The Hamilton Heir

by Valerie Hansen

  “Justine! Hush! Someone will hear.”

  “Maybe it’s time somebody did so we can quit pretending,” the tall, slim, thirty-year-old said. “You and Wendy look alike. Dad was short, too. You know what the Observer article insinuated. How long do you think it’s going to be before somebody takes a good look at me and imagines a family resemblance?”

  “We don’t know for sure,” Betty insisted.

  Justine sighed. “Yes, we do. You may want to keep lying to yourself but I’ve had all the positive proof I need. Accept it, Mom. Your biggest mistake is standing right here, waiting tables in your restaurant.”

  Reaching for her daughter’s hand, Betty grasped it tightly. “Don’t ever think that, Justine. Never. I wouldn’t trade you for anything. You know that. You must. If Daddy was alive, I know he’d say the same thing.” Tears had filled her eyes. “I love you, baby. I wish I could change things but I can’t, so we’ll have to live with it. I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah,” Justine said, penitent and equally teary-eyed. “I’m sorry, too. Guess I was thinking of myself too much. It’s just that every time I see one of the Hamiltons these days, I get kind of crazy.”

  “Now that’s something I can fix,” her mother said. “From now on, if I’m available, I’ll wait on them.”

  “It’s okay. I can keep doing it.”

  Betty shook her head, her expression resolute. “No. It wasn’t fair of me to push it off on you in the first place. I just wasn’t thinking clearly. When I heard them talking about how Wallace was failing, I guess it all boiled up inside me, that’s all. I can cope, now. Honest. Like the Bible says, ‘I can do all things through Christ.’”

  “Tell you what,” Justine said, forcing a smile and swiping at the tears trickling down her cheeks. “We’ll do it together. Just like we always have. You, me and Wendy, all for one and one for all.”

  Across the room, inquisitive eyes watched the mother and daughter embrace and found the sight interesting, to say the least. Most of what they had been discussing had been muted by the noises of the other diners and the piped-in background music, but a few words had come through. Clearly, the Hamilton family was involved in whatever had upset Betty and her daughter. That alone was enough to make the listener rejoice.

  Chapter Five

  Tim was away from his desk when Dawn got a call that the repair garage had located a rental car for her and was bringing it over, so she grabbed her purse in case she needed identification and left her boss a note of explanation before she went downstairs to take delivery.

  This time, she dutifully signed the lobby roster for Herman Gordon while Louise looked on approvingly.

  “You ’spect to be gone long, Miss Dawn?” the old man asked. “Case somebody wants to know.”

  “No. Not long.” She smiled at the elderly couple. They’d been with Hamilton Media for so many years, in one role or another, they were practically part of the scenery, like the bricks that made up the walls. If something happened to either of them, the old building would never seem quite as sturdy.

  “I’m taking delivery of a rental car,” Dawn explained.

  Herman nodded. “That was some dent you got in your sedan, wasn’t it? Yes, sirree. Good thing Mr. Wallace wasn’t here to see what went on.”

  Dawn knew it was inappropriate to discuss her boss’s shortcomings with the guards, no matter how long their tenure. “Accidents happen,” she told him. “I’ll be in the employee parking lot if anyone needs me.”

  That said, she spun on her heel, headed for the exit and ran smack into Tim Hamilton. He was standing outside the heavy, glass, revolving door, apparently preparing to enter.

  He paused and gave her a quizzical look. “Where are you going, to interview Stuart?”

  “No. Someone from the garage is bringing me wheels and I want to see what I—I mean what you—are paying for. I’ve never rented a car before so I really don’t know what to expect. The rate they quoted me over the phone sounded pretty expensive.”

  “I told you it doesn’t matter.”

  “I know, but…” She started past him, hoping he’d continue with whatever he’d been on his way to do. Instead, he fell into step beside her.

  “I hope it doesn’t look too good,” Tim quipped. “I know how you hate nice cars.”

  Dawn made a face at him. “The cars are fine. It’s the pretense I don’t care for.”

  “The way I look at it,” he drawled, “it’s only a pretense if you can’t afford it and are putting on airs. A good car is a tool of the trade, like anything else.”

  “Not to me, it isn’t,” she argued. “It’s a survival necessity.”

  They’d reached the employee parking lot and paused. Apparently, the rental was still on its way because there were no extra vehicles in evidence. Dawn folded her jacket close in front and crossed her arms.

  Tim struck a nonchalant pose. “Well, at least you’ll have wheels for your meal deliveries tonight.”

  “Tomorrow night,” she countered. “I deliver on Mondays and Wednesdays, remember?”

  “That’s right. You did say that, didn’t you? Have you given any thought to writing the feature article we discussed?”

  Dawn huffed. “That’s all I have thought about. I’m afraid I’m in way over my head.”

  “I don’t think so. When I was little, Dad used to tell me tough jobs were just like eating an elephant. If you tried to do it all at once, you’d fail, but if you took it one bite at a time, no job was too big.”

  She smiled, remembering. “My father used to say that was the way to eat a whale. I guess the difference was the Gulf coast influence.”

  “Guess so.” He shifted his weight, giving her the impression he was anxious to be on his way.

  “You don’t have to stand here with me and waste your afternoon,” Dawn said. “Go back to work. I left at least seven phone messages on your desk. Every caller swore his problem was a matter of life and death.”

  “That important, huh?” Tim smiled at her. “Okay. If you’re sure you want to get rid of me, I’ll go. Just promise you won’t be too fussy about the car, whatever it looks like. We were lucky to get one at all.”

  “As long as it runs well enough to get me home and back, plus my meal deliveries, I’ll be happy.”

  She was watching him walk away when a sleek black convertible with a flawless, mirror finish and more chrome than Felicity’s ’59 Caddy cruised into the parking lot and headed straight for her. That couldn’t be her rental car, could it? The thing was glittering like a Mardi Gras parade float!

  The young, long-haired driver, wearing a baseball cap and coveralls, stopped the car and held up a clipboard. “You Dawn Le…something?”

  “Leroux,” she said. “Yes. That’s me.”

  “Then this here is your buggy.” Climbing out, he handed her the key ring as a pickup truck pulled in behind them. “There’s my ride.” He shoved the clipboard at her. “Sign here, lady.”

  “But, that’s, that’s—”

  “A fine set of wheels, if I do say so myself.” He pushed a pen into her hand.

  “I can’t accept it.”

  The driver rolled his eyes. “What’s the matter? Wrong color?”

  “No, it’s…”

  She was trying to come up with a logical explanation when Tim appeared behind her, took the clipboard and scrawled his signature boldly across the form.

  The driver, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe anyone would hesitate to accept delivery of such a fine, high-performance vehicle, climbed into the pickup truck and rode away.

  Dawn spun to face Tim. “You knew, didn’t you?”

  “Knew what? That you were getting a car? Sure. You told me, remember?”

  “You know what I mean. This is not just a car. It’s an expensive car.”

  “Very.” He was smiling. “So?”

  “So, what did you have to do, buy it?”

  “Let’s just say the Hamilton influence has handy fringe benefits.
If driving it embarrasses you, blame me.”

  The keys were clenched so tightly in her hand they were making dents in her palm. She lowered her voice and tried to appeal to his softer side. “I don’t belong in that car, Tim. Look at it. It’s gorgeous.”

  “Yeah, it kind of is, isn’t it?” He eyed the cloudy sky. “Tell you what. Let’s figure out how to put the top up, for starters. Then we can cruise around the parking lot together till you get the feel of it.”

  The first thing that popped into her mind was his recent misadventure in that very lot. “I don’t think practicing anything in these narrow aisles is a very good idea. That’s how we got into this mess in the first place, remember?”

  He held up both hands, palms out, in mock surrender. “Don’t worry. I promise never to drive while juggling a cell phone again. I’ve already ordered one of those remote speaker units for my car.”

  Opening the passenger door he stepped back and said, “You might as well get in because this is your car—at least for a while.”

  She pulled a face and sighed. “You don’t intend to give up, do you?”

  “Nope. It’s not in my nature. You, of all people, should know that.”

  Resigned and a little miffed to have been placed in such an untenable position, Dawn circled the convertible, tossed her purse onto the backseat, put on her sunglasses and slid behind the wheel.

  “All right. We’ll do this your way, Mr. Hamilton. Get in, fasten your seat belt and hang on. If I’m going to drive this car, I’m really going to drive it.”

  To say that Tim was surprised in the next few minutes was an understatement. Dawn handled the sporty coupe as if she’d trained at a school for race drivers.

  “I could have executed a tighter turn if this car had rear-wheel drive,” she said, speaking loud enough to be heard over the roar of the engine and the air whooshing over the top rim and around the open sides of the windshield. “It handles pretty well, though.”

  Tim’s eyes were wide, his hair tousled by the air-stream. “Where did you learn to drive, Indianapolis?”

  “Close.” Grinning, she kept her eyes on the road. “Remember I told you about my brother? Phil didn’t only speed on the motorcycle he wrecked, he was getting into racing stock cars professionally at the time he was hurt. He taught me how to handle a car at high speeds.”

  “He sure did!”

  She laughed. “Would you like to drive now?”

  “No thanks. I’m probably shaking too much for that. Drop me off at the office, will you?”

  That brought another laugh. “You can’t kid me. I know you too well to believe you’re scared.”

  “How about apprehensive?”

  “That, I can accept. Okay. Back to work for both of us. The gossips are probably already busy spreading the word about our little excursion on company time. No sense giving them more to talk about.”

  Tim nodded and sobered. “Yeah. The way that scandal sheet, the Observer, loves to dig up dirt on my family, you could find yourself pictured on page one.”

  “Nope. I haven’t broken a single law. I’m very careful about things like that. My reputation is important to me.”

  “So is ours. But that didn’t stop someone from revealing the dirt on Jeremy, no matter how much it hurt my mother. Have you seen the latest drivel? They’ve now started insinuating that Dad is hiding skeletons in our family closet, too.”

  “You mean the Media Mogul’s Love Child article? I saw it. And the Observer didn’t hesitate to print such trash. That’s what’s so cruel. I can’t imagine who would lie about your father like that, can you?”

  “No. If I knew, you’d better believe I’d put a stop to it. I did talk to Richard McNeil about suing. He says if we take the Observer to court and it turns out they can prove even one of their allegations, we’ll look like fools.”

  “Surely, they can’t.”

  “I don’t want to take that chance. It might give people the idea we’re only fighting them because we print a rival newspaper. I want the Dispatch to prosper because it’s a good paper, not because we’re in some sham war with that despicable rag.”

  “Well said.” Dawn wheeled into the Hamilton Media lot and brought the car to a smooth stop. “I’ll drop you here and go park.”

  “Fine.” Tim got out, then turned and leaned down with his elbows on the rim of the passenger door. “Can I ask you something? Considering the expert way you drive, why did you say you were afraid to borrow my BMW?”

  “Because I was,” she answered honestly. “There’s a world of difference between a rental car and the boss’s private wheels. I happen to like working here.”

  “You think I’d fire you for scratching a fender?”

  “Well…”

  “You do think that, don’t you?” He straightened. “I can see my image needs almost as much improvement as this company does. From now on, I want you to bring it to my attention whenever you think I’m being insensitive.”

  Dawn’s hands tightened on the wheel. “Me?”

  “Who better to point it out?” Tim took a step back and nodded. “You’re the one who hates lies, so I’ll expect nothing less than brutal honesty.”

  Her murmured, “Oh, brother,” as she pulled away was lost in the roar of the engine. Brutal honesty? She couldn’t do that. Not to Tim. He had enough problems without having his right hand-man—woman—attacking his character at every turn. Who did he think she was, his shrink?

  No. He thinks I’m the only one who will tell him the truth, she concluded, and he’s probably right. That was a high compliment. All she had to do was figure out how to help him without hurting him in the process.

  She knew her free expression could prove a shock to a man who was used to having everything done his way. But it could also benefit him, as long as she tempered her words with kindness.

  An overwhelming urge to protect Tim, even from herself, arose. Now that was a real surprise.

  Living room lights were still on at Stuart Meyers’s house when Dawn pulled up in front of it later that evening. She’d thought about phoning ahead but had decided it would be best if she proposed their interview and explained her assignment face-to-face.

  She didn’t know how many times she’d had to talk herself into continuing with this project. She’d even rehearsed a speech to her boss, declining the job she’d accepted on a whim. What had she been thinking? She was no feature writer.

  Long ago, when she’d asked the Lord to help her resume her studies of English, she hadn’t dreamed He might answer this way. Could this situation truly be answered prayer? Or was it merely coincidence that she was imagining as more important than it really was?

  Dawn’s logical side argued that she’d simply stumbled into the writing assignment by virtue of her regular employment. Then again, she argued, how much had God had to do with getting her the job at a place that published both a magazine and a newspaper in the first place?

  Shaking off her fruitless introspection, she approached Stuart Meyers’s front door and was surprised to hear what sounded like a loud movie on television. Either that, or World War III had started in his living room!

  She rapped on the door the way she always did. No one answered. She knocked louder. Still nothing. Finally, she convinced herself the old man might be sick or injured and tried the knob.

  The door swung open effortlessly and she peered in. “Mr. Meyers? Are…?”

  She froze. Her mouth gaped. Across the room, Stuart and Tim Hamilton were staging the battle of Nashville on that big table, with all the gusto of two teenagers enjoying a noisy video game. What she’d assumed was a movie score was actually a tape of the 1812 Overture, complete with cannon fire, playing so loudly in the background it rattled the windows. The house smelled faintly of oregano and garlic, like after-hours at an Italian restaurant.

  Stuart looked up from his game and displayed a small plastic figure. “Dawn! Come on in. Look what the boy brought me! Horses. Got the whole cavalry.”


  Her gaze settled on Tim. He looked as pleased as the old man. Maybe more so. If his grin had spread any farther she imagined it would have wiggled his ears.

  Tim laughed. “Close your mouth, Ms. Leroux. I told you I keep my promises. Come over here. We need somebody to be General Hood.”

  Grinning, she laid aside her notebook and purse and complied. “Okay, as long as it’s Hood. My daddy would have a conniption if he found out I was pretending to be a Yankee general. What do I do?”

  Tim caught her eye for an instant and raised his eyebrows. Clearly, he didn’t know as much about the skirmish as Stuart did but he was doing his best to participate.

  “We need more cannons! Bring on the fusiliers!” Stuart shouted. “Boom, boom! Gotcha.”

  “Where’s Hood?” Dawn asked.

  Tim had rolled up his shirtsleeves and shed his usual tie as well as his suit jacket. He pointed. “There. Right, Stuart?”

  “Right, boy. He’s advancing on General Thomas. Look out! Here comes more grapeshot! Nasty stuff. Takes out a whole line.” With a flick of his fingers he knocked down a knot of a dozen plastic soldiers. “I used to belong to a group of reenacters, you know, before this bum leg started givin’ me fits. Had the whole authentic outfit, uniform, saber and everything.”

  “Which group?” Dawn asked, thinking of the article she was planning to write.

  “I was a captain in the Tennessee Volunteers,” the old man said proudly. “Most folks don’t realize. There wasn’t no standing army. Not like we have nowadays. Both sides were manned by volunteers that represented their hometowns and states. They provided their own uniforms, too, especially the officers. And guns, them that had ’em. That’s why there wasn’t no good way to keep ’em supplied. Too many different kinds of rifles and pistols, some muzzle-loading, some not. The right cartridges were pure gold to a fightin’ man.”

  Looking to Tim, Stuart grinned. “Say, son, you don’t happen to know where I can get a real cannon, do you? Not a big one. Just a little popgun to make smoke, like they do when a fuse burns down to the black powder.”