Maggy's Child (3 page)

“So I’m a snob, right?” Buffy said with the refreshingly honest grin that was the reason people put up with her. “I can’t help it, I’m the product of my environment. Anyway, tell me about the hunk.”

Maggy repressed an inward groan. Buffy was like a bulldog. There was no dragging her away from a subject once she got started on it. “There’s really nothing to tell. We used to know each other, when we were kids. But that was a long time ago.”

“Used to know each other? Is that all you’re going to say? When he calls you Magdalena in that sexy way?”

“It’s my legal name,” Maggy replied with a brittle edge to her voice that she immediately strove to banish. Let Buffy get the idea that she was hiding something, and the fat would be in the fire for sure. Every tongue—or at least all the ones that counted—in Louisville would wag. The best defense was a good offense, or so she’d always heard. She tried it: “Besides, I think you would have thought anything he said was sexy.”

“The way you were drooling over him was embarrassing, Buff,” Sarah agreed.

“I wasn’t drooling over him.” Buffy sounded indignant. Then she grinned again. “Well, he is a doll baby. If he gets in touch with you, Maggy, do you suppose you could give him my number?”

“I doubt he’ll be in touch. But if he does, I certainly will.”

To Maggy’s relief, she realized they had reached the gates of Windermere. She hadn’t even registered that they had left the expressway upon reaching the Kentucky shore and traversed the ten or so miles along River Road to the well-hidden estate entrance, so caught up was she in her own inner turmoil. The car slowed and turned right at the old abandoned gatekeeper’s cottage, pausing while the
electronic gates opened. Then they edged past the stone pillars and iron gates that marked the beginning of the long drive and headed upward with a whoosh of tires on pavement. The drive was steep and narrow and S-shaped. The first dozen times Maggy had driven herself along it she had done so with her heart in her mouth for fear she would miscalculate and end up a hundred or so yards below in Willow Creek. Over time she had gotten used to the hair-raising approach to the house, and now she scarcely noticed it, except to register in passing that the light that usually illuminated the most treacherous curve was out. But Tipton, well accustomed to the drive, didn’t even slow down. Moments later the car reached the level ground at the top of the hill that formed the front lawn. Seconds after that it nosed around the paved circle leading to the wide stone stairway that provided access to the six-columned porch and the heavy oak front door.

The outside lights were on, illuminating the cascading fountain that was the centerpiece of the still-dormant rose garden around which this part of the driveway circled, and shining up on the smooth white stone facade of the three-story house. But except for the chandelier in the front entryway, visible through the leaded glass transom above the door, the inside lights appeared to be off.

Even as Tipton swung open the door beside her, Maggy felt an easing of the tension that had held her in thrall. From the look of the house, Lyle had gone to bed. She would not have to deal with him until morning.

She smiled faintly with relief as she slid out.

Sarah and Buffy didn’t move. They were houseguests at Windermere for the festive month leading up to Derby, which in Louisville was a gala event centered around a horse race on the first Saturday in May that eclipsed even Christmas for parties and preparation. They were staying with Sarah’s mother, Lucy Drummond, for the duration of the festivities. Lucy, Lyle’s only living sibling, had resided for the past six months in the estate’s guesthouse,
which was a charming, two-story frame farmhouse not far from the main house. She was at Windermere because her and Lyle’s mother, Virginia, who lived year-round in her own luxurious apartment in one wing of the main house, was gravely ill. Virginia’s doctor predicted she would not survive the summer.

“Good night!” Buffy rolled down the nearside window to wave. Sarah echoed the words and motion.

Maggy, standing on the cobblestoned driveway, waved back with false gaiety as Tipton got in the car. She kept waving until the Rolls pulled slowly on around the curve in the drive and headed east. The guesthouse was located there, beyond the swimming pool and tennis court and dog kennel, hidden from view of the main house by a sheltering stand of shaggy hemlocks. Her smile fading at last, Maggy watched the car until she could see no more than a pair of red taillights glowing faintly through the darkness. Her cheeks hurt from the effort of smiling, and she rubbed them.

A single drop of icy water hit her left hand, splattering just below the huge diamond that was Lyle’s brand. Glancing up only to be pelted by a second and then a third, Maggy realized it was beginning to rain. She turned and ran up the well-worn stone steps, key in hand, as the rain commenced in earnest. Though she reached the sheltering portico in seconds, she was already thoroughly wet. It was quite a trick to let herself in the massive door, close and lock it again, and race over the slippery wood floors to the security alarm hidden in the dining room closet before it could notify the police of an intrusion. But she managed it, punching in the code that would pacify the pesky thing with a second or two to spare.

That done, Maggy leaned against the exquisite, hand-painted paper that covered the walls of the dining room, uncaring that her damp clothing might leave a smudge for Lyle to find and scold about, and caught her breath.
Shivering as her body registered just how chilled it was, she wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes.

Immediately a darkly handsome face appeared on the screen of her closed lids: Nick. Nick was back.

What in the name of heaven and earth was she going to do?

B
y the time Maggy reached her bedroom—a luxurious suite in the main wing overlooking the huge stone terrace that ran along the back of the house—she had managed to reassure herself to some small degree. Nick would never do anything to hurt her. No matter how angry he might still be.

At least the Nick she had known would not.

But every time she remembered the bitterness of their parting, and the twelve years of silence that had passed since then, she felt a prickle of unease.

Nick had never been one to forgive and forget.

“Guess,” he’d said, when she’d asked him what he was doing here.

The various possibilities made her stomach churn.

The bedroom was dark as she walked across the antique Tabriz carpet that covered the polished wood floor toward the small white onyx lamp on the table beside her bed. Unbuttoning her shirt with one hand, she reached to switch the lamp on—then jumped back, gasping with fright, as the sudden light illuminated the man waiting in the chintz-covered chair in the corner.

“Did you have a nice evening, darling?” Lyle smiled at her, enjoying her obvious fright. His thinning blond hair gleamed in the lamplight. His face was long, thin, and bony, handsome at fifty-two despite its rather prominent nose and square chin. His body was long and thin too, and even clad in a silk robe and pajamas, as he was at that
moment, he was possessed of an elegance that he took great pride in seeing copied by David. Her son. Their son.

A shiver of foreboding raced along Maggy’s spine.

She had to look down to meet his eyes, which, since he was still seated, were somewhere at the level of her chest. They were bright blue, cold as ice, and alive with malice.

“It was all right.”

“Meet anyone?”

How could he have found out so fast? Lyle had always been uncanny in what he knew. Sometimes, in her more fanciful states, she imagined he must be a warlock, or a conjurer. He always seemed to know everything she said or did or even thought. It was terrifying.

She took a deep, steadying breath. “Nick King is in town. I—we—ran into him at a nightclub in Indiana.”

Assuming an ease she did not feel, Maggy turned her back and walked toward her dressing room, unbuttoning the rest of her blouse as she went. The thought of undressing in front of Lyle made her skin crawl, but she had already begun and to stop where she was would be a mistake. Lyle fed on fear and loathing, and she had learned the hard way to allow him a glimpse of neither. But she could not keep her body from shivering and only hoped that he could not see the fine tremors that shook her. The dampness of her clothes was surely at least one reason why she felt so icily cold.

“Ahh.”

So he had known and had expected her to lie. She could tell by the tone of that single, drawn-out syllable. Her shivers increased.

“What did he say?”

“Just a minute.” Maggy needed the few minutes it would take her to change to recover her poise. Thankful that Lyle had not followed her, not daring to close the partially open door in case it should provoke him to come after her and watch with malevolent enjoyment of her
humiliation while she undressed, Maggy quickly stripped and pulled on the wine velvet robe that hung on a hook behind the door. Tying the satin sash tightly about her waist, she returned to the bedroom, stopping at the foot of the huge canopied four-poster and gripping one of its mahogany posts as she faced her husband.

“I asked you what he said.”

Maggy’s hand clutched the post as if it were a lifeline. “Nothing, really. Just—hello.”

“Did he mention that he stopped by the house this afternoon? I was playing tennis, but he saw David.”

“He mentioned that, yes. He—he complimented me on David.”

Lyle swore, and stood up so abruptly that Maggy released the post and stepped back a pace. He came around the bed toward her with swift, angry strides. It was all she could do to stand her ground, but stand it she did. She didn’t even flinch when his long-fingered hand whipped up to grip her jaw with brutal strength, tilting her head back so that her eyes met his.

“What did you tell him, damn you?”

“N-nothing. I told him nothing! You know I wouldn’t!” She was frightened, but angry, too, hotly, healingly angry for the first time in a long, long while. Something about seeing Nick had awakened shades of the girl she used to be. Fiery-tempered Magdalena Garcia, afraid of neither man, nor God, nor the Devil. Until Lyle had taken her in hand and taught her the meaning of fear.

Lyle didn’t speak, just searched her face with an expression that would ordinarily have made her cringe inside, though she had learned better than to let her fear and loathing show.

“I don’t want him here. Get rid of him.”

But this time Maggy refused to be cowed. She even managed a brittle little laugh. “I didn’t bring him here. I can’t make him leave. It’s a free country.”

Lyle’s fingers dug painfully into her flesh. It was all
Maggy could do not to cry out, but she did not. She would not give him that satisfaction. For an instant their eyes clashed.

“If you don’t get rid of him, I will.”

Lyle released her jaw at last, shoving her away from him in the process so that she stumbled back against the footboard. He walked with angry strides toward the door to the hall. She had still not recovered her balance when he swung round to face her.

“I won’t have this piece of trash from your disgusting past messing up our lives. Not mine, not yours, and not David’s.”

Maggy straightened, holding on to the nearest bedpost for support. From the expression on Lyle’s face, the threat to Nick was very real. For years she had felt protective only of David. Suddenly, a barely remembered sense of protectiveness for Nick was there as well.

“He doesn’t know, Lyle.” Her anger faded, to be replaced by a kind of tired dread. In a physical confrontation between Nick and Lyle, Maggy had no doubts at all as to who would be the winner. Nick was twenty years younger, tough and street smart. But Lyle would never confront Nick himself. That was not how he operated. He would hire thugs to do the job for him.

“And he’d better not find out.” There was a threat in the words and in his eyes too as he held her gaze for a pregnant moment. Then he turned on his heel, opened the door, and exited, pulling the heavy wood panel shut behind him with a softness that was more unnerving than a slam would have been.

With a caution born of experience, Maggy watched the closed door. After a moment or two in which Lyle did not return, she crossed to it, quietly turned the deadbolt, and returned to sink down on the edge of her bed. Her fingers were icy as she pressed them to her throbbing jaw. As she did so, she discovered that her hands were shaking.

The briefly risen shade of the young Magdalena Garcia dwindled away into that remote place in Maggy’s memory where it had dwelt for so long. Once again she was Maggy Forrest, envied wife of the multimillionaire. What was ironic was that she was living her youthful self’s wildest dream: she was rich to the point where money need never concern her, able to buy anything she wanted for herself and her son. Food was still a problem, but not in the same way: instead of worrying each day whether there would be something for supper, she had to watch what she ate to keep from growing plump. She had it all: clothes, jewelry, cars, respect. Everything she had ever longed for.