Watching Amanda (6 page)

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Authors: Janelle Taylor

BOOK: Watching Amanda
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“What does it say?” Olivia asked.
“I'll just read it aloud,” Amanda said. She cleared her throat. “Amanda Sedgwick, my middle daughter, is to inherit my brownstone apartment building, located just off Central Park West on West Seventy-fourth Street, if she follows the enclosed instructions to a T.”
Olivia gasped. “The brownstone is worth millions!”
“My mother is going to go ape,” Ivy said. “As far as I know, William owns only three properties— the brownstone, the Maine house, and a small country inn in central New Jersey. Real estate wasn't his thing. The brownstone is worth the most. Olivia is right—it's worth a fortune.”
Amanda glanced at her sisters. Neither seemed particularly upset by the news; their expressions were more ... curious.
“Read on,” Olivia said.
“As stated by my lawyer, George Harris,” Amanda read, “Amanda must follow the instructions exactly or her inheritance will become null and void.”
“Whatever the instructions are, who'd know if she followed them or not?” Ivy asked.
Amanda read on. “Someone will be watching Amanda at all times to ensure she fulfills the terms of the will.”
Spooked, Amanda dropped the letter as though it were a dead mouse. The paper fluttered out of her hands and landed on the area rug.
“Someone will be watching me?” Amanda repeated. “At all times?”
Olivia and Ivy glanced at each other. “That sounds really weird,” Olivia said.
“Yeah,” Ivy seconded. “I don't like it. Especially as a cop, I don't like it.”
“Read on,” Olivia suggested. “Maybe there's some explanation of who will be your supposed watchdog.”
Amanda took a deep breath, picked up the paper and continued reading aloud. “Amanda will be allowed two slip-ups. Upon the third, her inheritance will be null and void.”
“Slip-ups?” Ivy repeated. “What on earth ... ?”
“Amanda is to move into the brownstone next Saturday,” Amanda read. “She is to use the red bedroom, and her son's nursery will be the blue room. She is never to enter the white room unless she is married.”
“This sounds crazy!” Olivia said. “And what's this nonsense about the white room?”
Amanda took a deep breath. “I don't like any of this. Listen to the rest: ‘Amanda is to live in the brownstone for at least one month. During each of the first thirty days, Amanda must sit in the formal parlor, on the brown leather sofa for one hour, twice a day.”
Olivia and Ivy looked at each other. “I've only been in the brownstone a couple of times,” Olivia said, “But I've sat on that sofa. It's directly across from the fireplace, above which is a portrait of the four of us in Maine.”
“I remember when we took the picture for that portrait!” Ivy said. “It was the summer I was fifteen. The height of my gawky period.”
Amanda and Olivia laughed.
“I always thought it was strange that he kept that portrait in his house in the room he used so regularly,” Olivia said. “Why have a portrait of his daughters whom he had no interest in?”
“Who can figure out anything about William Sedgwick?” Amanda responded, shaking her head.
Amanda looked over the rest of the letter; there were more inane instructions about what not to touch and where not to look and then some legalities and the name and address of William's lawyer. She put down the letter and sat back against her chair, wrapping her hands around her mug of tea. She eyed her sisters, chatting about their father's eccentricities as though this were a common occurrence, three sisters having tea, talking.
A comraderie was developing among them. If anything, this crazy letter and the terms of the will was making new relationships possible. And for that Amanda was grateful.
Suddenly a cry came from Amanda's bedroom, and Olivia and Ivy jumped up.
“I hope we didn't wake him,” Ivy said.
“No,” Amanda responded with a smile. “It's time for him to wake up. She headed inside the bedroom to bring Tommy out to meet his aunts, lest they make excuses about having to be somewhere and run out the door.
“Awww,” Olivia said, her features softening at the sight of the baby. “He's so beautiful.”
“Just perfect,” Ivy cooed, trailing a gentle finger along his cheek.
“Well, I'd better get going,” Olivia said, taking her coat from the hall closet. “I have crazy deadlines and my publisher is sending me to Paris for a fashion show next week. I'll be gone for almost a month.”
The entire time I'll be tested in the brownstone,
Amanda thought, surprised by her disappointment. So much for developing a relationship.
“Hey, I'm going away for a few weeks too,” Ivy said, smiling. “Declan and I are going to Ireland, where his parents still live, to visit his friends and relatives who won't be able to come here for the wedding. I'm so excited!” But a cloud passed over Ivy's expression. “I just wish our father had liked him—approved of him,” Ivy said. “At least before there was time to try to change his mind, but now ... ”
“The most important thing is how
you
feel,” Amanda told Ivy.
“That's right,” Olivia said, pulling her black knit hat over her hair. “And remember something. No one was good enough for William. Not even his own daughters.”
“That's harsh, but unfortunately very true,” Ivy said, slipping on her coat.
Amanda nodded. “Well, maybe these envelopes and their contents will shed some light on the mysterious William Sedgwick, the father we barely knew.”
Olivia and Ivy nodded. There was little left to say on the subject.
“Well, good luck with your move to the brownstone,” Ivy said to Amanda. “I still don't like that bit about someone watching you, but perhaps it's just a ruse to deter you from not following his instructions.”
“I'm sure it's exactly that,” Olivia added. “I mean, it's not like he could have hired someone to spy on you from inside the house.”
“That's true,” Amanda said, feeling a bit better about that part of the letter. “Anyway, I haven't decided that I'm going to go through with this bizarre thing,” Amanda said. “I don't know that I even want our father's brownstone. I never spent a single day in his home. I'm not sure I'd be comfortable inheriting it when he's gone. It has no meaning to me whatsoever.”
“Maybe he's trying to change that,” Ivy offered.
“From the grave,” Olivia added.
Amanda shrugged. “I guess I need to give this all some thought.”
Olivia nodded. “Well, if you do decide to fulfill the terms of the letter, I'd keep that piece of paper with you at all times—you don't want to forget any of the instructions about what rooms you are and aren't allowed to go in.”
“Who knows—maybe there are trip wires or hidden cameras or something.” Ivy rolled her eyes.
Amanda smiled. And then with a few more complements about Tommy and good-byes, Olivia and Ivy were gone.
Amanda waited a moment for them to make their way downstairs, then looked out the window. A man stood under the awning of the building across the street, his hands shoved inside his pockets. Amanda couldn't see him clearly in the dim lighting, but he seemed to be looking up in her direction.
Amanda gasped and stepped back. Was she truly being watched? Already?
She stood on the side of the window and glanced out again, careful to stay hidden. She saw Ivy get into her squad car, parked right in front of her building, and she saw Olivia get into the back seat of a black sedan that was waiting for her.
The man across the street still stood there.
Amanda squinted to see him, but his face was hidden in shadow. He was tall and well built but she couldn't judge his age. He wore a hat so she couldn't see the color of his hair.
He could be anyone
, Amanda told herself.
Don't let this crazy letter make you paranoid.
Amanda peered outside again. The man was gone.
Well, well
, Ethan thought, watching the glamour-puss and the cop exit Amanda's dumpy apartment building. They were chatting like old pals, like sisters, thick as thieves.
He wondered if that were a fitting cliché. Were the Sedgwick sisters bursting with resentment over the way they'd been treated by their father? Had they been waiting for the day Daddy Dearest would keel over so they could get their hands on his millions?
Or were they grieving the loss of the father they'd never really known? A man who'd spent only a handful of weeks with them since they were born.
Ethan had done his research. He'd taken everything he'd read online about William Sedgwick and his family with a grain of salt. First of all, there wasn't much. Second of all, it was mostly gossip rag filler. Apparently, William preferred a new girlfriend every few months to any type of long-term relationship, including those with his children. Ethan couldn't quite reconcile that with the man he'd met in the middle of the night three years ago, a man whose affirmation for life, for people, for family, had saved Ethan's life.
He glanced up at Amanda's window just as the curtain parted. She stood there in the soft glow of a lamp. He couldn't make out her features; he was too far away and dusk had fallen, but again he was struck by the sight of her.
You won't be living here for long
, he thought as he turned and headed for his car, which he'd parked a couple of blocks away.
Soon, you'll be trading this dump for a luxury brownstone.
He was surprised that she lived so humbly. It wasn't that the neighborhood was bad or dangerous; it was perfectly fine, perfectly nice. But it wasn't Manhattan. It wasn't hot or hip or anything remotely superficial, which was what he'd expected.
As if he knew what to expect of Amanda Sedgwick. There was very little written about her. A simple online search had brought a wealth of unimportant information on the magazine editor and the cop because of their work, but Amanda Sedgwick warranted only a handful of Google references—all recent ones in which her name appeared in connection with obituaries or gossip about the inheritances.
I know nothing about you, and I don't want to know anything about you,
he thought, glancing up again at her slight figure in the window.
I just want you to slip up fast at the brownstone so I can get the hell out of this city, get the hell away from the memories, the images. Get the hell away from the truth.
He saw Amanda dart away from the window. She must have noticed him standing there, watching her.
It's only the beginning, honey.
CHAPTER 6
The next day, as Amanda was cooking dinner for herself and Tommy, who sat munching his appetizer of Cheerios in his high chair, there was a knock at the door. She jumped and almost dropped the pan of chicken on the peeling linoleum floor.
She slid the pan into the oven, took off her apron, and padded to the door. She listened for a moment, then looked through the peep hole. No one was there.
Which didn't mean someone wasn't lurking underneath or to the side of the door.
Amanda eyed the chain lock and the deadbolt. There was no way someone could get inside. Between the locks and the “burglar bars” on her fire escape window, she was safe.
She glanced out the living room window. A man stood in the shadows of a courtyard across the street. He appeared to be looking up—at Amanda's window. At Amanda. She looked at her son, so happy in his high-chair. This was no way for her to live—for Tommy to live—jumping out of her skin. The brownstone offered a potential new life. For Tommy's sake, she'd take it.
 
It didn't take long to pack. Amanda wished it had taken much, much longer. That's how unprepared she was to move into her father's brownstone. But she really had no choice but to go now. The letter had been clear about the date and she had decided to follow the rules unless or until they became intolerable.
Jenny and Lettie were over to help. Amanda had decided she couldn't afford the apartment without a job anyway, and she'd just figure it out when the time at her dad's was up. Lettie was packing Amanda's small bookcase, mostly cherished books and photo albums. She opened Tommy's very first album, with at least a hundred pictures of him the first few weeks of his life.
“Who's this hunk?” Lettie asked, holding up a Polaroid picture that had been tucked inside the album.
Paul Swinwood.
Tommy's father.
Amanda couldn't bear to put the one photograph she had in the album as though it belonged there; nor she could bear not to include it, somehow. It was the only photograph she had of Paul, and one day, Tommy would surely want to see a picture of his father.
“That's Tommy's dad,” Jenny answered for Amanda when it was clear Amanda couldn't answer.
Lettie put the photograph back. “Ah. I hope I didn't upset you, dear. I don't know much about your personal life, but I do know I've never seen a man in this apartment.”
“It's all right, Lettie,” Amanda said. “The thought or sight of Paul lost the power to hurt me a long time ago.” How she wanted that to be true, and how it wasn't. “He disappeared into thin air when I told him I was pregnant.”
And took with him my heart and my trust....
Tommy had his father's glossy, thick dark blond hair, but other than that, he looked like Amanda. She was grateful for that.
“I'm sorry, sweetheart,” Lettie said.
“I have Tommy,” Amanda said. “That's what matters.”
Lettie squeezed her hand.
“I'm going to miss living down the hall from you, Lettie,” Amanda said. “You've been so wonderful to me, such a good friend. I don't know what I would have done without you to watch Tommy. I can't tell you how much I appreciate all you've done for me.”
“It's been my pleasure,” Lettie said. “And now I'll get to come visit you in a fancy schmancy townhouse off Central Park West!”
Amanda smiled. “I do hope you will come, Lettie. Especially because all of my father's crazy instructions will make it almost impossible for me to venture too far from the brownstone.”
Jenny wrapped the last glass in newspaper and put it in a box. She marked it where it was going and taped up the box. “Your life is about to change, Amanda, for the much, much better. I'm so proud of you for agreeing to fulfill the terms of the will!”
I'd wait on that pride for at least a month
, Amanda thought, her stomach flip-flopping.
 
Bright and early Saturday morning, Amanda stood on West Seventy-fourth Street, one hand on Tommy's stroller and the other clutching his overstuffed diaper bag. The taxi driver placed her two suitcases on the curb, smiled and left, and she stared up at the stunning brownstone that would be her home.
If she didn't screw up William's crazy rules.
The building was tucked between other beautiful brownstones on a tree-lined street. Central Park was, literally, a stone's throw away.
“What a difference from our old home,” she said to Tommy, kneeling down next to him. He was bundled up in a stroller sleeping bag and a blue wool hat with the Yankees insignia—a gift from Lettie's husband. His round apple cheeks were slightly red from the fresh cold December air. “Isn't it beautiful, Tom? You'll have your own room, too. For the first time, you'll have your very own nursery.”
Without your very own crib. It would be strange to live without her furniture. When Amanda had picked up the keys from George Harris yesterday morning, the lawyer had explained that the brownstone was fully furnished, including the nursery, and that Amanda and Tommy would be in need of nothing, except personal clothing. The taxes and maintenance were paid for through the law firm, as were the services of a housekeeper and handyman. Even the cabinets and the refrigerator were stacked with enough food for at least the first week.
Amanda had put her furniture, which didn't add up to much, into storage. Once she had a chance to breathe, to think, to plan, she'd start looking for an apartment for her and Tommy. She wouldn't rely on this brownstone being her home. There had to be a catch even beyond the silly rules in the letter. She'd make sure she had a new apartment lined up so that she'd have options.
“You know I hate to be a parade rainer,” Jenny had said yesterday, “but how are you going to look for an apartment when you don't have a job to list on the application? How are you going to prove you can pay your rent?”
Good questions
, Amanda had thought.
“Honey,
accept,
” her dear friend had said. “Do what you have to do. Which is to live in that brownstone exactly as instructed for a month. Big whoop. Once it's yours, you can sell it for a more modest place and invest the rest in Tommy's future.”
Jenny was right, Amanda knew that. There was a time for pride and there was a time for reality.
Right now, it had to be about reality.
“Okay, Tommy, time to go inside,” she whispered, bracing herself.
There were three entrances. One was a stately black door at the top of six graceful stone stairs; the other was a red door two steps down that was covered by an ornate wrought-iron gate. There was another entrance through the small back garden, which she'd been told about by day. Amanda opted for the red door. She hoisted Tommy in her arms, pushed open the gate, and wheeled the stroller with her foot until it was behind the gate. She'd have to come back for the suitcases in a moment and with any luck they'd still be there.
The new keys she'd received from Mr. Harris worked effortlessly. She pushed open the door, stepped across the threshold, took a deep breath, closed the door behind her, and entered into a large foyer with pale red walls covered with small paintings, lovely watercolors, and lithographs.
“You're early.”
Amanda jumped at the unexpected voice. A woman in her fifties, wearing a plain gray dress and an apron, held a sponge in one hand, and a small bucket with cleaning supplies in the other.
“You startled me,” Amanda said, catching her breath.
“You're early,” the woman repeated. “My name is Clara Mott. I am Mr. Sedgwick's master housekeeper.”
“Of course!” Amanda said, smiling. “Clara! It's me, Amanda Sedgwick.” She well remembered Clara from their summers at the house in Maine. It was many years since she'd last seen the woman, and Clara had aged, but the most dramatic change was in her manner.
“You remember me, don't you?” Amanda asked.
No response.
“William Sedgwick's daughter,” Amanda added, confused by Clara's coldness.
“I know who you are,” the woman said, her hazel eyes stopping on Amanda for just a moment. A disapproving moment.
“I have been retained by the estate of Mr. Sedgwick to continue cleaning the brownstone on a twice-weekly basis. Wednesdays and Saturdays.”
Amanda waited for Clara to say something, anything, about her father's death, but the housekeeper said nothing else. Her eyes shifted from Amanda to the bucket in her hand.
“Wednesdays and Saturdays,” Amanda repeated, nodding. “This is my son, Tommy,” she added, nuzzling the baby's head.
“I have a lot of work to do,” Clara said, her eyes roving over the baby for just a moment. She set down the bucket. “I'd rather not use harsh cleaning products while in the same room with the child,” she added, eyes on her sponge.
Yes ma'am
, Amanda thought.
Dismissed.
Perhaps Clara was simply mourning the loss of her long-time employer. Or perhaps she was simply worried about the loss of her job now that William was gone.
“That's very thoughtful,” Amanda said, careful to be polite. She well knew the truth behind the old cliché of catching more flies with honey, and perhaps Clara would be willing to answer some questions about William if Amanda remained civil.
“The staircase to the main level is there,” Clara said, pointing across the marble foyer, which was bigger than the living room of Amanda's old apartment. “I'll get your suitcases.”
“Thank you,” Amanda said, and Clara stepped out, returning with both suitcases, one in each hand. For a woman in her fifties, she certainly was strong. Clara set the suitcases by the staircase, then immediately set to work, removing the many small antique figures from atop a beautiful antique wooden console table.
Clara did good work. The black-and-white marble floor gleamed, and overhead was a stunning chandelier with hundreds of tiny lights—not a dust mote in sight.
There were three closed doors and a staircase leading upstairs. Amanda glanced around to see what might be a danger to Tommy, determined there was nothing, and set down the baby on the long Persian runner, where he alternately crawled and cooed. She pulled a talking teddy bear from her diaper bag and handed it to him, then pulled out the letter of instruction from Mr. Harris.
From her father, really.
There are four floors in the brownstone. The lower level, a few steps down from street level, has a bathroom, spare bedroom, a laundry room, a small storage room, plus an entrance to the back patio. The main level has a kitchen, dining room, a formal living room, and a powder room. The upper level has a master bedroom and bath, two bedrooms, and a second full bathroom. The top level was originally maids' quarters but are not currently in use.
Amanda is to sleep in the red bedroom. Tommy is to sleep in the blue nursery next door. Amanda is never to enter the master bedroom—the white room. She's never to use the powder room on the main level—not even to look in the mirror. She's never to open the window next to the cactus in the living room. She's never to open the cabinet above the oven ...
Why in the world can't I open a kitchen cabinet?
she wondered. These rules seemed silly.
Amanda felt eyes on her. She turned around, but Clara was busy polishing the legs of the console.
Are you the spy?
Amanda wondered of Clara. No, how could she possibly know if Amanda followed the rules if she only came twice a week for a few hours?
She scooped up Tommy and headed upstairs to the main level. As Amanda reached the top step, she sucked in her breath.
Wow. She stood there, taking in the exquisitely decorated living room. A Persian rug of soothing and subtle blues and golds lay across the expanse of hardwood floor. A rich brown leather sofa dominated one side of the sitting area; across from it in front of the fireplace were two lighter blue antique chairs made cozy with throw pillows. Incongruously, next to the sofa was a playpen with two stuffed animals.
A baby grand piano sat in the alcove of the front bay window. Paintings graced the walls and sculptures defined the corners. There was only one plant, a large cactus by the window flanking one side of the bay that Amanda was never to open.
It looked like an ordinary window, she thought, eyeing the luxurious velvet drapes.
And above the fireplace was the portrait of William, Amanda and her sisters.
Amanda held Tommy close, breathing in the clean, fresh scent of his hair. “Look, sweetie,” she said. “There's your mommy when she was a teenager. Just sixteen years old. And there's your aunt Olivia and your aunt Ivy. And there's your grandfather.”
Tears unexpectedly stung the back of her eyes.
But you'll never get the chance to know him.

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