What You Wish For

by Fern Michaels

  She ran like the hounds of hell were on her heels.

  “Whoa, little lady. What’s wrong?” the giant with the Lulu’s Bait Shack cap asked as he stiff-armed her in the middle of the parking lot.

  “Listen, can I ride with you? Where are you going? I have to . . . I have . . . Oh, God, here he comes!”

  “I knew that dandy was trouble. Sure you can ride with me. I’m going to Raleigh, North Carolina. How far do you want to go?”

  “Just to the nearest airport. I’ll be glad to pay you.”

  “You stay right here with me. I have to pay for my gas. That’s my rig over there. I can take you right to Reagan National Airport. Will that help you?”

  “You just saved my life. I don’t even know your name. Mine is Helen Stanley.”

  “Most folks call me Big John. My wife calls me honey, and my kids call me daddy.”

  “How about if I just call you John?”

  “Sounds good. Will that pipsqueak follow us?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we’ll have to do something about that. What kind of car is he driving?”

  Helen relaxed. She knew she was in good hands.

  When they got into the eighteen-wheeler, John got on his CB radio, put out a call to any truckers in the vicinity, and told them, “Here’s what I want you to do....”

  With no baggage to claim, Helen walked past business travelers from the early-morning flight in search of the exit, where she could pick up a cab. She had no hope that Arthur King or Gerald Davis would be there to meet her, even though she’d called from the plane. When she heard her name called, she turned, a look of fear on her face. She relaxed a moment later when she stared at the objects of her thoughts.

  “Thank God you’re all right, young lady. Izzie would never forgive us if something happened to you,” Gerald Davis said. At Helen’s frown, he explained, “From childhood, I called her Izzie. Arthur here called her Izz. I thought you would know who I was referring to.”

  “Oh. I did. My thinking hasn’t been too clear of late.”

  “Where would you like us to take you?”

  “The nearest hotel or motel. I don’t have much money left since I bought my ticket at the last moment. Something cheap until I can figure out what to do.”

  “Would you like to go to Izzie’s ranch? It’s yours now. I know you said you didn’t want any part of it, but it would solve your immediate problem. In addition, we need to talk and not be interrupted. If you don’t like it there, you can leave. There are several cars at your disposal. Think of it as a plan or an immediate solution,” the vet said.

  Helen nodded. “Okay, but just for now. Mr. King, have you had any luck untangling my legal status? Am I still dead?”

  “We have in our possession a copy of your birth certificate. It has a raised seal, so that’s one item off our list. The death certificate is proving to be a little dicey. According to the records you were cremated and then laid to rest in a mausoleum. That’s also a little dicey. What Izz did was claim a homeless person from the morgue and said she was you. Yes, it was wrong of her to do that. In her zeal to protect you, she simply didn’t think straight. She considered it a means to an end. She claimed a body no one wanted, cremated it, and then gave it a proper burial. She did pay attention to you when you said your husband would eventually find you no matter what was done. She didn’t want that to happen. We’re going to correct the mistake. Doctors and morticians are not the easiest people to deal with when their reputations are at stake, and that’s as it should be, too. Your mother could be a big help to us, but she flat out refused to help. As far as she’s concerned, you’re dead. All she would talk about was the insurance money. It will be up to you, Helen, to enlist her aid.”

  “My mother?”

  They were at the car now. Arthur King held the door for her.

  “My mother?” Helen said stubbornly.

  “She thinks you’re dead, too. Isabel said you had a $25,000 life-insurance policy and she was given the money. She . . . ah ... she didn’t ask any questions.”

  A knot formed in Helen’s throat. “Did she . . . did she . . . cry?”

  “Perhaps she cried in private. Grief is a private emotion sometimes, Helen.”

  “Does she still live in the trailer park?”

  “No. She moved to an apartment complex,” Arthur said.

  “I want to go there. Now. Do you know where it is?”

  “More or less.”

  “Then take me there,” Helen said. “Please,” she added.

  “Are you sure you want to do this right now, Helen?” Gerald Davis asked, his voice full of concern.

  “I’m sure.”

  “How is Mr. Tolliver, Helen? He’s been communicating with us, but we haven’t heard from him in a few days.”

  “The last time I saw him he was stuck in a snowbank along I-95. Sam can take care of himself.”

  “Then you don’t know that your husband had dinner with him one evening. Of course Sam didn’t know who he was at the time. Then your house was broken into and literally destroyed. Sam had to move to a motel until it could be put to rights.”

  Helen gasped. “Daniel destroyed the house?”

  “And all your inventory.”

  “I was afraid he would kill Sam. That’s why I ran. I thought if Daniel thought I walked out on Sam, he would leave him alone. Daniel is insidious. On top of that, I think he’s insane.”

  “We quite agree with you on that score. Tell her, Gerry, what we found when we went to his apartment. The truth is, we broke into his apartment.”

  Helen listened as Gerry recounted his and Arthur King’s visit to Daniel’s apartment, ending with, “and he had your picture pasted on top of the toilet seat and the bottom of the seat.”

  “We have photos of it,” Arthur said smartly. “They’ll help you once you get to court.”

  “My God!” was all Helen could think of to say.

  Thirty minutes later, Arthur King slowed the car and entered the parking area of the Cherry Tree Apartments. “I remember Izz saying your mother lived in the third building. Perhaps her name and apartment number will be on the mailbox. Would you like us to go with you, Helen?”

  “No. Just wait for me.”

  Helen walked around to the third building, checked the mailbox, and saw the name Phyllis Stanley on one of the boxes and then the number four.

  Uneven numbers on the first floor, even numbers on the second. She climbed the steps and rang the bell on the door with a big bronze number 4 alongside the bell. When there was no response, she rang it a second and then a third time.

  Helen stepped back when a bleary-eyed man who appeared to be in his sixties opened the door, and barked, “D’ya think we’re deaf?”

  Helen eyed the dirty gray undershirt, the equally dirty gray boxer shorts and the slovenly-looking man wearing them, who reeked of stale liquor, cigar smoke, and body odor. She finally found her voice, and said, “I’d like to see Phyllis.”

  “Why?” the man barked.

  “She’s my mother.”

  “I’m not fallin’ for that old line. The daughter died.” He was about to slam the door shut, when Helen said, “Fetch her or the insurance company will come here demanding she return the money. As you can see, I’m very much alive.”

  “You wait right there,” the man said. The door slammed in Helen’s face and was opened a minute later by her mother.

  “Mom, it’s me, Helen. Can I come in?”

  “No. No, you have to get out of here. They said you were dead. I spent the money. They said you were dead.”

  “Mom, I’m not dead. Aren’t you glad I’m alive? Don’t you care? My God, what kind of mother are you?”

  “You lit out on me. You didn’t care about me. You married that fancy-pants computer fella and didn’t care a hoot about me. They said you were dead. They said I could do whatever I wanted with the money.”

  “Mom, I don’t care about the money. They aren’t going to make you gi
ve it back.”

  “Then what are you doing here? Are you sure I don’t have to give back the money?”

  Helen sighed, her eyes filling with tears. “No, Mom, you don’t have to give it back. I thought you would want to know I’m alive. I thought you might care. The truth is, I wanted you to care. I’m sorry I bothered you. I won’t bother you again.”

  “See that you don’t. Those insurance people spy on people. You can’t trust them.”

  Helen wiped at her eyes. “Good-bye, Mom.”

  The door slammed shut. Helen blinked. Well, what did I expect? Maybe a loving hug, a welcoming smile? Yeah, right.

  Helen was tight-lipped when she climbed into the back of Arthur King’s car. “How far is it to Miss Tyger’s ranch?”

  “About forty minutes from here.”

  “Then I suggest we go there right now.”

  26

  Helen stepped from the car, her arms and legs trembling with weariness. She was tired and hungry to the point of exhaustion. She did her best not to think about her mother’s reaction to her early-morning visit. She hadn’t expected a warm greeting, but she had expected civility and possibly relief that her daughter was alive and well. She tried to shake off the thoughts and to pay attention to what the two elderly men were saying.

  “This is the Tyger ranch,” Arthur King said. “I believe there are about three hundred acres, but don’t ask me where the boundaries are. What do you think of the house, Helen?”

  “It’s beautiful.” It was low and sprawling with multipaned windows that glistened in the sunlight. Built entirely of fieldstone, the irregular stone formations added charm and a certain coziness. The rainbow of flowers cried out for sunglasses as Helen held her hand to her eyes, the better to observe the brilliant beds of poppies and every other flower indigenous to California soil.

  As she walked up a long winding walkway whose stones matched the exterior of the house, she could see the magnificent stained-glass door ahead of her. “It’s beautiful,” she repeated a second time.

  “Izzie hated it,” Gerald Davis said flatly.

  Helen blinked at the vet’s tone, her eyes full of questions.

  “Izz had the entire house redone a while back. It’s more modern now. She wanted light and air and bright colors. I tend to think she knew back then that she was going to be leaving all of this to you. Once she got an idea into her head, neither Gerry nor I could shake it loose.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever understand that kind of generosity. She only met me that one time. There’s no way I can accept all of this.”

  “Perhaps when you know a little more about Isabel, you’ll change your mind. Come, come, let us give you the tour unless you’d rather have something to eat and maybe a nap.”

  Helen looked at the two men, who, she knew, were dying to show her Isabel Tyger’s house. Her house now. She could wait for food and a nap. “No, no, I can wait. I’d like to see the house.”

  “It looks larger than it really is. Rooms were added over the years although none were added during Izzie’s father’s lifetime or hers for that matter. Some of the rooms are small. Some don’t even have closets.

  “At one time, the walls in the hallways held pictures of Izzie’s male ancestors. They’re all gone now. In the upstairs hallway there is one picture. I think you’re going to like it. The day it was given to her, Izzie had it framed. She stood over the man while he did it. I think she valued that picture more than anything in this whole house. She was a kind, generous, remarkable woman. If she made mistakes where you’re concerned, she made them because she cared deeply about what happened to you and Lucie.”

  “Lucie? What does Lucie have to do with any of this?”

  Both men sighed as if on cue. “Lucie is the reason Izz took such an interest in you. Lucie is the reason for everything,” Arthur said gently.

  “I don’t understand,” Helen said.

  “You will, but later. I think when you know everything, you’ll forgive Izz for taking your life away. I think you will also change your mind and accept her legacy.

  “This is the room where Izzie spent most of her time. It’s a sunroom, a den, a family room. Izzie pretty much lived in it. She dearly loved a fire in the winter months or when the sun went down and the air turned chilly. She’d curl up here with her books, papers, and ledgers and work through the night. She had great difficulty sleeping.”

  Helen gazed at the homey, cozy room. She could well understand why her benefactor loved the room. The cavernous opening in the fireplace reached almost to the ceiling. It was big enough to roast a whole side of beef. Wood was stacked neatly into an opening between the fieldstones. Enough for at least a week, Helen thought. Maybe two weeks. Bookshelves with hundreds of brightly jacketed covers adorned one wall. Isabel Tyger must have loved to read, the way she did. Watercolors adorned a third wall. They were colorful—an ocean scene, a field of poppies, a large golden sun surrounded by blue skies and marshmallow clouds. Happy pictures. Over the mantel was a picture of Isabel, Arthur King, and Gerald Davis. “When was that done?” she asked.

  “The year Izzie turned sixty-five. Her father’s picture used to hang there. It was the first thing she burned along with all the other ancestors’ pictures when she had the fireplace rebuilt. The artist did it from a photograph,” Gerry said.

  “The three of us spent a lot of time in this room,” Artie said. “It was like coming home in a way. We always knew we were welcome. We ate in here, watched movies, or just sat and talked. Sometimes all night long. We thought about asking you if you would sell this house to us, but decided it wouldn’t be the same. We’d like to come by from time to time if that’s all right with you. When you get to be Gerry’s and my age, it’s difficult to let certain things go. This is one of those things that has been a part of our lives since we were children.”

  Helen didn’t know what to say, what to think, or where to look. They looked so sad, so woebegone, she wanted to run up and hug them. “I like the French doors,” she said.

  “So did Izzie. She always kept them open. It took her weeks to pick out the furniture, the carpeting, and the drapes. Every single piece of furniture she chose is fit to sleep in and guaranteed not to give you a crick in the neck. As you can see, she loved bright colors and green plants. Artie and I have been watering them a couple of times a week. I retired. Artie is on a leave of absence, and retires after Christmas.”

  “I didn’t know that. What do you do with your time?”

  “We come out here and moan and groan. Since we’re the executors of the will, we’ve taken a few liberties. Sometimes we have lunch here, have a beer, walk around, go down to the . . . You know, just being here makes us feel closer to Izzie. I hope you don’t mind. Now that you’re here, we’ll call ahead,” Gerry said.

  This time Helen did hug them. “That’s not necessary. Come here anytime you want. I’m sure Miss Tyger would want you to feel at home. It’s only mine on paper. It’s more yours than it will ever be mine. We have to work something out where all of this is concerned.”

  “All in good time,” Artie said as he led the way down the hall to show off the rest of the house.

  “That’s all for the downstairs. It’s more or less your normal floor plan, huge eat-in kitchen, formal dining room, the den, Izzie’s office, two bathrooms, and an extra room for junk as Izzie put it. This staircase is solid mahogany. You’d never know it because Izzie had it painted white to go with the new, bright, airy look she was striving for. She painted all the wainscoting white, too.”

  “I like white,” Helen said, more to have something to say than anything else.

  “This is the picture I was telling you about downstairs,” Gerry said.

  “She hung it up! It’s framed and everything! This is the last thing I ever expected to see,” Helen said, her voice choked, her eyes filling with tears.

  “There are no words to tell you what this picture meant to Izzie. Later when you’re rested and thinking clearly, we’ll
tell you more about her. There are five bedrooms up here, four small ones and Izzie’s room. You can take your pick. On this side of the hall, there’s a bathroom between the two bedrooms. It just has a shower, no tub. It’s the same on the other side of the hall. Izzie’s room has a private bath and her room is a little larger. You can explore and freshen up while Artie and I go downstairs to rustle up something for lunch.”

  It was hard for Helen to tear her eyes away from the picture hanging on the wall. She thought about the day she’d rolled it up and handed it to Mona. Her first act of defiance. “That sounds good. I am rather hungry. Would you mind calling your office, Mr. King, to see if Julia Martin called? I’m worried about Lucie.”

  “I’ll do it right now. Take your time, young lady. We’re in no rush,” Artie said.

  Helen poked her head in each of the rooms as she made her way down the hall. Each small room was a delight. A single bed with colorful spread and matching drapes. A white wicker rocking chair with matching cushion and one small dresser. A slipper chair and a small table with a reading lamp. Cheerful but restful.

  Isabel Tyger’s room was different. It was done in various shades of pink and white. It reminded Helen of pictures she’d seen as a child in the Sears Roebuck catalog. The kind of room she’d hungered for as a child. The pink, lacy canopy bed, the frilly dressing table with a pink-tufted velvet stool. The rose-colored velvet chaise that matched the rose-colored carpet was positioned to take advantage of a pristine white cabinet that housed a television set. Green ferns in white wicker stands stood in every corner of the room. Here, too, there were French doors that opened onto a small terrace that held colorful blooms and more ferns in stands.

  Helen jammed her hands into the pockets of her jeans as she stared at the one picture hanging on the wall. It was a picture of a very young ballerina with worn dancing shoes dressed in a pink, frilly tutu and leotard. It was the kind of picture that could be purchased in any Target or Wal-Mart store for less than ten dollars. This picture, though, had a gold frame that probably cost several hundred dollars. She knew she was looking at something dear to Isabel Tyger’s heart. Did she want to be a ballerina? Did she love pink? Was this the room she’d never had as a child?