As time went on, he cautioned her on the need for silence concerning their relationship. She was, he reminded her, jail-bait, and he was fully culpable. Kitty, unalarmed, was happy to comply. The use of her body seemed a small thing to exchange for security, and Mac was unfailingly considerate.
Besides, what was one more secret to be kept?
Their easy routine had lasted until three months ago, when Mac and his cherished Kenworth had skidded off a nighttime rain-slick highway to avoid an oncoming vehicle on the wrong side of the road. Eventually, once details had sorted themselves out, it was discovered that the other driver had suffered a heart attack.
He survived. Mac did not.
The two children from his first marriage had inherited what was viewed as Mac’s estate, and they were quick to dispossess her of the home she had occupied for almost four years. To Kitty, he left a few personal things: his favorite pair of gold-rimmed cufflinks, the guitar he had occasionally strummed, a sleek silver pen and pencil set received as a gift and never used, and a key. Which took her to a bank vault, wherein lay Mac’s substantial coin collection and $10,000 in cash.
“Kitty, I should be leavin’ in a minute.” Gigi’s voice, coming from the bedroom’s doorway, was not quite a whine. “Think I could get that money now?”
“Absolutely. Hang on.” Kitty pushed back from her dressing table, snapped off its light, and pulled a couple folded-up bills from its drawer to hand over. “Take care of yourself out there. Okay?”
Gigi, a pretty, petite girl with shining short black hair and a dimpled smile, looked more like a young teen than a world-weary adult. “Sure thing, Mom. Thanks! See you later!” And she was gone, in a flash of flipped-up short skirt and a whiff of knockoff L’Air du Temps.
With a troubled heart, Kitty watched from the living room window as the girl clicked away in her thigh-high black boots down their street. Sometimes she did, indeed, feel like a mother hen. It was she who had managed to buy this house; she who made sure doctor appointments were set and kept, that the kitchen stood stocked with healthy food; she who kept an eye out for “her girls” if they were delayed or disturbed.
After Mac’s shocking death, she had worked with his financial counselor to put her inheritance to good use. Investments were growing comfortably, and she was careful with what she spent. Every spare penny of her earnings from The Teddy Bear Club, and from an occasional trick—however questionable—plus rent from her three tenants, was deposited directly into “Kitty’s Kitty.”
She had her dream, and the only way to make it come true was with as much money as possible.
Mac had taught her that, and he had taught her well.
*
“Yes, I know. Oh, you are? Well, that’s fantastic, Del. I’m glad to hear it. You’ll love Italy.”
Her cell phone’s melodic chime, midway through this foggy Sunday morning, had come as a welcome relief. Time spent away from the empire she had so painstakingly built seemed such a waste. Boring, too. She hardly knew what to do with herself, here in this exclusive but solitary mansion high on Russian Hill, with its curving flowery streets and its surreal scenery.
Especially today, because of the fog. The lowering gray mass made her feel stifled, as if she were drowning in gray cotton. Occasionally she considered moving her private residence elsewhere; farther south, perhaps, where sunshine could beat away the doldrums and she could breathe, unfettered.
Still, she couldn’t bear to be too far away from her network of Cachet spas. This was her baby. Probably the only one she would ever give birth to. She had labored long hours to bring it into existence, and she continued to labor now as she dealt calmly and efficiently with any problem that arose. Since she had no hobbies or outside interests, leaving work behind, late in the evenings and on weekends, put her at loose ends. At home, she puttered, looking for things to do.
Katherine Waring, once all pointy elbows and knobby scabbed knees, had grown into her promised beauty, just as she had grown into the dream cherished for so long and now a firm reality.
A spa, she had decided; that was a project into which she could pour her whole heart and energy. An exclusive spa, catering to the rich and powerful. One spa, and then another, and another. A chain of beautiful, reclusive, resort-like retreats, modeled in the peaceful green and white of an atrium. Each would be enclosed by a courtyard, filled with soft background music and the tinkling trickle of fountains, scented by rich tropical flowers and bath essentials, serviced by masseurs, estheticians, attendants.
No, she had no experience with this sort of thing.
But when had a lack of experience kept her from reaching out for what she wanted? Mac would have slapped her on the back and shoved her forward into destiny, shouting encouragement all the way.
During the growth of her dream, she had stayed in touch with the three women of her early days, cementing the bond—and holding forever silent the secret background—they had shared for more than fifteen years. With the very visible success of her business, she had reached out to them in support, unasked, when she had deemed it necessary.
To Lisette, she had offered, first, intensive training, and then the management of her brand-spanking-new inaugural spa, near posh Pacific Heights. For Delphinium, with her exotic coloring and incredible cheekbones, had come the hand up at a small modeling firm, which had resulted in fame on the world stage and marriage to a man totally smitten by her charms. Tipping the scales on the other side, Gigi, like the others, had snapped up the chance to leave behind her former degrading profession and take on Cachet’s top marketing position.
These women were the closest she could consider to being friends. To help them leave behind a dirty and dangerous existence, to have them aligned with her in some way on the road to power and prestige, felt immensely satisfying.
And yet. And yet.
Much as they thought they knew Kate Waring, inside and out, their experience of her young adulthood had barely scratched the surface.
Too deeply hurt and scarred by her past, Kate couldn’t help keeping herself reserved, away from the rest of humanity, the innermost part of her secluded in a little pool of bitterness.
Given her early circumstances, she doubted she could ever get through the loneliness and despair of those early years to reach a safe harbor filled with love.
Her friends weren’t even aware of her real last name.
“What? Oh, yes, Del, I’m here. Sorry. Just woolgathering. So you and Stanton are leaving when?”
The voice on the other end of the line had risen with excitement as Delphinium described the vacation she and her husband had planned. “Rome. Ah, Roma!” she rhapsodized. “Firenze! Venice! I want to see everything, do everything!”
“Well, you’ve always wanted to explore that area from top to bottom. And no one deserves some time away more than you do.”
“Yes, there is one. When do you plan to travel off into the blue?”
Kate was gazing through a rear first-floor French door onto the garden she had had so carefully renovated, shrouded too much now by heavy mist even to recognize the various exotic plants and shrubs flourishing there. “Oh, maybe someday,” she answered vaguely. “You know how it is. The resorts have taken over my life. And they can’t run themselves, you know.”
The sound of a raspberry being blown came over her line. For all her high-toned lifestyle, Delphinium had not foregone her down-to-earth, occasionally raunchy ways. “Bilge water, girl. Lisette is perfectly capable of running those places if you decide to hop a plane. Besides, what with cell phones and the internet and Wi-Fi, you’re in instant communication almost anywhere. And it would do you good to get away for a while. Think about it, won’t you?”
“Sure, Del. I will. Thanks for worrying about me.”
“Oh, honey, we’re buds, all four of us. We take care of each other.”
“That we do.” The front doorbell chimed its sweet four-note ring, demanding attention, and Kate turned away from the window toward
her main hall. “Oh, listen, I have to run. Have a great time, and check in with me later, okay?”
Visitors rarely showed up here. Being chary of her privacy and ultra-cautious with her home address, she allowed few to invade the sanctity of a refuge she had created. Her own getaway, just as each and every spa served as a getaway for her clients.
Having someone just stop by, and on a Sunday morning, at that, without a heads’-up first, was unusual enough to warrant a quick peek through the front door’s side panel. A brown uniform, and muscular bare legs ending in socks and heavy boots.
“Hello, may I help you?”
He smiled down at her, a Fed Ex employee making a rare weekend trip. “Yes, ma’am. Special delivery here for Katherine Waring.”
“Well, that’s certainly me.” Accepting the small mechanical device he had extended, she signed her name with its stylus and then returned the whole thing. “I’m surprised you’ve come today.”
Retrieving his equipment, the young man handed over a bulky extra-large envelope. “Oh, now and then we have runs to make on Sunday. Here you go, Miss Waring. Have a nice day.”
“Uh—yes, thank you. You, too.” Puzzled, Kate watched him head back to his truck, then closed the door with a soft click. Gloom from the hall followed her as she returned to her comfortable sitting room, where lights blazed to counter-affect the fog.
Boston. Both postmark and return label showed a Boston address.
How very odd. Having been born and raised in the southwest, having traveled only as far from Phoenix as Los Angeles and San Francisco, for Kate this package might have come from the far side of the moon.
She had no acquaintance with anyone, personal or professional, anywhere east of the California state line. Let alone in the capital city of Massachusetts.
*
First fortifying herself with a hot cup of Earl Grey, Kate returned to her sitting room with the envelope and her letter opener. A CD of Bach’s “Ave Maria” was playing as she slit open the package flap, removed its contents, and spread everything out onto a side table.
Various documents. Several photographs, taken generations ago and developed in black-and-white or sepia. A testimonial and a list of credentials from who knew what source, for who knew what reason.
A personal letter, to her, on stationery showing the name and address of a legal firm.
One sip of tea, and she quickly scanned the words. “Mon Dieu,” she murmured.
Then another scan, more slowly and completely, as she absorbed what had been written. Even upon a third reading, she finished up feeling puzzled, overwhelmed, and incredulous.
“Sweet Mary, Mother of God,” about summed up the situation.
By pure luck, by coincidence, by a twist of fate, certainly not by her knowledge, she had been tracked down.
But not for any nefarious purpose, apparently. Or, at least, not that she could tell so far.
No. She had been tracked down by the grandmother about whose existence she had never been told.
* * *
Chapter Two
For a few days Kate simply let the matter rest. Details, information, questions roiled around in the back of her mind, unattended to and unanswered, as she went about her daily routine. Careful, cautious, pragmatic, she always looked before she leapt from an old situation into a new one, whether personal or professional. Once things had had a chance to sort themselves out, she would have a better idea as to which direction to take.
It was at a time like this one, however, that she did yearn for a confidant, a true close friend with whom she could discuss anything momentous and consider possible solutions. As independent as she was, someone of similar experience and background would provide a sounding board.
Yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to tell Lisette or Gigi about the package she had received, and what it might portend. Not now, anyway. She needed to mull the situation over a while longer.
“I have a list of those ingredients that we talked about, from the Sugar Glenn Hill line,” Barbara started their morning’s conversation. “And the companies that can put them together for us.”
“Time-consuming, but necessary,” murmured Kate in an absent tone.
No fog today to obscure her favorite view, thanks above. Just clear bright sunshine, ricocheting across the Bay’s ripply water like tiny shards of glass. What did she see, Barbara wondered, gazing out across the horizon with such a pensive, almost a sorrowful look on her face?
“I think the next step would be to contact Sugar Glenn,” Kate decided, turning away from the window with its myriad attractions. “Let’s see if we can help out with a fresh set of manufacturers to get them on their feet again. And possibly a business loan that will put the two of us in partnership. They’re too good a small company to let them go belly-up.”
Barbara paused with her note-taking. “Oh, you mean bring them in under Cachet’s umbrella? Great idea, Kate. Guess that’s why you’re the boss lady.”
That earned a smile. “A co-op makes sense to me. We share in the risks, we share in the profits. Check with Henry about putting together a partnership agreement, would you? Anything else going on?”
For a few minutes the conversation veered into particulars about one or another of the various locations. A few more details needed to be finalized for the Santa Rosa Grand Opening next week, at which several dignitaries would appear, pretty speeches would be made, and celebrations would ensue. The Pacific Heights center must be scheduled for a coat of paint and some general freshening-up, as did the spa in SOMA. A problem with laundry facilities at the Sausalito outlet would necessitate a brief closing for repairs and maintenance.
“Just the usual, then, Barbara,” Kate observed. “Nothing earth-shattering.”
“Nope. That’s because you keep a good handle on everything that goes on,” said Barbara loyally, rising. “I think a pin could drop somewhere, and you’d know about it.”
Kate chuckled. “I’m not quite that much of a paragon. But thank you for the compliment.”
“I mean every word of it, believe me. Okay, I’ll get started on the follow-up.”
Left alone once again, in the serenity of her office, Kate swiveled her chair for another glimpse of the enticing Bay. Her fingers automatically curled over the one photograph she had brought with her from home that had lain, hidden from view, under a legal pad.
Francesca Ainsley Carrington. Her grandmother. And, given the lady’s costume and her pose, descended from royalty. At the very least, patrician.
Who would have guessed?
All her life, Kate had yearned for the love and warmth of a family. Orphaned at the age of six, bounced about through the foster care system from one unsuitable home to another, like a single fragile maple leaf tumbled down some rocky and fast-moving stream, she had existed on the fringe of everything. Bullied. Battered. Bruised. Never a real part of any group—most of whom saw dollar signs instead of a living, breathing human being in desperate need—she craved nothing more than acceptance, affection, kindness.
None of which had ever materialized.
No wonder she had grown hard and bitter with the passage of years and the passing of hope.
She remembered her mother as existing in an alcoholic daze, too lost in her own troubles to feel much concern for a bewildered and helpless little daughter. After that accident—or so it was deemed—involving the tragic Léonie Matisse and a taxicab out of control, Child Services had searched for information through every scrap of paper tucked away in the apartment.
All to no avail. No record of Kate’s father or family, either paternal or maternal, was ever found.
She had wept. Lord knew, she had wept enough salty tears to fill an ocean; first, during all the strangeness and loneliness after her mother’s funeral, and then, later, dropped off with the first of a whole line of foster parents. Until she discovered that crying merited either further neglect or a slap or, occasionally, a long night’s stint locked into a closet.
The resulting lesson she had learned was that no one could be bothered to see to her welfare.
Surely there must be some concerned and compassionate people involved in the caregivers’ program. For whatever reason, Kate had just been unlucky enough not to be placed with any of them.
Ergo: she was on her own in this world.
So she had slowly acquired the tough outer shell that would protect her inner vulnerabilities from those who would seek to wound. It was safer that way. For her own survival she simply must leave softness behind.
Meanwhile, deep down inside, for all these past years she had mourned the lack of any familial connection or support. Even today, she carried with her a great gray emptiness, of some lack, of something left undone, unfinished—not unlike that of the Bay’s fearsome fogs.
Now, suddenly, out of the blue, had appeared just what she was looking for. And then some.
During the last few days of her life, Francesca Carrington had dictated a letter to the secretary who studiously attended to every word. That letter, by way of explanation, had been sent to the prestigious Boston legal firm of Whitney & Lord upon Francesca’s death, then forwarded to her granddaughter in San Francisco.
The letter read more like some dry and dusty literary tome than words written from the heart. Given the resultant story, perhaps Francesca’s had withered up long ago.
“Kate? Excuse me for a minute, sorry to bother you.” Barbara poked her head in through the open doorway. “I have a question on this contract with ScentsORiffic. You know, our aromatherapy supplier here at South of Market, and—”
“Up for renewal, right?”
“Uh-huh. Item No. 9 seems a little off, so I wanted to ask…”
Focus, focus. Kate blinked, dragged her thoughts away from past and present history, and reached for the contract in question. After a few minutes of thumbing through the pages, she gave a brisk nod. “You’re absolutely right, Barbara. Good work finding that little snafu. Just correct the starting date and fax over to Jed at SOR so he can double-check his own copy. Thanks for being so diligent.”
Hat Trick Page 17
