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The man sure knew how to hit the nail right on the head. If she didn’t go, she’d always wonder about the man who might be her father, wonder what he was like, wonder if she was like him…
A knock at the door had her whirling around. She spotted Muriel Ponsonby through the glass, and, for one brief moment, she was tempted to duck under the table and hide. Too late. Muriel was already waving at her.
“Hold on a minute,” she said to Jack. “Someone’s at the door.” She no sooner pulled it open than Muriel beamed a huge smile at her and said, “Missy La Rue had to cancel for bridge tonight, and Harold Mitzenfeld has agreed to fill in. I’m going to make sure he’s your partner.”
For a moment, Corie was sorely tempted to fake a faint. It couldn’t be all that difficult. All she would have to do was close her eyes and slip bonelessly to the floor. Then Muriel would have to find someone else to be Harold’s bridge partner. Middle-aged and portly, Harold Mitzenfeld was a recently widowed geology professor at the college. The few times she’d run into him in the library, his conversation hadn’t strayed beyond rocks.
“You’re speechless,” Muriel said, rubbing her hand together. “I knew you would be. I just had to let you know. Eligible bachelors are so hard to come by in Fairview, but I know your mother would expect me to do my best for you. And she would have approved of Harold. Now, don’t you be late.” With a wave, Muriel turned and hurried off.
Corie stared after her, but she wasn’t seeing Muriel. All she could see was her life in Fairview unfolding before her—an endless sea of bridge clubs, quilting circles, book discussion groups…and Harold Metzenfeld!
Whirling, she closed the door and marched back to the hall table. Jack’s face smiled up at her from the book jacket—pure temptation. Then she met her mother’s steady gaze—pure guilt trip.
In desperation, she glanced up at the mirror that filled the wall above the table. The person staring back at her did not look like she belonged in San Francisco. Plain brownish blond hair was slipping out of the bun she wore it in. Even at twenty-five, she looked to be exactly what she was—a plain-looking, boring college librarian. In short, she was the kind of woman that her neighbors thought was a perfect match for Harold Metzenfeld.
She did not want to be that woman!
Panic and frustration bubbled up inside of her. She’d felt just this way the day that she’d stood on the roof and wanted so much to fly. She did not want to be Corie Benjamin, drab librarian. And if she went to San Francisco, for seven whole days, she could try her wings and be someone else.
Grabbing the phone, she drew in a deep breath and said, “All right. Yes.” The moment the words were out, she felt her knees give out and she sank onto the nearest chair.
“Yes, you’ll come?” Jack Kincaid asked slowly.
Corie drew in a deep breath. It had to be easier to say the second time. “Yes. I’ll catch the seven-fifteen flight on Wednesday.”
“That’s great. I’ll meet you at the airport in the baggage claim area. I’m going to bring a friend with me. You won’t be able to miss him. He has very odd taste in clothes.”
Clothes! Corie’s eyes widened. If she was going to be someone totally different, she was going to need some new ones. And her hair—it was going to need some work too. “I just have one request. You said you’d do anything to help me make this decision.”
“Yes?”
“Before I make contact with…Mr. Lewis, I’d like a makeover.”
There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line. “A makeover?”
“Yes.” She very nearly smiled. It was the very first time she’d heard surprise in Jack Kincaid’s voice. “I’m sure you’ve seen them on TV—on Oprah? They take someone fairly…drab and ordinary and completely redo her hair, makeup and clothes. I’ll pay for it, of course. I just want to look my best if I’m going to meet my new family.”
“A makeover,” Jack repeated. “I’ll look into it. I’m sure it won’t be a problem. Anything else?”
Corie narrowed her eyes as she stared once more at her reflection in the mirror. Was it her imagination or did she look different already? There was certainly a touch more color in her cheeks. And her eyes were brighter.
“No.”
“Good. You won’t regret this, Corie. I think you’ll find the evidence I’ve gathered very compelling.”
Corie sat right where she was for a few minutes after Jack broke the connection. In the two weeks since he’d contacted her, informed her of his theory and set her life spinning, she’d searched the house for some clue that what Jack had told her might be true, and she’d uncovered some compelling evidence of her own. Rising, she now went to the closet and pulled the box down from the shelf. She’d found it under a loose floorboard in her mother’s bedroom.
Removing the lid, she picked up the brown envelope and drew out her birth certificate. On it, her father’s name was Lewis Benjamin. Not Benjamin Lewis, but it was very suggestive. Replacing it in the envelope, she stared down at the bundles of letters. They’d been written over a period of twenty-six years and they chronicled every important event in her life. There were photos of everything—from her first bath to her first date. There was even a picture of the birthmark on her right arm—the one that her mother had always said was a mark of her heritage. The envelopes were stampless and unsealed. The letters were all written by her mother and addressed to a man named Benjamin Lewis. But they’d never been mailed. The “Benny Letters” was what she’d dubbed them since they’d all begun with “Dear Benny.”
Was Benjamin Lewis the charming man who’d lied to her mother? Corie suspected that he was. And that was just the first of many questions. If Benny was her father, why had her mother run away? Corie had only had to read the letters to know that her mother had loved the man she was writing to, so why hadn’t Isabella mailed them? And why had she kept “Benny’s” existence a secret?
Reaching beneath one of the packets of letters, Corie drew out the only other item in the box, a menu from Edie’s Diner, a restaurant in the same town that the Lewis Winery was located in. By calling directory assistance, she’d learned that the diner no longer existed. But when she contacted the chamber of commerce, they’d informed her that Edie’s place was now called the Saratoga Grill. She hadn’t called, but she intended to go there in person. Perhaps someone could tell her more about her mother.
As she closed the box, Corie wished it were just as simple to put a lid on the feelings rushing through her. Tomorrow she would take the first step on a journey that could lead her to her lifelong dream of having a real family. Tomorrow was the beginning of a whole new life—even though it might only last a week.
So why did she feel so…guilty? Placing the box back in the closet, she walked down the hall to the kitchen, passing by the living room she and her mother had used only on holidays and the dining room table that had never been set for company. How many years had she waited, hoping to break free of this house?
If her mother hadn’t died so suddenly two months ago, she might never have been able to leave. She might never have found out that she had a father and a family outside of Fairview. Instead, she might have ended up married to Harold Metzenfeld. Corie shuddered at the thought. Then she glanced at her reflection in the hallway mirror and shuddered again. Maybe she wasn’t that woman who was staring back at her. Didn’t she deserve the chance to find out?
And she wanted to find out the answers to her questions. She was enough of a realist to know that she might not like the answers. But she owed it to herself to find out why her mother had spent so much of her life as a recluse—and why she wanted Corie to do the same thing.
She’d made the right decision.
If only she could get rid of the nagging voice in the back of her mind that was chanting her mother’s third commandment: Be careful what you wish for.
JACK ROUNDED THE CORNER, drew in a deep breath, and steeled himself for the final sprint that would take him to the end of Pier 39. At 6:00 a.m. the Fisherman’s Wharf area of San Francisco was one of his favorite spots. Later the stores and walkways would be thronged with people. Boats would be blowing their whistles, announcing departures to Sausalito or Alcatraz, and there would be ample evidence that only Disney World and Disneyland surpassed Fisherman’s Wharf as a tourist attraction.
But right now, there was silence except for the occasional sharp call of a seagull. Sprinting up a flight of wooden steps, Jack welcomed the burn in his shins and lungs. This morning he’d doubled the length of his run, hoping to ease his tension, but so far it hadn’t worked.
He should be feeling relieved and elated that he’d persuaded Corie Benjamin to come to San Francisco today. Instead, he’d spent two sleepless nights, and even now he had that anxious feeling deep in his gut, the one he always had when he was pursuing a lead and something was about to go wrong.
The moment the end of the pier came into view, Jack began to slow his pace. Sun glared off the water, and cars streamed steadily across the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance. “San Francisco at its best,” his Aunt Mel would have said.
Just thinking about his aunt had his lips curving. He’d been five when his parents had died in a car crash. His father’s sister, Melanie Kincaid, had been in the navy at the time, and it had taken her six months to free herself up to take him in. The months in foster homes had given him the worst memories of his life. His years with his Aunt Mel had given him the best.
“We’re the last of the Kincaids, kid,” she’d said. “We’ve got to stick together.” And stick they had—until he’d gone away to college.
“Why in hell would you want to go a whole continent away? What’s New York got that you can’t find right here in San Francisco?”
Everything, Jack thought. Or at least that’s what he’d thought at the time. His smile faded as he reached the end of the pier and planted his hands against the railing. He hadn’t come here today to rekindle old feelings of guilt. He’d come here because he needed his aunt’s advice, and he always felt close to her here.
He glanced at the rows of shops and restaurants. She’d brought him here to celebrate every good report card he’d ever gotten. Since her disappearance twelve years ago, he’d come here whenever his work schedule permitted. Dropping his gaze, Jack watched the dark water swell and push against the pilings. “I was right to talk her into coming out here, Aunt Mel.”
Corie Benjamin was his ticket to finding out what had really happened to his aunt when she’d disappeared twelve years ago. He’d been sure then, and he was sure now, that Benny Lewis had been behind his aunt’s disappearance. Melanie Kincaid had been working as the Lewis family’s personal chef, and she’d discovered something about the family that disturbed her. She wouldn’t tell him what, only that she was going to check it out. Later he’d learned that she’d disappeared within hours of calling him that day.
If only he’d been closer, he might have…
Impatiently, Jack pushed the thought away. Wallowing in guilt wouldn’t change the fact that he’d been a whole continent away, and by the time he’d made it back to San Francisco, the trail was cold, and no one would listen to his theory of foul play. Even then, Benny Lewis had established a reputation of being a leader in the wine-growing community and a philanthropist. The police had even located a witness who’d seen a woman matching his aunt’s description jump off this very pier.
What Jack knew for sure was that his aunt would never have taken her own life. The fact that the Lewis family had insisted on holding a memorial service for their late chef had infuriated him. Hotheaded and grief-stricken, he’d driven to the Lewis estate that day and accused Benny of having his aunt killed. From that moment, he’d been a persona non grata at the Lewis Winery, and a recent article he’d written, part of a series called “Crime Families in the Twenty-first Century,” had rekindled the old animosity.
The cry of a gull overhead brought him back to the present. Shading his eyes, he watched the bird circle and then light on a second-story railing. For years, he’d nurtured a hope that his aunt might be alive. To this day, he was sure that he’d caught a glimpse of her at his college graduation ceremony. His roommate Franco had told him that it was just some kind of wish projection, but Jack hadn’t been entirely convinced. Then there’d been the anonymous fan letters that he’d received during the eight years he’d spent abroad, covering stories and writing the articles that would become his first book. At times, he could have sworn he heard his aunt’s voice and phrasing in them. But none of them had been signed, and the postmarks had all been from different places.
Turning, Jack glanced down at the dark water as it pushed against the pilings. It had been twelve years, and it all came back to the same question. If his aunt was alive, why hadn’t she ever contacted him in person? One thing he was sure of—Benny Lewis held the key to answering his questions.
With Corie at his side and the threat of scandal if the story of an illegitimate daughter wasn’t handled “properly” in the press, Benny Lewis would have to finally grant him an interview. Then he could complete his work on crime families and send it off. His publisher was already pressuring him to think about a series of articles on the Middle East, so the clock was ticking.
Jack pushed himself away from the railing and began to pace. Why in hell wasn’t he celebrating the fact that he’d convinced Corie Benjamin to fly out here?
“You got a problem, you face it head-on.” That’s what his aunt’s advice would have been. Well, his problem was Corie Benjamin. He’d never before been so curious about a woman. The more he got to know her, the more puzzling she became.
There was her voice for one thing. At times, there was a shyness in it that went hand in hand with the image he’d formed of her in his mind—mousy hair tied into a bun, a baggy sweater worn with a shapeless dress and sensible shoes.
Frowning, Jack gazed out across the water. But at other times there was a hint of steel beneath the soft tone. He’d heard it loud and clear when she’d demanded that makeover.
“What in hell do I know about arranging for a woman to get a makeover?” He couldn’t imagine any other woman in his acquaintance admitting that they even wanted one.
“She’s different, Aunt Mel.”
And that was part of the problem. Corie Benjamin was different. And he hadn’t been completely honest with her. If he had, she probably would have stayed in Fairview. So maybe that was why he felt so…protective of her.
“But I was right to persuade her to come out here.” He had to believe that. Lifting his hands from the railing, he rubbed them over his face. What was the matter with him? Corie Benjamin was going to be perfectly safe. Benny Lewis certainly wasn’t going to jeopardize his reputation as one of San Francisco’s leading philanthropists just because his long-lost daughter showed up, not when the mayor was going to honor him for the new wing that was being dedicated at the San Francisco Memorial Hospital this coming Friday.
“There isn’t a safer time for her to make her appearance in his life.” Even though he’d been over and over it in his mind, it helped him to say it out loud. “And everything should run like clockwork.”
Jack lifted a hand and rubbed at the back of his neck to ease a prickling sensation. He felt as if someone was watching him. As his heart began to race, he whirled and scanned the pier.
Empty—except for a man tapping a white cane along the wooden planks on the lower level. A blind man taking a morning stroll with his dog. So much for the strange feeling he’d had that he was being watched. Jack frowned again. He was going to have to get a grip on his nerves. A good reporter always kept a cool head.
He pushed himself away from the pier and started a slow jog back to his car.
2
JACK PULLED INTO HIS SLOT in the underground garage of his apartment building and opened the door. Before he could close it, Franco Rossi, his old college roommate and current landlord, hurried toward him.
“Well, do you think she got on the plane?”
During his globe-trotting years, Jack had met his share of colorful and eccentric characters, but Franco still remained at the top of the list. For the past eight years Franco had lived in New York City, subsidizing his acting career with a job as a doorman at a posh Central Park West apartment building, and he’d acquired an…unusual wardrobe.
“She told me she was coming, and I have a feeling that once Corie Benjamin makes up her mind, she sticks to it.”
“Wonderful!” Franco rubbed his hands together. “Wonderful!” This morning he was wearing a bright red kimono, a souvenir from his performance in an off-Broadway production of Tea House of the August Moon. Beneath the spiked hair and the orange-rimmed sunglasses, who would suspect that there lurked a man who was a black belt in karate? And Jack was pretty sure no one would guess that Franco owned the apartment building he lived in. The lovely old Painted Lady had been his sole award in a palimony suit against his former longtime lover.
Franco whipped a notebook out of his pocket. “What else do you know about her? I’ve decided she’s the perfect heroine for my screenplay.”
Jack urged Franco back into the building. “You say that about every woman you meet. Your place or mine?”
“Yours,” Franco said, glancing at his watch. “My Monday-Tuesday tenant hasn’t moved out yet. Besides, you have better coffee, and I just French-pressed a pot of your Arabica.”
“Make yourself at home,” Jack said dryly as Franco used his passkey to let them in. Until he sold his screenplay, Franco had decided to live as frugally as possible. Therefore, he was presently renting out his second-floor apartment on a per diem basis to two women who lived there on different days of the week while Franco had moved into the old maid’s quarters in the basement.
Franco poured two cups of coffee and settled himself on the couch that swept around two walls of the sunny living room while Jack filled him in on what he knew about Corie Benjamin.
“So, the opening scene is eleven-fifteen at the airport. I can see it now. Sun pouring down through all that glass as our heroine walks wide-eyed through the gate into a brave new world.” Grabbing the notebook that was never far from reach, Franco began to jot down notes.
“This isn’t a movie,” Jack said.
“It will be. Corie Benjamin’s perfect—a shy little country mouse coming to the big city. My agent will be very excited about it.”
“I thought he was interested in the other two plots you’re hatching,” Jack said.
“Those too.” Franco waved his hand, then continued to scribble notes.
Jack moved to the window. Across the street, the construction workers were taking their places on the scaffolding that decorated two houses. In a matter of moments, a cacophony of ear-numbing noises would begin.
Turning back to Franco, he said, “I told her that she could use your apartment for the entire week and perhaps more, if she decides to extend her stay.”
“No problemo. I spoke with the two women who use the apartment now on different days, and I’m sure she can work something out with them.”
“There’s just one more thing.” Jack ran a hand through his hair. “She wants a makeover—the kind they’re always doing on TV talk shows. Do you know what she’s talking about?”
Franco glanced up. “A makeover! That will be perfect. It’s just what I needed—a Pygmalion theme. Eliza Doolittle meets Vito Corleone! That is sooo high concept! My agent will definitely be able to sell it!”
Jack crossed to the couch and sat down. Sometimes his friend needed a firm hand. Taking Franco’s notebook and pen, he then set them on the table. “Forget about the screenplay for a minute. Can you handle the makeover for me?”
Franco’s brows shot up. “Is rain wet? Do flowers bloom in the spring? When my mother first read me Cinderella, I didn’t want to be the prince. I wanted to be the fairy godmother. I’ve always wondered why I wasn’t born with a magic wand in my hand.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “You’re going to do it yourself?”
“Heavens no. I’ll be her advisor, but I’ll probably enlist the help of Lorenzo. He’s currently doing my hair.”
Jack frowned. “I don’t think she is envisioning spikes.”
“Relax. Lorenzo is one of the top hair designers in San Francisco. He does all the movie stars when they visit. Our little Corie will be in good hands.”
Jack’s frown deepened. “That’s just it. She’s not our little Corie.”
Franco studied Jack for a moment. “For someone who spent the past two weeks convincing our little Cor—librarian to board that plane tomorrow, you don’t look very happy.”
Shoving his hands in his pockets, Jack began to pace. “If there was some other way that I could gain access to the Lewis family, I wouldn’t have involved her.”
“You worry too much.”
“Maybe I haven’t worried enough. I still don’t know who sent me the anonymous e-mail, telling me about her and where to locate her.”
“Why don’t you ask your friend at Cop Central to help you out?”
Jack had thought about that. His friendship with Captain D. C. Parker went back to their high school days. “I couldn’t ask D.C. to do anything illegal. He’s on the political fast track in the department.”
Franco shrugged. “Who says he’d have to get involved? All you need is a name—someone who’s had a few brushes with the law….”
Jack paused in his pacing to study his friend. “You know, with a devious mind like yours, you’d make a good journalist.”
Franco threw up his hands. “Not on your life! I’ll stick to my screenplay, thank you. And I think you really ought to relax about this. Even if all your suspicions about Benny Lewis turn out to be true, he’s worked too hard to build his reputation as a pillar of the community and a philanthropist to risk even the barest hint of scandal at this point. Our little Corie is going to be perfectly safe.”
“You’re right. I know you’re right.” But… Jack barely kept himself from saying the word out loud.
Franco leaned back against the cushions on the couch. “You know, I’ve never seen you this concerned about a woman before.”
