First Impressions (14 page)

“Not long.” Shane stood rigid, knowing part of herself was drawn, as it always was, to the strange, beautiful woman who was her mother. Knowing too that Anne was deadly.

“And?” Anne prompted.

“And what?”

“Shane, don't be difficult.” Masking quick annoyance, Anne gave her daughter a charming smile. She was an actress. Though she had never made the splash she had hoped for, she wrangled a bit part now and again. She felt she knew her trade well enough to handle Shane with a friendly smile. “Naturally I'm concerned, darling. I only want to know how you're doing?”

Uncomfortable with her own manners, Shane unbent. “Well enough, though I haven't been open long. I wasn't happy with teaching. Not bored,” she explained, “just not suited for it. I am happy with this.”

“Darling, that's wonderful.” She crossed her nylon-clad legs and looked around again. It occurred to her that Shane might be useful after all. It had taken brains and determination to set up this kind of establishment. Perhaps it was time she started to take a little more interest in the daughter she had always thought of as a mild annoyance. “It helps to know you're settling your life, especially since mine's such a mess at the moment.” Noting the wariness in Shane's eyes, she sent her a sad smile. If memory served her, the girl was very susceptible to an unhappy story. “I divorced Leslie.”

“Oh?” Shane only lifted a brow.

Momentarily set back by Shane's coolness, Anne continued. “I can't tell you how mistaken I was in him, how foolish it feels to know I was deceived into thinking he was a kind, charming man.” She didn't add that he had failed, again and again, to get her the kind of parts that would lead to the fame she craved—or that she'd already begun to cultivate a certain producer she felt would be more successful. In any event, Leslie had begun to bore her to distraction. “There's nothing more devastating than to have failed in love.”

You've had practice, Shane thought, but held her tongue.

“These past few months,” Anne added on a sigh, “haven't been easy.”

“For any of us,” Shane agreed, understanding Anne too well. “Gran died six months ago. You didn't even bother to come to the funeral.”

Anne had been ready for this. With a tiny sigh, she dropped her eyes to her soft, pampered hands. “You must know how badly I felt, Shane. I was finishing a film. I couldn't be spared.”

“You couldn't find the time for a card, a phone call?” Shane asked. “You never even bothered to answer my letter.”

As if on cue, Anne's lovely eyes filled with tears. “Darling, don't be cruel. I couldn't—I just couldn't put the words down on a piece of paper.” She drew a delicate swatch of silk from her breast pocket. “Even though she was old, somehow I felt she would just live forever, always be here.” Mindful of her mascara, she dabbed at the tears. “When I got your letter telling me she was . . . I was so devastated.” She lifted beautifully drenched eyes to Shane's, waiting while a single tear trickled gently down her cheek. “You of all people must know how I feel. She raised me.” A little sob caught in her throat. “I still can't believe she's not in the kitchen, fussing over the stove.”

Because the image tore at her own grief, Shane knelt at her mother's feet. She'd had no family to mourn with her, no one to help her through the wrenching, aching hours after the numbness had passed. If she had been unable to share anything else with her mother throughout her life, perhaps they could share this. “I know,” she managed in a thick voice. “I still miss her terribly.”

Anne began to think the little scene had a great deal of possibility. “Shane, please forgive me.” Anne gripped her hands, concentrating on adding a tremor to her voice. “I know it was wrong of me not to come, wrong to make excuses. I just wasn't strong enough to face it. Even now, when I thought I could . . .” She trailed off, bringing Shane's hand to her damp cheek.

“I understand. Gran would have understood too.”

“She was so good to me always. If I could only see her one more time.”

“You mustn't dwell on it.” Those very thoughts had haunted Shane's mind a dozen times after the funeral. “I felt the same way, but it's better to remember all the good times. She was so happy here in this house, doing her gardening, her canning.”

“She did love the house,” Anne murmured, casting a nostalgic eye around the old summer parlor. “And I imagine she'd have been pleased with what you're doing here.”

“Do you think so?” Earnestly, Shane looked up into her mother's damp eyes. “I was so sure, but still sometimes . . .” Trailing off, she glanced at the freshly painted walls.

“Of course she would,” Anne said briskly. “I suppose she left the house to you?”

“Yes.” Shane was looking around the room, remembering how it had been.

“There was a will, then?”

“A will?” Distracted, Shane glanced back at her. “Yes, Gran had a will drawn up years ago. She had Floyd Arnette's son do it after he passed the bar. She was his first client.” Shane smiled, thinking how proud Gran had been of the fancy legal terms that “sassy Arnette boy” had come up with.

“And the rest of the estate?” Anne prompted, attempting to curb her impatience.

“There was the house and land of course,” Shane answered, still looking back. “Some stocks I sold to pay the taxes and the funeral expenses.”

“She left everything to you?”

The tightness in Anne's voice didn't penetrate. “Yes. There was enough cash in her savings to handle most of the repairs on the place, and—”

“You're lying!” Anne shoved at her as she sprung to her feet. Shane grabbed the arm of the chair to keep from toppling; then, too stunned to move, she stayed on the floor. “She wouldn't have cut me off without a penny!” Anne exploded, glaring down at her.

The blue eyes were hard and glittery now, the lovely face white with fury. Once or twice before, Shane had seen her mother in this sort of rage—when her grandmother hadn't given her precisely what she had wanted. Slowly, Shane rose to face her. Anne's tantrums, she knew, had to be handled carefully before they turned violent.

“Gran would never have thought of it as cutting you off, Anne,” Shane said with a calm she was far from feeling. “She knew you'd have no interest in the house or land, and there weren't that many extra pennies after taxes.”

“What kind of fool do you think I am?” Anne demanded in a harsh, bitter voice. It was her temper more than a lack of talent that had snagged her career. Too often, she had let it rake over directors and other actors. Even now, when patience and the right words would have ensured success, she lashed out. “I know damn well she had money socked away, molding in some bank. I had to pry every penny I got out of her when she was alive. I'm going to have my share.”

“She gave you what she could,” Shane began.

“What the hell do you know? Do you think I'm so stupid I don't know this property is worth a tidy sum on the market?” She glanced around once in disgust. “You want the place, keep it. Just give me the cash.”

“There isn't any to give. She didn't—”

“Don't hand me that.” Anne shoved her aside and strode toward the stairs.

For a moment, Shane stood still, caught in a turmoil of disbelief. How was it possible anyone could be so unfeeling? And how, she asked herself, was it possible for her to be taken in again and again? Well, she would end it this time, once and for all. On her own wave of fury, she raced after her mother.

She found Anne in her bedroom, pulling papers out of her desk. Without hesitation, Shane dashed across the room and slammed the desk lid shut. “Don't you touch my things,” she said in a dangerous voice. “Don't you ever touch what belongs to me.”

“I want to see the bankbooks, and this so-called will.” Anne turned to leave the room, but Shane grabbed her arm in a surprisingly strong grip.

“You'll see nothing in this house. This is mine.”

“There
is
money,” Anne said furiously, then jerked away. “You're trying to hide it.”

“I don't have to hide anything from you.” Rage raced through Shane, fed by years of cast-aside love. “If you want to see the will and the status of the estate, get yourself a lawyer. But I own this house, and everything in it. I won't have you going through my papers.”

“Well . . .” Anne's blue eyes became slits. “Not such a sweet simpleton after all, are you?”

“You've never known what I am,” Shane said evenly. “You've never cared enough to find out. It didn't matter, because I had Gran. I don't need you.” Though saying the words was a relief, they didn't bank her fury. “There were times I thought I did, when you came sweeping in, so beautiful I hardly believed you were real. That was closer to the truth than I knew, because there's nothing real about you. You never cared about her. She knew that, and she loved you anyway. But I don't.” Her breathing was coming quickly, but she was unaware of how close it was to sobbing. “I can't even work up a hate. I just want to be rid of you.”

Turning, she pulled open the desk and drew out her checkbook. Quickly, she wrote out a check for half of the capital she had left. “Here.” She held it out to Anne. “Take it; consider it from Gran. You'll never get anything from me.”

After snatching the check, Anne scanned the amount with a smirk. “If you think I'll be satisfied with this, you're wrong.” Still, she folded the check neatly, then slipped it into her pocket. She knew better than to press her luck, and her own financial status was far from solid. “I'll get that lawyer,” she promised, though she had no intention of wasting her money on the slim chance of getting more. “And I'll contest the will. We'll just see how much I get from you, Shane.”

“Do what you like,” Shane said wearily. “Just stay away from me.”

Anne tossed back her hair with a harsh laugh. “Don't think I'll spend any more time in this ridiculous house than I have to. I've always wondered how the hell you could possibly be my daughter.”

Shane pressed a hand to her throbbing temple. “So have I,” she murmured.

“You'll hear from my lawyer,” Anne told her. Turning on her heel, she glided from the room, exiting gracefully.

Shane stood beside the desk until she heard the slam of the front door. Bursting into tears, she crumpled into a chair.

Chapter 11

Vance sat in the one decent chair he had in the living room. Impatiently, he checked his watch. He should have been with Shane ten minutes ago. And would have been, he thought with a glance at the front door, if the phone hadn't caught him as he'd been leaving the house. Resigned, he listened to the problems listed by the manager of his Washington branch. Though it wasn't said in words, Vance was aware there was some grumbling in the ranks that the boss had taken a sabbatical.

“And with the union dispute, the construction on the Wolfe project is three weeks behind schedule,” the manager continued. “I've been informed that there will be a delay in delivery of the steel on the Rheinstone site—possibly a lengthy one. I'm sorry to bother you with this, Mr. Banning, but as these two projects are of paramount importance to the firm, particularly with the bids going out on the shopping mall Rheinstone is planning, I felt . . .”

“Yes, I understand.” Vance cut off what promised to be a detailed explanation. “Put a double shift on the Wolfe project until we're back on schedule.”

“A double shift? But—”

“We contracted for completion by April first,” Vance said mildly. “The increase in payroll will be less than the payment of the penalty clause, or the damage to the firm's reputation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And have Liebewitz check into the steel delivery. If it's not taken care of satisfactorily by Monday, I'll handle it from here.” Picking up a pencil, Vance made a scrawled note on a pad. “As to the Rheinstone bid, I looked it over myself last week. I see no problem.” He scowled at the floor a moment. “Set up a meeting with the department heads for the end of next week. I'll be in. In the meantime,” he added slowly, “send someone . . . Masterson,” he decided, “up here to scout out locations for a new branch.”

“New branch? Up there, Mr. Banning?”

The tone had a smile tugging at his mouth. “Have him concentrate on the Hagerstown area and give me a report. I want a list of viable locations in two weeks.” He checked his watch again. “Is there anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. I'll be in next week.” Without waiting for a reply, Vance broke the connection.

His last orders, he thought ruefully, would put them into quite a stir. Well, he reflected, Riverton had expanded before; it was going to expand again. For the first time in years, the company was going to bring him some personal happiness. He would be able to settle down with the woman he loved, where he chose to settle down, and still keep a firm rein on his business. If he had to justify the new branch to the board, which he would certainly have to do, he would point out that Hagerstown was the largest city in Maryland. There was also its proximity to Pennsylvania to consider . . . and to West Virginia. Yes, he mused, the expansion could be justified to the board easily enough. His track record would go a long way toward swaying them.

Rising, Vance shrugged back into his coat. All he had left to do now was to talk to Shane. Not for the first time, he speculated on her reaction. She was bound to be a bit stunned when he told her he wasn't precisely the unemployed carpenter she had taken him for. And he hadn't discounted the possibility that she might be angry with him for allowing her to go on believing him to be one. Vance felt a slight tug of apprehension as he stepped out into the cold, clear night.

There was a stiff breeze whipping in from the west. It sent stiff, dead leaves scattering and smelled faintly of snow. With his mind fully occupied, Vance never noticed the old stag fifty yards to his right, scenting the air and watching him.

He'd never set out to deceive her, he reminded himself. When they had first met, it had been none of Shane's business who he was. More, he added thoughtfully, he had simply wanted to shake loose of his company title for a while and be exactly what she had perceived him to be. Had there been any way of knowing she would become more important to him than anything else in his life? Could he have guessed that weeks after he met her he would be planning to ask her to marry him, finding himself ready to toss his company into a frenzy of rush and preparation so that she wouldn't have to give up her home or the life she had chosen for herself?

Once he'd explained the circumstances, Vance told himself as he crunched through frosted leaves, she'd understand. One of Shane's most endearing qualities was understanding. And she loved him. If he was sure of nothing else, he was sure of that. She loved him without questions, without demands. No one had ever given him so much for so little. He intended to spend the rest of his life showing her just what that meant to him.

He imagined that once the surprise of what he had to tell her had worn off, she would laugh. The money, the position he could offer her would mean nothing. She would probably find it funny that the president of Riverton had cut and hammered the trim in her kitchen.

Telling her about Amelia would be more difficult, but it would be done—completely. He wouldn't pass over his first marriage, but would tell her everything and rely on her to understand. He wanted to tell her that she had been responsible for softening his guilt, lightening his bitterness. Loving her was the only genuine emotion he'd felt in years. Tonight, he would open up his past long enough to let the air in; then he would ask Shane to share his future.

Still, Vance felt a twinge of apprehension as he approached her house. He might have ignored it if it hadn't been for the sudden realization that all the windows were dark. It was odd, he thought, unconsciously increasing his pace. She was certainly home, not only because her car was there, but because he knew she was expecting him. But why in God's name, he wondered, wasn't there a single light on? Vance tried to push away a flood of pure anxiety as he reached the back door.

It was unlocked. Though he entered without knocking, he called her name immediately. The house remained dark and silent. Hitting a switch, Vance flooded the rear showroom with light. A quick glance showed him nothing amiss before he continued through the first floor.

“Shane?”

The quiet was beginning to disturb him even more than the darkness. After making a quick circle of the lower floor, he went upstairs. At once he caught the scent of cooking. But the kitchen was empty. Absently turning off the oven, Vance went back into the hall. The thought struck him that she might have lain down after closing the shop and had simply fallen asleep. Amused more than concerned now, he walked quietly into her bedroom. All the amusement fled when he saw her curled up in the chair.

Though the room was in darkness, there was enough moonlight to make her out clearly. She wasn't asleep, but was curled up tightly with her head resting on the arm of the chair. He'd never seen her like that. His first thought was that she looked lost; then he corrected himself. Stricken. There was no innate vivacity in her eyes, and her face glowed palely in the silvery light of the moon. He might have thought her ill, but something told him that even in illness Shane wouldn't lose all of her spark. The thought ran through his mind in only seconds before he crossed the room to her. She made no sign that she saw him, nor was there any response when he spoke her name again. Vance knelt in front of her and took her chilled hands.

“Shane.”

For a moment, she stared at him blankly. Then, as though a dam had burst, desperate emotion flooded her eyes. “Vance,” she said brokenly, throwing her arms around his neck. “Oh, Vance.”

She trembled violently but didn't weep. The tears were dry as stone inside her. With her face pressed into his shoulder, she clung to him, breaking out of the numbed shock that had followed her earlier bout of tears. It was the warmth of him that made her realize how cold she had been. Without questions, with both strength and sweetness he held her to him.

“Vance, I'm so glad you're here. I need you.”

The words struck him more forcibly than even her declaration of love. Up to that moment he had been almost uncomfortably aware that his needs far outweighed hers. Now it seemed there was something he could do for her, if it was only to listen.

“What happened, Shane?” Gently he drew her away only far enough to look into her eyes. “Can you tell me?”

She drew a raw breath, making him eloquently aware of the effort it cost her to speak. “My mother.”

With his fingertips, he brushed the tousled hair from her cheeks. “Is she ill?”

“No!” It was a quick, furious explosion. The violence of the denial surprised him, but he took her agitated hands in his.

“Tell me what happened.”

“She came,” Shane managed, then fought to compose herself.

“Your mother came here?” he prompted.

“Near closing time. I didn't expect . . . She didn't come for the funeral or answer my letter.” Her hands twisted in his, but Vance kept them in a gentle grip.

“This is the first time you've seen her since your grandmother died?” he asked. His voice was calm and quiet. Shane's eyes were still for a moment as she met his eyes directly.

“I haven't seen Anne in over two years,” she said flatly. “Since she married her publicity agent. They're divorced now, so she came back.” Shaking her head, Shane drew in a breath. “She almost made me believe she cared. I thought we could talk to each other. Really talk.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “It was all an act, all the tears and grief. She sat there begging me to understand, and I believed—” Breaking off again, she shuddered with the effort of continuing. “She didn't come because of Gran or because of me.” When she opened her eyes again, Vance saw they were dull with pain. With a savage effort he kept his voice calm.

“Why did she come, Shane?”

Because her breathing was jerky again, she took a moment to answer. “Money,” she said flatly. “She thought there would be money. She was furious that Gran left everything to me, and she wouldn't believe me when I told her how little there had been. I should have known!” she said in a quick rage, which then almost immediately subsided. “I did know.” Her shoulders slumped as though she bore an intolerable weight. “I've always known. She's never cared about anyone. I'd hoped there might be some feeling in her for Gran, but . . . When she came running up here to paw through my papers, I said horrible things. I can't be sorry that I did.” Tears sprang to her eyes, only to be swiftly controlled. “I gave her half of what's left and made her leave.”

“You gave her money?” Vance demanded, incredulous enough to interrupt.

Shane gave him a weary look. “Gran would have given it to her. She's still my mother.”

Disgust and rage rose in his throat. It took all the willpower he had not to give in to it. His anger wouldn't help Shane. “She's not your mother, Shane,” he said matter-of-factly. When she opened her mouth to speak, he shook his head and continued. “Biologically, yes, but you're too smart to think that means anything. Cats have kittens too, Shane.” He tightened his grip when he saw the flicker of pain on her face. “I'm sorry. I don't want to hurt you.”

“No. No, you're right.” Her hands went limp again as she let out a sigh. “The truth is, I very rarely think of her. Whatever feelings I have for her are mostly because Gran loved her. And yet . . .”

“And yet,” he finished, “you make yourself sick with guilt.”

“How can it be natural to want her to stay away?” Shane demanded in a rush. “Gran—”

“Your grandmother might have felt differently, might have given her money out of a sense of obligation. But think, who did she leave everything to? Everything important to her?”

“Yes, yes, I know, but . . .”

“When you think of the meaning of ‘mother,' Shane, who comes to your mind?”

She stared at him. This time when the tears gathered, they brimmed over. Without a word, she dropped her head back onto his shoulder. “I told her I didn't love her. I meant it, but . . .”

“You don't owe her anything.” He drew her closer. “I know something about guilt, Shane, about letting it tear at you. I won't let you do that to yourself.”

“I told her to stay away from me.” She gave a long, weary sigh. “I don't think she will.”

Vance remained silent for a moment. “Is that what you want?”

“Oh God, yes.”

He pressed his lips to her temple before lifting her into his arms. “Come on, you're exhausted. Lie down for a while and sleep.”

“No, I'm not tired,” she lied as her lids fluttered down. “I just have a headache. And dinner's—”

“I turned off the oven,” he told her as he carried her to the bed. “We'll eat later.” After flipping down the quilt, he bent to lay Shane between the cool sheets. “I'll go get you some aspirin.” He slipped off her shoes, but as he started to pull the quilt over her, Shane took his hand.

“Vance, would you just . . . stay with me?”

Touching the back of his hand to her cheek, he smiled at her. “Sure.” As soon as he had pulled off his boots, he slipped into bed beside her. “Try to sleep,” he murmured, gathering her close. “I'll be right here.”

He heard her long, quiet sigh, then felt the feather brush of her lashes against his shoulder as her eyes shut.

How long they lay still, he had no idea. Though the grandfather clock that stood in Shane's sitting room struck the hour once, Vance paid no attention. She wasn't trembling anymore, nor was her skin chilled. Her breathing was slow and even. The fingers that absently soothed at her temple were gentle, but his thoughts were not.

No one, nothing, was ever going to put that look on Shane's face again. He would see to it. He lay staring at the ceiling as he thought out the best way to deal with Anne Abbott. He'd let the money go, because that's the way Shane wanted it. But he couldn't resign himself to allowing her to deal with a constant emotional drain. Nothing had ever wrenched at him like the sight of her pale, shocked face or pain-filled eyes.