by Diaz, Debra
Lindsey stared into the mirror. Rachel’s hair did look as if it were standing on end. And her own shoulder-length hair didn’t look much better. Besides that, her eyes were huge and her mouth was hanging open. She made herself close it just as the butler reappeared and said, “This way.”
Lindsey almost giggled. “This way,” she said to Rachel with an exaggerated British accent, but low enough so that the butler couldn’t hear. She didn’t mean to make fun of him—she just thought the situation needed a little humor.
They followed him into a large, rectangular room, with cedar-paneled walls and a single, pale light issuing from a table lamp. A polished black piano occupied one corner. An assortment of couches and chairs, end tables, and a great, rustic fireplace filled the remainder of the room.
Someone sitting in the shadows stood up. “That will be all, Barlow. Thank you.” The masculine voice was deep in timber; the words were spoken with the precision of the British, but without an accent.
The butler left the room. The figure came toward them, his face gradually illumined by the table lamp. He had a glass in his hand, which he set down on the table.
He was tall, probably six-two or three, with black hair. Lindsey couldn’t tell what color his eyes were from where she stood, but she could tell he was good-looking. He must have just come in from the city, for he was wearing what Lindsey assumed were business clothes—dark slacks, jacket and a white shirt. A discarded tie hung across the back of his chair.
“Miss Evans, I’m Jonathan Laramore,” he said, extending his hand. He seemed friendly but rather guarded.
“Hello.” Rachel looked nervous. “This is Lindsey Sims. Lindsey is staying with me while her parents are out of town.”
Jonathan shook her hand as well. “Miss Sims. I’m pleased to meet you both.”
Lindsey realized her mouth was open again and shut it with a snap. His eyes were a very dark, almost navy blue; they were intelligent and searching, and altogether unsettling. She wasn’t sure why she thought that, except they were the sort of eyes one didn’t try to hide anything from.
He was looking intently at Rachel, almost as if he were startled about something. “I understand you’ve asked to see my grandfather. He’s very ill, so naturally I must inquire as to the nature of your business with him.”
Rachel opened her purse, pulled out Mr. Laramore’s letter, and handed it to him. He stepped back to turn on another light, unfolded the letter, and read it quickly. After a moment, he handed it back to her. “You must be Ellen’s granddaughter,” he said softly.
Rachel looked relieved that she didn’t have to explain. “Yes.”
“In a way we share the same grandmother. Her son, Philip, adopted me when he married my mother.”
“Yes, I—I’ve heard that, Mr. Laramore.”
“We should be on a first name basis, don’t you think? Please sit down, both of you. Could I get you something to drink?”
Lindsey was dying of thirst, but Rachel was in the middle of declining, so she shook her head. She and Rachel sat down on a couch with wide maroon and white stripes. Jonathan sat in the matching chair across from them.
“My grandfather is sleeping at the moment, but it will soon be time for his medication. Do you mind waiting?”
“No,” said Rachel. “That is, if it’s not inconvenient.”
“Not at all. Would you tell me about yourself? I’ve often wondered about your mother, and you.”
“My mother’s name was Leah. She and my father were—were killed almost three years ago. A drunk driver ran their car off the road, and it overturned.”
Jonathan was silent for a moment, and then he said with apparent sincerity, “I’m very sorry.”
“Thank you.” Rachel took a deep breath and went on. “I graduated from college two years ago. I’m a graphic designer for an advertising agency.”
“Really—that must be interesting work. Do you enjoy it?”
“I love it.”
“And you, Lindsey?” Jonathan turned to her, making her heart wobble in her chest. “What are you interested in?”
Lindsey sat up very straight. “School,” she said, trying to speak as precisely as he did. “And reading suspenses.” (That sounded much more interesting than “mysteries”.)
Before he could say anything, a rattle at the front door was followed immediately by the sound of it whooshing open. High-pitched laughter drifted down the hallway. Seconds later, a man and woman stood framed in the doorway of the room.
The woman could only be Jonathan’s fiancée. Her light hair was burnished with highlights so that it had the look of spun gold. It was parted on the right side and rolled into a twist on the opposite side. Her golden eyebrows arched perfectly; her flawless skin was the color of toasted wheat. Deep hollows beneath her cheekbones gave her an air of the exotic, and her dark, almost black eyes tilted upward. She was tall and slim (not emaciated, as Lindsey had half-expected), and how she’d managed to get inside the house without a hair out of place was indeed a mystery.
The woman caught sight of Rachel and stopped laughing. She said, in a throaty voice, “Well, I was just going to ask whose little car that is outside.”
Jonathan had risen from his chair. “Brianna, this is Rachel Evans, and Lindsey Sims. Rachel—Lindsey—this is Brianna Rowan.”
“How do you do?” said Brianna, with a blank look. (She didn’t actually say “Howjado”, but her accent was decidedly British.) She sauntered further into the room, closely followed by her companion, a dark-haired man with a florid complexion.
“Jonathan, I’ve invited Gerard to join us for supper.” She glanced at Rachel. “This is my French tutor, Gerard Barrey. Jonathan and I are going to Paris on our honeymoon.”
As if anybody cared, Lindsey thought. She’d taken an instant dislike to Brianna Rowan, who had given Lindsey one glance and dismissed her as though she were a knickknack somebody had bought and left sitting on a table. And why was Rachel looking so ill at ease? She had every right to be here. She shouldn’t be intimidated by any of these people.
The tutor said, “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” He, too, had an accent that Lindsey guessed must be French.
“We’re here to see Mr. Laramore,” Lindsey stated. She realized it wasn’t up to her to explain what they were doing there, but Rachel wasn’t saying anything.
Brianna’s cool gaze flitted back to her. “What for?”
Jonathan said quickly, “I don’t think it’s any of our business. He asked to see Miss Evans and that’s all we need to know. Yes, Barlow?”
The butler had appeared in the doorway. “It’s beginning to rain, sir. Shall I move Miss Evans’s car?”
“Yes, put it in the garage. And Miss Rowan has just arrived. I expect you should move her car as well.”
Lindsey suddenly remembered Honey. “Oh, I brought my little dog with me. I left her in the car.”
“Barlow, bring in Miss Sims’s dog, will you?”
Barlow’s hairless eyebrows and wide-set eyes gave him a look of perpetual surprise. “Yes, sir,” he said, and walked stiffly from the room.
Brianna opened her purse, took out a cigarette, and lit it. She made quite a show of it, inhaling deeply and all the while staring curiously at Rachel, who was pretending to be fascinated by the fleur-de-lis pattern in the carpet.
“Well,” Brianna said, “if you will excuse us, Gerard and I must get to work so I can take him home after supper. It looks as though the weather’s going to take a turn for the worse. He really hates storms.” She puffed out smoke and added, “We’ll be in the library, darling.” She exited with a gentle swing of her hips, with the tutor trailing meekly after her.
Jonathan made no reply, which Lindsey thought was strange. He didn’t look or act like a man in love with one of the ten most beautiful women on the planet. Then, she heard something like a struggle in the hallway and Barlow appeared, slightly wet but endeavoring to maintain his dignity as he shifted the furiously wriggling p
oodle from one arm to the other.
“Allow me,” Jonathan said, and took the dog from Barlow. He patted her on the head, which caused her to wag her nub of a tail ecstatically. As soon as he set her down she began racing back and forth across the room. “What’s her name?”
“It’s Honey. Actually she was named before I got her, and I didn’t want to confuse her by changing it.”
“Why change it? It seems to fit her, doesn’t it?” Jonathan glanced at his watch. “It’s time for my grandfather’s medication. You can see him now, if you like.”
“Yes,” Rachel said. “We would.”
He waited for them to precede him from the room, and they started up the stairs. The staircase was wide enough to accommodate all three of them at once. Lindsey saw Jonathan lightly touch Rachel’s elbow as they started up as though to steady her, then his hand fell to his side. There was something about him—the word courtly came to mind, because it was more than just politeness, it was an old world quality that Lindsey had read about in novels but had only seen in elderly gentlemen. She’d never witnessed a young man act that way—but then, Jonathan was not that young. In fact, thirty-four was close to old.
They arrived at the second floor. Long, shadowy corridors stretched away in both directions. Jonathan indicated they should turn right. Small sofas and tables stood here and there; paintings hung on the walls. It was too dark to see them well. Lindsey supposed the electric bill must be very high in a house this size—maybe they were just being frugal. Honey trotted along behind them as they walked, darting here and there to explore.
“I’m sorry your grandfather isn’t well,” Rachel said, to Lindsey’s great relief. She’d been afraid Rachel was completely tongue-tied. “Is it serious?”
“He has cancer. The doctors don’t expect him to live much longer.” Jonathan’s voice was controlled and matter-of-fact.
Rachel glanced at him. “Shouldn’t he be in the hospital?”
“He prefers to stay at home. There’s a nurse who attends to him. Turn here, it’s just down this hall.”
They turned down another corridor. Jonathan paused at one of the closed doors, knocked, and at a call from within, opened the door. He didn’t enter the room, but said, “Grandfather, Rachel Evans and her friend, Lindsey Sims, are here to see you. Hensley, will you show them back downstairs when they’re finished?” To Lindsey he said, “I’ll just take Honey down with me, all right?” He winked and bent to pick up the busily sniffing poodle.
Then he turned and left them standing there.
CHAPTER THREE
“Well, come in, then,” came an impatient, surprisingly strong voice.
Rachel moved forward slowly, with Lindsey behind her. It was like Dorothy going forth to meet the wizard, Lindsey thought, realizing that her knees were weak and her hands were trembling.
“Now leave us, Hensley,” said the voice.
Someone rose from a chair beside the bed and came toward them. Lindsey had expected a woman, but it was a gangly young man with long, oily-looking brown hair tied at the nape of his neck, wearing a white lab coat over a pair of holey jeans. He had small eyes in a large, moon-shaped face, and wore enormous glasses.
“Just for a few moments, sir,” he said, with a meaningful look at Rachel. “You shouldn’t get tired.”
The door closed behind him. The huge bedroom extended far beyond the sphere of light from the bedside table and disappeared into grayness. The curtains had been drawn at the windows, shutting out even the meager light from outside. An electric heater burned close to the bed, making the room unpleasantly warm.
Miles Laramore sat propped against his pillows, staring fixedly at Rachel from beneath craggy brows. Though he appeared to be very old, he had a full head of snow-white hair and alert brown eyes. Without taking his gaze from her, he reached for a pair of glasses and put them on.
“Come closer,” he said imperiously.
Rachel obeyed. Lindsey pressed close behind her. She saw the old man’s eyes move over Rachel’s face. “You’re like her,” he said. “Same red hair, green eyes. Not really beautiful, but striking. She had only to walk into a room and everyone’s attention went to her. There was an air about her—an aura. Yes, you are very like her.”
He seemed to notice Lindsey for the first time. “Who is this?”
“This is my friend, Lindsey. She’s staying with me while her parents are away.”
“Ah, I thought perhaps you had a sister I didn’t know about. I have known of your existence for some time, Miss Evans. I was sorry to hear of the deaths of your mother and father.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He removed his glasses, leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Sit down,” he commanded, his voice less strong than before.
Rachel looked at Lindsey and made a face as if to say, “What next?” She gestured toward a chaise longue near the window; Lindsey took the hint and went to perch on it, noticing it was covered with cracker crumbs. Rachel took the chair vacated by the nurse.
“Let me give you a word of advice, Miss Evans. Never hold grudges. I am dying a very slow death. Cancer, they tell me. But I know better. I know it for what it is. Hatred. So much hatred that I’m rotten inside.”
Rachel seemed to take a deep breath. “I am sorry to hear that, Mr. Laramore. But why have you sent for me?”
The old man didn’t reply for a moment. Then he said, “There’s a painting I want you to have. Tell Jonathan. He’ll know which one I mean.”
Lindsey felt a surge of disappointment. She’d been sure the old man felt sorry for throwing out his wife and was going to leave Rachel at least a few thousand dollars. She knew Rachel could use the money—her parents had never had much, though they worked hard; they were both teachers. Rachel had a good job, but Lindsey knew she had rent to pay, insurance, her car…Just the cost of living was enough to eat up a good paycheck. She knew that from listening to her parents talk about finances. She’d also heard that most of the life insurance Rachel received at her parents’ deaths had been eaten up in medical bills—her father had lived for a few days after the accident, in a coma.
But Rachel didn’t look disappointed, just puzzled. The old man opened his eyes again and looked at her.
“But that’s not why I sent for you. You’re here, Miss Evans, because I intend to leave this house and my entire fortune to you.”
The room grew very still, as though even the furniture listened. Lindsey became aware for the first time of the rain dashing against the curtained windows. A clock on the bedside table seemed to be ticking much too fast. The electric heater whirred. A creak came from somewhere near the door.
Rachel had turned as white as a sheet. “This is insane—” she began.
“But I haven’t finished. It is true that I hated your grandmother, or rather, what she had done. It was that betrayal I could never forgive. I was bitter. But Ellen—Ellen was the only woman I ever loved. She remained my wife until she died. And you are her granddaughter. Whatever else Ellen may have been, she was a Laramore. And so that makes you a Laramore. More so than either Jonathan or that worthless brother of his.”
Rachel stared at him, her eyes enormous. “But your son adopted Jonathan. And now he’s the president of your company.”
“Oh, he’s got a good head on his shoulders, all right. And he may keep the position. But he won’t inherit this house, or my money!” Mr. Laramore pulled himself up from the pillows and began to wheeze with a barely contained excitement. “There’s something that isn’t right about Jonathan. He’s been strange since Philip died. We had to get a doctor for him after the accident, who said Jonathan should go away, try a new environment. Went to England, stayed for over twenty years! No, he won’t have this house, and neither shall his brother, or that foreign woman—Isabella!”
He fell back against the pillows in exhaustion. The door opened and Hensley rushed in, gave Rachel a disapproving look, and felt his patient’s pulse. “Mr. Laramore, you must rest. You must n
ot be excited,” he said severely.
The old man peered up at Rachel through half-closed lids. “You may go. In a moment I shall call my lawyer to draw up the new will. I wanted to see you first. I’ve made up my mind.”
“But, Mr. Laramore–”
“Please, Miss Evans,” said Hensley with a frown. But Lindsey saw something else in his face, something like avid interest, which made her suspect he’d been squatting in the hall with his ear applied to the keyhole.
They had no choice but to leave and let him attend to his duties. They forgot to ask him how to get downstairs, but they found their way to the staircase. Then Rachel abruptly sat down on the top step, as though her legs would no longer support her. Lindsey sat down beside her.
Neither of them spoke. But Lindsey could guess what was going through Rachel’s mind. All that money! She imagined Rachel living here, in the lap of luxury, with a butler and a maid and probably a cook. A new wardrobe. Traveling wherever and whenever she wanted. Spas, resorts, massages! No worries about how to make repairs on her car or what to do if some unexpected medical problem came up (her own parents always worried about those two things). She wouldn’t even have to go to work; she could work at home, as she’d often said she wanted to do.
Lindsey’s imagination soared on. Why, she could visit Rachel and stay here for days at a time. This house probably had a swimming pool—maybe even a stable! People would treat them with deference wherever they went, waiters in restaurants, clerks in stores…
Rachel said something. Lindsey’s bubble burst and she felt herself jolted back to earth.
“What did you say?”
“I’ll speak to the attorney when he comes. Maybe he can talk some sense into Mr. Laramore.”
“What—what do you mean?”
“Lindsey, it’s ridiculous! How can I accept what my own grandmother was denied? Maybe she had a right to all this, but I don’t! How could I enjoy spending money given to me in a spirit of malice, and—and spite? Money that was taken away from someone else?”