by Janet Dailey
When Lane paused, Abbie sensed he was looking at her, probably seeing the striking resemblance again. She hoped he didn't expect her to say anything, because she couldn't. The muscles in her throat were so achingly tight, she couldn't even swallow.
As the silence threatened to lengthen, Abbie realized Lane was leaving it up to her to break it. "And Momma—when did she find out? About his other child, I mean."
"I'm not sure, probably a couple of years after you were born. With all the trips Dean was making to Los Angeles, she became suspicious that he was seeing Caroline again. When she confronted him, he told her about Rachel. How much, I don't know. I do know he promised Babs he would never leave her, even though he was deeply in love with Caroline and intended to visit her and Rachel whenever he could. I'm sure your mother didn't like it, but she accepted the situation. After all, she was desperately in love with him, too." Lane paused, a frown gathering on his forehead. "By that, I don't mean to imply that Dean didn't have any feelings for her. He did care about Babs very much."
"If that's true, then he wouldn't want her hurt any more than she's already been. I hope you'll agree that there isn't any reason for Momma to see the entire contents of the will if it can be avoided. She has suffered enough, I think. Surely as the executor of Daddy's will you can arrange that."
"To a degree. However, the will has to be filed with the probate court. It will be a matter of public record."
"I see," she said tightly.
"I'm sorry, Abbie."
"I know. Everybody always is." She couldn't help sounding cynical and a little bitter. That was the way she felt.
"Abbie," Lane began, "I hope you can appreciate how difficult, mentally and emotionally, it must have been for your father. He was in an extremely awkward situation and he handled it the best way he could. It's the most natural thing in the world for a father to want to love and protect his children, and to spare them from unnecessary hurt. And it's just as natural that he would want to provide for them in the event anything should happen to him."
"What about. . . Caroline?" Abbie questioned, only now struck by the possibility that she, too, might be one of his beneficiaries.
"She died several years ago—from an aneurysm, I believe."
Several years ago. "I see," was all that was left for her to say. A misting of tears blurred her vision as she lightly stroked the stallion's soft nose. "I appreciate your frankness, Lane. You'd probably better go to the house now before Momma starts wondering what's keeping you."
"Aren't you coming?"
"I'll be there soon."
The stallion attempted to pull away from her again, but Abbie kept him there until Lane had walked away. Then she let him go and watched him, her father's favorite, as he galloped around the small pen and stopped at the far end to call to the mares in the pasture, his sleek body quivering in anticipation. But his love call went unanswered.
Abbie turned and walked blindly away from the stallion run that butted up to the stud barn. The gray filly nickered plaintively to her, but Abbie's misery was so great she was unaware of the horse. She felt the tears coming and had to find a place where she could be alone and cry.
She sought refuge in the building that housed a reception area for visitors as well as the manager's office, the tack room, and her father's private office. Attached to the main stable by a breezeway that her grandfather had always called a dogtrot, it commanded a view of the stables, the stud barn, and the pastures. A black wreath hung on the door. Another time Abbie would have been moved by the gesture of the stable help to show their grief over her father's passing, but she didn't even look twice at it as she pushed through the door and headed directly to her father's private office, pulled by memories of the times she'd spent with him there. . . memories that now seemed so false.
Once inside, she closed the door and leaned against it to look around the room, her throat tight, her chin trembling. Sunlight, filtered by the pecan trees outside, streamed through the window onto the richly paneled walls covered with trophies, framed photographs, and show ribbons. A heavy oak desk sat in front of the window, strewn with papers, notes, and breeding charts. To the right of it stood antique file cabinets that contained the papers, pedigrees, and breeding files for every horse at River Bend. Behind the glass doors of the corniced and columned oak bookcase, shelves held books on equine ailments, horse husbandry, and genetics. Along the near wall stretched a chesterfield sofa upholstered in Madeira-brown leather and trimmed with brass nailheads. Partners to it were the wing chair and ottoman.
Abbie walked around to the big leather armchair behind the desk and ran her hand over the hollow curved into the headrest. She remembered how hard she had tried to please her father—to make him proud of her. Abruptly she turned away from his chair, fighting the writhing anger and hurt inside.
She almost regretted asking Lane to tell her about her father and Caroline. Before, she'd at least had her illusions. Now she didn't even have those. But she had asked for the truth and she got it. It wasn't Lane's fault that it wasn't what she'd expected.
She thought he'd tell her that it had been some cheap, meaningless affair; that her father had made a regrettable mistake he'd had to pay for for the rest of his life; that some tramp had tricked him into getting her pregnant then blackmailed him with the child; that. . . somehow, he'd been trying to protect the family honor and spare them his shame.
Instead, she'd heard a story of tragic love—of two people from different worlds, deeply and passionately in love with each other, but destined to remain apart—and the child born from that love.
No wonder she'd never been the daughter he wanted. She was the wrong one. All she'd ever been was a look-alike stand-in, a double, right down to having the same birthday.
Abbie longed to scream and release all the pain she felt inside, but what would that change? Nothing—nothing at all.
With hands and teeth clenched, she moved away from the desk and fought to convince herself that she didn't care that he hadn't loved her. She wasn't a child anymore. She didn't need his love. But Abbie didn't think she could ever forget—or forgive him for—the years of deception. As a hot tear rolled down her cheek, she blinked to clear her burning eyes, and wondered how she could have been so naïve all this time.
On the wall in front of her was an old photograph of her grandfather, R. D. Lawson, taken at the Scottsdale Arabian Horse Show the year he died. He stood there beside the two-year-old gray filly, River Wind, named Champion Filly of the Scottsdale Show—the dam of Abbie's filly, River Breeze. A Stetson hat concealed the iron gray of his hair, but it didn't hide the proud smile that wreathed his face and softened its hard angles. The picture showed a robust man who carried his years well.
As Abbie stared at the photograph, memories came flooding back. She was finally forced to admit that she hadn't been blind to what had gone on all these years: she had simply refused to see it. Innumerable incidents had contained clues, but she had ignored them all.
She remembered the last time she'd seen her grandfather alive. He'd gone to the airport to see them off on what Abbie regarded as a family vacation. In actuality, it had been combined with a business trip her father was taking to check on the company's overseas offices and to look over Arabian breeding stock in other countries for possible purchase and importation. She had been all of eight years old at the time, so the reasons for the trip hadn't mattered to her. They were going: Abbie, her parents, and their black maid, Justine, brought along to look after Abbie.
Chapter 7
London was the first stop on their overseas tour. Abbie, with her boundless energy, fueled by excitement, didn't suffer from jet lag and didn't understand why the first full day of their vacation in a new city had to be spent so quietly. She wanted to go out and explore this town where people drove on the wrong side of the road and talked so funny she could hardly understand them. She wanted to ride on one of those red double-decker buses and see the palace where the queen lived.
&nb
sp; "Babs, why do I have the feeling she is going to hound us until we agree to do something?" Dean caught hold of Abbie's hands and forced her to stand still in front of his chair.
One look at her father's tolerantly amused smile and Abbie knew she had him. "Ben says it's because I'm just like my grandpa. I won't quit no matter what."
"Ben just may be right," Dean conceded, aware that at times, his daughter's persistence bordered on sheer bullheadedness—a trait tempered by a naturally warm and outgoing nature. Not at all like the shy and sensitive Rachel, Dean thought, recalling the way she watched him with those haunting blue eyes of hers. Rarely did they sparkle and dance the way Abbie's did now.
"Ben's always right," she announced pertly.
"Most of the time, anyway." Affectionately he tweaked her nose, then glanced over at Babs, still clad in her Italian palazzo pajamas, and propped up with a cushion of pillows on the sitting-room sofa. "Let's take the child for a walk, Babs. The fresh air and sunshine will do us good."
"I doubt it, honey." She groped for the cup of coffee sitting on the end table, the last that remained from the late morning breakfast they'd had served in their hotel suite. "This is worse than the mornings after one of the MacDonnells' barbecues. My eyes feel like a pair of peeled grapes full of pits. And I know I must weigh two hundred pounds, as heavy as I feel."
"If she's gained that much weight, then she really does need to exercise, doesn't she, Daddy?" Abbie grinned slyly.
"She certainly does."
"I have a better idea," Babs said, pausing to take a slow sip of her coffee. "You and Abbie go for a walk and let me stay here and rest."
"No." Abbie pulled free from Dean's hands and walked over to the sofa to take the coffee cup out of her mother's hands. "You have to come with us. This is our vacation and we're supposed to have fun."
After a considerable amount of joint prodding and coaxing, an hour later the three of them were strolling down the London streets. At least, Dean and Babs were strolling. Abbie was skipping ahead, eager to experience the sights and sounds of this city that was so new to her.
Abruptly she turned and started walking backward, a perplexed look on her face. "Why isn't there any fog today? Isn't there supposed to be fog in London?"
"Not every day," Babs said. "It's like at home in Texas. Sometimes it will roll in at night, or early mornings. And sometimes it will just hover on the river, like it does on the Brazos, sneaking around the trees on the banks and spooking into the pastures."
"It gets scary then." But Abbie's eyes were bright with excitement at the thought.
"Turn around and watch where you're going before you run into somebody," Babs admonished.
"And don't get too far ahead of us," Dean added when Abbie started to take off at a run. "You'll get lost."
"Yes, Daddy." Unwillingly she slowed down.
If that was Rachel, Dean knew she'd be right at his side holding on to his hand, especially when they were at some public place with a lot of people around. She said it was because she didn't want to get separated from him, but Dean suspected that Rachel was a little too timid and insecure to venture off by herself. Abbie, on the other hand, didn't even know what a stranger was. Night and day, his daughters were, regardless of how much they looked alike.
"I forgot to tell you, Babs, before you were up this morning, I made arrangements with the concierge for a guide to take you and Abbie around London tomorrow and show you the sights. I'll probably be tied up the rest of the week handling things with the company office here."
“Abbie isn't going to be too happy about that." Neither was Babs, but she wasn't about to admit it.
"She'll have too much to see and do to notice I'm not around. Look at her." Dean smiled. "Her head's swinging from side to side like one of those dogs on the dashboard of a car."
During the next three days, Babs and Abbie took in all the must-see sights, accompanied by the unobtrusive Justine and their guide, Arthur Bigsby. They watched the ceremonial Changing of the Guard in the forecourt of Buckingham Palace, but Abbie was disappointed that she didn't get to see the queen—and she didn't think the palace was as nice as their home at River Bend, although she did concede it was bigger. She was impressed by the glittering array of Crown Jewels and royal regalia at the Tower of London. She argued with Arthur when he tried to tell her Big Ben was the large bell in the Clock Tower of the Houses of Parliament in Westminster. Everyone in Texas knew Big Ben was the clock.
Westminster Abbey was all right. She couldn't imagine why anybody would want to be buried in a church, especially kings. That's what cemeteries were for. She fed the pigeons in Trafalgar Square and laughed when one sat on her head.
When they met Dean for lunch, her array of observations and the questions they raised was endless. Why wasn't there a circus at Piccadilly Circus? Why did they call cookies biscuits? Why did they call supper high tea? If there was high tea, what was low tea?
Dean finally pointed at her plate and said, "Eat."
"Poor Arthur should have tried that," Babs said. "She absolutely wore the man out. And me, too."
"Well, tomorrow will be different. I thought we might drive down to Crabbet Park and look at their Arabians."
"Really, Daddy? Are we honest and truly gonna go there tomorrow?" Abbie asked excitedly.
"Yes. I thought we'd leave bright and early in the morning so we can spend as much time there as we want."
"You and Abbie go. When it comes to horses, I can't tell a gelding from a stallion."
"Momma, that's easy. Ben says all you have to do is—"
"Abbie, it's not polite to interrupt.” Dean tried to look stern and not laugh.
"I'm telling you, Dean, some of the things she knows would make Justine blush," Babs declared, then went on with what she had been about to say before Abbie interrupted her. "Anyway, I want to go to this boutique in Chelsea called Bazaar. Some new designer named Mary Quant has it. Her clothes are supposed to be all the rage now. I haven't had a chance to do any shopping yet."
"I'd like to go shopping," Abbie said wistfully, then quickly added, "But I'd rather go to Crabbet Park with you, Daddy."
"Is there any reason why we can't go shopping after we finish our lunch? I haven't had a chance to do any shopping either." And he wanted to send something to Rachel from England—something nice.
"I have an appointment to have my hair done," Babs said. "I can't very well cancel it if you expect me to look presentable tonight when we have dinner with your London manager and his wife."
"In that case Abbie and I will go, and meet you back at the hotel later."
A taxi dropped them off at the main entrance to Selfridge's Department Store. Usually Dean had trouble choosing something for Rachel, especially when it came to clothes; he was never sure she'd like it or whether it would fit. With Abbie along, he hoped to solve at least part of the problem.
As they entered the children's wear department, Dean spied a girl's dress in lavender-checked gingham trimmed with white lace. "Abbie, do you like that one?"
"It's okay." She wrinkled up her nose. "But I don't like lavender. Look at this blue dress, Daddy. Isn't it pretty? I'll bet it just matches my eyes."
"It sure does. Why don't you try it on? And the lavender one, too."
"Daddy," she protested at his first choice.
"For me. I want to see what you look like in it."
"Okay," she declared with an exaggerated sigh of agreement.
A few minutes later Abbie emerged from the fitting room, wearing the gingham dress. "See, Daddy." She did a slow pirouette in front of the mirror. "It doesn't do a thing for me."
Dean was forced to agree that it didn't suit her at all, yet looking at her, he could see the quiet and reserved Rachel wearing it, her dark hair tied up in a ponytail with a matching lavender ribbon. "Take that one off and try the blue one on." As Abbie disappeared into the fitting room again, he turned to the sales clerk. "I want that lavender dress, but I'd like to have it shipped, please
."
"But your daughter—"
"I'm not buying it for Abbie."
"Very good, sir. We'll be happy to ship it wherever you like."
After the blue dress, Abbie tried on a half-dozen other outfits ranging from sport clothes to party dresses. Finally she chose three that she just couldn't live without. As Dean was paying for the purchases, Abbie noticed another sales clerk wrapping the lavender gingham dress in tissue. She pulled Dean aside.
"Daddy, I told you I didn't like that dress."
"You mean the lavender one?" He pretended not to know. "I think some other little girl is getting it."
"Oh, good." She rolled her eyes ceilingward in a dramatic expression of relief. "I was afraid you were buying it for me." As the clerk handed Dean the packages and receipt, Abbie hovered at his side. "Where to next?"
"Wherever you want. Although it is getting late. Maybe we should head back to the hotel."
"But I thought you wanted to do some shopping." Her eyebrows arched together in a bewildered frown.
"I already have." He held up the packages as evidence.
"Oh, Daddy." She broke into a wide smile. "I love you."
Back at their hotel suite, Justine took charge of the packages and Abbie, and informed Dean that Mrs. Lawson hadn't returned from her beauty appointment yet. Checking his watch and mentally calculating the time difference, he walked into the master bedroom and closed the door. The telephone sat on the nightstand between the twin beds. Dean picked up the receiver and dialed the operator.
A very British voice came on the line. "May I help you?"
"Yes, ma'am. I'd like to place an overseas call to California." After supplying the needed information, Dean waited through the innumerable clicks and cracklings before finally hearing the dull ring on the other end of the line. Then, above the faint hum of static, he heard Caroline's voice. As always, it brought that same soaring lift of his spirits.
"Hello, darling." He tightened his grip on the receiver as if that could somehow bring her closer.