Читать книгу Mending Her Heart - Judy Baer - Страница 9

Catherine didn’t speak as they drove through town but reclined against the seat back, vacantly watching buildings go by. Stanley’s Meat Market, Wilders’ drugstore with its original soda fountain and the Stop-In gas station. The doors were open on several of the rooms at the Flatley motel, being aired out for the next guests.

They pulled up to the front gate of the Stanhope mansion, an impressive three-story structure with wide porches, ornate gingerbread trim and white lace curtains blowing in the windows. There were cars everywhere, parked down both sides of the street and in neighboring driveways. More cars, it seemed to Will, than there were in the entire town of Pleasant. Abigail had been a well-loved woman.

The geraniums in the huge metal vases that flanked the stairway and the front door were a vibrant red. The variegated hostas Abigail loved so much marched, lush and beautiful, around the foundation of the house. Will had stripped and repainted every baluster with care and was pleased with the results. The porch railing looked brand-new. Abigail had loved it…. Will fought back the emotion swelling in his chest. At least she’d had the opportunity to enjoy it before she died.

As he helped Catherine out of the car, she looked at him again, with those sad gray-green eyes. When she grabbed his forearm to steady herself, Will felt an unexpected frisson of energy make its way up his arm. Was he feeling electricity between them?

You’re just plain stupid if that’s what you think. He was merely a convenient pillar to lean on. He could have been made of wood or plaster for all she cared. He felt closer to her than she to him only because Abigail had talked so much about her.

“Thank you,” she said softly. She tipped her head to look at him and he saw gratitude in her eyes.

Well, maybe she cared a little.

“I’m very sorry about your grandmother. She was one of a kind.”

Catherine smiled faintly. “She certainly was. I still can’t believe it’s true.” She looked at the massive home before her, its gleaming windows and glossy gray porch floor sparkling back at her. “Maybe once I’ve been inside I’ll realize she’s gone.”

I wouldn’t count on it, he thought grimly as he followed her into the house. This place was as alive with memories of Abigail as a house could possibly be.

Still carrying her shoes, Catherine stared up at the mansion that was her childhood home. This was where she belonged right now, she realized, as she was swept up in an overpowering sense of rightness, of home. This was the repository for her family’s history, this quaint step-back-in-time place. It was particularly true of her great-grandfather, Obadiah Elias Stanhope.

Obadiah had come from Illinois in the late 1800s and opened a small bank on Main Street. A savvy man who wasn’t afraid of either risk or criticism, Obadiah had, during the Great Depression, amassed a number of failing banks and invested prudently. Thus the Stanhope banking fortune was born and the Stanhope name embedded in the very fabric of the town. He’d built a mansion for his beloved wife and son and, eventually, daughter-in-law, Abigail. Now she, Obadiah’s great-granddaughter, was the only remaining Stanhope. What might Obadiah have expected of her? He was a man of grand ideas and splendid schemes. A weighty blanket of duty and obligation settled around her shoulders like a thick wool cape, unwieldy, confining and fraught with responsibility—the very things she’d tried to leave behind in her law practice.

She could see people milling around inside the house, holding coffee cups and plates of food. Mr. and Mrs. Flatley, owners of Pleasant’s only motel, were there, awkwardly balancing plates of food on their knees. Even the gentleman from Stop-In station was there, though Catherine knew he was relatively new to town. Others were on the wide expanse of porch, including Stanley Wilder and his wife, who ran the drugstore. In fact, everyone who’d ever lived in Pleasant seemed to be present. Aunt Ellen, her mother’s sister, was pouring coffee from a silver server and her uncle Max was handing around a tray of dainty sandwiches that the church ladies had provided. It was a party Abigail would have enjoyed.

“Ms. Stanhope?” A deep male voice rumbled near her ear.

A large, gray-haired man came into her line of vision. “I’m Dr. Benjamin Randall, Abigail’s physician. She was a wonderful woman, your grandmother, good to the hospital and very gracious to me. This is a great loss for everyone who knew her. My condolences.”

As the big man’s intent blue eyes bored into her, Catherine was suddenly overcome with a shortness of breath. She opened her mouth to respond, but when she took one step forward, it was as if she were being moved by puppet strings. Confusions overtook her. Then someone cut all the strings and Catherine slipped to the ground in a dead faint.

She awoke to the anxious faces of Will, Emma, Uncle Max, Aunt Ellen and several of her grandmother’s friends peering down at her as she lay on the lumpy horsehair couch Abigail had insisted was Obadiah’s favorite. There was worried muttering in the background.

“Sorry, I…I…” she began. Then a plastic dump truck landed on her chest. Following it was the face of a small boy with shaggy brown hair, deep brown eyes, round pink cheeks and a hopeful expression.

“My dump truck always made Grandma Abby feel better,” he said with sublime innocence. “You can play with it if you want.” Then he smiled at her, the sweet, trusting smile that children usually save for the people they love most.

The wall around her heart softened and she reached her hand out to the boy. Before she could speak, a familiar but frowning dark figure swooped down on the child and picked him up.

“This isn’t the time or place, little buddy,” Will Tanner said to the child. “It’s very nice of you to offer to share your dump truck, but I don’t think Ms. Stanhope is in the mood right now. Let’s get you a soda.”

“But Grandma Abby said if everyone would put their problems in my truck and send it to the dump, they’d all be happier,” the young voice piped. “Don’t you want that lady to be happy?” His words grew farther away as he was spirited into the kitchen. A hint of laughter spread through the room.

Emma, looking relieved that Catherine had stirred, helped her to her feet. “That’s Will Tanner’s nephew, Charley. He’s only eight and hasn’t quite grasped the fact that Abigail is gone. He was only trying to help.”

And he had, Catherine thought. He’d interjected some lightness into the dark moment. She was grateful for something tangible to do away with the disconnected feelings she was experiencing. The child was right, too. She’d love to send her current toxic troubles to some faraway place. He’d also reminded her that she did have control over how she responded to what was before her. She’d have to thank Charley later—and find out exactly why he was calling her grandmother “Grandma.”

She was not the only one in this room who was grieving. Besides, Abigail would have expected her to recognize that, Catherine reminded herself. Just because she was steeping in a brew of vulnerability and grief, she still had responsibilities. She had people to greet. What she couldn’t do for herself, she would do for her grandmother. That included being a gracious hostess for those who’d come to pay their respects.

She rose from the couch with a weak smile. She was accustomed to hiding her emotions from a jury. She could do it here, too. “No harm done. I haven’t eaten much today. I was just a little faint, that’s all.” She waved a hand toward the milling guests. “Please, keep visiting. Don’t worry about me. I want this to be a celebration of my grandmother’s life.”

Reluctantly at first, and then with more gusto, the guests began to talk among themselves, telling stories about Abigail and even erupting into laughter at the memories. Catherine made her way to the vast dining-room table where a buffet was set up and picked up a sandwich so she’d have something in her stomach. Then she moved from group to group accepting the sympathetic comments and gestures of affection the people of Pleasant had to offer.

“Catherine!” Mrs. Margolis, her third-grade teacher, grabbed her by the hand and embraced her in a hug that nearly suffocated her. The dear woman still wore White Shoulders perfume after all these years. Eddie Henke, the milkman, looked distraught. Abigail had befriended him many times and he wanted to tell Catherine about each of them.

One by one, people approached her to tell Catherine the ways that her grandmother had blessed them—making donations to the park fund, paying doctor bills, buying braces for a needy child. But as she moved toward a group of people from Gram’s church, she was brought up sharply. “Catherine, we have to talk.”

The tone of Aunt Ellen’s voice brought her to a halt. Automatically, Catherine steeled herself. She loved her aunt even though they rarely saw eye to eye. This was the one conversation Catherine had hoped to avoid today, but there was no way to stop the inevitable.

“So,” Ellen said, “I hear you left your job in Minneapolis.” Her face puckered as she said it, as if the words were distasteful. Ellen was pencil thin and dressed to the nines. Her hair, cut in an asymmetrical bob, looked like a piece of architecture. She was wide-eyed and unlined thanks to the nips and tucks she used to fend off old age. Unfortunately Ellen had also removed much of the personality from her own features. She was still beautiful, though, as had been Catherine’s mother, Emily.

Her mother’s sister was a force of nature, Catherine had learned long ago, accustomed to getting her own way and not a terribly gracious loser when foiled. The only person she’d ever seen stand up to Ellen and win was Abigail. It was back then that Catherine first understood the power of a mother lion fighting for her cub.

“That’s right. My plans are fluid for the time being. There’s no hurry for me to go back.” She chose not to mention the job offers she’d had. She didn’t want Ellen’s input right now, and because Catherine was leaning toward teaching, she would have the rest of the summer at Hope House. “I can stay in Pleasant as long as I need to.” Catherine could tell her aunt didn’t think that was fortunate at all.

“What about your home?”

“I put my condo on the market this week. No use doing things halfway.” She’d already emailed her housekeeper to store the few things that were left. Then she’d texted her Realtor to tell her the house would be ready to show next week. When she was ready to move on, there would be nothing tying her down.

“It sounds like you’re burning bridges. You’ve certainly made sure you can’t go back. What are you thinking, Catherine? Yours was a very prestigious job.”

“I suppose, if that sort of thing impresses you.” And that was just the sort of thing that did impress her aunt. Conrad, Connor & Cassidy—the Three C’s as the staff called them—had a highly regarded reputation. “To me it was just my work—family law.”

“But you held other people’s lives in your hands!” Ellen pointed out. “You had the ability to change their futures. That’s very important.”

Too important, sometimes, Catherine thought. She didn’t want to be responsible for the world. She didn’t want to be accountable for anything right now. She’d never been completely comfortable with courtroom drama. Nor did she want to carry the burdens of other people’s heartbreak on her shoulders. One of her last cases had proved to be the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. A custody case, it had involved all the drama, intrigue and heartache of an afternoon soap opera—deception, trickery, deceit and revenge. Sadly, a small child had stood at the center of the swirling controversy. That was what had bothered Catherine most.

“It also wears a person out emotionally,” Catherine said to Ellen. “It’s difficult to stay aloof from the issues and the people involved without becoming calloused.”

She didn’t want to be a cynic who kept people at a distance, avoided personal relationships and concentrated only on the work. She hadn’t liked the person she was becoming.

Impulsively Catherine threw her arm around her aunt and gave her an affectionate squeeze. Even that didn’t stop Ellen from expressing her opinion. “It sounds like a disastrous decision to me,” she said. “Throwing away a lucrative career…and for what?”

Some things just never change, Ellen’s quest for income and status being one. She and Uncle Max had been kind to want to adopt her, Catherine thought, but it never would have worked.

“I like to think of it as an opportunity,” Catherine said frankly, “a chance to reinvent myself. There’s a profession out there that doesn’t drain my energy and steal my spirit.” Like teaching, perhaps.

Emma and Will approached at that moment, saving her from any more of her aunt’s comments. Ellen walked away, shaking her head.

“Don’t mind your aunt,” Emma said gently, obviously having overheard the conversation. “Her intentions are good. She has different values, that’s all. You’ve always been a sweet girl with a very tender heart. Your grandmother wondered how you could be in such a ruthless occupation. Apparently you couldn’t after all.” Emma eyed her as if she were x-raying her soul.

“I still remember the day you came from your aunt and uncle’s to live with Abigail. You were a tiny, lost child with a pink backpack, clutching a teddy bear with a red scarf and one missing ear. Your eyes were so big that they took up most of your face.”

Catherine glanced at Will, unsure if she was ready to have him hear this, but most likely he’d heard it all from Gram. “Yes. Initially I’d stayed with my mother’s sister, Ellen, and her husband, Max.”

“But your grandmother never liked it much. She told me that Ellen and Max were too…what was the word?” Emma looked around to make sure they weren’t within hearing distance. “They were too restless to have a child. I never really understood what she meant by that.”

Catherine, however, understood perfectly. “Max and Ellen are entrepreneurs. They love to travel. Max does business all over the world and Ellen accompanies him. It’s an opportunity for Ellen to take photos across the continents. She’s built up a fairly serious reputation as a photographer. By choice, they’ve never had children.”

“It’s probably for the best if they couldn’t stay home,” Emma said, her tone disapproving. “Children need a stable environment.”

“That’s what my grandmother thought, too.” Catherine ran her fingers through her hair. She’d given thanks to God countless times that her grandmother had held fast and insisted on legal custody. Even now, today, she and her aunt were on opposite ends of the spectrum. The conversation they’d just had was proof of that.

Catherine shrugged. “It all worked out, I guess. It’s probably the reason that I specialized in family law.”

“More than worked out. It seems to me it was a big success.” Will glanced at Emma. “This gives me hope.”

Emma nodded in understanding, leaving Catherine in the dark as to what they were talking about.

Before she could ask him what he meant, a bear of a man bore down on them and Catherine threw out her arms. “Jerry!” At that moment he picked her off her feet and gathered her into his arms.

Will and Emma backed away as Catherine greeted her old friend.

Will watched Catherine talk to the newcomer with sudden animation and felt oddly protective. She was spectacularly beautiful, in a tense, agitated kind of way. Will couldn’t fault her for being a bundle of nerves. Losing Abigail had knocked him for a loop and he couldn’t imagine how it might be for Catherine.

She was too thin, and her high cheekbones were more prominent than they might have been had she been carrying another ten or fifteen pounds. For some odd reason, he had an urgent desire to cook for her. Perhaps because he couldn’t think of another thing to do for this woman whose suffering was written across her face.

He rarely felt helpless. Having lived and seen a lot of life had taught him to survive. He was confident about most things he faced, but Catherine was something else. Like his late friend and mentor, Abigail, he was rarely wrong about someone’s character. Beneath her shell of self-sufficiency, Catherine Stanhope was fragile and vulnerable.

Emma, who was acting as hostess, flitted over to him. “She reminds you of Abigail, doesn’t she? Independent, smart, self-reliant….” Emma made a tsk-tsking noise with her tongue. “She was even more so before…” Her voice trailed away.

“Before what?”

“I’m not quite sure. But I do know something has changed her. Abigail told me that a case had affected Catherine deeply and she was having a hard time getting over it. Catherine’s always been very open and forthright, but she has walls up now. I can’t explain it, but it feels as if she holds people at bay sometimes.”

He tensed involuntarily. He preferred people who were honest, not guarded or secretive.

“I know this has been hard on you, Will.” Her grandmotherly concern was evident. “You and Abigail were very close. She loved you like a son. I’m sorry for your loss, as well. Are you okay?”

“I must admit I’m a little poleaxed by what’s happened, but I’ll be fine.” He drew himself to his full six-foot-two height and rolled his shoulders to relax them before giving Emma a lopsided grin. “Which reminds me, I’d better go find Charley before he gets into some mischief.”

“That’s a darling boy you have.”

Will didn’t comment. His mind was too busy digesting the fact that not only was Catherine an attorney, but that she had been at the center of a custody case as a child. Could she help him with the problem that was currently knocking at his door? And of course there was the even bigger question. Would she?