by Kathy
It took her a moment to catch her breath. "That's not fair, Dan. Are you . . . ? You aren't . . . ?"
He didn't answer immediately, and she felt as if her heart were being squeezed in an invisible vise. Then he said pensively, "First I thought I'd tell you I only had a year to live. But I figured that might backfire."
She couldn't decide whether to laugh or throw something at him. "You tricky old devil!"
He went on in the same meditative voice, "Either you'd go out and get yourself pregnant by some jackass who wasn't fit to sire piglets, or you'd get your grandmother all worked up, or you'd call Doc Schwartz or—"
"Or all of the above. Don't do things like that to me, Dan."
"I didn't, did I? Meg." He didn't touch her, or take the hand she had extended; he wasn't given to physical expressions of affection. His voice deepened, always a sure sign of strong emotion with him, and the diminutive was one he hadn't used for years. "Mignon, I'm old. I'm damn old! Sometimes when I think about how old I am I can't believe it, you know? But I won't live forever. I'd like to know you'll be taken care of."
"What do you want me to do?" she demanded, torn between pain and anger. "I can take care of myself, Dan, I don't need a man for that. I won't marry some—some jackass who isn't fit to sire piglets just to carry on the Mignot dynasty."
"So who asked you to? All I'm asking is for you to start looking around. You know what you're doing, don't you? You're using that—that married man like a shield. What are you, scared of marriage? It's not so bad. I've stood it for over fifty years."
He gave her one of his wicked grins. Struggling for breath and for control, Meg wondered—as she had so often—whether those random comments of his were as random as they sounded.
This one had certainly struck a nerve. Afraid—no, not of marriage, but of what it implied. Handing over your heart to someone who might drop it or throw it away like trash. . . .
She wouldn't let him see how much it hurt. "I thought you despised psychology," she said.
"I do. That's not psychology, it's plain common sense. You're not eating. Eat your food, it's good for you. You can't have dessert until you eat your sauerkraut."
"I don't want dessert. And I hate sauerkraut. See here, you tricky old—"
"You want dessert. You're too thin." One flick of a finger brought the waiter running. "Black Forest cake for me. You want that or the strawberry tart?"
"Neither."
"Two Black Forest cakes."
She almost hated him at that instant, for using love, pity, tenderness as weapons against her—for coming so close to the bone. "And if I am afraid of marriage," she said, not caring if the retreating waiter heard her, "I've good cause. Haven't I, Dan?"
It was one of the cruelest weapons she could have used, worse than any of his, but his face gave no sign of wounding. "I'm old, Meg," he repeated. "I'm damn old."
The box of tissues was across the room, on the bureau; childishly, Meg wiped her wet eyes with the back of her hand. Just as well Nick hadn't called while she was crying. She had made a complete fool of herself the last time she talked to him, blubbering and moaning, asking for help he had been unable to give. She couldn't wait any longer or she would be late for lunch—a deadly sin in Gran's book.
She was in the bathroom when the telephone rang.
Swearing, she dashed for it, but was too slow. Hearing Frances's voice, she cut in, "I've got it, Frances. Thank you. You can hang up."
Several seconds passed before she heard the click that indicated—she hoped—that the housekeeper was no longer on the line. Nick had listened for it too; amusement colored his deep voice when he spoke. "That, I take it, was Mrs. Danvers."
"Damned if I know who she is today," Meg said. "It's almost twelve-thirty. I had given up expecting to hear from you." She pushed back a damp curl that had fallen over her forehead, wishing she could take back that last sentence.
"I was in a meeting," Nick explained. "I told you it might not always be possible for me—"
"I know, I know. That was an explanation, not an accusation." Meg twisted the hair around her finger. "This is a ridiculous arrangement anyway, it's inconvenient for both of us, and it's unnecessary."
"What about your grandmother?"
"I was being overprotective. Habit, I suppose; Dan always treated her like a fragile flower. I suspect she's not as unworldly as she let him believe."
"Whatever you say." He accepted her rationalization more easily than she could do. "You sound much better. Everything all right?"
Meg laughed, briefly and humorlessly. "At the moment everything is all wrong."
"It must seem that way. There are always a million painful little details to deal with after a death. As the heir—"
"He left everything to Gran. Except . . ."
"Except?"
A rap at the closed door stopped her before she could explain. "It's too complicated to go into now," she said. "I'm already late for lunch."
"I understand. I wish I could do something to help. Call anytime—any evening—if you feel like unburdening yourself."
But telephone calls, especially on his terms—why not on hers?—were a poor substitute for what she really wanted; his physical presence, warm and near. She couldn't invite him to come to the house, Gran would start asking coy questions about his intentions, and then she'd have to invent some unbelievable story or admit the truth. But there was a charming country inn in Patterson's Mill, eight miles away. . . .
The knock came again, more peremptory this time. "I have to hang up," Meg said. "I'll talk to you later."
After hanging up she went to the door and flung it open. She had expected Frances; the frown that darkened her features didn't relax when she recognized Cliff.
He stepped back, raising his hands in a gesture of mock defense. "Don't shoot, lady, it's not my fault. Frances made me do it. She says you're six and a half minutes late for lunch."
His bright eyes moved from her face, examining the room behind her with unconcealed curiosity. Meg stepped out into the hall and closed the door. "I was expecting Frances herself."
"Then I forgive you for glowering." He fell into step with her as she started toward the stairs. "Sorry I interrupted your telephone call."
The candid admission that he had been eavesdropping startled her into a near stumble. Smoothly he caught her arm and steadied her. He was a head taller than she; when she looked up at him his eyes met hers without shame, and his smile broadened. "I couldn't make out what you were saying," he said. "Just the sound of your voice. I figured you weren't loony enough yet to talk to yourself—though I wouldn't blame you."
His hand did not loosen its hold; it was smooth and deeply tanned, with long slim fingers. "Your sympathy touches me," Meg said dryly.
"Oh, I'm very good at useless words of concern." He released her at last, and gestured her forward. "But in your case I might even be willing to break my rule of noninvolvement in other people's problems. Is there anything I can do?"
"I wouldn't want you to strain yourself. Or, to put it more courteously—"
"Butt out? Wait a minute."
With a sudden agile jump he stepped in front of her so that she had no choice but to stop or push him aside. "You've been avoiding me ever since you got here. There's no reason why you should like me; we've scarcely seen one another for years, and I don't suppose your memories of our shared childhood are tender ones—"
"You were a spoiled brat and a bully."
"/ was the bully, you were the spoiled brat. Actually, I gave up bullying girls a while back. I really would like to help. I know—perhaps better than anyone else—how difficult this is for you. I loved the old rascal too."
Meg was moved, not only by what he said but by what he was careful not to say. They had more in common than memories of play and childish quarrels: their shared loss and the shame of that loss.
"Thank you," she said.
"De nada. And if you ever want to marry me, I'd be happy to consider t
he idea."
"What?"
"Oh, sorry. I thought maybe Dan had mentioned it. There was a time when he was all gung ho about the possibility, and of course my old man would go bonkers with joy. But don't let it bother you; it was just a thought."
"I certainly won't let it bother me." She pushed past him and went on down the hall, heels clicking angrily. He fell in behind her; she heard him whistling softly through his teeth, and felt certain he was smiling. Damn the man, he could still get to her—first softening her up by a word of kindness, then catching her off guard with that outrageous suggestion. She had been right about him in the first place; the leopard had not changed its spots.
By late afternoon she had a raging headache. Bad air was not the cause; the vault had an elaborate ventilation system, not for the benefit of the humans who might visit it, but for the treasures stored there. Some incorporated materials that could be damaged by heat or humidity: leather belts and book covers, garments embroidered with gold thread and jewels. A few gems were also affected adversely by environmental changes. Opals could crack or lose their fire, ivory tended to mold when it was damp and to split when the air was too dry.
Ivory and opal and moonstone, precious rubies and emeralds and cornflower-blue Kashmir sapphires—every known gem in every conceivable setting had passed before her that afternoon. Meg tried to focus her tired eyes on the object on the table in front of her: number 429 in Dan's inventory, a heavy gold pendant set with table-cut diamonds, rubies and emeralds, and bearing the enameled figures of Faith, Hope and Charity, their white bodies chastely draped in swirls of gold. From the bottom of the pendant hung three enormous pearls. It was one of the prizes of Dan's collection because it had been attributed to his "ancestor," the original Daniel Mignot. The style and workmanship were of the right period, late-sixteenth-century south German, but there was no certain way of knowing which of several contemporary masters had fashioned it.
The rustle of turning pages and the drone of voices, as Uncle George and the IRS man conversed, echoed in Meg's head like insects buzzing. She started as an arm encircled her shoulders, and turned her head dizzily to see Darren.
"Can't we finish this tomorrow?" he asked, not of her, but of the other men. "Miss Venturi is obviously not well."
She sank gratefully into the chair to which he led her, and took a sip of the water he poured. After a few moments her head cleared. "No, it's all right," she assured her uncle, who was bending over her. "I don't want to stop, I want to get this over with."
"You needn't stay," George assured her.
"I'd rather." Her lips set stubbornly. George grinned and patted her shoulder.
"No sense arguing with you, I know that look. Gentlemen, we've almost finished; let's get it done."
Infernal Revenue had a heart, after all; the grim-faced young representative, who hadn't cracked a smile or said an unnecessary word throughout, stopped examining the objects with the suspicious air he had displayed, and rushed the rest of them through with scarcely more than a glance. The last half-dozen items were unfamiliar to Meg, and her flagging energy revived as they were displayed. One was particularly lovely: a necklace of opal plaques, shaped like lilies, veined and framed in diamonds, with curved emerald leaves. "Surely that's Lalique," she exclaimed.
Her uncle laughed. "Dan always said you were his best pupil. He bought this last year, from the daughter of the woman for whom it was made in 1908. It's never been photographed or displayed." Meg took her loupe from her pocket and examined the piece appreciatively. The famous signature was there, stamped on the clasp, but she hadn't needed to see it; the other signature, of design and workmanship, had been equally unmistakable.
The Lalique pendant was the last. The IRS took its leave, its bureaucratic facade cracking into a smile that was almost pleasant as it shook Meg's hand and thanked her for her cooperation. It—he, Meg corrected herself—he's probably as glad to be finished as I am.
Darren refused her invitation to stay for tea, pleading a previous engagement. "I do need to go over some things with you, Meg," he said. "May I have my secretary call you to arrange an appointment?"
"I'll call," Meg said. "Tomorrow or the next day?"
"At your convenience," Darren said seriously.
After he had gone, George ran his fingers through his hair and sighed deeply. "Whew. As my son would say, it's been a bitch of a day. Ready for a drink, Meg? You deserve one."
"I'd rather have ten minutes of your time," Meg replied.
"How about both? I was about to lead you into my lair, so we could booze it up in private. Not that your grandmother would object if we asked for ouzo instead of orange pekoe. . . ."
Meg laughed and took his arm, squeezing it affectionately. "No, she'd just look sad and hurt. She won't be down for another half hour, so she need never know. Can you supply Scotch as well as ouzo?"
"Scotch, but not ouzo. I just couldn't resist the alliteration. Hurry up, before Frances catches us."
He swept her along the hall and into his office, a small but comfortably appointed room near the library. It was in this ambience that Meg always pictured her uncle when she had occasion to think of him; over the years he had added various homey touches, photographs and knickknacks and unfashionably comfortable furniture, like the sofa in front of the fireplace. It was worn and lumpy-looking now; no doubt some part of its dilapidation was due to her, for she had spent many hours sprawled across the cushions, talking to George. He was always ready to lay aside his work and listen, grave and sympathetic, while she complained about Cliff's teasing and her grandparents' strict, old-fashioned rules, and her stupid teachers—everything and anything, except the one subject that disturbed her most. She had known that subject was not to be discussed, even with Uncle George—particularly with Uncle George.
Apparently this was to be a business rather than a social occasion. George placed a chair for her next to the desk, and she sank gratefully into the soft leather while George opened a Chippendale cabinet to disclose a well-stocked bar. After he had handed her her drink he filled a glass for himself and sat down behind the desk.
For a moment he hesitated, obviously searching for words. Then he said, with a half-smile, "Here's looking at you, kid."
Meg wasn't sure how to respond. The conventional, joking toasts seemed inappropriate. She remembered one of Dan's favorites, an enigmatic, sardonic epigram dating from Roman times. "Be of good cheer; all men are mortal." That might have been appropriate, but it certainly wasn't very cheerful. So she simply smiled and raised her glass.
George never touched alcohol; his glass contained only tonic and ice. He drank thirstily. "The air in that vault is as dry as a desert," he complained. "Would you like something taller and wetter with your Scotch?"
"No, thanks. I expect your throat is dry because you did most of the talking. As I am about to ask you to do now."
"Don't tell me, let me guess. Mr. Riley?"
"Right the first time."
"It didn't take much insight," her uncle said with a smile. "You have a more immediate interest than anyone else, but the whole town is talking about that legacy."
"You didn't know about it?"
"My dear girl! I'd have had the decency to warn you in advance—and if I had known before Dan died, I'd have tried to persuade him to change his mind."
"Why? Do you know anything to Mr. Riley's discredit?"
"I don't know anything at all about him. That's why."
"Do you think Dan was senile? That there was—what do they call it—undue influence?"
The play of conflicting emotions on her uncle's face was easy to read. At last he said reluctantly, "I'd like to say yes to both, but I can't. Darren Blake is the person you should talk to; but I feel sure he'd have told me, and your grandmother, if he felt Dan was incapable of making a proper will."
"I feel sure of that too," Meg said. "Nor am I keen on the idea of trying to overturn that will. Aside from the expense and inconvenience, Dan would come back t
o haunt me"
"He probably would at that. So what do you intend to do?"
"I'm not going to do anything until I find out more about my new partner."
"You surely can't mean to let that arrangement stand?"
"It doesn't appeal to me," Meg said, knowing he would appreciate the irony of that understatement. "Any more than Mr. Riley appeals to me. But Dan obviously thought well of him, and . . . Oh, I don't know, Uncle George, it's such a mess—and the most disturbing thing is not that Dan would leave a half-interest in the store to Mr. Riley, but that he'd leave me the other half. What was he trying to accomplish? He knew how I felt. He never accepted it, but he knew. I never could decide whether he was too selfish to care about my feelings or too bullheaded to accept them!"
"He was selfish, and he was bullheaded," her uncle said sympathetically. "The fact that we loved him needn't blind us to his faults. He had no right to force you into a career you didn't want."
"If it were just that simple." Meg sighed. "On the surface, the bequest can be viewed as Dan's final attempt to get his way. If he had left the store to me free and clear I could have sold out. As it is, I feel obliged to give this man the chance Dan obviously wanted him to have."
"You do?" Her uncle studied her in surprise. "Meg, dear, aren't you being a little too noble? I admire you for it, but—"
"I'm not being noble. I'm just trying to be fair. It isn't Mr. Riley's fault that we're in this absurd position; he shouldn't have to pay for Dan's mistakes. I don't know what he did for Dan. He must have done something or Dan wouldn't have felt he owed him this. I don't want to owe him. I want to pay my debts, and Dan's."
"Your attitude does you credit, dear. I wish I could answer the questions you've raised, but the store was Dan's baby; I had very little to do with the hiring end of it. All I know about Mr. Riley is that he showed up one day and Dan took him on. And promoted him. When I asked who he was Dan said, 'He's a damned good goldsmith. That's enough for me and it should be enough for you.' "