by Linda Hill
Treasured
Past Linda
Hill
2010
Copyright © 2000 by Linda Hill
Bella Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 10543
Tallahassee, FL 32302
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper
First edition 2000 Naiad Press.
First Bella Books edition 2004
Second Bella Books edition 2010
Editor: Lila Empson
Cover Designer: Bonnie Liss
ISBN 10: 1-59493-003-1
ISBN 13:978-1-59493-003-4
For my family—
Kate, Molly, and Maggie
Acknowledgments
Thanks to the members of my family, who continue to grow and scatter throughout the country. No matter how far away, they remain close in my heart.
Special thanks and much love to Barb and Ann, who have supported me in so many different ways over the years. Life is very full, indeed.
CHAPTER ONE
I could feel the familiar rush of adrenaline curling up my spine as the auctioneer turned to his left.
“The next item up for bid.” He paused as he peered over the glasses that slipped low on the bridge of his nose. He appeared to be having trouble focusing on the sheet of paper he held in one hand. “Item six-seventeen. Early American barrister bookcase by Stickley. Circa nineteen-twenty.”
I tried not to smile and tip my hand. Not that anyone was paying attention, of course. I knew that. But it didn’t matter. It was all part of the game.
“Shall we start the bidding at one hundred dollars?” He snapped the eyeglasses from his nose and scanned the crowd from right to left.
I waited impatiently, not taking a breath. It was part of my strategy. Be patient. Don’t bid too quickly. Don’t let the competition know that you’re interested.
“One hundred dollars? Anyone?” He was frowning now.
Dammit. If I didn’t bid now, he could pull it off the block. I raised my bid card, just enough so that he could see me.
“I have one hundred. Do I have one-fifty?” I didn’t even have a chance to breathe before he was looking back at me. “I have one-fifty. Do I have two?”
Again the rush shot through me. The bidding was on. I set my jaw and raised my bid card.
“Two hundred. Do I have two-fifty?”
Back and forth. Back and forth. I could barely nod my head before he was looking at me again, waiting for my acceptance.
“Do I have five hundred?”
Dammit. I felt a frown pulling between my eyebrows. Who in the hell was bidding against me, anyway? I didn’t want to go past six hundred dollars. It didn’t matter that the bookcase was worth twice that amount. It was the principle. The real thrill came from picking something up for far less than it was worth. If I paid full price, somehow I never loved it once I got it home.
My nod was firm.
“Five hundred. Do I have five-fifty?”
I turned my head and followed his gaze, my eyes narrowing as I tried to find my competitor. My focus lapsed, and I almost laughed. I should have known. It was her Not that I knew who she was. Only that I always seemed to run into her at these places and that we always seemed to be interested in the same items.
I watched her closely, willing her to look my way and take my challenge. She was raising a thin arm and nodding at the auctioneer.
“Do I have six hundred?”
Gritting my teeth, I raised my bid card without removing my gaze from the woman. She looked older than usual tonight, almost dowdy. Her dark hair was pulled tight behind her head and pinned up somehow. She wore a simple, short-sleeve blouse over a peasant skirt. Even from a distance, I could see her jaw working as she contemplated whether or not to raise the bid.
If she could read the thoughts that I was throwing her way, then she knew that I was daring her to do it. She knew that I would outbid her. I nearly always did.
In one motion, she made a curt nod toward the auctioneer before her eyes were on mine, her light gray eyes throwing the challenge back my way.
“Do I have seven hundred?”
Her face softened as we continued to stare. She looked tired. Dark circles lingered under those eyes.
“Six-fifty going once.” I could hear the auctioneer’s voice above the humming in my ears.
“Six-fifty going twice.”
She was almost smiling. I was sure that I could see relief spreading over her and a smile creeping to her lips.
It’s your last chance. Bid! Bid now!
I could hear my inner voice screaming, but I ignored it.
“Sold to bidder number two-seventeen.” The sound of the gavel dropping shook me, and I glanced briefly in the direction of the noise. When I glanced back, the woman was no longer looking my way. Instead she was reviewing the list of items up for bid. I stared for a while, willing her to look my way, but got nothing in return.
I was disgusted with myself. How could I have let such a gorgeous piece like that go? And for what? I stared back at the woman again. It meant nothing to her. There was no excitement on her face, no thrill of victory. Not so much as a smile or a nod or a thank-you thrown my way.
My enthusiasm was gone. I said a few excuse-me’s and made it to the nearest exit, dumping my bid card in the trash can as I passed.
CHAPTER TWO
There were times when I wished that I’d never given up my own practice, and this was one of them. It was five-thirty on a Friday afternoon, and I should have been almost home by now, getting ready for the weekend. Instead, I was sitting behind my desk, fingers drumming on my desk pad, while I waited. And waited. I was supposed to be going to my parents’ house for some sort of fund-raising dinner for their favorite charity of the month. If I didn’t leave soon I wouldn’t have time to go home and change. And at this rate, I knew I wouldn’t have time to pick up Beth.
At four-forty-five, Donald Gold had stuck his head in my office to tell me that he needed to speak with me before the day was over. In my mind, the day had been over half an hour ago. But Donald was a partner in the firm, and I knew I had no choice but to wait.
I rubbed one hand across my brow before I pushed myself away from the mahogany desk and practically leapt from the overstuffed leather chair. Everything about my office was lavish and over priced, from the furniture to the law books that lined each wall to the thick carpet that now muffled the sound of my footsteps as I approached the single vertical window that adorned one corner of the office.
From the thirty-seventh floor I had a bird’s-eye view of the snarling traffic below. The expressway was a parking lot in both directions. The on-ramps to Storrow Drive and the Mass Pike were choked with merging vehicles.
Now I was frowning. I didn’t have to deal with the downtown traffic when I’d had my own practice. My old office had been in a relatively quiet Cambridge neighborhood, just a few miles from my home in Newton.
Now I was laughing at myself. I may have been only a few blocks from home back then, but I never left the office until late in the evening. By contrast, in my new position with Brown, Benning, and Gold, I never hung around much after five o’clock. The differences in my life were measurable, in more ways than one.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Donald’s voice startled me. He was pulling out a chair from the round conference table and motioning me to join him. “This takeover business with McGrue and Son is coming to a boil.” He rubbed tanned, speckled hands together as his eyes gleamed. “It won’t be much longer now.” I tried to ignore the glee in his voice.
Tried not to think about how John McGrue would be feeling this weekend, knowing that the company he’d built for himself and his family for thirty years was about to be taken over by a large corporate giant.
Donald was patting the table. “Sit down. Join me.”
I did as I was told, wishing fervently that I was outside in the traffic instead.
“You used to practice family law. Is that right?” I nodded. “Twelve years.”
I was expecting him to tell me that I should go back to family law. That I was a lousy litigator and that it was clear that I didn’t give a hoot about the corporate clients that lined the pockets of our firm. I was wrong.
“You handled divorce cases?”
My internal warning lights were flashing. I nodded slowly.
“Good.” Donald wasted no time. “I want you to represent my son in his divorce.” He folded his hands together.
“With all due respect, sir —” He raised his hand in a no-argument salute.
“This isn’t an option, Kate.” He dropped his voice down and leaned forward, voice full of gravity. “I expect that the divorce might get a bit sticky, and I need this handled by someone internally. Someone that has my best interest at heart.” He was staring into my eyes, not dropping his gaze.
“With all due respect, sir” — I cleared my throat — “I was never a particularly good divorce attorney.”
“Of course you were.” His grin had a hint of evil. “You just usually found yourself representing the wrong client.”
I could feel my face grow hot. In the majority of the divorce cases I’d handled in the past, my clients were lesbians who had found themselves in the unfortunate state of holy matrimony. The fact that nearly all of their husbands were bitter, resentful, and in denial about their soon-to-be ex-wives made my job difficult and painful.
I didn’t know how to answer him. So I stared back into his tired green eyes and tried not to notice the wrinkles that so deeply lined his face. It was a face aged by too much tanning and too much drinking, I imagined. Silver hair combed perfectly to tame what had once been a curly mass. The white shirt that he wore was so tight and held so much starch that his neck bulged above the neckline.
He tapped a single finger on the tabletop, and my eyes dropped quickly, taking in the stiff white cuffs that contrasted so much with his tanned skin. He wore two rings. On his right hand he wore a thick gold band that held a single large ruby. On the other, he wore the class ring from Harvard Law School, 1944.
He was waiting for my response, but I wouldn’t give him one. My ignoring his insult was the right approach, and I felt a small sense of triumph when he fidgeted nervously.
“In any case” — he cleared his throat — “my son needs a good divorce attorney, and so the case is yours.” He unfolded his bulk from the chair and drew toward the door. “I’ll go over the details with you next week. I want this handled as quickly and quietly as possible.”
My teeth were grinding as I watched him reach for the door.
“What exactly might get sticky about this case, Donald?” My voice sounded petulant. I could only image what kind of trouble Donald Junior could have gotten himself into.
Donald Gold turned back to face me, eyebrows pulled together as he stood tall. “His wife had an affair with another woman,” he stated flatly. Only his slightly raised eyebrow let me know that he was mocking me.
“Bastard.” I was still fuming when I came to a screeching halt near the end of my parents’ driveway. Cars were everywhere, parked along the horseshoe drive beyond the gates and flowing out to the street below. Without hesitating, I shifted gears and pulled into the driveway, whipping past the parked vehicles and reaching for the garage opener. There was always an extra space for me inside.
I sneaked a quick peek at myself in the rearview mirror and grimaced. Mascara had settled in creases beneath blue eyes, and a light sheen had settled on my brow. Pulling a tissue from the glove compartment, I wiped it over my face and didn’t bother with another inspection before stepping out of the car.
The kitchen door was slightly ajar and I sneaked in, finding myself in the middle of a circus of servers juggling trays of appetizers and drinks as they made their way in and out of the kitchen. My eyes searched for Maria’s familiar face but came up empty. It wasn’t a good sign if Maria wasn’t in there. She ruled the kitchen with an iron fist, and she didn’t like anyone, especially hired caterers, messing up her space.
Mindful of the servers around me, I waited until one of them looked like he was making an exit through the swinging doors to the dining room before I stepped up behind him, following him through the door.
I knew immediately why Maria was out here instead of in the kitchen. The sheer volume of people was so unexpected that I took a step back. What were my parents thinking? There had to be hundreds. And no doubt Maria was among them somewhere, making sure that everyone had plenty of food and drink.
“There you are, darling.” My mother linked an arm through mine as she kissed my cheek. “I think your father’s gone mad. Just look at this crowd.” She was shaking her head, but the smile on her face gave her away. She was never angry with my father.
“How many people are here?” I asked, stepping out of the line of fire of the kitchen door and pulling her with me.
She shrugged. “Too many.” She laughed as she hugged my arm closer. She was wearing a simple, off-white dress that fit her small frame snugly. Her blond hair had been cut shorter than I’d seen in a long time, a blunt cut several inches above her shoulder.
“You cut your hair.”
She turned to smile at me, blue eyes sparkling. “I thought it was about time.”
Mom had always had long hair, from as long ago as I could remember. More often than not she’d pulled it back and away from her face, but every now and then she’d let it go free.
“I’m getting too old for long hair.”
“Don’t say that, Mom. You’re not old.” But even as I denied it, I could see the growing lines on her face. I did a quick calculation. She was fifty-eight. Twenty years older than myself. But she was in remarkable shape. I envied her thick, blond hair and trim figure. Unfortunately, the only thing I’d inherited from my mother’s side was her blue eyes. The rest of my body came directly from my father’s genes. I blamed my dark brown wavy hair, wide nose, and stocky body all on my dad.
“Will Beth be joining us this evening?” In spite of the crowd around us, my mom was completely focused on me. I loved the skill she had of making everyone she laid eyes on feel special.
“She said that she’d meet me here. And she’s just a friend, Mom,” I groaned, and watched her laugh.
“I can always hope, dear,” she whispered, giving my arm another squeeze. My parents were hippies from long before I was born. Liberal to their very core, and I loved them for it. They were also ridiculously wealthy, another thing I hadn’t minded in my youth.
Maria approached us, eyes in a fury as she barely acknowledged me before turning to my mother. She was speaking so fast that I barely understood her, her accent more pronounced than ever. My mother’s attention shifted smoothly, focusing on calming Maria’s temper.
As I let my eyes scan the room, it took a few moments for me to notice all the pieces of furniture that just didn’t belong. Antique desks, tables, and cabinets were strewn throughout the dining and living rooms, sprinkled between various works of art. At least I assumed it was art, since I didn’t have the best eye for these things. But the antiques — the roll-top desk and mission chair — now those I recognized and knew. My heart rate picked up a notch.
“Mom! What is all this stuff?”
Placated, Maria kissed me on the cheek to welcome me properly before disappearing into the kitchen.
“I’m sure I told you, dear.”
“I probably wasn’t listening.”
She laughed. “It’s an auction. Your father’s had everyone he knows donate all kinds of art and collectibles that we’re going to auct
ion off tonight. All of the money is going to the New England Animal Shelter.”
I couldn’t control the way my eyes jumped from one piece to another. “Mom, you know this is my weakness. I would have remembered if you’d said there would be antiques.”
“Don’t worry, Katie. You don’t have to bid on anything.”
I was aghast. “Are you crazy? Of course I want to bid. But I didn’t bring my checkbook.”
My mother was laughing at me now. “Your credit is good with us, honey. You can send a check tomorrow.” She gave me a little nudge. “Go on and take a look around. You haven’t got much time. I think they’re going to start bidding in about twenty minutes.”
She didn’t have to give me any more encouragement. The pressure of time enveloped me, and I felt anxiety rising. Not much time for an adequate appraisal. Without dawdling, I quickly stepped away and bypassed the mission rocker to approach the roll-top desk.
My first motion was to reach out and run a finger along the curved surface of the roll-top, tucking a finger into the small notch handle and lifting it open. It rolled smoothly, and I was instantly enamored. I had been collecting mahogany pieces for years, but was finding my taste running to oak these days. The gleaming oak beneath my fingertips spoke to me as I pulled open one drawer after another, checking for the smoothness of the pulls and fingering all the nooks and crannies.
My mind made up, I moved on. I spared only a glance at the school desk with the built-in inkwell. The collection of crockery didn’t hold my interest, and neither did the deco end tables.
The next piece grabbed my attention. It was a large oak barrister bookcase, not unlike the one that I had bid on and lost just a week before. I counted the five pocket shelves and reached out to lift one door, quickly satisfied when it glided open smoothly. If I had been excited over the desk, now I was ecstatic. After testing each door separately, I stepped back to admire the piece, barely believing my luck. It was at least as nice as the one I’d lost the other night. Maybe even nicer. Hell, it could be the same piece for all I knew.