“Of course it does. You never really let him go, Rachel. You couldn’t. There was no funeral where you could say good-bye, just a memorial service months later when his parents had finally given up hope. And, by then, you’d bolted off to college, where there weren’t any memories of Thomas. For you, there was never any … closure.”
She looked at him almost curiously. “You knew him, went to school with him. Was it so easy for you to accept his death?”
“Easier than for you, because I was never close to him. I wasn’t … emotionally involved. His death was a tragedy and I was sorry, but no memories haunted me.”
She hesitated, then let out an unsteady laugh. “Haunted. That’s a good word. I thought I saw him today.”
“What?”
“On a street corner while I was waiting for the light to change. I looked across—and there he was. I could have sworn it was Thomas.”
“What happened?”
“A truck went past, and when I could see the corner again, he was gone. I ran across and looked, but … My imagination, I guess.”
“You guess?”
“Well. My imagination of course.”
“Or just a man with blond hair,” Graham said steadily.
“Yes. I know.”
“But this isn’t the first time you thought you saw him.” Lightly, she said, “I’m going nuts, is that what you’re saying?”
“What I’m saying is, don’t let memories and wishful thinking become an obsession, Rachel. Thomas is dead. Don’t you believe that if he were alive, he would have somehow gotten word to you, that he would have managed to come back to you?”
“Yes. Yes, I do believe that. Because he promised he’d come back to me.” And because he came back to me once, came back from death to say good-bye to me.
But she didn’t say that, of course. She had never told anyone about that, not even on that horrible dawn when she had awakened both her parents insisting her father try to get in touch with Thomas’s boss because she was certain something terrible had happened.
“Then you know that what you saw was simply someone who looked a bit like Thomas.” Graham’s voice was still matter-of-fact.
Rachel felt a faint flicker of amusement as she left the window and returned to her chair. “I think you really are worried about my sanity, Graham. Well, don’t be. I was shaken at first, but my common sense asserted itself pretty quickly. I know I didn’t really see Thomas on a street corner.”
Except for that first instant, when she had been sure …
“I’m glad. But, Rachel, if you need someone to talk to—”
“Thanks.” She was grateful for his concern and the offer, and it showed in her affectionate smile. “But I think it’s just as you said. I never got the chance to say good-bye to Thomas, and I’ve never faced up to all the memories at home. He’s just very … alive to me right now. It’s something I’ll have to work my way through, that’s all.” She smiled at him. “Now—didn’t you say something about papers to sign?”
The house where Rachel had grown up was an elegant Georgian mansion built on extensive acreage on the James River. The house was more than two hundred and fifty years old, and had been in the Grant family for much of that time. Remodeled from time to time by various Grants, it now contained such luxuries and conveniences as carpet, closets, and bathrooms, as well as modern wiring, central heating, and air-conditioning. Yet it had maintained its graceful air despite those changes, and was considered one of the most beautiful houses in Richmond.
Rachel got out of her mother’s sedan at the front drive and stood for a moment, studying the house. Not for the first time she wondered if she was being hasty in even considering selling the place. Yes, the house was far too large for one young woman who didn’t care for entertaining and didn’t have to in her work—the only real excuse for a single person to own such a place. And, yes, there were too many memories here, many of them painful. And her uncle Cameron wanted it, would enjoy it, and would keep it in the family at least a while longer.
But … it was her home. She had actually been born in this house, with a doctor in attendance, since her parents had been determined to uphold that tradition. Until she had gone away to college and then moved to New York, Rachel had always lived here, just as her father and grandfather before her. Her roots were here.
Did she really want to give it up? And if she did, were her reasons the right ones? Or was she just being cowardly in wanting to run away once more to New York without facing the pain of loss?
Not questions that were easily or simply answered, she knew. Shrugging them off for the moment, Rachel went into the house. She was greeted just inside the door by the housekeeper, Fiona, who was as dour as usual. A part of the Grant family for more than twenty years, Fiona moved more slowly these days in late middle age, and her superstitious nature could be a trial at times, but she loved this house and took excellent care of it.
Which was why she resented any intrusion into her routine.
“That Darby Lloyd has been sending things down from the main attic all day. How’m I supposed to do my work with those men of hers tramping up and down the stairs, Miss Rachel?”
Rachel had known Fiona too long to be disturbed by the forbidding stare or acid complaint. Laying her purse on a side table in the large entrance hall, she shrugged and said, “You know it has to be done, Fiona. We have to have a complete inventory and appraisal of everything in the house—and that includes all three of the attics. Just be glad it’s only Darby doing the appraisal. You’d really hate it if a bunch of strangers were constantly underfoot for the next few weeks. Wouldn’t you?”
The housekeeper ignored the question. “But she has the second floor hallway filled wall to wall, and I can’t even vacuum—”
“Fiona, you can vacuum later. I’m sure Darby’s just moving the stuff out temporarily while everything’s getting tagged, otherwise she wouldn’t have room to work. Just be a little patient, all right? I’ll go speak to her about blocking the hallway.”
“If you can get through,” Fiona sniffed.
Rachel was able to get through the upstairs hallway, though it required a bit of maneuvering. A family could fill large attics with an astonishing variety of furniture, especially over generations and many shifts in style and taste; items partially blocking the hall ranged from Revolutionary chests and Regency tables to—of all things—a sixties-style beanbag.
“My God,” Rachel said when she finally managed to make her way up the fairly narrow staircase to the main attic. “Has this family kept every blessed stick of furniture ever to cross the threshold?”
“That would be my guess.” Strands of her coppery hair escaping from the casual ponytail she wore and a smudge of what looked like soot on her otherwise creamy nose, Darby Lloyd came around a huge wardrobe with a clipboard in her hand. “Sorry for the stuff in the hall, but there was no other way to sort through everything.”
Rachel waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Well, I know Fiona’s upset.” Darby grimaced. “One of my guys swore she put a hex on him when he asked if he could leave a Chippendale desk at the top of the stairs.”
“She doesn’t really hex people,” Rachel said.
“Never underestimate the power of suggestion. Ten minutes later, Steve developed a migraine. Sam had to take him home. Which is why I’m up here alone and at my wit’s end. Do you know, I think there’s a fairly spectacular Queen Anne desk in that far corner, and I can’t get to it. That’s very frustrating, Rachel.”
Rachel had to smile at Darby’s intensity. A friend since elementary school, Darby had remained in Richmond after college, starting her own interior design company with a generous investment from Duncan Grant’s bank. She was also an antiques dealer, which was why she was nearly drooling at what she was finding in the attic of this old house.
“You’ll get to it eventually,” Rachel reassured her soothingly. “Have you started the list of things you w
ant to buy for your business and things you think you can sell for me?”
Darby rolled her eyes. “Have I ever. In case you don’t know, there’s a fortune in this attic alone. That first appraisal after your parents were killed was conservative, Rachel. Very conservative. I don’t think that tax guy knew what he was doing, seriously. But you should send him flowers, because I’m willing to bet he saved you hundreds of thousands in inheritance taxes.”
“I don’t think he did more than open the door and glance in here,” Rachel agreed. “All the antiques downstairs sort of dazzled him.”
“They dazzled me too. But I’ve learned to roll up my sleeves and crawl into corners. And aside from all this glorious furniture—most of which is in fabulous condition, by the way—I’ve found three trunks so far, all filled to the brim with the kind of stuff to make an interior designer’s mouth water. Vases, candle holders, figurines, picture frames. Jeez, Rachel, it’s going to cost me a fortune to buy what I want just from in here.”
“I told you we’d work something out. A consignment deal, maybe. I’m in no hurry for the money, you know that.”
Darby’s blue eyes brightened, but she shook her head even so. “You’re being too damned trusting and way too generous.”
Rachel laughed. “I don’t think so. Look, Darby, financially, Dad left me in great shape. What I really want is for all these beautiful things to be seen and enjoyed by people. They’ve been locked away up here for far too long. And why shouldn’t you benefit from that? You’ve worked your tail off to get your business established, and you’ve already developed a reputation for finding exquisite furniture for people who appreciate it. Clearly, you’re the best woman for the job.”
“Thanks, Rachel.”
“Don’t mention it. Now, why don’t you knock off for the day? It’s after four and, besides, you need your guys to move these big pieces for you. You can get a fresh start tomorrow.” She smiled. “And I’ll be sure and tell Fiona not to hex Steve again.”
“I would appreciate that.”
The two women left the attic together, and when they reached the second floor hallway, Darby said immediately, “I hadn’t realized we’d moved so much out of the attic. God, Rachel, I’m sorry—”
“I told you not to worry about it.”
Darby bit her Hp, then said, “Tell you what. I’ll make a list tonight of a few things I know I can sell quickly, and tomorrow I’ll have the guys haul the pieces to my shop. They’ll be out of your way and mine, and we’ll get the ball rolling. Okay?”
“That’s fine.”
“I’ll check with you first, of course, before taking anything away. There might be a few things you want to keep for yourself, maybe transport to your apartment in New York.”
Like most of the people around her, Darby assumed Rachel would be selling out and leaving Richmond, an assumption encouraged by Rachel’s attitude and decisions so far. It wasn’t something Rachel disputed, even though she was still uncertain about what she meant to do.
So she merely nodded in response and said, “Sounds good.”
“Great. Then I’ll see you tomorrow.” Darby rushed down the stairs with an energy that belied her rather fragile appearance, and a moment later the front door closed behind her.
Rachel went to her second-floor bedroom in the east wing and stood at the doorway, looking down the hall toward her parents’ bedrooms. Though she had gone through her father’s desk here at the house as a business necessity, she hadn’t yet been able to sort through his and her mother’s personal belongings. It was something she knew she had to do, not a chore she could assign to anyone else. It would take time and require decisions as to what to do with clothing and so on, and so far Rachel had simply not been up to the task.
And still was not. She shied away from opening those doors just as she had shied away from any other chore that threatened her control. She wasn’t ready yet. Not yet.
She went into her bedroom, a room she had been allowed to furnish for herself when she was sixteen. Since Rachel had inherited her mother’s elegant taste in antiques, even as a teenager she had not been fond of the fads and often peculiar color combinations in vogue with her friends; her room was decorated in quiet tones of blue and gold, virtually all the furniture Louis XV pieces, delicate and lovely.
Rachel was comfortable in the room, and after so many years took the stunning antiques for granted. She went into the adjoining bathroom and turned on the faucets to fill the big oval tub, deciding that a hot bath might ease her tension and soothe the restlessness she couldn’t seem to get rid of. It only half worked, but half was an improvement, and by the time she climbed from the tub thirty minutes later, Rachel definitely felt better.
She wandered back out into her bedroom wearing a silk robe, and went to stand at a window that looked out over the front drive and lawns. Plans for the evening were simple; dinner, probably with her uncle Cameron, who was currently staying in the house, and then television or a book. It had become her routine since she had come home two weeks ago.
“Jet-setting heiress, that’s me,” she murmured to herself wryly.
The irony, of course, was that she could have jetted off to wherever she wanted—and simply had no interest in doing so. Money was not one of the things Rachel had ever had to strive for, and so it was not something that represented success or achievement. Not to her.
Achievement, to Rachel, was bound up in whether the designs she had created would successfully adorn the fashion runways when next year’s spring collections made their debut. She had apprenticed herself to one of the best New York designers, and after years of hard work had the satisfaction of knowing that her designs would be shown under her own name.
But that was months and months away, and in the meantime she had to decide just how much of her past she wanted to abandon.
Rachel sighed and began to turn away from the window, when a flicker of movement down by the front gate caught her attention. There was considerable distance between the house and the gate, but what Rachel saw was clear enough.
And definitely real.
A man with silvery blond hair was standing at the gate, looking up toward the house. He was very still for a moment, and then, with a hunching movement of his broad shoulders that might have been a shrug or some gesture of indecision, he turned and walked away, hidden immediately by the high brick wall and numerous tall trees.
Rachel lifted a hand as though to stop him, but her flesh touched nothing except the cold glass of her window.
TWO
’m sorry, Rachel. I should have done this months ago.” Mercy Sheridan, Duncan Grant’s former assistant, had come to the house to bring Rachel a box of personal articles she had cleared from Duncan’s office at the bank. She was still with the company at least through the process of settling the estate; she hadn’t announced her decision about what to do beyond that time.
She grimaced slightly. “But it was hard enough to go through his files when 1 had to, never mind his personal things. I think this is everything not directly related to the business, though—unless I come across something misfiled.”
Rachel had meant only to thank her, but heard herself say a bit dryly, “Does Nicholas want to move into Dad’s office?”
Obviously surprised, Mercy replied, “Not that I know of.” Her violet eyes softened, and she said gently, “He isn’t trying to take your dad’s place, if that’s what you think. In fact, he’s been pretty adamant about keeping Duncan’s memory alive at the bank. He wants his office left just as it was, wants that portrait to hang in the lobby with a brass plaque saying that Duncan founded the company. And he doesn’t mean to change the name after you sell out to him, Rache. It’ll go on being known as Duncan and Ross Investments, Ltd.”
Rachel hadn’t known that, and it made her feel she had done Nicholas Ross an injustice. But all she said was “I’m glad. Dad would have liked that.” He had chosen to use the name Duncan in his business because it was his mother’s family
name and because he’d liked the sound of it—especially once Nicholas Ross’s name had been added to the letterhead.
The two women were in the den, a comfortable room where Rachel spent much of her time. Mercy left the box she had brought on a side table, then joined Rachel on the Victorian settee near the fireplace.
“You are going to sell the business to Nicholas?”
“Probably. It makes sense to, after all.” Rachel shrugged. “I guess I just have to get used to the idea first.”
Mercy leaned back and crossed one long, elegant leg over the other. A beautiful, raven-haired woman with a voluptuous figure, she was still single at thirty despite the attentions of half the bachelors—and more than one married man—in Richmond. Rachel suspected she was involved with someone at the moment, but Mercy seldom offered details even to her best friend, and Rachel had been too preoccupied these last months to ask for them.
“Rache, are you thinking of staying in Richmond? I thought going back to New York was the plan.”
“I’m just having second thoughts. Natural enough, I suppose.”
“Sure. You’ve got a lot of history in this house.” She paused a beat, then added quietly, “And a lot of memories.”
“Yes.” Rachel started to tell Mercy about the blond man she had seen twice, but bit back the words. Mercy had adored her brother, and Rachel couldn’t bring herself to open up those old wounds. There was nothing to be gained by having Mercy as upset as she was herself, she thought.
“And maybe it’s time you dealt with those memories,” Mercy went on steadily. “You didn’t go on with your life after Thomas was killed, you just started a whole new one.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Rachel frowned. “You know I’d always wanted to be a designer, and the best place to learn was in New York—”
“Yes, I know that. But, Rachel, you didn’t move to New York, you bolted there. Virtually cut yourself off from everybody back here, including your parents and me. Put your emotions in a deep freeze—all of them, as far as I can see. And though you haven’t brought up the subject, I’m willing to bet you haven’t dated at all.”