A Self-Made Man (20 page)

She worried her lower lip. “Is there any way to save face at this point?”

“Maybe. You go first. If he's a gentleman, he'll walk you out to your car. Then I'll follow later. With any luck, he'll never know I was here.'

She hesitated. She didn't want to leave him, not
even to salvage her reputation. She didn't want to leave this little cocoon of safety.

But the voice was only a few yards away now.

“Go ahead.” Adam kissed her. Hard, fast, full of promise. “Tomorrow?”

She nodded, smiling bravely. “Tomorrow.”

And then she peeked over the heart-shaped shell of the boat, much to the surprise of the maintenance worker, who stared, gaping, as she climbed up onto the dock.

“Hello,” she said pleasantly, calling on her long habit of unruffled composure to manage the rather surreal moment. She brushed tiny flecks of red velvet from her arms. “Could I impose on you to walk me to my car?”

 

A
DAM PULLED INTO THE
Cartwright parking lot slowly, his mind only half on his driving. The other half was still back at the park, reliving those incredible moments with Lacy. And then reliving them again. And again. Frankly, he wasn't sure he'd
ever
get that part of his mind back.

But somehow he forced himself to focus. The fog was fairly thick, even this far inland, and he had to park carefully. He was halfway into a space before he saw a motorcycle angled weirdly between two slots, overlapping the lines.

Must be Gwen, he thought, more amused than annoyed as he backed out again. Hers wasn't the only motorcycle on Pringle Island, especially on a summer weekend, but he was pretty sure it was the only brand
new bike with that many dents already crumpling the chrome. She was a really, really bad driver.

What was she doing here? It was after midnight—and she didn't have a room of her own at the Cartwright anymore. Actually, that was probably a dumb question. She'd been putting some pretty slick moves on Travis all week. This was probably just the last move. Check and checkmate.

Too bad. Adam wasn't ready to turn in yet. His system was still way too geared up. He had been hoping that Travis might be in the mood to shoot some pool in the bar, or maybe even drag out some of those real estate listings Adam had rejected before. Adam had a feeling he might be less picky now—now that he had a stronger incentive to stay.

But if Gwen were up there with Travis, Adam was going to have to manage on his own. Maybe that was better anyhow. He hadn't ever been the kiss-and-tell type, but he felt kind of itchy and feverish tonight, and he wasn't sure he could talk about anything but Lacy. Once he started talking, he'd probably be like some insufferable drunk, holding forth about boats and angels and hot dogs and miracles, to any poor fool who'd listen.

So maybe it was a good idea to spend some time alone first, sorting things out. He picked up his mail from the front desk, strolled into the bar, bought a scotch and water and carried it out to the pool area.

The pool closed down at midnight, so he had the wide, damp deck to himself. He claimed one of the dozens of empty chairs and settled in. The huge, brightly lit blue rectangle was oddly mesmerizing,
with the tendrils of silver fog floating just above it. He stared at it and found himself thinking how much he'd like to make love to Lacy in that glowing blue water.

The images were so pleasant that he was damned annoyed to hear the
click clack
of high heels approaching. There was nowhere to hide, and he was not going to make small talk to some flirtatious female right now. He'd have to pack up his drink, his fantasies and his itchy libido, and go somewhere else.

“There you are. Finally!”

The woman was closer now, and in spite of the fog he recognized that trademark waterfall of blond curls—not to mention the grape-colored minidress with a wide yellow belt. It was Gwen.

“The guy at the desk told me you were out here. I've only been waiting for you for about
two
hours. Where have you been? Didn't that stupid park thing end at ten?”

His internal Geiger counter, refined over years of dealing with all kinds of women, recognized the signs of an imminent eruption. Her whole body was tense, her voice was vibrating, and her jaw was set like a slab of concrete. He knew females, and this particular female was in the throes of a major snit.

He didn't take it very seriously, though. From what he'd seen of Gwen, she always operated at a pretty high pitch. Reluctantly, he abandoned his plan to sneak off. He sat back against his chair, resigned to trying to calm her down if he could.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn't know you needed to see me. I stayed late to help Lacy close up.”

That was obviously the wrong thing to say. Gwen's eyes narrowed, and she shifted some kind of package from one hand to the other roughly, making a brief, guttural noise. “Help her close up? That's what you call it these days? That's rich.”

What was she carrying? She was clutching the damn thing as if it held a bomb. Adam scanned it as inconspicuously as he could. It looked like a manila envelope, legal-sized, bulging with papers of some sort.

And why was she positively humming with hostility? He had thought, early on, that she might try to make a play for him. It had been a bit tricky, deflecting her without deflating her, but he thought he'd been successful. She had simply rotated her radar, aiming it toward Travis, without any hard feelings.

So what was this all about? He wondered if she'd been drinking.

She glared at him, apparently disgusted with what she saw. “God, what a disappointment you turned out to be,” she said. “You came here like this big bad-ass ex-boyfriend, acting as if you had her number and were ready to call it. But I knew you wouldn't hold out for long. You've been here, what, a month? And she's already turned you into another one of her drooling lapdogs.”

“I have to take issue with that,” he said lightly. “I'm quite sure I never drool.”

“Yeah, right. You do, buster, you do. They all do.” She plopped down on the chair next to his and slid her overstuffed envelope onto the table between.
“But I bet you'll dry up once you've had a look at this.”

His instincts prickled. He looked at the envelope, but he didn't reach for it. “What is it?”

“It's my father's will.” She crossed her legs, flashing a long expanse of trim thigh defiantly. “I think you'll find it very interesting.”

He watched her steadily. “Why?”

“Because it tells you a lot about Lacy. About who she really is. Things you ought to know.”

“I already know she inherited a lot of money when your father died, Gwen.” He paused. “So did you. That doesn't make you evil, does it?”

She arched one brow so high it tickled the corkscrew curls that dangled over her forehead. “Yeah, but do you know
how
she got the money?”

He didn't want to think about all this. He suddenly hated this angry little girl who was trying to stir up old muck. He would never
like
knowing that Lacy had been Malcolm Morgan's wife, but he had come to terms with it. He was ready to put it behind him.

“Of course you don't,” she said. “But that's because you haven't looked at the will.” She nudged the envelope closer to him with one long orange fingernail. “As I said, I think you'll find it very interesting.”

“I find it none of my business,” he said coldly. “The only interesting thing here is why you would want me to see it.”

She laughed, a bitter sound that echoed off the expanse of pool water. “Oh, but it
is
your business, Adam. It is most definitely your business. Let me help
you. The lawyer language makes it sound very complicated and academic, but I can cut to the chase.” She folded her hands in her lap and cleared her throat, as if getting ready to participate in an oration contest.

“Here's how it went. Lacy was pregnant when she married my father. He wanted her to get rid of it. At first she said no, but then he rewrote his will, saying that if she bore a child during the first calendar year of their marriage, she wouldn't inherit a dime.”

Gwen tilted her head, apparently studying the effect of her words on Adam. “Not a dime. See what I'm getting at? Daddy alters his will, and then…presto-chango…suddenly there isn't any baby anymore.”

He looked at her for a long moment. Her eyes glittered in the patio lights, and he suddenly wondered if maybe it wasn't just fury that drove her. Maybe it was pain. Maybe she hated Lacy because she had once wanted to love her.

It was a phenomenon he recognized all too well. Thwarted love turning into bitterness. He'd been there. Done that.

“Gwen,” he said. “Don't do this. Surely, deep inside, you don't want to hurt Lacy with such malicious gossip. Don't you think it's possible that somehow you've misconstrued—”

“Misconstrued?”
She stood abruptly, making the light, webbed chair rock on its plastic-pipe legs. “I didn't misconstrue anything. I was there, remember? Nobody came right out and told me—I was just this annoying little kid—but I heard their arguments. You wouldn't believe it, knowing her now, but Lacy cried a lot back then.”

He made a sound, though he hadn't meant to.

“Yeah, it was pretty grim,” Gwen agreed. “He really knew how to put the screws on. At first it was just a suggestion. Maybe it would be for the best to get rid of the pregnancy. Then it got tougher. That was how he worked. He tried to sweet-talk you into doing things his way, but if you wouldn't play along, he got mean in a hurry. That's when the lawyer came.”

Adam had quit making sounds at all. He thought maybe he had stopped breathing.

“You don't have to believe me,” Gwen said. “Read the will. And if you think I faked anything, check at the probate courts. It's on file there, all spelled out in black and white.”

She started to walk away, obviously aware that she had caught her fish, and content to leave him writhing on the hook.

She paused after a few feet and turned. “Come on, Adam, you do the math. If she had a baby, she didn't inherit.” She shrugged. “Well, I see a mighty rich widow, but I don't see any baby. Do you?”

L
ACY STOOD IN HER BACK
garden, cutting daisies and delphiniums for the foyer arrangement. Hamlet lay on the grass beside her, playing his Great Hunter game, skulking through the sweet alyssum in search of imaginary prey.

She ought to be at the hospital. For years she had worked on Sunday afternoons, getting more done on that one quiet day than she did in the five bustling workweek days put together.

But she didn't feel like being cooped up in an office. The sun was brilliant overhead, and the air smelled of the ocean. If she was very quiet, she imagined she could hear the breakers as they hit the shore of Pringle Sound two miles away.

Yes, only the outdoors could hold her today. She felt restless, giddy, wonderfully alive. She had more in common with the butterflies that winged through the buttercups than she did with the men and women who prowled the hospital corridors, checking charts.

And besides…she was hoping that Adam would call. She glanced over toward the back porch railing, where she had propped the portable telephone. Surely it would ring soon. In the meantime, she kept cutting
yellow daisies and laying them carefully in her basket.

Just when she was thinking of going in to put the flowers in water, she heard her front gate creak. She looked up and saw Adam coming toward her, dappled in sunlight. At the sight of him, she clutched the last delphinium so tightly it was a miracle its slim stem didn't break.

“Adam!” She felt herself flushing, as if the very sound of his name had developed sexual undertones for her. She smiled, suddenly bashful, an emotion she hadn't ever expected to feel again. “I was hoping you'd come.”

He halted several feet away from her. Something was wrong with that, she thought, momentarily confused. She had expected to be embraced. Her whole body had been pulsing toward him. But he stood apart, and he held himself very straight.

“I came to say goodbye,” he said. His voice was formal, too.

She frowned slightly, wondering if she had misunderstood. “You're leaving? Where are you going?”

“I have to get back to New York,” he said stiffly. “I've already stayed longer than I should have, longer than I had planned.”

A small stripe of shadow passed across the garden. “To New York? You mean…permanently?”

“Yes.” He met her eyes, but his were as blank as if he were sleepwalking. She could read nothing, nothing that would help her to understand. “Or at least for a while. I've lived there two years, which is
longer than I've lived anywhere since I left Pringle Island. It might be time to move on again. I'll have to see.”

She must have been clenching her hands. The delphinium drooped, its stem finally surrendering to the pressure. “But, Adam, last night, I—” She tried again. “We—”

“I'm sorry about last night, Lacy,” he broke in, his voice rough. And for the first time his eyes showed something. They looked, suddenly, both bruised and bottomless, as if he hadn't slept much. “I shouldn't have let that happen.”

Little sparks of fear were flashing inside her. He sounded so serious. So unhappy. Why had he turned sad and tight like this? Why hadn't their lovemaking left him giddy and filled with sunshine, the way it had left her?

“Why not?” She closed the distance between them, and put her hand on his arm. “Adam? What happened between us was wonderful, wasn't it?”

He looked away. “It was a mistake.”

She felt herself stiffening. She didn't want to react that way, but it was such a long-standing habit. She felt her face settling in smooth, tight lines.

“That's not really an answer, is it?” She bent to drop her flower in the basket, then rose to meet his gaze. “
Why
was it a mistake?”

He squinted once, as though the sun were hurting his eyes. “I guess it's a mistake because I'm leaving,” he said slowly. “Because, wonderful or not, it can't in the end amount to more than a one-night stand.”

A one-night stand?
What a horrible expression. But it hadn't felt like that last night. Last night, she had felt cared for. She had felt cherished, something she hadn't experienced in years—but a feeling she remembered with perfect clarity nonetheless.

She had felt loved.

Could she have been so wrong? Was she really such a fool as that?

She spoke with a forced calm. “Are you trying to say that you came to town with the express intent of seducing me, and stayed only long enough to accomplish your goal?”

“Okay,” he answered wearily. “Let's say that. Let's say I'm a bastard. And then let's say goodbye.”

A month ago, she would have done exactly that. She would have nodded coolly, picked up her wicker basket of daisies and retreated into the house, where she would have smothered all thoughts of him in relentless work. She would have raised another million dollars for another worthy cause. Abandoned women, perhaps, this time.

But not now. She wasn't just an obedient mannequin anymore, willing to pose first one way and then another to please her audience. Willing to cover up any emotions she might possess, just to make things more comfortable. By God, she deserved an explanation, and she wasn't going to make it easy for him to duck out of here without giving her the truth.

She took a deep breath. “I don't believe it. Last night didn't feel like an end. It felt like a beginning. Something has happened since then to change your mind. I have a right to know what it was.”

Still he didn't speak. Her pain blended with her anger to make her bold. She grabbed his arm, not imploringly this time. Forcefully. “Damn it, Adam.
Tell me.
”

He stared down at her with haunted eyes. “I've read Malcolm's will,” he said quietly. “I know. I know about the baby.”

She froze for one long, cold moment. Heart, pulse, sight, hearing—all suspended. And then she felt her blood rush back, hot and painful, through her veins. Her hand fell from his arm.

“I didn't want to tell you,” he said harshly. “I didn't want to have this conversation. What's the point? It's over—over so long ago, and I never even knew.” His voice had a terrible torn quality. “Please, don't make me say things I'll regret. I know you must have had reasons…not just the money. I know I'll never really understand what you went through. I don't judge you, Lacy. I was gone, and you were alone, and…”

He closed his eyes, covering the clear blue, turning his eyes into mere collections of bruised shadows and dark lashes. “I don't judge you. But I don't think I can live with it, either.”

She wondered whether she could speak. Her throat felt so swollen there was no room for words. But she forced the sound through. “How did you happen to find Malcolm's will? Were you having me investigated?”

He shook his head. “Gwen brought it to me. She thought I should know.”

Gwen.
Lacy sank one more level into the abyss,
remembering Gwen's last words.
I wish I could spoil some dream of yours, just so you'd know how it feels.

“She hates me,” Lacy said. “Can't you see that? She would do anything, say anything, invent anything, just to hurt me.”

“But she didn't invent that will.” Adam ran his hand through his hair. “She didn't invent the pregnancy. Did she, Lacy?”

Lacy met his gaze somehow. She should have told him last night. If only she could turn back the clock, and tell him these things while she was in his arms. Then she never would have had to know he was capable of judging her so harshly.

“No,” she said. “She didn't invent the pregnancy. That was real. For a little while.”

Such a very little while. The anguish of those last hours came back to her now, and with them came a bitter sense of the injustice of his interrogation. How dare he take this tone with her? She didn't need his understanding, didn't want his comfort. And she darn sure didn't require his forgiveness.

He had no right to judge her. His opinion on all this might have mattered ten years ago. But not today. Not when it came ten years too late.

She drew herself up and faced him squarely.

“You say you never knew. But you
could
have known, Adam. If you had called. If you had written. You should have considered that possibility, don't you think? Before you left? You weren't that naive. You knew how babies were made.”

He made a low sound between tight lips. “I know
I share the blame in this, Lacy. I know. I told you I don't judge you.”

She almost laughed. But it would have sounded terrible, black and warped, so she stopped herself.

“Oh, yes, you do,” she said. “It's obvious that you've convicted me, and sentenced me, without even once asking me what happened. So do you know what? I think you're right. I think you
should
leave. After all, that's your specialty, isn't it?”

He made an abrupt gesture toward her, but she backed away. “That's not fair,” he said tensely. “When I left here ten years ago, I was coming back. You knew I was going to come back to you.”

“No, I didn't.” Her voice wasn't right—it was much too sharp, knife-edged and brittle—so she pitched it lower and began again. “I had begged you to say, but you didn't care about anything but getting your hands on money.”

“For us,” he said harshly. “Damn it, Lacy. For
us.
”

“I didn't want money, Adam. I wanted you. But you couldn't believe that, could you? You resented my holding you back.”

“No. That's not how it was. We both said things we didn't mean. But you knew how I felt. You knew I'd be back.”

“But when?” She felt her breath coming heavily. “When, Adam? One year? Five? Ten? You didn't even tell me exactly where you were going—”

“I didn't know. Not until later. And by then you were already—”

“Be honest with yourself for once, Adam. You
didn't want me writing, calling, begging you to come back. You were determined that you wouldn't return to Pringle Island until you could come sweeping back in glory, dazzling everyone with your newfound wealth.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You dare accuse me of committing terrible sins for money, Adam? Well, what about you?”

He was frowning, as if her unbridled anger surprised him. It surprised her, too. She'd been sitting on her emotions for ten years now. How convenient for everyone else! But she was through repressing her feelings. And what she truly felt right now was fury.

“You have no right to judge me, Adam. You lost your rights ten years ago, when you got on that ferry and floated away from this island, leaving me to deal with the consequences.”

“Lacy—”

But she wasn't going to listen. She picked up her basket roughly, spilling daisies on the carpet of grass. “For five years I let Malcolm pass judgment on me. I let him tell me whether I was good or bad, valuable or worthless. But I'm never going to let anyone do that again. Not even you.
Especially
not you.”

“Lacy, you don't—”

“Go,” she said fiercely, hoping the anger would hold, keeping the pain at bay until she could get inside. “Just take your self-righteous ignorance and go back where you came from.”

 

G
WEN LET HERSELF INTO
the house quietly at about noon. She was dog-tired. She'd spent the night on the
couch at Teddy Kilgore's house—which meant she got no rest at all. Her conscience was strangely uncomfortable, making sleep difficult for hours. And then Mrs. Kilgore, an early riser, had begun banging around in the kitchen at the crack of dawn.

So though Gwen had absolutely no interest in meeting up with the Stepwitch, she had dragged herself home anyhow. Maybe she'd feel better if she could just crash in her own room for a while. Maybe she could shake this queasy feeling that she'd done something really awful.

But no such luck. She opened the door, and the first thing she saw was Lacy. She frowned. What was going on? Lacy was about halfway up the staircase, leaning on the banister, bending over sideways, as if she were having a heart attack or something.

She walked over to the side of the stairs and looked up. Lacy's face was half-hidden by her loose brown hair, but what Gwen could see looked downright scary. Ashen, strained…desolate.

Gwen's conscience started wriggling miserably. Adam must have been here. And it must have been a pretty terrible scene. But so what? That was what she had wanted, wasn't it? She ought to feel victorious. Instead, the sight of Lacy's beautiful, broken face was strangely unsettling.

She had never seen Lacy look anything but utterly poised, completely in control. She hadn't, somehow, quite believed that Lacy was capable of real suffering. But this was the real thing, all right. It was so real it was sickening to see.

“Lacy?” She touched the banister, several treads
down from where her stepmother stood. “Are you all right?”

Lacy lifted her head a fraction of an inch. “Yes,” she said in a muffled voice. “I'm just going upstairs.”

Gwen wrapped her fingers tightly around the smooth wood. Her throat felt unexpectedly dry. “Has Adam been here?”

Lacy nodded. But slowly, as if the movement hurt.

Oh, God.
Gwen suddenly felt like a criminal. This wasn't how it had felt when she imagined this moment in her dreams of revenge.

“Lacy, I—”

But what was she going to say? That she was sorry? She never said she was sorry—not for anything. Besides, it would sound pretty stupid. Sorry wasn't going to change anything. The damage was done.

And it wasn't just damage. It was total devastation.

“It's all right, Gwen,” Lacy said. She looked up, and she tried to offer a smile, but it was so forced that it made Gwen wince.

“I know you took the will to Adam. I think I even know why you did it.” She was breathing heavily, and her words had a half-numb sound. “I know that you hate me. How could you not? I failed you. I came in here, I took the security and the respectability that your father could offer me, but I didn't take the responsibility. I should have come here prepared to be a mother to you, and I didn't.”