Fool Me Once

by Fern Michaels

  The receptionist resembled a polished, lacquered mannequin dressed in designer wear. Olivia wondered if she wore a wig. No one’s hair was that perfect except maybe Ted Koppel’s, and everyone knew he wore a rug. Olivia continued to stare at the receptionist as her father carried on a conversation with her. False eyelashes long and curly enough to balance a pencil. Makeup so perfect it looked like it would crack if she smiled. Olivia felt dowdy next to her.

  “It seems we’re supposed to have an appointment,” Dennis told Olivia after walking back to where she stood waiting. “That young lady said this establishment is not a storefront, walk-in legal office.”

  “Oh,” was all Olivia could think of to say.

  “Would you like to leave, honey? He can make the trip to Winchester to see you.”

  The mannequin held up a hand with blood-red, inch-long nails. “Mr. O’Brien will see you in five minutes. Please, take a seat.”

  Five minutes stretched to ten minutes, then fifteen. When the hands on the clock registered twenty minutes, Olivia got up in a huff and marched to the door, her father behind her.

  Dennis was unlocking the car door when a mousy young woman with thick glasses ran up to them. She was breathless and full of apologies as she pleaded with them to follow her back to the office. Dennis shrugged in acquiescence. “I hate lawyers,” Olivia hissed as they followed the young woman back to the law offices.

  “Me too, honey. Me too.”

  Prentice O’Brien’s offices were just as elegant as the lobby. The deep, comfortable client chairs were rich Corinthian leather; the desk, mahogany. The sofa was covered in a nubby wheat-colored material that blended perfectly with the ankle-deep carpeting and ceiling-to-floor draperies. There was even a real fireplace with a real wood fire. The file cabinets were custom-made and built into the rich paneling. An entertainment center and portable bar graced a far wall. The lawyer’s desk was cluttered, and the man sitting behind it was in his shirtsleeves. He got up and walked around the desk to greet them. He introduced himself, then motioned for them to be seated.

  Dennis and Olivia waited for him to speak. He spoke slowly, almost irritably. “If I had known you were coming in this early, I would have carved out a period of time. I’m sorry I had to keep you waiting. We’re going to have to zip through this because I have another appointment in a few minutes.”

  Olivia was on her feet in an instant. “You didn’t have an appointment with me yesterday. You just showed up. If it’s all right for you to do that, why isn’t it all right for us to do the same thing? Time is money, is that it? Well, I’ll tell you what, Mr. O’Brien, when you can carve out some time for me, give me a call. If I can fit you into my busy schedule, perhaps we can resolve this. I’m not into billable hours like you are. Personally, Mr. O’Brien, I don’t care if I ever see you again. I want nothing to do with Adrian Ames’s will. Come on, Dad, we’re outta here.”

  When the attorney realized they were indeed leaving, he said, “Ms. Lowell, Mr. Lowell, please.” Father and daughter ignored him and kept walking.

  “At least take this with you,” the lawyer said, scrambling across the wide expanse of office space with a letter in his hand. He held it out. “Your mother wrote this letter to you, and she instructed me to hand it to you personally.” Olivia made a very unladylike sound and gesture as she continued out of the office. She literally ran through the elegant lobby toward the front door. She didn’t see her father reach for the letter and tuck it into his pocket.

  The seventy-six-mile ride back to Winchester was made in silence.

  Chapter 5

  The dogs barked a joyous greeting when Olivia and Dennis returned to the house a little past noon. Olivia made a production of hanging up her coat and dropping to her knees to play with the two happy dogs. She watched her father out of the corner of her eye to see if he would take anything out of his pocket. He did. She started to tremble with nervousness when she saw him fold a white envelope and stick it in his back pocket.

  Let him deal with whatever was in the envelope. She wanted no part of it.

  Dennis smacked his hands together. “What shall we do now, Ollie? Do you need any help in the studio, or should we start calling around to see what we can come up with in regard to Cecil? Maybe we should make some coffee first to get the chill out of our bones. I swear, being in the islands has thinned my blood. I can’t tolerate this cold. I think my tan faded overnight, too.”

  Olivia forced a laugh she didn’t feel. She was surprised at how normal her voice sounded when she said, “Let’s do the coffee first. You can use the phone in the kitchen, and I can use my cell phone. And, yes, I’d like your opinion on the photographs I’ve chosen for this year’s canine calendar. I had the idea to do a special section between June and July. A group shot, a collage of some of the action shots I took of all twelve dogs. You know me, I think each one is perfect. I need an independent eye to keep me on track. I’m thinking of it as a kind of bonus for the calendar lover.”

  She realized she was babbling. “I’ll make the coffee,” she repeated, heading for the kitchen. “You can turn the heat up in the studio if you don’t mind. I’m thinking of getting a space heater for out there. What do you think, Dad?” Damn, I’m still babbling.

  “Sure, honey, whatever you want. Are we ever going to talk about what’s in my pocket?”

  The response to her father’s question blasted from her mouth like a bullet. “No!”

  Dennis shrugged as he moved toward the studio. “Maybe the ducts need cleaning in the studio. Let me take a look at them before you invest in a space heater. Those things are dangerous. Don’t forget all the chemicals you store out there for the darkroom.”

  Olivia spooned coffee into the paper filter. “It was just a thought, Dad. If you want to check the ducts, be my guest.”

  While she waited for the coffee to drip into the pot, Olivia pulled out her address book and dialed Alice’s vet. Within minutes she had the names and phone numbers for the Yorkie Rescue and two Yorkshire breeders in the immediate area. Twenty minutes later she ran out to the studio to tell her father she had two hot leads for Cecil’s replacement. “Do you want to go, or should I? It seems this particular rescue is operated by three women and one man. They keep and care for the dogs at their own homes. I wrote everything down.”

  Dennis was on a ladder peering into one of the ducts. “I don’t think this duct has been cleaned since I installed it. Must be a hundred years old,” he quipped. “I think you should go. You know more about dogs than I do. I’ll hold the fort.”

  Both dogs sat on their haunches, watching Olivia with bright eyes as she bundled up yet again. The moment they saw her reach for her purse, they scampered to the studio, where they would probably pester Dennis for attention. Purses and jangling keys meant they were being left behind.

  Outside, the sun was shining, casting a silvery hue on the piled-up snow. The roads, Olivia noticed, were still wet, and slick with patches of ice that hadn’t melted. She drove carefully up and down the streets, her homemade map on the seat next to her.

  She’d never been a serendipity kind of person. If anything, she was one of those people who had to make a chart, then think about it for days, weigh everything, then nine times out of ten squash whatever the idea was she had in the beginning in favor of something that was tried-and-true. She even did it with Clarence. One of these days she had to decide what she was going to do about Clarence. It was so hard to feign interest in his IRS audits. If he had told her once, he had told her a thousand times how good he felt exercising his authority over people. The truth was, she had her own fear that he’d audit her for her entire life, as well as her father and all of their friends, if she broke off their mundane relationship. Alice didn’t like Clarence. Smart dog.

  Olivia slowed the car as she approached the intersection that would take her to Anita Wellesley’s sprawling ranch home, where she was caring for eleven Yorkshire terriers and two poodle-Yorkie mixes.

  The moment Ol
ivia parked in the driveway she could hear the clamor indoors. She smiled. Dogs always knew when someone was coming. They would consider her an intruder. She was surprised to find a ramp going up to the front door. Maybe Anita Wellesley was handicapped. She rang the bell. The door was opened by a plump, pleasant-looking woman wearing a red smock over faded jeans and an infectious smile.

  “I’m Olivia. I called you a little while ago.”

  “Yes, yes, come in. This is my mother, Anna Pellecone,” she said, motioning to a woman sitting in a wheelchair and holding three adorable little dogs. “She helps me with the dogs. My husband does, too, but he works during the day. Come, I’ll show you the others. I warn you, it’s going to be hard to pick one.”

  Olivia oohed and aahed as she watched the herd of little dogs behind the gate that separated the great room from the rest of the house. She saw plenty of toys, dog beds, rawhide chews, and water bowls. She climbed over the gate and waited to see which dogs would seek her out. They all did.

  “I’ll leave you for now. Take all the time you need. I’m going to fix my mother some lunch. Can I make you a sandwich? Perhaps offer you a cup of tea?”

  “No thank you. I’m fine. If you don’t mind me asking, exactly how does your mother help you if she’s confined to a wheelchair?”

  Anita laughed, a pleasant musical sound. “She has nothing to do all day but read, watch TV, and love the dogs, and not necessarily in that order. All the dogs love her because they know instinctively that she genuinely loves them. My mother is a jewel.”

  Olivia heard the whir of the electric wheelchair and turned. “Is my daughter singing my praises again?” Anna Pellecone laughed. Tears pricked at Olivia’s eyelids when she saw Anita bend over to kiss her mother’s cheek.

  “This lady,” Anita said proudly, “is the reason you are seeing all these dogs in my house. She simply cannot stand to see an animal not being loved. She was that way with us kids growing up. She was the mother of the entire neighborhood. Our house was where all the kids came when there was a problem. Mom would soothe them, feed them, and love them. It’s what motherhood is all about, you know.”

  No, she didn’t know what motherhood was all about, but she wasn’t going to say anything.

  An hour later, Olivia made her choice. The Yorkie named Loopy, according to his collar, looked so much like Cecil he could have been his brother, and his color as well as his markings were identical. For Loopy’s playmate she chose a female Yorkie-Poo named Bea.

  It was another hour before Olivia completed the paperwork, signing her name in a dozen different places. She was reminded that Loopy had been neutered and Bea had been spayed, and both dogs had received all their shots. Anita and her mother told Olivia what the dogs’ likes and dislikes were. Olivia cuddled them to her and at the last minute before leaving walked over to the wheelchair so that Mrs. Pellecone could give the animals one last hug.

  “You be good little dogs for Ms. Olivia, you hear?” said the older lady. The dogs barked happily. Anna reached for Olivia’s hand and gave it a hard squeeze.

  So that’s what it feels like to have a mother touch you, Olivia thought. Impulsively, she leaned over and kissed the woman’s dry, powdered cheek. She smelled wonderful, like fresh flowers on a warm spring day. Something caught in Olivia’s throat when she tried to smile. She had to get out of there. Immediately!

  “Remember, now—call if there are any problems. We’re here to help.”

  “I will,” Olivia gulped as she practically ran to the car.

  On the drive back to the house, with the dogs cuddled in her lap, Olivia thought about motherhood and mothers in general. Obviously, she had missed a great deal by not having a mother. She knew in her gut, though—and there were her father’s words to back it up—that Allison Matthews, Adrian Ames, or whoever, was no Mrs. Pellecone.

  As Olivia swerved into the driveway, she saw her father and the two dogs waiting for her. All of them crowded around the car as she climbed out with the two new guests. Alice and Cecil sniffed, stared, barked—then barked some more. Inside, they raced around chasing each other, snapping and snarling. Finally, Olivia blew her whistle and was rewarded with instant silence. “Okay, here’s the drill, so listen up….”

  Dennis laughed until his sides hurt. “This is just an observation on my part, honey, but I don’t think you’re going to be able to give those dogs to Jeff. Now, would you like ham and turkey or turkey and ham on your sandwich? I just made fresh coffee. Your ducts are clean, and your studio is toasty warm. Don’t thank me”—he twinkled—“that’s what fathers are for.”

  Olivia sat down at the kitchen table. That’s when she saw the white envelope. If she closed her eyes, she wouldn’t have to look at it. “I met the rescue lady’s mother, Dad. She was in a wheelchair. She had the sweetest disposition, and she smelled so nice. It…it was easy to see how much she and her daughter loved each other. They both love the dogs, too.”

  Dennis turned toward her, his face sad. “And your point is…”

  “Didn’t your wife show any…you know…loving qualities? How can you be so sure she wouldn’t have made a good mother? Maybe in time—”

  “Stop right there, Ollie. Allison never wanted children. We didn’t love each other the way most couples do. I’m not even sure we liked each other, which doesn’t say much or explain why we got married. I always thought she considered me a safety net, and I’m not sure why that was. Just a feeling. She didn’t want to see you when you were born. She didn’t want you, period. Based on that, no, I don’t think she would have made a good mother. Allison did love herself. She thought she was smarter than everyone else. She graduated summa cum laude. Her main goal was to be rich and famous. She constantly reminded me of that when we were married. She said she couldn’t depend on me to make her rich, so she would have to do it herself. Now, why don’t you read the damn letter and get it over with. Maybe all the answers to your questions are right there.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Well, you did. You are. We can’t change anything. I say, read the letter, make decisions, and move on. Refusing to acknowledge things isn’t going to help. Deal with it, Ollie,” Dennis said, slapping the plate down in front of her. “I’m going to take the dogs out back. Do what you want.” Dennis stuck his head back in the door for one last parting shot. “And make a damn decision where that guy Clarence is concerned. For once in your life, stop waffling and take the bull by the horns. I know that’s a cliché, but you damn well know what I mean.”

  Shit. Now my father is angry with me. The last time he used that tone of voice with me I was twelve years old.

  Olivia bit into the ham-and-turkey sandwich. It tasted dry. She lifted off the top slice of bread. Her father had forgotten the lettuce and mayo. He must really be upset with her. Dutifully, she ate the sandwich anyway and washed it down with coffee. All the while her gaze stayed on the white envelope.

  Clarence.

  Cecil.

  Adrian Ames.

  She was getting a headache.

  Olivia picked up the letter by the corner, as if touching it would somehow contaminate her. She walked through the house till she came to a small room that at one time had been a guest room and was now her in-home office. She had a desk, a computer, two colorful, small canvas chairs, a fax machine, and a state-of-the-art color copier. The first thing she did was drop the envelope on the desk. Then she settled herself in her ergonomic chair, turned on the computer, and headed for the Net. She typed in the name Adrian’s Treasures, figuring there was a Web site. She remembered ordering from the catalog before but had never been to the Web site. It was impressive, definitely a high-end one. She reared back in her chair when the screen in front of her flashed her mother’s picture. It was a close-up, airbrushed, to be sure. Olivia leaned closer to see if she could see any resemblance to herself. She couldn’t. The woman didn’t look anything like her or the woman in the picture she’d removed from the mantel. Thank God
she took after her father. Adrian Ames didn’t look the least bit like a mother—not even coming close to looking like Mrs. Pellecone. Adrian Ames was hard-looking, with bleached hair and too much makeup. She had small eyes and thin lips and a real honker for a nose. Not any kind of pretty.

  Olivia scanned the categories on the side of the screen. She checked them all. Her mother’s history, presented in an interview format, was a short summary of how she had gotten started in the business and the trials and tribulations of a woman trying to make it in a very tough market. She catered to housewives. Women who had to watch their pennies. She herself, she declared, liked fine things and had found a way to sell cheap imitations the housewife could afford. No, she wasn’t a housewife, but she understood the mind-set of a woman both raising children on a limited budget and wanting fine things. On holidays, the interviewer said, Ms. Ames offered free shipping.

  How had it all started? Baby bracelets. Those little beads new babies were given at birth to identify them. “I took it one step further by making the beads colorful and sizing them accordingly, with a tough, resilient elastic,” Ames said. “A money-back guarantee was offered. One has to stand behind one’s products. The bracelets led to other articles until I had enough for a full-featured catalog. I bet my shirt and gambled. It worked.”

  The article went on to ask if she’d ever married. Ms. Ames said she was married to her business. Did she regret not having children, a family? She said her customers were her family, and one couldn’t miss something one never had.

  And the rest was history.

  There was a little more to the article. The long hours, doing things herself. Her confidence. Her philanthropy. Her collection of cars, her many houses. Her incredible wealth. How her employees adored her. The lavish Christmas presents she bestowed on her faithful staff. She had no immediate family.

  “What a crock.” Olivia clicked on a button to bring up pictures of the home of Adrian Ames, a.k.a. Allison Matthews Lowell. She whistled approvingly. “Way to go, Mommie Dearest,” she mumbled as she scanned the lavish estate and its designer rooms. Obviously mail-order was the way to go.