7

MALCOLM NORTON WAS NOT LOOKING FORWARD TO THE evening. A silver-haired man with an erect, military posture, he made an imposing appearance. It was an appearance, however, that concealed a troubled mind.

Nuala’s call three days ago, asking him to come to dinner tonight and meet her stepdaughter, had been a shock—not the invitation to dinner itself, but the unexpected news that Nuala had a stepdaughter.

A lawyer with a general practice, working alone, Norton had seen his client list reduced drastically in the past few years, partly through attrition—he had become almost expert at handling estates of the deceased—but also due, he was certain, to the arrival of several young, aggressive lawyers in the area.

Nuala Moore was one of his few remaining clients, and he thought he knew her affairs inside out. Never once had she mentioned this stepdaughter.

For some time Malcolm Norton had been quietly urging Nuala to sell her home and become a resident of Latham Manor. Until recently she had shown signs of agreeing that it would be a good move. She admitted that since her husband, Tim, had died, the house was lonely, and it was beginning to cost more and more in repairs. “I know it needs a new roof, that the heating system is antiquated, and anyone who bought it would want to put in central air-conditioning,” she had told him. “Do you think I could get two hundred thousand for it?”

He had reacted carefully, responding, “Nuala, the real estate market here falls apart after Labor Day. Maybe next summer we’d get that much. But I want to see you settled. If you’re ready to move to Latham now, I’ll take the house off your hands for that price and do some basic fixing up. I’ll get my money back eventually, and you won’t have any more expenditures on it. With Tim’s insurance money and the house sale, you could have the best accommodation at Latham, maybe even turn one room of a suite into a studio for yourself.”

“I’d like that. I’ll put in my application,” Nuala had said at the time; then she had kissed his cheek. “You’ve been a good friend, Malcolm.”

“I’ll draw up the papers. You’re making a good decision.”

What Malcolm had not told Nuala was something a friend in Washington had passed along. A proposed change in environmental protection legislation was sure to go through, which meant that some property now protected by the Wetlands Preservation Act would be freed from development restrictions. The entire right end of Nuala’s property would be included in that change. Drain the pond, cut down a few trees, and the view of the ocean would be spectacular, Malcolm reasoned. Moneyed people wanted that view. They would pay plenty for the property, would probably even tear down the old house and build one three times the size, facing the ocean. By his calculations, the property alone would be worth a million dollars. If it all went as planned, he should turn over an eight-hundred-thousand-dollar profit within the next year or two.

Then he would be able to get on with his life. With the profit he would make from the sale of the property, he would have enough cash to settle with his wife, Janice, retire, and move to Florida with Barbara.

How his life had changed since Barbara started working for him as a legal secretary! Seven years younger than he, she was a very pretty widow of fifty-six. Her children were grown and scattered, so she had taken the job in his office just to keep busy. It wasn’t long, however, before the mutual attraction between them was palpable. She had all the warmth Janice had never offered him.

But she wasn’t the kind who would get involved in an office affair—that much she had made clear. If he wanted her, he would have to come to her as a single man. And all it would take to make that happen was money, he told himself. Then . . .

“Well, are you ready?”

Malcolm looked up. His wife of thirty-five years was standing before him, her arms folded.

“If you are,” he said.

He had been late getting home and had gone directly to his bedroom. This was the first time he had seen Janice since this morning. “What kind of day did you have?” he asked politely.

“What kind of day do I always have?” she snapped, “keeping books in a nursing home? But at least one of us is bringing home a regular paycheck.”