Inheritance (26 page)

"Tea? Daijeeling. Dark, soothing, good for a soul in turmoil."

A laugh escaped Laura's composed lips. **That sounds perfect."

They sat in armchairs in a lamplit comer of the great hall, drinking tea and talking late into the night. The room had a soaring pitched ceiling, walls of knotless pine paneling framing two massive stone fireplaces at each end of the room, a daric plank floor strewn with animal skins, and groupings of buffalo plaid couches and armchairs. Fur throw pillows, willow-twig rocking chairs, pewter lamps, and ceramic vases with arrangements of leafless branches of mountain ash still holding their red-orange berries, gave color aiKi warmth to the rustic comfort of the room. It was, after all, completely different ftt)m the aiiy wicker and chintz of the Salinger homes at the Cape, and the velvets and brocades of Owen's house oo Beacon Hill. It was a place where one could forget the past.

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Judith Michael

"We didn't do all the furnishing," Kelly said, taking one of the amaretto cookies the chef had served with their tea. "Most of it was left here by the oil baron who built it and then sold it in the middle of an acrimonious divorce. Trouble was, he and his wife hadn't been speaking for a long time, so theyM let the place deteriorate and there was an awful lot for us to do. Are you going to miss woricing at the Salinger?"

"ru miss the job. I liked it."

"I have a couple you could handle whenever you're ready to work again."

"Do you really? I was hoping you might have something ril do anything, KeUy, any job you have."

Kelly smiled. "Whatever they are?"

"I need work. So does Clay. We have to start somewhere."

"How about assistant manager of Damton's?"

"Assistant manager?" Laura repeated. "But you must have one. You couldn't run the place without one."

*True. But you see, you have arrived in the midst of a crisis." Kelly held her cup with both hands and rested her feet on the edge of the glass-topped coffee table supported on four pine logs. "Last week my short-fused husband fired the assistant manager and two maintenance men for soliciting tips from i guests—which, of course, isn't a hell of a long way from blackmail, so I agree with his decision, it's the timing that bothers me. End of August, almost Labor Day, just about the busiest time of the year, and we have close to a fidl house. We're desperate for help. You'd be doing us a favor."

"I can't believe it; it's so perfect . . . And you want Clay to be a chauffeur? He could do other things; he was a desk clerk at a hotel in Philadelphia and he'll learn anything you tell him."

"First we need a chauffeur. If he passes John's driving test, he's got the job. After that we'll find other things for him to do. Why not? My friend, you are manna firom heaven. First you send us the countess and now you bring us yourself. Except, you know we only have a hundred rooms, Laura, a third of what you had at the Salinger. You might be boied."

"I won't be bored." Laura hesitated. *Theie is one other thing. Ws'U have to be in Boston now and then for . . . business . . . some things we didn't get to finish. If that

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makes too much trouble for you, maybe I ought to take a job that isn't so important.**

"How long will you be away?*'

"I don*t know. We'd make it as short as possible."

"Well, we'll work it out. Is this business going to go on very long?"

"It may take a year.**

Kelly gave a small grunt. "Sounds like lawyers; nobody else drags things out that long. Let me know ahead of time when you*ll be going."

"Thank you, Kelly.**

It was almost three months before they went back for pretrial depositions, just before Thanksgiving. They drove the opposite direction, through the Green Mountains, white and pristine this time beneath drifts of snow that had not yet turned to ice, then through the meadows and forests of New Hampshire and into Massachusetts. With each mile the scenes grew more familiar, and by the time they arrived in Boston and parked near the glass and steel building in the financial district where Carver Cheyne had his office, Laura was tense with holding herself in, trying to ignore the waves of memory and desire that swept through her.

Once in Cheyne*s office it was easier: his window blinds were drawn, fluorescent lights glared, the furniture was dull brown. With Ansel Rollins and a court stenographer sitting beside her, and Clay waiting his turn in the reception room, she answered Cheyne*s questions in a level voice, her face betraying no emotion, going over the same story she had told Rollins, in exactly the same way. But Cheyne was not Rollins: not sympathetic, not gently leading her step by step through her story. He was cold and deliberate, returning again and again to her relationship with Owen, asking how she began working in his library, how often they went for walks, how many meals they ate together, how often they were alone instead of with otiier members of the family, how many times she wrote personal letters for him that no one else knew about, how many of his business affairs she handled alone so that he had to turn to her and no one else when he wanted to refer to them.

"He didn't have to turn to me,** said Laura angrily. "He wanted to. We woriced together and he trusted me.**

Judith Michael

**Of course," Cheyne said smoothly. 'Tell me again, would you, why he fired his secretary."

"He didn't fire her. I told you, she woiiced for the executive offices in the Boston Salinger, and now that I was with him he didn't need to take her from her other woiic anymore."

"Now that you were with him. Was it your suggestion that he fire his secretary and use you instead?"

"He didn't fire his secretary!"

It went on and on, but Laura and Rollins knew it could have I been worse: Cheyne could have brought up her arrest and conviction in New York. "It's a good sign that they didn't," Rollins said as they left Cheyne's office after Clay had gone through the same procedure as Laura. "It's obvious they're convinced it would do no good to bring it up in court; I'd be ready for them, and I'm sure the judge would not allow it; it has no bearing on this case."

"How sure?" Clay demanded.

"Sure enough," Rollins said shortly. "What happened today showed us what they have. You may have thought the questions were difficult, but they were what I expected. The whole purpose of depositions is to get information. And of course to make sure no one springs any surprises at the trial."

*Then why bother to have a trial?" Clay asked, recalling dramatic trial scenes in films and on television.

"So a jury can decide who is telling the truth," Rollins said dryly. "You were the one who told me that was your right."

Clay mumbled something and Laura asked, "We'U know everytiiing everyone is going to say before the trial begins?"

"Unless something is discovered at the last minute, or witnesses change their stories."

A flash of fear went through her. "Why would they?"

"They might remember something they'd forgotten or be asked a question one of the lawyers didn't ask at the deposition. It doesn't happen often." He led them to the door. "I'll call you soon."

He called in December. Laura was in Kelly's office, and she went into her small one adjoining it and closed the door to talk to him. He had conducted his depositions in his office, questioning the Salingers, the doctor and nurses, and Parkinson. "Nothing startling," he concluded when he had related

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them to her. "But that gives me concern. At the moment they have a weak case, and I would expect Carver to have more than we've seen. He's very confident."

"You mean we should be worried."

"I mean we should be alert. You and I should meet several more times before the trial. We'll begin in two weeks; can you get here?"

"Of course."

"Good. Make sure your story is clear."

"It is clear, since it's the truth," Laura said coldly. "Didn't the doctor and nurses say everything was normal?"

"As I told you, they said as far as they could tell Mr. Salinger was weak, and frustrated by his limitations, but not unduly agitated. That was the most definitive they would get. Our best hope is Parkinson: he's a fine lawyer and he was absolutely straightforward in answering my questions. He wouldn't have prepared that codicil or allowed Mr. Salinger to sign it if he thought something was amiss; no reputable lawyer would. As long as he says Mr. Salinger knew what he wanted, I think we're in excellent shape."

"Is that all?" Laura asked after a moment. "Didn't . . . anyone else give a deposition?"

"You're thinking of Paul Janssen. No. I understand fix)m Carver that he doesn't want to testify. No one wants a reluctant witness—you never know what you'll get—so at least for now he won't be called."

Laura was silent. She didn't know what Paul was thinking. I could write to him, she thought; but she didn't know what she could say. Are you reluctant because you still love me? But if you do, why not tell the jury I would never rob the family or take anything from Owen or try to make him act against his will? Or is it that you still believe I'm guilty of those things and you don't want to have anything to do with me, for good or ill?

She didn't want to think about it. Whether they won or lost in court, Paul was gone; he was making a new life, as she was. No court case would change that.

She concentrated on woric, learning the business of running a resort. She had written to Ben, telling him where they were. *Things didn't work out at the Salingers'," she wrote. She

Judith Michael

couldn't tell him about Owen's will and how they'd been forced out; it would only prove to him that he'd been right about the Salingers from the first, when he told her they didn't care about her and never would. So she sent him her new address, and a short note, and that was all. And then, with all the others, she pushed Ben out of her thoughts and buried herself in the large problems and small details of the resort.

She and Kelly had divided the domestic and business affairs, while John handled transportation, sports, and the physical plant. They all worked in harmony, especially as Laura took on more responsibilities. From her first tentative days at the job she had, over the months, grown more sure of herself. Everything she had learned with Jules LeClair about the whims and demands of guests, she used at Damton's. She used everything she had learned from Owen about the organization of hotels and priorities of management; she used the case studies she had done at the university; she used everything KeUy taught her about the peculiarities of a resort. She worked all day and late into every night, studying the way Damton's functioned, and how it might toction better, and when Kelly or John urged her to relax, she thanked them but went back to woik. If she won at the trial, she could relax. If she didn't, she had to earn a living while she tried to figure out a way to get back some of what was rightfully hers.

After Christmas the lodge suddenly was quiet, and the island seemed deserted. *'We ought to close down and go to Florida," John said.

*Too much woik to do," Kelly responded.

It was an old argument, and it flared and faded as the weeks passed and they made plans for the summer. The three of them coordinated the different staffs that woriced on the island, made lists of equipment, and wrote schedules for tennis, horseback riding, swinmiing and aerobic classes, speed- and sailboat cruises on the lake, golf on their eighteen-hole course in Jay's Landing, card games, and first-run movies shown at night. And, since people judge a place largely on food, they spent extra time on the dining room and bar menus for more than two hundred guests, depending on how many families were at the resort at any one time.

"It's expensive so we don't get too many kids," John said

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as he and Laura walked back firom inspecting the marina one morning in January. "I don't want them—too much trouble, and the doc on the mainland on call more often—but Kelly thinks we might fill more rooms as a family resort. Do you have an opinion on that?"

Laura frowned slighdy. "I don't understand why it can't be a family resort and very expensive, too. Don't wealthy people take vacations with their cluldren?"

He stopped walking and looked at her, a giant of a man with a ruddy face, high forehead, and a heavy black beard. "Possibly."

"Maybe you ought to make Damton's so expensive wealthy parents will think it's too good to pass up. Then they could stop feeling guilty about leaving their chUdren with a nanny while they go off to play."

"You think they feel guilty?"

"I have no idea. I would. I'd love to have a place to bring my children and know we could do separate things and still share a good time."

He smiled. "You should have children; you'd be a good mother."

Laura flushed. "We're talking about Damton's."

"Okay," he said. "Damton's with rich little boys and girls romping in the fields. I like it. You impress me, Laura; I like a woman who thinks we can have it all." They began walking again and he shot a glance at her. "What about you? When are you going to have it all, instead of working every night?"

"I'm doing what I want to do," she said. "I might ask you the same question. When was the last time you and Kelly had a night out on the mainland?"

"She doesn't want it. All she thinks about is this danm resort, making it pay, making it bigger . . .anyway, I was talking about you. What's the problem that you don't go any-where or— "

"I said I'm doing what I want!"

"Hey," he said, stepping back and putting up his hands in nKx;k fear. "Don't bite. Miss Fairchild, you've got a scared fella here—"

"Oh, fuck it, J(An, grow up." Abruptly she heard Rosa's «^oice: Ladies don't swear, my young miss. Or lose their

Judith Michael

temper, as I've told you many a time. "Fm sorry," she murmured, to Rosa or John, she wasn't sure which.

Clay liked John; the two of them spent hours with Dam-ton's fleet of vintage cars after John had Clay drive him around the island and pronounced him an excellent driver. From then on, when he wasn't on call to fill in as a desk clerk. Clay's passion was cars, second only to the young women who staffed the resort, especially a tennis instructor named Myma, long-legged and experienced, the way he liked them.