Carlene Thompson Read online

  "You can't second guess de fates."

  "I've never believed in fate, Fidelia. Life's always seemed a matter of chance to me." She drained her cup. "Good heavens, now I'm waxing philosophical. It's definitely time for me to get out for a while."

  "Go for de day," Fidelia said. "Enjoy yourself. I'll make de house sparkle for you, and lock up when I leave."

  Caroline went upstairs, took a shower, washed her hair, and, after blowing it dry, wound it on hot rollers. She wore it shoulder-length and softly curled, although lately she'd been wondering if she shouldn't change to a more mature style, even though it was still a shiny chestnut, the gray limited to a few strands she always quickly pulled out. She told herself she wore it long for David, but she knew he wasn't particular. It was Chris who years ago had loved her thick, then-waist-length hair, Chris who had painted her naked, sitting on the bed drawing a silver-backed brush through a half-concealing veil of russet-tinged strands.

  She rubbed a window in the steam on the mirror. "Caroline, you are a melancholy soul today," she said, grinning. "You should be wearing flowing white robes and carrying a candle." Then the grin faded, and she peered closer. Fidelia was right she didn't look her forty-four years, which somehow made her feel shallow. After all she'd been through, why should her pale forehead be only finely lined, her eyes as clear green and steady as they had been twenty years ago? Melinda will look like me when she's forty-four, she thought. Melinda is the image of me.

  Half an hour later, wearing brown wool slacks, a bright yellow sweater, and a tweed blazer, she loaded the pillows in her Thunderbird and waved good-bye to Fidelia, whose long, still gaze followed her out the driveway.

  Caroline rolled down her car window, drinking in the crisp air that tasted as crystal blue as the sky. The sun had turned the pale yellow of autumn, and the trees blazed gold and red. She passed the grade school and glanced over, zeroing in on the room where Melinda had third grade. Construction-paper leaf cutouts decorated the windows, and a jack-o'-lantern grinned at her. Which reminded her, Halloween was in two days. She would have to put the finishing touches to Melinda's costume and be sure to stock enough candy for the hordes of children who drifted up and down their street until nine, when the city decreed all ghouls must return home.

  Caroline stopped for gasoline and oil, then headed for Elder's Interiors. As usual she pulled around to the tiny private lot in back, where Lucy's white Corvette and her assistant Tina Morgan's Volkswagen huddled in the building's shade. She angled the Thunderbird in beside a tree so she wouldn't block the other cars. She could easily move if anyone needed to get out, but she doubted that young Tina would ask—the store seemed to be her life. Lucy said she arrived at 7:30 in the morning, brought a packed lunch, and usually left well after six in the evening. Caroline had seen for herself how devoted Tina was when Lucy redecorated the Webb home two months earlier. Tina always seemed to be around measuring, making suggestions, insistently poring over wallpaper and paint samples with Caroline until at last Caroline had simply closed her eyes and pointed to selections, telling Lucy to correct any major blunders she'd made. But for all her intensity, Tina was beautiful and lively. By the time she left, Greg had developed a crush on her, and Melinda announced that except for Mommy and Lucy, Tina was her favorite grown-up girl.

  Caroline opened the back door and stepped into the storeroom, which was more dimly lit than usual. One fluorescent bulb set in the eighteen-foot-high ceiling was out and the other buzzed weakly, throwing the room into bluish pallor. For some reason Caroline suddenly felt uneasy with the gloom, and she picked up her pace, trying to skirt all the table legs she couldn't see clearly over the top of her sacks full of pillows and seat covers. She was nearly to the show room door when she tripped over a hassock, tumbling sideways and landing heavily on her hip.

  "Damn!" she muttered, grabbing up the pillows that had spilled and smiling when she saw they remained spotless. She was stuffing them back in the sacks when the crawling sensation of being watched spread up her spine and touched her neck. She sat still, looking around her. "Lucy? "Una?"

  No one answered, but someone watched. She felt a presence in the room just as strongly as she felt the throbbing in her hip. The single fluorescent light hissed, then went out. Caroline blinked in the total darkness. "Is someone there?"

  Whoever it was didn't intend to answer, and Caroline was as unnerved by her thudding heart and suddenly icy flesh as she was by the darkness. "Get hold of yourself," she muttered as, clutching her sacks, she got to her feet and began inching around furniture toward the crack of light where double doors opened into the showroom.

  Then she heard it. A soft whisper. "Mommy?"

  Caroline went rigid. She knew that voice, even if it was only a whisper. "Hayley?"

  This time the voice rose. "Mommy, I need you!"

  "Hayley?" Caroline looked around wildly, although she could see nothing but gray. "Hayley, are you here?"

  Silence, but a compelling silence that thrummed in her ears and beat in her stomach.

  Caroline's tongue touched her dry lips. "Hayley, darling, where are you?" she asked, while her mind said, This is insane. Hayley is dead.

  The light flickered back on with a faint buzz.

  Caroline stood trembling, her gaze shooting into every corner and up the wide back staircase leading to the second floor. But whatever it was had vanished. The silence once again turned empty, and eyes no longer trailed up and down her body. She let out a faint whimper and rushed headlong toward the shop.

  The doors flew back and hit the wall as she burst into the showroom. A young woman in a stern gray suit turned to peer at her disapprovingly over out-sized glasses. Caroline threw her a nervous smile and looked around the room.

  "Ms. Elder is upstairs," the woman announced, gazing at her warily. "She and Ms. Morgan have gone up to get some cloth samples for me."

  She emphasized me, letting Caroline know that even if she'd arrived in a flurry, she could just cool her heels until Lucy and Tina had finished more important business.

  So it wasn't either of them in the storeroom, Caroline thought as she walked past the woman and laid down her sacks on a Hepplewhite dining table. But of course if it had been Lucy or Tina they would have answered her. And they certainly wouldn't have lurked around in the darkness saying Mommy.

  In Hayley's voice.

  Stop it! That was not Hayley's voice, Caroline told herself firmly. You're just imagining things because you had that awful dream about Hayley, and she's been on your mind all morning.

  She sat down on a hard Boston rocker and took a deep breath, trying to calm down. Look at the shop, she commanded herself, ignoring the curious glances the woman in the gray suit was tossing her way. Look at all the pretty things in Lucy's shop and stop letting your wild imagination run even wilder.

  She forced herself to gaze over the exquisite furniture artfully arranged in the big showroom. She remembered when Lucy started the business twenty years ago. Everyone had expected her to fail, certain that behind her offbeat, bohemian manner there wasn't a dash of business sense. And of course Chris had been appalled that she was going to "squander" her impressive artistic talents "selling living room suites and bric-a-brac to the up-and-coming."

  What a snob Chris had been then, Caroline thought mildly. But of course he was riding high in those days when a major art critic had noted that "Christopher Corday will someday be the premier landscape painter in this country, if he isn't already." She had been thrilled for him, happy she could tell her parents, "I told you he was wonderful, even if you didn't approve of him or of my marrying when I was eighteen." And she had known the years she'd worked as a receptionist for David instead of going to college had been worth it. They had allowed Chris the freedom to paint, with none of the dross of humdrum employment to drag him down. Yes, they had been riding high when Lucy opened her first small store.

  "Caroline!" She looked up to see Lucy poised at the top of the spiral showroom staircase holding a
n armful of material swatches. "I didn't know you were here."

  "I think I'm a little early," Caroline said, noting that Gray Suit was heading determinedly toward the stairs, afraid the batty woman in the yellow turtle-neck was going to claim her time. "Finish with your customer and I'll take you to lunch."

  Lucy smiled. "Fabulous. I'm starving."

  Good old excessive Lucy, Caroline thought. She was never just hungry; she was starving. She was never tired; she was exhausted. And she was never afraid; she was terrified. Would she have been terrified in the dark storeroom where a long-dead child begged for help?

  Caroline felt a tremor pass through her. She would tell Lucy what had happened, and Lucy would tell her all about the weird acoustics in the storeroom and describe exactly what sound had been distorted into something resembling a little girl's voice. Caroline had learned to count on Lucy's down-to-earth interpretations of life, which always surprised a lot of people because of the way she dressed. She glanced over at her friend, who was patiently showing the customer sample after sample of material. They looked ridiculous together, one all severe lines, sleek hair, understated makeup, a study in neutral tones; the other a rainbow of purple, green, and gold with shaggy copper-colored hair and lovely, heavily accented violet eyes in a slightly equine face. She was flashily attractive thanks to makeup and clothes, and she looked just as unconventional as she had twenty-three years ago when Chris had introduced them.

  Chris had brought Lucy home to dinner one evening, saying, "Caro, this is Lucille, an old friend of mine. I saw her today in Mallory Park, looking absolutely rapt while she painted that statue of old man Mallory. I thought, 'How could that sanctimonious buzzard inspire anyone to capture him on canvas, much less look so ardent doing it?' Then I came up behind her and I saw she was painting the old guy naked, of all things, and I said to myself, 'Lucy hasn't changed one bit. I've got to take her home to meet Caroline and the baby.'"

  Lucy had laughed uproariously as Caroline gave her a tentative smile. "I'm really not a pervert, Caroline. It's just that my art teacher made me paint that hideous tribute to Mallory's ego, so I decided to shock him into letting me paint what I want to from now on."

  Instead she had received an F in the class, which she seemed to take with good grace, as she did most rejections—although Caroline had always felt the grade was partially responsible for her turning away from painting.

  "I'm ready," Lucy was saying, then, "Caroline, are you all right?"

  Caroline's gaze jerked up to Lucy, who stood five-nine barefoot. "Sure, I'm fine. Just a little jumpy today."

  "We'll talk about it." Lucy touched Caroline's hair and smiled. Many years ago her little physical signs of affection made Caroline uncomfortable; now she was used to them. "Where do you want to eat?"

  "How about Zeppo's?"

  "That place with all the young people and guys sliding down the fire pole with a cake when it's someone's birthday and huge greasy hamburgers? Sounds wonderful."

  Caroline noticed Una coming down the stairs, her long, straight black hair gleaming under the lights, her slim figure outlined in sleek black slacks and a white silk blouse. Her features were classic, from the high cheekbones, slender nose, and large dark eyes to the perfect, rose-accented lips. Caroline had often wondered if she'd considered modeling as a career.

  "Tina, Lucy and I are going to Zeppo's for lunch," she said on impulse. "Would you like to come with us?"

  Tina's quick smile flashed. "Thanks, Mrs. Webb, but I have to mind the store," she said in her slightly husky voice that always reminded Caroline of Kathleen Turner's.

  "I don't think we'll go bankrupt if we shut the place down for an hour," Lucy said, looking encouragingly at her. "Come on, it'll be fun."

  "Lucille, in that hour we're closed Jackie Onassis could come here wanting us to redecorate all her homes."

  Lucy made a face. "Sure. And Queen Elizabeth will be right behind her. But if you're determined to devote your life to business, there's nothing I can do about it. Want me to bring you back something?"

  "No again. I brought a lunch."

  "Probably something wonderful like tuna fish and hard-boiled eggs," Lucy said to Caroline. "She eats nothing."

  Tina winked at her. "We're not all naturally thin like you."

  "Skinny, you mean. And believe me, if eating hard-boiled eggs would give me a body like yours, I'd never touch a hamburger again. But unfortunately…" Her eyes shot to the front of the store. "Oh, hell, there's old Mrs. Edwards, and if I'm not mistaken, she's carrying that horrible moth-eaten swatch of brocade with her. It's about a hundred years old, and she's been in here at least five times trying to match it, but nothing ever suits her. She can't even remember she's brought it before."

  Tina grinned. "You two go have fun. I'll handle Mrs. Edwards." She strode to the front of the store, delight edging her voice. "Why, Mrs. Edwards, how lovely to see you. Have you brought something with you?"

  "Cloth, my dear," the old lady quavered, holding out a faded square. "I've just come across it. I thought perhaps you could find a match and make some draperies for me just like the ones we had in Grandfather's house."

  "We'll go through the sample books and see what we can come up with. My goodness, isn't it beautiful? Now you just sit down here in this comfortable chair and I'll bring down my books. And how about a cup of tea?"

  Lucy shook her head in wonder. "She's an absolute gem, Caroline. Not only talented, but unbelievably patient with our most tedious customers. And speaking of tedious customers, did you bring the stuff for Pamela?"

  Caroline had almost forgotten why she came. She retrieved the sacks from the dining table and pulled out pillows and seat covers all stitched in peach and turquoise.

  "Oh, Caro, these are exquisite!" Lucille held them up. "Just beautiful. You do gorgeous work."

  "Let's just hope Pamela likes them. You said she's a real nitpicker."

  "I believe I called her worse than that. She's impossible, but I don't know how even she could find fault with these. Why don't you come with me to drop them off? We'll go before lunch, and that will give me a good excuse to leave in a hurry. She's a great one for thinking up things to complain about if you don't make a fast getaway."

  Little Pamela Fitzgerald. Caroline hadn't seen her since she was in kindergarten. Even then she hadn't liked Pamela, and according to Lucy, time had done nothing to sweeten her personality. Still, it would be interesting to see her—she had been a beautiful child. And she knew Lucy wanted her to see the Burke home she was decorating. "Okay," she said finally, "but remember we're both hungry. I don't want to linger around there for hours, and I don't want to invite Pamela to lunch."

  "Easier said than done," Lucy laughed ruefully. "The girl has a way of getting what she wants."

  Chapter 2

  PAMELA FITZGERALD BURKE SWUNG back the carved teakwood door of her magnificent hillside house and smiled graciously. "Hello, Lucille."

  "Hi. I brought a friend along. This is Caroline Webb."

  Pamela blinked, long, curled lashes sweeping over eyes like brown velvet. "Mrs. Webb?"

  "Yes. We met a long time ago, Pamela, at your kindergarten picnic in the spring."

  Caroline wondered if she imagined the color heightening in Pamela's face. "I remember you now."

  "You do? That's amazing."

  "I have a good memory. Besides, you look the same. Only your last name used to be Corday." She hesitated, then smiled again. "Won't you come in? I've just made tea."

  "We can't stay long, Pam," Lucy said. Even when she was a child the girl had hated to be called Pam. Lucy told Caroline shortening the name was one of the few ways she could compensate for enduring Pamela's high-handed manner. "If we weren't making a small fortune on this job, I'd tell her to take a leap," Lucy had confided. "As it is, I have to settle for petty revenge."

  Pamela led them into a sprawling living room with a soaring cathedral ceiling. Gleaming oak floors stretched to a stone fireplace large enough to hol
d an ox, and walls of windows allowed a panoramic view of autumn-colored hills and the city beyond. They padded over a flax shag rug that must have cost the earth, Caroline thought, and Pamela motioned them toward chairs before carefully arranging her whip-slim body in an S pattern on the incredibly long vanilla sweep of couch just opposite, resting a peaches-and-cream cheek on her hand and knowing exactly how pretty she looked.

  "Pamela, your house is beautiful," Caroline told her.

  "My husband designed it. He's very talented, not just a construction worker like everyone thinks."

  "I never thought the heir to the Burke Construction Company was just a construction worker," Lucy laughed. "But let's get down to business. Caroline's finished the things you ordered."

  Only Pamela's eyes moved, sliding down to the sacks where Lucy was plunging her hands. "Just look at these pillows," she said excitedly. "The turquoise exactly picks up the color of this velvet wing chair." She tossed one of the pillows to Pamela. It smacked the young woman in the face and fell on the floor. Lucy flushed. "I'm sorry. I thought you'd catch it."

  Even Caroline could hear the genuine contrition in her voice, but Pamela regarded her coldly. "I don't like playing catch. I prefer being handed things."

  "I see…" Lucy leaned forward, picked up the pillow, and placed it gently in Pamela's outstretched, beringed hand.

  "Thank you," she said stiffly. She studied the pillow. "Quite nice."

  Caroline had the impression she was supposed to fall to her knees in gratitude before the queen. She felt faintly amused and very sad. Obviously Pamela had simply grown into an adult version of the gorgeous, uppity little girl who had made fun of Hayley for living in a log cabin and "accidentally" poked a hole in the painting of Canadian geese in flight that Chris had done for their kindergarten teacher at the end of the year.