‘“Colton here,’“ a singsong voice came right back at him. “My goodness, Harrison, there’s no need to bite my head off.”
“Gran,” Harrison said, subsiding into bis desk chair, a reluctant smile slipping across his face. “How’s the arthritis?”
“Still knocking on the door, but I won’t let it in, thanks for asking.”
Harrison smiled at the old joke. He asked her every time they spoke, and every time she had a different answer. The whole family indulged in the game. “Well, that’s good. What are you up to? Last time you called this line it was to ask me if I had Prince Albert in a can, then told me to let him out. Did it ever occur to you that women of a certain age don’t make prank phone calls? Especially trans-Atlantic prank phone calls.”
“Not lately, no,” Sybil Colton said, her voice clear as it made its way across the miles, all the way from Paris. “And when did I become a woman of a certain age?” she asked, and he could hear her blowing out cigarette smoke. He could picture her sitting at her ease on one of her overstuffed couches, a martini at her elbow, a cigarette stuck into an ivory holder. “I’m old, Harrison. That’s the only certain thing about me.”
Harrison glanced at the clock on his desktop. “You’re also up past your bedtime, Gran,” he said, feeling himself relax. There were few pleasures in this world greater than having his eighty-eight-year-old grandmother phone him from her home in Paris. “I’d have thought you’d be getting your beauty sleep.”
“I’ll get more than I need of that soon enough, Harrison,” she returned. “Besides, I couldn’t sleep. I’ve got something on my mind, and I wanted to talk to you about it. Your brother is so oblivious to anything that doesn’t have to do with gall bladders or horrid skin rashes, and whatever else excites doctors these days, and Frank and Shirley are still on vacation. Nobody takes more vacations than my Frank. Is that son of mine taking advantage of your good nature, Harrison? Is he working you into an early grave?”
“I’m hanging in there, Gran,” he said, then mentally backtracked, to get the main point of Sybil’s rambling. “Is something wrong? Why did you feel the need to talk to someone tonight? And why did you mention Jason first? Aren’t you well? You didn’t go out dancing and fall, break a hip?”
“Darling, who are you talking to? Some dotty old woman? Certainly not to me,” Sybil told him, and he could hear her taking another drag on her almost always present cigarette. She called it living dangerously, and reminded anyone who tried to talk her into quitting that, at eighty-eight, there wasn’t too much she could do that was dangerous. “Can’t I just call to see how my grandson is doing? Is this a crime?”
“You called just to ask how I’m doing,” Harrison said as he picked up the paperweight Savannah had held yesterday, turning it in his hands as he held the phone tucked between his head and shoulder. “Okay, old lady, who are you and what did you do with my real grandmother?”
Sybil’s husky laugh made Harrison smile.
“Oh, all right. So perhaps I did have a reason to call. But that doesn’t mean I can’t ask how you’re doing, now does it? So, Harrison, how are you doing? Take over any companies lately? Seduce any beautiful women? You know, both Frank and Shirley are champing at the bit for some grandchildren. The least you could do is accommodate them.”
“Translation,” Harrison said, “why can’t you find a nice woman, get married and settle down. Gran, are you sure you’re not psychic?”
“Psychic? Why? Harrison! Are you getting married? Oh, my goodness, a scoop! I’ve got a scoop, haven’t I? Hah! Frank will be livid. Here he is, the media mogul, and here I am, that old babe six thousand miles away, and I’ve just scooped him. Who is it, Harrison? Please tell me it isn’t one of those anorexic super models you rich men seem to find attractive.”
“Down, girl,” Harrison said, already regretting having said anything at all to his grandmother, who wasn’t above placing a conference call to his parents, his brother and three dozen of her closest friends to tell them all that little Harrison was finally getting hitched, and wasn’t it about time. “I’m thinking about getting married. That’s all. Just thinking about it.”
There was a slight hesitation at the other end, and then Sybil said, “Gun-shy, huh? I’d still like to pull that girl’s hair out by the roots, you know. Her and her father both. I swear to you, Harrison, if I never hear the name Hamilton again, I’ll die a happy woman. Unless it’s to tell me that Sam Hamilton and his little gold digger have finally gotten their comeuppance.”
This was not going well, Harrison decided, walking with the cordless phone still tucked under his chin, reaching down to pluck a bottle of water out of the small refrigerator designed to look like just another end table.
He wondered what his grandmother would think if he were to tell her that she was going to hear the name Hamilton again, because he was most probably going to be married to Savannah Hamilton by noon Monday.
He decided not to chance it. His grandmother was much too smart a lady to not smell a rat. He couldn’t chance that. Not when he was most likely to be cast in the role of head rat.
“Gran,” he said, figuring a lie was probably his safest bet at the moment, “I’m expecting an important call, which is why I’m here at the office instead of on the golf course. So, much as I’d love to hear about the many ways you’ve figured out to twist Sam Hamilton into a pretzel, maybe it’s time you told me what’s on your mind.”
“Back off? That is what you’re saying, isn’t it, Harrison?” Sybil asked. “Oh, very well. Especially because I really do need to talk to you about something. Did you get Meredith’s invitation to Joe’s sixtieth birthday party?”
Harrison did a quick shifting of mental gears at his grandmother’s mention of his uncle Joe. Where Harrison’s father, Frank, had always been more of a city boy—if Prosperino could be called a city, and it couldn’t, at least it was nowhere near the size of Los Angeles or San Francisco—his cousin Joe had chosen to spend most of his time on his very successful ranch some miles outside the city.
Not that Joe was a rancher, at least not primarily. Joe Colton, the original self-made man, owned mining properties, oil wells, a large shipping company, and had interests in many other businesses. In fact, it was Joe Colton that Harrison used as a model for his own career, the one he had so successfully melded with his position at CMH.
Harrison used to go out to the ranch often, enjoying Joe’s company, enjoying the company of his cousins and the foster children and adopted children Meredith and Joe raised with such love. The Colton ranch was a happy place.
Or it had been, until about ten years ago, when Meredith and one of their adopted children, Emily, had nearly been killed in a freak automobile accident.
That accident had changed Meredith in ways Harrison had never fully understood. And, by the tone of his grandmother’s voice as she’d mentioned Meredith’s name, he wasn’t the only one who thought so.
“Harrison? Are you still there?”
“What? Oh, sorry, Gran. I was trying to remember. And yes, I got the invitation. Sounds like quite the bash, doesn’t it? Are you flying over?”
“Yes, I’m coming over, or at least I hope to. But I’m not planning on enjoying myself.”
“Ah, ever the optimist,” Harrison said, going back to his desk and sitting down. “What’s the matter, Gran? Don’t you have anything to wear? That’s hard to believe, considering the Paris dressmakers weep with joy each time you drop in to see their new collections.”
“Oh, yes, Harrison, just what I want to wear in California. A ball gown. Admit it, Harrison, this isn’t like Meredith at all. A gala? Meredith hates galas, all that spit and polish and the rest. Used to be, Meredith’s idea of a good time was everyone showing up for a huge family picnic. I don’t get this black tie and gown business, damn if I don’t. And I can’t understand why Joe is sitting still for it.”
“It is his sixtieth birthday, Gran,” Harrison pointed out. “Maybe he wants something mo
re formal?”
“Joe? Hardly, Harrison. It’s just not Joe. And it used to not be Meredith. I’m telling you, Harrison, something fishy is going on out there, and has been for a long time. I can smell it, all the way from Paris.”
Harrison pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. “Now, Gran—”
“Don’t you ‘now Gran’ me! I was just there last year, remember? Meredith treated me like a guest! Me! Meredith never treated me like a guest, much less an unwelcome one. And then there’s Emily, the girl who was in the accident with her.”
“What about Emily? She recovered just fine, didn’t she?” Harrison asked, pulling a paper from the fax machine, recognizing it as a quickly thrown together report on Sam Hamilton’s finances. His fax didn’t print in color, but if it did, there would have been a lot of red ink. He wanted to get off the phone, look at this page, and at the pages that kept spitting out of the machine.
“Did she, Harrison?” Sybil asked, then waited for her grandson to pick up on her mysterious, doubting tone.
He decided not to disappoint her, because he knew his grandmother, and she was going to tell him what she thought whether he wanted to hear it or not. Trying to put on the brakes would only prolong the agony. “Okay, Gran, spill your guts. You have my attention.”
“Well, finally! Your father thinks I’m losing my grip, you know. But I knew I could count on you.”
“I’m a real prince,” Harrison said wryly, pulling another two sheets of paper from the fax and scanning them. Sam Hamilton needed a large infusion of cash, and he needed it soon, or else the company was heading straight to bankruptcy court. James Vaughn needed that headache like he needed another hair weave. No, Vaughn wanted Savannah. Young, innocent Savannah. And Sam was more than happy to act as pimp and procurer. Harrison threw the papers onto the desktop, cursing under his breath. Maybe he wasn’t a prince, but he knew he was a damn sight better than James Vaughn!
“I’ve always said you were my prince, darling,” Sybil said, then went on with her story. “Here’s the skinny. Emily was knocked out in the crash, and when she woke up she said she saw two Merediths looking at her. Did you hear that, Harrison? Two Merediths.”
Harrison nodded. “I know, Gran, I’ve heard that story, too. Two Merediths, one sweet and smiling, one mean and evil. Emily was just a kid, Gran, and she’d just been knocked out, concussed. I’m surprised she didn’t see six Merediths, a pink elephant and a clown in a top hat.”
“Oh, really?” Sybil said, and Harrison could tell that he’d upset her. “Then explain to me why Meredith isn’t Meredith anymore, Harrison. Explain that!”
“I can’t explain that, Gran, because it’s not true. Okay, so she’s a little different now, more distant, less involved in the day-to-day happenings at the ranch, unwilling to take on any more foster children. Did it ever occur to you that she considered the car accident her fault and that she blames herself for Emily’s injuries? That she might not want any more children at the ranch because of that guilt, and the pain she felt when Emily was injured? Remember, Gran, Joe and Meredith’s son Michael was hit by a car and killed. That’s a lot of tragedy for one woman.”
“Maybe,” Sybil said, her tone mellowing a bit. “But I still say there’s something fishy going on, Harrison, and I want you to go out there and take a look around, see if I’m right.”
“Go out there? Gran, I can’t. I’ve got— Well, I’ve got a takeover in the works, Dad is away, and I’ve got CMH to run. It’s impossible. I’m sorry.”
“It’s the girl, isn’t it?” Sybil asked, and Harrison winced. “Come on, come on, you dropped a hint or two, but I can tell that there’s more. Well, don’t you forget, Harrison. Don’t you forget the test.”
“The test?” Harrison was nearing the home stretch on this phone call, he could feel it, but now his grandmother had led him off on another tangent. “What test?”
“The Colton necklace test, Harrison. It hasn’t been wrong yet,” Sybil said, and he swore he could see her rolling her eyes at his question. “And now I’ve got to go, as you’re obviously trying to be thick and won’t listen to me. Perhaps I’ll call your brother, Jason, one of these days, if he still remembers me. That boy works too hard, and so do you, I suppose. Besides, I don’t know why I let you keep me on the phone so long, these calls cost the earth. Damn phone companies. Good night, darling.”
Harrison was left looking at the phone, hearing the dial tone. “Batty old woman,” he said, grinning as he put down the phone and reached for the rest of the small stack of papers waiting for him in the fax machine. “I can’t wait to see her again.”
It was Saturday night, and Harrison couldn’t believe he was sitting alone in his empty house, the ball game on television, a can of soda on the table next to him, and a sapphire necklace in his hands.
This was all his grandmother’s fault, bringing up the necklace, especially at a time like this.
He knew the history of the necklace, had heard the story numerous times over the years, and it had always struck him as fanciful, highly romantic and rather nice.
Right now, however, he was eyeing the necklace as if it might come to life at any moment, and bite him.
The original necklace had been given to the earl of Redbridge by none other than Queen Elizabeth I. Beautiful sapphires, in a heavy, fairly garish diamond setting, the necklace had been handed down to the oldest son of each succeeding generation, until it came into the hands of one William Colton, the third earl of Redbridge.
William had been a very bad boy. Duty called William, as it had called all the Coltons, but duty never kept a man warm at night. Still, because he knew he must somehow replenish the Colton’s fairly empty coffers—now there was a bit of irony, considering what was going on now—he became betrothed to Katherine Mansfield, whose family had little consequence. But the Mansfields did have money—as Sybil Colton had once said it—out the wazoo.
Harrison took a deep drink of soda, not quite liking the comparisons he was seeing between the long-ago Coltons and Sam Hamilton. Still, that had been another time, another age, another set of right and wrong.
And besides, William had come through at the end, although it had been a close-run thing.
It had been on the eve of the wedding of William and Katherine that good old Willie had brought the legend-wrapped sapphire-and-diamond necklace to his betrothed, as a bridal gift. Why he’d waited so long to give it to her, nobody knew, but his timing hadn’t been exactly great.
Maybe it had been the legend attached to the necklace that had kept him from placing it around Katherine’s throat. Maybe William had been pretty sure what would happen, and he hadn’t wanted to know, hadn’t wanted to take the chance that his marriage of convenience was cursed by that damn necklace.
As the story went, Harrison remembered, the beautiful sapphires were capable of doing the eighteenth century version of “two thumbs up” or “two thumbs down” when it came to the suitability of Colton brides.
Clasp the necklace around the wrong neck, and the stones turned muddy. Murky. Dim.
Drape those same stones around the right throat, and the sapphires winked, the diamonds danced, and all was right with the world.
Harrison didn’t believe in that sort of fairy tale.
But William had believed it, and when Katherine took the necklace from his hands and fit it around her neck, William had watched, aghast, as the sapphires turned dull and lifeless, almost ugly.
Surely the necklace, if not the fates, had spoken. Either that, or William had been looking for just such an excuse, because he called off the wedding ceremony.
That sort of thing just wasn’t done in those days, and many believed a betrothed couple to be legally married even before the vows were said in church.
Even the law believed it. A guy could get thrown in the slammer for deserting his betrothed hours before the wedding. A guy could get sued. Hell, if the bride-to-be had brothers, a guy could get challenged to a duel and end
up being very dead.
Somehow, William had escaped any of those fates, although a feud worthy of the Hatfields and the McCoys had sprung up between the Mansfields and the Coltons, so that England wasn’t a very comfortable place for William—especially once he found his true love, slapped the necklace on her to make sure, and watched as those sapphires did their twinkle-twinkle thing that was their blessing on the union.
Harrison watched the last Dodger strike out in the bottom of the ninth in a losing effort, and flicked the remote. The television screen went dark as he thought about the rest of the old story.
William, so the story went, had had enough of jolly old England, and the feud with the Mansfields, and he and his bride hopped a ship headed for the New World, which is how his particular branch of the Colton family had made the leap from England to America.
Over time, William and his heirs made and lost several fortunes, one of their down-turns forcing a later Colton to sell the necklace.
“But Dad found you, didn’t he?” Harrison said, holding up the necklace and glaring at it. His father, Frank, had made a fortune in media holdings, heard about the necklace being offered in an auction, and had brought it home, happy as a clam to have rescued this family treasure. “He found it, he had it cut into two small chokers, one for Jason’s bride and one for mine. And now here you are. Gee,” he grumbled sarcastically, drinking down the last of the soda. “Lucky me.”
The phone rang and Harrison let the machine take it, only jumping up to lift the receiver when he heard Savannah’s voice. “Savannah?” he said quickly, before she could hang up. “Is everything all right? It’s late.”
“Oh, no, no, Harry, everything’s fine.” She hesitated a moment. “Well, it’s as fine as it can be. Sam told Annette. Told her he’s not my father. He promised he wouldn’t say anything, but he did. She confronted me tonight, came to my room to tell me she knows. Now Annette’s after me as well, telling me it’s my duty to marry James.”
Brides Of Privilege (v1.3) Page 5
