by Janet Dailey
“He sounded mad.”
Sondra didn’t bother to deny that as the pickup roared off. “He just found out she’s going to sell the ranch her father left her.”
“She and Dad danced together at that party. Buffy showed me a picture of them in the newspaper. Dad said she was a friend.”
“She used to be.” Sondra seriously doubted that they would be much longer. Nothing could have pleased her more.
“The paper said she was an actress.”
“Yes.”
“Gramps says the people from Hollywood are full of themselves.”
“People often make a fuss over them. I suppose it’s only natural that all the attention would go to their heads and make them think they were better than others.”
“I guess.”
“Are you going to walk me to my car? I have to get back to town.”
“Sure.” Laura reached for her hand, clasping it firmly.
A shiny new automatic coffee maker filled the counter space to the left of the sink. Kit wandered to the other side and hopped up on the counter to sit with her legs dangling. Idly she plucked a carrot stick from the tray of raw vegetables Paula was arranging. She bit off the tip and chewed disinterestedly.
“Try some of this vegetable dip. It’s delicious.” Paula paused in her task to dip a broccoli floret in the dill-flavored sauce. “Even if I did make it myself.” She popped the coated vegetable into her mouth.
“No thanks.” Kit toyed with her carrot stick.
“Kit Masters-refusing a tasty tidbit? My, we are in a mood, aren’t we?”
“Don’t,” Kit protested with a faint flash of irritability and jumped down from the counter, giving the rest of the carrot a toss into the wastebasket.
“It’s the weather. It would give anybody the glums,” Paula said, watching as Kit wandered over to a side window and plunged her hands in the pockets of her brown jeans.
“It’s not that.” She stared out the window at the premature dusk settling on the ridge top. “I think I’m just angry that I have to sell the ranch.”
And it bothered her that she’d started thinking it was her mother’s fault. It was unfair to blame her. It certainly hadn’t been her mother’s choice to have multiple sclerosis. Which only made Kit that much more ashamed of this vague, niggling resentment she felt. Maybe if they’d been closer-she cut off the thought and sighed.
“Personally, I vote for building a roaring fire in the fireplace and spending the entire evening in front of it, sipping hot toddies and grousing about life.”
“Air it all out-and all that jazz,” Kit said without turning from the window.
“Something like that. Did somebody just drive in? I thought I heard a car.”
“I don’t know. I can’t see from here.” She thought she heard the faint, muffled slam of a door and frowned. “I wonder who that could be. I’ll check.”
“I’ll bet it’s Chip. He and John probably had another fight over the script and he’s come to cry on my shoulder. I wish he’d stop being such a damn prima donna,” she muttered, then called after Kit. “Tell him I’ll be right there.”
Kit had taken one step into the living room when the front door burst open. “Bannon.” She stopped in surprise.
He pushed the door shut with a backward shove of his hand, the glass panes rattling at the impact. Kit noticed two things simultaneously: one, he didn’t take off his hat; Bannon always took off his hat the minute he set foot in a house; and two, the look on his face-that granite-hard impassivity printed from cheekbone to cheekbone, the kind of expression made by muscles tightly set.
“What are you doing here? What’s wrong?” She frowned.
“I’m here to find out if it’s true,” he replied in a voice that was too quiet, too controlled.
“If what’s true?”
“That you’re selling the ranch.”
“You’ve talked to Sondra,” she guessed and wondered why she hadn’t anticipated that.
“Then it is true.” If anything, his expression grew harder.
“Yes. I was going to tell you-”
“When? Before or after the bulldozers showed up?” he challenged.
“Before, of course.” She curled her fingers into the palms of her hand, trying to hold on to her temper. She hated his quiet anger, an anger that lost none of its impact despite the quietness of it. She wished he would curse or shout at her. She could have handled that better because she could have thrown it back. But Bannon never had fought fair.
“Why, Kit?” he demanded. “You told me you didn’t want to sell it.”
“I don’t! But I have to. I need the money.”
“The talk we had on my porch the other night-the minute you heard this ranch could be worth ten million, you started seeing dollar signs.” His dark eyes were black with accusation. No, it was harsher than that. It was condemnation she saw in them. Condemnation mingled with disgust.
“I don’t want the money for myself. I need it for my mother.” She moved into the room, too upset, too angry, too agitated to stand in one spot the way Bannon did. “You have no idea how expensive it is to keep her in that hospital,” she said tightly, hurling the words over a shoulder. “She doesn’t have any health insurance and the annuity of thirty thousand dollars a year her aunt left her doesn’t even begin to pay all the costs.”
“There are programs,” he began.
“She doesn’t qualify for any of them because her yearly income is too high. I know. I’ve applied to all of them. I’ve filled out so many forms and applications for this agency or that program, I think I could do it in my sleep. I even had a lawyer in L.A. see if there wasn’t some way we could break my aunt’s will, stop the annuity so my mother could qualify. We can’t.”
“There are other ways. Maybe if you worked-”
“What do you think I’ve been doing?” She picked up one of the sofa’s pillows and threw it back down, barely-just barely-stopping herself from throwing it at him. “What do you think I’m doing here? Do you think I came for the fun of it? I’m here to work-to film a movie.”
“So why the urgency to sell the ranch? From what I’ve read, it’s a movie everyone predicts will make you a star.”
“But I’m not one yet, am I?” Kit argued. “And I may never be one. Even if I did hit it big, would it last? Would I make enough to take care of my mother for the rest of her life? Sure, you hear about Tom Cruise or Harrison Ford getting ten or fifteen million dollars for a picture. But what did Meryl Streep get for her last one? Or Glen Close, or any other top female star? You can bet they were lucky to get a tenth of what a top male star would get. Then their agent gets a chunk out of that. Plus, there’s a manager, publicist, and secretaries who have to be paid. Don’t forget Uncle Sam wants his share, too. And what if it doesn’t last beyond one picture? There’s no such thing as security in this business. When you’re hot, everybody wants you, and when you’re ice, they won’t even put you in their drinks.” She gripped the back of the couch. “There are too many ifs-if I make it, if I earn enough, if I can stay on top for five years or more. I can’t risk it. It’s too big a gamble.”
“But selling the ranch, Kit,” Bannon protested tightly. “My God, your father must be turning over in his grave.”
“That’s not true. If he was alive, he’d be doing just what I’m doing so he could take care of Mother.” That was her one consolation in all this, knowing he would endorse her decision. “Damn it, Bannon, you don’t understand. Her bills already total close to one hundred thousand dollars. The doctors have told me she could live for another thirty years, but she’s never going to get better. She’s never going to be able to leave that hospital. The bills will never stop coming in. The way medical costs are constantly rising, the bills are just going to get bigger and bigger. I have to sell the ranch. It’s the only way I can be sure there will be enough money to take care of her.”
Bannon tipped his head down for a silent moment, then lifted it. “Why didn’t y
ou tell me all this before, Kit?”
“Because it didn’t concern you. It’s my responsibility and my problem.”
“But if I’d known about it, maybe I could have gotten the state or one of the environmentalist groups to buy it for a wildlife preserve. Not for ten million, but for one maybe or-”
“It’s not enough,” she cut him off. “I’m sorry for not telling you of my decision, but I am selling the ranch-and I don’t care whether you like it or not.”
His expression took on that tight, closed-in look again. “That’s about as plain as you can put it.” He turned and walked out the door.
Kit stood behind the sofa, not moving, listening to his footsteps, the slam of the truck door, the growl of the engine. She wrapped her arms around her middle, hurting for herself-and for him.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sunlight streamed through a break in the clouds and spilled over the liver-colored brick that paved Aspen’s open mall. From the window of her private, second-story office, Sondra watched as Kit Masters stepped out of the agency’s entrance, then paused to slip a folded copy of the listing agreement inside her purse. With a slight toss of her head, Kit shook back the loose mass of honey blond hair and moved off, angling across the square, briefly disappearing behind the diamond sparkle of the fountain’s spray.
Idly Sondra ran her fingers up and down the top edge of the original copy of the agreement, then glanced at the signature on the bottom that so clearly spelled out Kit Masters’s name. There was a faint, almost feline quality to the sober curve of her lips, one that matched the gleam in her eyes.
Both vanished the instant she heard the clink of crystal in the room. In a fluid turn, she faced away from the window. Warren stood in front of the lacquered Chinese cabinet, a decanter of Courvoisier in his hand.
A carefully bleached eyebrow lifted in cool censure. “Helping yourself to my private stock, Warren?”
“A minor celebration is in order.” He smiled with easy confidence and splashed portions of brandy into two glasses.
“This morning we received a solid nibble on that commercial block from a group of Denver investors with beautifully deep pockets. Then this plum parcel is handed to us on a silver tray. Such good fortune should be toasted.”
“There’s time enough for that later.” Sondra crossed to her desk. “We have work to do.”
Warren considered arguing the point, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He tossed down the contents of her glass, then picked up the second one and sauntered over to her desk. “By the way.” He sat down in a black-lacquered chair and crossed a leg, smoothing the precise crease in his trousers. “Dr. Adam is coming to Aspen for the weekend. I plan on taking her out to dinner Saturday evening. At company expense, of course.”
“Of course,” Sondra echoed dryly, laying the listing aside and reaching for her initialed notepad.
“It’s a shame I’m not a member of the Caribou Club. It would be the perfect place to take her.” He swirled the liquor in his glass and watched the light play on its moving surface.
“Sell that commercial block to Dr. Adams and her group of investors and I’ll include a year’s membership in the club with your commission check as a bonus.”
Warren raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
“Then do it so we can get down to business.” Her glance was cool and quick.
“What business is that?”
“Call Ernest Gruber and tell him to go out to the Masters ranch immediately. I want that property shot from every conceivable angle while there’s still some autumn color left.” She began committing to writing the mental list she had been making. “You can also tell him that I expect the finished pictures to look like something in a National Geographic spread. And I want it yesterday.”
“That’s going to cost you,” he warned. “You won’t get him to do this one for free.”
“I know.” She went on to the next item. “I want a video of the property with that same quality look. Contact Bluelake Productions and Silver Sky Video. Whichever one can give me the fastest turnaround, I’ll take. I’ll need an aerial view of the property, a topo map, and a plat by five o’clock this afternoon.”
“Five?!” Frowning, Warren uncrossed his legs and sat up.
“No later than five-thirty. I’m meeting Austin James for drinks at six.”
“Austin James, the land planner?”
“The same,” she replied without looking up from her notes.
“What are you seeing him for? What’s this all about?” “It’s about another Aspen.”
“Another Aspen.” Warren stared at her, his drink forgotten.
“Yes, Silverwood Ranch is the ideal setting for one,” she said, then paused, her head lifting slightly. “Silverwood,” she repeated in a musing tone, then picked up the telephone receiver and buzzed her secretary.
“Yes, Miss Hudson?”
“Check the atlas. See if there’s a Silverwood, Colorado, listed,” Sondra instructed and promptly hung up. “What was the name of the graphic artist we used on the Cottonwood Condominium project, Warren? Sam-something, I think.”
“Sid Parrish.”
“Parrish.” She nodded and marked that down. “Call him. I want to see some of his ideas for the name Silverwood.” Her glance lifted to Warren. “Don’t you think you should get started on all this?” she challenged.
He looked at her for another long second, then gulped down the last of his brandy and stood up. “I just wish I knew what ‘all this’ is.”
“A little homework, Warren. A little homework.” She smiled faintly, a determined light entering her eyes as she silently vowed to be thoroughly armed when she approached J. D. Lassiter this time.
With no particular destination in mind, Kit strolled down Hunter Street, idly passing time while Paula was at the salon getting her hair done. She refused to think about the copies of the listing agreement in her purse. She’d made her decision and taken the necessary steps to carry it out; there was nothing left to think about.
The sun was out. The sky was beginning to clear. She had some free time on her hands and she was going to enjoy it.
Crossing Main Street, she turned left to wander past the Pitkin County Courthouse, an imposing red sandstone and brick structure built a century ago. As she approached the front steps, Bannon walked out of the building, carrying a briefcase and wearing a western-cut navy suit and tie with his usual cowboy boots and hat.
Bannon paused when he saw her, his features taking on a faintly grim set. Kit hesitated, too, remembering-as he no doubt was-their harsh exchange the day before. But she halted at the bottom of the steps, forcing a meeting.
“I’m glad I ran into you.” She opened her purse and took out one of the copies of the agreement with Hudson Properties. “Since you’re handling the estate, I thought you should have a copy of the listing agreement I just signed with Sondra. I was going to mail it, but I might as well give it to you now.”
“Right.” He slipped the copy into his inside jacket pocket.
Kit plunged on before he could walk away. “I was angry and upset yesterday. Bannon, I want you to know that it isn’t that I don’t care whether you like it that I’m selling the ranch. It’s that I can’t care. Please try to understand it wasn’t a decision I made lightly. I know how you feel-”
“Do you?” he challenged quietly and looked away. “I wonder.”
Conscious that her temper was dangerously close to the flash-point again, Kit took a slow, calming breath and tried to respond in a reasonable tone. “I know you’re against more development in the valley-”
Bannon cut her off again. “You’re wrong. I’m not against more development in the valley. I’m against the kind of development that’s designed exclusively for the rich. And you can bet that’s exactly what will be built on your land. But that’s not your problem, is it? You won’t even be here…unless you use some of the money from the sale to buy yourself an expensive second home in Aspen so you can
visit one or two times a year like the rest of your Hollywood friends do.”
He spoke without heat, but that didn’t lessen the sting of his words. Kit struggled again with her temper.
“Bannon, please,” she protested curtly. “I don’t want to argue with you.”
He held her gaze for a long second, then shook his head with a vague kind of weariness. “I’m not trying to argue with you, and I’m not trying to change your mind.” He looked away and sighed. “I’m not even angry-just frustrated.”
Glimpsing the tiredness and regret that shadowed his roughly planed features, Kit smiled faintly. “I believe you.”
There was a glimmer of warmth in his brown eyes when he turned back to her. A heavyset man brushed past Bannon to climb the courthouse steps.
Bannon shifted out of the way and cupped a hand to her elbow. “Let’s walk,” he said and guided her to the corner. “Remember when we were in school back in the seventies and Aspen was faced with runaway growth from the skiing craze that swept through America after the Winter Olympics in Squaw Valley were televised? They tightened the zoning regulations to keep Aspen from turning into a condominium city. It worked, slowing growth to a crawl,” Bannon recalled as they waited at the corner for the traffic light to change. “But it backfired, too. Restricting the amount of land to be developed, reducing the supply but not the demand, land prices soared. The harder something is to get, the more people seem to want it.” The light turned green and Bannon stepped off the curb with Kit beside him. “That hasn’t changed, Kit. If anything, it’s gotten worse. In the last three years alone, land prices have doubled.”
“It’s unfortunate, but it’s still better than the alternative. At least Aspen has been able to retain the character that attracted people here in the first place.”
“Has it?” They walked up Mill Street, Aspen Mountain rising in front of them. “In case you haven’t noticed, Aspen is fast becoming an opulent ghost town of multi-million-dollar mansions that get visited by the owners two or three times a year.” He glanced sideways at her, something challenging in the look, but this time in a friendly way. “How many familiar faces have you seen since you’ve been back?”
