by Drea Stein
Maxwell Randall had many skills, chief among them making money, but fatherly instinct was not one of them. Nope, Caitlyn was here for something else entirely. She had a nose for money, and she was probably following it.
Noah looked at the desk. She had thought to find something there. Snuck into the house, sure no one would be here. And why not? Apparently his father hadn’t told anyone about what they had agreed to. They’d run out of time. Noah had thought he would have more with his father, but Maxwell’s accident had taken that from them. Noah took another swallow of his drink, watching Caitlyn as she faded into the darkness. Then he saw a light flip on at her house. She was home, safe. He found himself breathing easier and then cursed himself. What was he thinking? He had long ago tried to stop thinking and caring about her. And he’d failed then, just as he was failing now.
Chapter 3
Caitlyn had tossed and turned all night, her sleep light and broken. For the first time since she’d been back, every creak and groan of the house sounded loud, like the echo of a gunshot, taunting her. Memories had danced through her head, memories not of her grandfather this time, but of Noah. The first time he had kissed her on the beach – a light, feathery kiss as if he expected her to pull away, when she’d been planning, dreaming about it for weeks. Or the way he had surprised her by asking her to dance at the Fourth of July picnic. Or the time they had taken his father’s boat out for a sail.
Dawn came, and she gave up, making herself coffee first and then heading back upstairs to her old bedroom to get dressed. Even though she had been home for almost nine months, something kept her from moving into the master suite. Silly, but not even her mother, after all this time, had wanted to take over that room. It stayed there, vacant, little changed.
The house itself, at least its outer shell, hadn’t changed much either. Surprisingly, there hadn’t been much money left after her grandfather’s death. Sure, there had been his shares in the Queensbay Capital Group, but Maxwell had assumed those. At first the lawyer couldn’t explain it, how a man who was supposed to be so good at making money for other people had been spectacularly bad at keeping it for himself.
And then the full scope of the damage Lucas had left behind became apparent, and Caitlyn and her mother had been happy that the house, at least, had been spared. She and her mother had been paid off with modest trust funds. Caitlyn had used most of hers for her education, first at Wellesley, then at the London School of Economics, while her mother had managed to spend hers trying to maintain a “lifestyle.”
Now, rising home prices and over-development had made waterfront property of any kind incredibly desirable – and valuable. Her mother had hinted at this often, the desire to sell, since they were equal owners, but Caitlyn had simply said no. She needed to know that this house, with its quirky floor plan, oddly shaped rooms and truly fabulous wraparound porch would always be there for her. If she had to, she would buy her mother out, but it hadn’t come to that yet, and Caitlyn wanted to keep her money ready for other things.
Caitlyn shut her window, which looked out over the back lawn and the trees to the flat expanse of the water. The sun was up and bright, the sky blue, but a strong wind chopped the surface of the harbor into a shade of bottle green. Seagulls floated against the sky, holding steady, drifting and then tail diving to the surface.
It had been three days since she found Maxwell’s body, the initial shock turning into an efficient numbness. A nice uniformed officer had walked her back up the beach to her own stairs and into her home, telling her gently that she really should keep the door locked. The police hadn’t known what to make of Maxwell’s death then. Accident or not? She had sat in the study, chilled to the bone and trying to get warm, trying not to think on all the awful possibilities.
Then there had been phone calls from Sam Harris, and she could sense his cool disapproval over the phone, as if this were somehow her fault. But, ever dutiful, he had told her he would take care of things, and she was spared the ordeal of speaking directly to Noah, telling him that his father was dead. No, instead she’d just been caught by him while breaking and entering.
Caitlyn pulled on her dress, a dark charcoal gray sheath in silk. She struggled with the zipper in the back, remembering that, the last time she’d worn it, she’d had someone to help her. Fingers shaking slightly, she knew she didn’t want to go to the funeral, but her mother, safely distant in New Mexico, newly detoxed and in love, insisted.
“You must represent the family, Caitlyn,” Serena Montgomery had said. The conversation had happened yesterday, before Caitlyn had decided to search Maxwell’s desk. Serena was still smoking; Caitlyn could hear her sucking on her cigarette over the phone. There was the bark of a dog in the background, and Caitlyn tried to imagine her mother, tall, very thin, pale-skinned and dark-haired, out there in the desert, baking in the sun like one of her own clay pots. Caitlyn neglected to remind her to wear a hat.
It had been on the tip of Caitlyn’s tongue to ask her mother when she had ever cared about representing the family. But that was one of the topics they avoided, one of the many.
“I’ll send flowers,” her mother had said.
“But it’s Maxwell,” Caitlyn had answered, as if that said everything.
“And he doesn’t deserve flowers? After all, he’s given you a job. After everything.” Serena didn’t like thinking about all of that unpleasantness, as she termed it.
Her mother had refused to fly back. “Caitlyn, you know I want to sell the house, cut ties to Queensbay. It was your decision to come back. I won’t be pulled there.”
Not for Maxwell, not for any of you. Her mother didn’t say it, but it was there between them, the truth of their relationship. Her mother was moving on and wanted Caitlyn to as well.
“Yes, Mother,” Caitlyn had said and ended the conversation – because, really, what else could she say to that?
Caitlyn pulled on her jacket, smoothed the skirt of her dress, and went to her bureau, running a brush through her hair. Her fingers hovered over the jewelry box, passing lightly, as they always did, over the single, square-cut diamond ring she no longer wore, but that Michael had refused to take back, telling her that they belonged together. Caitlyn selected pearls, for both her ears and her neck. Thus armed, she went out the door and to her first funeral since her grandfather’s.
Chapter 4
Caitlyn took a seat in a pew about halfway up the church. It was already close to full, and several rows ahead of her, towards the front, she could see the other mourners from the office. Tommy Anderson, another associate of the firm, was there with his wife. And then there was Deborah, the office manager, and Caitlyn’s own assistant, Heather Malloy. There was not enough room for Caitlyn to squeeze in, and in any case, she preferred to be on her own, away from them, the better able to keep her emotions in check.
She had known Maxwell Randall all of her life. He had been her grandfather’s business partner and, after her grandfather’s death, the sole steward of the Queensbay Capital Group, the money-minders of the quietly rich. He had filled the role of both father and grandfather, and through the years, he had stayed in touch with her, swooping in on her in college and in London when on business – taking her to dinner, remembering her birthday, giving her career advice, perhaps even making sure she got her first job. And when she had called him, told him she was ready to come back, he had made room for her.
But in truth, though he’d always been kind to her, not many had truly loved Maxwell Randall, thought Caitlyn, looking over the somber suits and blank faces. Most were here because it was the right thing to do. He could be difficult to love, as his ex-wives had found out. But for her, he had been there. And still, all she could think about was their unfortunate dinner at the club.
There was a murmur in the church, and Caitlyn looked up. The name moved like a ripple through the crowd, and though she wanted to squeeze to the side, to run and hide, she was right there, in the open, visible. She watched as Noah walked, eyes
straight ahead, Sam Harris trailing behind him. He looked every inch the success he was. Gone were the t-shirt and jeans of yesterday, replaced by an expensive, fitted suit. His hair was combed neatly in place, and he looked like what he was – a successful tech entrepreneur who had just sold his first company and was working on his next.
Noah claimed he was taking an early retirement, but the tech and business blogs were frantic with speculation about what venture he’d turn to next. Already there were rumors he was looking for his next big thing, the next technological breakthrough. The gossip pages, though, were having a field day, detailing every party, purchase and happening that newly-minted billionaire Noah Randall attended.
His eye caught hers as he walked to the front of the church, and he gave a barely visible nod. He looked somber, but not as if he had continued to hit the whisky after she had left.
Noah was alone, except for Sam Harris, who was eagerly guiding him up the aisle. What, Caitlyn thought, he’d had no one else to bring with him? He was always being paired with someone, usually a model or actress. Caitlyn ground her teeth. She had promised herself that she would tune Noah out, but that had been harder and harder to do the more he showed up in print and online.
The funeral was appropriately grand. Not many tears were shed, but everyone extolled Maxwell’s virtues as a businessman, a philanthropist and a pillar of the community. No one spoke about family. No one mentioned his recent erratic behavior on the golf course, at the yacht club or at the historical society’s auction.
Caitlyn waited until most of the people had left and then, trailing behind the crowd, she walked down the aisle, her feet echoing quietly. It was cowardly, but she wished to avoid another face-to-face meeting with Noah, especially under these circumstances. No doubt they would have something to say to each other soon enough, and she could see the strain was getting to him, the awful truth. He looked stretched and tense, ready to snap, she thought.
Sam Harris was waiting for her at the end of the aisle.
“Caitlyn.”
“Sam,” she said, looking at her boss with wary eyes, trying to suppress the feeling of distaste than ran through her every time Sam came near.
“I’m glad you’re here. Are you going back to the house?” he asked, the meaning clear.
Caitlyn shook her head. She had paid her respects to Maxwell, and that was enough, but Sam took her arm and pulled her off to the side so they were standing in a patch of light made scarlet by a stained glass window.
“I wish you would.” His grip tightened around her arm, and though she made a point of staring at his hand, his viselike crush didn’t relent.
“As a representative of the Queensbay Capital, if for no other reason. Family is very important to this firm, and you’re a Montgomery.” His voice was silky, but there was something in his eyes that told her there was no room for argument on this.
“Oh, and today we want to remind people of that fact?” She knew she sounded bitter. Sam had been against bringing her back from the beginning. But Maxwell had taken her side against him, and here she was. Still, she knew to some she was a painful reminder.
Sam smiled thinly. “That’s old history, Caitlyn, and people like to see the new generation in action.” His gaze turned towards Noah, and Caitlyn could guess the gist of his thinking. Side by side, the members of the next generation of the firm. Given the suddenness of Maxwell’s death, it was just about the best thing Sam could get to calm clients who were nervous about their money.
“You know how good you are with the clients. I am sure Maxwell would have wanted it.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
She knew there was a threat there. Maxwell had been more than happy to throw her name about, telling clients, “This is Caitlyn Montgomery, Lucas Montgomery’s granddaughter, but she’s like a daughter to me.”
He said it without any self-consciousness, avoiding the fact that he had a son of his own to whom he refused to speak, and who refused to speak to him.
Still, Maxwell has always neatly sidestepped the question of the future, even as he made noises about retirement, travelling more. Maxwell had known what she wanted. But all bets were off now.
And Sam ran the firm, at least until Maxwell’s will could be sorted out, and the clients that were here today – and there were plenty of them – were looking for assurances, assurances that everything would continue as before, that Maxwell had left behind him a legacy intact.
Sam was pulling rank. If she didn’t play nice today, there would be hell to pay tomorrow. Caitlyn took a deep breath and forced herself to think rationally. Her plan did not involve burning any bridges.
All of this went through Caitlyn’s mind as Sam looked at her.
She nodded, acknowledging that he had won.
“I’ll go.”
Chapter 5
Caitlyn went up the front steps this time, getting an eyeful of the Randall house. It was a monstrosity with a water view. Once Lydia Randall, his first wife and Noah’s mother, had divorced Maxwell, all restraint had fallen away. Maxwell had many passions – unfortunately, none of them matched. Colors had not mattered to the man at all; neither had the differences between marble, tile and linoleum. He lived at the whim of any decorator who sensed a commission but, typically, he lost interest in their efforts and stopped paying. Even the outside was a mess, a mix of shingles, clapboards and fieldstones, the trim two different shades of blue. Inside, modern sculpture vied with sepia-tinted photographs. It was a grand house, in its oddity, the rooms spacious, filled now with dark-suited mourners and white-coated caterers.
The desire to leave was so strong Caitlyn almost escaped before Sam took a hold of her and propelled her into the living room.
“There are some people I want you to meet,” he said, and introduced her to a group of men.
Their faces were uniformly bland, but their stances betrayed their impatience, as if they too would rather be anywhere but here. They perked up when they heard her name, sizing her up, trying to match an image with the name, and Caitlyn, fighting her discomfort, smiled to see if she could disarm them.
“It’s wonderful to have the next generation join us. We’re preparing for the future,” Sam said, his arm curving protectively around her. She resisted the urge to shake it off. Ever since Michael, she had hated to be touched with this level of familiarity and possessiveness.
“Where were you before you joined the firm?” one of them asked, his eyes slightly lecherous behind thick glasses.
“I was with Capital Trust in London.”
All of them nodded, but she could tell the name meant nothing to them. It had been a small firm, so she wasn’t surprised.
“And what are you doing now, for the firm?” the one with the mustache asked her.
“Primarily client relations, but I was working with Maxwell on investment strategy.” She wanted them to know she was good for more than a few lunches and free tickets to the hot new show in town.
“Well, they were the best, Lucas and Max.” All of them raised their glasses in a toast, and Sam maneuvered her away.
“There are a few other people I would like you to meet, if you don’t mind. Just offer them some reassurance, remind them that you have experience and you’re looking forward to a long future with the firm.” His voice was low.
“What about Noah?” So far Sam hadn’t said a word about him. Noah had been acting more like a playboy than a businessman lately, and Sam was a bit old-fashioned, not quite getting technology companies and some of their sky-high valuations.
Sam looked at her and then scanned the room. Caitlyn followed his glance and saw Noah alone in a corner, his face dark, eyeing everyone with a wary expression. There was a glass in his hand, but he didn’t seem to be drinking much, just scanning the crowd.
“What about him?”
“Well, if you want to make such a big deal about me, then people will start to ask about him. After all, he’s the celebrity.”
“Noah Randall is n
ot a member of the firm. And he’s known for spending his money, not saving it. We’ll have to let Noah answer those questions on his own, won’t we? Just tell people you don’t know what his plans are.”
Which was the truth. None of them knew how big a part Noah would play in their future. Caitlyn felt her body tighten. Her future could be in his hands; her position at Queensbay Capital was determined by whoever was the boss – which had been Maxwell, was now Sam, and tomorrow, who knew?
Caitlyn looked at Sam, whose poker face wasn’t nearly as good as he thought it was. She saw what he was thinking – that Noah wasn’t going to inherit the firm. In Sam’s mind, there was no way that Maxwell would make such a decision, to leave a company on whom more than a few people relied, in the hands of someone he hadn’t spoken to in ten years. No way would he pass over his faithful right-hand man for some newly-minted paper billionaire, someone who had gotten lucky at best and was an irresponsible playboy at worst.
“I see. Thank you, Sam.” Caitlyn smiled briefly and moved away, thinking that in all of the years Sam Harris had worked for Maxwell Randall, he had failed to see the fundamental foundation of the man. For Maxwell, blood really was thicker than water.
<<>>
Caitlyn looked down at the little woman in front of her. She had to lean down and close in to hear what the woman was saying, since she refused to speak louder than a whisper.
“I remember your grandfather.”
Caitlyn smiled, preparing herself. Such a statement did not always mean what was coming next was a good thing.
“He was a good man,” she said, the implication being that Maxwell had not been.
Caitlyn figured the woman – Mrs. Smith, Sullivan, or something like that – was close to eighty. She looked scattered and smelled like mothballs and lavender.
