Dare to Dream (17 page)

Chapter 36

E
leanor paced the confines of her bedroom, glaring at the headlines on the third page of the
New York Post.
NEAR
FATAL
FIRE
DECLARED
ARSON
. She read the article with great interest. “Fool,” she said between her teeth. She dismissively tossed the paper on the bed and walked out into the front room.

“Mary! Mary,” she called out.

Mary came almost instantly. “Yes, Mrs. Hastings.”

“Where’s my coffee?”

“It’s still brewing,” she said.

“At this hour? You’ve been with me long enough to know that I want my coffee ready when I get up in the morning.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Hastings. I wasn’t feeling very well this morning. I’m having a slow start.”

Eleanor looked her up and down. “Well, you look fine now,” she said, her tone not quite as strident.

“I’ll bring the coffee right away, ma’am.” Mary turned and headed back to the kitchen, her look of barely contained fury shielded from Eleanor.

Mary had been in the employ of the Hastings for more than twenty years. The pay was great. She was able to send her two children to college with the money she made waiting on Eleanor hand and foot. But each day was becoming more difficult. If it were humanly possible, Eleanor Hastings, she’d swear, was becoming more miserable and unbearable each day.

Every morning she had to pray for the strength not to pick up one of her expensive sculptures, hit her over the head, and never lose a night’s sleep. And her poor daughter, the way she treated Cynthia was a sin. Mary’s heart ached for her. No daughter should have to put up with the abuse that Eleanor meted out to that girl.

Mary poured the coffee into a carafe, cut up two oranges and set them on a plate. She put two pieces of toast in the toaster and put a bowl of jelly on the serving tray.

She would give anything to see Eleanor get what she deserved. No one should go through life treating people the way she did and get away with it.

“Lord, forgive me,” she whispered.

* * *

“I’ve given you all I intend to give you,” Eleanor was saying into the phone. A scowl crossed her perfectly made-up face. “That’s your problem. I would suggest that you take a trip, a long trip. There’s nothing to connect us and I will deny ever having known you.” She smiled. “And who do you think they will believe?” She hung up the phone, just as Mary came into the room.

“Your breakfast is in the dining room, ma’am.”

Eleanor didn’t even give Mary the courtesy of an acknowledgment. She simply walked past her as if she were invisible.

Mary glared at her benefactor’s back and an old saying from her grandmother came to mind. “God don’t like ugly.”

* * *

“You really need to come back, Carl,” Jake Foxx was saying. “People are asking questions that I can’t and don’t want to answer. It looks really bad with you not being here. And the newspaper article today didn’t help the situation.” He told him about the story in the
Post
.

Carl cursed beneath his breath.

“And there’s some guy named Jackson Trent who was here this morning asking questions.”

“Who is he?”

“Some private investigator.”

“What?” Carl frowned as he paced the floor of his Nassau bungalow.

Beyond the picture glass window was nothing but white sandy beaches and tranquil blue water. This was his refuge, where he came to be alone, to think and relax. But this visit had been anything but relaxing. He hadn’t come simply to rejuvenate, he’d run, like a coward he’d run. It wasn’t in his nature to run from trouble. But the truth was, his conscience was killing him. He’d had nightmares about what almost happened with him and Desiree.

“Carl, are you there?” Jake boomed into the phone.

“Yes, I’m here,” he said absently.

“Well, what are you going to do?”

“I’ll look into the flights and I’ll be on the next plane back to New York. I’ll call you.”

“Things aren’t looking good, Carl. Investigators are crawling all over the place, and if another reporter calls… I’m not going to deal with the fallout alone.”

“You won’t. I’ll take care of everything.”

He hung up the phone and dialed the airport. It was time he went back and faced the music.

Chapter 37

C
ynthia brushed her long hair in front of her dressing table mirror as she waited for Jackson Trent’s arrival. She couldn’t imagine what she could possibly tell him that she hadn’t told everyone else who’d asked.

She’d thought about calling Lance and asking him to come over for moral support, but thought better of it. She was a big girl. She could handle it.

Cynthia checked her watch. When she’d spoken with him earlier that morning, he’d indicated that he’d arrive by three. He still had fifteen minutes.

She studied her reflection in the mirror and was satisfied with the simple outfit she’d chosen. She’d picked out a pale blue silk shirt, a pair of navy pleated slacks and navy loafers. Classy but understated, she thought, taking a final look. She added a thin-as-hair gold chain around her neck just as the bell rang.

Cynthia brushed the front of her blouse and straightened the belt on her slacks. When she went to the door she was surprised and somewhat relieved to find not only Jackson Trent but Desiree and a very handsome escort.

“Desi! My goodness.” She held out her arms and embraced Desiree in a tight, long-overdue hug. “You look…happy.” Cynthia beamed.

Desiree snatched a look at Lincoln. “I am. Lincoln Davenport, Cynthia Hastings. And this is Jackson Trent.”

“Come in, come in.” She stepped aside and the trio filed past. “We can sit in the living room.” She led them into the finely appointed space. “Make yourselves comfortable. Can I get anyone anything?”

“Some water for me would be fine,” Jackson said, taking in the obviously expensive décor. The lady had taste and money, both he was sure she’d inherited from her parents. He wondered if she’d also inherited her mother’s ruthlessness disguised behind a facade of good manners and beauty.

“What about you, Lincoln?”

“Nothing for me.”

“Desi?”

“You know I love my Diet Pepsi.”

Cynthia grinned. “Coming right up.”

While Cynthia was pulling out a bottle of Evian from the fridge, Desiree walked up behind her.

“How have you been, Cynthia?”

Cynthia jumped in surprise. She pressed her hand to her chest and turned.

“You need to walk with a heavier footstep.” She laughed. “I’m doing fine. But that’s what I need to ask you. I’ve been worried.” She handed Desiree a can of Diet Pepsi.

“I’ve been…slowly getting it together.” She bobbed her head. “One day at a time, you know.”

Cynthia pulled out a chair from beneath the kitchen table. “Sit. Talk to me for a minute before the inquisition.”

“It won’t be that bad. Jackson seems pretty cool. Strictly business but decent.” She took a seat.

“You want a glass for that?” Cynthia asked, pointing to the can.

“No, I’ll take it straight.” She chuckled.

“First and foremost, tell me about Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome,” Cynthia said, sitting down opposite Desiree.

Desiree grinned like a kid at Christmas. “I guess I never really told you about Lincoln. We’d just broken up when you and I met. Actually, we were engaged.”

“What? Get out of here. And he let you go?”

“It wasn’t him. It was me and it’s a long story. Anyway, the bottom line is he wound up being the owner of the bed-and-breakfast that I went to stay at in Sag Harbor.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Talk about fate stepping in and throwing a curve.”

“Everything happens for a reason.” A secretive smile crept across her mouth. “I met someone, too.”

“You did! You’ll have to tell me all about him.” She squeezed Cynthia’s hand.

“I will, but we better get inside before they start watching football or something.” She stood.

Desiree laughed. “You’re right.”

“Not to pry or anything, but where are you staying?”

“For the moment, at Lincoln’s place here in the city. I was at Rachel’s… I’ll tell you all about that, too.” She started for the living room.

Cynthia took the bottle of water and filled a glass with ice. “Seems like we have a lot of catching up to do,” she said, following Desiree back inside.

“Exactly,” Desiree said over her shoulder.

* * *

Both men stood when the ladies returned to the room. Once everyone was settled, Jackson got straight to the point.

“Desiree has filled me in on a great deal already,” he began. “But I’d still like to hear from you.”

“I’m not certain how much more I can add, but I’m happy to help.”

“You’d be surprised that what usually turns a case around is that one bit of information that someone didn’t think was important.”

Cynthia tugged in a breath and wrapped her hands around her knees. “Ready when you are.”

* * *

More than an hour later, Jackson completed his interview with Cynthia. He flipped through his notepad, then looked across at her. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” He stood and extended his hand which Cynthia shook. “I’ll be in touch if I have any other questions.” He handed her a business card. “If you think of anything else, even if it seems unimportant, give me a call.”

Cynthia glanced at the card, then tucked it in her pants pocket. “I will.”

Lincoln stood up and took Desiree’s hand, helping her to her feet. “Good to finally meet you, Cynthia. Desi has only great things to say about you.”

“Good to meet you, too, Lincoln. Maybe we could all get together for dinner sometime soon. I’ll call you and Desi, and we can make plans.”

“Yes, we definitely need to chat.” Desiree gave her a parting hug. “Talk to you soon.”

Cynthia returned to the living room. With everyone gone she could finally let her guard down. She only hoped that she was able to hide her suspicions from Jackson until she decided what to do.

She went to the phone and dialed.

* * *

Jackson was quiet on the ride back to pick up his car at Lincoln’s place. He studied his notes and put them together with what wasn’t said, the facial expressions and the body language. Those were the real keys that he’d discovered in his line of work. The mouth could say one thing, but the eyes and body never lied.

“So what did you think?” Lincoln asked, as they pulled up in front of his building. “You’ve been quiet the whole trip. Anything new?”

Jackson snapped his notebook closed. “Cynthia Hastings is definitely hiding something. She knows much more than she’s telling. It may take a little time, but I will find out what it is.”

* * *

Cynthia drove her car into the parking garage adjacent to her mother’s co-op and hurried to the front door. She didn’t stop when the doorman called out his greetings and tried to tell her something that was probably more gossip than truth. She didn’t have time today. Her mother always went to the theater on Wednesdays with her theater group. Cynthia wanted to get in and out of the apartment.

She gave the elevator attendant the floor number and tried to concentrate on calming her jangling nerves. The elevator doors swooshed open and Cynthia stepped out into the lush corridor. For a moment she stood there debating if what she was about to do was the right thing. She was torn between her obligation to her friend and the blood ties to her mother.

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe when she walked into the suite she’d realize that she’d blown things out of proportion and that with the stress of everything that had gone on, her imagination was working overtime.

Consoling herself with that thought, she walked the length of the hallway to her mother’s apartment door.

Just as she was putting her key in the lock, it was pulled open and Jackson Trent stood in front of her.

Startled, she needed a moment for his sudden appearance to register. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, getting her thoughts together.

“I’d hoped to meet your mother, but I did have a chance to speak with Mary.” He gave Cynthia a long, penetrating stare.

Her face grew warm under his close scrutiny and she felt as if he could read her mind. She jutted her chin forward the way she’d seen her mother do hundreds of times when dealing with “help.”

“You didn’t say anything about coming here when we spoke barely more than an hour ago,” she challenged. “And what right do you have to speak to my mother’s staff?”

“I would think that you would be more than happy to see that I was on the job—especially since it has to do with your friend and former employer.” He gave her the barest of grins. “Besides, part of doing my job is not always informing one suspect what I plan to do with another.”

Cynthia blinked rapidly, certain that she didn’t hear him correctly. “Suspect? Are you saying that I’m a suspect—that my mother is a suspect?”

“Until a case is closed, Ms. Hastings, everyone is a suspect.” He stepped past her. “I’m sure we’ll be talking again. Have a good day.” He turned to Mary, who’d remained mum during the brief exchange. “Thank you for all your help.” He walked down the hall to the elevator.

Cynthia turned on Mary. “What did he say to you? What did he want to know?” She swept into the apartment.

Mary closed the door behind her. “He asked me a lot of questions about your mother.” She folded her arms and stood her ground.

Cynthia whirled toward her. “What kind of questions?”

“He wanted to know how long I’ve worked here, the kind of people who come and go, her friends, her relationship with you.”

Cynthia’s eyes flashed. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him the truth, Ms. Cynthia. I told him that your mother is a difficult woman, to put it mildly, and that the relationship she has with you is shameful.”

“How could you do that—air the family’s laundry to a perfect stranger?” Her voice rose in pitch. “How dare you betray Mother when she’s been nothing but good to you all these years?” Her cheeks were crimson.

Mary tossed back her dark head of tight curls and laughed long and loud. She put her hands on her narrow hips and squinted her eyes.

“Who you think you foolin’? Not me! I been here as long as you’ve been on this earth. I see things. I hear things. You think I’m blind and stupid? You think I don’t know what goes on around here, the things that your mother does, the way she talks to and treats you? Your mother would do whatever was in her power to get what she wanted, no matter who it hurt—including you. The real question is, how long are you going to let her walk on you like a doormat and then tell
you
to clean yourself up?”

Cynthia’s breaths came in short bursts as she danced between fury and desolation. Everything that Mary said about her mother was true and then some. But the reality was, Mary, whatever her good intentions might be, had crossed the invisible line that people of wealth and power draw in the sand. As much as she might dislike her mother and abhor the things she’d done, blue blood still ran in her veins. The hired help was just that, and their loyalty was solely to their employer.

“I will be speaking with my mother about your insubordination,” Cynthia said, sounding so much like her mother to her own ears that she was momentarily stunned. “In the meantime,” she continued, adapting the haughty tone from years of indoctrination, “I want you to leave. If Mother decides to bring you back, that will be her choice.”

Mary pulled off her apron and looked at Cynthia with pity and disappointment in her eyes.

“I always believed that one of these days you’d be strong enough to finally break away from your mother’s grasp.” She lowered her head and shook it. “But I see you haven’t or can’t.” She looked into Cynthia’s startled blue eyes. “Don’t become your mother, no matter how much you want her to love you.”

Mary folded the apron and placed it on the hall table, then opened the closet and took out her purse and light jacket. She looked at Cynthia one last time and walked out.

Cynthia stared at the closed door with Mary’s damning words reverberating in her head. She was not like her mother! She wasn’t. She swallowed back the knot that was forming in her throat and took what she’d come for.

Without giving herself a chance to change her mind, she stuck it in her purse. She took a quick look around, then hurried out before her mother returned.