Fool Me Once (2 page)

Five years later
Winchester, Virginia

S
andy-haired Dennis Lowell bounced his way into the small hospital, a huge smile on his face. He was the father of a baby girl. He hadn't seen her yet, but he knew she was going to be the most beautiful baby in the whole world. What, he wondered, had he done to deserve this happiness? His dark brown eyes sparkled at the thought.

Names for his new offspring flitted through his mind. He had been unable to get Allison to settle on one before she gave birth. He rather thought it was because she didn't want to be committed to a girl's name, then deliver a baby boy. Well, she wasn't going to be able to procrastinate much longer. A baby's name was going to go on the birth certificate. He hoped she'd go with Olivia—after his mother. But in the end, it didn't matter what the choice was. He was just grateful that the newborn was healthy and had all her toes and fingers.

Dennis straightened his tie, smoothed back his thinning hair, and took a deep breath as he made his way to the maternity ward. Childishly, he crossed his fingers, hoping that Allison would welcome him with a smile. But he knew in his gut there would be no smile. Possibly, a tirade awaited him. When the call had come into the office, he'd been going over a very muddled tax return with a client. A high-profile, high-paying client. There was no way he could bolt out of the office leaving a client so furious at the Internal Revenue Service. That had been three hours ago. His brand-new daughter was already three hours old, and he hadn't so much as seen her.

No, there would be no smile on Allison's face.

He stood outside the door of his wife's room. He could hear voices inside. He frowned. Was it possible his wife had visitors so soon? Maybe it was a nurse, and they were cooing over the new baby. He brightened a little at the thought.

Dennis knocked softly. At the same time, he pasted a smile on his face and pressed down on the latch of the door handle. He tried for a joke, but it felt sickly even to him when he said, “Ready or not, here comes the new father!”

Dennis took it in all at once; two strange men standing at the foot of the bed, his wife sitting propped up in the bed like a princess and, of course, the nurse, a red-haired, red-faced woman who looked to be flushed with anger. There was no sign of a bassinet or his new daughter. He looked around, instinctively knowing something was wrong. He managed to gasp out one word. “Baby?”

“Dennis, it was nice of you to come. It's been, what, four hours since I had the baby.”

Dennis looked at his watch. “Three and a half hours,” he managed to croak. The fear he was feeling escalated as he looked at the nurse and her cartful of medical equipment as well as medicines. The men had briefcases. What did that mean? Suddenly he felt light-headed in the small private room they couldn't afford but Allison had insisted on. He wasn't sure, but he thought he recognized one of the men standing by the foot of the bed. He'd seen him at the Rotary Club. A lawyer. What the hell was a lawyer doing in his wife's hospital room? The other one must be a lawyer, too. What the hell were two lawyers doing there? Whatever it was, he knew instinctively it wasn't going to be good for him.

Allison's voice was cool and detached when she made the introductions. “Dennis, this is Jason Carmichael and his partner, Oliver Barrows. They are my attorneys. I'm divorcing you and giving you sole custody of the baby. These two gentlemen will handle all the details. I don't want anything from you. You can keep the house, the cars, and what little we have in the bank. When I'm discharged, I'm walking away from here, and you'll never see me again.”

Dennis looked around for a chair. There wasn't one. He struggled with the words he'd just heard. “I don't understand” was the best response he could manage. He felt the red-faced nurse's hand on his arm. It felt warm and comforting, but it did nothing to take away the dizzy feeling. He wondered if he was going to make a fool of himself and pass out.

Allison's voice turned ice cold. “It's simple, really, Dennis. Things haven't been right between us for a long time. The pregnancy never should have happened. You knew I didn't want to have children. So I'm giving you the child I never wanted. I no longer want to be married to you. I can't make it any more simple. Now, if you'll just sign the papers, these gentlemen will handle everything. Grow up, Dennis. This isn't a fairy tale. I don't want to be your princess, and I no longer want to live in a cracker box. With or without you. I do not want to be a mother. I want to be myself and live a life of my own choosing.”

Dennis's head was still spinning as he tried to absorb all that he was hearing. He wondered who was paying for these attorneys. What a stupid thought. He looked at the two men, who were eyeballing him. One offered him a pen, and he scrawled his name, as directed, in about ten different places. He heard his wife's sigh of relief. He looked over at the nurse, whose eyes were full of pity. She led him from the room.

In the antiseptic hallway, the nurse took his arm and steered him toward the nursery. She pointed to a small pink bassinet and smiled. “Everything happens for a reason, Mr. Lowell. That's how you have to look at things right now.”

Dennis pressed his face against the glass and stared at the tightly wrapped pink bundle. His daughter. Tears rolled down his cheeks. “I'll do my best…Olivia.”

When the nurse tugged at his arm, he looked up. “You should go home now, Mr. Lowell, and…and…make some plans. You should be able to take your new daughter home at the end of the week. You need to prepare.”

Dennis turned to walk back to his wife's room. He wanted an explanation. The nurse tugged on his arm again. “Your wife left instructions that you weren't to be permitted any other visiting privileges. Just the one. I'm truly sorry, Mr. Lowell.”

“Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

Dennis left the hospital in a daze. The nurse was right, he had to make plans. Serious plans.

His shoulders slumped with misery, his eyes wet, Dennis drove home, still trying to make sense of what had just happened to him and his brand-new daughter.

H
e was her client.

A superrich paying client.

And, said client was ticked off, big-time.

A murderous glint in her eyes, Olivia Lowell took one step backward, then another. “I refuse to tolerate this type of behavior, Cecil. I will not be intimidated. I was told you were a gentleman. Ha!”

Alice, the West Highland terrier at Olivia's feet, barked shrilly and showed her teeth. “She's a killer, Cecil, so it might behoove you to rethink your actions. Now, what's it going to be? Be aware that I am a woman whose biggest failing in life is my lack of patience.”

Cecil eyed the woman standing in front of him, then the yapper at her feet. And he did what any red-blooded Yorkshire terrier would do. He lay down, rolled over, and barked. Happily. Bounding back up on all fours, he raced across the studio, whirled, twirled, and did a hind-leg jig. His one and only trick. Alice ran after him and somehow managed to swat his rear end with one furry paw. They ended up tussling on the studio floor.

“Now look at you, Cecil! The executors of your owner's estate are not going to like this. I need to take your picture, so let's get with it. You're big news, Cecil. You just inherited the Manning fortune. You're going to live a life of luxury. Don't you want to get your due? It isn't every day a fortune lands in a dog's lap. C'mon, let me take your picture. I promise it will be painless,” Olivia pleaded.

Cecil hopped onto a stool and did his jig again, to Alice's dismay. Olivia resigned herself to the fact that she wasn't going to get a portrait of the famous dog but would have to go with action shots, which probably wasn't a bad thing at all. She'd tried to explain to the dog's handler, a lawyer named Jeff Bannerman, that Cecil had a mind of his own, but he refused to listen. What Bannerman had said was something to the effect that you're supposed to be the best of the best—now prove it.

Like that was going to happen! If Cecil had been an ordinary dog, maybe. She'd met Cecil two years before, when Lillian Manning had commissioned her to do a sitting portrait of the dog. The picture, while nice, reflected Cecil's more or less placid puppyhood. Now the moneymen responsible for Mrs. Manning's estate wanted a grown-up picture, and they were willing to pay ten thousand dollars for it. After all, it was going to be shown around the world, and it would aid her career, they said.

Olivia reached into her pocket and withdrew a whistle, the kind that emitted a loud, piercing sound that only dogs could hear. She blew it three times and shouted at the top of her lungs, “Cecil, get on that bench and pose!
Now!
Or…or you are going back home with that
stiff
who brought you here.”

Cecil stopped pawing through the wastebasket, turned to look at the object of his torment, then pranced over to the bench and hopped up. He posed, he preened, he looked haughty, he looked devilish, then he lay down. Alice barked her approval as Olivia's Nikon clicked and clicked. Then, ham that he was, Cecil stood up on all fours and bowed. He actually bowed. Olivia burst out laughing—until Cecil showed his teeth, which meant the gig was over. He hopped down and chased Alice around the room until the female terrier collapsed. The Yorkie pounced on her and barked shrilly. Alice ignored him. With nothing else to entertain him, Cecil lifted his leg and defiantly peed on the legs of a tripod. Then he walked back to Alice. He lay down and was asleep within seconds.

Olivia smiled as she looked at the two sleeping dogs. She adored Cecil but felt sorry for him. He was now destined to live out his life in a fancy mansion with servants catering to his every whim. The servants wouldn't love him or play with him the way Lillian Manning had. Poor, poor Cecil. Maybe the money people would allow Cecil to have play dates with Alice. How silly was that? How silly was leaving a hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar estate to a dog? Pretty damn silly, in her opinion.

Olivia Lowell, photographer to the canine world, looked at her watch. Lunchtime. Yogurt, a banana, and a cup of coffee, and she'd be ready to photograph a seven-year-old English whippet named Sasha for her owner's Christmas card. Christmas was ten months away, but the owner said she didn't want to have to wait till the last minute.

It was a lucrative living, and Olivia enjoyed every minute of it because she was a devout animal lover.

As Olivia spooned the yogurt into her mouth, she thought about her father. She missed him but understood his desire to retire to the islands and rent out his fishing boat to tourists. He was happier these days than she'd ever seen him. Of course, that might have something to do with his new love, Lea. Maybe she would call him later in the day to ask him how things were going.

Tears pricked Olivia's deep-green eyes when she thought of her father and how he'd raised her on his own. He'd sacrificed so much for her, even giving up his accounting practice and going to night school to learn photography so he could open a studio in their home to be with her during the day. A studio that he himself built on the side of the house, with its own entrance, bath, and minikitchen. The studio even had a plaque beside the door that said
LOWELL AND LOWELL
, and underneath their names, the word
PHOTOGRAPHY
.

Her father had never remarried, despite her urging as she grew older. Not that he didn't, as he called it, “keep company” with various and sundry ladies. Some of those ladies were to Olivia's liking and some weren't, but she kept her own counsel where they were concerned. Until Lea came along five years ago. Lea was the mother she never had. They were friends, good friends. Maybe now that both her father and Lea were in a less stressful atmosphere and retired, they might think about getting married. At least she hoped so, for her father's sake.

Three things happened simultaneously when Olivia tossed her empty yogurt container in the trash. Cecil and Alice raced into the kitchen; Sasha, the English whippet, arrived wearing a huge red and white Santa hat, granny glasses that were tied to her ears, and a Christmas neckerchief; and a distinguished-looking gentleman carrying a briefcase rang her front doorbell.

Olivia strode to the front door. She really needed to make some rules around here. The least Sasha's owner could have done was take the dog to the studio door instead of the kitchen door. Now she had to contend with some door-to-door salesman, the barking, howling dogs, and her own frustrations. Her father would have had the situation under control in a heartbeat. All he ever had to do was look a dog in the eye, wag his finger, and he was rewarded with instant obedience. Her clients walked all over her.

“What?” she snapped irritably. “Whatever you're selling, I'm not interested.” She was about to shut the door when the man held up a small white business card. She paused to read it. He was Prentice O'Brien from the law firm of O'Brien, O'Malley and O'Shaughnessy. A nice Irish firm, Olivia surmised. Or else it was some kind of song-and-dance act, and the man standing in front of her was a scam artist.

“What?” she said again, yelling to be heard over the din. “Is someone suing me?” Sasha's body slammed against the locked storm door. Prentice O' Brien stepped back, his face showing apprehension.

“No!” the lawyer bellowed in return. “Can we go somewhere to talk where it's a little more quiet?”

Olivia brushed at her blond curls. “I'm afraid not,” she bellowed back as loudly as the lawyer had. “I'm running late, and, as you can see, I seem to have lost control here. Why don't you call me later, around five.”

The lawyer frowned. “Ms. Lowell, this really is important, urgent even. We need to talk.”

Olivia turned around when she heard a sound reminiscent of a waterfall. Sasha was peeing on the hall carpet runner. Damn. She noted the look of disgust on the lawyer's face.

“Some other time.
This
situation is
really
urgent. Good-bye, Mr.”—she looked down at the card in her hand—“Mr. O'Brien.” She shut the door in the man's face and raced to the kitchen for a roll of paper towels.

Thirty minutes later she was still searching for Sasha's glasses and Santa Claus hat.
My father would have this under control, too. Damn
.

At three o'clock Sasha and all her gear were gone. Cecil's handler still hadn't picked him up. Anna Logan, the owner of Logan's Bakery, arrived with a basket of new kittens. She wanted pictures to put up on the bakery bulletin board in the hope that some of her customers would adopt them.

It was ten after five when Anna and the kittens pulled out of Olivia's driveway. Cecil's handler still hadn't arrived to pick him up, which probably meant he'd forgotten about him. Just the way Alice's owners had forgotten to pick her up three years ago. That had been Alice's lucky day. Olivia loved Alice the way mothers love their children.

At five-thirty the doorbell and the phone pealed at the same time. Ignoring the doorbell, Olivia answered the phone while Alice and Cecil raced to the front door and barked. Cecil's handler was on the phone, asking if Olivia could possibly keep Cecil overnight, and he would be picked up in the morning by “someone.”

“Well, sure, for fifty dollars an hour, Mr. Bannerman. I don't operate a dog-sitting service. This is a photography studio.” She was told the fee would be no problem. After all, Cecil was the richest dog in the United States. She hung up the phone wondering what she was going to prepare for dinner as she made her way to the front door. She opened it. Prentice O'Brien.

“What is it, Mr. O'Brien? It's the end of the day, I'm tired, and if no one is suing me, I can't imagine what you want to talk to me about. Make it quick.”

“Can I at least come in, Ms. Lowell? It's rather cold out here, and it is snowing.”

It was
snowing
. How had she missed that? Maybe she'd build a fire later, snuggle with the dogs, and think about Clarence De Witt's marriage proposal. Then again, maybe she wouldn't think about Clarence De Witt's marriage proposal. She didn't want to be Mrs. Clarence De Witt. She didn't want to be Mrs.
Anybody.
She liked her life just the way it was, thank you very much. “All right. This better be good and quick. Come in. Just so you know, Mr. O'Brien, I hate lawyers.”

“Until you need us,” O'Brien quipped. “Nice house,” he said, looking around as Olivia led him to the great room that ran the entire length of the house.

“Thank you. My dad did all the work, even this addition and the entire studio. He can do anything,” she said proudly. “This used to just be a two-bedroom ranch house, but Dad added two bathrooms, a third bedroom, and this great room. He remodeled the kitchen, too. He built the playhouse in the back for me when I was little.”

“Your father sounds like an extraordinary man, Ms. Lowell.”

“Oh, he is. He raised me when my mother died. If she'd lived, I can't imagine her doing a better job. Now, tell me why you're here and what I can do for you.”

The attorney removed his overcoat and laid it on the side of the sofa. He looked puzzled. “Did I hear you right just now? Did you say your mother died?”

“Yes, the day I was born. Thirty-four years ago. That's her picture on the mantel. It's the only one we have. Her name was Allison. Why are you here, Mr. O'Brien? Does this visit have something to do with my dad?”

“Not directly.”

While O'Brien walked over to the fireplace and studied the picture on the mantel, she eyed the briefcase on the sturdy pine coffee table. It looked old and well used, with scuff marks and gouges in the cowhide. She wondered how many lawsuits it represented. She waited, her gaze taking in the familiar room, while the lawyer, who had returned to stand by the coffee table, riffled through his case for whatever it was he was going to show her.

She loved this room, she really did. One wall was her own personal rogue's gallery, as her father called it. Every inch of space on the wall was covered with pictures of her from the day she was born. The massive stone fireplace, with a hearth so wide and deep she could have positioned a sofa on it, took up another wall. Her father had allowed her to carry the irregular fieldstones in from outside, making the building of it a joint effort. In the winter they made roaring fires, popped corn, and toasted marshmallows. They even grilled weenies on sticks on occasion. The green plants and fica trees were her contribution. She trimmed and watered them weekly. All were lush and green, thanks to the three skylights that graced the ceiling.

She'd had sleepovers in this very room when she was young. She wondered where all those old friends were these days.

Olivia was jolted from her thoughts when the lawyer cleared his throat. “What I have here in my hand is the last will and testament of your mother, whom you probably know as Allison Matthews Lowell, although she changed her name to Adrian Ames soon after divorcing your father. I can read it to you, or you can read it yourself.”

Olivia threw her hands in the air. “See? See? I knew this was a mistake. You have the wrong person. My mother died when I was born. I guess there's some other Olivia Lowell out there. I'm sorry you wasted your time, Mr. O' Brien.”