At the Midnight Hour (7 page)

Maybe he had even believed in such things as eternal love back then, so many years past. It had been a long time ago, a very long time ago.

But you could never go back.

* * *

Liz thought about it all night, turning the evening’s events over and over in her head as she lay in bed and stared at the ceiling above her. He’d kissed her. She’d let him. She’d wanted to kiss him again.

She rolled over in the bed, and stared at the far wall with dismal eyes. When she had determined, back in Maddensfield, that she needed to start her life over again, she hadn’t meant to change
everything.
She hadn’t come looking for this. Especially with a man who looked like some dangerous archangel most of the time.

The guilt churned her stomach once more, and her midnight eyes grew bleak. Nick was dead. He’d died in her arms on a sunny afternoon, and he’d taken with him all the dreams she’d ever had about her life. She’d loved him. God, how she’d loved him. A part of her still hurt, and even after twelve months, a part of her felt empty.

But he would never lie beside her again. He would never grin down at her, and squeeze her hand with impulsive emotion. She would never again wrap her arms around his strong shoulders, and bury her face against his neck. What they’d shared was gone, all lost to a senseless tragedy.

Now there was just her, and she had an obligation to live.

She rolled over to the other side, now staring at the door and still not finding answers. She’d liked Richard’s kiss. She hadn’t expected that. Half the time, she didn’t think he even liked her. Half the time, she couldn’t tell what was going on in his mind at all. But when he’d kissed her... Once more, she found herself shivering.

She tried lying on her back, and gazing at the ceiling instead, but it didn’t make the truth any easier to face. She was attracted to another man. She’d
kissed
another man.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but the knowledge remained. Richard wasn’t anything like Nick. He didn’t look like Nick, he didn’t act like Nick and he certainly didn’t kiss like Nick. But he was Richard, and she’d liked being in his arms.

For a moment, she was tempted to call her mother. Her mother would know what to say. But then she sighed deep in the bed. No, she wasn’t a child anymore. She was a woman and she could deal with this. Her life was changing, and she would figure out how to handle Richard Keaton, one way or another.

Abruptly, she frowned in the darkness and her thoughts became determined.

For whatever reason, the infamous Mr. Keaton seemed intent on keeping his distance from his own son. He had said he was no good for the child. Perhaps he was afraid, perhaps he didn’t know how to get along with children.

Therefore, it would simply have to be her duty to prove to him otherwise. Mr. Keaton wanted to keep distant. Mr. Keaton wanted to keep his logical, cold little world intact. Mr. Keaton was about to be in for a surprise.

Because Liz had no intention of leaving Mr. Keaton alone. In the time she’d been here, she’d already grown fond of little Master Andrew, and he needed his father—and whether he admitted it or not, Mr. Keaton needed his son. No, she had no intention of letting Mr. Keaton avoid his own child. She would be charming, she would pretend she had given up on trying to bring them together. Then she would be free to “accidentally” force son and father together as much as possible. She would let Mr. Keaton see just how nice it would be to have Andrew in his life. And then...

And then they would see who was talking about boarding schools.

Yes, she thought as she finally drifted off to sleep, she would charm Mr. Keaton and help him learn about his son. For Andrew’s sake. But a little voice inside her whispered,
Not only for Andrew’s sake.
She steadfastly ignored it.

“F
lour.”

“Flour.”

“Salt.”

“Salt?”

“Yes, salt.”

Andrew passed her the salt. “Is that all?”

“Mmm...baking powder. The stuff in the red can.”

“Is that everything?”

She looked at the recipe once more. “Sure looks like it. Now stir.”

She handed Andrew the bowl of soon-to-be brownie batter and he looked at it questioningly. Perched on top of a counter, he was still in his suit, but she had managed to get him to take off his jacket for the occasion. Liz herself was wearing a fiery fall skirt with a deep crimson sweater that was currently covered by a long white apron. The apron was, in turn, covered with large splotches of butter, sugar, vanilla, and now flour, as well. She had even managed to get some of the flour in her hair, despite her attempts at making sure the long strands were pulled back with a loosely tied ribbon.

But Liz wasn’t about to worry about her hair now. She had gone to bed last night feeling angry and woken up ravenous. Her nerves felt on edge, and every time she contemplated facing Richard, a slow flush covered her cheeks. Maybe he would take her up on her rash words and fire her. Maybe he would kiss her again. At this point, she wasn’t sure which worried her more. But as the morning had progressed without any sign of his granite countenance, she had finally relaxed enough to turn her attention to her stomach. Face it, she told herself, this nanny business was simply going to require large doses of chocolate if she was to survive. And the kitchen, for all its size and substance, didn’t carry much in the way of chocolate, so she’d decided that they would just have to make their own.

It had taken her the better half of the morning and threats of a mental breakdown to squeeze the kitchen from the head chef, Dodd, but at last she had worn him down. So now, at precisely one o’clock, she and Andrew began the Great Brownie Experiment.

Through a small trick of cruel fortune, Andrew had managed to make it an entire six years without ever making brownies, a situation she was trying to rectify, though it had brought them a few problems. For starters, he had “cracked” the egg by pretty much flattening it against the outside of the bowl. But with a little coaching, he was moving right along and she was sure she could turn him into a brownie connoisseur in no time at all.

“How do you know when it’s all mixed?” he asked. He had been stirring the batter with great concentration for the past few minutes, and was currently eyeing the brown goo with a mixture of suspicion and distrust.

“Taste it,” she informed him as she greased the square pan.

“I need a bowl and a spoon, then,” Andrew said.

“What for? You’re holding a bowl and spoon now.”

“Not this bowl and spoon,” he explained patiently. “A bowl and spoon suitable for tasting.”

She merely waved a flour-enriched hand at him. “You can’t use a spoon to taste brownie batter. It dilutes the flavor. I’m sorry, but a straight finger is the only way.”

“But that is unsanitary!”

“Well, I promise not to tell.”

He looked at her with open doubt for a minute longer, but when it became apparent that she was truly serious about the matter, he gave the batter another suspicious glance and touched it with a tentative finger. When it didn’t bite back, he proceeded to poke it a little more, and then with one last uncertain glance, he bravely stuck his finger in his mouth.

His eyes widened in speculation, his head tilting to the side for just one moment, eyes blinking rapidly with the verdict.

“Well, is it good?” came a distinctly male voice from the doorway.

Both Liz and Andrew turned abruptly, Andrew almost falling off his perch on the counter. There, standing in the doorway, was a nicely dressed but definitely unfamiliar man.

“Who are you?” Liz asked blankly.

“Blaine,” Andrew answered for the stranger. “Uncle Blaine.”

“Right you are, kiddo. Hey, nice tie.” The man smiled the wide beaming smile of a born playboy. He dressed the part, too, Liz thought. Complete with a polo shirt and leather shoes. And considering that it was early October, his suntan had most definitely not come from these parts. He certainly didn’t look like Richard, so perhaps the man was Alycia’s brother. Given the blond looks and open manner, she figured that was a safe bet.

“Nice to meet you, Blaine,” she said politely, reaching out her hand only to realize that it was covered with grease and flour from the pan. With a small laugh, she let her hand drop back to her side.

“And what brings you here?” Blaine asked, his eyes busily skimming her graceful figure as he leaned against the doorframe in a nonchalant pose. “Richard’s tastes must be improving.”

“She’s my nanny,” Andrew said suddenly, and the possessiveness in his voice was so intense it caused Liz to look at him sharply. The bowl of brownie batter lay forgotten in his hands, and his features had almost completely frozen over. For whatever reason, it seemed that Andrew did not like his Uncle Blaine.

“A nanny,” Blaine repeated, and his voice revealed his shock. “My, my, nannies have changed since my day. I must say, the improvement is almost enough to make me wish I was six again.”

The flattery was so blatant, Liz’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. No, he certainly wasn’t anything like Richard.

“Seriously,” he told her, “I don’t mean to harass you. I’m just a little surprised. It’s been a long time since I’ve stopped by this place to find a beautiful woman cooking in the kitchen. Richard must be getting out more than anyone has realized.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” she assured him. “As I said, I am just a nanny.”

Blaine nodded, but the look in his eyes was speculative. “So what are you two cooking?” he asked suddenly. “Should my friends and I be staying for dinner?”

“No,” Andrew said flatly, earning another sharp look from Liz. But Blaine just shrugged it off.

“Still sore about the ghost incident, huh, kiddo?”

“The ghost incident?” Liz questioned.

Andrew glared, Blaine laughed. “Yeah,” Blaine answered. “I visited the Wynstons last year around Halloween and dressed up as a ghost Halloween night. I thought I’d let the kid experience a little of the Halloween spirit, you know, and knocked on his door. Hey, how was I to know you were so afraid of ghosts?”

“I’m not afraid of ghosts,” Andrew said sharply, and behind the thick guard of his glasses, Liz could see the growing signs of his agitation. “One thousand, six hundred and eighteen Americans undergo plastic surgery a day for purely aesthetic reasons,” he said loudly, his voice accusatory.

Blaine raised his eyebrow, but had the good sense not to respond.

“It’s time to put the brownies in the oven,” Liz interrupted tactfully. “How about you do the honors, Andy?”

“I don’t want to,” he said stubbornly. “Eight hundred and eighty-six people are cremated a day.”

“Andy, all you have to do is pour the batter into the pan.”

“Each day four thousand, nine hundred and twenty-eight are buried.”

“Andy—”

“I bet some of them are still alive!”

“You’re right, Andy, I’ll take care of the brownies.” The child was growing agitated very quickly, and Liz took the bowl from him carefully. “Andrew,” she said calmly, “the brownies are supposed to cook for half an hour. How many seconds is that?”

“Every day, fourteen children die in the United States alone.”

“Andrew. Tell me how many seconds.” But his eyes had gone wild, dashing from Blaine to her to Blaine with blooming anger, and most disturbing of all, fear. “Eighty-one Americans kill themselves a day.”

She had no choice. She grabbed his shoulders and shook him hard. “Calm down, Andrew,” she said sharply.
“Now.”

“Easy little man,” said Blaine from behind her. “Easy, Andy.”

“Don’t call me Andy!” Andrew shouted suddenly. “Only Liz can call me Andy. Only Liz, only Liz, ONLY LIZ!”

“Andrew!” she said again, starting to feel desperate. “Andrew, calm down. What’s the square root of 6,561?”

He looked at her with glazed eyes and she shook him once more. “The square root of 6,561?” The numbers at last seemed to penetrate, his eyes slowly coming back into focus.

“Eighty-one,” he said haltingly.

“Good, Andrew. Very good. Are you okay now?” She kept her voice level and looked at him closely. Never had she seen him become this upset this fast, and frankly, it had scared her. She was tempted to hold him close, but he was generally so reserved that she was afraid it might set him off again.

“Yes. May I go to my room now?” he asked. “I forgot to bring down my book.”

She hesitated a moment, but then, with a final look at his somber eyes, she nodded her head. “The brownies will be done shortly,” she told him. “And remember, they’re best fresh.”

He nodded, grabbing his jacket and awkwardly hopping down from the counter as quickly as he could. In a matter of minutes, he was fleeing from the kitchen.

“Sorry,” Blaine said as soon as the boy had left the room. “I didn’t mean to upset him like that.”

She looked at him sharply. Andrew’s reaction had scared her, and looking at this man’s unrepentant face didn’t help. “Andrew’s a very sensitive child,” she said curtly. “You ought to be more careful around him. The ghost incident should have been a hint about that.”

The cool, midnight look of her blue eyes would have done her brothers proud. Blaine found himself uncharacteristically flushing in embarrassment.

“All right, all right,” he said, throwing up his hands in mock surrender. “I honestly didn’t mean to upset Andrew. Kids just aren’t my strong suit. But I swear, I will be gentler in future.”

She nodded, then sighed, the worried look never leaving her eyes.

“It couldn’t have been just you,” she said pensively as she poured the batter into the pan and slid it into the oven. “So he doesn’t like you.” She shrugged as she straightened. “Half the time I’m not sure he likes me and I’ve still never seen him like that.”

“Well, living with those grandparents, who can blame him?”

She looked at him intensely for a moment. “You mean, your parents?”

Blaine looked momentarily confused, then gave a small laugh as his face cleared. “No, no. The Wynstons. Richard’s and my parents died when we were in our teens.”

Liz could only nod, trying to digest this new information all at once. Apparently, this golden playboy was Richard’s brother, not Alycia’s. And their parents were dead.

“I imagined you never met the dearly departed Wynstons?” Blaine stated.

Liz shook her head. “No, I didn’t.”

“Well, they were nice enough people, but quite frankly, they never recovered from Alycia’s death.”

“Richard’s first wife.”

“Uh-huh. And let me tell you, their house was practically a shrine to their daughter.” Blaine pushed himself away from the doorframe and wandered over to the refrigerator. He continued to talk as he opened the door and examined the contents. “Every room, every hallway, every nook and cranny of that house had at least one picture of her, or a riding trophy, a favorite doll, a burning candle. Frankly, I’m thirty years old and the place even give me the creeps after a while.”

“And Andrew was there for five years?” Liz asked, trying to keep her voice casual as she absorbed this unexpected fountain of information.

“Well,” said Blaine as he took out a plate of cold cuts and imported cheese, “if the Wynstons’ original plan had worked out, Andrew never would have come back. As far as they were concerned, they’d already lost their only child to Richard, and they certainly had no intention of losing their only grandchild, as well. But then nature had its own plan, it seems. Want some cheese?”

“What do you mean they lost their only child to Richard?” Her forehead furrowed in consternation.

“Come on,” said Blaine. “You know what I mean. Or if you don’t, then you’re the only person in the state of Connecticut that hasn’t heard the rumor.”

“Oh,” she said shortly and busied herself with wiping the counter. “You mean that Alycia was murdered?” She held her breath, trying to appear nonchalant as every nerve ending tensed for his reply. There were so many things she didn’t know about Richard, and so many things she wasn’t sure she had the courage to ask. Blaine, on the other hand, seemed bent on doling out information as casually as candy. “What exactly happened?”

Blaine looked at her queerly for a minute, his attention temporarily diverted from the food. “She was pushed from the right-hand tower,” he said quietly, “five years ago.”

Liz froze, the image in her mind of a woman plunging to her death just too strong. It had happened here, in this house. In spite of herself, she shivered.

“How do you know,” she asked in a strained voice, “that she was pushed?”

Blaine shrugged, returning his attention to the cold cuts. “There were signs of struggle in the tower, plus the way she fell. The police had some trajectory type thing worked out for that. Richard could probably explain it better. Finally, there was just knowledge of Alycia herself. She wasn’t exactly the suicidal type. You could say she believed in living life to the fullest.”

“Oh.” And all of a sudden, Liz didn’t know what else to say. Somehow, she hadn’t really wanted to believe any of it. Somehow, she had wanted to believe that Richard had told her his wife was murdered just to scare and intimidate her. But now it appeared it was definitely true. Alycia had been pushed from the right-hand tower, and everyone believed Richard had done it. She couldn’t hold back another shiver.

“Didn’t the police investigate? Surely they’ve found the killer by now,” she said casually.

“It’s been five years and they still haven’t found anything conclusive,” Blaine said, shrugging and rolling a slice of roast beef together with one of Swiss cheese. “They drilled Richard enough, that’s for sure. I mean, everyone knew how much he and Alycia fought. Hell, sometimes I thought you could hear their screaming matches down in Haiti. Then, of course, there was the matter of his not having an alibi. He said he was working in his lab.” Blaine shrugged. “He’s always in that lab, but no one’s ever there with him to confirm it. I don’t know. In the end, the police only had circumstantial evidence, so they gave up. I doubt we’ll ever know who did it now. Unless, of course, the diary’s found.”