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“And you’d like the support of the newspaper when you start your campaign, I suppose.”
Gina admitted, “That, too.” If the Chronicle were to endorse the idea of a museum expansion, the publicity would make raising the money much easier.
Anne stirred her lettuce with an abstracted air. “And I thought perhaps you’d asked me to lunch merely to invite me to join the board,” she mused.
Gina sat still, almost afraid to breathe. Afraid to interrupt.
As the silence drew out, her neck started to feel itchy again. The sensation of being watched had never quite gone away, though she’d tried her best to suppress the feeling so she could concentrate on the museum. She’d caught herself several times running a hand over the nape of her neck, as if to brush away an insect—or a bothersome stare.
She couldn’t stand it anymore. She had to look. If he was still sitting there staring at her…
But the stool at the end of the bar was empty. He was gone. Her feeling of being watched must have been merely a shadow, an impression which had lingered on because of the intensity of his gaze.
How foolish, she told herself, to feel just a little let down. She’d wanted him to stop looking and go away. Hadn’t she?
She gave up on her unfinished salad—the lettuce seemed to have kept growing even after it was arranged on her plate—and glanced around the room while she waited for Anne to gather her thoughts. Her gaze came to rest on a pair of men at a nearby table.
He hadn’t left after all. He’d only moved.
And of course, the instant she spotted him, he turned his head and looked directly at her, as if her gaze had acted like a magnet.
She couldn’t stand it an instant longer. Gina said abruptly, “The man at the third table over. In front of the fireplace. Who is he?”
Anne looked puzzled. “There are two men at that table,” she pointed out. “Which one are you asking about?”
“The one who looks like an eagle.”
“Looks like a what?”
“You know,” Gina said impatiently. “Proud and stern and looking for prey.”
Anne’s eyebrows lifted. “Well, that’s not a bad description. Especially the part about prey. I thought you’d know him, since he’s some kind of cousin or nephew of Essie’s. His name’s Dez Kerrigan.”
Gina knew the name, of course. Essie had been just as devoted to genealogy as to every other sort of history, and so Gina had heard a lot about the various branches of the Kerrigans. But she’d never met him; he obviously hadn’t been as interested in the family as Essie had been, or he’d have come ’round once in a while to visit his aunt or cousin or whatever Essie was to him.
And there was something else she should remember about him—something Essie had said. The memory nagged at the back of Gina’s brain, but it wouldn’t come out in the open. She clearly remembered Essie making the comment, because it had verged on sounding catty, and that wasn’t like Essie. But she couldn’t remember for the life of her what Essie had said.
“Now that’s interesting,” Anne murmured. “Why do you want to know?”
Sanity returned just in time. You’re an idiot, Gina thought, to call attention to yourself like that. Making a journalist wonder why you’re fascinated by a particular man…
“Just wondering.” Gina tried to keep her voice casual. “And what’s so interesting? That Essie’s nephew is having lunch here?”
“No. Who he’s having lunch with.” Anne put her napkin down. “I’m sorry, Gina. I must get back to the office.”
Gina put out a hand. “I understand that you may not want to commit yourself in any way just now. But—”
“But you want to hear my instant opinion anyway. All right. For what it’s worth, I believe you’re thinking on much too small a scale.”
“Too small?” Gina asked blankly.
Anne nodded. She pulled out a business card and scrawled something on the back of it. “By the way, I’m having a cocktail party Sunday night. You can meet some of your potential donors on neutral territory and size them up before you officially start asking for money. Here’s the address. And now I really need to run—but be sure you read the newspaper in the morning.”
Before Gina could ask what tomorrow’s Lakemont Chronicle could possibly have to do with anything, she was gone.
Gina was habitually an early riser, a habit ingrained from her upbringing. But on the following morning she was awake well before dawn, waiting to hear the distinctive off-key whine of the newspaper carrier’s car engine idling down the street while he tossed bundles onto front porches.
She’d never felt anything but safe here, even though the neighborhood, once an exclusive enclave, was now hemmed in on all sides by commercial and industrial development. She’d lived in a lot of places that were worse. Still, she couldn’t blame a parent for not allowing a kid on a bike to deliver the morning newspaper.
Which brought her squarely back to the question of what was supposed to be so special about this morning’s newspaper. Or was that simply Anne Garrett’s way of saying goodbye—taking every opportunity to promote the newspaper she published? Surely not.
Gina made herself a cup of instant coffee and sat down by the window in her living room, which overlooked the front door of the brown-brick row house. Once the building had housed a single family, along with their servants, but years ago it had been split into rental units. Gina’s apartment had originally been the family’s bedrooms.
She liked being up high, even though hauling everything upstairs got to be a pain after a while. And she liked the feeling of space that the tall ceilings of an old house offered. Besides, her apartment was close to work; the Kerrigan County Historical Museum was only three blocks down the street and around a corner, so Gina didn’t need to keep a car. A good thing, too, since there was no place for her to park it except in the museum’s driveway—a driveway that, with any luck, would soon disappear under a new gallery.
You’re thinking on much too small a scale, Anne Garrett had told her. Well, that was easy for Anne to say, with the resources of the Chronicle behind her.
It was true, Gina admitted, that the long, narrow strip of concrete next to Essie Kerrigan’s house was not large enough for the spacious, airy galleries she’d like to have. But if they pushed out the back of the house as well, essentially roofing in the entire garden…
There still wouldn’t be room for things like the windows from St. Francis Church, regrettable though the loss would be. But Gina had to work with the raw material she’d been given, as sensitively as it was possible to do.
Of course, they’d leave the front facade just as it had been constructed by Essie’s grandfather Desmond Kerrigan—at least as far as they could. It would be criminal to destroy that wide, spacious open porch and corner tower. So long as the addition on the driveway side was stepped back so it didn’t overwhelm the front of the building, it would still look all right.
Desmond Kerrigan hadn’t been the first of his name to come to Lakemont, and he wasn’t the Kerrigan that the county had been named for. But he had been the first of the family to consistently turn small investments into large ones, so when he’d built his home in what was then the most exclusive section of Lakemont, he hadn’t pinched pennies. He’d built solid and strong—but even so, a century and a half had taken a toll on the house as well as on the neighborhood. The red brick had long ago been darkened by city smoke and fumes. Hailstorms through the years had left behind cracked and broken roof slates.
In the last years of her life, Essie Kerrigan had not had energy to take care of those things, and so delayed building maintenance was one of the jobs that had fallen to Gina when she’d assumed Essie’s title as head of the museum.
And as long as they would have to raise money for restoration, why not go the whole way and expand at the same time?
Essie had understood the need to expand the museum, though she had sighed over the idea of adding modern wings to her beloved old house. Gina wondered what Dez Kerrigan would think of the plan.
Not that he would have any say in what the museum board did, of course. The house had been Essie’s, and the will she had written couldn’t have made her intentions any clearer. Still, Gina supposed that the other branches of the family might have feelings about the matter. And one who had apparently been named after the distant ancestor who had built the house in the first place might have strong sentiments indeed.
Gina wondered if Dez Kerrigan had known who she was yesterday. Was that why he’d been staring—looking at her not as a woman, but as the person who had—in a manner of speaking—ended up in possession of Desmond Kerrigan’s house?
It couldn’t be any more than that, she was certain. If he’d known about her plans for expansion, he might well object—even though he had no real right to an opinion. But the fact was he couldn’t possibly know about that. The plans were still so tentative that the only people she’d discussed them with were the members of the museum’s board and Anne Garrett. They hadn’t even hired an architect yet.
On the other hand, Gina thought, his reaction yesterday probably had nothing at all to do with the museum. Her first assessment of Dez Kerrigan had probably been the correct one—the man was simply rude. He thought he’d caught her staring at him, and he’d taken it as license to stare back.
What was it about the man that she ought to remember, but couldn’t? She was certain Essie had said something about him. Not that it was important—but if she had time today when she got to work, she’d dig out Essie’s family history files. Essie had noted down every jot of information she’d dug out, every source and reference, even her every suspicion. Somewhere in there should be the clue to Dez Kerrigan.
Gina heard three distinct thumps on the front porch—her newspaper, along with those of her upstairs and downstairs neighbors. As quietly as she could, watching out for the creaky stair, Gina went down to retrieve her copy. She spread it carefully on the old trunk which doubled as a coffee table, flipped through the pages once to see if anything leaped out at her, and then refilled her coffee cup and settled down to look at each individual story.
Million-dollar verdict in civil suit—but it was unlikely the winner was the type to donate money to a historical museum. City councilman challenges mayor—nothing unusual about that. Tyler-Royale expected to close downtown store—five hundred jobs at stake—formal announcement expected today…That kind of blow to the community’s economy wouldn’t make raising money for a museum expansion any easier.
Gina turned the page, then turned it back and sat staring at the picture of the Tyler-Royale department store building. There were two pictures, in fact—one of a group of clerks beside an old-fashioned cash register, taken when the store was brand new nearly a century before, and a shot from just yesterday of shoppers at the front entrance.
You’re thinking too small, Anne Garrett had said. And then Be sure you read the newspaper.
Had she…could she have been…thinking about the Tyler-Royale building as a home for the historical museum? It seemed the only explanation of that cryptic comment. But why hadn’t she just come straight out and said it?
Because if the announcement wasn’t going to be made until today, not just everybody had known about the store closing—and the last thing the publisher of the Chronicle would do would be to take a chance of the local television station beating her newspaper to the story.
Gina closed her eyes and tried to picture the department store. It had been a while since she’d shopped there, but if her memory was accurate, the space could hardly be better suited to house a museum. Areas which had been designed for the display of merchandise would be just as good for showing off exhibits, and a soaring atrium in the center of the building brought natural but indirect light to the interior of every floor. The store was big enough to house not only every exhibit the museum currently displayed but every item currently in storage as well. The stained-glass windows from St. Francis Church would be no problem; they could have a gallery to themselves.
In addition, the building sat squarely in the middle of the downtown area—an even better location for a museum than Essie Kerrigan’s house was. There was even a parking ramp right next door.
But best of all, in Gina’s opinion, was the fact that nobody in their right minds would pay good money for that building. If Tyler-Royale couldn’t run a profitable store in the center of downtown Lakemont, then it was dead certain nobody else could. No, Tyler-Royale couldn’t sell it—but they could donate it to a good cause and save themselves a wad in taxes.
And why shouldn’t that good cause be the Kerrigan County Historical Society?
The newspaper said that the CEO of Tyler-Royale had come up from Chicago to make the announcement at a press conference scheduled for ten o’clock that morning. Since she didn’t know how long Ross Clayton would be in town, Gina figured that would be her best opportunity to talk to him. All she needed, after all, was a few minutes of his time.
Not that she expected the man to make a spur-of-the-moment decision. This was hardly like making a contribution to the United Way; he couldn’t donate company property without the approval of his board of directors. And even if he was in the mood to give away a building at the drop of a hat, Gina couldn’t exactly take it. She didn’t even want to think about the fuss it would create if she were to call a meeting of the museum’s board of directors and announce that—without permission or consultation with any of them—she’d gone and acquired a new building.
But a few minutes with the CEO would be enough to set the process in motion. To give the man something to think about. And to give her a hint about whether he might act on the suggestion.
Her path toward downtown took her past Essie Kerrigan’s house. Gina paused on the sidewalk in front of the museum and looked up at the three-story red brick Victorian. The building looked almost abandoned, its facade oddly blank because most of the windows had been covered from the inside to provide more room for displays.
Gina had spent the best hours of her life inside that house. As a teenager, she had visited Essie Kerrigan and listened to the old woman’s tales of early life in Kerrigan County. As a college student, she’d spent weeks in the museum library doing research. As a new graduate, her first job had been as Essie’s assistant—and then, eventually, her successor.
In a way, she felt like a traitor—to the house and to Essie—even to consider moving the museum away from its first and only home. The building was a part of the museum; it always had been.
But in her heart, she knew Anne Garrett had been right. She had been thinking too small. She simply hadn’t wanted to let herself look too closely at the whole problem, because she had thought there was no viable alternative.
Putting a roof over the garden and the driveway would be a temporary solution for the cramped conditions, but if the plan was successful and the museum grew, in a few years they would find themselves stuck once more in exactly the same dilemma. And then they’d have nowhere to go, because the building was already landlocked, hemmed in by houses and commercial buildings.
If the museum was ever going to move, now was the time. Before they had invested hundreds of thousands of dollars in new construction. Before they tore up Essie Kerrigan’s house. The house was salvageable now—a restorer would have no trouble reversing the few changes which had been made to accommodate the museum. But as soon as the work started, knocking out walls and adding a couple of wings, the house would be even more of a white elephant than the Tyler-Royale store was.
“It’s all right,” she whispered, as if the house were listening. “It’ll be better this way. You won’t be carved up after all, because a family will buy you and make you truly beautiful again.”
Why the CEO had chosen to hold his press conference at the city’s premiere hotel instead of in the store was beyond Gina’s understanding, until she walked into the main ballroom and saw the final preparations under way. Cables and power cords snaked underfoot; lights and cameras formed a semicircle around the lectern set on a low stage at one side of the room, and people were milling everywhere. No wonder he’d wanted to keep this circus out of the store. Even though it would be closing soon, there was no sense in driving the last customers away with all the noise and confusion.
It was not exactly the place for a confidential chat, of course. But she didn’t have much choice about the place or the time, so she edged into the crowd, watching intently.
Almost beside Gina, a reporter from one of the Lakemont television stations was tapping her foot as she waited for her cameraman to finish setting up. “Will you hurry up? He’ll be coming in the door to the left of the podium—make sure you get that shot. And don’t forget to check the microphone feed.”
Gina, hoping the woman knew what she was talking about, edged toward the left side of the podium. She was standing next to the door when it opened, and she took a deep breath and stepped forward, business card in hand, to confront the man who came out onto the little stage. “Sir, I realize this is neither the time nor the place,” she said, “but I’m with the Kerrigan County Historical Society, and when you have a minute I’d like to talk to you about your building. I think it would make a wonderful museum.”
The man looked at her business card and shook his head. “If you mean the Tyler-Royale store, you’ve got the wrong man, I’m afraid.”
“But you—aren’t you Ross Clayton? Your picture was in the Chronicle this morning.”
“Yes,” he admitted. “But I don’t exactly own the building anymore.”
Gina felt her jaw go slack with shock. “You’ve sold it? Already?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Gina looked more closely at him and felt a trickle of apprehension run through her as she recognized him. The photo of him in this morning’s paper hadn’t been a particularly good one, and she only now made the connection. This was the man who’d been having lunch with Dez Kerrigan yesterday at The Maple Tree.
At that instant a tape recorder seemed to switch on inside her brain, and Gina heard in her memory what Essie had said about Dez Kerrigan.
He has no sense of history, Essie had said with a dismissive wave of her hand. In fact, the older the building is, the better he likes knocking it down so he can replace it with some glass and steel monster.
Dez Kerrigan was a property developer—that was what Gina should have remembered as soon as she heard his name.
A familiar and uncomfortable prickle ran up the side of her neck, and she turned her head to see exactly what she was expecting to see. Dez Kerrigan had followed Tyler-Royale’s CEO onto the little stage.
“I own the building,” Dez said. “Or, to be perfectly precise, what I own is the option to buy it. But I’m always ready to listen to an offer. Your place or mine?”
CHAPTER TWO
GINA couldn’t believe the sheer arrogance of his question. Your place or mine? The very suggestion was an insult. Even if she actually had been staring at him yesterday at The Maple Tree—which of course she hadn’t—she wouldn’t have been inviting that sort of treatment. If he went around like this, propositioning every woman who happened to look in his direction…
The CEO said under his breath, “Dez, I think you’re on thin ice.”
Dez Kerrigan didn’t seem to hear him. He glanced at his watch and then back at Gina. “I’m a little busy just now, but after the press conference we can meet at your office, or at mine. Which would you prefer?”
Gina gulped. “Office?”
“Of course.” There was a speculative gleam in his eyes. “What did you think I was doing—inviting you to climb into my hot tub for a chat?” He shook his head. “Sorry, but I’d have to know you a lot better before I did that.”
Gina felt as if she was scrambling across a mud puddle, trying desperately to keep her feet from sliding out from under her. She needed to do something—and fast—to get her balance back. “I, on the other hand,” she said sweetly, “am quite certain that getting better acquainted wouldn’t make any difference at all in how I feel about you.”
His eyes, she had noticed, were not quite hazel and not quite green, but a shade that fell in between. Unless he was amused—then they looked almost like emeralds. And there was no question at the moment that he was amused.
“I suppose I should be flattered,” he murmured. “Lust at first sight is a well-recognized phenomenon, of course, but—”
Even though Gina knew quite well that he was laughing at her, she still couldn’t stop herself. “That is not what I meant. I was trying to say that I can’t imagine any circumstance whatever that would get me into a hot tub with you.”
“Good,” Dez said crisply. “Now we both know where we stand. Do you want to talk about the building, or not?”
Gina could have hit herself in the head. How could she have gotten so distracted? “Since you’ve only just cut a deal to buy it, I don’t see why you’d be interested in talking about selling it.”
“Don’t know much about the real estate market, do you? Just because there’s been one deal negotiated doesn’t mean there couldn’t be another. Let me know if you change your mind.” He stepped off to the side of the platform as Ross Clayton tapped the central microphone in the bank set up on the lectern.
Gina, fuming, headed for the exit. What was the point in sticking around? She had real work to do.
The television reporter who had been standing next to her earlier intercepted her near the door. “What was that little face-off all about?”
“Nothing at all,” Gina said firmly and kept walking.
She was halfway back to the museum before she could see the faintest glimmer of humor in the whole situation. And she found herself feeling a hint of relief as well. Of course, she was still disappointed at losing the chance to acquire an ideal building, but at least she hadn’t made a fool of herself by going public with her crazy plan before she’d checked it out. It would have been almighty embarrassing to have gotten the museum board excited over the possibilities and then had to go back to them and admit that her brainstorm hadn’t worked.
Tyler-Royale’s CEO was a pro with the press, Dez thought as he listened to the smooth voice explaining that no, the five hundred employees of the downtown store would not lose their jobs but would be absorbed into the chain’s other area stores. The reporters were circling like sharks in the water, snatching bites now and then, but Ross remained perfectly calm and polite. As the questions grew more inane, Dez let his attention wander to more interesting matters.
Like the little redhead who had been lying in wait for them. Now she was something worth thinking about. First she’d turned up at The Maple Tree yesterday, having lunch with the press. He’d thought that perhaps she was a reporter too. That would account for the inspection she’d given him. She’d looked him over like a cynical searchlight—not exactly the sort of feminine once-over he was used to.
