Legacy (Capitol Chronicles Book 5)

by Shirley Hailstock

  "What the hell are you doing?" he asked.

  "I've made coffee," she told him, recovering. She kept the emotion out of her voice. "I've prepared something for us to eat." To keep herself from having to endure the intensity of his stare she went to the stove and checked the food. "We need to talk."

  "I don't want you here." He came toward her.

  Erika sidestepped him. She moved to the sink and picked up two mismatched cups and saucers. Her heartbeat accelerated, but she kept quiet. She'd promised Carlton.

  "What are you doing?" Michael followed her.

  "I'm sure you can see what I'm doing."

  "Is there something wrong with you?" He grabbed her hand, taking the cup and stopping her actions. "Don't you know when you're not wanted?"

  She snatched her arm away, taking a step back and staring at him. She certainly understood when she wasn't wanted. It had been drummed into her since she was very young. Quickly she snatched the cup away from his hand and turned back to the table, making unnecessary adjustments to the knives and forks.

  "Look," he said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. It's just that I don't want. . .could you stop that?" After a moment he added. "Please?"

  Erika straightened and faced him in the only clean area in the place. She forced herself to remain still. He looked older than she had thought at first. When she'd seen him by the river she'd thought he was asleep, but judging by the look of him he hadn't slept in weeks. He had large bags under his bloodshot eyes. The episode at the door had brought her close enough to smell alcohol, if there had been any on him. She hadn't smelled it, so she attributed his state to some form of insomnia. She didn't know if it was voluntarily or not. His eyebrows were thick and bushy. By the stream she'd seen defined muscles, but now his clothes appeared baggy, hanging on his body as if he'd lost a lot of weight.

  "Say what you want to say and leave me in peace." His voice jarred her. "I don't want you cleaning my house, and I don't want you cooking meals for me."

  "You certainly look like you need someone to do it. How can you live in this filth?" Her gaze swept the room. Michael's didn't follow it.

  He put his hands up, palms facing out, to stop her when she would have gone on. Erika saw him weave as if he wouldn't be able to stand up for long.

  "Are you all right?" Involuntarily, she took a step toward him.

  "I'm fine. Just go!"

  She jumped at the force of his voice.

  "Sit down." She took another step toward him but stopped when his head came up and his look pinned her in place. He staggered to the sofa, now devoid of extraneous clothing, and sat down.

  "When was the last time you ate? Or slept, for that matter?"

  "I'm not your responsibility," he shouted. "My rituals are none of your business." His hand went to his stomach, rubbing it as if he were in pain. Erika recognized hunger.

  "You ought to be somebody's," she muttered. "You obviously haven't eaten in way too long." The food was ready. She made the plates at the stove and placed them on the small table. She called him, instinctively knowing he'd hate it if she came to help him.

  "Would you like to eat there?" She hadn't done more in that area of the room than remove dirty clothes to get at the decaying food. She wanted to talk to him, but she preferred the cleanliness of the kitchen area.

  “What I’d like is to be left alone.”

  “Well that’s not going to happen,” she told him with a commanding tone. “I made a promise to a man who was like a grandfather to me and I plan to keep it.”

  “What does that have to do with me? I don’t know you and I don’t know anyone named Carlton. ”

  “It has everything to do with you and your future. Mine too.”

  “Leave my future out of this. I control it.”

  Erika scanned the area by the sofa. “Doing a great job at it, I see.”

  “Look, lady, how I choose to spend my time and how I choose to live has nothing to you with you. I don’t need your approval and you can take you disapproval off this mountain.”

  Erika understood his anger and his defenses. As humble an abode as this was, it was his and his rights were paramount in his eyes. She had not right to condemn them.

  “I apologize,” she said. “You’re correct in every aspect, but one.”

  “And that is?”

  “Carlton was like a grandfather to me, but he was your grandfather. Bloodline. Heritage. Ancestry. You get them without condition and totally free of charge.”

  ***

  What was she talking about? Michael didn't want her here. She was too much a part of another world. He'd left that world behind and wanted nothing more to do with it. He didn't want her food, either. Even though it smelled like a piece of heaven and he hadn't eaten in longer than he could remember, he wanted to be alone. The aroma made his stomach juices churn, attesting to the fact that he had not given them proper attention today. She was smart, though. If she couldn’t get his attention by the lake she’d use his apparent condition. He knew he’d lost weight by the number of belt notches he could now reach. It wasn’t a huge leap for an observant eye to tell he could use a good meal. Michael had been here a while, but not so long that he didn’t recognize manipulation when he saw it. She was going to get her way using one method or another. This time he knew he would eat. She’d won, but this was only one battle. In the long run she’d lose the war.

  She wasn't going to come and get him. She was asking him to give a little. The carrot she hung over him could be considered cruel and unusual punishment.

  Michael stared at her. Something about her stance told him she wasn't leaving until she'd talked to him about this grandfather she claimed he had. He wasn't in the mood to fight with her, and he was hungry. He could eat with her and then send her packing.

  Michael had never set eyes on Erika St. James, yet she knew how to broil his steak to perfection. She'd made delicious potatoes. He'd never cared for broccoli, but hers was covered in a liquid cheese sauce that added a wonderful taste to the crunchy vegetable. Even the iced tea tasted heavenly. He'd helped himself to seconds and thirds. Pushing his plate aside, he felt much better. He'd forgotten what a home-cooked meal tasted like. For a moment he considered how quickly he could get used to meals like this. Then he remembered they entailed returning to the city, and he'd vowed he wouldn't do that.

  Erika took his plate away and washed the dishes. He watched her without comment. She wasn't his type of woman—too tall, her features too sharp. Yet there was something about the way her waist curved in and her hips flared out that drew his gaze and had him shifting in his chair.

  The sun set in the August sky and twilight settled over the cabin. It had a generator for the electric lights, but he hadn't used it in the year he'd been there. The yellow glow of kerosene lamps he'd never noticed bathed the room, and Erika, in a soft hue.

  "Can we talk now?" she asked, placing the wet dishtowel over the sink and bringing the coffeepot to the table. Pouring two cups, she set the pot on the stove and returned.

  "Who is Carlton—" Michael raised his eyebrows in question.

  "Lipton-Graves. Carlton Lipton-Graves," she supplied.

  "Are you related to him?" In the back of his mind Michael wanted to know. If she proved a relationship between him and Carlton Lipton-Graves, would there also be a blood connection between the two of them? Ironically, he hoped not.

  She shook her head. "He was my friend. He practically raised me." She smiled and Michael thought her memories must be happy.

  "Was?" he asked.

  She hesitated, taking a breath. "Carlton died ten days ago."

  "I'm sorry," he said. She didn't bow her head or lower her gaze from his, but he could see her eyes misted with tears. She blinked only once and the tears receded. Michael took a drink from his cup, feeling at a loss for what to say. "What do you want with me?" he asked.

  "Before he died," she said quietly, "he told me you were his grandson."

  "He had to be talking about a di
fferent Michael Lawrence."

  "He showed me your picture."

  "He's wrong. I have no grandparents. They all died years ago." Michael remembered wanting grandparents. Every other kid had them. They had programs at school when he was a child that involved inviting them. Some kids went to stay with their grandparents, and some of them got presents. Michael had wanted that, longed for it, but he'd never said a word to his parents. It wasn't to be his fate—he knew that—not then, and not now.

  "What does a picture prove?" he asked. His picture had been in the papers for months. Cameras flashed in his face all the time. Anyone could have taken a picture.

  He looked back at Erika. Why didn't he show her the door? Why did he feel as if there was something intriguing about her, something she wanted to tell him and he wanted to hear? Darkness fell fast on the mountain and the roads were steep and unlighted. It would be hospitable for him to invite her to stay the night, but he didn't want her here. If she planned to get anywhere tonight, she should leave now. He should remind her of that. Why didn't he?

  "Carlton's lawyers had a file on you—birth certificates, blood test results. There is no mistake. Your father was Carlton's son, Kevin. He married Edith Edwards thirty-eight years ago on May seventh. A year later you were born, and before your first birthday Kevin Lipton-Graves died in a plane crash."

  "My father's name was Robert Lawrence. He taught Honors English at the local high school in New Brunswick, New Jersey, where I grew up. He died of a heart attack when I was seventeen."

  "Robert Lawrence married your mother when you were three years old. He adopted you, had your name legally changed to Lawrence, and raised you as his son."

  Michael didn't believe her. His mother wouldn't keep this kind of secret. She would never have done anything like keep information away from him. Erika St. James had either concocted this elaborate practical joke, or she had the wrong man.

  "You don't believe me." She stated it as fact.

  "My parents would have told me."

  Erika thought of her mother. Mothers didn't always do what they should, what was expected of them. "They should have," Erika said quietly.

  "You have the wrong man."

  "There were blood tests, DNA matches." She shook her head slowly. "There are no mistakes."

  He frowned. "When were these tests done?" Michael knew blood tests were used to identify paternity. DNA matches were like fingerprints; no two were the same. He'd used them himself, to get child support payments for children when he practiced law.

  "Right after your father died."

  "Why?"

  He already knew the answer, but he waited and let Erika swallow while she formulated the words.

  "Apparently, someone wanted to prove Kevin Lipton-Graves was your father."

  "Maybe they wanted to prove he wasn't." He smiled, slipping easily into the role of prosecutor.

  Erika gasped. Her eyes opened wide. Michael couldn't stop the immediate response that gripped him when he surprised her. She obviously hadn't thought of any other reason for the tests.

  "Does it make sense?"

  "I—I don't know," she stuttered, then recovered. "If Carlton wanted to prove you weren't his grandson, why would his dying words be of you?"

  Michael thought about that. He didn't have any idea what he should feel. Carlton Lipton-Graves meant nothing to him. He tried to think of what he'd feel if his mother died and her last words were of him. Suddenly Abby's face crowded in on him. What had been her last thoughts before she died? Had she called her children's names? He couldn't remember.

  He got up and walked to the door. The sun was completely gone. Stars dotted the sky like silver glitter. The air, cold enough to penetrate his shirt, caused goose bumps on his skin. He thought about what Erika had said. Why should he even consider it? Could she be right? Was there any truth to what she'd said? Had his mother kept this secret from him for the past thirty-seven years? Had his dad not been his real father? Were his brothers only half-brothers? He'd known he was different from them. While the three of them were unmistakably related, he hadn't looked like them at all. He looked like his mother. That was the explanation he'd given himself, never voicing a question except in anger, as all children do. Erika's story would support his. . .

  He stopped. It wouldn't. She'd given him a suggestion and he was letting it push its way into his thoughts. His grandparents were dead. He'd seen pictures of them, both sets of them. He remembered thinking his genes had to reach back further than their generation. Believing her would explain why he looked so different from those on his family tree, why he could see none of his father in his own face. Michael closed the door and turned back. She was wrong. She had to be.

  "It's dark now. I think you'd better finish up if you plan to get off this mountain before morning." He was angry. She'd thrown his equilibrium off the moment he'd seen her, and now that he'd been in her company for over an hour, he found he liked talking to her, hearing her voice. There was something about her, something deeper than the face she showed to the outside world. It was power, like in his car engine, underlying and apt to break free with the slightest touch of his foot on the accelerator. He wondered if she'd respond in the same manner. Where was her accelerator? Then he didn't want to know. He wanted her gone. He wanted to be alone, to extinguish the lamps so he couldn't see the places where she had been. Somehow he knew that even when she no longer sat at his table, no longer stood at his sink, he would be able to see her there.

  She stood up, glancing toward the window over the sink. "I made a reservation on my way up. I need to get there before too long."

  "Where?"

  "A motel, a few miles back."

  "The closest motel is at least a two hour drive down this mountain. You stopped there?" His eyebrows were raised in surprise.

  "No, I saw the sign and called."

  "Phone in the car?"

  "Pocket,” she said, her hand sliding over to the bump, evidence of its safety. “You're right. I should be going, and I'm not looking forward to the drive." She took a breath. "Michael, it's important that you believe what I've told you."

  "Why?"

  "I need your help. Carlton's will left everything to us."

  "What! Why? He didn't even know me."

  "You're his grandson."

  "I'm not his grandson. I have no grandparents." He stopped, taking a long breath. "I've enjoyed talking with you tonight. I liked your food. But you've done nothing to convince me that Carlton Lipton-Graves and I have anything in common."

  "I've told you about the blood tests and the DNA. What do you want?"

  "You said he practically raised you. What does that mean?"

  She smiled. Michael leaned forward. He liked the way her cheekbones made a picture of her face. Her eyes lit up.

  "I went to Carlton's every day after school from the time I was eight years old. He helped me with my homework, taught me values, refused to let me hate or love too quickly."

  She looked down as she said the last part. Michael wondered what that meant, but didn't interrupt her.

  "He met my boyfriends when I began to date and treated me as if I were his grand—"

  She stopped.

  "He treated you as a granddaughter, but he never once came to see me. Why is that?" He took a step toward Erika. She moved back.

  "I don't know. We may never know the answer to that, but I can tell you, he was the kindest man I've ever known."

  "You said he was your friend. Are you a distant relative? The daughter of a cousin or an old maid aunt, or even an old war buddy?"

  Erika shook her head. "We're not related in any way."

  Michael stared at her for a moment. He knew his manner put her on a witness stand. "You are in no way related to Carlton Lipton-Graves, yet you're the person who shared his life, acted as his granddaughter, presided over his house and funeral, even administered his will?"

  "It's not like that," she began.

  "But I am his grandson, according to
you. I am a blood relation who has no knowledge that he even existed. When he was dying did he call for a relative? No, he called for you." Michael stopped a moment, then continued. "I don't believe anything you've told me. If I had a grandfather alive, my mother would have told me about him. And even if she hadn't, what prevented him from coming to me? It's not like I'm an impressionable child. I'm thirty-seven years old, certainly capable of understanding the information."

  "I can't explain Carlton's actions. I only know that he told me you were his grandson, the lawyers confirmed it, and he left his estate to us."

  "Well I don't want it. Now you've delivered your news. You can take it back to his lawyers and tell them to leave me alone."

  "You mean you won't help me?"

  "Exactly." He came to stand directly in front of her. "I'm not sure about you. I haven't decided if you're telling the truth or if you have another reason for being here."

  "What other reason could I have for driving all the way up this mountain?"

  "You could have been sent by my firm or my family to get me to leave here. They've tried everything and nothing has worked."

  "I don't know anyone in your family other than Carlton. It is my purpose to get you to leave here," she confirmed. "I'd hoped you'd return with me."

  Erika thought he must make a worthy legal adversary. He even looked different. Gone was the gaunt looking man she'd fed. In his place stood a strong opponent.

  "Michael—" She took a step that brought her within arms reach of him. Her hands came up. She'd been about to touch him when she saw what she was doing. Stepping back, she brought her hands down. Her eyes locked with his, and for the space of a lifetime they stared at each other.

  Michael cleared his throat, breaking the bonds that held them suspended. Erika turned to face the sink and let her breath out.

  "If you're planning to get to that motel, you'd better leave." Michael was behind her, but close.

  She turned back, looking about confused as if she couldn't find something. When she arrived she'd left her jacket in the truck. It was still there.