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Fear.
The gut-wrenching, twisting kind. That would be unacceptable in Seymour’s world where everyone lived according to his rules and regulations. The thought of spending a day in prison, much less years, must be driving him insane.
Holt’s smile twisted into a sneer. Good. If Seymour was convicted, he’d get what he deserved. What goes around comes around. In his father’s case, this philosophy was proving to be true, and in a way Holt had never thought possible. Hooked on prescription drugs. He just couldn’t believe it. His father and drugs just didn’t mix. Seymour’s modus operandi was that he controlled everything; nothing controlled him.
It had always been that way. Even when Holt was a young child Seymour had wanted to control every part of his son’s life, just as he’d controlled Holt’s mother.
Only Holt had rebelled and oftentimes bested his father, especially when he shot down Seymour’s dream of his son following in his footsteps and becoming a surgeon. Instead, Holt had opted to become a criminal defense attorney. He had gone to work for a famous firm and done far better than even his wildest expectations until his mother’s death and a severe case of career burnout sent him off into uncharted waters on his sailboat.
And he hadn’t regretted a day he’d turned his back on his career and his father.
Holt wondered what had made Seymour slip into the gutter. Perhaps his young trophy wife was giving him trouble. Perhaps she’d decided to ditch him for a man her own age. Just the thought had probably sent his old man into a frenzy. Or perhaps his trip down Drug Lane had nothing to do with the second Mrs. Doctor Seymour Ramsey. Perhaps she’d turned out to be the wife of his dreams.
Holt couldn’t care less.
He’d never even seen the woman much less met her. Since Holt maintained an office in Dayton where he took on clients from time to time, news of his father always reached him.
Anything that pertained to the Ramsey family was big news. Unfortunately, that included him whenever he was in town. He’d been told by his friends that pictures of Seymour’s second wedding and the subsequent events had been splashed all over the pages of the daily paper.
Holt had counted his blessings that he’d been nowhere around, that he’d been on one of his long jaunts in and around Canada. If he’d been in the vicinity, he might have done something he’d regret, and Seymour hadn’t been worth that.
Seymour had ceased to mean anything to Holt when he’d divorced his mother years ago simply because she no longer pleased him physically or mentally. Six months later Lucille Ramsey had taken her own life by shooting herself in the stomach. A day before her death, she had told Holt she still loved his father, that she would always love him.
That declaration had devastated Holt.
After the funeral, he had severed all contact with Seymour. That had been years ago. How many years? He had no clue. He didn’t care. All he knew was he hadn’t forgotten or forgiven his father and that he could no longer bear the sight of him.
Holt shook his head trying to clear it. He squinted his eyes against the sun’s harsh glare and peered at the magnificent sail that billowed in the breeze. A sense of peace momentarily replaced the anger that had raged inside him.
Still, he strode down into his gym and battled it out with his punching bag. Later, after showering and swigging down a beer, he sprawled on the sofa and closed his eyes.
Only he couldn’t sleep. Images of his mother’s face swam before his eyes. He squeezed them tighter, willing his mother away. It was as if he could hear her whispering softly to him, telling him what she wanted him to do.
“No, I can’t,” he muttered out loud in an agonized voice. “I won’t.”
Everything appeared normal. Maci actually pretended her life was back to the way it was before Seymour’s arrest. But when she walked out the door and into the media scrum, Maci got a severe reality check.
Moments like that made her fear her life would never be the same, especially if her husband went to prison. Disregarding that unwelcome thought, she looked up from the set of house plans in front of her and wiggled her shoulders. She’d been working for several hours on a kitchen for a new client, and she was tired.
But her fatigue went much deeper than a sore neck and shoulders. Since Seymour had been hauled off in handcuffs, she hadn’t slept a wink. The fact that he’d been released on his own recognizance two days ago hadn’t helped.
Seymour, however, didn’t seem to have the same problem. Earlier at breakfast he’d eaten his omelet with his usual healthy appetite which prompted her to ask, “You really aren’t worried, are you?”
He put his fork down and looked at her. “Not in the least.”
“Well, I am,” she countered.
“I know you are, and I’m sorry, sorry for the pain I’ve caused you and Jonah.”
“What about yourself, Seymour? Even if you get out of this mess, your arrest is bound to have an impact on your practice.” Her voice rose an octave. “A man is dead.”
Seymour’s cup stalled halfway to his mouth, and his eyes narrowed. “I’d rather not have a replay of the past few days, Maci. I’m trying to get on with my life and my practice.”
Frustration surged through her. “And just how is that possible when every time we walk outside, bulbs flash in our faces and hurtful questions are thrown at us?”
“I’m sorry about that, too, but this will pass. In a few days, someone else’s life will be under the microscope.”
“Meanwhile, you’re going to go on with yours as usual.”
“Absolutely. And I suggest you do likewise.”
“It’s not that easy for me, Seymour.” She paused with a deep sigh. “The thought of you—”
“That’s not going to happen,” he said in a stern, harsh tone.
“Maybe not, if you’d consider looking for another criminal attorney.” She refused to back down and play the feebleminded mate without a thought of her own.
“That’s not necessary. I’m certain Holt will be here.”
“How can you be so sure, especially when he gave Keefe an emphatic no? Shouldn’t you at least have a contingency plan?”
“You worry too much, my dear.” Seymour wiped his mouth and then stood. “I’m going to the office. Give Jonah a hug for me. I’ll see you this evening.”
He leaned over and pecked her on the cheek. “Oh, I’ve invited Keefe for dinner. Please inform Annie.”
Maci didn’t move once he was gone. Anger and shocking disbelief threatened to engulf her. When had Seymour gotten so arrogant? Were the drugs responsible for this haughty and unrepentant attitude? For all their sakes, she prayed Seymour was right and that his son would show up and clear his father’s name. If Holt was the crackerjack attorney Seymour and Keefe said he was, then he would be their savior on earth.
Suddenly, Maci felt the urge to see her son. Jonah seemed to be the only thing that grounded her. When she walked into his room, Liz rose and smiled at her before glancing at the child who was sound asleep on a pallet. “He just conked out.”
Maci squatted, then leaned over and grazed Jonah’s apple-red cheek with her lips before standing to full height. “That’s good. We played long and hard last night.”
“Ah, so you let him stay up late?”
Maci gave her a sheepish grin. “Actually, I’m guilty of two infractions. I let him sleep with me.”
“I bet he loved that.”
“We both did,” Maci responded, settling her gaze back on her baby. “I just don’t want the little bugger to think it’s going to be an every night thing.”
Liz’s eyebrows rose, but she didn’t say anything.
“I’ll check in with you later on today. I’m off to see a client. Call if you need me.”
“You know I will,” Liz said, an uncertain look crossing her face.
“What?” Maci prodded, sensing there was something else on Liz’s mind. “Hey, don’t ever hesitate to ask me anything, especially if it pertains to Jonah.”
“I’m not sure I should take him out today, like to the park, for instance.”
A frown marred Maci’s unblemished features. “You shouldn’t. That pack of media wolves outside will probably attack you as well. No way will I put Jonah or you through that abuse.”
“Is…is Dr. Ramsey going to be all right?”
Again Maci heard the reluctance in her voice, and while she didn’t want to talk about the dreadful situation, she had no choice. Liz had become part of the family shortly before Jonah’s birth, following a slow and in-depth search for the right person to help care for her son. The young woman, who had yet to marry and have a family of her own, had turned out to be a jewel. Maci knew she owed her an explanation.
“Let us pray that he is,” Maci said at last. “As of two days ago, he was released on his own recognizance, and that’s a positive thing.” She couldn’t bring herself to say that he was out of jail.
“He’s such a nice man. I can’t believe this is happening to him.”
“Thanks for your concern, Liz. Just keep us in your thoughts, and take care of Jonah. That will help us as much as anything.”
“You can count on that. Those people with the microphones and cameras don’t scare me.” Her tone was defiant.
They do me, Maci almost said but didn’t. “That’s the attitude. I’ll see you both later.”
On her way downstairs Maci smelled the strong aroma of fresh coffee. She peered at her watch. She had time for another quick cup. Food, however, was out of the question. She hadn’t eaten anything since Seymour’s arrest anyway.
Once she reached the sunny breakfast room, Annie brought her a cup of coffee. Drinking leisurely, Maci stared out the window, taking in the beautifully manicured rolling lawn. Flowers splashed the lush greenery with vivid color.
She loved this place, loved the grounds and the old colonial pillared house that Seymour had purchased long before he married her. She had refurbished it to suit her tastes with Seymour’s encouragement. He had told her the renovations were long overdue. Maci had been relieved as she and the first Mrs. Ramsey had nothing in common when it came to interior design.
“Mrs. Ramsey, you have a call. It’s Mrs. Trent.”
“Thanks, Annie.” Maci reached for the phone, grateful her favorite client and friend chose that moment to call. “Hey, Bobbi, I was just on my way to see you.”
Thank God, she had her work to keep her mind occupied.
“Keefe, may I get you another drink?”
“No thanks, Maci. I’m fine.”
“I’d like another one,” Seymour said with a smile. When Maci hesitated, he raised his glass to her, his eyes mocking. “Never mind. I’ll get it myself.”
Maci ignored him and smiled at Keefe. “I hope dinner was to your satisfaction.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Keefe said in a slightly flustered tone. “Your housekeeper outdid herself.”
“Actually, it was Maci who made the shrimp dish,” Seymour said. “My favorite, by the way.”
Keefe returned the favor with a smile. “Well, as I said, it was delicious.”
“When I have the time, I love to cook.”
A silence fell over the study for a long moment, then Keefe set his drink down and cleared his throat. “Seymour, has it dawned on you yet that Holt is not coming?”
The doctor placed his drink on the mantel before leveling his gaze at his attorney. “Did you hear from him?”
“No.”
“Enough said.”
“No, it’s not,” Keefe rebuked in a blustering tone, only to quickly modify it when color surged into Seymour’s face.
Maci knew Seymour was agitated that Keefe had crossed him. But she was glad the attorney had done so since she hadn’t made a dent in Seymour’s armor at breakfast. Maybe together she and Keefe could talk some sense into him.
“I’m telling you, we need to call another attorney,” Keefe stressed. “Jack Little—”
“Not interested.” Seymour leaned his head back, drained his glass, then plunked the glass down on the bar and promptly refilled it.
Maci winced. She feared her husband was replacing drugs with alcohol as he’d overindulged every night since his brief incarceration.
“All right, Seymour, you’re the boss,” Keefe said with obvious displeasure.
“That’s right.” Seymour took another sip, then turned to Maci. “How about I make you a drink? Your coffee cup’s empty.”
Maci shook her head. “No, thank you.” Then to Keefe, “Is there a chance that Seymour could be convicted?”
“More than a chance. It’s a real possibility.”
“Dammit,” Seymour lashed out, “don’t discuss me like I’m not here.”
The chiming of the doorbell forced a silence.
Maci stood, turning toward the French door of the study as it opened. At first, Maci thought her eyes were playing tricks on her, that the man who stood there with his hands in the pockets of his shorts was a figment of her imagination.
“Holt,” Seymour exclaimed, dashing across the room, hand outstretched. “I knew you’d come.” Even though his hand was ignored, the gleam remained in the doctor’s eyes when he swung around and faced Maci and Keefe. “See, I told you my son wouldn’t let me down,” he added in a gloating tone.
Maci remained upright by sheer force of will. Yet when she tried to open her mouth to speak, she couldn’t. Her throat, along with her entire body, seemed paralyzed.
“Maci, meet my son and your stepson, Holt.”
No. God, no. It couldn’t be. She swallowed a mournful cry. The man she’d made passionate love to on the beach in Jamaica and her stepson couldn’t be one and the same.
Only they were.
Five
“Maci, are you all right?”
She heard Seymour’s question, but she couldn’t answer. Her throat was so tight that no air could get into her lungs. The room spun and she feared she would faint.
Digging her hands deeper into the leather-backed chair, Maci forced herself to smile, all the while feeling as if her composure might crack under the pressure of this shocking encounter.
“Maci, what the hell’s wrong with you?”
Seymour’s harsh tone broke her out of her catatonic state. “I’m actually not feeling well,” she responded in a halting tone.
Seymour frowned his disapproval.
