Dare to Dream

by Donna Hill

“Beautiful place,” Desiree said.

  “Thanks. We searched for almost a year to find it and then got it for a steal. An old couple had it for decades, no children or greedy relatives, and they wanted to move to Florida. They practically gave it to us.”

  “I could easily get used to this,” Desiree said, taking a seat on the mint-green sectional.

  “Can I get either of you something to drink? I fixed something light to eat. So we can munch if you get hungry.” Allison sat down and crossed her long, pant-covered legs. She took in both of them with her penetrating gaze. “I know I sounded like a superspy or something on the phone, but believe me, when you’ve been in the journalism business as long as I have you learn to watch your back. I don’t trust saying too much of anything of importance on the phone, especially when I’m working on this kind of story.”

  “I understand,” Lincoln said. “What were you able to find out?”

  Allison leaned back. “Well, first of all, Mr. Hampton has skipped town. From what I could find out he’s at his place in the Bahamas. That to me spells guilty. Why run if you have nothing to hide?”

  “Interesting,” Desiree murmured. “He’d mentioned to me several times that he had a place in Nassau. Anything else?”

  Allison reached for her notebook on the end table and flipped through a few pages. “Mostly background stuff. I’m checking into his finances now, trying to see if he’s in any kind of trouble. That’s usually a telltale sign. And from what I can gather from the fire marshal they definitely have ruled it arson.” She looked directly at Desiree. “I’m sorry.”

  Desiree nodded. “Could Carl have been that desperate that he would have set fire to the place and possibly killed me in the process?”

  “Anything is possible, Desiree, that’s why I called Jackson. He’s good at what he does. Folks are only going to tell a reporter so much. He has a way of getting information. I can work my sources and he can work his. I invited him over.” She checked her watch. “He should be here shortly. That was the main reason I wanted you to come, so you could meet with him face-to-face.”

  “Fine. I’ll help in any way that I can.”

  Allison stood. “Excuse me for just one minute.” She walked into the kitchen.

  Lincoln turned to Desiree. “This sounds like it’s really turning into something, something bigger than I thought.” He reached for her hand and held it. “It will all work out and whoever is responsible will be dealt with.”

  “I know.” She smiled. “I feel better just knowing that you are around.”

  “Always.” He lightly kissed her lips just as Allison returned with a tray of finger foods: buffalo wings, celery sticks, dip, an assortment of cheeses and crackers.

  “Help yourselves,” she said, setting the tray down on the coffee table. “What would you like to drink, wine, water, soda, juice?”

  “A glass of wine for me,” Desiree said.

  “Make that two.”

  Desiree stood. “I’ll help you.”

  They stood next to each other at the wet bar on the far side of the living room.

  “He’s a cutie-pie,” Allison whispered as she took a bottle of chilled white wine from the minirefrigerator.

  Desiree giggled. “I know. And thanks.”

  “I take it things are serious between you two. All you have to do is look in his eyes and you can see the man is crazy in love with you.”

  Desiree felt her face heat. “I’m in love with him, too,” she readily admitted, and saying it out loud felt good.

  Allison poured three glasses of wine and put them on another tray. “I wish you all the happiness in the world,” she said. “There’s nothing like coming home to someone you love, and you know they love you back.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  Just as they set down the glasses the doorbell rang.

  “That’s Jackson,” Allison said and went to the door.

  Moments later Jackson Trent walked into the room, and his presence definitely commanded attention. He was well put together in a navy suit that fit the long lines of his well-honed body. He didn’t look the part of a scruffy private investigator, but rather a Wall Street banker.

  “Jackson, this is Desiree Armstrong and Lincoln Davenport.”

  Jackson shook Desiree’s hand and then Lincoln’s. “Good to meet you both.” He unbuttoned his jacket and sat down. “Where’s Jacob?” he asked Allison.

  “Out of town on a book tour. He’ll be back on the weekend.”

  “Good, he owes me on that Knicks game.”

  Allison laughed and turned to Lincoln and Desiree. “Those two are the ones who should be investigated,” she said. “They have more bets going than OTB.”

  “All in good fun,” Jackson said. “Now, I guess you want to know what I found out.”

  Lincoln and Desiree leaned forward attentively.

  “My preliminary information is still a bit sketchy, but my hunch is that Carl didn’t have anything to do with the fire.”

  Desiree’s brows rose. “Really?”

  “Too simple and too stupid. And from what I’ve discovered about Carl Hampton, he’s anything but stupid. His business on the surface appears solid, but I’m going to check further. I’ll be visiting his offices tomorrow.” He focused in on Desiree. “Who else works at the gallery?”

  “It was just me and my assistant, Cynthia.”

  “Did the two of you get along?”

  “Yes! You don’t think Cynthia—”

  “I don’t put anything past anyone,” he said simply. “Did the two of you have any differences, arguments?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “I’ll still need her contact information. I’ll want to talk to her myself.” He pulled a notepad out of his jacket pocket and jotted down the information that Desiree provided. “Is there anyone you can think of that would want to harm you? Any suspicious people lurking around anytime before the fire?”

  Desiree was thoughtful for a moment. “No. Not really.” She frowned. “There was this woman, though. I didn’t think much of it at the time.” She turned to Lincoln. “Remember when we were in town at Sag Harbor and I said I ran into someone I thought I knew from the shop but she insisted that we’d never met?”

  Lincoln thought back and pointed his finger. “Yes, I remember.”

  “Could that mean anything?” she asked Jackson.

  “At this stage every bit of information is helpful. Do you remember her name?”

  “McKay. That’s all I remember.”

  “What did she buy?”

  “A small sculpture. She said it was for her daughter.”

  Jackson nodded and wrote down the information. “Did she have it mailed?”

  Desiree’s expression dropped. “No. I wrapped it and she took it with her. She paid cash,” she added, anticipating his next question.

  “Hmm,” Jackson murmured. “Tell me some more about Cynthia. Did she have any problems that you were aware of?”

  “Nothing specific. I mean just the usual stuff. She always talked about her and her mother’s lousy relationship but that was about it.”

  “Who is her mother?”

  “Eleanor Hastings.”

  Jackson’s brows rose. “The Eleanor Hastings?”

  “Yes.”

  Jackson nodded. “Maybe I’ll pay Ms. Hastings a visit.”

  “You don’t think her mother had anything to do with it?” Allison asked.

  “Eleanor Hastings has been notorious in the business world for wheeling and dealing all her life. What she wants she gets. There were rumors that her husband didn’t really die of natural causes, but nothing was ever proven.”

  “Cynthia did mention once tha
t her mother had ruined her life but she was never really specific. I always got the impression that it had to do with a past lover or something.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past Eleanor. If she wants someone out of the way, consider yourself gone.”

  A chill scurried up Desiree’s spine.

  “I’m going to look into the old case of her husband and I definitely want to talk to the daughter. She may know something. And if there is anything you can remember about the McKay woman, give me a call.” He reached into his pocket and handed Desiree a business card.

  “Like I said, I don’t believe Carl is behind this. But Eleanor Hastings very well may be.”

  “But why?” Desiree asked.

  “That’s what I’m going to try to find out.”

  Chapter 35

  “So tell me about yourself,” Lance said as he cut into his steak.

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Where you grew up, what you like to do, where you went to school.” He looked at her and gave an encouraging smile. “Trust me, it won’t turn into a stage play.”

  Cynthia laughed. “Well, I grew up in Manhattan mostly, although we did travel a great deal. My mother,” she said the word with disdain, “wanted to be sure that I was well rounded.”

  “What is it with you and your mother, really? You hinted at it the other night…but you can imagine it all didn’t make a lot of sense.”

  She blushed. “Let’s just say that my mother and I are at odds about any- and everything that has to do with me. She doesn’t feel that I live up to the Hastings name.”

  “Why?”

  “She has her vision of who I should be and what my life should be like. And I unfortunately don’t fit that image.”

  “I’m sorry.” He picked up his glass in a toast. “If it’s any consolation I think you make a great vision.”

  “Thank you.” She lowered her gaze, then looked at him. “You mentioned earlier about me opening my own gallery.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you really think I could?”

  “Why not? As you said, you know what you like.”

  “I know, but it would almost be like doing what my mother wanted. She hates the fact that I work for someone else as a ‘lowly assistant,’ as she puts it.”

  “What do you want, Cynthia?”

  “I want to be free of her and free to do what I want without recriminations. I want to be happy.”

  “The key to being happy is discovering it for yourself. You can’t live on the whims of others, you’ll make yourself crazy. And if I’m not being too bold I think that there is a part of you that wants to please her and you may never be able to do that. The only way around it is to please yourself.”

  She sipped on her wine. “I know that,” she said with a sigh, then brightened. “I do like the idea of opening my own gallery though, something small and intimate. Not too overpriced but with quality stuff.”

  “If it’s what you want, then go for it. The only thing stopping you is yourself.”

  She was thoughtful for a moment. “I would hate to think that with Desiree’s place gone and all her work, people would begin to wonder about me if I opened my own place.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That maybe I was jealous or something and perhaps had something to do with the fire.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that. Wouldn’t it be a lot easier to simply quit and strike out on your own than to burn a place to the ground?”

  She gave him a crooked smile. “I guess you’re right.”

  “You have to stop worrying about what other people think. Live for Cynthia. And if you plan to keep me around, I’m going to continue to remind you of that.”

  She set down her glass. “What made you want to be bothered with me…especially under the circumstances that we met?”

  “Like I said, I study people for a living. I saw something beyond the caustic words and unhappy expression to what you were underneath.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Someone who was searching for something and hadn’t quite figured out how to find it.”

  “Hmmph. That’s pretty accurate. Hopefully that will change.”

  “It will. You have to decide what you want and how you are going to go about getting it. And you are going to have to accept your relationship with your mother for what it is.”

  She lowered her head. “I know. Silly girlish dream.”

  “I wrote a play about that once but never had it produced.”

  “What, silly girlish dreams?” She chuckled derisively.

  “Not really. It was a play about a domineering mother and her daughter and the lengths the mother went through to keep her daughter under her control.”

  “Sounds like my life.”

  “Life imitating art.” He paused. “I want to ask you something and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

  “Okay.”

  “You said your mother didn’t want you working for someone else.”

  “Right.”

  “Do you think that she would do whatever she could to change that?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  He shook his head. “Never mind. That’s the playwright in me talking.” He lifted his chin. “Let’s eat and talk about something more pleasant.”

  Cynthia watched him enjoy his meal, and wondered how right he could be.

  * * *

  “Thanks for a great evening. I had a wonderful time,” Cynthia said, turning to him at her front door.

  “So did I. I hope we can do it again soon.”

  “We will. Do you want to come in for a few minutes?”

  The corner of his mouth lifted in a grin. “I don’t think that would be wise, Ms. Hastings. I might lose all my gentlemanly charm.”

  Her face flushed. “Maybe next time, then.”

  “I certainly hope so.” He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Good night.” He turned and walked away.

  Cynthia closed the door, feeling good inside and about herself for the first time in a long while. Other than Desiree, she really had no one who believed in her. Maybe she could open her own shop and maybe she would go back to art school and try again. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have the financial resources to make it happen. The idea was beginning to sound better and better. Maybe she would talk with Desiree about it.

  She walked into her bedroom, put her purse down on the nightstand and noticed the flashing light on her answering machine. She depressed the button and listened to the messages. Two were from a catalogue company advising her that her shipment of imported linens were on the way and the last was from Desiree.

  “Hi, Cynthia. I want to apologize for disappearing the way I did. I needed to clear my head. But I’m back in the city. I’m staying with a friend. There’s someone I’ve been in touch with who is looking into the fire. His name is Jackson Trent and he wants to talk to you.” She left his number. “Please give him a call. It’s important. Thanks.”

  Who was Jackson Trent and why did he want to talk to her?

  Chapter 36

  Eleanor paced the confines of her bedroom, glaring at the headlines on the third page of the New York Post. NEAR FATAL FIRE DECLARED ARSON. She read the article with great interest. “Fool,” she said between her teeth. She dismissively tossed the paper on the bed and walked out into the front room.

  “Mary! Mary,” she called out.

  Mary came almost instantly. “Yes, Mrs. Hastings.”

  “Where’s my coffee?”

  “It’s still brewing,” she said.

  “At this hour? You’ve been with me long enough to know that I wan
t my coffee ready when I get up in the morning.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Hastings. I wasn’t feeling very well this morning. I’m having a slow start.”

  Eleanor looked her up and down. “Well, you look fine now,” she said, her tone not quite as strident.

  “I’ll bring the coffee right away, ma’am.” Mary turned and headed back to the kitchen, her look of barely contained fury shielded from Eleanor.

  Mary had been in the employ of the Hastings for more than twenty years. The pay was great. She was able to send her two children to college with the money she made waiting on Eleanor hand and foot. But each day was becoming more difficult. If it were humanly possible, Eleanor Hastings, she’d swear, was becoming more miserable and unbearable each day.

  Every morning she had to pray for the strength not to pick up one of her expensive sculptures, hit her over the head, and never lose a night’s sleep. And her poor daughter, the way she treated Cynthia was a sin. Mary’s heart ached for her. No daughter should have to put up with the abuse that Eleanor meted out to that girl.

  Mary poured the coffee into a carafe, cut up two oranges and set them on a plate. She put two pieces of toast in the toaster and put a bowl of jelly on the serving tray.

  She would give anything to see Eleanor get what she deserved. No one should go through life treating people the way she did and get away with it.

  “Lord, forgive me,” she whispered.

  * * *

  “I’ve given you all I intend to give you,” Eleanor was saying into the phone. A scowl crossed her perfectly made-up face. “That’s your problem. I would suggest that you take a trip, a long trip. There’s nothing to connect us and I will deny ever having known you.” She smiled. “And who do you think they will believe?” She hung up the phone, just as Mary came into the room.

  “Your breakfast is in the dining room, ma’am.”

  Eleanor didn’t even give Mary the courtesy of an acknowledgment. She simply walked past her as if she were invisible.

  Mary glared at her benefactor’s back and an old saying from her grandmother came to mind. “God don’t like ugly.”

  * * *

  “You really need to come back, Carl,” Jake Foxx was saying. “People are asking questions that I can’t and don’t want to answer. It looks really bad with you not being here. And the newspaper article today didn’t help the situation.” He told him about the story in the Post.