by Janet Dailey
As they walked across the park with the sun beating down on them and the wind tugging at their clothes, Lane did something he hadn't done in years—decades, maybe. Impulsively he took off his tie, unbuttoned his shirt collar, and removed his jacket, hooking it over his shoulder on his finger. It was as if a weight had been lifted from him. He felt lighter, freer—even a little younger as he directed Rachel across the street again to the futuristic Tranquility Park.
Named after the Sea of Tranquility on the lunar surface, the park was built as a Bicentennial tribute to the Apollo flights to the moon, and constructed atop the concrete deck of a multilevel underground garage. As they wandered past the reflecting pools, Lane explained some of the symbolism in the park's design, with its grassy knolls representing lunar mounds, and the fountains, ascending rockets.
"I'm told it's beautiful in the late afternoon when the angle of the sunlight hits the fountains just right and turns the water golden," he said, then admitted, "Actually, this is the first time I've ever been here."
"It's peaceful here."
"It certainly is."
She walked over to a bench and sat down, gripping the edge of the bench with her hands. "You said you wanted to talk to me about something."
"Yes." Lane joined her. "I'm sure you must have guessed that Dean's will has been read. He named me as the executor of his estate."
"I see."
"Rachel." The rest was hard for him to say, even now. "There was no mention of you in the will. Legally, you could contest it. . . and probably be awarded a third of his estate. At this time, I can't tell you what that amount might be, but—"
"No." She shook her head, her expression sadly fatalistic. "I won't do that. River Bend, the house, the horses—all that is theirs. It never belonged to me. I won't claim part of it now."
"Rachel, I'm sorry." He could tell she was hurt.
"Don't be," she insisted with a tight little smile, trying to pretend she didn't care. "I think I always knew I'd be left out. I mean, why should anything change just because he's dead?" She bowed her head. "That sounded bitter. I didn't mean for it to."
In her place, Lane thought he would have been more than bitter. Even in death, Dean hadn't publicly acknowledged her existence. "I don't want you to misunderstand me, Rachel. Your father didn't forget you. It seems that shortly after you were born, he set up an irrevocable trust fund in your name. Today, between the contributions he made into it and the accumulated interest, the fund totals over two million dollars."
"What?" She stared at him incredulously.
Lane smiled. "The exact figure is something like two million, one hundred and eighty-seven thousand dollars, plus change. The way the fund was set up, the money was to come to you when you reached the age of thirty—or in the event of his death. . . unless of course you were under twenty-one at the time."
"I can't believe it." Tears swam in her eyes, but her expression was joyful. "Daddy—Dean did that for me?"
"Yes." Moved by her poignant display, he smiled even wider, more gently. As her hands came up to cup her nose and mouth and catch the tears that spilled from the inside comers of her eyes, Lane swung away the suit jacket he'd carried and reached out to draw her into his arms. "Child," he murmured, but she felt like a woman against him.
At first, she simply let him hold her and comfortingly pat her shoulder while she cried softly. But the tears seemed to wash away some invisible wall she'd built around herself. Soon she was leaning against him, letting him support her, her face buried in the crook of his neck, her fingers clutching the front of his shirt. Lane rubbed his cheek and jaw against the silken top of her head, wondering when he'd last felt as deeply as she did. His own emotions had been buried too long in his work.
"I don't believe it." She sniffed at the tears that wouldn't stop and wiped at her nose and eyes, trying to regain her control. "He must have really loved me. Sometimes, I—" She pulled back, gazing at Lane with haunted eyes. "Is this another of his presents to buy off his guilty conscience?"
"I think he loved you very much. And, like any father, he wanted to provide you with some financial security for the day when he couldn't look after you." That much Lane believed was true, but he wouldn't speculate on whether Dean's concern had been motivated by a guilty conscience.
Maybe Dean had lavished presents on her in the past to make up for the time he couldn't spend with her. Thousands of people did that. Was that a guilty conscience or an attempt to buy a child's love? Was either one really wrong? Lane had never been a parent. He couldn't say.
"I will tell you this, Rachel. He wouldn't have been much of a father if he hadn't taken steps to provide for your future."
"He was good to me—always." She moved away from him a little as she finished wiping the last of the tears from her face. Then she smiled wryly at him. "I can imagine what you think of me, falling apart like that."
"I think. . . you're beautiful." And he'd never meant a statement more. Impulsively he leaned forward and lightly kissed her lips, briefly feeling their softness and tasting the salt of her tears. Then it was his turn to wonder what she thought of him. But the look in her eyes seemed to be one of trust. He was stung by the possibility that she had regarded his kiss only as a fatherly peck.
"I'm not really sure any of this is happening to me." She shook her head vaguely. "Yesterday, I was wondering how I was going to keep both my horses. Dean always paid the boarding fees on them. I was going to look for a cheaper apartment when I got back. Now, with that much money, I can live anywhere I want, do anything I want."
"Indeed you can."
"It's staggering. I always knew Dean was wealthy, but I never dreamed I would ever have that much money. I'm not even sure what to do with it."
"What have you always wanted to do? No, seriously," Lane encouraged, observing her show of reluctance. "What's something you've always dreamed about having or doing if you had the money?"
Glancing down, she fingered her blouse. "I've always wanted to have a closet full of beautiful clothes—and a real home. But my dream. . ." She hesitated, glancing sideways at him, her self-consciousness returning. "This is going to sound silly and childish to you, Mr. Canfield."
"I'll only answer that if you call me Lane."
"Lane. Practically all my life, I've dreamed of owning an Arabian horse farm. Simoon—the filly Dean gave me—she was going to be my start. I've been saving money for the stud fee so I could breed her next year. Then I could sell the foal and use that money to buy me another broodmare, and slowly build a herd that way. I've been trying to find some land I could buy or lease, but it's all so expensive in California I can't afford it on my salary. And I never could bring myself to ask Dean to help me. He already had a farm, and, even though he never said so, I know he would have been uncomfortable if I got into the Arabian horse business, too. He knows all the top breeders everywhere in the world. How would he have explained me? And, of course, there was his family."
"You don't have to worry about any of that now. Money can't alter the past or make you happy, but it can help you to realize your wildest dreams. So go ahead and dream, Rachel. That's what it's for."
"It is, isn't it?" she mused. "Back in my apartment in L.A., I have the barn all designed for my dream farm. I mean, it's complete right down to the dimensions of the foaling stalls, the veterinary lab, the video equipment, everything—even the materials to be used in the construction."
Lane listened to her dream and remembered the way he had talked, back in the beginning when he was getting started. Those were the good days, when he'd had time to rejoice in his successes and savor the sweetness of them. Now, he was too busy. Watching her, he realized how much he missed the excitement of dreaming. He envied her the feeling.
"Have you given any thought to where you would like to build this?"
"I always assumed it would have to be California. Which is fine. Most of the major breeders are located in either California or Arizona. But where would I like to build it?"
She paused, a slight ruefulness twisting her mouth. "Dean always talked so much about Texas."
"You will have to spend quite a bit of time here—at least initially. There's going to be a considerable amount of paperwork involved in transferring the funds into your name. Naturally you're going to need someone you can trust to advise you on the best way to invest a sum that size. I'm sure there are qualified people in California who can help you, but I think your father would have wanted me to assist you in making such decisions. You don't put over two million dollars in a savings account to draw interest. You can, but it isn't wise."
"I can't even comprehend that amount," Rachel admitted. "And I would like you to advise me. I know how much Dean trusted you. And how could I be sure I'd find someone else like you? But I hate the thought of bothering you—"
"Rachel, I would be happy to do it. I would never have volunteered myself otherwise. Have we got that settled?"
"Yes." She smiled and Lane felt warmed by it.
"Now, back to your dream farm. Tell me how you would go about accomplishing it." He encouraged Rachel to expound on her plans, enjoying the animation in her face, the free play of expression, and the total absence of the air of reserve behind which she'd hidden her feelings earlier.
"To start with, I'd like to find three or four really good mares," she began. "Ideally, I'd buy older broodmares—twelve or thirteen years old probably—proven producers. That way I could have better quality mares for a lower price. Even though their most productive years would be over, I could still hope to get three, maybe more good foals from them. If I could be lucky enough to buy broodmares already in foal, I'd have the choice the following year of selling the foals as weanlings to start generating an income or keeping the really good ones to build my own herd."
She continued to talk, telling him all her plans, her breeding theories, and her ambitions. Occasionally Lane would insert a comment or question, but mostly he just listened. For one so young, in his eyes, she had impressive knowledge of horses and various bloodlines. Then he remembered the way Abbie had talked, and decided that maybe it wasn't so surprising after all. Like father, like daughter.
"Look at the fountains." Rachel halted in surprise to stare at the molten-gold cascading water. "Have we talked that long?"
"We must have." Lane was surprised that he'd so completely lost track of time, as well. Appointments usually made him a prisoner of the clock. Yet he hadn't glanced at his watch once since he'd been with Rachel. He realized it was a good thing he'd told Frank to clear his calendar of all appointments this afternoon.
Rachel hastily stood up, smoothing the front of her skirt and withdrawing behind her wall of reserve again. "I'm sorry for boring you like that."
"My dear, you could never bore me." Lane straightened, reluctant to part from her. Rachel had awakened desires in him that he'd forgotten he'd ever felt. They were more than mere sexual urges, easily gratified. Their makeup was more complex, evoking a longing to arouse and please, to cherish and protect, to give and delight in the giving. Sobering feelings—all of them.
"It's kind of you to say that, Lane, but I know I did." Her lips curved faintly in a smile of regret, then she glanced down the street. "I left my car parked at the hotel."
"I'll walk you there." He swung his suit jacket over his shoulder again and curved his arm around the back of her waist, trying to keep the contact casual, as they set out of the park. "What are your immediate plans?"
"I've. . . made reservations to fly back to Los Angeles tomorrow morning." But she seemed to question whether she should cancel her plans.
"I'm sure there are plenty of things you need to take care of there as well as here. All the document signing and paperwork for the trust account can wait until next week. It isn't going to vanish between now and then."
"That's true. I could fly back here the first of the week."
"If you're short of funds, I'll be happy to advance you some money."
"No, I. . . I can use my savings. There's no reason not to now, is there?" She still seemed a little dazed by the news. "It's hard to think of myself as being rich, an heiress to a fortune."
"That's exactly what you are. Let me know what day you'll be coming back. We'll have dinner. I still haven't shown you that painting of your mother's I mentioned at lunch."
"I'd forgotten all about that."
"I hadn't." Any more than he'd forgotten what it had been like to hold her in his arms and kiss her as he'd done a little while ago. "Would you have dinner with me next week?"
"I'd like to, yes, but—"
Lane didn't want to hear another self-effacing comment about taking up his busy time. He cut in to stop her: "Then let's consider it a date," realizing that he meant it in the strictest old-fashioned sense.
"All right." She nodded in agreement, smiling faintly as if pleased, yet afraid something would happen to change it. Lane wondered how many times Dean had made a promise to her that he hadn't been able to keep. He didn't like the impression he had that Rachel was preparing herself to be disappointed. No one should be that insecure. He vowed to change that.
Chapter 10
The sound of Abbie's footsteps on the stairs disturbed the stillness that enveloped the house. There'd always been an empty feeling to it whenever her father was gone. Now that feeling would be permanent. Abbie paused near the bottom of the staircase and glanced at the closed doors to the library. They had always been kept shut when he was away.
Not needing such a reminder, Abbie ran down the last three steps and crossed the foyer to slide the doors open, then paused to stare at the neat, tidy top of his desk, not at all the way he'd left it.
This past week she'd gone through the room, cleaned out his desks—both here and at his office in the stables—and sent what few pertinent documents she'd found to Lane Canfield. But there hadn't been any letters, photographs, or mementos that pertained to his mistress and child in California. If there were any, Abbie suspected that he'd probably kept them at his law office. That was Mary Jo Anderson's province.
There had been many things to do this past week, things her mother hadn't been up to doing: notifying the accountant to send her father's records to Lane, forwarding the bills to him, cleaning out her father's drawers and closet, throwing out his old clothes and packing the rest into boxes for distribution to local charitable and religious organizations, sorting through personal articles such as jewelry and toiletries and deciding which ones to save and which ones to discard. It hadn't been easy to remove the physical traces of him from the house.
Even though they were gone now, he still haunted it. Somewhere a clock ticked, marking time against the low hum of the central air-conditioning and echoing the feeling of expectancy that permeated the house, as if any second he was going to walk through the front door. But he wasn't. . . not now, not ever!
Abbie pivoted sharply and strode across the foyer to the living room arch, letting the heels of her riding boots strike the polished boards of the heart-pine floor as hard as they wished in an attempt to chase away the ghosts—and the nagging fears.
From her chair near the bay window, her mother looked up from the stack of sympathy cards that surrounded her. "Is something wrong, Abbie?" Babs frowned quizzically.
She resisted the impulse to say yes. How could she tell her mother that, despite the fact that Rachel hadn't been mentioned in the will, and despite the fact that Lane had informed her that Dean had made separate provisions for Rachel and it was extremely unlikely she would contest the will, she still felt uneasy about it? Until the estate was actually settled, the possibility remained. And she couldn't ignore it.
"Nothing at all," she lied. "I just wanted to let you know I'm headed for the stables. I thought I might work River Breeze a little.”
"The way you came marching in here, it sounded like we were being invaded by the whole Russian army or something."
"Sorry. I'll be outside if you need me."
"Don't forget: the Richardsons are com
ing for dinner tonight at seven."
"I won't."
Abbie turned and left the room, more quietly than she'd entered it. Outside, the summer sun had begun its downward slide and the oak trees in the front yard cast long shadows across the lawn. Abbie paused in the shade of the wide veranda and turned her face toward the cool breeze that came whispering through the trees, letting its freshness calm her nerves.
A battered old pickup truck was parked in front of the stables. Abbie recognized it instantly. No other truck was in such sorry shape in the entire county. Her father used to joke that rust was the only thing holding it together. It belonged to Dobie Hix, who owned the neighboring farm to the west of them. Abbie smiled wryly, guessing that his brand-new pickup was probably parked in his garage. He rarely drove it, except to town. He didn't want to get it all beaten up bouncing over the rutted lanes to his fields, so he drove the old one most of the time.
Ever since Abbie could remember, he'd always been like that: buying something new, then never using it until it was old. It didn't matter that he could probably afford ten new trucks. Between the land he owned and the acreage he leased, he farmed close to fifteen hundred acres. More than once Abbie had heard her mother insist that Dobie was tighter than the bark on a tree with his money. His tightfisted hold on a dollar had become almost a standing joke in the area. Abbie had laughed about it once or twice herself, but never in front of him.
She wondered what he was doing here at River Bend. He sold them the hay they used to feed the horses, but the hay shed was practically full. Her curiosity aroused, Abbie headed over to the stables.
As she neared the breezeway, she saw Ben standing in its shade, talking with Dobie. "I am certain you have nothing to worry about, Mr. Hix."
"I figured that." Dobie nodded his head in agreement, the rolled brim of his straw cowboy hat bobbing up and down with the motion. As usual, he was dressed in an old pair of faded Levi's, a plaid shirt, and a leather belt with his name stamped in fancy letters across the back of it. "I've always known Lawson was good for it. It's just—" He spied Abbie and halted in midsentence. "Hello, Abbie." Quickly he swept off his hat and self-consciously ran his fingers through his fine strawberry-blond hair, trying to comb it into some kind of order.