Читать книгу The Apple Orchard - Сьюзен Виггс - Страница 17

Four

Tess’s mother didn’t return her call. This was no surprise. Shannon Delaney, on a work trip somewhere in the valley of the Dordogne and the Lot in France, was not the best at staying in touch. She never had been.

Before turning in for the night, Tess uploaded the pictures she’d taken of Miss Winther’s Tiffany set and the other treasures she’d found at the old lady’s house. Tomorrow an assistant would go over there to catalog everything and ready it for sale.

Tess tried not to think about the fact that she was going to bed alone again—always. She used to cherish her independence and freedom, but sometimes it felt more like loneliness. At least the scary heart rush had abated after she’d given the scones and cigarette to the panhandler.

She moved aside the clutter on her bed—yes, she lived amid clutter, as though the flotsam and jetsam of her life made the place feel less empty. Then she closed her eyes and listened to the clanging trolleys, sirens, the hissing air brakes of trucks, a distant train whistle. The noise and vibrancy of San Francisco was the soundtrack for Tess’s life. Having followed her mother all over the globe, she’d grown to love the sounds of the city, and San Francisco was her favorite. If you were going to lie awake at night, unable to sleep, there might as well be something interesting to listen to.

The next day, she didn’t even try calling her mother again, even though she wished she could tell someone—anyone—about her upcoming meeting with Mr. Dane Sheffield himself. Only Brooks, the office manager, knew about that. Her success at finding the Polish treasure was about to be rewarded. Everything she’d worked for, so long and so hard, was about to come into fruition. Sure, she could have used a pep talk from her mom, but she knew she could do just fine without it. She always had.

Rushing around the kitchen, she nuked a cup of water in the microwave for tea. Dunking a bag into the cup, she paused to study the pale green shamrock hand-painted on the cup. It was authentic Belleek, one of a few souvenirs of her childhood in Dublin.

Ah, Nana, she thought. You’d be so excited for me today.

Back when Nana was alive, Tess would have bubbled over like a pot, spilling the news about the treasures she’d found and her excitement about the sparkly, shiny possibility of a big career move. She and Nana had been thick as thieves, to hear Nana say it. When Tess was growing up, it had been Nana who raised her while Shannon Delaney traveled for work.

To be fair, Tess acknowledged that Shannon had tried to bring her daughter along on her travels. Tess knew this because one of her earliest memories was of flying with her mother. She was five years old and miserable with an earache, but by the time she reported this to her mom, they were airborne. Her eardrum burst at thirty thousand feet, trickling blood and pus while she wailed for the next four and a half hours. It was then that Shannon had decided that trying to raise a child while constantly on the go was impossible.

Tess remembered a powerful feeling of relief upon being delivered back to the Dublin flat. Of course she’d missed her mom, but Nana had been the home port, in her colorful apartment and a magical shop she owned in Grafton Street, called Things Forgotten. The establishment was famous for antiques and collectibles, and as a gathering place for aficionados. While Shannon was on the road, Tess used to spend hours there, even as a tiny child, hiding amid the vintage washstands and armoires, or under Nana’s massive proprietor’s desk in the middle of the shop.

Nana had left the desk to Tess, an impractical but utterly beloved legacy. The piece had gone into storage until Tess finished college and settled in a place of her own. She’d attended Berkeley, where her mother had gone, and went to the ridiculous trouble of transporting it. Now the desk rose like a man-made atoll in the middle of the main room, gloriously ornate with carved flourishes.

Tess’s earliest and fondest memories revolved around the massive piece with all its drawers and cubbies. She used to set up housekeeping for her dolls in the kneehole. She would swaddle them in blankets while listening to the murmur of Nana’s voice as she talked with clients or on the phone. The game of make-believe never varied. Her dolls didn’t go on adventures or travel the world in search of pirate treasure. Instead, they played a game Tess called “Family.” The siblings squabbled, the moms and dads scolded them and put them to bed. In Tess’s world, this sort of thing was high fantasy, something that couldn’t possibly exist. She didn’t have a family, not in the traditional sense. She never had.

At a young age, Tess had learned that it was not normal for a mother to come and go, in and out of her child’s life. She’d heard her teachers and sometimes the mothers of her friends speculating about it, exclaiming over Shannon Delaney’s work schedule and what a shame it was she couldn’t stay home with her child.

Tess vividly remembered a day when her mother was packing for another trip. Tess could still picture the paisley lining of the suitcase, and the gray webbing of the compartment that held all her lotions and makeup. There was a little wind-up clock attached to a picture frame, which held Tess’s school picture from second grade, her silly grin displaying a huge gap where her top front teeth had come out, both on the same day.

“Mommy, tell me about my dad.”

“You never had a dad. The man who fathered you was not a dad. He was just...someone I once knew.”

“Mirabelle says I’m a barstid.”

“Mirabelle is a mouthy little brat,” said Tess’s mom. “And her mother is a mouthy big brat.”

“Is it bad to be a barstid?”

“No. It’s bad to be a brat. It’s good to be who you are—Theresa Eileen Delaney, the first and only.”

“Then why would she say something mean?”

“I don’t really know.”

“Is it because I don’t have a father?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

“Sometimes when I see kids with their fathers, I want one in the worst way.”

Mom hesitated, then said, “Fathers are overrated.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means... My goodness, you ask a lot of questions.”

Nana was the one constant in Tess’s life. The two of them spent hours together in the shop. Whenever there was a lull in the day—and there was always a lull—she and her grandmother would have tea together, often brewed in an heirloom Wedgwood or Belleek china pot, and perhaps served on a silver tray. Nana loved old things and treated them with respect. However, she never kept them at arm’s length.

Filled with the warmth of memories, Tess set down an imaginary tray. Perfectly replicating the lilt in Nana’s voice, she said, “Put the music on, a stór. The quiet, slow music will make shoppers want to linger.” That was Nana’s pet name for Tess; it was Gaelic for “my treasure.”

Maybe it was the music, or perhaps some other magic; Things Forgotten had a special atmosphere that drew people in and kept them coming back. Travel magazines, guidebooks and even the New York Times advised tourists and collectors alike to pay a visit. The unlikely little shop turned into a success.

Another gift of Nana’s was her judgment. She had a shrewd head for business and nearly always made her margin. Yet every once in a while, she would let something go for a song, watching her profits walk out the door with a delighted new owner.

“Sometimes the true value of the piece is how much a person loves it.” Tess quoted her grandmother aloud as she rummaged in the desk, now thousands of miles and many years distant from the Dublin shop. She was looking for Nana’s ancient leather agenda to take to her meeting. Her planner and calendar were both on her phone now—her life was on her phone now, or so it seemed—but she still made notes in the agenda and transcribed them later.

A glance at the clock jolted her into action. She checked email and messages on her phone one more time; not a word from her mother. Typical. She shrugged it off; she didn’t have time to talk, anyway. She slowed down while passing the polished burl framed picture of her grandmother, which sat atop the desk. “Wish me luck,” she said, then dashed out the door, walking along as she sent a text message to Brooks, telling him she was on her way.

A half hour later, she arrived at the office, standing in front of a plate glass window, fixing her hair while trying not to act as if she had spent the past ten minutes in a taxi, yelling at the driver that her life depended on getting to this meeting on time.

It was the Irish in her. A flair for drama came naturally to Tess. Yet in a sense, her urgent need was no exaggeration. Finally, she was about to reach for her dream, and this meeting was a critical step in the process. She couldn’t afford to be late or to be seen as a flake, or unreliable in any way.

The San Francisco fog had done a number on her hair, but the reflection looking back at her was acceptable, she supposed. Dark tights and a conservative skirt, cream-colored sweater under a gray jacket, charcoal-gray pumps. She wore a tasteful necklace and earrings. They were vintage 1920s Cartier, a gold, crystal and onyx set on loan from the firm.

She shook back her hair, squared her shoulders and strode toward the entrance to the glassy high-rise that housed Sheffield headquarters. Checking her watch, she saw that she was actually five minutes early, a huge bonus, since she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. Oh, yeah, the olives from last night’s martini, the one that had preceded her elevator meltdown. Before heading inside, she stopped at a street cart to grab a coffee and a powdered donut, her favorite power breakfast. That way, she wouldn’t have to show up at the meeting with Mr. Sheffield on an empty stomach.

She wanted it to go well. This was the biggest thing that had ever happened to her in her career, opening before her like a magic door. It would go well. She anticipated a move to New York City, a significant raise and more of a role in the acquisitions process for the firm. The prospect of putting her student loans to rest and gaining complete independence gave her a fierce surge of accomplishment. Finally, after what felt like a very long slog, Tess felt as though she was truly on her way.

The only element missing was someone with whom to share her news—someone to grab her and give her a big hug, tell her “good job” and ask her how she wanted to celebrate. A nonissue, she told herself. The feeling of accomplishment alone was satisfying enough.

Clasping this thought close to her heart, she hurried into the building, juggling her briefcase with her breakfast-on-the-fly, and punched the elevator call button with her elbow. She shared the swift ride to the ninth floor with a young couple who kept squeezing each other’s hands and regarding each other in a conversation without words. They reminded her of Lydia and Nathan last night, moving to an inner rhythm only they could feel. She imagined herself having a boyfriend, calling him, bursting with her news. Okay, she thought. Maybe the universe was trying to tell her something. Maybe she was ready for a boyfriend, a real one, not just a date for the night.

Not today, though. Today was all about her.

She left the elevator and walked swiftly to the Sheffield offices. She shared space with a diverse group of buyers, brokers and experts for the firm. A competitive atmosphere pervaded the San Francisco branch like an airborne virus, and Tess was not immune.

As she pushed backward through the door, the paper cup of coffee in one hand, her overloaded bag in the other, the powdered donut clamped between her teeth, she fantasized about her upcoming meeting with Dane Sheffield, already feeling a dizzying confidence, even though they’d never met. He had grown the firm so that it was on a par with Christie’s and Sotheby’s, and she was now a key player. The two of them would be kindred spirits, both dedicated to preserving precious things, each aware of the delicate balance between art and commerce.

“Someone is here to see you,” Brooks announced from behind her, gesturing at a lone figure in the foyer.

Shoot, he was early.

Tess turned to look at her visitor. He stood backlit by a floor-to-ceiling window, his form outlined by the soft, foggy light from outside. His features were in shadow; she could only make out his silhouette—broad shoulders, a well-cut suit, imposing height, definitely over six feet.

He stepped into the light, and she caught her breath. He was that good-looking. Unfortunately, the startled gasp made her inhale the powdered sugar from the donut between her teeth, and an enormous sneeze erupted. The donut flew out of her mouth, dusting her clothes and the carpet at her feet with a sprinkling of white.

Both Brooks and Mr. Sheffield hurried to her aid, setting aside the hot coffee before it could do more damage, patting her on the back.

“She’ll be all right,” Brooks assured their visitor. “Unfortunately this is normal for Tess. She takes multitasking to the extreme, and as you can see, it’s not working out so well for her.”

“I’m fine,” she assured them, sending a warning glare at Brooks.

With an excess of fussiness, Brooks covered the donut with a paper towel as if it were a dead mouse, carefully scooped it up and deposited it in the trash. She tried to act as composed as possible as she faced the stranger. “My apologies,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. “I’m Tess Delaney. How do you do, Mr. Sheffield?” He didn’t look anything like his profile picture on the company website. Not even close.

“I’m Dominic. Dominic Rossi.” He held out his hand. He had a slow smile, she noticed. Slow and devastating.

Tess had to regroup as she took in the man before her. “I was expecting someone else.”

Brooks stepped in and wiped the remaining powdered sugar off her fingers before she shook the man’s hand. “Mr. Sheffield just called,” said Brooks. “He’s running late and pushed the meeting back an hour.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Rossi.” Tess tried to hide her sinking disappointment that this amazing-looking person was not her employer.

“Call me Dominic, please.” He had the kind of deep, sonorous voice that drew attention, even though he spoke in low tones. Tess could practically feel everyone within earshot tuning in to eavesdrop.

“All right, then,” she said. “Dominic.” Of course his name would be Dominic. It meant “gift from God.” AKA a life-support system for an ego. Still, that didn’t mean he wasn’t fun to stare at. Dominic Rossi looked like a dream, the kind of dream no woman in her right mind would want to wake from.

She had always been susceptible to male beauty, ever since the age of ten, when her mother had taken her to see Michelangelo’s David in Florence. She recalled staring at that huge stone behemoth, all lithe muscles and gorgeous symmetry, indifferent about his nudity, his member inspiring a dozen questions her mother brushed aside.

Now, with utmost reluctance, she folded her arms across her chest, walling herself off from the charms of Mr. Tall, Dark and Devastating. “So...how can I help you?”

“Shall I send out for more coffee?” asked Brooks. “Or maybe just disaster cleanup?”

“Very funny.”

Oksana Androvna, an acquisitions expert, popped her head above the walls of her cubicle. She spotted the visitor, then ducked back down. The handsome stranger had probably already set off a storm of workplace gossip. He didn’t look like most Sheffield clients. “My office is through here,” she said, heading down the hallway. She led the way, wondering if he was checking her out from behind, then mad at herself for wondering as she unlocked the door and turned on the lights. When she turned to face him, his gaze held hers, but she had the uncanny feeling that he had been checking her out. She wasn’t offended. If she thought she could get away with it, she’d do the same to him.

As usual, her work area was a mass of clutter. It was organized clutter, to be sure, though she was the first to admit that this was not the same as neatness. “I’m a bit pressed for time this morning—”

“Sorry to arrive unannounced,” he said, striding forward into the cramped confines of her office. “I’m not sure I have a good number for you.”

“I never gave you my number,” she said. But I might have, if you’d asked me.

He held out a business card. “I’ve been looking for you.”

For no reason she could fathom, his words gave her a chill. In a swift beat of time, she tasted the intense sweetness of powdered sugar in the corners of her lips, felt the cool breath of the air conditioning through a ceiling vent, watched it ripple through some loose papers on her credenza.

“Miss Delaney?” He regarded her quizzically.

She studied the card—Dominic Rossi. Bay Bank Sonoma Trust. “You’re a bill collector?”

He smiled slightly. “No.”

She set aside the card and stepped back, considering him warily. He had the features and hair to match his physique and voice. The horn-rimmed glasses, rather than detracting from his looks, merely enhanced them, like a fine frame around a masterpiece. He stood just inside the door, seeming out of place in her space. “Yes, it’s a wreck,” she said, reading disapproval in the way he was looking at the various piles. “It drives Brooks crazy, but I have a system.”

He found an empty spot on the floor and set down his briefcase. She placed her coffee cup atop a stack of art history books. He extracted a folded handkerchief from his pocket. “Er, you might want to...” He gestured at her lapel.

“What’s the matter?”

“You’re covered in powdered sugar.”

She glanced down. The front of her blazer was sprinkled with the white stuff.

“Oh. Damn.” She took the handkerchief—white, crisp, monogrammed—and brushed at the mess.

“Your face, too,” he pointed out.

“My face?” she asked stupidly.

“You look like a cocaine addict gone wild,” he told her.

“Lovely. I don’t have a mirror.”

He came around the desk to her. “May I?”

In spite of herself, she kind of wanted to say yes to this guy, no matter what he was asking. “Sure. Have at it.”

Very gently, he touched a finger under her chin, tilting her face toward his as he dabbed at the corners of her mouth.

Up close, he was even better-looking than she’d originally thought. He smelled incredible and was perfectly groomed. The suit fit him gorgeously. It was probably a bespoke suit, made-to-measure. Because no normal man was built like this guy. Maybe she’d manifested him. Hadn’t she just been thinking about how nice it would be to have a boyfriend?

Indulging—ever so briefly—in his touch, his very focused attention, she fantasized about what it would be like to have a boyfriend like this—attentive, patient, wildly attractive. Though she had no idea who he was, she already knew he was going to make her wish she had better luck at keeping guys around. When he finished his ministrations, she hoped she wasn’t blushing. But being a redhead, she couldn’t stop herself.

“Better?” she asked.

He put the handkerchief back in his pocket. “I just thought you’d be more comfortable...”

“Not looking like a cocaine addict,” she filled in for him. She forced herself to quit gaping.

For the first time, he cracked a smile. “Believe me, you’re better off sticking with donuts.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She did her best to ignore the pulse of attraction inspired by that smile. She flushed again, remembering her imminent meeting. “You’ll have to excuse me, but I’ve got something on the schedule that can’t wait.”

“Just...hear me out.” Somber again, he moved a stack of paraphernalia off a chair and took a seat. “That’s all I ask.”

“What can I do for you?”

He paused, a somber look haunting his whiskey-brown eyes. Oh, boy, she thought. He’d probably tracked her down for a valuation. People like this always seemed to find her. If he was like so many others, he wanted to know what he could get for his grandmother’s rhinestone jewelry or Uncle Bubba’s squirrel shooter. She often heard from people who came across junk while cleaning out some loved one’s basement, and were convinced they had discovered El Dorado.

She shifted her weight, feeling a nudge of anxiety about the upcoming meeting. She was going to need all her focus, and Mr. Dominic Rossi was definitely not so good for her focus. “Listen, I might need to refer you to one of my associates in the firm. Like I said, I’m a bit pressed for time today—”

“This is about a family matter,” he said.

She almost laughed at the irony of it. She didn’t have a family. She had a mother who didn’t return her calls. “What in the world would you know about my family?”

“The bank I work for is located in Archangel, in Sonoma County.”

“Archangel.” She tilted her head to one side. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Doesn’t it?”

“I’ve been to Archangel, Russia. I’ve been to lots of places, traveling for work. But never to Archangel, California. What does it have to do with me?”

His expression didn’t change, but she detected a flash of something in his eyes. “You have family there.”

Her stomach twisted. “This is either a joke, or a mistake.”

“I’m not joking, and it’s not a mistake. I’m here on behalf of your grandfather, Magnus Johansen.”

The name meant nothing to Tess. Her grandfather. She didn’t have a grandfather in any standard sense of the word. There was one unknown man who had abandoned Nana, and another who had fathered Shannon Delaney’s one-night stand. All her mother had ever told her about that night was that she’d had too much to drink and made a mistake while in graduate school at Berkeley. So the word father was a bit of a misnomer. The guy had never done anything for Tess except supply a single cell containing an X chromosome. Her mother wasn’t even sure of his name. “Eric,” Shannon had explained when Tess asked. “Or maybe it was Erik with a k. I never got his last name.”

On her birth certificate, the space was filled in with a single word: “UNKNOWN.”

Now here was this stranger, telling her things about herself she didn’t know. She suppressed a shiver. “I’ve never heard of...what’s the guy’s name?”

“Magnus Johansen.”

“And you say he’s my grandfather.” She felt strangely light-headed.

“I don’t know him,” she said. “I’ve never known him.” The words held a world of pain and confusion. She wondered if this guy—this Dominic—could tell. She felt completely bewildered. To hide her feelings, she glared at him through narrowed eyes. “I think you should get to the point.”

He studied her from behind the conservative banker’s glasses. The way he looked at her made her heart skip a beat and made it harder to hide the unsettled panic that was starting to climb up her throat. “I’m very sorry to tell you that Magnus has had an accident. He’s in the ICU at Sonoma Valley Regional Hospital.”

The words passed through her like a chilly breeze. “Oh. I see. I’m...” She really had no idea what to say. “I’m sorry, too. I mean, he’s your friend. What happened?”

“He fell off a ladder in his orchard, and he’s in a coma.”

Tess winced, flashing on a poor old man falling from a ladder. She laced her fingers together into a knot of tension, mingled with excitement. Her grandfather...her family. He had an orchard. She’d never really thought of anyone having an orchard, let alone someone she was related to. “I guess...I appreciate your coming to deliver the news in person,” she said. She wondered how much, if anything, he knew about the reason she didn’t know Magnus, or anyone on that side of the family. “I just don’t get what this has to do with me. I assume he’s got other family members who can deal with the situation.”

She flashed on another conversation she’d had with her mother, long ago, when she’d been a bewildered and lonely little girl. “I want you to tell me about my father,” she’d said, stubbornly crossing her arms.

“He’s gone, sweetheart. I’ve told you before, he was in a car accident before you were born, and he was killed.”

Tess winced. “Did it hurt?”

“I don’t know.”

“You sure don’t know a lot, Mom.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, it’s true. Were you sad when he died?”

“I... Of course. Everyone who knew him was sad.”

“Who’s everyone?”

“All his friends and family.”

“But who? What were their names?”

“I only knew Erik for a short time. I really didn’t know his friends and family.” Her eyes shifted, and that was how Tess knew she was holding back.

She didn’t even really know what her father looked like, or how his voice sounded, or the touch of his hand. She had only one thing to go by—an old photo print. The square Instamatic picture was kept in the bottom drawer of her mom’s bureau. The colors were fading. In the background was a big bridge stretching like a spider web across the water. In the center of the photo stood a man. He wasn’t smiling but he looked nice. He had crinkles fanning his eyes and hair that was light brown or dark blond, cut in a feathery old-fashioned style. “Very eighties,” her mother had once explained.

“I still wish I had a dad,” she said, thinking of her friends who had actual families—mom, dad, brothers and sisters. Sometimes she fantasized about a handsome Prince Charming, swooping in to marry her pretty mother and settling down with them in a nice house, painted pink.

Now she regarded Dominic Rossi, who had appeared as if out of a dream, telling her things that only raised more questions. He studied her with a stranger’s eyes, yet she thought she recognized compassion. Or was it pity? Suddenly she found herself resenting his handsomeness, his patrician features, the calm intelligence in his eyes. He was...a banker? Probably some over-educated grad with a degree in finance from some fancy institution. Which was no reason to resent him, but she did so just the same.

“I’ve never had anything to do with Magnus Johansen,” she said, deeply discomfited by this conversation. “And like I said, I’ve got a busy day ahead of me.”

“Miss Delaney. Theresa—”

“Tess,” she said. “No one calls me Theresa.”

“Sorry. That’s how you’re named in the will.”

Her jaw dropped. “What will? This is the first I’ve heard of any will. And why are you telling me this now? Did he die from the fall?”

“No. But...there’s, uh, some discussion about continuing life support. Everyone’s praying Magnus will recover, but...it doesn’t look good for your grandfather. There are decisions that need to be made....” Dominic Rossi’s voice sounded low and quiet with emotion.

The crazy heart rush started again. “It’s sad to hear, and it sounds like you’re...like you feel bad about it. But I have no idea what this has to do with me.”

He studied her for a moment. “Whether he survives this or not, your grandfather intends to leave you half his estate.”

It took a few seconds for the words to sink in. Despite her experience in provenance, she was fundamentally unfamiliar with the concepts of grandfathers and estates. “Let me get this straight. A grandfather I’ve never known wants to give me half of everything.”

“That’s correct.”

“Not only do I not know the man, I also don’t know what ‘everything’ means.”

“He has property in Sonoma County. Bella Vista—that’s the name of the estate—is a hundred-acre working orchard, with house, grounds and outbuildings.”

An estate. Her grandfather owned an estate. She’d never known anyone who owned an estate; that was something she saw on Masterpiece Theatre, not in real life.

“Bella Vista,” she said. The name tasted like sugar on her tongue. “And it’s...in Archangel? In Sonoma County?” Sonoma was where people went for Sunday drives or weekend escapes. It simply didn’t seem like a place where people owned estates. Certainly not a hundred acres... “And why do I not get to find all this out until he falls off a ladder and goes into a coma?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“And you’re telling me now because of... Oh, God.” She couldn’t say it. Couldn’t get her head around the idea of being someone’s next of kin. Finally she felt something, an unfamiliar surge—uncomfortable, yet impossible to deny. The thought crossed her mind that this...this possible legacy called Bella Vista might be a blessing in disguise. On the heels of that thought came a wave of guilt. She didn’t know Magnus Johansen, but she didn’t wish him ill just to get her hands on his money.

“Half of everything,” she murmured. “A stranger is leaving me half of everything. It’s like a storyline in those dreadful English children’s novels I used to read as a kid, about an orphan saved at the last minute by a rich relative.”

“Not familiar with them,” he said.

“Trust me, they’re dreadful. But just so you know, I’m not an orphan and I don’t need saving.”

An appealing glimmer flashed in his eyes. “Point taken.”

“Who sent you to find me?” she asked. “And by the way, how did you find me?”

“Like I said, you’re named in his will and...he’s an old man and it’s not looking good for him. I found you the way everybody finds people these days—the internet. It wasn’t a stretch. Good job on the Polish necklace, by the way.”

“Rosary,” she corrected him. “So what’s your role? How are you involved in this situation?”

“Magnus redrafted his will recently, naming me executor.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why you?”

“He asked,” Dominic said simply. “I’ve known Magnus since I was a kid. And I’ve been his neighbor and his banker for a number of years.”

She felt an irrational stab of envy. How was it that this guy—this banker—got to know her grandfather, when she’d never even met the man?

Dominic’s penetrating stare made her uncomfortable, as if he saw some part of her that she didn’t like people to see—that needy girl, yearning for a family.

“Maybe he’ll recover,” Dominic said, reading her thoughts.

“Maybe? What’s the prognosis? Is there a prognosis?”

“At the moment, it’s uncertain. There’s swelling of the brain and he’s on a ventilator, but that could change. That’s the hope, anyway.”

Her stomach churned, the way it had the night before in the elevator. “I feel for you, and for everyone who cares for him. Really, I do. But I still don’t see a role for me in all this.”

“Once he recovers, and you get to know him—”

“Apparently getting to know me is not what he wants.” She glanced away from his probing gaze.

“Magnus didn’t just decide...” There was an edge in his voice. “I’m sure he has his reasons.”

“Really? What kind of man refuses to acknowledge his own granddaughter except on a piece of paper?”

“I can’t answer for Magnus.”

She softened, felt her shoulders round. “It’s terrible, what happened to him. I just wish I understood. Mr. Rossi, I really don’t think there’s anything to discuss.” She was dying, dying to get in touch with her mother now. Shannon Delaney had some explaining to do. Such as why she’d never mentioned Magnus Johansen, or Archangel, or the legacy of an estate. A man she’d never known had included her in his will. She let the words sink in, trying to figure out how it made her feel. Her grandfather—her grandfather—was leaving her half of everything. As she shaped her mind around the idea, an obvious question occurred to her.

“What about the other half?” she asked.

“The other... Oh, you mean Magnus’s estate.”

“Yes.”

“The other half will be left to your sister.”

She nearly fell over in her chair. She couldn’t speak for a moment, could only stare at her visitor, aghast. “Whoa,” she said softly. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Give me a minute here. I have a sister?”

“Yes,” said Dominic. “Look, I know I’ve thrown a lot at you....”

“You think?” Tess struggled to assimilate the information, but she felt flooded by all the revelations. Her heart jolted into overdrive. It wasn’t even ten o’clock in the morning, and she’d learned her estranged grandfather was in a coma he’d probably never come out of, and she had a...sister. The word—the concept—was completely foreign to her.

“What sister?” she managed to ask, although she couldn’t hear her own voice over a rampant pounding in her ears. “Where is she? Who is this...oh, my God...this sister?”

“She’s at Bella Vista, and she— Hey, are you okay?” he asked, again with that oddly penetrating look.

“Just peachy,” she said. Her hands clamped the edge of the desk in a death grip. How could this be happening to her? In the middle of her perfectly normal life, this person had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, to tell her about a legacy she didn’t realize she had coming to her.

And a sister she’d never even known about.

Feeling trapped, Tess looked wildly around the office. Her pulse went crazy, hammering away at her chest with a vengeance. It was even worse than it had been the night before. Was she dying? Maybe she was dying. Inanimate objects started to blur and pulsate as though coming to life. Her throat constricted, and she felt her heart thudding against her breastbone. She made an involuntary sound, a gasp of distress and confusion.

“Miss Delaney...Tess?” asked Dominic.

“I...” Her throat felt swollen and clogged. Sweat broke out on her forehead, her upper lip. “Not feeling so hot,” she managed to mutter.

“You look terrible, like you’re going to pass out or something.”

His voice sounded very far away, as if he was shouting down a long tube.

She pressed her hands against her chest. Her fingers felt as cold as ice. Breathe, Tess told herself, but her throat kept closing up.

“I need to...sit down,” she managed to force out.

“Uh, you are sitting down.”

She pressed her hands against the chair. Dear God, what’s happening to me?

Dominic went to the doorway and stuck his head out into the hall. “Hey, we could use some help in here. I think she’s getting sick.”

Tess tried to protest. I’m not sick. Her voice was lost somewhere inside her, and besides, she couldn’t swear the guy was wrong.

People gathered in the small space outside the office. Her blurred vision pulsed harder. A couple of faces pressed close.

Jude: “Jesus, Tess, you look like death on a cracker.”

Oksana: “Maybe it’s a heart attack. Tess! Can you hear me?”

Brooks: “Or a panic attack. Give her a paper bag to breathe into.”

Jude: “I’m calling 911.”

No, said Tess, but no sound came out.

“Where’s the nearest emergency room?” asked Dominic. He took her wrist, and she felt his fingers, delicately feeling for her pulse. Of them all, the stranger was the only one who touched her. She trembled as though stepping into a freezer.

Emergency room? Was she having an emergency? No ER, she thought. That was where people went to have their chests cracked and ended up in the morgue with a tag tied to their big toe.

“Mercy Heights is just across Comstock,” said Jude.

“Then that’s where we need to go.”

“Should I call—”

“No, that takes too long.” Arms that felt as strong and solid as a forklift hoisted her up out of the chair. Dominic Rossi held her as if she weighed nothing.

“Grab her purse, will you?” he said. “And someone get the door.”

* * *

Tess lay on a gurney covered with a crackly, disposable fabric. A thin hospital gown lay over her, and someone had given her a pair of bright yellow socks with nonskid dots on the soles. Little sticky things attached to wires led from her chest to a beeping monitor. More wires led to the tips of her fingers, attached by clear plastic clothespins. Flexible plastic tubing snaked behind her ears and blew chilly, strangely scented oxygen into her nostrils. Someone had left an aluminum chart lying across her thighs.

Bells and announcements went off. Hurried footsteps squeaked across polished floors. There were sounds of conversation, weeping, praying in at least three languages. Someone was moaning. Someone else was cursing fluently at the top of his lungs, and somewhere a patient—or inmate, perhaps—was barking like a dog.

A group of people in lab coats clustered around Tess. Mercy was a teaching hospital, and most of the coat wearers were young and appeared to be incredibly interested in her.

Tess felt limp and defeated, battered by the events of the past two hours. Dominic Rossi had brought her in, carrying her in his arms like a drowning victim. She’d been questioned, monitored, questioned some more, tested and scanned. They’d asked her if she’d ever considered or attempted suicide, who the president was and to describe her state of mind. The screening questions came at her in a barrage, melding together—Did she worry excessively? Had she experienced symptoms for six months or more? Was she unable to control her worry?

She felt numb, defeated, as she replied with dull affirmatives to far too many of the questions.

One of the med students, a pudgy, earnest guy no older than Tess, reported her case. He stood nervously at the end of the bed, reading notes from a rolling monitor station. “Miss Delaney is a twenty-nine-year-old female, height, sixty-seven inches, weight, one-hundred-nineteen pounds, with no previous history of health issues. She was brought in by...” He consulted the monitor. “A friend or coworker who became worried about her when she exhibited a variety of symptoms, including shortness of breath, elevated heart rate, disorientation, blurred vision....”

She felt like a different person, lying there, or maybe an inanimate item about to be put up for auction. Anyone within earshot could hear her story. The med student reported the replies to her “lifestyle choices” and results of the labs done in the ER. In flat tones, mercifully free of judgment, he told the attending physician that she was underweight and smoked. Her blood pressure and pulse were elevated. A chem panel revealed that she was not on drugs nor was she the victim of poison. The patient reported that she had experienced these symptoms before but never with this intensity.

When the student finished, the attending, an older man, stepped forward. “Your labs are in,” he informed her.

“That’s a relief,” Tess said. Her voice was thin and strained, but at least she was beginning to sound like herself again. “I’m ready to get out of here.”

“I’m sure you are. However, we do need to discuss the differential diagnosis—”

“The what?”

“Your condition.”

“Condition? I have a condition? I do not have a condition. I have a meeting with—” Her heart sped up, and two of the monitors betrayed her.

A student adjusted her oxygen flow. The doctor wheeled a monitor into view. “I’ll show you the results. There’s nothing physically wrong with you.” He went over her EKG and ultrasound, her blood tests and urinalysis. “However, your symptoms are real, and the good news is, very treatable. Have you ever heard of generalized anxiety disorder? Sometimes referred to as GAD.”

“Anxiety disorder?” She hated the sound of that. “Disorder” applied to her housekeeping habits, not her health. “You mean, I had an anxiety attack?”

“You’ll want to follow up with your primary care physician.”

“I don’t have a doctor,” she said. “Doctors are for sick people.”

“In that case, you’ll want to find one to monitor your condition and help you treat the disorder with lifestyle changes.”

“My lifestyle is fine,” she said, and despite the extra oxygen, the monitor beeped faster. “I have no desire to change it.”

“There are risks—particularly to your heart.”

“My heart?” She swallowed, trying not to freak out again.

“Left untreated, your symptoms could result in heart damage due to cardiovascular stress. There are further tests for cardiovascular disease. Again, I would urge you to take this up with a physician.”

“What are you?” she demanded. “Chopped liver?”

The man had an intractable poker face. “It could be situational. What’s going on in your life?”

It was the first personal question he’d asked her. “Everything,” she said. “I’m missing what’s probably the most important meeting of my career. Some stranger showed up this morning with a crazy story about my... It doesn’t matter. I just need to pull myself together and get out of here.”

“You won’t get far if you don’t deal with this,” he stated. “I have a list of referrals for you. And here’s a pamphlet with some information on panic disorders. There are things you need to start doing right away in order to avoid lasting health effects....”

Wonderful, thought Tess. This was just too good to be true. In the space of a single day, she had found her grandfather, only to be told she was probably on the verge of losing him; she’d been informed that she had a sister she’d never met, and now this.

A Condition.