Another Homecoming Read online

  “And he puts them together with the precision of a surgeon,” Howard agreed. “I’ve seen those others he’s got strung up in his room. They look like they’re ready to take off and fly away, all on their own. How you doing, Joel?”

  “Fine, sir.”

  “Happy birthday, Joel,” Carol said. Even her voice had the quietly resigned tones of his mother. She handed over a smaller box. “I hope we got what you wanted.”

  “Gee, thanks, Mrs. Austin.” Joel made swift work of the wrapping. “An acrylic paint set. It’s perfect. Thanks a lot.”

  “Thank your mom. She’s the one who told Carol what to get.” Howard shifted his bulk as Joel’s mother entered the room. “And here’s the little lady now.”

  Martha Grimes stood for a moment in the doorway, her face soft and unreadable as her eyes drifted over the scene. Joel seemed to be able to stand there beside her and see what she was observing. Her husband stood smiling, the model box in his hands, her best friends smiling in return. They looked like a regular family. It happened so seldom, it was worth remembering. Finally his mother said, “To the table, everybody. The food is getting cold.”

  4

  KYLE STOLE DOWN THE SERVANTS’ STAIRWELL at the back of the Rothmore mansion. She had been ordered to appear for her mother’s inspection, but first she felt the need to check with Maggie. Quietly she pushed open the door and waited for Maggie’s head to lift. “How do I look?”

  Maggie offered her a small, wistful smile but did not speak. Kyle prompted, “Well?”

  “I was just wishing you didn’t have to grow up so fast, is all.”

  “Oh, Maggie.” Kyle moved quickly to hug the older woman. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Look at what you’ve done now—you’ve gotten flour on your pretty dress front. Brush it off. There, that’s better.” Maggie’s eyes were as quietly happy as her voice. “I can scarcely believe my little darling Kyle is already fifteen years old.”

  “Sixteen in eight months. Say it that way. It sounds better.”

  “Just look at you, standing there in your lovely blue silk dress, high-heel pumps, and with your grandmother’s pearls.”

  “It scares me to wear the pearls. I’m so afraid they’ll break and spill all over the floor,” Kyle confessed quietly. She cast a rapid glance at the door to the front rooms, then added, “But Mother wants me to wear them tonight.”

  “Then there’s no use complaining, now, is there?” Maggie’s voice turned brisk. “Besides, this is a formal do, and you might as well get used to dressing the part.”

  “Emily Crawley is coming tonight,” Kyle sighed. “Mother invited her. She told Randolf the invitation came from me, but Emily knows how likely that is,” she added darkly.

  “That’s quite enough, Kyle.”

  “Anyway, Mother says I could learn a lot from Emily. I don’t see what.”

  “Miss Emily is a . . . a very lovely young lady,” Maggie replied carefully.

  “But she’s not very nice. At least not to anybody who doesn’t have as much money as she does. And she only speaks to me when she wants something.”

  Maggie coughed discreetly, then reminded her, “The Crawleys are an important family, and Emily’s brother sits on your father’s board now that his father has retired.”

  “I know, I know. Mother’s telling me that every time I turn around. But that’s business. What has business to do with friendships?” She looked appealingly at the older woman. “Mother keeps bringing Randolf’s name up and encouraging me to be friendly with him. But what on earth for?”

  “There are some answers that you will simply have to obtain from your mother,” Maggie replied firmly.

  But Kyle was too distracted to notice the warning. She lowered her voice and whispered, “It scares me.”

  “Who, young Mr. Randolf?”

  “No—well, yes . . . sort of, I guess.”

  “Which is it, young lady?”

  Kyle leaned back and settled her hands on the big kitchen’s wood-block central table, then remembered how she was dressed. Hastily she dusted the flour off her hands, checked the back of her dress, and said quietly, “I’m frightened by how Mother won’t tell me what she means. It’s like she’s planning something about . . . about me. And Randolf knows, and maybe Daddy, but nobody will tell me.”

  “Oh, child,” Maggie sighed, wiping her hands on her apron. “I love you like I do my own, and that’s the honest truth. But all I can advise you about such things as this is to pray for strength, pray for protection, and pray for God’s will.”

  “That’s the same thing Bertie told me,” Kyle said, searching Maggie’s face.

  “My husband is a wise man and a good Christian, if I do say so myself.”

  “I try to pray. Sometimes, anyway.”

  “And have you been reading the Bible I gave you?”

  “I tried. But I don’t think I understood very much of it. Mother says that the pastor will explain such things at church and not to worry about it.”

  Maggie’s chin jutted out and she took a deep breath. “How about coming back to my little sitting room and reading there? Maybe I can help you with some parts you don’t understand.”

  “Thank you, Maggie.” But the offer did not brighten Kyle’s mood. “It still doesn’t help me know what they’ve got planned.”

  “Talking to God and reading His word to us will bring you peace,” Maggie replied stoutly. “Try it and see.”

  Kyle avoided replying by leaning forward and kissing Maggie’s cheek. Then she turned and quietly left the kitchen.

  Abigail Rothmore frowned as she stood before the antique mahogany sideboard at the library’s entrance. On the wall rose a full-length portrait of her in a gilded frame, wearing a ball gown by the nation’s most famous artist. At least he had been the most popular society artist when the portrait was done. Now that his star was waning, she had wanted to move the portrait to the back stairway, but naturally Lawrence would not hear of it. He was so provincial when it came to such matters.

  Idly she rearranged a spray of pink roses arrayed in a silver tureen. But her thoughts were not on the flowers, nor the painting, nor even the coming party. Her thoughts were on Kyle.

  The girl was growing up, at least in some respects. Physically she was becoming quite a fetching young lady, though at times Abigail had difficulty admitting it, even to herself. The presence of a daughter approaching womanhood only accentuated Abigail’s own age. Just the other day, one of her charity friends remarked on how well Abigail was managing to hide the years.

  But why couldn’t Kyle grow up emotionally, Abigail fumed. She was such a child when it came to things that mattered. She made friends with the servants, of all things! Kyle smiled and charmed everyone who did not matter, and avoided even speaking to those who did. She cared nothing about clothes. She hated attending charity functions. She yawned through her classes in etiquette. She—

  Stifling back a cry, Abigail dropped the rose. She had been so caught up in her concerns about Kyle that she did not realize how hard she had been gripping the thorny stem. Abigail turned and inspected her reflection in the tall side mirror. Her own smooth, blond, patrician beauty had enough characteristics mirrored in Kyle that no one had ever questioned their relationship. And Lawrence and Abigail had traveled enough during those early years of marriage that the appearance of the little baby fifteen years ago had not caused questions or comment.

  Abigail sighed and impatiently turned away from the mirror. Emily Crawley, now, she would have been the perfect daughter. She looks, acts, and thinks like I do was Abigail’s bittersweet conclusion. Which was hardly surprising, given the fact that Emily’s and Abigail’s grandfathers had been brothers. Which made them second cousins—such a cold way to describe a bond that went far beyond mere ancestral ties. If only she could mold Kyle into the proper kind of daughter.

  It was a good thing that Abigail had inherited her grandfather’s ambition. Lawrence had not made su
ch a bad job of his insurance company, but he did not have that nearly ruthless instinct required to transform his middling-size business into a national power. No, her husband unfortunately shared his daughter’s softness, which was remarkable, given their utterly unconnected backgrounds.

  Abigail was all too familiar with the threat of softness. Her own father had been a weak, ineffectual man. Kind to his family, but weak. And it had cost their family everything. Her father had taken over a thriving business established by her grandfather and driven it into the dust.

  Abigail moved closer to the sideboard and picked up the little silver bell. There was one in every room of the house, and all the servants knew the immediate summons of its ring. The bells were available for all the family, but Abigail was the only one who ever rang them. Lawrence preferred to call out his requests, and Kyle . . . well, Kyle would just do the task herself. As though the silly girl was concerned not to trouble the servants with extra work.

  The doors to the main hall opened, and the maid curtsied. “You rang, ma’am?”

  “Has my daughter finished dressing?”

  The woman hesitated an instant before replying. “I haven’t seen her, ma’am.”

  Which was probably a safe way for the maid to avoid saying that Kyle was back in the kitchen, against Abigail’s express orders, talking with that chef again. It was only because Lawrence had put his foot down that the woman and her know-it-all husband were still in the household. “Never mind that now,” she said crossly, speaking her thoughts out loud. “Go tell my husband I need to speak with him. Privately. And at once, before the guests arrive.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The maid quietly shut the door behind her.

  Randolf Crawley. Yes. Here was a man who shared her ambition and her drive. Pity he was twenty years younger than she. The two of them would have made a formidable team. But that was impossible. No, what needed to be done was to make the proper arrangements, so that at least the next generation would rise to the ranks of true power. It was not that Abigail was after more money. She already had more than she would ever be able to spend. It was the power to shape and control people’s lives, to bend them to her will, to see them bow and scrape and acknowledge her as the leader she had been born to be.

  It was her destiny to rule.

  Kyle entered the grand formal hallway at the front of the house, then stopped. Voices resounded in the distance. Loud voices. Hesitantly she walked forward, not because she wanted to, but because of her mother’s orders to present herself before the guests arrived.

  The closer she drew to the tall double doors leading to the library, the more it seemed as though the entire house was holding its breath. Even through the stout oak portals, Abigail’s voice sounded very angry. “I simply cannot fathom why on earth you would invite that—that boy into our home!”

  “Kenneth Adams is twenty-five years old, hardly a boy. As a matter of fact, he’s only two years younger than Crawley.” Lawrence Rothmore’s voice sounded both tired and stubborn. “And he is more mature than some men twice his age.”

  “And just what is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing, Abigail. I am simply trying to end this silly discussion.”

  “Silly, is it? You are choosing to bring a common office worker into my house, and you call it silly?”

  “His father is a respected pastor. Ken graduated with honors from Princeton at the age of twenty, played quarterback on their varsity squad, and has been an exemplary employee of ours for almost five years now. I hardly call that common. To be honest, I am amazed that my choice of an assistant can leave you feeling so . . . so threatened.”

  “Threatened? Me?” Abigail’s laugh sounded brittle. “Don’t be absurd.”

  “Like it or not, he is my new personal assistant. You’re always telling me I need to slow—”

  “What’s the matter with Randolf?”

  “Young Crawley? You know quite well, Abigail, Crawley’s father has retired. Randolf has been appointed to take his seat on the board. I can hardly expect our newest board member to run my errands, now, can I?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation before Abigail changed tack with, “In any case, you must admit this Kenneth person is a poor substitute for the real thing.”

  Kyle knew her mother, should she open the door, would be furious to find her listening there. But she could not move. She felt glued to the spot. Though her name had not been mentioned even once, she had the feeling that this entire quarrel had something to do with her. Something bad.

  Her father’s voice rose a notch. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “You know very well what I mean. You’re always forming these absurd attachments with protégés. We should have had a son, just like I said.”

  Kyle stiffened. A son! She had always dreamed of having a baby brother. But her mother had never allowed her to even mention it. Kyle could scarcely believe her ears. Her mother had wanted a son?

  Her father’s astounded laugh rang through the closed doors. “Like you said? In case you have forgotten, Abigail, I was the one who begged you for a son after Kyle—”

  “Don’t be petty. I meant instead of—”

  “That is more than enough.” A new tone had entered her father’s voice. A dangerous coldness. “I want no more of that. Not ever.”

  Clearly Abigail realized she had gone too far, for her voice took on a conciliatory note. “But to invite him into our house, especially tonight when so much hangs upon—”

  “Our daughter is just fifteen years old.” A trace of anger grated in Lawrence’s voice.

  “And growing up fast,” Abigail retorted.

  “That’s right, she is.” Behind the closed doors, Kyle was able to visualize her father’s determined strength in standing up for her. “Which means that in time she will grow into handling her own affairs.”

  “Oh, really, Lawrence.” Scorn dripped from Abigail’s voice. “She doesn’t have the faintest inkling of how to handle relationships or money. Do you know, I have even had to stop her allowance. She has the absurd tendency of giving it away to the first poor person who comes into sight.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with a little charity,” Lawrence said, but a note of doubt had crept into his tone.

  “Let us be realistic, please. It is high time this issue be settled in everyone’s mind. Which makes it even more bizarre that you would even dream of inviting this other young man—”

  “The matter is closed,” Lawrence replied stonily.

  Her father’s heavy footsteps started toward the library doors, with Abigail’s continuing argument in close pursuit. Kyle inched her way along the dark paneling, then flew up the stairs.

  Once in her own bedroom, she shut her door on the words that seemed to have followed her. She turned on the radio and waited impatiently as it warmed up to the strains of the new hit song, “Only You.” Shakily she seated herself at her little vanity and studied her reflection. She was certainly not pretty, not like Emily Crawley, who had even the oldest boys stopping to watch as she walked by. Kyle’s nose turned upward slightly, almost like a miniature ski jump. She always felt that her shoulder-length hair was too thick, even after she had brushed and brushed until her arm ached. And it seemed such a strange color—not brown and not blond, just a sort of butterscotch.

  Whenever Kyle examined her reflection, like now, she felt as though her mother’s disapproving gaze was there as well, pointing out all her flaws. Large eyes stared back at her from a face that was shaped like a reversed teardrop, descending from a broad forehead to a pointy chin, which of course made her mouth look even bigger than it really was. Especially tonight, when her mother had personally selected an odd peach shade of lipstick, then had made her paint her fingernails so they matched. It was almost as though Abigail wanted to make her look years older than she was. Even the dress had been personally selected, and Kyle was wearing Gran’s pearls for the very first time.

  Some girls would have been pleased
with the chance to seem older and mature. Not Kyle. What with the constant lessons in etiquette and speech and dance and on and on and on, Kyle felt she was constantly on display. Constantly being prepared for something, being formed into an ornament to be polished and set upon a mantelpiece. Kyle picked up her brush with a sigh. No, growing older held nothing for her but a vague foreboding. As Kyle brushed with swift, hard strokes, her mind went back over the quarrel. What had her mother meant when she said “instead”? Instead of what?

  The doorbell rang. Before the chimes were silenced, Kyle had stood, turned off her radio, and started for the bedroom door. Her mother would scold if she was not there to greet their guests. Besides, her mother would never dream of continuing an argument in public. Abigail always presented her loveliest smile to the outside world when she was angry. As Kyle hesitantly moved down the stairs, she wondered if perhaps that was why she herself smiled so seldom. Her mother made the act seem like a lie.

  As she entered the living room, Randolf Crawley approached. Inwardly she quailed that he, the last person she wished to see, should quite naturally be the first guest to arrive.

  “Kyle, good evening.” He flashed a smile. “How beautiful you look.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Crawley,” she said, feeling her mother’s eyes upon her. “How are you tonight?”

  “You really must call me Randolf, please.” He tugged on the starched cuffs to his shirt, pulling them down below the sleeves of his tuxedo so that the heavy gold cufflinks glinted in the chandelier’s light. “We’re almost family, you know.” He laughed at his own quip, then added, “I suppose you’ve heard the news. Father has retired, and I have taken over his place on the board.”

  “Yes. Congratulations.” Kyle managed the words with a courteous smile, though she felt little interest in the man’s promotion.

  Randolf’s gray eyes swept over her form. “You look truly spectacular,” he said warmly. “That blue in your dress complements your hair beautifully.” He didn’t seem to notice her blush of embarrassment. “Let’s see, you must be seventeen, isn’t that right?”