скачать книгу бесплатно
“Ainsley and Deidre fight with each other because they don’t want to hurt their mother’s soft heart. They’re afraid to take their quarrel to the real source of their unhappiness. Baxter Manning.”
Here was blunt speaking with a vengeance. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” she said cautiously.
“Baxter has to rule the roost, surely you’ve figured that out about him. Ainsley must have a job with the company, because that’s what Baxter expects, even though the boy would rather dabble with his drawings.” She dismissed Ainsley with a glance. “Meanwhile Deidre, who actually might accomplish something in the business, is left clerking in a genteel shop, waiting to make the proper marriage.”
Corrie blinked. “Do you mean they listen to him? That sounds like something out of the last century.”
“Baxter is something out of the last century. And since he controls the purse strings, everyone has to do what he wishes or risk losing his support. There are periodic rebellions, but so far no one has actually broken away.”
Corrie’s gaze sought out Lucas. He’d propped his tall figure against a cherry armoire and frowned across the room at her.
“That doesn’t include Lucas.”
“Even Lucas.” Lydia’s eyes were bright with what might have been either interest or malice. “In theory Lucas runs Baxter’s companies, but in actual practice he can’t make a single decision without being second-guessed.”
Lucas didn’t impress her as a man who’d allow himself to be dictated to, but she didn’t really know him, did she? And if he had his way, she never would.
“And then there’s you.” Lydia’s smile held an edge.
“What about me?”
“Didn’t you realize, my dear? Baxter doesn’t care a snap if you’re his long-lost granddaughter or not. He’s sent you here as a threat, to show the others what might happen to all that lovely money if they don’t do what he says.”
THREE
Corrie took a deep breath as she reached the bottom of the stairs, leaving Eulalie’s dinner party behind. All she wanted now was out, away from all those people with their inimical faces and their crosscurrents of emotion. Then the steps behind her creaked, and she realized that Lucas had followed her down.
“Haven’t you baited me enough for one night?” She was too annoyed to try to be polite.
He lifted his hands in surrender. “I’m just on my way home myself. Did you like getting the lowdown on all of us from Lydia?”
She still hadn’t decided what she thought about the woman’s comments and wouldn’t tell Lucas in any event. “Lydia was kind enough to ask me to drop in on her. She realized I might want to see where my mother lived when she was here.”
“Did she now? I wonder what’s going on in that shrewd brain of hers.”
She glanced at his face in the low light from the fixture at the bottom of the stairs, but it didn’t give anything away. Beyond him, the family room was dark with shadows. “Is she shrewd?”
“Definitely.” He leaned against the door frame, apparently ready to talk. “She runs half the cultural boards in Savannah practically single-handed, and she took the demise of the symphony like a death in the family.”
“You said she was an old family friend. Is that why Mr. Manning was willing to rent Trey’s house to her? I’d think he probably wouldn’t want a stranger living in such close quarters.”
Lucas shrugged, glancing through the glass pane in the door toward the dark garden. Lights shone along the walks that divided the houses. “I suppose. Are you picturing it as yours?”
Exasperation swept through her like a wind off the mountains. “I’m telling you for approximately the hundredth time, I don’t want anything. I’m just trying to understand why you all live so close together.”
“I don’t know why Lydia decided to rent the house. The families were always close, so maybe she felt at home here. Eulalie lives here because Baxter took her in when she married someone with more charm than money. We all preserve the fiction that she keeps house for him.”
Lucas was being surprisingly open. Because his family had annoyed him with their constant bickering? Or was this yet another trap he was setting for her?
“And why do you live here?”
He frowned absently. “Baxter offered us the house when Julia and I married. She wanted to be close to her mother, and I was working twelve-hour days at the business. It seemed like a good idea. Why do you care? Are you storing up tales to spill to Baxter?”
“No. Why are you telling me? Are you trying to trip me up?”
He gave a reluctant laugh. “You’re something, Corrie Grant. If that’s who you really are.”
“That’s what my birth certificate says.”
He was very close, the garden level very quiet. The faint sound of voices drifted down from the floor above. “Birth certificates can be faked.”
“And fakes can be found out. Mine isn’t. Why can’t you see…”
She looked up and met his eyes. Whatever else she’d intended to say seemed to get lost, and her breath caught.
Lucas—she didn’t even like him. So why should her heart be pounding and her breath ragged just because he stood so close, looked so intently?
He felt it, too. She could see it in the sudden darkening of his eyes.
She shook off the sensation. She was tired. Jet-lagged. She hadn’t felt a thing. “I am exactly who I say I am,” she said shortly. “Go ahead, investigate. You won’t find anything else.”
“Maybe not.” If he’d felt anything, it was gone now. “You can be sure I’ll try.” He went quickly out into the garden, the door banging behind him.
She waited a moment or two, giving him time to get clear of the path. Then she stepped outside and took a deep breath of scented garden air. It was still muggy, but it felt good after the welter of emotions she’d been through today.
A wrought-iron bench curved beneath a magnolia tree as if it had grown there. She sank down on it, not ready to go in yet.
That sudden little spark of attraction had been a shock—one that neither of them expected or welcomed. Well, it was gone now, drifting away as if it had never been.
She sat for a while, barely thinking, just letting the peace of the garden seep into her. She’d questioned why they all lived here, but this garden in itself was a reason.
Finally, realizing how late it must be getting, she made her way slowly toward Baxter’s house. Her feet made little sound on the brick path, and a dense growth of shrubbery enclosed her. Maybe that was why, when the voice came, it startled her so much.
“…she’s my problem, not yours.”
It took a moment to realize the voice belonged to Ainsley, another moment to understand that he was talking on a cell phone. He didn’t sound stammering or diffident now.
“I know that.” His voice was sharp. “Just stay out of it. This is my problem, and I’ll take care of it.”
He might mean anything, she assured herself, but his “she’s my problem,” seemed to ring in her ears. She was probably the only problem facing Ainsley right now, and the threat he thought she represented to his inheritance.
She felt chilled in spite of the warm, humid air. It was disturbing to be the target of so much ill will. Softly, not wanting another confrontation tonight, she slipped down the path and through the garden door.
Baxter’s house closed silently around her. She’d thought the garden was quiet, but in comparison to the house, it had been alive with rustles and chirpings and murmurings. The house was silent, dead silent, and she was uneasily aware that, for all intents and purposes, she was alone here.
She’d been alone in scarier places than this—backpacking in the mountains, or keeping a midnight vigil beside Aunt Ella’s bed those last few nights. She wouldn’t give in to fear.
The darkness and the light are both alike to Thee. The words of the Psalm came to her mind without conscious thought, and she started up the stairs.
The parlor floor lay black and empty, save for a small lamp Mrs. Andrews had left on in the hallway. Moonlight from the landing window traced a path down the stairwell. She paused, hand on the railing. That sound—was it a footfall from somewhere on the bedroom floor?
“Mrs. Andrews?” Her voice was tentative, although there was no one to disturb with her call.
Nothing. The house was as still as an old house ever is.
She went quickly up the steps before she could imagine anything else. No one was here. No one could be here.
Still, it felt good to close the bedroom door behind her and switch on the light. The cozy room sprang to life in its soft glow.
They’d laugh if they thought they’d managed to spook her, and she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
She crossed to the dresser, taking off her watch, and then paused in the act of laying it down. She pulled open one drawer, and then another.
There was no mistaking the signs. Her room had been searched. The searcher had been careful, but not careful enough. He’d left traces visible to someone as organized as she was.
Heart thumping, she went quickly through her belongings. Nothing seemed to be missing, but…
She hurried to the bedside table and opened the Bible. Her breath came out in a sigh of relief when she found the photo still there, the faces still smiling up at her.
She closed the Bible again, holding it against her chest for a moment. Everything had been searched—everything had been put back in its proper place.
Except for one thing. The notes she’d made about the family, based on the attorney’s briefing—those were gone.
By the time she’d finished breakfast the next morning, Corrie had decided on her course of action. There was nothing useful she could do. Accusing anyone would only lead to a fruitless quarrel.
She walked out into the garden, relieved that the air seemed to have cleared a bit. A faint breeze rustled the palmettos and sent a shower of withered magnolia blossoms down on her.
Who had it been? Lucas? He could have seen her linger in the garden and taken the opportunity, although he couldn’t have known how quickly she might have gone into the house. Deidre or Ainsley? They’d both come to dinner well after she’d arrived. That would have given them time. Even Eulalie could have done it, although she had trouble imagining Eulalie rushing out the front door as she went out the back.
It didn’t really matter. The notes that had been taken proved nothing, except that she had been briefed before she arrived in Savannah. She couldn’t even imagine what that unknown someone expected to prove by taking them.
She rounded a bend in the path and found herself face-to-face with Ainsley. He looked up, startled, hand arrested on a sketch pad.
“C-Corrie. Good morning.” The shy stammer was charming, as was the faint flush that rose under his tan at the sight of her. But she hadn’t forgotten his incisive voice on the phone.
“Good morning.” She moved a little closer, hoping for a glance at the sketch. “What are you drawing?”
“Nothing.” He slapped the pad closed and planted his hands on top of it.
“Someone mentioned that you’re very artistic. I’d love to see your work sometime.”
“It’s nothing but a hobby.” His tone was just short of rude, and he shot off the bench where he’d been sitting. “I have to get to work.”
He darted off as if she’d been chasing him, disappearing into the shrubbery. She didn’t have a chance to point out that since today was Saturday, it was unlikely he had to go to work.
“Corrie.” She turned at the sound of her name, to find Lydia standing near the fountain, waving. “I didn’t expect to find you out this early. Would you care to come and see my house?”
Her house. Well, Lydia had a right to think of it that way. It hadn’t been Gracie and Trey’s house in a long time.
“Thanks.” She crossed the garden quickly. “I’d like to.”
There were faint shadows under Lydia’s eyes, as if she hadn’t had a restful night, and the lines in her face were more pronounced in the sunlight, but she still moved as lightly as a girl.
“Come in. I was taking my morning look at the garden.”
“I can see why you’d want to. It’s beautiful.” Corrie followed her through the garden-level door. Inside, the space that was a sort of family room in Baxter’s house was an efficient-looking office here.
“My work area.” Lydia waved dismissively at a computer station and filing cabinets. “I’m on far too many boards and committees not to stay organized.”
Corrie stopped at a cabinet filled with trophies—sailing, riding, shooting, tennis—apparently whatever Lydia did, she did well. “You’re obviously quite a sportswoman.”
“Don’t believe that image of Southern women as belles who languish on the veranda, drinking mint juleps.”
“I’m learning not to, but I have to confess, until I came here, I didn’t know anything about Savannah except the clichés.”
“You’ll learn. Although I don’t suppose you’ll be here that long.” She was already heading up the stairs, so apparently the comment didn’t require an answer.
Corrie followed, wondering where Lydia stood in all this. She could be a disinterested party. Lucas had called her a family friend, but which member of the family had her loyalty?
“Did you know Trey very well?” she asked as they came out into the center hallway—smaller than the one in Baxter’s house, but beautifully proportioned.
“My dear, Trey and I were close from the diaper stage on.” Lydia smiled, but her mind seemed focused elsewhere. “Our mothers were best friends. Supposedly Trey kissed me in the sandbox at age two, and I boxed his ears.”
“You must have been surprised when he married so suddenly.”
Lydia considered, her head tilted to one side. “Not surprised that he rebelled against his father, no. Just a bit surprised that his rebellion took that form.”
Corrie blinked. “My aunt said—” She stopped, not sure she wanted to repeat what Aunt Ella had said—that Trey had taken one look at Gracie and fallen head over heels in love.
“There he is.” Lydia nodded to the wall above the staircase, and Corrie realized she meant the portrait that hung there. “Trey Manning, painted on his eighteenth birthday.”
This wasn’t the laughing, jeans-clad figure of her faded photograph. This was a golden boy, someone who had the world in the palm of his hand and the confidence that went with it. He stood erect, hand placed carelessly on the back of a chair, staring at the artist with something she could only call arrogance. She thought she preferred the photo.
She had to say something. “I’m surprised it’s here, rather than in Baxter’s house.”
Lydia was turned toward the portrait, so Corrie couldn’t see her face. “It very nearly wasn’t anywhere. Baxter told Mrs. Andrews to burn it.”
“Burn it!” How could any father want to burn his son’s portrait? “Why?”
“Anger. Sheer, unadulterated anger at Trey for disappointing him. Luckily Mrs. Andrews had sense enough to tell Eulalie, who came to me. I rescued it. I thought someday he’d want it back, but he never has.”
She didn’t need to ask what the disappointment was. Obviously Baxter hadn’t wanted his son to marry an insignificant waitress when all of Savannah society was his for the taking.
She could add up two and two as well as the next person. Lydia had been right. Baxter had sent her here to push his family into doing his bidding with the threat of a new potential heir. Even if he became convinced she was Trey’s child, he’d never welcome her.
Lydia swung back to face her. “I hope that doesn’t put a bad taste in your mouth. Baxter’s all right—one just has to know how to handle him. That was something Trey never mastered. He needed a wife who could do it for him.”
“Meaning my mother couldn’t?”
