The Calhouns Collection Read online

  “No.” He would have gone to her then if he’d dared. “No, of course I don’t.”

  “Well.” She struggled to make her fingers relax. “That’s something, I suppose.”

  “I know your feelings are honest—exaggerated perhaps—but honest. And it’s completely my fault. If this hadn’t happened so quickly, I would have explained to you from the first that I have no intention of marrying, ever. I don’t believe that two people can be loyal to each other, much less happy together for a lifetime.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” He stared at her. “Because it simply doesn’t work. I’ve watched my father go from marriage to divorce to marriage. It’s like watching a tennis match. The last time I heard from my mother, she was on her third marriage. It simply isn’t practical to make vows knowing they’ll only be broken.”

  “Practical,” she repeated with a slow nod. “You won’t let yourself feel anything for me because it would be impractical.”

  “The problem is I do feel something for you.”

  “Not enough.” Only enough to cut out her heart. “Well, I’m glad we got that sorted out.” Blindly she turned for the door. “Good night.”

  “C.C.” He laid a hand on her shoulder before she could find the knob.

  “Don’t apologize,” she said, praying her control would hold a few more minutes. “It isn’t necessary. You’ve explained it all perfectly.”

  “Damn it, why don’t you yell at me? Call me a few of the names I’m sure I deserve.” He’d have preferred that to the quiet desolation he’d seen in her eyes.

  “Yell at you?” She made herself turn and face him. “For being fair and honest? Call you names? How can I call you names, Trent, when I feel so terribly sorry for you?”

  His hand slipped away from her. She held her head up. Under the hurt, just under it, was pride.

  “You’re throwing away something—no, not throwing,” she corrected. “You’re politely handing back something you’ll never have again. What you’ve turned out of your life, Trent, would have been the best part of it.”

  She left him alone with the uneasy feeling that she was absolutely right.

  ***

  There was a party tonight. I thought it would be good for me to fill the house with people and lights and flowers. I know that Fergus was pleased that I supervised all the details so carefully. I had wondered if he had noticed my distraction, or how often I walked along the cliffs these afternoons, or how many hours I have begun to spend in the tower, dreaming my dreams. But it does not seem so.

  The Greenbaums were here, and the McAllisters and the Prentises. Everyone who summers on the island, that Fergus feels we should take note of, attended. The ballroom was banked with gardenias and red roses. Fergus had hired an orchestra from New York, and the music was both lovely and lively. I believe Sarah McAllister drank too much champagne, for her laugh began to grate on my nerves long before supper was served.

  My new gold dress suited very well, I think, for it gathered many compliments. Yet when I danced with Ira Greenbaum, his eyes were on my emeralds. They hung like a shackle around my neck.

  How unfair I am! They are beautiful, and mine only because Ethan is mine.

  During the evening, I slipped up to the nursery to check on the children, though I know how doting Nanny is to all of them. Ethan woke and sleepily asked if I had brought him any cake.

  He looks like an angel as he sleeps, he, and my other sweet babies. My love for them is so rich, so deep, that I wonder why it is my heart cannot transfer any of that sweet feeling to the man who fathered them.

  Perhaps the fault is in me. Surely that must be so. When I kissed them good-night and stepped out into the hall again, I wished so desperately that rather than go back to the ballroom to laugh and dance, I could run to the cliffs. To stand at the cliffs with the wind in my hair and the sound and smells of the sea everywhere.

  Would he come to me then, if I dared such a thing? Would he come so that we would stand there together in the shadows, reaching out for something we have no business wanting, much less taking?

  I did not go to the cliffs. My duty is my husband, and it was to him I went. Dancing with him, my heart felt as cold as the jewels around my neck. Yet I smiled when he complimented me on my skill as a hostess. His hand at my waist was so aloof, but so possessive. As we moved to the music, his eyes scanned the room, approving what was his, studying his guests to be certain they were impressed.

  How well I know what status and opinion mean to the man I married. And how little it seems they have come to mean to me.

  I wanted to shout at him, “Fergus, for God’s sake, look at me. Look at me and see. Make me love you, for fear and respect cannot be enough for either of us. Make me love you so that I will never again turn my steps toward the cliffs and what waits for me there.”

  But I did not shout. When he told me impatiently that it was necessary for me to dance with Cecil Barkley, I murmured my assent.

  Now the music is done and the lamps are snuffed out. I wonder when I will see Christian again. I wonder what will become of me.

  Chapter Seven

  C.C. sat cross-legged in the center of an ocean of papers. Her assignment—whether or not she’d chosen to accept it—had been to go through all of the notes and receipts and scraps that had been stuffed into three cardboard boxes marked miscellaneous.

  Nearby Amanda sat at a card table, with several more bulging boxes at her feet. With her hair clipped back and reading glasses sliding down her nose, she meticulously studied each paper before laying it on one of the various stacks she had started.

  “This should have been done decades ago,” she commented.

  “You mean it should have been burned decades ago.”

  “No.” Amanda shoved the glasses back into place. “Some of it’s fascinating, and certainly deserves to be preserved. Stuffing papers into cardboard boxes is not my idea of preserving family history.”

  “Does a recipe for gooseberry jam rate as family history?”

  “For Aunt Coco it does. That goes under kitchen, subheading menus.”

  C.C. shifted then waved away a cloud of dust. “How about a bill for six pairs of white kid gloves and a blue silk parasol?”

  “Clothing, by the date. Hmm, this is interesting. Aunt Coco’s progress report from her fourth-grade teacher. And I quote, ‘Cordelia is a delightfully gregarious child. However, she tends to daydream and has trouble finishing assigned projects.’”

  “That’s a news flash.” Stiff, C.C. arched her back and rotated her head. Beside her, the sun was streaming through the smudges on the storeroom window. With a little sigh, she rested her elbows on her knees and studied it.

  “Where the devil is Lilah?” Impatient as always, Amanda tapped her foot as she grumbled. “Suzanna had dispensation because she took the kids to the matinee, but Lilah’s supposed to be on duty.”

  “She’ll show up,” C.C. murmured.

  “Sure. When it’s done.” Digging into a new pile, Amanda sneezed twice. “This is some of the dirtiest stuff I’ve ever seen.”

  C.C. shrugged. “Everything gets dirty if it sits around long enough.”

  “No, I mean really dirty. It’s a limerick written by Great-Uncle Sean. ‘There was a young lady from Maine, whose large breasts drove the natives insane. They . . .’ Never mind,” Amanda decided. “We’ll start a file on attempted pornography.” When C.C. made no comment, she glanced over to see her sister still staring at a sunbeam. “You okay, sweetie?”

  “Hmm? Oh, yeah. I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look like you slept very well.”

  C.C. shrugged then busied herself with papers again. “I guess the séance threw me off.”

  “Not surprising.” Her lips pursed as she sorted through more receipts. “I never put any stock in that business. Bianca’s tower was one thing. I guess we’ve all felt something—well, something up there. But I always thought that it was because we knew Bianca had tossed herself
out of the window. Then last night . . .” When the shiver caught her, she rubbed her chilled arms. “I know that you really saw something, really experienced something.”

  “I know the necklace is real,” C.C. said.

  “I’ll agree it was real—especially when I have a receipt in my hand.”

  “Was and is. I don’t think I would have seen it if it had been pawned or tossed into the sea. It might sound loony, but I know Bianca wants us to find it.”

  “It does sound loony.” With a sigh, Amanda leaned back in the creaking chair. “And what’s loonier is that I think so, too. I just hope nobody at the hotel finds out I’m spending my free time looking for a buried treasure because my long-dead ancestor told us to. Oh!”

  “Did you find it?” C.C. was already scrambling up.

  “No, no, it’s an old date book. 1912. The ink’s a bit faded, but the handwriting’s lovely—definitely feminine. It must be Bianca’s. Look. ‘Send invitations.’ And here’s the guest list. Wow, some party. The Prentises.” Amanda took off her glasses to gnaw on the earpiece. “I bet they were Prentise Hall—one of the cottages that burned in ’47.”

  “‘Speak to gardener about roses,’” C.C. read over her sister’s shoulder. “‘Final fitting on gold ball gown. Meet Christian, 3:00 p.m.’ Christian?” She laid a tensed hand on Amanda’s shoulder. “Could that have been her artist?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” Quickly Amanda pushed her glasses back on. “But look here. ‘Have clasp on emeralds strengthened.’ Those could be the ones.”

  “They have to be.”

  “We still haven’t found any receipts.”

  C.C. gave a tired look at the papers littering the room. “What are our chances?”

  Even Amanda’s organizational skills quaked. “Well, they improve every time we eliminate a box.”

  “Mandy.” C.C. sat on the floor beside her. “We’re running out of time, aren’t we?”

  “We’ve only been at it for a few hours.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” She rested her cheek on Amanda’s thigh. “You know it’s not. Even if we find the receipt, we still have to find the necklace. It could take years. We don’t have years. We’re going to have to sell, aren’t we?”

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow night, at the family meeting.” Troubled, she stroked C.C.’s hair. “Look, why don’t you go take a nap? You really do look beat.”

  “No.” She rose, pacing over the papers to the windows and back. “I’m better off keeping my mind and my hands busy. Otherwise, I might strangle someone.”

  “Trent, for instance?”

  “An excellent place to start. No.” With a sigh, she stuck her hands into her pockets. “No, this mess isn’t really his fault.”

  “Are we still talking about the house?”

  “I don’t know.” Miserable, she sat on the floor again. At least she could be grateful she’d cried herself dry the night before. “I’ve decided that all men are stupid, selfish and totally unnecessary.”

  “You’re in love with him.”

  A wry smile curved her lips. “Bingo. And to answer your next question, no, he doesn’t love me back. He’s not interested in me, a future, a family, and he’s very sorry he didn’t make that clear to me before I made the mistake of falling for him.”

  “I’m sorry, C.C.” After taking off her glasses, Amanda got up to cross the room and sit on the floor beside her sister. “I know how it must hurt, but you’ve only known him for a few days. Infatuation—”

  “It’s not infatuation.” Idly she folded the recipe for jam into a paper airplane. “I’ve found out that falling in love doesn’t have anything to do with time. It can take a year or an instant. It happens when it’s ready to happen.”

  Amanda put an arm around C.C.’s shoulders and squeezed. “Well, I don’t know anything about that. Fortunately, I’ve never had to worry about it.” The fact made her frown, but only for a moment. “I do know this. If he hurt you, we’ll make him sorry he ever crossed a Calhoun.”

  C.C. laughed then sent the gooseberry plane flying. “It’s tempting, but I think it’s more a matter of me hurting myself.” She gave herself a little shake. “Come on, let’s get back to work.”

  They’d barely gotten started again when Trent came in. He looked at C.C., met a solid wall of ice. When he turned to Amanda, he fared little better.

  “I thought you might be able to use some help,” he told them.

  Amanda glanced at C.C., noted her sister was employing the silent treatment. A very effective weapon, in Amanda’s estimation. “That’s nice of you, Trent.” Amanda gave him a smile that would have frosted molten lava. “But this is really a family problem.”

  “Let him help.” C.C. didn’t even bother to look up. “I imagine he’s just terrific at pushing papers.”

  “All right then.” With a shrug, Amanda indicated another folding chair. “You can use that if you like. I’m organizing according to content and year.”

  “Fine.” He took the chair and sat across from her. They worked in frigid silence, with the crinkle of papers and the tap of Amanda’s shoe.

  “Here’s a repair bill,” he said—and was ignored. “For repairing a clasp.”

  “Let me see.” Amanda had already snatched it out of his hand before C.C. made the dash across the room. “It doesn’t say what kind of necklace,” she muttered.

  “But the dates are right.” C.C. stabbed a finger on it. “July 16, 1912.”

  “Have I missed something?” Trent asked them.

  Amanda waited a beat, saw that C.C. wasn’t going to answer and glanced up herself. “We came across a date book of Bianca’s. She had a note to take the emeralds to have the clasp repaired.”

  “This might be what you need.” His eyes were on C.C., but it was Amanda who answered.

  “It may be enough to satisfy all of us that the Calhoun necklace existed in 1912, but it’s a long way from helping us find it.” She set the receipt aside. “Let’s see what else we can turn up.”

  In silence, C.C. went back to her papers.

  A few moments later, Lilah called from the base of the stairs. “Amanda! Phone!”

  “Tell them I’ll call back.”

  “It’s the hotel. They said it’s important.”

  “Damn.” She set down the glasses before sending Trent a narrowed look. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  He waited until the sound of her rapid footsteps had finished echoing. “She’s very protective.”

  “We stick together,” C.C. commented, and set a paper on a pile without a clue to its contents.

  “I’ve noticed. Catherine . . .”

  Braced, C.C. flicked him her coolest glance. “Yes?”

  “I wanted to make certain you were all right.”

  “All right. In what way?”

  She had dust on her cheek. He wanted, badly, to smile and tell her. To hear her laugh as she brushed it off. “After last night—I know how upset you were when you left my room.”

  “Yes, I was upset.” She turned over another piece of paper. “I guess I made quite a scene.”

  “No, that’s not what I meant.”

  “I did.” She forced her lips to curve. “I guess I’m the one who should apologize this time. The séance, all that happened during it, went to my head.” Not my head, she thought, but my heart. “I must have sounded like an idiot when I came to your room.”

  “No, of course not.” She was so cool, he thought. So composed. And she baffled him. “You said you loved me.”

  “I know what I said.” Her voice dropped another ten degrees, but her smile stayed in place. “Why don’t we both chalk it up to the mood of the moment?”

  That was reasonable, he realized. So why did he feel so lost? “Then you didn’t mean it?”

  “Trent, we’ve only known each other for a few days.” Did he want to make her suffer? she wondered.

  “But you looked so—devastated when you left.”

&nbsp
; She arched a brow. “Do I look devastated now?”

  “No,” he said slowly. “No, you don’t.”

  “Well, then. Let’s forget it.” As she spoke, the sun lost itself behind the clouds. “That would be best for both of us, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes.” It was just what he’d wanted. Yet he felt empty when he stood up again. “I do want what’s best for you, C.C.”

  “Fine.” She studied the paper in her hand. “If you’re going down, ask Lilah to bring up some coffee when she comes.”

  “All right.”

  She waited until she was sure he was gone before she covered her face with her hands. She’d been wrong, C.C. discovered. She hadn’t nearly cried herself dry.

  ***

  Trent went back to his room. His briefcase was there, stacked with work he had intended to do while away from his office. Taking a seat at the scarred kneehole desk, he opened a file.

  Ten minutes later, he was staring out the window without having glanced at the first word.

  He shook himself, picked up his pen and ordered himself to concentrate. He succeeded in reading the first word, even the first paragraph. Three times. Disgusted, he tossed the pen aside and rose to pace.

  It was ridiculous, he thought. He had worked in hotel suites all over the world. Why should this room be any different? It had walls and windows, a ceiling—so to speak. The desk was more than adequate. He could even, if he chose, light a fire to add some cheer. And some warmth. God knew he could use some warmth after the thirty icy minutes he’d spent in the storeroom. There was no reason why he shouldn’t be able to sit down and take care of some business for an hour or two.

  Except that he kept remembering—how lovely C.C. had looked when she’d come into the room in her gray flannel robe and bare feet. He could still see the way her eyes had glowed when she had stood almost where he was standing now, smiling at him. Frowning, he rubbed at a dull pain around his heart. He wasn’t accustomed to aches there. Headaches certainly. Never heartaches.

  But the memory of the way she’d slipped into his arms haunted him. And her taste—why was it that it still hovered just a breath from his own lips?