Birthday Girls (36 page)

She ran her hand down the quaint lace draperies, aimlessly pleating and repleating the fabric, trying to align her thoughts as well.

No matter what, she had not intended for Edmund to be accused of her murder. But apparently her note had not been sufficient for the overzealous police force.

The police, and probably the media scags. In her determination
to get out, she may have underestimated the fact that Abigail Hardy’s mysterious fate would provide new juice for a bloodthirsty public.

Wrapping her arms around her waist, Abigail tried to quell the ache inside her. She knew she needed to get out of this room and get on with the business of living a new life. After a month in virtual seclusion, it was time. It was time to find a place to settle, maybe even make a few friends. Staying here in this room, existing on too little food, too much wine, and too many cigarettes, clearly was not a good idea. Besides, her cash was quickly dwindling and she needed to sell her jewels.

She studied the horizon and wondered what was stopping her.

Outside, the gray sky cried.

It had been
one of the longest flights Kris ever endured. Every movement had seemed an eternity; even after landing, the long hike through the airport, the tedious search for Edmund’s car in the lot, then climbing behind the wheel all seemed in slow motion. Slow, never-going-to-get-there motion.

Pulling through the gates at the estate now, Kris realized her journey was over. But she had no idea what to say to Edmund, or what she was going to do next.

She shut off the ignition, took a deep breath, and made her way to the front door. She pressed the bell.

The sound of the chimes echoed from the huge foyer through the large oak door to the steps where she stood. The chimes echoed, but Kris heard no movement.

She rang the bell again.

She waited.

Nothing.

Nothing. No one, no family, no servants. It was as if
the house were a ghost town, its occupants plucked from within, its life sucked from its walls.

A small panic rose inside her. Had Edmund left? Where had he gone? She’d taken his car; Abigail’s remained at the impound lot. If he had gone somewhere, how did he get there?

She leaned against the bell again, knowing there would be no response.

Oh God
, she thought,
has he been arrested?
“Edmund!” she screamed and pounded, pointlessly, on the door.

Maybe he hadn’t been arrested. Maybe he just left …

He would not leave.

Would he?

Her things were inside … her
world
was inside … yet what did she expect? After all, there was nothing between them. No talk of commitment. No talk, even, of love. Which was utterly absurd to even think about, because Kris did not love him.

Then why was she so upset?

“Ms. Kensington?”

The voice behind her made her jump. She spun around.

Smitty stood there, the family chauffeur who seemingly had been with the Hardys since the beginning of time.

“Are you looking for Edmund?”

Kris gasped for breath. “Yes, Smitty. Where is he?”

“He took the Jeep.”

“The Jeep?” Kris didn’t even know Edmund owned one.

“The Jeep that he uses to haul his bushes and garden things.”

Her impatience peaked. “Where did he go, Smitty?”

“To the hospital, ma’am.”

“The hospital?” She raced down the steps. “What happened? Is he all right?”

“It’s not him, ma’am. It’s Miss Sondra.”

“Sondra?”

“I think she’s having her baby …”

“What hospital?” Kris demanded.

“Cedars, I think he said. Cedars Sinai.”

She pushed past him and jumped back into the Mercedes.

“I could drive if you’d like …” Smitty called after her, but Kris had already ground the car into gear and the tires were squealing down the drive.

“I tried
to call Craig,” Edmund explained. “His number’s been disconnected.”

Kris sat beside him in the small hospital room, holding his hand, feeling his pain, as he waited for word on his daughter’s condition. The baby was not due for another four weeks; anything, Kris suspected, could happen.

“What happened?” she asked.

But Edmund only shrugged. “She had some kind of argument with Larry. I guess the upset caused premature labor.”

Kris rubbed his hand but did not know what to say or do to ease the agony on his face.

Then a woman dressed in green scrubs appeared in the room. “Mr. Desauliers?” she asked. “You have a grandson. He’s a little bit of a thing—five pounds, two ounces—but mother and child are doing just fine.”

Kris wrapped her arms around Edmund and held him and hugged him as he cried.

It was
another hour before Sondra appeared, wheeled in on a gurney, tired and disheveled but smiling. A nurse followed with the new baby boy, who was red-faced and beautiful and bundled in white.

Kris watched as Edmund examined his grandson. She had never seen such tenderness in anyone’s eyes; she had never felt more strongly that she wanted a child of her own.

“Have you decided on a name?” she asked Sondra, trying to push the pain from her heart, trying to be happy for those who had what she did not.

“I’m going to call him Edmund,” Sondra answered. “Edmund Craig Boynton.”

Edmund glowed, then Sondra became somber. “Dad, there’s something I have to tell you. It’s about Larry.”

A chill ran down Kris’s spine.

“He’s going to do a book, Dad. A scandal book about Abigail.”

Edmund moaned.

“He had the nerve to say all this publicity—about you—was going to be great for business. God, he really is a jerk.” Tears welled up as she cuddled her son. “Why did I let myself get involved with him, Daddy? Why didn’t I see what a jerk he is?”

“He worked for Abigail for ten years, Sondra. She didn’t suspect it. Why should you?”

Kris wanted to tell them that in the end, Abigail knew. But she was beginning to feel like an outsider at a family reunion, with a sense that she shouldn’t intrude.

“Larry didn’t even care that you’re being questioned for … murder,” Sondra continued, the word coming out slowly, painfully. “In fact, I think he
liked
it.”

“Apparently the money from the Rupert’s deal wasn’t enough for him,” Edmund said.

The girl lowered her eyes. “I couldn’t stand it when I saw you on the news, Daddy. I couldn’t stand the things they were saying …”

“You couldn’t stand learning that your father is human?” Edmund asked, his voice quavering.

Sondra adjusted the cap on Edmund Craig’s tiny head. She watched his precious face, so new and so innocent.
“Oh, Daddy,” she said, tears washing from her eyes onto the soft white wrap that shielded her baby.

“Sssh,” Edmund said, wiping her face. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

“I don’t have a job,” Sondra said with a laugh.

“You’re coming back to Windsor-on-Hudson with me. For now. Until we decide what to do.” Then he pressed her hand to his cheek.

Kris watched with a familiar, all-too-familiar, sense of detachment as though this kind of love, this deep bond of family, belonged to other people, not her. Not to Kris Kensington—independent, self-directed, need-nobody Kris Kensington. A small knot formed in her stomach; her body felt heavy, in need of sleep, in need of finding her footing again.

“Well,” she said gently, “I guess I’d better get home. It’s time to get back to work before Devon excommunicates me from literary land.”

Edmund rose. “Kris, I don’t know what I would have done without your help.”

She nodded, unable to speak. When she reached the door she turned around. “I’ll have Devon send someone out to the manor for my things.” She forced a grin, then added, “Give me a call sometime. Let me know how you—all of you—are doing.”

He nodded, then started to walk her to the door. “I forgot to ask,” he said. “Your trip. Did you find what you were looking for?”

She closed her eyes. “No,” she said in a whisper, “I’m sorry. I didn’t.” She tried to leave him with a smile, then walked from the room and down the long corridor toward the elevator, toward her never-ending life alone.

The time
had come to sell the jewels. Without cash she could not make decisions, could not get on with her
life. But first she had to find a jeweler. A reputable jeweler who would give her something close to what the heirlooms were worth.

Abigail adjusted the short brown wig and tried to ignore the lined face and the dark, under-eye circles looking back at her from the mirror. Her time in seclusion had certainly aided in altering her appearance; plastic surgery had not been necessary after all.

Not that it mattered. Since her arrival on the island across the sound from Seattle, the only people she’d seen were the owner of the inn, who was also the chef, and his mother, who doubled as housekeeper. On Abigail’s first morning, three others had been seated at the long breakfast table; after that, she’d opted to have breakfast in her room. The fewer faces she saw, the less the chance she’d be recognized, even in this half-deserted haven, even in this godforsaken wilderness.

Locking the door to Room 6 behind her, she walked to the wide staircase of the Victorian house, retracing the steps she’d taken many times on her jaunts into town. Then, she had only needed to restock her supply of wine and cigarettes. Now, she had a more important mission to fulfill—or the former queen of the kitchen would soon be dead broke.

If only she could get over the feeling that she was here on vacation and that tomorrow, or the next day, she’d be leaving for home.

Home. Where Edmund lived.

Home. Where Sondra frequented, where Larry lurked.

She took a deep breath, then marched to the counter at the far end of the living room. A round silver bell stood beside a rack of tourist brochures. She banged the top of the bell and waited. No one jumped to her attention. She banged it again. Still no response.

Well
, she thought, this
certainly isn’t New York
. And they certainly didn’t know who she was.

She moved to an overstuffed velvet wing chair and sat down, reminding herself that who she was, was no one. She was Sarah Appleton—a name she’d invented when she heard an announcement in the Chicago bus terminal for a bus bound for Milwaukee, then on to Appleton. She was Sarah Appleton. Miss Nobody, Sarah Appleton. With nothing to prove it except her word.

Glancing around the sparsely furnished, timber-ceilinged room, Abigail’s gaze fell on a cedar cabinet. Above it hung oval framed photos of sepia-looking men, who did not at all resemble Grandfather and Great-Grandfather but looked more like grub-staking gold diggers whose pans had come up empty.

She flicked her gaze toward the fireplace and wished someone would light it. No matter how few guests were around in January, the owner should be smart enough to know that a cozy fire could enhance the ambiance and garner more in public relations than it might cost in firewood. At that thought, Abigail almost laughed out loud.

No one here cares
, she said to herself. For here there was no pretense that anyone wanted—or needed—to be a Park Avenue hostess; here there was no need for illusion. She wondered if she had ever been around real people, and she wondered how on earth she was going to fit in. If at all.

“Miss Appleton?”

At first, Abigail did not turn around at the sound of the name.

“Miss Appleton?”

Then she remembered.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly with a nervous laugh. “I must have been daydreaming.”

“Not a great day for doing much else,” the owner replied. In one hand he held a bucket, in the other, a mop.

“Leaky room on the third floor. This old house will kill me yet.”

It was hard to believe that anything could kill this
fortyish, sturdy man whose looks defined the term “lumberjack country” despite the short, trendy ponytail at the nape of his neck and the soft sound of his voice.

“Did you ring the bell?”

Ring the bell? Oh, yes. She’d almost forgotten her mission. “I’m sorry,” Abigail said. “I don’t remember your name.”

“Joel. Joel McKenna. Proprietor non-extraordinaire.”

Abigail smiled. She knew she should say something that would win him to her side, something that would make him want to help her. “That’s right,” she said. “Joel. And please, call me Sarah.”

He nodded.

“But don’t underestimate yourself, Joel. You are an extraordinary host. You’ve had the decency to leave your guests to themselves. That’s quite an accomplishment these days, when everyone wants to know everyone else’s business.”

“Not out here we don’t. Folks don’t know ours, we don’t know theirs. It’s worked that way for generations.”

She wondered how he would feel about hundreds of paparazzi combing the grounds if it was learned that Abigail Hardy was hiding out, that Abigail Hardy was there.

“Do you get many guests at the inn?” She had spent her first nights in Seattle at a Best Western, until she discovered a small ad in the local magazine. The name “Bainbridge Island” somehow promised acceptable refuge. The “McKenna Guest House” seemed equally unthreatening.

“Not at this time of year. We have fifteen guest rooms, and shut down all but four in winter.”

“Ah,” Abigail said. “A summer town.” She made a mental note to be certain to be away from here at the first sign of warm weather. Surely there were other, less inhabited islands.
Less inhabited?
she thought. Why was she worried about that now? Toying with the locket that still hung
from her wrist, she said, “Well, it must give you plenty of time to go into the city.”

“Time, yes. Need, no. We’re fairly self-sufficient.”

And extremely behind the times
, Abigail wanted to add, knowing that in other circumstances, with a different owner, this inn could be a showplace.

“Do you know many people there?” she asked. “In Seattle?”

Joel laughed. “We’re not exactly hicks, Miss … Sarah.”

“Have you lived here long?”

“Forty-two years. And counting.”

She wondered if, by the time he was fifty, he would want to be somewhere else. “Well, I need to go over to the city to take care of some business. While I’m there, I’d like to do a little shopping. Do you know any reputable jewelry dealers there?”