Читать книгу Up Close and Personal - Fern Michaels - Страница 9

Crestwood, South Carolina, population 27,855, was a pretty little town with sidewalks, tree-lined streets, cozy shops with colorful awnings, homey window displays, white benches underneath the ancient trees that shaded the streets like giant umbrellas, and old-fashioned lampposts. There was a town square with a bandstand where the town fathers stood at attention to view the seven yearly parades.

On the Fourth of July, the picnic kicked off at the bandstand, covered with flags and banners. The children of Crestwood decorated the entire square for Halloween in the hopes of winning the grand prize, which was a double-decker ice-cream cone from Elmo Mitchell’s drug store every Saturday afternoon for a full year. Santa Claus and his elves came to town in a horse-drawn sleigh on wheels the day after Thanksgiving. It was said in the Crestwood Record that every resident in town turned out for the event.

Just about every citizen of Crestwood said their town was the prettiest in the whole state. As far as anyone knew, no one had ever disputed the claim.

The main street in Crestwood really was named Main Street. Parson’s Bakery had the best croissants and peanut butter cookies. Elmo Mitchell served the creamiest ice cream, which came from the Windsor Dairy. John Little of Little’s Hardware had every garden tool and gadget known to man. John even kept a barrel of peanuts sitting by the white bench outside his store for those who wanted a handful to munch on as they did their daily shopping. Eva’s Tea Shop sported double tubs of bright pink petunias at each side of the pristine white Dutch door. It was hard to pass Eva’s and not stop for a frosty glass of sweet tea and a cucumber sandwich on fluffy white bread made by Eva herself at the crack of dawn.

Visitors to Crestwood, and there were many, said that the nicest thing about the little town was how everyone knew everyone else and that they felt a real sense of place when visiting. When the visitors left the sleepy little town, most, if not all, agreed that Crestwood was more small-town America than the fictional Mayberry of television fame.

Jacob Forrest, “Jake” to everyone in town, walked down the tree-lined street to the end of the block, turned right on Richardson Avenue and continued on to the offices of Forrest & Forrest & Granger. There was no Granger these days, just the elder Forrest and Jake.

Jake hadn’t always practiced law with his father here in Crestwood. Fresh out of law school, he hadn’t wanted to return to Crestwood, where, according to him, they rolled up the sidewalks at eight o’clock in the evening. He wanted some nightlife, some razzle-dazzle inside and outside the courtroom. So, he’d headed for Atlanta, Georgia, and had done a three-year stint working as an assistant district attorney before the nightlife and the razzle-dazzle lost their allure. After leaving the DA’s office, he joined a small criminal defense law firm in Albany, Georgia, where he spent five years before deciding to return to Crestwood.

With little or no crime in Crestwood, both senior and junior Forrests mostly dealt in real estate closings, deed filings, speeding tickets, wills, and the like, which left time for fishing and golf in the summer and skiing in the mountains in the winter.

Jake walked up a flower-lined walkway to a one-story building constructed of old Charleston brick. Every morning Jocelyn, the receptionist, polished the brass plaque at the entrance. The high shine allowed Jake to see his reflection. He grinned the way he always grinned. He grinned now as he opened the door and walked into the cool reception area. He waved to Jocelyn, and said, “It’s getting hot out there.”

“It’s only June, Jake, it’s going to get hotter. Your father has called four times. He said to call him. He should be on the ninth hole by now.”

“Did he say what he wanted?” Jake called over his shoulder. Like he really cared what his father wanted.

“Now, Jake, you know better than to ask me that. But if it will make you feel better, no, he didn’t say what he wanted. Your twelve thirty is due any second now. Stacy,” she said, referring to Jake’s secretary, “went to Eva’s. She said everything you need is on your desk. Call her if you need anything.” The plump, grandmotherly receptionist winked at Jake.

Jake tossed his briefcase on one of the client chairs as he shrugged out of his lightweight suit jacket. He jerked at his tie and rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt. Seventy-seven-year-old Clara Ashwood, his twelve thirty appointment, didn’t stand on formality. He looked down at his appointment book. Clara wanted to change her will. Again. She’d changed her will the week after Christmas, then again in April. He wondered what happened this time. At Christmas she hadn’t liked the presents her children had given her. In April, two of her six children hadn’t shown up for Easter dinner, so she’d changed it again. As far as he could tell, Clara was on schedule. Clara was his favorite client.

Jake looked at his watch. He had five minutes before she was due. Did he have time to call his father? His father was always succinct, especially if he was on the golf course. He pressed in the numbers, waited, then his father’s voice came on.

“Jocelyn said you called,” Jake said by way of greeting.

Instead of responding to his son’s statement, Rifkin asked a question. “Can you have dinner with me this evening? I have something I need to discuss with you. It’s important, Jacob.”

Jacob. When his father called him Jacob, Jake knew that whatever he wanted to talk about was serious—to him. “Hey, you’re the boss. Your name is first on the plaque,” he said, bitterness ringing in his voice. “Backbay at six thirty. I have to eat and run, so don’t try throwing any guilt trips in my direction.”

“It sounds fine, Jake. I’ll see you at six thirty.”

Jake’s hand was shaking when he broke the connection. He took deep breaths to stop his internal shaking. He was on his last one when he heard her cane before he saw her. He got up and walked over to the door. For some reason he felt like he always had to escort Clara Ashwood to her chair. “Miss Clara, how are you on this fine June day?”

“Don’t ask me that, Jake. I wouldn’t be here unless something was wrong. Here,” she said, reaching into the huge straw bag she was never without, “I brought you some brownies. I made them early this morning.” The brownies were his payment.

“Well, I appreciate it, Miss Clara. Would you like some sweet tea?”

“I would. I told Jocelyn to fetch it when I came in. Such a darling lady. You’re lucky to have her. She’s always so pleasant. I wish I could be pleasant all the time the way she is. I get so damn cranky sometimes. I made up my mind this morning that I want to change my will and leave everything to the SPCA.”

Jake blinked. Everything wasn’t all that much. “Okay, if you’re sure. I’ll get right on it. You can stop in tomorrow and sign the new will. Are you sure, Miss Clara?”

“Damn straight I’m sure. I’m not even going to bore you with the details. I stopped by the cemetery to visit with Arnold, and who do you think I saw? Sarabess Windsor, that’s who. She was sitting there on that green grass with a huge bouquet of summer flowers, and she was all gussied up in fine linen and those pearls of hers. She was wailing up a storm. That mausoleum is so ostentatious.” She sniffed. “I wanted to go over and tell her to give it up already. Fifteen years is too long to be railing on like that.

“I’d give up my porch rocker—and you know how I like my porch rocker—to know where little Trinity is,” she said, changing the subject. “Every time I think about Sarabess Windsor I think about Trinity Henderson. She arrived a little too conveniently after Sarabess’s return from New York.” Clara sniffed, then said, “Emily now, she was a mean-spirited little girl. I know, I know, she was ill, and Sarabess didn’t help matters any the way she coddled her.”

This was all said in one long breath. Clara was Crestwood’s town crier, but Ardeth Gamble was snapping at her heels for the honor.

Jocelyn tapped on the door and came in with Clara’s sweet tea. After thanking Jocelyn, Clara took a sip and put the tea glass on the little table next to her chair. After Jocelyn had left, Clara said, “Do you know, Jake, Sarabess hasn’t invited any of us to the Hill in years? I find that peculiar. I think she’s tetched in the head these days. Not that I care. I did get a little sick and tired hearing about Princess Emily for two hours every week. I couldn’t concentrate on my cards.

“Now, where was I? Yes, yes, the SPCA. Call me when the changes are ready, and I’ll come by and sign it. That’s my business for the day. You need to tell Jocelyn the tea is a tad too weak. Not that I care, but someone else might. Too many ice cubes water it down. You need to make a tray of ice cubes out of the tea so that doesn’t happen. You might want to pass that on to her. Good-bye, Jake. It was nice seeing you again. No need to walk me out. I can still do that myself.”

Jake knew the drill. He smiled and waved. He waited until he could no longer hear the sounds of Clara’s tapping cane before he propped his feet on the desk. A frown built itself between his eyebrows. Trinity Henderson. Now that was a name from the past. A name that made his heart pound in his chest. He didn’t want to think about Trinity Henderson because then he’d have to look at his own conscience.

Stacy Messina knocked on the edge of the door and poked her head in. She gurgled with laughter when she said, “Who is Miss Clara’s new beneficiary this time? Hey, I’ll fight you for those brownies.”

Jake grinned as he looked at his secretary. Stacy made coming to work easy. She was a short, buxom young woman with shoulder-length red hair that was so curly it looked like a mass of corkscrews. She was always early for work and the last one out of the office at night. Jake knew he was going to miss her when she left at the end of the summer to get married. “The SPCA this time. You can have one brownie. You don’t want to lose that girlish figure and not fit into your gown, now, do you?”

Stacy was also defiant. She helped herself to two brownies. “Why so pensive, Jake? You looked like you were a million miles away. Is anything wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong. Miss Clara was talking about Trinity Henderson. I used to play with her. I was five years older, but they had horses out at the farm and I liked to ride and so did she. When you’re kids, age doesn’t matter. She could climb a tree better than me. I always fell out. She never did. She was a nice little kid. I had a really serious crush on her back then.” Even now I can’t think about her without my heart quickening.

Stacy looked at her handsome boss. Six-two, curly black hair, eyes that were the color of cobalt and two of the most adorable dimples she’d ever seen. When he smiled he looked like a movie star. She’d told him that once, and he’d laughed his head off. “Was a nice little kid? Did something happen to her?”

“I was in college at the time but Dad said she ran away on her fifteenth birthday. As far as I know, she’s never come back. If she had, this town would have buzzed like a beehive. I don’t think anyone talks about it anymore. You were probably five or six at the time, so I can understand why you didn’t know her.”

“So, why was Miss Clara talking about her? Are they related or something?”

“No, nothing like that. Miss Clara said she went to the cemetery the way she always does and saw Sarabess Windsor there. It’s not important, Stacy. Get me the Merrill file. I need to do some work for Mr. Merrill. Type up the new will and make sure it’s ready tomorrow. Oh, Miss Clara said to tell Jocelyn that the tea was a tad too weak. You might want to correct that the next time you make it. She also said that making a tray of sweet tea ice cubes will prevent watering down the tea. How come you didn’t think of that?” Jake teased.

“Uh-huh,” Stacy said as she left the office, closing the door behind her. A second later the door opened again. “There’s a story about the runaway girl, isn’t there? You’re supposed to keep me apprised of everything. I am your secretary.”

“Go! There’s no story!”

The door closed.

Like hell there was no story, but he couldn’t dwell on it right now. He reached for the Merrill file and got to work.

Rifkin Forrest was early, so he settled himself down outside the restaurant on a weathered bench festooned with an old fishing net to wait for his son and to do a little people watching. He packed his pipe and fired it up. A fragrant puff of smoke circled upward. From time to time a customer would stop for a few seconds, and greetings were exchanged. Others would clap him on the shoulder, ask about his golf game, while still others would comment on the weather. Sometimes it was nice, Rifkin thought, to live in a town where everyone knew everyone else. Other times it wasn’t so nice. No matter, he would never leave Crestwood.

As Rifkin puffed on his pipe he did his best to concentrate on his golf performance earlier in the day, but his thoughts took him elsewhere. He didn’t want to think about the reason he was meeting his son for an early dinner. He also didn’t want to think about Sarabess Windsor, but he couldn’t clear his mind. He heaved a mighty sigh when he finally saw Jake cross the parking lot and head in his direction. How handsome he was. He was fit and trim because he worked out religiously. Right now he was mopping at the perspiration on his forehead. He had his mother’s finely chiseled features, her dark hair, her ready smile. He also had his mother’s gentleness, which wasn’t to say he didn’t get angry or belligerent; he did, but it never lasted more than a few seconds. With other people. Never with him. Jake hated his guts and made no secret of that hatred.

Rifkin gently knocked the tobacco from his pipe on the edge of the bench as he stood up to greet his son. He smiled. Jake grimaced.

“I’m here, let’s get out of this heat. I don’t have much time.”

“Excellent idea. How are you?”

“Miss Clara changed her will again today.”

“That’s hardly news. You busy?”

“Semi. June is always slow, you know that. I hope this impromptu dinner isn’t because you’re going to tell me you’re going away for the entire summer and leaving me with all your cases the way you usually do. We’re supposed to be a partnership. That means we share the load.”

Rifkin clapped his son on the back. He felt Jake flinch. “Now, Son, would I do that to you?”

Jake reared back. When his father used that particular tone of voice, he knew he wasn’t going to like whatever he was about to say. And, when he referred to him as Son as opposed to Jake, then Jake knew that whatever his father wanted to discuss was serious. Shit, he had his whole summer planned out. His lady of the moment, one Amanda Pettijohn, was not going to like this one little bit.

“Yeah, Rif, you would do that to me. You did it last year and the year before. So, you’re saying you aren’t going away for the summer, is that it?”

“No, Son, I am not going away for the summer. You are.”

Jake was saved from a reply as the hostess appeared and led them to a booth with a view of the canal. Rifkin waved away the menus. Both he and Jake always ordered the same thing when they dined at Backbay: pecan-crusted salmon, shoestring sweet potatoes, Miss Eva’s sweet pepper relish, and Backbay’s house salad with a pecan-grape vinaigrette dressing. Today would be no different. When the waiter appeared, Rifkin ordered their dinners and two bottles of Heineken.

Jake leaned across the table. “What? Where? We don’t have any pending business that requires travel. Do you have a new client? Look, I have plans for the summer. Send one of the paralegals to handle whatever it is that requires travel.”

“I would if I could…Son.”

There it was again, that tone, and the term Son. Jake clenched his teeth. “But you can’t, is that it? Or is it that you won’t?”

“My client specifically asked for you to handle this matter. You’re the logical person, Jake. I think you’ll agree when I explain it all to you.”

Jake was pissed now. He reached for the bottle of beer the waiter handed him. He didn’t bother with a glass but started slugging from the longneck. That in itself should have been warning enough to the elder Forrest that his son probably wouldn’t be happy with what was coming. His father always made a toast to something or other when they dined together.

Jake let his eyes wander around the nautical décor of the restaurant. Suddenly he didn’t like the place. He made a mental note not to return anytime soon. “Who is this mysterious client of yours that thinks I’m the only one who can handle whatever it is that needs handling?”

Rifkin made a production of pouring his beer into a glass. He looked everywhere but at his son, instead concentrating on making sure the suds from the beer didn’t slosh down the side of the glass. “Sarabess Windsor!”

Jake’s face closed tight. “The answer is no, and further discussion is not negotiable, Pop. I refuse to discuss anything that has to do with Sarabess Windsor. If that’s what this dinner is all about, I’ll leave now and go to Burger King.”

“The least you could do, Jake, is show me the courtesy of listening to me. Let’s not create a scene. I’d also like it if you’d lower your voice.”

“Personally, Pop, I don’t give a good rat’s ass what you’d like. If you’re worried about how loud I’m talking, let’s not talk about it at all, and there won’t be a scene. Look, Pop, I understand you have feelings for Mrs. Windsor, have always had feelings for that woman even when Mom was still alive. I didn’t like it back then, and I still don’t like it. You really don’t want to go there with me. Maybe she can jerk your strings, but she sure as hell isn’t going to jerk mine. If you promised her my help, rescind that offer right now. I wouldn’t tell that woman what time it was if she was standing in a dark room. I think I’m going to go to Burger King after all. See ya, Mister Forrest.” Jake was greased lightning as he bolted from the chair and left the dining room.

Rifkin stared at his son’s back as he weaved his way through the tables to the exit. He’d known an explosion was going to happen, so why had he arranged the dinner? Because Jake was right—Rifkin had always been in love with Sarabess Windsor and could deny her nothing.

Now he had to concentrate on eating the dinner that was about to be put in front of him. Food that he knew would stick in his throat. Still, he couldn’t give the other diners something to speculate about. He looked up and smiled at the waiter as he set his food in front of him. “Jake had to leave. I’ll take his dinner to go and drop it off later.”

“No problem, Mr. Forrest.”

“I’ll have another beer if you don’t mind.”

“That’s not a problem, either, Mr. Forrest.”

Somehow or other, Rifkin managed to chew his way through his dinner. He wasted no time with dessert or after-dinner coffee. He stuck some bills under the saltshaker, picked up the to-go bag, and left the restaurant. His next stop: Sarabess and Windsor Hill. To report his failure—a word that wasn’t in Sarabess’s vocabulary.