To Have Vs. To Hold

by MJ Rodgers

  “I don’t think we need do this inside a stuffy office, if it’s all the same to you. Across the street is a small park with a bench beneath an obliging fir tree. It’s such a lovely day. Why don’t we take advantage of it?”

  Adam had never attended to business on a park bench. Clearly this attorney was used to practicing a more informal type of law. But as he thought it over, he could see no logical reason to reject Whitney’s suggestion.

  He nodded his agreement, and they made their way out of the cemetery grounds. Adam automatically slowed his normally quick pace, but soon resumed it when Whitney proved to possess a long, easy stride, fully equal to his own.

  She marched to the edge of the sidewalk and leaned over the curb, looking right and left at the streaming traffic. She clearly was getting ready to dash across to the other side as soon as a space opened up.

  Adam firmly took her arm and steered her down the sidewalk toward the crosswalk.

  She flashed him a surprised look. “It’s two blocks away.”

  “Which is still a lot closer than the emergency room.”

  “We would have made it.”

  “We wouldn’t have tried.”

  “You don’t jaywalk?”

  “It’s against the law.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “On the contrary, Ms. West. I’m perfectly serious.”

  He could feel her staring at his profile as he whisked her down the sidewalk. His hand grasped the lean muscles in her slim arm beneath the thin fabric of her dark suit. It was a lawyer’s suit, loose, skirt to the knee, acceptably shapeless.

  But his male eye had already assessed the frame beneath it as feminine and far from shapeless. He also noticed she was wearing a light fragrance that smelled fresh and sweet like this summer day.

  “I do believe you are serious,” she said after a moment. “You never do anything against the law, do you?”

  “That’s a strange question coming from an attorney.”

  “Even attorneys—correction, particularly attorneys—inch a few miles over the speed limit, take that questionable deduction on their income tax and tell Aunt Agnes that her blue hair looks just fine.”

  “I don’t remember a law on the books prohibiting a lie to Aunt Agnes.”

  “No, but I bet you wouldn’t even do that. Would you?”

  “Since I don’t have an Aunt Agnes, the question is moot.”

  “But the point it illustrates isn’t. Confess, Adam Justice. Even if you had an Aunt Agnes, you wouldn’t tell her a white lie, not even to make her feel good—isn’t that right?”

  Whitney’s question annoyed Adam. Being honest was a commendable trait, not a despicable one simply because such honesty might fail to bring happiness to a nonexistent aunt with blue hair.

  “That’s a very fast psychological assessment for someone you’ve just met, Ms. West. Did you train as a therapist, as well as a lawyer?”

  She laughed. Her laugh was deeply mellow and even warmer than her smile.

  “I’m impressed that you managed to ask that with perfect equability, Mr. Justice. No sarcastic inflection in your tone. No evidence at all that you’re annoyed at my observation. How is it you manage to maintain such politeness in the face of such provocation?”

  She was asking another one of those annoying—and to her, obviously amusing—personal questions. He hadn’t known her five minutes and she already had him noticing that she was attractive, interesting, self-confident and possessed a natural ability to irritate him. This woman could prove to be trouble.

  “No response to that question, Mr. Justice? No, of course not. That would be descending to my level of impropriety, and we can’t have that. You remember, of course, that I can walk without assistance?”

  Adam saw the slightly amused look on her face and realized he was still holding on to her arm. He quickly released it.

  The sun’s rays, which had failed to penetrate earlier, suddenly seemed to be working overtime to make him feel warm. He was looking forward to the shade of that tree.

  Fortunately they had reached the crosswalk and Adam could legitimately divert his attention to the reluctantly slowing traffic. Once on the other side, he fully intended to take control of this conversation by steering it to the business at hand and keeping it there. No more of this sidetracking into hypothetical aunts with blue hair and other annoying personal questions.

  But when they had crossed the street, it was Whitney who spoke up first. “Now I know what your wife meant when she said what she did about you.”

  It was one of those maddeningly suggestive comments that was obviously meant to hook someone into asking for elaboration. Adam had learned long ago to ignore all such obvious ploys.

  “You don’t want to know?” Whitney prodded.

  “Ms. West, whatever my inclination in the matter, I doubt it will be sufficient to prohibit you from indulging in the pleasure you are so obviously anticipating from the sharing of such information,” Adam said in his most polite tone.

  Whitney’s laugh was even heartier this time. “That’s the most elaborate and evasive response I’ve ever received. What’s more, I have no idea if it was a yes or a no. Do you talk like this all the time?”

  “Are you trying to annoy me, Ms. West?”

  “So it is possible. Anyway, I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. Your wife said your highly developed sense of right prohibited you from ever doing any wrong. I confess I’ve been rather interested in meeting the man behind that description.”

  They stopped in front of the park bench. She was openly staring at him—yet there was nothing flirtatious about her scrutiny.

  Adam had never had a woman look at him as Whitney was looking at him, as if she was curious to see if he did indeed represent a new species on the planet. It disturbed him in a way that he couldn’t quite define. He felt as though she had just issued him some kind of unspoken challenge, although what exactly it was, he had no idea.

  This woman was trouble, all right.

  He waited for her to sit down and then established a socially acceptable distance between them before taking his seat. But when he slit open the manila envelope and pulled out the contents, she scooted right next to him and leaned over his shoulder to get a closer look.

  Adam suddenly found himself fully aware of her thigh casually pressed against his, of the silky texture and sweet smell of her hair. For a very long moment his body rejoiced in the very unexpected, interesting stimuli sent its way.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to read those documents if they were right side up?” she asked.

  His eyes drew to her face. She had a light spray of amused golden lights in those brandy eyes that said she was totally oblivious to what she was doing to him.

  This woman was definitely crowding him in more ways than one. For just a second he indulged himself with some tempting visions of what she would do if he decided to forget the fact that he was a gentleman and crowd back.

  The mental picture of her scurrying off this bench brought about an internal smile. But the other picture—the one of her remaining and continuing to pursue some purposeful crowding of her own—started his pulse racing most alarmingly.

  Adam forcibly redirected his attention to the documents in his hands as he turned them right side up.

  The first item was a letter addressed to him in Patrice’s handwriting. It was dated seven and a half years previously. It caught his complete attention.

  Dear Adam,

  Enclosed you will find a copy of my will and birth certificate. The originals of both documents are in a safe-deposit box at the Washington Federal Savings on Pike and Fifth in Seattle. The key to the box is inside this envelope I have left with Whitney West. Please take her to the bank with you when you open the safe-deposit box. She will be your witness as to what you find.

  The information in these documents will come as a surprise. I hoped I might be able to tell you someday, but the fact that you are reading this letter means I neve
r found the courage. I didn’t think I would.

  You will have to forgive me, Adam.

  I’ve made you the executor of my estate. You are the only one I trust to carry out my wishes. I am relying on you to see that what I have stipulated goes to my named beneficiaries. They are the ones who deserve it. Represent their rights as you represent mine. I know your honor and expertise will prevail.

  Patrice.

  Adam refused to deal with the confusion that stirred deep within him as he read Patrice’s words. He put the cover letter aside and studied the document directly behind it.

  When he realized he held the birth certificate of Patrice Dulcinea Feldon, born August 2, 1964, he began to understand what Patrice meant in her letter when she wrote about surprises…and forgiveness.

  Chapter Three

  Whitney saw no change in Adam’s expression as he read the letter from Patrice. But when he glanced at her birth certificate, Whitney felt his thigh muscles instantly flexing against her own.

  “What is it?” she asked, ignoring the wave of warmth that had suddenly invaded her body and instead concentrating on the far more important business of finding out what had caused his response.

  He said nothing for a moment, his face retaining its impassive mask. When he finally spoke, it was with perfect control, his deep voice holding that deliciously cultured cadence that reminded Whitney of those legendary men in British Sterling ads.

  “This is not the birth certificate of the woman I married.”

  Whitney felt the jolt of his words, wondering if she could have possibly heard him right. “Are you saying she married you using a name other than Patrice Feldon?”

  “I knew her as Patrice Anne Waring. And her birth date was February 4, 1964—not August 2, 1964.”

  “Patrice Waring?” Whitney repeated, trying out the unfamiliar name on her lips. “But surely her driver’s license would have shown her real name.”

  “Her driver’s license was in the name of Patrice Waring,” Adam said. “After we were married, I was with her when she turned it in and had her last name changed to Justice.”

  Whitney reached into her shoulder bag and brought out a small pad and a pen. She quickly jotted down the name of Patrice Anne Waring and the birth date of February 4,1964.

  “She was living under an assumed name,” Whitney said as she clicked her ballpoint closed, the words exhaled on a long note of disbelief. “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  His voice was perfectly calm. Whitney wondered what he was thinking and feeling. It occurred to her that Patrice had certainly had a lot of gall to appoint Adam her executor when she’d married him under a false name and then deserted him for another man.

  Then Whitney reminded herself that at the time these documents had been given to her, Patrice still loved her husband and the other man had not even been in the picture. No doubt Patrice would have changed the executorship if she had lived.

  If she had lived. It was still hard for Whitney to accept that Patrice was dead. She remembered so clearly how full of life Patrice had been that day, seven and a half years before, when she had breezed into Whitney’s office.

  “Just a little something I want you to take care of,” Patrice had said. She had mentioned nothing about going by the name of Waring—or marrying Adam Justice under it.

  “Wait a minute,” Whitney said excitedly. “I just realized something. If she used a false name, this means that you two were never legally married!”

  “Yes,” Adam replied simply.

  Whitney watched his expression for any change. There was none. He remained so seemingly unaffected. How did he do it? He had just learned that the woman he’d married was…well, wasn’t the woman he’d married. And there he sat. Undaunted. Unmoved. Whitney fell back against the park bench. Well, he might be unaffected, but she was feeling absolutely stunned.

  What possible reason could there be for Patrice Feldon to take an assumed name and then presume to marry someone under it? And how could the man she did it to be so calm and collected when he learned about it?

  She wrote in “Justice” next to the name Patrice Waring on her pad. Only she inadvertently made a space in the middle of the word. When she reread what she wrote, she realized it spelled two words: “Just ice.” Pretty accurate description of the man actually.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Whitney watched Adam put the birth certificate aside and begin to read “Last Will and Testament of Patrice Feldon,” the third and final document in the envelope.

  Whitney leaned over Adam’s shoulder once again to get a closer look. The introductory paragraph addressed the typical “sound mind” and “not acting under duress” statements. Then began the articles:

  Article I

  I hereby declare that I am not married and have no children, although I have also gone by the name of Patrice Anne Waring Justice.

  Article II

  I hereby give, devise and bequeath all the property which I may own at the time of my death, real or personal, tangible or intangible, wherever situated, to be divided as follows:

  1. One-third to Beatrice Lynn and Danford Thomas D’Amico of Treetime Place, Tacoma, Washington.

  2. One-third to doctors Jacob and Esther Rubin of Seattle, Washington.

  3. One-third to Huntley and Brinkley Carmichael of Overton, Nevada.

  Whitney jotted the names of the beneficiaries onto her pad. “Do you know who these people are?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “You’ve never even heard of them?”

  “That’s correct, Ms. West.”

  “What do you think of the will?”

  “I believe Patrice copied it from a sample will I use in my practice. The wording is identical, except for her specific bequests. She’s followed my checklist. She had the will witnessed by two bank tellers and notarized by a third. She also included a self-proving affidavit for the witnesses.”

  “It’s in order, then. When will you take it to probate court?”

  “I’m not filing it with the court.”

  “But you just said it was valid. Why—?”

  “Patrice didn’t have any money.”

  “Well then, maybe you can tell me why she prepared a will.”

  “She might have wanted the will in place for the time when she would have money. It’s a prudent move.”

  That explanation might be acceptable to Adam Justice’s prudent mind, but it didn’t sit right with Whitney’s pragmatic one—particularly not in light of what she remembered Patrice Feldon having said that day in her office.

  “I put aside a little something before marrying Adam. I’d like it to go to the right people in case anything were to happen to me. Not that anything will, of course Being prepared for the worst always prevents it from happening, right?”

  Unfortunately, in this instance Patrice had been wrong.

  Whitney had no intention of sharing Patrice’s “little something” comment with Adam, however. She wanted to know what kind of man he was first. And depending on what she learned, she realized she might never tell him everything she knew.

  “Are you certain she had no money?” Whitney prodded.

  “When I met her, she was attending classes at UW and working as a cashier in a clothing store. After we mar—got together, she continued attending school. She was still several years away from graduation when she…left.”

  Whitney had been trying to penetrate Adam Justice’s armor to learn how he felt about the woman he had called his wife. But his ultraformal manner and deeply calm and even voice gave nothing away.

  He was a strikingly handsome man with that black hair and those light blue eyes set in clean, strong, classic features. Everything about him—from his custom-fit dark blue suit to his wonderfully deep, cultured voice—marked a man of distinction, intellect and influence.

  An invulnerable man. An impassive man. A cold man.

  She had come prepared to find the fault that had driven his wife into the arms of anot
her man. She was certain she had found that fault. Her mother had put it best when she said, “A man can possess everything in material possessions the world has to offer, Whitney, but if he doesn’t possess a loving and loyal heart, he has nothing of value to offer you.”

  “Patrice must have told you something about her past,” Whitney said.

  Adam assessed Whitney for a long moment with those piercingly cold blue eyes that seemed to be iced over in a perpetual winter. She had no doubt that such a focused look from him would probably have half the female population swooning at his feet and the other half scurrying away in fear. She figured the half that ran had the right idea.

  “She said she was an orphan who had been raised in foster homes.”

  “Well, since Washington State does not recognize a common-law marriage, you don’t owe her estate any community property,” Whitney said. “If she really didn’t have any money of her own, it looks like these beneficiaries are out of luck.”

  “What the state does or doesn’t recognize has no bearing on my actions, Ms. West.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The fact that Patrice lied to me about who she was does not invalidate the pledge I made eight and a half years ago. I will see to it that those she has designated as her beneficiaries receive half of the money I earned while Patrice and I were…together.”

  “Really? You mean that?”

  “I don’t say things I don’t mean, Ms. West.”

  She wondered if that were true. If Adam Justice really was intending to give those beneficiaries money, he was a most forgiving and unusual man.

  She watched him slip the safe-deposit-box key out of the envelope and return the documents to it. He had long, lean, capable-looking hands. She remembered the feel of iron strength in the one that had circled her arm.

  Whitney suddenly had the compelling impression that whatever those hands held, they would hold tightly and would only release when they were ready. That observation caused a vague disquiet in her. What had happened seven years before, when he found his wife was leaving him for another man?