Sloan was making rapid-fire mental notes to tell Paul to start talking about himself and start selling insurance. To Paris she said something completely honest. “I don’t understand men very well, so you’re asking the wrong person. I can say that Paul is an honest, dependable man, probably even a gallant one.”
Paris nodded sagely. “That’s my impression of him, too.”
Smiling, she stood up, her thoughts shifting to the day ahead. “You’d better get up and get dressed. I thought we’d go sightseeing and do some shopping. Paul’s going to stay here and laze around.”
“What about a tuxedo for Paul tonight?” Sloan asked as she pushed the covers aside and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
“I asked him, and he said he borrowed a tuxedo from a friend and brought it with him—just in case he needed it here.”
• • •
Sloan hurried through her shower and got dressed quickly so that she’d have time to call her mother before she left. Because she’d overslept that morning, she was going to have to call her mother at the shop, which meant it was going to be difficult for Kimberly to talk. She sat down on the side of the bed and took her credit card out of her purse.
Propping the telephone on her shoulder, Sloan placed the credit card call and braced herself for a skirmish with the owner of the shop, Lydia Collins, who had the management style of a guard on a prison chain gang.
Although Sloan rarely called her mother there, Lydia invariably behaved as if a personal call were grounds for dismissing her best employee.
“Lydia,” Sloan said when the shop owner answered the phone, “this is Sloan, and I’m calling from Palm Beach—”
Lydia’s professional friendliness abruptly dissolved into irritation. “Your mother is busy right now with a customer, Sloan.”
Kimberly was always busy with customers because they loved her and preferred to wait for her to help them. “I understand, but I need to talk to her for just a minute.”
“Oh, very well!”
She smacked the phone down on the counter with enough force to make Sloan wince, but a moment later, Kimberly’s warm, excited voice made Sloan smile.
“Darling, I’m so glad to hear from you. How is everything there?”
Sloan assured her that her father and great-grandmother were treating her very well and that they seemed very nice. She saved the news about Paris for last, and as soon as she brought up Paris’s name, Sloan noticed that her mother grew very still, very silent. She told her everything she could about Paris, then she finished by saying, “You’re going to love her, and she’s going to love you. She wants to come to Bell Harbor very soon.” Finished, Sloan waited for her mother to comment, but she said nothing. “Mom, are you there?”
“Yes,” her mother whispered brokenly, and Sloan realized she was crying.
Sloan’s heart ached as she realized how hard her mother must have worked all these years to pretend she’d adjusted to giving up Paris long ago. Now the mere possibility of a reunion with that same daughter was making Kimberly cry. Sloan couldn’t even remember her mother crying before, and she felt tears spring to her own eyes. “She reminds me so much of you,” Sloan said softly. “And she loves clothes, too—she designs them.” In the background, Lydia’s strident voice called Kimberly’s name. “It sounds like you’d better go,” Sloan said. “I’ll call you again in a few days.”
“Yes, please.”
“Bye.”
“Wait—” Kimberly said urgently. “Do you—do you think it would be all right if I send Paris my love?”
Sloan blinked back tears. “Yes, I know it will. I’ll tell her.”
29
Edith was seated in her favorite chair in her bedroom, wearing another somber black dress, but with a large ruby and diamond brooch pinned to the bodice. Sloan wondered if she had anything brighter to wear, even a scarf.
“Great-grandmother,” Paris said, pressing a kiss to the elderly woman’s forehead. “You said you wanted to see Sloan before we leave.”
“I would like to speak with her privately, if you don’t mind, Paris.”
Paris looked startled, but she nodded and left.
Sloan hadn’t quite settled into the chair across from Edith before the old woman said pointedly, “What were you thinking a moment ago?”
Sloan started guiltily. “I was wondering if you would wear a colored scarf if I bought you one today.”
Her white brows shot up. “You do not approve of my taste in clothing?”
“No, I didn’t mean that at all.”
“Do not add dishonesty to impertinence. That is exactly what you meant.”
Trapped, Sloan bit back a smile. “My mother always says that bright colors are uplifting.”
“You think I need to be uplifted, is that it?”
“Not exactly. It’s just that you have lovely eyes, and I thought a blue scarf—”
“Now you are resorting to flattery. All of your vices are coming out into the open today,” the old lady interrupted, but with a gruff smile. “As it happens, our minds are working along the same direction.” She glanced at the ceiling, as if that indicated the direction she was referring to.
Sloan followed her gaze, then looked at her in bewilderment. “What direction?”
“Up. I assume that when I am gone, I will be ascending, not descending, don’t you agree?”
She was talking about dying, Sloan realized, and her smile faded. “I’d rather not think about it.”
At that, Edith became brisk and businesslike. “Death is a fact of life. I am ninety-five years old; therefore, I am staring the fact in the face. However, that is not to the point. I am going to be perfectly blunt with you, and I do not wish for any sort of emotional outburst. . . .”
Since she was always very blunt without issuing an advance warning, Sloan braced herself to hear something spectacularly unpleasant.
Instead of speaking, Edith reached for a large dark blue velvet box on the table beside her and passed it across to Sloan; then she began to fumble with the clasp of the brooch she was wearing. Age and arthritis had twisted her fingers badly, but Sloan knew better than to offer to help her, so she sat in perplexed silence, holding the box in her lap.
“Open the box,” Edith commanded as the brooch finally came free.
Sloan opened the large flat case. Nestled in velvet was a spectacular ruby and diamond necklace about two inches wide, with matching earrings and bracelet. Since Edith was removing her brooch, Sloan thought perhaps she’d decided to deck herself out in this jewelry instead.
“What do you think?”
“Well, they’re certainly bright,” Sloan said lamely, recalling her suggestion of a scarf to brighten up Edith’s black dress.
“Those pieces, along with this brooch, belonged to your great-great-grandmother Hanover. They have been in my family longer than any other pieces, and for that reason they have the deepest meaning for me. You have been in this family for the shortest time, through no fault of your own, and although I do not normally sink to sentimentality, it occurred to me that these jewels would be just the thing to bridge the time gap, so to speak. I wore the brooch today because it will be the last time I wear it; however, I shall look forward to seeing it on you—when you are wearing something more appropriate than those mannish pants you have on.”
“On me?” Sloan repeated; then she recalled the formal dinner tonight and understood. “It’s very kind of you to offer to let me wear it—”
“Silly child! I’m not loaning these jewels to you. I’m giving them to you. Ruby is your birthstone. When I’m gone, they will remind you of me and of the ancestors you never had an opportunity to know.”
Shock sent Sloan to her feet so suddenly that she had to grab the velvet case before it was dumped onto the floor. Now she understood why all this had been preceded by a conversation about death. “I hope you will live a very long time and have many more chances to wear these. I do not need all this to remember you after you
’re—you’re—”
“Dead,” Edith said bluntly.
“I do not want to think about that now, not when I’ve only just met you.”
“I insist that you take the jewelry now.”
“I will not do it,” Sloan said stubbornly, and put the box back on the table by her elbow.
“But they will be yours someday, anyway.”
“I don’t want to discuss ‘someday.’ ”
“I trust you won’t be as obstinate about discussing my will, because I have decided to change it so that you receive your rightful share—”
“Yes, I’m going to be just that obstinate!” Sloan interrupted, and to her shock, Edith Reynolds laughed out loud, a harsh cackling sound that was as heartwarming as it was unmelodic.
“What a stubborn creature you are,” Edith accused, dabbing tears of mirth from her eyes with the corner of her handkerchief. “I cannot recall the last time anyone actually believed they could sway me once my mind is made up. Even Carter knows it is futile to oppose me once I’ve taken a position.”
Sloan didn’t want to sound ungrateful or rude, and she tempered her tone. “I just don’t want to discuss your death or anything related to it. It’s—depressing!”
“It frequently affects me that way,” Edith said gruffly, and Sloan realized she was making a joke.
She bent down and impulsively kissed Edith’s parchment cheek. “I’ll buy you an ‘uplifting’ scarf today to counteract the effects,” Sloan promised, straightening.
“Nothing too expensive—” Edith called after her.
30
Since neither of them had eaten, Paris suggested they stop for lunch first, and Sloan agreed. She was eager to give Paris her mother’s message, but she was acutely aware that from now on each step Paris took toward Kimberly was going to be a step away from her father.
A waitress filled their water glasses and handed them leather-bound menus. Sloan took hers automatically and opened it. Staring blindly at the list of appetizers, she thought about the discussion that lay ahead and tried to be objective: Despite her personal opinion of Carter, she couldn’t deny that he’d been a devoted father to Paris, albeit a suffocatingly controlling one, and so Paris was understandably loyal to him. It had been relatively safe and easy for Paris to take a liking to Sloan, because in doing that, Paris hadn’t been forced to face the fact that her father was a liar and a villain. That wasn’t true when it came to Kimberly.
Carter and his mother had made Paris believe that Kimberly was so reprehensible that a judge had issued a court order to protect Paris from her. In order for Paris to accept that that was all a lie, she also had to accept that her father and his mother were blatant liars. Sloan already knew Paris was going to find that painfully difficult to face, and she was afraid Paris would try to escape the pain in the only way she could—by ignoring Kimberly’s overtures and inventing reasons not to go and see her.
The waitress appeared to take their order, and Sloan ordered the “special” without actually having read what it was. As soon as the woman walked away, Sloan decided to broach the subject of Kimberly, but Paris had something else on her mind. “What did Great-grandmother want to talk to you about this morning?”
“Jewelry,” Sloan said lightly. “She wanted to give me some heirlooms, which I declined.”
Paris’s facial muscles tensed. “Did she also mention her will to you, too?”
When Sloan nodded, Paris put her fingertips to her temples and began to rub them as if she’d gotten a sudden headache. “I’m sorry,” she said ruefully. “I know she has to die.”
Sloan waited in sympathetic silence for her to say more, and Paris sighed, dropping her hands. “I saw the velvet box on her table, and I had a feeling she was going to do something like that. It’s just that I hate it when she talks about dying. Maybe I feel as if talking about it will make it happen. I don’t know.” She shook her head as if to shake off her morbid thoughts, then she leaned forward and crossed her arms in front of her on the table. “Let’s talk about something cheerful.”
It was the opening Sloan needed. “Would you like to talk about your mother?”
“Okay.”
“I talked to her this morning and told her all about you. I told her you wanted to come meet her.”
“What did she say?”
Sloan looked directly into Paris’s eyes and softly said, “She cried. I’ve never known Mom to cry before.”
Paris swallowed as if she understood the emotional impact. “Did she say anything else?”
“Yes. She asked me to give you her love.”
Paris’s gaze slid to her water glass. “That was nice of her.”
The emotional chain reaction Sloan had anticipated was setting in, and she racked her brain for a way around it. “I know this is hard for you. I know you were told terrible things about her, and now I’m telling you that she’s one of the sweetest, kindest people on earth. There’s no way to escape the fact that if I’m telling you the truth, then someone lied to you. No, not ‘someone.’ Your father and his mother.”
“He’s your father too,” Paris said in a pleading voice, as if asking Sloan to acknowledge that relationship before Paris could form one with Kimberly.
“Of course he is,” Sloan said, and she decided to use the same nonjudgmental rationale that Paul had used on the way to Palm Beach when he hypothesized about the breakup of their parents’ marriage. She asked a question first. “Were you very close to your father’s mother?”
“Grandmother Frances?” Paris hesitated and then guiltily shook her head. “I was terrified of her. Everyone was. It wasn’t that she was mean—although she was mean—but she was also cold.”
That was exactly the sort of answer Sloan had hoped to hear. “Then let’s blame her for what happened and what you were told,” she said half seriously. “She probably was mostly to blame for everything, anyway.”
Sloan told Paris her version of the day Carter’s mother arrived in Florida in a limousine alone and departed for San Francisco with Carter and Paris. As Paris listened to the story, Sloan could see her withdrawing into herself, as if she couldn’t bear to believe her father and his mother could be capable of such cruelty.
“The thing we have to remember is this,” Sloan finished on a deliberately optimistic note. “At the time our father agreed to go back to San Francisco with his mother and you, he was only twenty-seven. He wasn’t the man we know now. He was young, and he’d grown up in luxury, and suddenly he was burdened with a wife and two babies to support. He was probably scared to death. His mother probably convinced him she knew best. Maybe she convinced him he was desperately needed in San Francisco, since his father was so ill. Maybe he wanted to believe it. Who really knows?”
“No one,” Paris said after a moment.
“There’s one more factor that needs to be added into this equation: Our mother and father had absolutely nothing in common. He didn’t love her. She was just a beautiful, naïve small-town girl who fell in love with a wealthy, sophisticated ‘older’ man and got pregnant.”
“And he tried to do ‘the right thing’ and married her,” Paris put in.
“Not exactly. When she went to San Francisco to tell him she was pregnant, his parents were there. They were so disgusted and furious that when he got home late that night, they told him to get out and take Mom with him.”
Sloan wisely refrained from telling Paris that Carter had been drunk when he got home, and that his parents regarded a pregnant, small-town teenager as the final intolerable item on the long list of his irresponsible actions.
With great caution, Sloan broached the real problem that remained to be overcome. “After the marriage broke up, they told you terrible things about our mother that aren’t true, and that was wrong of them, but when you think about it, it’s not all that surprising.”
“Actually, it was Grandmother Frances who said most of the really bad things.”
“That’s not a bit surprising, based
on what you just told me about her,” Sloan tried to joke.
“Yes, but Father heard her and he never contradicted her.”
Sloan wasn’t prepared for that comment, but inspiration struck and she seized on a perfect explanation. “By then, he was older and wiser, and he was probably secretly ashamed of what he did—or what he let her convince him to do. He obviously dotes on you, so he wouldn’t have wanted to look like a villain in your eyes.”
After allowing Paris a minute to let that sink in, Sloan picked up her water glass and thought of another good point to make. “I don’t think it’s unusual for divorced parents to make nasty remarks about each other to their children.”
“You’re right! What sort of bad things did our mother say about him?”
Sloan stared at her, a helpless smile forming on her lips, the water glass forgotten in her hand. “Our mother,” she explained, “had her purse snatched by a teenager a few years ago. On the day of the trial, she testified for the defendant and pleaded with the judge for leniency.” With a giggle, Sloan added, “She was so determined to get him off that she was absolutely eloquent!”
Paris broke into a smile. “Did she get him off?”
Sloan nodded. “The judge said he would feel like he was punishing her if he sent the boy to jail.”
“What a nice story!”
“Not really. He stole her car a week later. He thought she was a very soft touch, and she is.”
Sloan knew for certain she’d succeeded in resolving Paris’s dilemma, because from that point on, Paris plied her with questions about Kimberly and kept on doing so during their bout of sightseeing and shopping.
31
The discussion about their mother had enabled Sloan to think about something besides Noah that afternoon, but her wristwatch seemed to be moving in reverse until it was finally time to get dressed for the evening. She was so anxious to see him that she hurried when there was no need for haste, and long before it was time to leave, she had nothing left to do except decide which dress to put on.
Paris strolled into her room then to help her make the choice. After inspecting Sloan’s clothes and admiring what she’d brought, Paris shook her head and announced that this particular evening called for a long dress. “Not too fancy,” she stipulated, “but something that floats a little when you move.” Having ascertained that Sloan had nothing like that with her, Paris put her hand against Sloan’s back and gently propelled her down the hall to her own room.
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