12. Final Justice

by Fern Michaels

  Once, a long time ago, a hundred years ago, a lifetime ago, this had been Emily's favorite room. Before she became bedridden.

  Tears puddled up in Sarabess Windsor's eyes. Why had she come in here? She looked around for her coffee cup. She reached for it and sipped at the cold brew. Okay, she'd had some coffee. Now it was time to leave. But could she walk out of this room today? Of course she could. She had to.

  Sarabess looked at herself in the mirror hanging on the back of the door leading into a small lavatory. She'd taken exceptional pains with her dress. She was wearing her grandmother's pearls, her mother's pearl earrings, and a mint-green linen dress that was so far unwrinkled. If she sat down, it would wrinkle. She wanted to look put together when Rifkin Forrest arrived and part of that put-together look did not include tears. Every silky gray hair was in place. Her makeup was flawless; her unshed tears hadn't destroyed her mascara. Just because she was sixty didn't mean she had to look sixty. Rif had told her she didn't look a day over fifty the last time he'd been to the house. Rif always said kind things. Rif said kind things because he'd loved her forever.

  Sarabess turned around at the door, seeing the sunroom as it was. Other than the gallery of pictures, all traces of Emily were gone. Now the room held rattan furniture covered with a bright-colored fabric. Dozens of green plants and young trees could be seen through the wall-to-wall windows. Overhead, two paddle fans whirred softly. There was even a wet-bar set in the corner. She was the only one who ever came into this room. Once a year on this date she unlocked the door, walked into the room, and allowed herself ten minutes to grieve. Most times she cried for the rest of the day. For weeks afterward she wasn't herself. Still, she put herself through it because she didn't want to forget. As if a mother could ever forget the death of her child.

  Sarabess closed and locked the door. Maybe she would never go into the room again. Maybe she should think about moving away but did not see how she could? Emily was buried here in the family mausoleum. She could never leave her firstborn. Why did she even think it was a possibility? Then there was Mitzi Granger lurking on the fringe of her life. Even Rif couldn't do anything about squirrelly Mitzi. Something had to be done about Mitzi.

  The Windsors had lived on Windsor Hill in South Carolina for hundreds of years. She was the last of the Windsors, though only by marriage. Then again, maybe she wasn't the last of the Windsors. She would have to wait for time to give her an answer.

  As the mistress of Windsor Hill walked down the hallway toward the heavy beveled-glass front door, she realized she'd left her coffee cup in the sunroom. Well, it would have to stay there for another year. Or, until she felt brave enough to unlock the door and enter the room that was simply too full of memories. At the end of the hallway, she opened the door and walked out onto the veranda. She looked around as though seeing it for the very first time. She was surprised to realize the gardener had hung the giant ferns, cleaned the wicker furniture, laid down new fiber rugs, and arranged the colorful clay pots of petunias and geraniums. Even the six paddle fans had been cleaned and waxed. How was it possible she hadn't noticed? Because she was so wrapped up in herself, that was why. She tried to remember the last time she'd sat out here with a glass of lemonade. When she couldn't come up with any answer, she started to pace the long veranda, which wrapped itself around the entire house. Where was Rifkin? She looked down at the diamond-studded watch. He was ten minutes late. Rif was never late. Never. She wondered if his lateness was an omen of things to come.

  For the first time since getting up, she was aware of the golden June day as she stared out at the Windsor grounds. Once the endless fields had produced cotton and tobacco. Now they produced watermelons, pumpkins, and tomatoes that were shipped coast to coast. The acres of pecan trees went on as far as the eye could see. The pecans, too, were shipped all over the country. On the lowest plateau of the hill, cows grazed, hence the Windsor Dairy. Horses trotted in their paddock. There was a time when she'd been an accomplished horsewoman. Once there had been a pony named Beauty and a little red cart that carried Emily around the yard. Just like Emily, they were gone, too.

  Sarabess heard the powerful engine then. She looked down at her watch once more. Twenty-three minutes late. What would be Rif's excuse this fine Monday morning? Did it even matter? He was here now.

  When the Mercedes stopped in front of the steps leading to the veranda, Sarabess waved a greeting before she rang the little bell on one of the tables next to a wicker chair, Martha's signal that she should serve coffee on the veranda. She walked back to the top of the steps to wait for Rif's light kiss on her cheek. She smiled when she realized there was to be no explanation as to why he was late. Rif hated to make explanations. It was the lawyer in him. She motioned to one of the chairs and sat down across from the attorney.

  He was tall and tanned from the golf course. His hair was as white as snow. His eyes were sharp and summer blue and crinkled at the corners when he smiled. She loved it when he smiled at her. An intimate smile, she thought. Because he was semiretired, Rif felt no need for a three-piece suit on his days off. He was dressed in creased khakis and a bright yellow T-shirt. His only concession to his profession was the briefcase he was never without. He dropped it next to his chair before sitting down. His voice was deep and pleasant when he said, "You're looking particularly fine this morning, Sarabess."

  "Why thank you, Counselor. You look rather fit yourself this fine morning. Are you playing golf today?"

  "Unless you have something important you need taken care of. You sounded. . .urgent when you called."

  "It's time, Rif."

  The attorney didn't bother to pretend he didn't know what she was talking about. He knew his old friend was waiting for him to say something, but he opted for silence. Sarabess raised an eyebrow in question. Instead, he reached for the cup of coffee the old housekeeper poured for him. He sipped appreciatively.

  Sarabess set her own cup on the table. "I want you to hire someone to find her. It's time. And it's also time to do something about Mitzi. I. . .I want her taken care of once and for all. Do we understand each other, Rifkin?"

  Rifkin watched as a tiny brown bird flew into one of the ferns. He knew the little bird was preparing her nest. "Let it be, Sarabess. You need to stop obsessing about. . .about Mitzi. There's nothing I can do legally, and we both know it."

  Sarabess leaned forward. "How can you say that to me?"

  "I can say it because I'm your friend. Mitzi aside, you should have called me fifteen years ago to ask me to find her. I warned you this would happen. Now, it's too late."

  Sarabess stood up. "It's never too late. You hounded me daily for years to do what I'm asking you to do now, and suddenly you're telling me it's too late! I don't believe that. If you won't do it, I'll find someone who will. Mitzi may have me on a short leash financially, but I am not without influence in this town. As you well know, Rifkin."

  Rifkin. Using his full name meant Sarabess was serious. Suddenly he felt sick to his stomach. "You waited fifteen years too long. If you think for one minute that girl is going to forgive you, you are wrong." Rif brought the coffee cup to his lips. He didn't think he'd ever tasted anything so bitter.

  "She's my daughter. I'm her mother."

  Rif sighed and closed his eyes. His voice was so low Sarabess had to strain to hear it. "You gave birth to her. You were never her mother. You were Emily's mother. As your attorney, I'm advising you to let matters rest. As your friend and lover, I'm asking you to let matters rest. Please, Sarabess, listen to me."

  "I have no intention of following your advice, Rifkin. It's time."

  "For you, perhaps. Not for Trinity. If she wanted to see you, she knows where you are. She could have come home anytime. The fact that she hasn't called or written in fifteen years means she doesn't have any interest in seeing you."

  "She doesn't even know Harold died. She should know that," Sarabess said coldly. "Mitzi knows. If you could just get inside that. . .that squirrelly head o
f hers, we could find Trinity in a heartbeat."

  "Almost fifteen years after the fact you think Trinity should know her father died! I can't believe I'm hearing what I'm hearing. I advise you to think seriously about what you are contemplating, Sarabess. You gave birth to Trinity so you could use her bone marrow so that Emily would live. Then you gave that child to your foreman and his wife to raise. You hauled her up here one day a year on Princess Emily's birthday and any other time Emily pitched a fit. You had the Hendersons dress her up like a poor relation, then you sent her away after the party. One day a year, Sarabess! One goddamn day a year! Those other command performances simply don't count. You're delusional if you think Trinity will want to see you."

  "I had no other choice. Emily would have died. Because of. . .of that. . .procedure, I had thirteen more years. With my darling daughter. Thirteen years! I wouldn't trade those thirteen years for anything in the world. When. . .when I explain things to her, I'm sure she will understand. She is my daughter after all. She only has one mother. We all have only one mother." Sarabess's voice was colder than chipped ice, her eyes colder.

  Is he buying into my explanation? At first blush, it doesn't seem like it. Well, that will have to change quickly.

  "I don't care how much it hurts, Sarabess, but you were never that girl's mother. You didn't sit with her at night when she was sick. You didn't take her to church, you never took her shopping. You never once looked at her report card, never went to a school meeting. You never read her a bedtime story or tucked her into bed. Half the time you couldn't remember what her name was. Emily didn't like her either, thanks to you. Guilt is what took Harold to an early grave, and we both know it. I guess you're just a lot tougher.

  "Trinity has never touched the trust fund Harold set up for her. She knew about it, Sarabess. I believe that your husband, her father, told her about it when she was quite young. I cannot even begin to imagine what that young girl thought at the time if, indeed, he did tell her. I think the knowledge of that monstrous trust fund was what made her run away. At least that's Mitzi's theory. She didn't want any part of it, you, or Harold. Let it be."

  Sarabess fingered the pearls at her neck. She felt choked up at her lover's words. "When did you get so ugly, Rifkin Forrest?"

  "Ten minutes ago, when I saw what you were about this morning. Today of all days. Why didn't you make the decision a week ago, a month, yesterday? Today is the anniversary of Emily's death. In just a few months Trinity will be thirty and will come into," Rif said, his voice sounding ominous.

  Sarabess didn't think Rif's voice could get any colder, but it did. She actually shivered in the humid June air.

  "You went in that room, you looked at the pictures, you relived the thirteen years that Trinity gave your daughter. You probably cried; and then you decided maybe this was a good time to find your other daughter. The thought probably crossed your mind that you might have grandchildren somewhere. That's the part I want to believe.

  "The other part, having to do with the trust fund that will revert to you if Trinity dies or isn't found in time to take possession of her trust, is not something I want to think about today. I'm sorry, but I have to leave. I have a tee time in thirty minutes."

  Sarabess was speechless. "You're leaving?"

  "Yes, I'm leaving. I don't want any part of upsetting that young woman's life for your own selfish desires."

  Sarabess started to cry. "Please, Rif, don't leave. I. . .I'm not doing this for me. I want to try and make it right. You may be right—it may be too late—but I won't know if I don't try. I just want to find her. I won't invade her life if it looks like I. . .if. . .she isn't interested. I thought that Jake," she said, referring to Rif's son and law partner, "might do the search. He used to play with Trinity when they were little children. Emily used to watch them from the sunroom. She was so envious." A linen handkerchief found its way to her eyes. It all sounded good to her ears. It should—she'd rehearsed this little speech for hours in front of the mirror.

  Rifkin sighed wearily. "It always comes back to Emily, doesn't it?"

  "Yes, it always comes back to Emily. You can't expect me to turn thirty years off and on like you'd turn off a light switch. I made a mistake. I want to try and make it right." That sounds good, too, Sarabess thought smugly.

  "Jesus, Sarabess, you didn't just make a mistake, you made the Queen Mother of all mistakes. You brought a child into this world for her bone marrow so another child could live. Then you threw that child away. Now you want her back. I'm sorry, it just doesn't work that way. On top of that, it's too late."

  "Stop saying that. I didn't throw Trinity away. I. . .what I did was pay the Hendersons to take care of her. I couldn't do it. I was fighting for Emily's life. Trinity had a roof over her head, good food, adequate medical care. If she was neglected, as you say, it was only by me and my husband. I will concede the point that the child needed a mother, and that's where I failed her. If she. . .if I had brought her here to the big house, she would have been raised by servants. At least with the Hendersons she had a normal life. She wanted for nothing, and don't try to tell me she did." She'd said these words so often, they sounded truthful to her ears. She struggled to cry. She whipped the handkerchief past her eyelashes as she watched Rifkin carefully. She needed him.

  "Too bad you couldn't pay the Hendersons to love her. When are you going to factor in Trinity's trust fund?"

  "The fund has nothing to do with this. The Hendersons did love Trinity in their own way. They are plain, hardworking people. They're not demonstrative. That doesn't mean they didn't love Trinity. They raised her for fifteen years. There was feeling there. Even as sick as he was, and living with that woman, Harold told me they were heartbroken when Trinity ran away. Harold would never have lied about something like that."

  Rifkin watched the little brown bird as it dived into the fern with a piece of string in its beak. Preparing her nest for her young. That's how it's supposed to be, he thought. Even the birds know about motherhood. "Were you brokenhearted, Sarabess? Did Trinity's running away affect you in any way?"

  He was just saying words, words he'd said hundreds of times. It was a game, pure and simple.

  Sarabess drew a deep breath as she fingered her pearls. "No. It barely registered. I was still mourning Emily. Nothing registered. Nothing." Such a lie, she thought.

  "I have to leave now, or I'll miss my tee time."

  "Well, a tee time is certainly important. Even I understand that. Run along, Rifkin. Enjoy your golf game," Sarabess said in an icy voice.

  Rifkin refused to be baited. He waved as he descended the steps. "Thanks for the coffee."

  Sarabess wanted to tell him to go to hell, but she bit down on her bottom lip instead. Her eyes filled again. Everything Rif said was true. Tomorrow she would think about everything he'd just said. Everything she'd been thinking about for the past fifteen years. Tomorrow. Then again, maybe she wouldn't.

  Today was Emily's day. Today she had to go to the cemetery to talk to Emily.

  Tomorrow was another day. Rif would come around; he always did.

  And don't miss Fern Michaels's brand-new novel!

  MR. AND MISS ANONYMOUS

  A Kensington hardcover on sale in May 2009.

  Prologue

  Nineteen hundred eighty-six

  University of California—Berkeley Campus

  Peter Aaron Kelly stared out of his grungy apartment window not caring that he was running late. His roommates had gone home for the Christmas holiday, so he had the sparsely furnished apartment to himself. Maybe he should just blow off his appointment at the clinic and go straight to his job at the cafe where he worked as a waiter for the three-hour lunch period. But, he needed the last payment from the clinic. Needed it desperately to pay the final installment on his tuition for his last semester. In the end, what the hell difference did it make one way or the other? He shrugged his shoulders, reached for his Windbreaker and baseball cap.

  Thirty-five minutes lat
er, Pak, as he was known to his friends, entered the Apex Clinic thirteen minutes late. The unlucky number didn't go unnoticed by him. For one crazy moment he wanted to bolt, but the last reminder from the billing office told him he had no other choice. He signed in using his donor number of 8446. He turned his baseball cap around so the bill could tickle his neck as he sat down and picked up a magazine. Like he was really going to read Field & Stream.

  His eyes glued to the glossy magazine cover, he didn't look up when a steady stream of guys paraded past him, some leaving, some entering. He'd done this gig eleven times. Everyone entered and exited this place with eyes downcast just the way he did. No one spoke, no one made eye contact. All they wanted was to get the hell out of there so they could try to exorcise their personal shame and spend the guilt money. He should know because he was one of them. He took a moment to wonder how many of the donors walking through the clinic's doors went to the counseling sessions that were so strongly recommended each time a donor signed a contract. He took another moment to wonder who owned the place. Probably some very rich person. More guilt piled up on his shoulders as he waited patiently for his number to be called.

  Pete shifted his mind to a neutral zone and closed his eyes. He thought about his family back at the farm in Idaho where they farmed potatoes. They'd all be getting ready for Christmas. One of his brothers had probably cut the tree down by now, and it was sitting in the living room just waiting to be decorated. His nieces and nephews were probably driving everyone crazy to decorate the tree, but his mother would make them wait for the branches to settle themselves so, as she put it, her heirloom decorations wouldn't fall off. He wondered what his mother would serve for Christmas Eve dinner. Maybe a turkey or a ham. Maybe both. Five different pies. Probably just the turkey or the ham, but not both. Maybe just two pies this year, since his father told him it was a bad year with a blight that had hit the plants midseason. His mouth started to water at the thought of what he was missing. Oh, well, five more months and he could go home for a week or so before he started job hunting.