There were problems with the board, especially pressures on him to sell some of the hotels to increase their working capital; they'd been overextended for some time. More important, he had been forced to contain his fiiry at Ben since Judd's birth—his certainty that Ben had tricked him and would destroy him if he did not destroy Ben first—while, at the same time, the two of them worked together every day, with as few words as possible, on the building of two new SaUnger hotels.

  Of course, Felix told Leni none of this; she learned it from Ben and Thomas. Felix told her almost nothing; she told him even less. And if he could see a difference in her since she had begun spending as much time in Wes Currier's apartment as at her own Manhattan town house, he did not say so. She doubted he saw it: it had been a long time since he really saw her. Leni thought he probably still thought of her as she was when he took her away from Judd.

  "I'd forgotten how beautiful it is here," she said to Allison at breakfast. It was the weekend of the Fourth of July, and the upper Cape was so crowded that the residents of Osterville stayed home, entertaining each other. Wearing shorts and polo shirts, Allison and Leni had brought coffee and croissants to

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  the lawn outside the big kitchen of Leni*s house, and they sat there, watching Judd take his first tottering steps, between a wrought-iron bench and Alhson's lap. "I've missed the Cape and didn't know I was missing it."

  "You've been very busy in New York."

  Leni sighed. "A sarcastic daughter makes a mother feel like a failure."

  Allison laughed. "You don't at all; you think I've turned out very well. I'm sorry I was sarcastic, it's just that I've missed you. Have you been loving New York or walhting to stay out of Boston?"

  "Both."

  Allison looked at her keenly. "You're having a good time."

  "Yes. I did in Paris, too. I didn't tell you very much about Paris."

  "You told us all about it. What did you leave out?"

  **What Laura and I talked about."

  Instinctively, Allison looked behind her, to the kitchen where Laura had worked, memories flooding her, mixing love and loss and anger. She turned back and then Judd was there, crowing in triumph as he fell into her arms. She caught him and kissed him, nuzzling his soft cheek and neck before setting him on his feet again. She picked up her mug of coffee. "You said you talked about her hotels and you told her you thought we might have been too hasty. You said she's very beautiful and still angry at us."

  "And she challenged me to stay in one of her hotels and see what it was like. And I accepted."

  Allison stared at her. "Why didn't you tell me? Are you going to? Maybe I'll come with you."

  "I already have. I stayed there a couple of months ago. And I didn't tell you, because I didn't want it to look like an invasion of the Salingers; I wanted to go alone."

  "And what did you find?" Ben asked. They looked up sharply, shading their eyes against the sun.

  "My light-footed husband," Allison said gaily. "We didn't hear you."

  'Tennis shoes," he said, leaning down to kiss her, then kissing Leni's cheek. "I had an early game with Thomas. I'm leaving for the city as soon as I dress, but first I want to hear the end of Leni's story."

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  "Did you hear she stayed in one of Laura's hotels?"

  "Yes. Which one?"

  "New York," Leni rephed. "Ben, it's an extraordinary place."

  "Tell me." He sat down and poured coffee from the thermos i Allison had beside her, then held out his hand as Judd came up ir: to them. "By God, look at this! Next he'll be jogging around the yard." He held Judd to him, resting his cheek on his son's soft blond hair. "How's my boy?" he asked softly. "Good on his feet, I see. That's what you'll need all your life, Judd, to be quick on your feet. Remember that." He set him to walking again, then turned to Leni. *Tell me," he repeated.

  She described the rooms, the services, the personal attention. She had given a dinner party one night, for ten—Currier had been there, but she did not mention him—and she had made various requests for services over the three days that had been unfailingly satisfied. "Either they have better training than any other hotel I've ever stayed in or the whole staff has been hypnotized. But it's more than the staff; it's the atmosphere—though I suppose the staff plays the biggest part in that, too."

  Ben nodded. He felt proud of Laura, and envious. Leni had never raved about any of the Salinger hotels she had stayed in, even after he'd started working for the company and, he thought, improving them. It occurred to him that this was the perfect time to tell them the truth about him and Laura: while they were admiring her and Leni was remembering talking to her in Paris.

  "I wish she could work for us," Leni was saying. "With us, I mean; how fooUsh to think she'd ever work for us again. Or for anyone. I wrote to her after I left, thanking her and telling her what a lovely time it had been, and I suggested that we might think about working together some day, but she never answered. I'm sure she still hates us, and of course we still don't know what to think of her, do we? Felix won't even let anyone mention her name. I find it all very confusing, even after all these years. Such a pity that it's so hard to forget the past . . ."

  Ben stood. This was not the time for the truth. He wasn't sure the time ever would come. He'd waited too long; now he

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  would have to e
xplain his silence as well as everything else. "I'm going to shower," he said, reaching down and scooping up his son. "I'll see you soon, young man. Take care of your mother, she*s very special. I love you." He leaned down once again to Allison. "And I love you." He sat Judd in Allison's lap and crossed the terrace to the house.

  Leni and Allison looked at each other. "Protect it," Leni said softly. "What you and Ben have is so wonderful ... I wish I had better advice to give you, but I haven't. Just, understand how wonderful it is so you can protect it and keep it strong."

  "I wish you had something like it," Allison said boldly. She had never asked her mother about her marriage.

  "So do I." The sun was hot and the air barely stirred; Leni locked through the trees at the ocean, an expanse of deep blue speckled with white sails and small, colorful windsurfers. She felt relaxed and comfortable, less like a mother, more like a friend. Perhaps it was because she and Allison were both mothers now, perhaps because Allison was noore sure of herself tban before, and more serene: happy enough to enjoy a friend she had known all her life. Whatever it was, Leni found herself able to talk to Allison without the fear she had had in the past that, if her daughter knew she was unhappyy she might be scarred for life and never able to make a happy marriage of her own. "I married for the wrong reasons," she said. "And stayed married for the wrong reasons: because it was the thing to do, because I couldn't think of good alternatives, because I was afraid. And then Felix wanted it so much."

  **Wanted what?"

  "Marriage. Marriage to me."

  "Not just . . . you? He didn't want you for yourself?"

  Leni smiled faintly. "I doubt that he would understand the qoestioii. He wanted me because I stood for something, some idea of style he thought was essential. He wanted me because it was important to him to have possessions that odier men admiied, and I was frequently admired. He wanted me because I was in love with someone he despised and, I think, in an odd way, feared."

  **VifeK you? You never told me any (tf tins. Who was it?**

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  "Oh, it was so long ago. We all love when we're young and then marry others. Allison, would it bother you if I divorced Felix?"

  "It doesn't seem that it would make much difference, does it? You've really left him already; you're hardly ever with him. You haven't talked to him about it?"

  "No. I keep putting it off. I just don't want to have anything to do with him, even getting a divorce. I want to be divorced but not go through the process, and I can almost pretend, as long as I'm not with him . . . Well, that's shameful, I know; I'm not proud of it, but besides having to deal with it, there are his rages. . . ."

  "But you've lived with him so long. How come all of a sudden you don't want to have anything to do with him? He hasn't changed, has he? He seems the same to me, more wrapped up in business maybe, but that's about all."

  Leni struggled with the words that were waiting to be said. But she couldn't say them. There was no reason for Allison ever to know about Judd and what Felix had done to him. "Maybe I feel I finally know him in a way I never did before. Or maybe I'm angry at myself for letting so many years go by without doing anything. You know, my dear—^" Judd lurched to her this time, and she held him in her arms, close, warm, smelhng of fresh grass and sununer. Feeling his silken skin beneath her lips, she wanted to weep for what was lost.

  "What?" Allison asked.

  Leni set Judd on the grass again, but he shook his head; he was through walking. He sat in front of her and picked up a wooden toy, solenmly trying to chew it to bits. "Something happens in a marriage," she said slowly. "Not to everyone, of course, but to so many women . . . after a while they start to look beyond their marriage, or around it, for whatever happiness they can make. It's as if their marriage becomes a fact of life, like nearsightedness or deafness, that has to be endured and adapted to. It's not crippling, but it prevents some things from ever happening. And tfiey accept that. They know what they have isn't the best—it may not even be very good—but it's become part of them; they've gotten used to skirting it and looking past it, and they've never been taught to think of a life that doesn't include marriage. And the years go by. That's not

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  something to be proud of, but it explains a lot of my generation. I think it's less true of yours."

  "But what would change that?" Allison asked softly, feeling closer to her mother than she ever had before.

  "Sometimes nothing. But sometimes some kind of spaik starts a conflagration, and then marriage— this marriage, this fact of life—becomes intolerable."

  "And she leaves."

  "Usually."

  "But if there's been a sparic, or if something's been building between the two of you, then he must know, don't you think? Do you . . . when you're together ... do you— '*

  "Sleep together? No. I can't. Of course he knows something is terribly wrong, worse than it's ever been between us, but I think he's avoiding it, too. To keep it from being final."

  "Poor Daddy," Allison mused, and Leni winced, feeling the first stab of jealousy that parents feel when a child shows love or sympathy for the one they're divorcing. "I think he tried, don't you? He just never knew how to love us the way we wanted to be loved."

  "Probably." They sat in silence, watching Judd, breathing the fresh sea-scented air so rich it was like wine after the acrid air of Boston and New York.

  "Leni," Ben said from the doorway. The two women turned. His voice was tight, and he was very pale.

  "What is it?" Allison cried. "What's wrong?"

  **The police just called. Your house was robbed last night. They—"

  "No!" Allison exclaimed. "I don't believe it!"

  "Oh, God." Leni closed her eyes. "I hate this. I hate it, I hate it. . . ." She looked at Ben. "Do they know what was taken?'*

  **The Rouaults in the library. They want you to check and see if anything else is missing. Thank God you weren't there; that's the main thing. It doesn't matter what was taken, but you might have been hurt."

  Leni frowned. "Whoever they are, they know something about art: those were the most valuable things in the house. But how did they get in? What about the alarm?**

  "No one knows. The housekeeper was the one who called

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  the police; the alarm was set when she arrived this morning, and they checked it and found it working."

  "Impossible," Leni said. "Anyone going near the stairs would have set it off."

  "I know. Are you going to New York?"

  "It seems I have to." She stood, looking ruefully at Allison. "We've been through this before, haven't we?"

  "It's not fair," Allison exclaimed. "Thieves ought to keep records and pass them around so they all know who's been robbed and they can pick somebody new after that. It's so awfiil!" she burst out, looking at Judd, thinking of him asleep and vulnerable. "Breaking into someone's home— "

  "How did they break in?" Leni asked Ben.

  "The police don't think they did. There's no sign of it."

  "You mean they had a key?"

  "Something like it."

  "I don't believe it. None of us has ever lost one." She sighed. "Allison, I'm so sorry; we were having such a lovely talk. I'll try to be back tomorrow."

  But it was a week before Leni was back at the Cape. She went through the rooms of her house and dozens of drawers and closets; she watched the pohce dust for fingerprints and look in the garden for footprints; she called a stop to their questioning of her housekeeper before she became hysterical, and then questioned her herself, more gently, and, she thought, equally thoroughly, and had no reason to suspect her. And when it was all done, she found nothing missing but the three Rouaults. Owen's old desk looked as if it had been searched, but it didn't seem that anything had been taken; her wallet and the money inside were still there. And the safe looked untouched; of course, there was nothing in it, but still it was good to know it had not been forced open.
<
br />   Nothing had been forced. The house looked serene and protected. Still, Leni talked to her neighbors, and jointly they hired a watchman to patrol the stretch of houses along that side of the street, from eight at night to six the next morning. Currier was in Europe, and she called him to tell him what had happened and what she was doing.

  "Locking the bam door," she said wryly. "But I do feel better having a watchman here."

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  "So do I. Did the agency give you his references?**

  "Yes, he seems fine."

  "If you need help checking them, call my assistapt. He can do the telephoning for you. And make sure the agency notifies the police; sometimes they don't get around to it for a week or two. And of course the neighbors across the street should be told.**

  "Yes, they should. Thank you. I hadn*t thought of that.** She smiled. He almost always found a way to make himself central to the things she did and then dominate them by making decisions or suggestions she couldn*t ignore. But she didn*t resent it; in fact, she was beginning to count on it. For more than half her life she had been accustomed to a man who didn*t care what she did or what she thought, as long as she was available when he wanted her. What a novelty, she thought, as she had thought once before about Currier, to find a man who wants to take care of me. At my age, I deserve it.

  She wondered if at some point she might find him overbearing. Possibly, she thought. But after more than twenty-eight years with Felix, it could be a long time before I feel that way about Wes.

  They saw each other that summer in a house he had rented in Maine, but most of the time Leni was at the Cape. It was made easier for her by Felix's spending the summer in Boston, except for a few weekends, and those were the ones Leni spent with Currier. Wherever they were, the New York police kept in touch with them, but only to say they had no leads. Felix was bitter. "Someone has it in for us; nobody gets robbed twice.**