Diana and Simon looked expressionlessly at the material. Then Diana glanced up and caught Blake Wentworth’s incredibly expressive dark eyes fixed on her. “Jeff, this stuff isn’t proving anything to Dr. Van Etton and Diana,” he said gently. “Show them the picture of you, Penny, and Cornelia taken the Christmas before Penny left.” Jeffrey tensed, and Blake’s gaze shifted to him. “That photo is more convincing than a ton of documents. Please do it.”
Jeffrey sighed and slowly removed a photograph from the briefcase, glancing at it for a moment before nearly tossing it at Simon. Diana leaned over her uncle and they both stared at it as if mesmerized.
“I took it. I’m the amateur photographer of the family, and Blake says I’m getting better every day!” Lenore’s voice trilled with pride, although Diana immediately noticed that Lenore had made the background of the shot so defined, it drew attention away from the three people who should have been the focus.
They’d posed in front of a brightly lit Christmas tree. Jeffrey was stockier, his hair was darker, and his jaw more prominent. He wore a red crew neck sweater with a white reindeer on the front. His gaze dodged the camera, and his stiff semi-smile bespoke self-consciousness. No wonder, Diana thought in amusement. Jeffrey Cavanaugh looked ridiculous in whimsical holiday garb.
In the photo, Jeffrey stood beside a child—a little girl of three or four—with shoulder-length strawberry-blond hair, sparkling blue eyes, and a smile of pure delight. A woman held the child—a woman with long, thick bronze-colored hair only a couple of shades darker than the child’s, and eyes just as blue, but enhanced with shimmery bronze eye shadow and chestnut-brown liner expertly drawn with a tilt at the outer edge, giving her a cat’s-eye look. Her peach blush blended perfectly with her peach-gold lipstick, glistening with a layer of gloss. Her left hand firmly gripped the child at the waist—a hand wearing an engagement ring with a multi-carat center stone and diamond-encrusted wedding band.
She was flashy. She was glamorous. She was the embodiment of confident happiness.
She was Penny.
2
Glen Austen checked the digital clock beside his bed—7:35 p.m. Then he looked at his bedroom window. Daylight shone around the edges of the closed flimsy miniblinds. God how he hated daylight saving time. He liked it when darkness fell softly somewhere around seven o’clock. Ever since he was fifteen, he’d thought night was romantic, although he would never have admitted such a “girly” emotion. That was twenty years ago, but he still resented having the sun glaring halfway to midnight.
He didn’t want to stay cooped up in his house tonight, but he also didn’t want to drop by a restaurant or bar and be drowned by a deluge of questions about Penny Conley. Glen could not bear to hear about Penny Conley. He wished he hadn’t let Diana say anything about Penny’s condition because he couldn’t stop picturing the horrible burns. He hoped Penny would die. Otherwise, what would she be? A once-lovely, animated woman who now would cause people to avert their eyes, unable to bring themselves to look at her hideously scarred face.
Glen thought he might throw up. After a couple of whirling minutes, though, his stomach calmed. He groaned and took another gulp of the expensive single-malt scotch he’d been saving for no particular occasion—certainly not one like this. As if Penny’s disaster wasn’t enough, he’d been politely but firmly ousted from Diana’s life. Oh, not for good. She hadn’t told him she no longer wanted to date him, but if she hadn’t wanted to be with him this evening—an evening when she should have needed his love and comfort—then she really didn’t need to say anything more.
Glenn finished his third glass of scotch. He could take a hint. He was a Ph.D., dammit. He sure as hell could take a hint!
He poured more scotch and tried to concentrate on the movie droning from the portable television in his bedroom. The movie starred a young Sean Connery, and Glen had seen it at least five times. He usually enjoyed imagining himself as the dashing Sean, but not tonight. Tonight he should’ve been getting dressed for the dance at the country club—the dance at the country club. How 1950’s or ’60’s that sounded. Classy people in old movies that he’d loved growing up always went to dances at the country club—the height of cultured glamour and sophistication. Long ago he’d promised himself that one day he, too, would be a suave and significant part of the country club crowd; the handsome, debonair guy who turned the air electric as soon as he walked in the door.
Glen realized that belonging to a country club these days didn’t have the cachet it once did, but Simon Van Etton, whom Glen admired beyond measure, belonged to one and had introduced him to the most important members. Within weeks, Glen could boast that he also was a member. Later, when he began seeing Diana, he’d been overjoyed that he’d paid the yearly membership fee, which was rather high, even though he didn’t play golf or tennis, and he couldn’t swim or dance.
He’d taken ballroom dance lessons and invited Diana for dinner and dancing on her birthday in February. She’d looked beautiful in a lavender chiffon dress, her wavy brown hair rippling halfway down her back, and her heather-green eyes alight when he’d had the waiters bring out a small cherry cheesecake—which he’d learned from Simon was her favorite—to sing “Happy Birthday.”
The phone rang. Glen cursed quietly, though he was glad he’d unplugged his bedroom telephone. He definitely did not want to have a conversation tonight—not unless that conversation was with Diana, and he wasn’t certain he even wanted to hear from her tonight. He was afraid she would say what he knew she would eventually say, and he wasn’t up to hearing it tonight.
The two phones on the first floor of his small house continued to ring. Persistent. No doubt somebody claiming to be “calling to see how you are,” when they were really calling to gather more information about the explosion and Penny’s awful condition. Old Glen would know, the caller probably thought, mistakenly believing Glen was nearly engaged to Diana Sheridan and she’d know all about Penny. Outsiders would think Diana had told Glen every morbid detail about the fire.
The ringing continued. Pest, Glen thought viciously. Didn’t the caller realize that if he hadn’t answered after ten rings, he wasn’t going to answer?
Glen thought of going downstairs to unplug the other two phones, but getting out of bed seemed like a Herculean feat. The scotch was getting to him, sending him into a haze far more pleasant than reality. He stopped worrying about the phones ringing. Let them.
His mind drifted to early May, when Diana had persuaded Penny to dine with them at what he now casually called “the Club.” The prospect had not excited him. He’d run into Penny a few times at Simon’s. She’d struck him as pleasant looking, especially without her reading glasses, and she was young and cordial but definitely neither beautiful nor highly educated—in other words, not someone he really wanted to take to the Club. Diana had nearly begged Penny, though, and to please Diana, so did he. Penny had hesitated but he could tell she’d wanted to go. He didn’t think she dated, and he knew she must’ve desperately needed a night out with adults, no matter how much she loved her daughter.
Glen remembered how amazed he’d been by Penny’s appearance when they picked her up at her house, and how proud he’d felt when he walked into the dining room with a beautiful woman on each arm. Diana had worn something blue—he didn’t remember the details. But he’d memorized how Penny had looked in a sleek Nile-green dress with a rather deep but tasteful V neckline. She’d applied makeup more heavily than usual. A delicate rose-gold shade emphasized the perfection of her lips, and a subtle bronze shadow and liner dramatized her eyes. Her dangling gold earrings sparkled against her mahogany-colored hair, and her spike-heeled shoes showed off her long, shapely legs.
During dinner she had been quietly charming, letting Diana and Glen do most of the talking but occasionally offering an amusing comment or an observation that shocked Glen with its intelligence and perception. He almost felt offended by Penny’s acuity. After all, she was just Simon’s research assis
tant and a former waitress in a diner, for God’s sake. Still, he forgave her lack of education and former occupation when she danced with him. She danced smoothly, gracefully, almost sensually, and for a moment he’d felt almost dizzy.
By the end of the evening, he’d discovered that Penny Conley was a lovely, bright, amusing, and sexy woman. Still, she didn’t have Diana’s background or artistic talent, so he had no urge to replace Diana with Penny. But that hadn’t stopped his attraction to Penny.
The phone began to ring again, and once again he cursed it, wishing he’d gotten up earlier and unplugged all the phones. Getting down the stairs would be impossible, unless he wanted to risk plunging down headfirst. The ringing went on and on, harsh, relentless, maddening. He knew the caller’s identity. He knew the caller would keep pursuing, trying to run him into the ground, but he wouldn’t worry about that person now. Not tonight . . .
Finally Glen’s eyelids began to droop, and he realized he’d drunk over half the bottle of scotch. The ringing of the phone had finally, mercifully stopped. He fumbled with the remote control until the television clicked off. He was in complete darkness. He sighed with fuzzy relief that no light shone between the flimsy window blinds. Night had come at last. He could close his eyes, slip into the oblivion of sleep, and, with some luck, have pleasant dreams.
Glen’s last half-waking thought drifted to Penny. He wondered if she was dreaming, too.
3
“Well?” Jeffrey Cavanaugh asked defiantly. “What do you say now? Penny couldn’t have changed all that drastically in eighteen months!”
Diana felt as if her heart was plummeting right out of her body when she saw the Christmas photo. So it was true—Penny had taken their child and run. Actually, she’d kidnapped Willow. The FBI, already involved, had found her at last, making the case even messier. The worst part of the drama, though, was what Penny had done to Jeffrey Cavanaugh. For a year and a half he hadn’t known if his wife and child were alive or dead, and when he finally found them. . .
“Well?” Jeffrey demanded again. “Is that Penny or not, Miss Sheridan?”
“This woman has blondish hair and blue eyes,” Diana said vaguely, still fighting to reject what must be true. “Penny’s hair was—is—short and dark brown. Her eyes are brown.”
Lenore nodded. “She has natural strawberry-blond hair and blue eyes. She must have dyed her hair and worn colored contacts. Otherwise, does she look like the picture?”
“Not really,” Diana maintained weakly. “Penny wears hardly any makeup, and most of the time she wears glasses. She also dresses plainly—slacks or skirts and a sweater set. Low-heeled shoes, no jewelry.”
“The country club,” Simon urged gently. “Remember the night she went with you?”
Dammit, Diana thought in a moment of fury. Did Simon have to bring up a description of Penny that evening? Of course he did. Simon was scrupulously honest.
“One time I saw her look like she does in this picture,” Diana said reluctantly. “She went with a friend of mine and me to a dance at the country club. She wore a green cocktail dress and dangling earrings, more makeup . . . I was shocked by how different she looked—how glamorous. And also . . .” Diana searched for a phrase to describe the mysterious quality about Penny she’d noticed that night.
“She seemed so relaxed, so much in her element in those clothes and socializing in that ambience. I’d expected her to be a little daunted—not that an evening at our country club is like being at a White House state dinner—but still. She wasn’t the least bit nervous. And she danced so beautifully, so gracefully, so . . . professionally. I was amazed. Later she told me she’d taken ballet lessons for a few years.”
Diana saw Blake and Lenore exchange a significant glance, then Blake quickly looked away.
Meanwhile, Simon peered at the photo, squinting because he always refused to wear his reading glasses in front of guests. “The high cheekbones, the slightly tilted nose, the shape of the eyes and of the lips—this is definitely the woman we know as Penny Conley.” Regret resonated in his voice.
Diana knew he must have felt as disappointed in the woman as she was right now. “She even has the same tiny mole beside her left eye, just like Willow. Really, the resemblance between Penny and Willow is remarkable. But the birth certificate says Cornelia Cavanaugh was born in November. Willow just turned five in June.”
“Just turned five?” Jeffrey repeated in surprise. “My daughter, Cornelia, will be six in November!”
“Why would Penny lie about Corny’s age?” Lenore asked.
“Penny must have gotten hold of another child’s Social Security card for Cornelia,” Blake said thoughtfully. “The card was for a child born in June, not November.”
“And Penny is twenty-nine?” Simon asked.
Jeffrey shook his head. “Thirty. We married when she was twenty-three. She would have been thirty-one on December twenty-fifth. She used to laugh about being an unwanted present from Santa Claus.”
“Unwanted?”
“She said her parents didn’t want her. Her early childhood was rough—or that’s what she claimed,” Jeffrey said bitterly. “Now I don’t know if anything my wife told me was true, or why she married me, except for money.”
The baldness of the statement embarrassed everyone. Color stained the top of Jeffrey’s cheekbones, even though the rest of his face was chalky. Lenore looked with pity at her brother’s bleak expression, while Blake stared at a large framed photo of the sun dazzling off the ice-swathed branches and twigs of a maple tree—a photograph Diana had taken the previous winter. Blake seemed extremely uncomfortable when Jeffrey showed strong emotion.
Finally Lenore leaned forward and took her brother’s hand. “Jeff, I admit at first I thought Penny was after your money, but later I changed my mind. I watched her and I couldn’t ignore the way she touched you, looked at you—well, so many things she did that you just can’t fake unless you’re a great actor.”
“Maybe she was.”
“She wasn’t,” Blake said, looking away from the framed photo. “I’m not saying this as your brother-in-law or your closest friend for over twenty years, Jeff. I felt the same way Lenore did at first about Penny. After you were married, though, I saw that Penny loved you. Love is one of those things you can sense between two people. You don’t have to ask yourself if they’re in love—you know. And I know you and Penny were in love. Both of you—not you alone.”
Lenore looked at her husband with almost unbearable tenderness. Diana had to glance away, her desire for such depth of feeling so great that it almost hurt. The emotion surprised her—she hadn’t realized how much she longed for love. Maybe the awareness came tonight because all of her feelings were raw, she thought. They were raw with the knowledge that Penny was dying.
Diana swallowed hard. “The Penny I know would only have married for love. I’m glad you agree.”
“Well, love and money,” Lenore offered almost apologetically. “If she’d married only for love, she could never have treated Jeff the way she has. Money was very important to Penny.”
Her shock giving way to loyalty toward her friend, Diana said staunchly, “I would like to point out something. Penny lived on a small income. Her house was modest. I can remember going shopping with her several times. Penny bought things for Willow as she grew, but only two or three outfits for herself and those weren’t in upscale stores. She drove a twelve-year-old car with almost a hundred thousand miles on it.”
Penny’s relatives simply stared at her. Diana sighed impatiently. “If she was a gold digger who married you for money, Mr. Cavanaugh, it certainly doesn’t appear as if she ran off with any of it!”
“Well, she did!” Jeffrey’s moment of weakness had fled. He looked at Diana unflinchingly. “Cash. Jewelry.”
“A lot?” Diana asked in surprise.
“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
Lenore cast her brother an uneasy glance then spoke up. “Jeff, no matte
r what Penny did do, I think we have to be fair about what she didn’t do.” She looked at Diana. “She took fifteen thousand dollars from her personal bank account that only contained thirty thousand. Jeff kept her on a budget—he never let her have access to his bank accounts.”
Jeffrey flushed, and Blake rushed to his rescue. “That was my idea,” he said. “He hadn’t known Penny long when they got married, and . . . well . . . I just thought it would make everyone feel more secure about the money issue. Also, it isn’t as if she was living in poverty. The thirty thousand dollars was hers to spend on clothes, entertainment, whatever she wanted. It wasn’t a household fund.”
Lenore nodded. “Oh yes, Jeff was very indulgent. I didn’t mean to imply he wasn’t. Still, Penny only withdrew half the money in her bank account, as I said. She didn’t take any of her designer clothes—none of the Chanel suits, the Armani, the Versace. She didn’t even take one piece of the Vuitton luggage.”
New money, Diana thought, almost smiling at Lenore’s designer-name dropping. Diana glanced at Blake, whose color had heightened, but Lenore surged on, oblivious.
“As for jewelry,” Lenore continued, “Penny took a pair of small diamond-stud earrings from Cartier—a gift from Blake and me. She also took a little gold cross she said her grandmother had given her when she was a child, and a pendant Blake and I had made at Tiffany’s for Cornelia when she was born—a ruby rose with an emerald stem set in gold. Oh, and we got her the traditional, engraved platinum rattle from Tiffany’s along with an engraved cup supposedly from my mother.” Lenore finally tossed a glance at Blake. “I don’t think we ever fooled Penny with that cup. She knew it didn’t come from Mother.” She looked back at Diana. “Penny took the rattle but not the cup. I don’t think I was clear about that. And let me think if there was anything else—”
“Oh for God’s sake, that’s enough!” Jeffrey exploded. “You sound like you’re making a report for an insurance company.”
You Can Run... Page 12
