Читать книгу Tangled Memories - Marta Perry - Страница 11

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?”

“I’m afraid she was too unhappy during her marriage to handle anyone.”

“Unhappy? My aunt said that she and Trey were deliriously happy.”

“Did she?” Lydia’s voice was gentle. “Well, perhaps that’s what she wanted to believe. I saw them both from the time they came back to this house. Oh, Trey put on a good front. He’d defied his father at last and gotten away with it, I suppose he thought. Grace knew better. She knew their marriage was destined to fail from the moment they got here.”

The rest of Lydia’s tour went over Corrie’s head as she struggled with that careless comment. When she was finally out in the garden again, she walked slowly toward Baxter’s house, mind preoccupied.

Aunt Ella had emphasized one thing clearly, in spite of her faltering speech after the stroke—how happy Gracie had been. That had been the only thing that reconciled her to the sudden marriage that she knew would take Gracie away from her.

Poor Aunt Ella. She’d had no one else. Her parents dead, her only brother killed in Vietnam, leaving his daughter for Ella to raise when his wife drifted off into the hippie subculture. Ella had given all her love to Gracie, and later, to Gracie’s daughter,

Now Lydia claimed the love Aunt Ella saw between Gracie and Trey wasn’t true—or at least, that her mother’s happiness had vanished by the time she arrived in Savannah. What would it have taken them to drive from Wyoming to Savannah? Three days, four? How could all that newlywed joy have been gone already?

“Ms. Grant?” Mrs. Andrews stepped out of the garden door, shading her eyes with one hand. “There was a message for you. Mr. Courtland’s secretary called, and they need you to come to their office right away.”

She didn’t answer until she’d covered the space between them, having no wish to advertise her business to anyone who happened to be around.

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“No, ma’am. Just the secretary, saying please stop by this morning. Do you want me to call a taxi for you?”

“How far away is it?”

“Not that far.” Lucas’s voice had her spinning around to face him. He stood on the path that led to his house. “I’ll walk with you and show you the way.”

Another tête-à-tête with Lucas was the last thing she wanted, with the memory of the previous night’s emotion fresh in her mind. His face showed no discomfort at all. Had he forgotten so quickly?

“Thanks anyway. I’m sure I can find the office on my own if Mrs. Andrews will give me directions.” But Mrs. Andrews had disappeared back into the house, apparently feeling that her duty was done.

“You wouldn’t want me to think you don’t enjoy my company, would you?” Lucas touched her arm, gesturing toward the gate in the wall that led onto the street. “I’ll show you a bit of Savannah while we walk.”

Her impulse was to prolong the argument, but that would make his presence into too big a deal. Instead she stepped through the gate and onto the sidewalk, determined to ignore him as much as possible.

Then she paused. “Maybe I should change clothes. I keep forgetting that you people dress a lot more formally than I’m used to.”

Lucas’s amber gaze slid from her violet challis top to her white slacks. “You look fine,” he said, closing the gate behind them. “What do you think of Savannah so far? Or have you been here before?”

“I’ve never been east until this trip. All I know comes from the guidebook I read on the plane.” They crossed the street to the square. “I did read about the squares, of course.”

The city’s founder had laid it out around a series of squares, with houses, public buildings and churches grouped around them—quiet oases in the midst of a busy city, the guidebook had said. Now she understood what the book had meant. Tree branches met overhead, and the traffic suddenly seemed faraway. She and Lucas might have been alone in the country.

Lucas gestured toward a row of white brick town houses, each with an intricate wrought-iron railing leading up to a glossy black door. “The wrought iron is characteristic. Kind of reminds you of New Orleans, doesn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Corrie smiled, realizing they’d embarked on yet another fencing match. “I’ve never been farther south than St. Louis. As I think I mentioned.”

His eyes acknowledged the point. “Savannah is one of the most livable cities in the country and one of the most historic. We aim to keep it that way.”

“We?”

“We, as in native Savannahians. You won’t find people more devoted to their heritage. It takes quite a few generations to really belong.”

A point to him. Obviously she would never belong, any more than her mother had. She thought again of what Lydia had said, realizing she was beginning to feel protective of that young Gracie, as if she were a younger sister instead of her mother.

“You can’t walk a step in Savannah without tripping over history and legend, so mixed up together you can’t tell which is which.” Lucas had continued his own train of thought. He stopped in front of the monument in the center of the square. “A case in point.”

Corrie looked up at the city’s founder, James Oglethorpe, sword in hand, cast in bronze.

“Facing the enemy.” Lucas’s voice was soft in her ear.

“What?” For an instant she thought he meant her, as if the founder of Savannah himself would take a sword to this interloper.

“Oglethorpe. He’s facing south, because his enemies were the Spaniards in Florida. What did you think I meant?”

“Nothing.” She shouldn’t let this get to her. “Thanks for the history lesson.”

“Any time, sugar. There’s nothing a native enjoys more than talking about his city.”

She looked at him, curious at the feeling in his voice. “You sound as if you’re in love with it.”

“Not it. Her. Savannah is always a female. A faded, genteel Southern lady with just enough eccentricity to make her charming.”

Not the place for a forthright Westerner, obviously. Maybe that was why her mother had been unhappy. She’d known from the beginning she’d never belong.

Corrie turned away, and a flight of pigeons took off from the square with a rustle of wings. If she let Lucas make her uncomfortable with every other word, she was in for a very long visit.

“How much farther is it?” Maybe she should have argued a bit more about coming alone. She could have walked along and indulged her own thoughts, instead of being constantly on her guard.

“It’s this way.” Lucas took her hand as if she were a child who needed guiding. No, not a child, she corrected. There was nothing parental about the way his fingers interlaced with hers. She pulled her hand free.

Lucas smiled. “The office is on Broughton Street. That was the main shopping street of town before the malls wiped it out. It’s starting to come back now.”

When they’d walked another block to the corner, she saw what he meant. The busy commercial street had a few empty storefronts, but it also boasted the sort of shops usually found in upscale malls. People thronged the sidewalks.

“Is Saturday a big shopping day?” She dodged a large man with a camera who walked backward, focusing.

“Tourists. It’s June, and they’re out in force. A bus must have just unloaded.” He nodded to the crosswalk. “We cross here, and then we should be clear of them. Courtland’s office is just down the street.”

However, the mob of tourists had apparently decided to go in the same direction, gathering ready to cross as soon as the light changed.

Corrie balanced on the edge of the curb. Even the busy shopping area had its Southern charm, with the gold-embossed plate glass windows of what had probably been old-fashioned department stores now displaying the latest in sportswear.

A bus whizzed by, close enough to the curb to send a blast of hot air in her face. She tried to step back, but people formed a solid mass around her, as if they were afraid they’d never get across the street unless they were first in line.

Annoyed, she turned to look for Lucas. The crowd pushed forward, catching her off balance. She threw out her arms, trying to right herself, just as a shiny sports car accelerated, the driver obviously intent on making it through on the yellow light.

One instant she was safe, her foot hugging the curb. The next a strong shove in her back sent her plunging helplessly into the street, directly into the path of the oncoming car.