Heiress (15 page)

"I'm glad," she whispered, and buried a fist against her mouth. "God forgive me, but I'm glad she's dead."

Chapter 8

Abbie remembered how hurt and upset she'd been when she learned her father wouldn't be returning in time to present her at the Confederate Ball. She hadn't understood why he couldn't come back for it. Why he had to remain in California just because someone he'd known for a long time had died.

The Confederate Ball was the most important event in her life. It was her launch as a debutante. He was supposed to present her and dance the first waltz with her. She couldn't walk out there alone: it wasn't done. Of all the hundreds of parties and balls that would follow, why did he have to miss this one?

Her mother had tried to console her by assuring Abbie that any number of their friends would be happy to stand in for her father. Lane Canfield was out of the country, but Kyle MacDonnell or Homer—but Abbie had stormed out of the house, insisting that if her father wouldn't be there, neither would she.

She had saddled up one of the Arabians and gone tearing down the lane, galloping across the hay fields and drained rice fields of the neighboring Hix farm, making a long, wide circle that brought her to the banks of the Brazos, and following it back to River Bend. Ben was waiting for her when she returned to the barns. She remembered the silent disapproval in his expression as he inspected the sweat-lathered mare.

"I'm sorry. I'll cool her out."

"Yes you will." Ben had replied. "We both will, and you will tell me what this is all about."

Most of her anger had been spent in the ride, but not her hurt and bitter disappointment. As always it had been so easy to pour out all of her troubles to Ben.

"I told Momma I wasn't going to the Confederate Ball and she could just cancel everything. It's all a lot of nonsense anyway. This is nineteen seventy-one, for heaven's sake. Who cares about being a debutante in this day and age?"

"You do, I think."

She had desperately wanted to tell Ben that that wasn't true, to insist that she was a liberated young woman and all this parading before Houston society like a slave on an auction block was sexist. Maybe all the pomp and pageantry was silly, but it was her moment in the spotlight, when all the eyes of Houston would be on her.

"I'm not going to be presented by some friend of Momma and Daddy's," she had stated forcefully, again close to tears. "If Grandpa were alive. . . but he isn't. Can you understand, Ben? I don't want just anybody presenting me. It's got to be somebody—" She had started to say "like my father" just as she had turned to look at Ben. "—somebody like you." Someone who knew and loved her; someone who had always been there when she needed him; someone she cared about. "Ben, do you know how to waltz?"

"Me?" He had been so startled Abbie had laughed.

"Yes, you. Would you present me?"

"Me? But I am only. . ." He had started to gesture at the stables, but she had caught his hand.

"You're the only man I'd walk out there with other than my father." She had caught a brief glimpse of tears in his eyes as he bowed his head and stared at the hand clutching his.

"You honor me." His voice had been husky with emotion, one of the rare times she ever remembered Ben showing any. Then he had shook his head, as if to refuse.

"There's nothing to it, Ben. All you have to do is walk out with me when I'm introduced and the announcer talks about my Confederate ancestors. Then we'll dance the first waltz until my escort cuts in. We'll have to rent you a black tux and white tie. . . and gloves. You'll look so handsome. And I'll tell everyone you're our dearest, dearest friend from Europe. With your accent, they'll go crazy over you." When he wavered, Abbie had pressed her advantage. "Please, Ben. At least come to the rehearsal with me. They'll walk you through everything."

"I have not waltzed since I was a young boy."

"Let's see how rusty you are." Still holding the mare's reins, Abbie had placed his hand on her waist and raised the other one. "Ready? One, two, three. One, two, three." While she hummed a waltz tune, they had started to dance, haltingly at first, then with increasing ease. "You see, Ben, it's just like riding a horse. You never really forget how." They had waltzed across the stable yard, leading a tired and bewildered mare.

The night of the Confederate Ball, Abbie, arrayed in an off-the-shoulder antebellum gown of white satin designed by St. Laurent, her hair piled atop her head in dark ringlets, arrived at the country club in a horse-drawn carriage that was met by a member of the Albert Sidney Johnston Camp of the Sons of Confederate Veterans, the sponsor of the Confederate Ball, dressed in full Confederate regalia. To strains of "Lorena," an erect, square-shouldered Ben, completely transformed by the white gloves, white tie, and black tuxedo he wore, walked proudly at her side as she was presented and made her full court bow to an applauding, cheering throng of guests. After all the debutantes were presented, Abbie danced the "Tennessee Waltz" with him until her escort for the evening, Christopher Atwell, cut in and fastened a corsage on her wrist, an act that traditionally symbolized her assumption of responsibility for her social destiny.

Even though it wasn't the same as if her father had been there, Abbie had fond memories of that evening—because of Ben, ill at ease, yet going through it for her.

By the time her father had returned after a week's absence, Abbie had been too caught up in the whirl of parties, teas, and balls to take more than passing notice of his apathy. Now, hindsight enabled her to see that he had been a man bereaved by the death of the woman he loved.

Abbie remembered it all so clearly, the brooding silences, the faraway stares, the pained look in his eyes. Her lips felt wet and she pressed them together to lick them dry, tasting the salty moisture of tears. . . her tears. She could feel them running down her cheeks, one after the other.

No wonder she'd never been able to be the daughter her father wanted.

No parent ever loves his children equally, no matter how he might try or pretend. There is always one that is the favorite, one that is special. But it hadn't been her. Never her. Obviously it had always been Rachel, the daughter of the woman he had loved for so long. Yet all this time he'd let her believe she was the only one; all this time she'd wondered what was wrong with her, certain that something had to be—otherwise he'd love her. Hurt and angered by the deception, Abbie dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands, needing the physical pain to ease the emotional one.

Behind her the office door opened. Instantly she stiffened, opening her eyes wide to try to clear them of the stinging tears.

"Your mother asked me to find you."

Abbie slumped at the quiet sound of Ben Jablonski's voice. She didn't have to hide her feelings from him. "Ben, did you know about the woman and child Daddy kept in California?"

There was a long pause before he answered. "I heard some talk. . . among the help."

"It was more than talk. It was true." She poured out the whole agonizing story to him, and its obvious conclusions. "Why, Ben?" She choked on a sob, as always demanding from him the answers she couldn't find. "Why?" She felt the light pressure of his big hand on her shoulder and swung around to face him. "Why couldn't he love me, too?"

"Ssssh baby." Gently he gathered her into his arms and crooned to her in Polish.

She leaned against his shoulder and doubled her hands into tight fists. "I hate him for what he did, Ben. I hate him!"

"No. You don't hate him." He smoothed her hair with a gentle touch. "It hurts so much because you loved him."

Abbie cried, this time for herself.

Chapter 9

The distinctive skyline of downtown Houston soared above the flatness of the sprawling Texas city. Coming from Los Angeles, Rachel hadn't expected to be impressed. In her opinion, city downtowns were all alike—a collection of skyscrapers crowded together to form concrete canyons jammed with traffic—a place you only went if you absolutely, positively had to.

But as she turned down Louisiana Street, she was radically revising her opinion. Initially she was struck by the high-rise buildings themselves, each one unique, like an architectural signature written against the sky. Contemporary in design, their individual use of shapes, angles, and glass was unusual, if not controversial. She couldn't help marveling at the progressive mixture that combined to make a single statement of dynamic growth.

She felt the energy and vitality that surrounded her. In almost any direction she looked, construction was under way on a new tower. She couldn't shake the feeling that she was driving through an outdoor gallery devoted to architecture. Yet the wide streets, the short blocks, and the building setbacks gave the downtown a sense of space. In fact, when she stopped looking up at the bronze and silver reflecting towers and noticed the small plazas, the spraying fountains, and the sculptures scattered about, Rachel caught the mood of the city center: vital yet leisurely, with a kind of laid-back energy, Texas-style.

Nowhere was the impression stronger than when she turned off Louisiana Street onto Dallas and approached the landscaped entrance to the Hotel Meridien, where she was to meet Lane Canfield for lunch. Designed in the form of an elongated trapezoid tapering to a sharp point at its western end, the building was faced entirely with bronze glass, echoing the color theme of the off-white concrete and bronze used so effectively in adjacent structures. But the severity of its form was broken by the zigzag construction of its front that faced the plaza entrance and added dimension to the hotel.

Although Rachel hadn't inherited her mother's creative talents with a brush, only a technical skill, she had acquired an appreciation for art from those early years of constant exposure to it. To her mother, art had been everything. It was her great love. After that came Dean. Rachel had never been sure where she ranked with her mother, but it had been somewhere down the line. Caroline had loved her, but when a choice had to be made, art had always come first. She had lived her life the way she wanted, compromising for nothing and no one.

It was a selfish attitude that Rachel had frequently resented when she was growing up, especially when she learned that Dean had wanted to marry her mother. She was certain her life would have been very different if they had married. She wouldn't have grown up so lonely, feeling unwanted and unloved—and ashamed of who she was. During those first years in elementary school, she had learned very quickly that being a love child wasn't the wonderful thing her mother had claimed, and that love child wasn't the term ignorant people usually used to describe her. The feeling had never really left her, even now, in this supposedly enlightened age.

Maybe that's why she'd always had this vague fear of drawing attention to herself. She wanted to blend in, be like everyone else. It was almost better to be a wallflower; then people wouldn't be whispering behind her back.

But when she parked her rental car and entered the hotel, Rachel felt uncomfortably conspicuous. The California layered look of her dirndl skirt, knit top, and belted overblouse didn't fit the understated elegance of the hotel's French-flavored decor. Too self-conscious to approach the clerk behind the genteel reception desk, Rachel approached a bellman and asked him for directions to the hotel's Le Restaurant de France.

Inside the restaurant's entrance, she hovered uncertainly. This formal atmosphere was the last thing she'd expected to find in Texas. Texas was supposed to be barbecue and boots, cowboy hats and chili peppers. Despite the restaurant's name, she hadn't dreamed Lane Canfield had invited her to a place like this for lunch. All her life, she'd wanted to have a meal in surroundings like these, but she'd never gone to a fancy restaurant, certain that she'd end up feeling out of place.

And she did—from the top of her long, straight hair to the bottom of her sandaled feet. As the maître d' approached, her wearing a uniform that had the unmistakable stamp of custom tailoring, Rachel realized that even he was better dressed than she was—a fact he noted in one sweeping glance at her.

"May I help you?"

She felt intimidated and struggled to suppress it. "I'm supposed to meet Mr. Lane Canfield here for lunch."

"Mr. Canfield." An eyebrow shot up, then quickly leveled as he smiled respectfully. "This way, ma'am."

Seated at a secluded table for two, Lane Canfield sipped at his bourbon and water and stared absently at the empty chair opposite him. Idleness was unnatural to him. Usually every minute of his day was crammed with business: meetings, phone calls, conferences, or reports of one kind or another.

Lane frowned absently, trying to recall how long it had been since anything had taken precedence over his business. There'd never been time in his life for anything—or anyone—else. Sex wasn't even a diversion to him. He hated to think how many times he had arranged for one of the prostitutes from his carefully screened list to come to his penthouse apartment, then screwed her while he mentally plotted out some new corporate strategy. Why? What did he want? What was he killing himself for? More money? More power? Why? He was millionaire a hundred times over.

Dean's death had affected him in ways he hadn't expected. He wondered how he could fairly say he'd been Dean Lawson's friend. Yes, he had interrupted his busy schedule to attend his funeral, but in the last ten years, how many times had he seen or talked to Dean? Eight, maybe nine times. No more than that. Yet Dean had made him the executor of his will.

And what had he done? Turned the paperwork over to one of his staff to handle—too busy, his time too valuable for him to get involved with any of the details beyond the contents of the will.

Reaching up, he felt the front of his suit jacket, making sure the letter was still in his inside pocket—the letter that had been addressed to him marked personal: only to be opened in the event of my death, with Dean's name signed below.

It had been buried among the papers, bills, and documents collected from Dean's law office by his secretary, Mary Jo Anderson. He had assigned the task of sorting through them to his own personal secretary, Frank Marsden. Frank had found the sealed envelope and delivered it into Lane's hands late yesterday afternoon. This morning, its contents had been verified.