“You fell for that?”
“Kendall, the lady was gorgeous!”
“So what?”
“So—it was a mutual admiration party. We even had champagne. And when things got a little fuzzy, we finished the party up in her hotel room.”
“You’ve been there till now?”
“You have a problem with that?”
“I just think you should use a little intelligence, that’s all. You can get diseases from casual encounters like that.”
“I’m not stupid, Kendall. Anyway, it isn’t as if you’ve never had a little fun. What’s the real problem? Jealous?”
Kendall faked a swing, which Nick parried with his arm. “Just annoyed. You left me behind to answer the phone when Candace called last night looking for you. What was I supposed to say when she wanted to know where you were?”
“What did you say?”
“I told her you were out with some of your skiing friends. The male ones.”
“She buy it?”
“What do you think?”
“Oh, well, I’m becoming a little tired of Candace, anyway. She’s starting to get possessive.”
“Good old love-’em-and-leave-’em Donovan, huh?”
Nick grinned. “Did Marilyn stand you up last night? Is that why you’re in a bad mood?”
“Marilyn and I played squash and ate a late lunch together yesterday, as a matter of fact. I told her I was busy last night. I thought we could talk. You and I. Seriously, for a change.”
Nick rose and strolled to the kitchen where he rummaged in the fridge for a couple of cans of Coke.
When he returned, he threw one to Kendall and sat across from him. “We’ve been over this already.”
“You haven’t given it serious thought yet.”
Nick smiled and threw Kendall a quick glance. “I’ve given it a little.”
“And?”
“And I don’t think I’m ready for it.”
“You may never get another chance like this. A job with the law firm of Brodie, Fischer, and Martin is a dream come true.”
“For you, maybe. Not necessarily for me.”
“Do you know how much money you would be making?”
“I’ll make money if I win races. And there’s always sponsorships.”
Kendall shook his head. “Oh, sure. Risking your neck all the time. One of these days you’ll break a leg or maybe your back and then what? You’ll have to start right at the bottom in some no-name office. Maybe even from a wheelchair.”
“I like skiing.”
Kendall stood up and walked in a circle in front of Nick. His voice was earnest, as though he were pleading with the jury to understand a client’s alibi. “So do I. But as a hobby. Besides, freestyle isn’t skiing.” He walked a few steps further and turned back, hands outstretched. “Okay, I like to watch. But you would never catch me doing it for a million bucks.”
“You can’t do it. I can.”
“All right. You’re good. And you’ve been fortunate. So far. But one bad fall and it’s game over.”
“So then I’ll give law a shot.”
Exasperation replaced Kendall’s earnestness, and his face took on a boyish look of chagrin. “You’re nuts! Why did you bother going to law school in the first place? Why waste the time and money?”
Nick remained relaxed. “The skiing opportunity just kind of happened. You know that. I had no idea I was that good.”
“But won’t you even think about joining the firm? Talk to Dad? Ask him to tell you about the opportunities?”
“I don’t know what he could say that you haven’t.”
“Not good enough. Nick, this weekend is a perfect opportunity! They’re all going to be there, Dad, Douglass, and Peter. Once you’ve met them, you’ll see what I mean. You’ll want to be one of them instead of…”
“Instead of what?” Nick prodded.
“Instead of whatever you call yourself.”
“Whatever I call myself?” Nick’s voice was mocking, his eyes filled with laughter. “I call myself a freestyle skier, and a good one at that!”
“You can do a lot more good as a lawyer, Nick.” Kendall was pleading again. “And Brodie, Fischer, and Martin is one of the top legal agencies in the city. Think of what you could accomplish with their backing!”
“Speaking of backs.” Nick finished his Coke and stood up. “I think I’m going to hit the shower and wash mine. Then I’m going to pack—assuming I’m still invited, of course. After that I’m going to allow myself to be driven by you to your parents’ home where I hope I won’t have reason to regret the impulse that made me accept the invitation.”
“I don’t want you to make a mistake you’ll regret for the rest of your life.”
“Kendall, I’ve roomed with you for three years. Why, I don’t know. But not so you could tell me how to run my life.”
“I’m only thinking about your own good!”
“You’re not my mother. And that line is a cop-out.”
Kendall’s normally pleasant face was set in a hard line. “Somebody has to do your thinking for you. Right now you act like life is one big party, but there’ll come a day when you’ll wake up and realize you’ve blown it. I don’t want that to happen.”
“How old are you again? I could have sworn you turned twenty-five last month, but you sound more like fifty-five.”
“Nick, come on!”
“Kendall, there’s lots of time for settling down. Right now, I just want to be free to do what I want to do.” Nick grinned ruefully. “Can you seriously see me in a three-piece pin stripe with a briefcase and Gucci loafers?”
But Kendall didn’t smile. “You’re really going to turn down my dad’s offer?”
“Your dad’s offer? But it was your idea, Kendall. You talked him into it. And you didn’t even ask me if I was interested.”
“I was going to surprise you! I thought you’d be thrilled. And I wasn’t sure he’d do it. As a matter of fact, I had the devil of a time talking him into taking you. And now…”
“And now?”
“Now, thanks to you, I’m going to look like a complete idiot! Nick, you’ve got to take this job!”
Surrounded by windows dressed with yard upon yard of fabric flowers in rose, blue, yellow, and white, seated on a matching soft floral chair, Ellen Brodie was able to take a few moments to sip a ginger ale and get herself ready. She smoothed the skirt of the chic turquoise dress from the small boutique on Yonge Street and patted her hair, which was dark brown freely intermixed with gray, and had been put up in as modern a style as her despairing hairdresser could get her to approve. Cutting it was out of the question. Her hair had been waist length all her life and she couldn’t fathom it any other way. Besides, George liked it long.
Her figure was good—comfortable, she called it. She’d put on a few pounds over the years, but not enough to worry about. In fact, she rarely worried. And she wasn’t worried now. Only she did hope this weekend went well.
As she looked through the glass doors at the patio with its brightly colored umbrella tables and fabulous gardens, she wanted to pinch herself. She still found it hard to believe this spectacular house—mansion, really—was hers. She had spent her entire life in Cabbagetown, one of the oldest areas in downtown Toronto: her childhood in a small, battered third-story apartment, her first four years with George in a dingy basement, the next ten years in a narrow row house, and finally, the last twenty-four in a very comfortable three-story house on a large, well-treed lot. Cabbagetown had been home.
But this spring, George had decided Cabbagetown was no longer good enough for them, and they should move far from the heart of the city to a suburb where other affluent people lived. It took some getting used to. She suspected her feelings were much like Cinderella’s might have been after the honeymoon when Prince Charming carried her over the threshold of the castle and said, “Okay, honey, this is home now.”
But this one room she loved. She smiled as her e
yes moved from the view through the patio doors to the interior of the room. She called it the “day room” because the real estate agent had deemed that to be the proper name, but she thought of it as her own personal refuge—a soft, gentle space, perhaps a little large with its numerous groupings of chairs and coffee tables, but bright and cheery and comfortable. The feminine equivalent of her husband’s heavy book-lined study. Only in this room did she really feel at home. But it was to be expected that it would take some time to get used to living in a mansion.
A bright whistle from outside broke into Ellen’s thoughts and she started, turning her head toward the now-open patio doors.
“Hello, Aunt Ellen.”
Ellen’s glass of ginger ale tumbled from suddenly numbed fingers. Amber liquid seeped into the thick rose carpeting.
A tall man in his mid-thirties stepped through the patio doors. Backlit by the bright sunshine, his silhouetted frame looked thin to Ellen, and somewhat stooped. His face, indistinct at first because it was cast into shadow by the intensity of the sunlight behind him, was an ordinary face, unremarkable except for the complete baldness of his shaven head.
He set down a worn dufflebag, walked over to pick up one of the foil-wrapped toffees threatening to overflow an elegant crystal swan candy dish, and sank into a floral recliner chair. “You’ve certainly done well for yourselves,” he said.
Ellen leaned toward him, her back stiff, every muscle taut. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“Just dropped in to see my favorite aunt.”
His favorite aunt looked anything but pleased to see him. “What have you done to your hair?” Her voice changed suddenly. “You aren’t sick, are you?”
“It was turning gray at an alarming rate. Made me look old. It was either dye it or shave it. This seemed easier. Besides, baldness is in these days. Very sexy.”
“Does George know you’re here?”
“Not yet.”
“Bart, you know how upset he’ll be. We have guests coming! There’s no room.”
“You mean you’d turn me out in the cold? Your own flesh and blood?”
“You aren’t either my flesh and blood! You’re George’s nephew. And it’s not cold out. It’s July, and so hot you could live outdoors easily. You probably have been.
“And what happened to the money George gave you? Surely you haven’t gone through it already? You know he said it had to last the rest of the year.”
“Slow down, Aunt Ellen. You’re getting all worked up. The truth is I’ve had a bit of bad luck. But I can get the money back with a little ingenuity. I was in the neighborhood, so I dropped in. I’ll leave if you don’t want me.”
Bart stood up and reached for his dufflebag. As he picked it up, he said, “Sure is hot out there. I had to walk for miles.”
Ellen said nothing.
At the open patio door, he turned. “Are you really going to send me penniless into the cruel world?”
She stared at him. There was something of her husband George there, and something of their son Kendall, too. But it was muted by the lines of dissipation on his face and the cynicism in his eyes. She hoped with all her heart that life would never do to Kendall what it had done to Bart.
“Well?” He set the bag down and held out his hands. “What’s the verdict?”
There was nothing about him that looked beggar-like. He wore an expensive black tweed sports coat, gray slacks, and a white silk shirt, and his loafers were thin, well-cut leather. But the clothes were dusty. And the way he shuffled his feet made her think they were sore. Neither the clothes nor the man were made for walking along a highway thumbing rides.
It must have been a year since she’d seen Bart last, though George had given him money a couple of times. He looked older and—and lost somehow. The baldness seemed to draw attention to every bone in his face. Made him look harsh, even tough. Made his eyes stand out. Hard eyes. Perhaps even wary? He must be thirty-five, the only son of George’s favorite sister, long dead. A hustler, sometimes living it up, sometimes owning only the shirt on his back. But the shirt was inevitably silk.
However, despite his faults, which were many, he was family, and despite the hard-nosed appearance George presented to both client and associate, he had a strong sense of family. Even though he’d never liked Bart’s father, and had been very angry with his sister for marrying him, for his sister’s sake he’d given Bart an allowance, which Bart had used for gambling. He’d pulled some strings to get Bart a job in a bank and then paid off the bank so that Bart wouldn’t be arrested for embezzlement. He’d offered all kinds of incentives for Bart to make something of himself, and, at last, offered to give him money so long as he stayed away—a modern version of the old remittance man.
But he hadn’t stayed away, and George would not be pleased to see him, especially not this weekend with the partners and their wives here. But then, she thought, Bart was always a good actor.
He was still standing, waiting for her, probably knowing how much she hated to make anyone unhappy.
“You might be useful,” she said at last. “You’ve always had a way with women.”
Bart raised his eyebrows quizzically.
When she didn’t continue, he asked, “What exactly do you have in mind?”
“Oh, come back and sit down! I shouldn’t even be thinking of this. What George will say—!”
The door was shut, the dufflebag dropped in a corner. Bart reached for another toffee before settling himself back in the recliner. “I’m all ears, my dear—no, my favorite, aunt.”
“Do you think you can exercise your charm for a weekend without straining yourself?”
“Are you implying that my charm is wearing thin?”
“Not at all. If you had half as much ambition as you do charm, you could probably get elected to the government.”
“How sweet of you to say so, and how intolerably revolting a thought.”
“Never mind. I’ve got your uncle’s law partners and their wives coming for the weekend. Can you concentrate on keeping the wives busy? You know, amuse them for me. They’ll be far more interested in talking to you than to me. If you can keep them happy, I’ll put in a good word for you with George.”
“When you phrase it that way, how can I possibly refuse?”
“You’ll have to see if Mrs. Winston has time to make up a bed for you. There’s an apartment for a chauffeur over the garage, but so far George hasn’t saddled us with one. I dare say there are a few mice, but they shouldn’t bother you.”
He chose to ignore her assumption that he was familiar with rodents. “And where do I find Mrs. Winston?”
“Go straight past the hallway when you go out of here and turn left at the first door. You’ll be in the kitchen. She should be there.”
“Oh, and Bart,” Ellen cautioned as he picked up his dufflebag, “don’t waste your charm on Crystal Winston. It wouldn’t be appreciated.”
“Crystal?”
“Mrs. Winston’s daughter. She’s eighteen and idealistic. Just the type who takes to you. So see you mind your own business where she’s concerned. George wouldn’t like it one bit if you made Mrs. Winston unhappy.”
He saluted. “I shall amuse wives, not maids.”
“See you do.”
He started to turn toward the kitchen.
“There’s one other girl who’s going to be here,” Ellen said thoughtfully. “Her name is Lorry.”
“Yes?”
“Stay away from her, too.”
Bart raised an eyebrow. “That sounds intriguing.”
“Not at all. She’s the daughter of my favorite cousin, and she’s not in the least your type.”
“Your cousin’s daughter, eh? Now why do I suspect something? Could she perhaps be Kendall’s type?”
“Perhaps. But it’s none of your business. Just stay away from her.”
“Your wish is my command.” He bowed to kiss her hand. “What time will they start arriving?”
�
�Dinner is at eight, but I told them they should try to come in the afternoon. To avoid traffic, you know. And they might like a dip in the pool first.”
“Then I’d better waste no time in getting settled and learning my way around so I’ll be ready to go into action when your guests arrive.”
He wandered toward the kitchen and Ellen leaned back in her chair. “Stupid,” she said aloud. “I should have sent him packing.”
That’s what George would say, and he would be right. George said she had a soft spot for Bart. Her only excuse was that most women did.
She stood up, and wetness seeped through the flimsy straps of her sandal.
The drink she’d spilled! She’d forgotten all about it. She hurried out to find a cloth and stain remover.
TWO
George Brodie glanced at the grandfather clock in one corner of his spacious office. Time he was packing it in for the day if he was going to be at the airport on time. Ellen was afraid Lorry would be upset if she arrived in that huge terminal and he wasn’t there to meet her and help with her luggage. And he supposed she might be right. Lorry had never been to Toronto before, and the large, bustling airport would no doubt be an intimidating place for a young girl from the country. Besides, he was having trouble concentrating on work.
He signed a few more papers and then buzzed his secretary. She was through the door in less time than one would have thought possible. Sometimes he wondered if she sat on the edge of her seat, poised to spring at the sound of the buzzer.
“Yes, sir?” said the woman as she advanced into the room. Nadia Estmanoth was in her fifties, with graying hair worn in a tight bun and a flowered sari covering her from chin to toes.
George smiled at his secretary. “I have to go and pick up my wife’s cousin’s girl. Which terminal was it?”
“Terminal two, Mr. Brodie. I was just coming to let you know it was time for you to leave. Won’t do to have her wandering around the airport looking for someone she’s never seen. How will you know her?”
Shaded Light: The Case of the Tactless Trophy Wife: A Paul Manziuk and Jacquie Ryan Mystery (The Manziuk and Ryan Mysteries Book 1) Page 3
