Wait Until Dark, page 2
"Newspaper shots rarely do anyone justice. But I'm sure you didn't ride out here for reassurance of your good looks."
She hadn't meant to sound quite so harsh. Clearly, her curt retort startled him. His dark brows rose ever so slightly, though he seemed more puzzled than offended.
"It's obvious we started out on the wrong foot, although I'm not sure why," he stated bluntly. "If it's because I frightened you when I walked in, I'm sorry. If it's because you resent my driving out here to talk to you, I didn't. I drove out to look over the property. I had no idea you'd be here. Actually, I'd planned on calling your hotel later and making an appointment to see you before you left for Connecticut."
"I see." She couldn't get angry at that. It was too honest - something she hadn't expected.
He extended his hand. "Let's try again. You must be Lindsey Hall. It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Nicholas Warner."
Lindsey acknowledged the formal introduction with a polite smile and a handshake. "What gave me away - my Connecticut plates or my key in the front door?"
"Both. That and your striking resemblance to Harlan."
She'd noticed that, too, if only from photos. Still, her stomach tightened at hearing the observation spoken aloud, "I'll take your word for it. Mr. Falkner and I never met." The strain was back in her voice. But she couldn't help it. This subject was her Achilles' heel.
"I know," Nicholas Warner replied quietly. "Harlan regretted that."
"Did he?" Skepticism laced her tone.
"Yes."
She averted her gaze, stared into the empty mahogany living room. "You knew him well."
"Almost twenty years. He gave me my first break, backed the real estate investment that launched my career. He was a complex man, a brilliant businessman. He built his reputation deal by deal and dollar by dollar."
"And his wife? His children?" Lindsey forced her gaze back to his. "Where did they factor into things?"
Nicholas Warner studied her for a moment, that probing blue stare boring through her. "Stuart and Tracy meant everything to Harlan. They were his legacy, his reason for building an empire. As for his wife, Camille is a lovely, fragile woman, I'm sure you know about her situation. It's hardly a secret. If you've scoured the newspapers enough to spot my picture, then I'm sure you've read about Camille's difficulties."
Slowly, Lindsey nodded. "She's confined to some estate-like psychiatric facility."
"Rolling Hills. And, yes, she's been there for about seven years."
"That's quite a while. Does her family visit her?" Lindsey had no idea why she was asking these questions. Each detail she learned cut through her like a knife. But somehow she had to know.
"They visit frequently, yes." Nicholas's tone was cautious, as if he were sifting through his information and providing only those facts he felt Lindsey was entitled to. "Tracy lives in Boston. She runs a division of her father's company there. She drives down every chance she gets. Stuart goes more often, usually several times a week, since he lives right in Providence. Harlan used to go with him."
"Mr. Falkner's death must have come as a horrible blow to his wife."
"It did. As I said, Camille is fragile. Harlan was her world. His visits were her lifeline."
Lindsey swallowed hard, thinking of her own mother's reaction when she'd read of Harlan Falkner's death. Her lips had trembled, and her eyes had filled with tears - tears she'd made sure were gone by the time she folded and put down the newspaper. She'd dismissed the subject and pretended to go about her business, as if what she'd just read had been any upsetting but impersonal item. Lindsey hadn't been fooled. Late that night, she'd heard her mother's muffled sobs as she'd privately mourned a man she'd never really had but never stopped loving.
So, yes, Camille Falkner had undoubtedly been shattered by her husband's death. But at least she'd been allowed her grief. And at least she'd been bound to him, legally and emotionally, and, as a result, had lost something tangible. What had Irene Hall lost? A dream. A wisp of memory that was almost three decades old.
The injustice of it made Lindsey's heart wrench.
"He really did wish he'd known you, Lindsey," Nicholas murmured, watching her face. "Honestly."
Emotional shutters descended inside her. She didn't even know this man. She certainly wasn't going to bare her scars to him. "It wasn't me I was thinking of. In any case, I appreciate your candor, Mr. Warner. I hope my questions weren't intrusive."
"They weren't. And it's Nicholas." He reached out, touched the sleeve of her windbreaker. "It's only natural that you'd be curious about your... about Harlan. I'd be happy to fill in whatever blanks I can. Why don't we go somewhere and grab a cup of coffee? We can talk. I'll tell you if you're overstepping."
He certainly knew the right things to say. And the right times to say them.
Perhaps too well.
He'd gone from being pleasantly impersonal to warmly empathetic in a matter of minutes.
Lindsey had the uncomfortable feeling she was being manipulated.
And she could think of just one reason why.
"There's one blank you can fill in right away," she tested. "And that's your role as prospective buyer of this house. I've been racking my brain, and I've come up empty. Why didn't Mr. Falkner sell the manor to you before now? Clearly, he didn't want it. It's been vacant for years. So why wait?"
The barest hint of a pause. "That's easy. He wanted to give you first dibs."
"After he was dead."
"After it was too late for Stuart and Tracy to try talking him out of his decision. A will is binding. It made the choice of whether or not you owned the manor solely yours to make. If you sell, it won't be because you were deprived of the opportunity to own this place. It will be because you don't want it."
Another honest reply. Maybe she was being overly suspicious.
Maybe.
"Okay, suppose that's true," she conceded. "My next question is, why would you want to buy it? You're a successful real estate developer. You work on projects that yield huge profits. Why would you want a single, neglected Georgian manor? Restoring it would be a huge undertaking and a minimal profit-maker."
This time the pause was longer, more pronounced, and Lindsey had the feeling she was about to find out what it was about Nicholas Warner that made her so uneasy.
"Because I have plans for the land," he said at last. "Plans that could give lots of people a chance to wake up to a view of the ocean each day."
"The land?" Lindsey blinked. "Lots of people? I'm not following you."
"I'm not going to restore the manor, Lindsey. I'm going to build condos. A cluster of luxury townhouses nestled in the middle of the thirteen acres - "
"Condos?" Lindsey spat out the word as if it were poison. So that was it. He wanted to demolish something he knew she'd want to preserve.
She backed away, whatever camaraderie there had been developing between them blown to bits. "You want to destroy this magnificent manor so you can build some condos?"
"You make it sound as if I said prisons. I'm talking about tasteful structures of wood and cedar shakes, constructed so they blend in with the natural setting - "
"I don't care if you said miniature Taj Mahals." Lindsey's palm sliced the air, effectively cutting off whatever else he'd been about to say. "The answer is no. Absolutely no. You're not razing this beautiful house to the ground. You're not tearing down one brick, not one wooden tread. And you're definitely not replacing it with some garish, high-priced townhouses."
She flipped up the hood of her windbreaker, marched around him, and headed for the door. "You can keep your cup of coffee, Mr. Warner." She paused, facing him as she twisted the doorknob. "Oh, and thank you for making a difficult decision very easy. As of now, this manor is not for sale. Not at any price. I'm keeping it."
She stormed out of the house.
Nicholas listened to the crunching sound of tires on gravel, and then her car driving away. His smile faded, his lips tightening into a grim line.
Lindsey Hall was going to be a problem.
3
BY THE TIME IRENE HALL GOT HOME from work the next night, Lindsey had just finished preparing a chicken casserole and popped it into the oven.
"Hi," she greeted her mother, tugging off her oven mitts and tossing them to the counter. She walked out of the tiny kitchen, giving her mother a tired smile.
Petite and slight of build, Irene appeared much younger than her fifty-one years - at least at first glance. It was only when one looked closer that one could see her chapped, overworked hands and the world-weariness in her eyes. Still, with her diminutive size, flaxen hair, and cornflower blue eyes, she looked all the world like a china doll - one that had been dragged around rather than allowed to sit on a shelf and be admired.
"You look exhausted," Lindsey said gently, walking over to give her mother a hug. "Sit down and relax. Dinner will be ready in less than an hour."
Irene smoothed a strand of pale hair off her forehead and studied her daughter, her fine features tightening with concern. "An hour" she repeated quietly. "Good. That gives us a chance to talk."
Lindsey averted her gaze. "There's not that much to talk about. I can recap the past day in about five minutes."
"I beg to differ with you. There's a lot to talk about. And I don't only mean the past day. I mean the past twenty-six years. This talk is long overdue." Irene's firm tone surprised Lindsey. Her mother was always soft-spoken and gentle, her personality as delicate as her appearance. Now she sounded adamant.
"Lindsey, I was here when Mr. Masters called and asked you to come to Providence. I might not be aware of the specifics, but I am aware of what, or rather who, prompted the call. I'm also aware that you purposely got back here this morning with just enough time to shower, change, and rush off to work. You didn't want to talk then, and you don't want to talk now. Well, that's not going to fly. Not this time. I realize you're trying to protect me. But I don't need protection. I'm not some fragile piece of glass that's going to shatter if you mention Harlan's name." She broke off, a troubled expression darting across her face. "Quite the opposite, in fact. We need to have this talk - for more reasons than one. I should have insisted on it years ago."
She pointed at the cozy alcove that was their living room. "So let's both sit. Tell me what Mr. Masters said. Obviously, Harlan made provisions that involve you. What are they?"
Lindsey shot her a startled look. "Why would you assume that? I never even met the man."
"I'm right, though, aren't I?" her mother returned, a statement rather than a question.
"Yes. You're right" Lindsey walked over and settled herself on the sofa, waiting for her mother to follow suit. "The whole situation is pretty cut and dried," she went on to report. "The official reading of the will took place days ago. This was a post-reading arrangement made in advance by Harlan Falkner." She inclined her head, gazed quizzically at her mother. "Did you know he had a manor in Newport?"
A nostalgic smile. "I remember it, yes."
"Well, he left it to me. That and a huge chunk of cash. That's what Mr. Masters announced at our meeting." A bitter edge crept into Lindsey's voice. "I guess it was Mr. Falkner's way of rewarding me - sort of a payoff for not causing a family scandal."
"Is that what you think?"
Lindsey gave an exasperated sigh, letting her head fell forward and massaging the back of her neck. "What else is there to think? I could have shown up on his doorstep years ago, DNA evidence in hand, and announced that he was my father. I didn't. I guess that impressed him. It certainly relieved him of a lot of embarrassment and explanations. According to Mr. Masters, he followed my life and my career. He knew I loved restoring old homes. So, he left me his. Along with a few million in gratitude. End of story."
Irene sank back against the cushions, her shoulders sagging with regret "This is my fault." "Your fault?"
"Yes. I thought that filling in the blanks would make things worse. I was wrong." She twisted around to face her daughter. "Lindsey, did you turn down the manor? Because if you did, it was for the wrong reasons."
"I don't understand."
"Did you turn down the manor?" Irene pressed.
"No. Ironically not. I accepted it. It was either that or see it torn down and replaced with condos." Briefly, Lindsey filled her mother in on her meeting with Nicholas Warner, told her what he'd intended. "I can't allow that. The house is for too beautiful to be destroyed. Oh, I realize that accepting it is hypocritical, given how I feel about Harlan Falkner, but I have no choice. I won't let it be torn down. Besides," she added quietly, watching her mother's face. "I have another reason for wanting to keep it. I want you to have it. I want you to make it your home."
Irene swallowed, her lips quivering a bit. "My home..."
"I don't know how well you remember the manor," Lindsey rushed on, determined not to let her mother refuse this well-deserved gift, "but it's elegant and homey all at once. The ocean is close enough to wake you in the morning and lull you to sleep at night. Right now, the house is barren, with no furniture or decorations to enhance its charm, but even so there's something so special about - "
"I remember every detail of the place," Irene interrupted quietly. "You were conceived there."
Lindsey went very still. "Oh," she said at last "I had no idea."
"You had no idea of many things." Irene replied. "All you know is that I was a maid in Harlan's house, that he slept with me, got me pregnant, then gave me enough money to take care of the problem and sent me off. That's all you ever wanted to know. But I should have insisted. I should have forced you to listen."
"To listen to what? The fact that you were in love with him? That you're still in love with him? Mom, I didn't need to hear that. I knew it."
"What you didn't know, what you never wanted to hear, is that Harlan was in love with me, too. Maybe not enough to turn his back on Camille, certainly not enough to alienate his children and blow his family to bits, but he did love me, Lindsey."
Lindsey spread her hands in a gesture of disbelief. "Then why didn't he come to you? Why didn't he offer you something, anything, besides enough cash for an abortion? Why didn't he - "
"He did."
A start of surprise. "What?"
Irene folded her hands in her lap, stared sadly down at them. "He came to me several times. First, when I announced I was going through with the pregnancy and having his child, not getting rid of it. Next, after you were born, to lay eyes on his daughter. And again, when you were about ten. Each time he offered me money, help, his influence in finding a better job. Anything. Anything but what I really wanted: him."
Irene wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. "Each time he came, I refused his offers and sent him away. I told him he'd given up any rights to you and certainly any rights to me. I was proud in those days. The way I saw it, either he loved me enough to leave his family and marry me, or I wanted nothing to do with him. I wouldn't take his money. And I wouldn't publicly acknowledge him as your father - although on his last visit, he pushed me to do that, and damn the consequences. But I refused, and not because I was trying to spare him or his family. You're the one I was worried about. It was hard enough for you as it was, being the child of a faceless, nameless man who'd abandoned me. But being Harlan Falkner's bastard? That would have ruined your life. I finally managed to convince him of that, and he went away for good. But it doesn't surprise me that he kept track of your life and followed your career. I'm not even shocked that he left you the Newport estate. I'm just glad you accepted it."
Lindsey glanced away, trying to process all her mother had just said, feeling equal amounts of pain and relief at the realization that Harlan Falkner wasn't the total monster she'd believed him to be.
It was true that she'd resisted any discussion of him. She hadn't wanted to hear anything personal about him, especially not the details of his relationship with her mother. It was too hurtful to think about how he'd used and abandoned Irene, how easily he'd cut her and his unborn child from his life. By knowing nothing more about him than that, other than what the media provided, Lindsey could reciprocate in kind. She could wipe him from her mind and her heart. He was genetically responsible for her conception. Period.
Until now. Her mother's explanation had just given Harlan Falkner dimension, made him a flesh-and-blood man - a man who'd taken steps to reach out to her mother and acknowledge his child.
"I realize this is the last thing you wanted to hear," Irene murmured. "You were more comfortable hating him."
"Okay, so he loved you. He offered you help. But ultimately you ended up raising me alone," Lindsey pointed out faintly, feeling vulnerable and hating the fact that she did.
"That's true. And I resented Harlan for that, at least, at the beginning. Actually longer. I resented him until a few years after the last time I sent him away. Then life stepped in. I got older. I gained perspective and set aside pride." Irene covered Lindsey's hand with her own. "Life's not black-and-white. In a perfect world, Harlan would have divorced Camille, married me, and the two of us would have raised you together. But he already had a family - including two small children he loved and was committed to. Stuart was only eight when you were conceived, and Tracy was five. What should he have done - deserted them? He was torn. And I wouldn't so much as entertain a compromise. I shut the door in his face - literally - not once, but three times. He had no choice but to accept my decision."
"There's always a choice, Mom." Lindsey ran a shaky hand through her hair. "But it doesn't matter anymore. He's dead. The what-ifs might as well die, too."
Irene cleared her throat, indicating that she thought Lindsey's suggestion was impossible, and that she realized Lindsey knew the same. "What about the manor?" she asked. "What arrangements have you made?"
"I told Mr. Masters I was keeping it. I have an appointment with him later this week to sign the necessary papers." Lindsey faced her mother, the enthusiasm that had accompanied her plans for Irene's move tempered by what she'd just learned. "You and Mr. Falkner... I didn't know it happened there. If I had the place not only restored but completely redone, would you be able to live there? Or are the memories too strong and too painful?"
