Serendipity

by Fern Michaels

  She cried, great, heart-rending sobs that echoed in the cold, freezing air.

  Days, not months, was what Justine said. She wondered where the coffin was. In the garage, the potting shed, the basement? Or would they have to bring it out from town? Justine had once said that she didn’t want to be embalmed. “I just want to go into the ground the way I am, no services, no mourning, no nothing.” Did she make her wishes known to her staff, to Griffin Ballon? Who would see to it?

  The walk back to the house was torture. It seemed to Jory that she would snap in two, that’s how cold and brittle she felt. Her eyes were half closed with frozen tears on her lashes. She tried to run but she couldn’t, so she trudged on, her heart thumping in her chest, not from exertion, but from sorrow.

  Upstairs in her room she sat down on the hearth, her arms stretched toward the fire. Tears trickled down her cheeks. From time to time she wiped at them with the sleeve of her sweater.

  The moment Jory felt warm enough to stir herself, she reached for the phone, dialed the operator, and placed a call to the States. Clarence picked up the phone on the third ring. She started to cry the moment she heard his voice. Between her sobs, she told the old man Justine’s condition and about the grave under the tree.

  “There’s a time to live and a time to die, Miss Jory, and this is Mrs. Landers’s time. She’s ready, she told me so in her last letter. Death is hardest on those left behind. Be sure to wish her a Merry Christmas from Tillie and me.”

  “I did that already, Clarence. This place is beautiful. She must have been very happy here until she got sick. Why didn’t you tell me you stole Ross’s Christmas decoration?”

  “She told me not to tell you. I’m sorry about that, Miss Ryan. Are you upset with me?”

  “Of course not. If you’d asked me, I would have given it to you.”

  The old man chuckled. “I know that and you know that, but Mrs. Landers wanted me to steal it. I guess it was important to her. I couldn’t say no.”

  “Of course you couldn’t. How are the dogs, Clarence?”

  “Fine. They sleep on the pile of laundry you left on the floor in your room. Tillie says they feel closer to you if they’re around your things. They’re in the kitchen with her now. She’s making the stuffing for the turkey. Mr. Ross called here last night asking for you, Miss Ryan.”

  “Ross called! What did he want?”

  “He didn’t say. I told him you went away for the holidays and wouldn’t be back till after New Year’s. I told him I’d leave a message for you.” A sour note crept into Clarence’s voice. “Maybe he’s getting prenuptial jitters.”

  “Maybe he wanted Justine’s address, although it’s a little late to invite her to his wedding. Do you think I should call him, Clarence?”

  “Whatever it was, it didn’t sound important. Wouldn’t he have said it was important and he needed to get in touch with you if it was? All he said was to say he called. That means no, I don’t think you should call him, leastways, not from Mrs. Landers’s house.”

  “You’re right, Clarence. Did anyone else call? Did anything come in the mail?”

  Clarence made a funny sound in his throat. “You haven’t been gone that long, Miss Ryan. The mail hasn’t come yet today, and no one else called. You told everyone you were going away, so who would call?”

  “The pope, Gary Cooper.” Jory laughed. “Have a wonderful holiday and hug the dogs for me.”

  “The same to you, Miss Ryan.”

  Jory replaced the phone on the little table by the chaise longue. She curled up and was asleep the moment her eyes closed.

  The days following Christmas passed quietly and uneventfully. It seemed to Jory that Justine grew weaker with each passing day. Justine slept more, dozed as she read to her, often sleeping through her meals, other times barely touching the delectable food.

  On New Year’s Eve as the houseman was carrying Justine to her room she turned and in a voice that was hardly audible said, “Would you mind staying with me until I fall asleep? If I try, we might be able to see in the new year together.”

  Jory was reading from a popular novel at ten o’clock when Justine opened her eyes and said, “Hold my hand, Jory.”

  Jory laid aside the book, her eyes filled with fear. She reached for Justine’s hands, holding them tight.

  “I see them, Jory, just like you said. Ohhh, it looks so pretty. I never saw a light like this. Let go. Mama, it’s me, Ethel. Mama, do you forgive me? I’m coming, Mama. Let me go, let me go. Mama, wait for me. I’m coming, I’m coming.”

  Jory let go of Justine’s hands. She bit down on her lower lip so hard she tasted her own blood.

  Justine Landers was buried beneath the huge tree amid a flurry of light snow on New Year’s Day. The staff, the doctor who treated Justine, and Jory were the only ones in attendance. There was no minister, no prayer.

  They walked single file back to the house, where a light lunch was served for the doctor’s benefit. He left immediately afterward.

  Upstairs, Jory packed her bags for the return trip home. Twice she tried to reach Griffin Ballon from the different numbers in Justine’s address book, but was unsuccessful. Finally, in desperation, she sat down and wrote him a note, explaining as best she could what had happened. She signed her name, slid the letter into an envelope, and handed it to the housekeeper. “When Mr. Ballon arrives, please see that he gets this letter.”

  Jory arrived home the following day. Together, she and Clarence cried in each other’s arms until there were no tears left in either of them.

  “She wouldn’t want this,” Clarence said.

  “No, she wouldn’t. She made me promise not to tell Ross or Jasper.”

  “Are you going to keep that promise?”

  “Yes. Oh, Clarence, I don’t know if I can do it alone. Knowing she was in the wings ready to help made me feel confident. What if I flub up?”

  “You won’t. I think she hung on until she knew you were flying on your own. That’s just my opinion.”

  Jory’s shoulders straightened. “We’ll do our best, and if that isn’t good enough, then we’ll try harder. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds good, Miss Ryan.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” Jory smiled.

  Three months later, on a balmy day in March, Jory leaned back in her chair and took a deep breath. April’s issue had just been put to bed, and she was looking at articles for May. She’d been working around the clock and was exhausted. She could hardly wait to go home, shower, and crash on the sofa with a nice glass of wine. Her reward for another issue well done.

  The phone on her desk buzzed to life. For a moment she was tempted to ignore it, but she didn’t. “Yes?”

  “Miss Ryan, there’s a gentleman here to see you.” Her secretary’s voice dropped several octaves. She whispered, “This is one very handsome man. Put on your lipstick. I told him you’d be right out.”

  “Who is it?” Jory said, reaching in her drawer for her compact and lipstick. She was slipping her feet into her shoes at the same time.

  “He won’t say. A mystery man, I guess. Hurry up, Miss Ryan, before he leaves.”

  She hurried, her heart fluttering in her chest. She walked across her office, opened the door and stared.

  “Miss Ryan, I’m Griffin Ballon, and these are my children. We, ah, we were wondering if you’d care to have dinner with us.”

  He’s your destiny, Marjory. “I’d like that very much, Mr. Ballon.”

  “Yippee,” the littlest Ballon said.

  “Great,” the middle Ballon said.

  “Super,” the oldest Ballon child said with a wicked grin.

  “Destiny,” the senior Ballon said with a crinkly smile that warmed the entire room.

  Thank you, Justine, thankyouthankyouthankyou.

  EPILOGUE

  It was the middle of May before Jory made the trip to Paoli with the box Griffin Ballon had turned over to her. “Justine said you’ll know what to do with it.” The on
ly problem was, she didn’t know what to do with it. For days she’d stared at the contents of the box, taking them out, putting them back till she thought she would wear them out. No matter where she put the box, no matter how she tried to avoid it, it was always there. Now, today, it was sitting on the front seat of the car with her.

  She had no appointment with Ross, but felt he would see her. If necessary she was prepared to wait all day until the close of business hours to hand it over. Even now, at this, the eleventh hour, she didn’t know if she was doing the right thing or not.

  Jory opened the door, the box under her arm. Her head high, she walked up to the receptionist and announced herself. “I can wait if Mr. Landers is busy.”

  “He just came in from court. Have a seat and I’m sure he’ll be with you in a minute.” Jory sat down primly, the box on her lap. The receptionist was as good as her word. Ross came out of his office, his arms outstretched.

  “Jory! What a wonderful surprise! It’s good to see you! What brings you to Paoli? Let’s go into my office. Can I get you something, coffee, a soft drink?”

  “No thanks, Ross. I brought something for you. But before I give it to you, I’m not sure . . . what I mean is . . . I don’t know what I mean,” she said, thrusting the box at him. She sat down and folded her hands primly in her lap.

  “What is it?” Ross asked suspiciously.

  “Open it,” Jory said.

  Ross opened the box. One by one he lifted out the articles, a strange look on his face. “I don’t understand.”

  “What is it you don’t understand, Ross?” Jory asked quietly.

  “Who does this belong to? I know the wreath is the one we made a long time ago, but what’s this other stuff?”

  “This other stuff, as you call it, is yours. They’re your things kept by the woman you said didn’t care about you. That same woman had Clarence steal the wreath from my attic so she could hang it on her Christmas tree. The little white outfit is your christening outfit. The blue blanket is the one your mother carried you home from the hospital in. In a taxi. That little silver tinkly thing is your first rattle. Those are your first shoes, bronzed and all. Of course, you recognize all those pictures. They’re you at every stage of your life. The only thing missing is your wedding picture. Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time. I have to get back to town,” Jory said, getting up.

  “Wait just a damn minute. Not so fast, Miss Ryan. Where did you get these?”

  “A man gave them to me. Since they don’t belong to me, I brought them here where they do belong.”

  “My mother gave these to a man who gave them to you. Why?”

  “I don’t know, Ross.”

  “What the hell am I supposed to do with this . . . junk?”

  If she’d been standing anywhere but where she was, she might not have done it, but the temptation was so great, Jory’s balled fist shot out, landing dead center on Ross’s left eye. He toppled backward to land in his swivel chair. Dramatically, Jory dusted her hands to show what she thought of her impulsive action. “You damn well deserved that, Ross.”

  “Jesus Christ, Jory!” Ross howled.

  Jasper and Woo took that moment to stick their respective heads out of a doorway, their mouths agape.

  “Jasper, Pete,” Jory said curtly.

  “Jory, it’s nice to see you again,” Jasper said happily.

  “Maybe you can tell your son what all those things in the box are. He called them junk. Are they junk, Jasper?”

  Jasper came into the outer office and pawed through the contents, a look of revulsion on his face. Jory clenched her teeth and then her fists. She looked at Woo. “Well, Pete, it’s your call, do you want to go for two?”

  Woo held up both hands. “Whoa. Do you mind telling me what’s going on here?”

  “Let them tell you. I just came here to deliver a package. I’m relocating to the other side of the world.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m selling the magazine. I’ve just had the offer of a lifetime. I’d be a fool to turn it down. A very dear, dear friend made it all possible, so I’m in the process of relocating.”

  “Huh?” Woo said again.

  “It’s called destiny, gentlemen. Mine.”

  If you enjoyed SERENDIPITY,

  be sure not to miss Fern Michaels’

  FOR ALL THEIR LIVES

  Read on for a special excerpt!

  An eKensington e-book exclusive on sale now.

  CHAPTER ONE

  HE WATCHED HER . . . with clinical interest.

  And he wondered why he felt so removed.

  The object of Mac Carlin’s intense scrutiny was Alice, the woman he’d been married to for eight years. He felt like a sneak, a Peeping Tom, watching her.

  Mac’s index finger automatically rose upward to adjust his aviator glasses, which were slipping down his nose.

  How was it possible, he wondered, for this woman to spend eight solid hours sleeping between lace-bordered satin sheets, and then wake up with every blond hair still in place? There was color on her high cheekbones and a smudged line under her lower lashes. And not one, but two diamonds winked in each ear. Her lips were a glossy deep pink that matched the polish on her exceptionally long nails. He wasn’t sure, but he thought the nails were artificial. He wasn’t sure about the glossy pink lips either. It had been awhile since he’d kissed his wife or even looked at her up close.

  The peach-satin creation that swirled about her was one he’d never seen before. He knew that it must have cost as much as two good suits from an expensive tailor.

  Once he’d thought her delectable as a bonbon. He’d wanted her, but the only way he could have her was to marry her. Which he did, the day he graduated from West Point. Crossed swords and all.

  To his mind, Alice now more closely resembled a shellacked mannequin, and her personality, if she’d ever had one, was brittle and artificial.

  When he’d first met Alice Summers at a pool party ten years ago, during his third year at the Academy, she looked like the girl next door. She’d been a lift, a tease and a virgin. She told him in no uncertain terms that she was a “good girl” and didn’t “put out” for anyone. He’d done everything but howl at the moon in his desire to have her, but she wouldn’t even let him put his hand near her breast, much less inside her dress. He couldn’t really remember now, but he thought that back then he’d respected her for holding out.

  Marriage to Alice had been, and still was, the biggest disappointment of his life. Alice’s idea of sex was: I give you something and you give me something back. What he had to give were material offerings: a new fur jacket, a gem, a trip, a sports car, trinkets, elegant handbags, lizard shoes, anything so long as it was expensive. With every promise of a new treat, Alice performed. Once a week. If he held out in the gift department, once every two weeks. If the check from his trust fund was slow in arriving, every three weeks.

  It took him a full year before he got it through his head that he was buying his wife’s sexual favors, and another year before he realized Alice had married him for his money. He couldn’t recollect anything about the third and fourth years, but he did remember the fifth year because he’d asked for a divorce. Of course she’s said no, after she’d had a good laugh. “Do whatever you want, darling,” she’d said, “but please, be discreet.” He’d never touched her again, until a few months ago when he’d gotten stinking drink and literally dragged her into his bedroom. He hadn’t raped her. You couldn’t rape someone who was dead from the neck down. In fact, he remembered her exact words: “Just do it and get it over with.”

  The next day he’d volunteered for Vietnam. He managed to pull the same strings his father had pulled to get him stationed at the Pentagon. His father, Supreme Court Justice Marcus Carlin, had more strings to yank than a hot air balloon. It had worked for him just the way it worked for his father. Captain Malcolm Carlin was to depart the United States of America in two days. He felt like cheering. Maybe he would, after he told
Alice.

  Mac leaned against the wall. Alice hadn’t yet noticed him. Maybe, he thought, she hadn’t put the startling green contact lenses in her eyes yet. Cat eyes. All she needed was a tail.

  For the thousandth time he wondered what it would take to make Alice give him a divorce. He’d already offered her the house in Palm Springs, the chalet in Aspen, this monstrous house in McLean, Virginia. He’d even offered her his prize stallion, Jeopardy. She’d laughed and said, “It’s not enough.” He’d raged, demanding to know what was enough. “Put a price on it, Alice.”

  “Some day, Mac, when your father goes to that big courtroom in the sky,” she’d said, “you will be an incredibly wealthy man. When that happens we’ll discuss it, and not a moment before.” She’d stunned him with that. He’d called her a ghoul and she’d laughed again, a weird, tinkling sound that gave him goose bumps.

  What bothered Mac even more was his father’s blindness with regard to Alice. The old man thought she was right up there with sliced bread. On those occasions when the old man needed a hostess, Alice willingly played the part, which gave her a perfect entrée into Washington society.

  Mac had no illusions about his father, none at all. Marcus Carlin was a lecher, if a discreet one—a gold ol’ boy, salivating, geriatric, ass-pincher.

  The old man was as fit and trim as a frisky pup. He still worked out, jogged three miles every morning, had the wickedest backhand at the country club and could belt down a half bottle of Old Grand-Dad and never blink an eye. He was also the youngest Supreme Court judge on the bench.

  Mac sighed. Time to get on with his day. He glanced at his watch. Just enough time for a quick cup of coffee and another minute to tell Alice he was leaving. He wondered now for the first time what his wife was doing up at this ungodly hour of seven-thirty. He allowed his eyebrows to shoot upward in surprise.