by Donna Ball
She did not return any of his calls. She did, however call his office and leave a message with Mrs. Harrison explaining that she had already taken Alyssa shopping and there was no need for him to send any more boxes.
He was annoyed. “Impossible. There’s nothing in the village but T-shirts and sundries. The only clothing Alyssa has are school uniforms. She’ll need shoes and—”
“I believe Ms. Graves said something about Lyon, sir.”
“She took her to Lyon?” Ash didn’t know why that surprised him so. “How?”
“There is a train,” Mrs. Harrison pointed out.
Ash muttered, “Yes, I suppose there is.”
“Apparently she needed some things to make their stay more comfortable,” Mrs. Harrison went on, “since the château is not set up for young visitors. She asked if I could recommend a supplier of children’s furniture, so I rang up Mr. Finnish and asked him to send her a catalogue. I trust that was appropriate.”
He looked at her suspiciously. “It sounds as though you had a lovely chat.”
“She seems a pleasant enough person. Quite attached to the little one.”
“She’d be a lot more pleasant,” replied Ash irritably, “if she’d return my calls.”
The next voice mail he left pointed out that as Alyssa’s guardian and administrator of her trust, it was his responsibility to supply her basic necessities and Sara was not to return any more of his checks. Furthermore, he reminded her in no uncertain terms that part of their agreement was that she would keep her mobile phone turned on and with her at all times. The next several messages pointed out that she was in unquestionable violation of her part of the bargain and that there were consequences—he stopped short of spelling out what they might be—for her behavior.
She sent a message, via Mrs. Harrison, to remind him that she had agreed to keep her phone turned on and on her person and that she had done so. But that did not mean, “And I quote, sir,” said Mrs. Harrison, “ ‘that I have to answer every time the fool thing rings.’ ”
Ash glared at her. “Did she say anything else?”
“Yes, sir. She wondered if I thought teal would be a suitable color for draperies in a little girl’s room.”
Ash considered and rejected a number of pithy remarks—none of which would be suitable for Mrs. Harrison’s ears—and finally decided on, “Oh, bloody hell. Get Argentina on the telephone for me.”
To which she replied, “The entire country, sir, or is there someone in particular you had in mind?”
He decided then and there that he did not approve of Sara’s relationship with Mrs. Harrison. She was definitely exerting a bad influence.
Dixie said, sounding alarmed, “Wait a minute. Are you telling me you’re moving to France? Right now? Without talking to anyone or packing or . . .”
“No,” Sara said. “I mean, yes. What I mean is, not exactly.” She blew out a breath and sank down on the floor, leaning her head back against the wall. “I don’t know.” She closed her eyes briefly. “God, Dixie, it all happened so fast. I didn’t have time to think. I just had to do something, and if I hadn’t done it quickly, I mean, within a matter of hours, that crazy woman, that ex-wife of Ash’s, would have filed a suit that could have kept the estate tied up in court for years. I couldn’t have cared less, personally, but the little girl, Alyssa . . . she’s an orphan. This is all she has. I couldn’t let someone steal it from her like that.”
“But . . .” Sara could sense Dixie’s frantic effort to try to make sense of all the things she had learned—so outrageously, so unexpectedly—in the past few minutes. “Didn’t you say you still don’t have clear title to the estate? Why wouldn’t Ash let you buy out his shares?”
“Because he’s an ass,” returned Sara shortly. Then, in an effort to be fair, she added, “He did say he would clear the title if I could come up with the cash. Frankly, I think he just wants to hold something over me—or maybe over Daniel. Maybe that crazy Michele is right about him. He’s obsessed with this place. Maybe he just doesn’t want to give up control.”
“And he’s the little girl’s guardian?”
Sara sighed. “That’s what makes it complicated.”
“Sara . . .” Dixie sounded worried. “You don’t think that he and his ex-wife are in on this together, do you? To try to cheat you out of the estate?”
Sara rubbed her eyes wearily. “God, I don’t know what to think. My instincts say Ash is an honest man . . . or as honest as a lawyer can be, anyway. And I think he really cares about Alyssa, and any man who’s that good with children has to have some redeeming characteristics. But I thought Daniel was honorable, too. So all that proves is that I have lousy judgment where men are concerned.”
“Oh, Sara,” Dixie said softly. “I’m so sorry.”
Sara swallowed hard, and couldn’t speak for a moment. “I don’t know if I can ever forgive Daniel,” she managed after a time, in a low voice, “or myself, for believing in him. But when I look at her . . .” A smile made its way to the surface, and the tension left Sara’s shoulders and neck. “She’s such a miracle, Dixie. I look at her and I feel like I’m in a Hallmark commercial. I’m just blown away by what a human being can be, you know? By how bright and perfect and innocent and funny and full of unmitigated potential we all start out. And she’s so smart! She already knows more English words that I know French ones.
“Yesterday . . .” Sara’s voice picked up energy as she spoke, and she even laughed as little, remembering. “I was moving some furniture—it’s a long story but you wouldn’t believe what a job I’ve had, trying to turn a castle into a home for a little girl—and I dropped a dresser drawer on my foot and it really hurt. I guess I said a few words I’m glad she didn’t understand in English, and I sat down on the floor and took off my shoe and was rocking back and forth, you know, and she ran up and dropped down on the floor and kissed my toe! And then she put her little hands on my face and looked at me really solemn-like, and she said, ‘Je t’aime, Tante Sara.’ That means ‘I love you’ in French.”
By now Sara was misty-eyed, simply from relating the incident, and she pushed at the tears with the heel of her hand. “Oh, I know, I’m a total sucker. But she’s got me by the heart-strings. I’m crazy about her. And sometimes I think . . .” She drew in a breath. “I made a choice, you know, between having a family, and having a career. And for years I was okay with that. Then I wasn’t. Now I think that maybe . . . if there’s any good that’s come from marrying Daniel, it wasn’t inheriting this château, no matter how much it’s worth. It was in finding Alyssa.”
There was a mother’s warmth in Dixie’s voice as she said softly, “I understand. And I’m so happy for you. But . . .” There was always a but. “I don’t know what this means. If she has a guardian already, what does that make you?”
Sara sighed. “Right now, her temporary babysitter.”
Dixie hesitated. “And . . . later?”
“I think . . .” Another careful, almost wondering, breath. “I want to adopt her.”
Dixie didn’t say anything for the length of time it took several heartbeats to cross an ocean. And then, “Wow.”
Sara rushed on, “Of course, it’s not going to be that easy, with a ten-million-dollar estate hanging in the balance and that crazy Michele trying to do whatever she can to get her hands on it and Ash refusing to cooperate, but once the paternity test comes back I’ll have a much stronger case. That’s why it’s so important to do this, do you see?”
“Oh Sara,” Dixie said softly. “This is big. This is huge.”
And Sara agreed, “I know.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Did you?” challenged Sara. “When you finally got pregnant with the twins?”
Dixie laughed softly. After twelve years of failed attempts, fertility treatments, and in vitro fertilization procedures, Dixie would be the first to admit that what had seemed like the answer to a lifetime of prayers had turned out to be
nothing like she had expected. “All right,” she said. “All right. What can I do to help?”
“Just send me the things I asked for. As soon as my laptop gets here, I’ll e-mail you. Ash has got to have an Internet connection installed here somewhere; I just haven’t been able to find it yet. I can’t be wasting any more money on international phone calls now that I’m a homeowner . . . castle owner. You’ve got the list, right?”
“Right here. Computer, books, summer clothes, tennis shoes . . . No winter coats?” she prompted, only half teasing.
Sara hesitated. “I’ll let you know.”
Dixie said fervently, “I hope everything works out the way you want it to, Sara. But if it doesn’t . . . you know where home is.”
Sara smiled softly, almost to herself, and closed her eyes. “Yeah,” she said. “I do.”
When Dixie hung up the kitchen phone, Jeff said, “When is she coming home?”
Dixie sighed. “I don’t know.”
“How’s she doing?”
Dixie turned to him, her expression helpless and concerned, and admitted, “I don’t know.”
One of the few pleasures Ash had allowed himself throughout this entire interminable debacle was the moment he called the inestimable Mr. Winkle into his office. Theodore Winkle was twenty-eight years old, had graduated top of his class, and was good-looking enough to model underwear for Calvin Klein. Ash found himself hoping, rather absently, that Sara never had cause to meet with her solicitor in person.
And that surprised him.
However, that uneasiness was offset by the satisfaction he took in the fine film of perspiration he could see beginning to form at Winkle’s hairline as he held him there in the uncomfortable lime green chair, in silence, for one minute; two. It was going on three minutes when Winkle finally burst out, “Sir, I know why you’ve called me here. In my defense, I should like to say that I joined this firm out of the greatest regard for its reputation of integrity and high moral standards, two qualities which are sadly lacking in today’s world of international commerce, wouldn’t you agree, sir?”
Ash nodded, slowly, tipping the Montblanc in careful balance between the forefingers of two hands, watching him.
Winkle straightened his shoulders. The perspiration was beginning to sheen his upper lip now. “When you assigned me the Rondelais matter, I resolved to carry it through with the same unwavering dedication to the client’s best interests that you have always impressed upon me as being tantamount to the corporate creed of Lindeman and Lindeman. I felt a particular responsibility in this respect, since the party in question was the widow of a personal friend of yours—and my abject sympathies, on his passing, which I may not have properly expressed before—and since you, yourself, sir, had a personal financial stake in the matter. I believe I handled everything according to form until the young lady approached me with certain . . .” He hesitated, and cleared his throat. “New information, and a proposal for resolving the matter which, if I may say so sir, even I could not have come up with on such short notice. I then acted as I presumed you would wish me to act on behalf of the client. If this has inconvenienced you in any way, I apologize but . . .” And he set his jaw in a very Sir Galahad fashion and declared, “I stand by the letter of the law, and I believe I have acted accordingly.”
Ash said, “Well-done.”
The satisfaction was in seeing every well-formed muscle in Theodore Winkle’s body sag in relief. “Sir?”
“I said, well-done. You’ve acted exactly as I would expect a representative of this organization to do. I shall count upon you in the future to continue to hold high the standard of Lindeman and Lindeman, without fear or compromise.”
“Sir, I—thank you, sir.” Winkle simply sat there, looking stunned and deflated.
Ash said, “You expected something more?”
“To be honest,” he admitted, “I rather expected to be sacked . . . or if not, to be transferred to Bulgaria.”
Ash’s lips twitched. “Fortunately for you, our offices in Bulgaria are fully staffed.” And he sobered. “But you’re right. My involvement in this situation, both from a personal and financial perspective, makes it imperative that you represent your client’s interest with vigor and dedication. What Sara wants, Sara gets, if at all feasible within the law. Are we clear on that, Mr. Winkle?”
Winkle blinked, several times. “Absolutely, sir. Absolutely.”
“Excellent. You may expect a twenty percent bonus in this period’s pay, if that’s acceptable.”
“Yes, sir.” Winkle scrambled to his feet. “Thank you, sir.”
Ash dismissed him, and he couldn’t help smiling as he watched the younger man go. There were, after all, distinct advantages to a twenty-year seniority. One of them was, of course, being the boss.
He buzzed Mrs. Harrison, feeling lucky today. “Ring up Sara in France, if you’d be so kind.”
“On her mobile, sir?”
He scowled. “Since she has no other means of communication, yes, on her mobile, if it’s no trouble.”
“One moment, then, sir.”
Several moments later, Mrs. Harrison appeared in his office, her expression as always implacable. “Ms. Graves regrets that since she is currently engaged in putting Miss Alyssa down for her nap, she cannot take your call at the moment, and suggests that, if you have anything of import to say, you leave a message.”
His temper surged, and he stood up from behind his desk, lending power to his words. “You may inform Ms. Graves for me . . .”
“Excuse me, sir,” interrupted Mrs. Harrison with only slightly raised eyebrows, “but are we ten?”
He scowled at her. “What?”
“It merely occurs to me,” she replied calmly, “that whatever difficulties you are having in communicating with Ms. Graves might be resolved if you attempted to do so in person.”
He stared at her for the longest time. “Yes, of course,” he said, moving briskly from behind the desk. “Excellent suggestion. I’m going to Rondelais.”
“Actually, sir,” Mrs. Harrison reminded him gently, “You’re going to Amsterdam.”
He stared at her for another frustrated, disbelieving minute. But in the end, he went to Amsterdam.
He also went to Singapore, Milan, and Salzburg over the next three weeks. He had dinner with a woman in Austria whom he had been seeing, off and on, for more than a year whenever he was in town. She seemed surprised when he declined her invitation to finish their evening together, as was customary, at her apartment. So was he.
He stopped leaving voice messages for Sara and started texting her instead. This worked only to the extent that he would occasionally receive a one-word reply from her. “Is Alyssa well or shall I send the gendarmerie?” received a simple “Well” from her. And, “In Rome. Do you need anything?” was met with “No.” And, perhaps most infuriating of all, when he sent a simple “Weekend?” her reply was “Busy.”
And to top it all off, the bloody stupid dream had returned, sometimes waking him in the middle of the night, always leaving him feeling shaken and empty and aching for something he could never have.
He surprised his mother with a middle-of-the-week visit for no reason at all.
Shortly after his father’s death, his mother had sold their London townhome and retired to the country manse of a former squire in Northampton, where she became a scion of her own sort of society. She was, at seventy-two, still vigorous and still beautiful, with a flawless English complexion and platinum hair that she often wore swept up in a fetching Gibson girl, or occasionally, particularly when jumping her horses, in a shamelessly youthful braid over one shoulder. She headed the Society for the Enrichment of British Social Customs, the Ladies for a Better Tomorrow, and was the chapter president of the United Kingdom Kennel Club—despite the fact that she did not actually own a dog. She knew everyone worth knowing, and, perhaps most important, didn’t particularly care.
“It was all rather lovely,” she recounted now, “unti
l Lady Willingsley’s poodle lifted his leg on the cake. Fortunately, no one noticed but me, so I simply cut that part away and served it anyway.”
Ash, who had been gazing distractedly out the misty window, stopped with his Scotch halfway to his lips. “Mother, you didn’t.”
“No, of course not.” She sipped her own whiskey complacently. “I merely wished to see if you were paying attention.”
He gave her a weak, apologetic smile. “Your pardon. I suppose I have been rather inattentive.”
“You’re a horrid guest,” she informed him. “I really wish you wouldn’t come at all if you can’t manage to do better.”
He made a visible effort to focus. “I’ve some good news. I think we may soon be signing on the Dejonge family.”
His mother, who was top-notch when it came to all things business, raised an eyebrow. “Now, that is impressive. Your father tried to collect them in 1973.”
“They’ve always been very peculiar about keeping all of their associations in-country. And of course they can dictate whatever terms they wish since they’ve held a monopoly on the South African diamond trade for over a hundred years. However . . .” He allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction into the Scotch. “I’ve good reason to believe all that is about to change.”
“You’ll be a part of history, then, my dear. It all must be terribly exciting for you.”
“It is, rather.”
But he did not seem particularly excited, and soon fell into a brooding silence again.
“You look tired, Ash,” his mother observed, after a time.
He admitted, “I haven’t been sleeping, to tell the truth.”
“You should take more exercise.”
“Perhaps.”
“A bit of fresh air wouldn’t hurt.”
“No doubt.” His brow furrowed briefly as he gazed into his Scotch. “Mother, do you happen to remember when I was a boy—perhaps on holiday—an occasion when we had an outing in a meadow by a river, and children tossed a red ball back and forth. There was a woman with a big hat . . . could it have been you?”
