Chapter 19

I

“Who’s the Kevin Costner look-alike?” my brother Donald asked as he followed me into the sitting room of the Beekman Place apartment.

Without turning around, I answered, “That’s my best friend, Jake Newberg. You’ll meet him later. He’s a photojournalist. We work a lot together.”

“And sleep a lot together, I bet,” Donald shot back.

I swung around and exclaimed irately, “You’re already irritating me, Donald, and you’ve been here only a couple of minutes! Let’s not forget that you’ve not come to discuss my relationships, but yours with your mother.”

“She’s your mother too, Val,” he responded, then continued swiftly, almost apologetically. “And there’s no need to be annoyed. I caught a glimpse of him as I walked past the study, and he does look like Costner.”

I sighed, sat down in the chair, and made no comment.

Donald lowered himself onto the sofa and sat staring at me across the coffee table, not speaking either, just scrutinizing me intently as if he’d never seen me before.

I stared back.

Muffie was right. My brother had turned into a very good-looking young man. He took after my mother, had her black hair, the beautifully sculpted looks, the same perfect nose, high cheekbones, and smooth, high brow plus her light green eyes. But he wasn’t tall and willowy as she was; it was I who had inherited those particular characteristics from her. But that was the only physical resemblance we shared. I was a Denning through and through.

It was Donald who was a Scott, her male clone, her spitting image right down to the widow’s peak that was such a prominent and striking feature in them both. He was not built like her though; rather, he resembled my father in physique. Donald was not very tall, and he was small-boned, as my father had been.

Donald was studying me so closely, I began to feel uncomfortable, and I said, “What is it? Why are you looking me over in this way? You seem to be memorizing every detail of my face.”

He grinned at me, flashing those perfect pearly white teeth I’d always envied. “I haven’t seen you for a long time . . . but I don’t have to memorize your face, I know it well. . . .” He let out a long sigh and said in a low, almost inaudible voice, “You used to love me once, Val, when I was little.”

Taken aback not only by his words but by his sudden mild demeanor, I was speechless for a moment; he was usually so combative with me.

“Well, you did, didn’t you?” he pressed.

“Yes, you’re right, I did,” I admitted. “I loved you a lot in those days.”

“Why did you stop?”

“I didn’t, not really,” I murmured, frowning. “It was your mother. She got in the way, put herself in between us, so to speak. Your mother took you over, and in so doing she pushed me out.”

“She’s also your mother,” Donald said.

“This is the second time you’ve said that in the space of a few minutes! And no, Donald, she isn’t my mother. She may have given birth to me, but she has never been a mother, nor has she shown me any motherly love.”

“I know that,” he admitted very quietly.

He had startled me again. I couldn’t believe that he had actually agreed with me on something to do with our mother. But I didn’t say a word. I couldn’t help wondering why he had had this change of tune all of a sudden. I was immediately suspicious.

I said, “What’s this all about, Donald?”

He shook his head, but he remained silent.

“Let’s cut to the chase.”

Donald sat back and shook his head again. “I don’t understand too much, because she won’t tell me. But basically it’s to do with the will, her will. Mother won’t tell me anything in detail.”

“What do you mean, she won’t tell you anything? You told me that your inheritance was somehow tied to mine. I don’t get it.”

“Neither do I, because she won’t explain. But after she had her first heart attack, she told me to call you, to get you home, to get you to New York. But you refused to come. She wasn’t too happy, I can tell you that, and then she had a second heart attack. When she was better, she got really forceful about my persuading you to come to New York. She told me it was imperative, she had to see you and that it involved a lot of money. That’s all I know.”

“I see. So it’s all to do with Margot Scott Denning and her money.”

“True.”

“I’m not interested in her money. You can have my share. All of it, Donald.”

“That’s nice, thanks, I accept it,” he said. “But first you have to talk to her, see her. She wants to see you, urgently. Come on, sis, agree to this. Please, for me.”

“Donald, why do you persist in annoying me when you need my help?”

He frowned, looking puzzled.

“You know very well I hate being called sis,” I reminded him.

“Sorry, Val.”

“So, is she at death’s door or not?”

“No,” he admitted. “Not actually. Not now. She seems a lot better, and the doctor says she can go back to work next week, but only part-time, for a few hours a day. She has to take it easy, and she has to rest a lot.”

“That won’t go down well. I used to think she was hyperactive, the way she moved around, rushed hither and yon when we were little. She was never still for a moment, and hardly ever at home, always in her office at Lowell’s.”

“That’s true. Even when we were just small kids, work came first, I guess. And since Dad died, she’s been really committed to business, a workaholic.”

“Oh.”

“Well, she misses him, Val.”

“He’s been dead for ten years, Donald! Has she become keeper of the flame? Is that it?”

He didn’t answer, simply looked into the distance, at the space above my head.

The silence became drawn out.

Donald looked so miserable, so perturbed, I found myself feeling sorry for him. How I used to bully him. He had looked at me in much the same way when he had been a child. He’d been a nice little boy until she’d come along and ruined him. But I had loved him, he was right about that. Until he had been grabbed away by that monstrous woman who’d borne us both.

Taking a deep breath, I broke the silence when I said, “Muffie told me she keeps running into you these days, and that you always have a beautiful girl with you. Is there anybody special yet?”

“Well, yeah, sort of . . . there’s a really great girl and I care about her a lot—” He cut himself off, settled back against the sofa, squinted at me in the sunlight. “So, you saw Muffie Potter.”

“Yes, for lunch yesterday.”

“Val, listen, I think you really must see her, Mother I mean!” he exclaimed with sudden urgency. “She won’t open up to me until she’s talked to you. If she’s said that once, she’s said it two dozen times. I need to know what this will stuff is all about, and only you can find out. Val, this is about my future.”

“I hadn’t planned on seeing her. Nor had I planned on seeing you, Donald. I came here on business with Jake, and it was he who pushed me into making a date with you. He feels I have to get to the bottom of it. Find out why she was so horrible to me when I was growing up.”

“I guess you do, sis. I mean Val,” he quickly corrected himself, obviously trying hard to be nicer to me than he normally was, to ingratiate himself. Well, he wanted something, didn’t he? But unexpectedly he had such a pleading look on his face, I found myself saying, “I’m not going to actually promise I’ll see her before I leave, Donald, but I will think about it. That I do promise.”

This pleased him and he beamed at me. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m appreciative. Anyway, we should both know what’s on her mind, shouldn’t we?”

“That’s true,” I acknowledged.

“When do you think you’ll see her?”

“I didn’t say I’d see her. But, okay, I will phone her. Before I leave New York. Let’s forget it for the time being. Don’t nag me, otherwise I might change my mind,” I threatened, and instantly realized I’d reverted to my bullying of old.

He laughed, obviously thinking the same thing. “Fair enough. Now, when do I get to meet Costner’s clone?”

“Is somebody talking about me?” Jake asked from the doorway.

I looked across, saw him leaning against the doorjamb nonchalantly, looking impossibly handsome, dressed in pristine blue jeans and a white cable-knit sweater. And I acknowledged to myself that he did indeed look a bit like the actor.

“Come on in, Jake,” I said, standing up. “I want you to meet my brother, Donald, who’s being positively sweet today, and not his usual obnoxious self.”

Donald laughed, also rose.

The two men walked toward each other, met in the middle of the room, and shook hands. Jake said, “Would you like a cup of coffee or a drink, Donald?”

“Not right now, thanks, but maybe later, Jake.”

Jake sat down in the chair next to me, gave me a long, questioning look, and asked, “So tell me, have you solved the problems of the world?”

“No,” I answered quickly. “But I have promised Donald I’ll contact his mother before I leave New York.”

Jake nodded. “Why not do it now? Make a date to see her as soon as possible? Let’s get this family stuff out of the way. You and I have so much work to do on the book.”

“Are you two writing a book?” Donald asked, his face lighting up. “What’s it about?”

Before I could stop him, Jake was telling Donald all about Flowers of War, his excitement and enthusiasm more pronounced than ever. There was no way I could curtail the flow of words, and naturally Donald was eating it all up, his eyes fastened on Jake intently. He was mesmerized.

I stood up and walked across the floor. At the door I said, “I’m going to get a cold drink. Either of you want anything?”

They both glanced at me and said nothing, simply shook their heads and immediately went back to their conversation. I shrugged and hurried down the corridor to the kitchen. As I pushed open the swinging door and went in, I couldn’t help thinking that Donald had improved a bit. At least he wasn’t as nasty as he usually was. In fact, he was almost civilized. Wonders never cease, I muttered under my breath. And then instinctively I wondered what kind of game Donald was playing.

II

Late that evening, when we were getting ready to go to dinner, Jake turned to me and said, “Give your mother a call now; arrange to see her tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!” I exclaimed, looking horrified. “It’s too soon.”

“Too soon for what?”

“To see her, Jake. I need time to prepare myself before I venture into her territory. And I must call her and then go over there at once, otherwise I might—” I stopped and stared at him.

“Or you might lose your nerve? Is that what you were going to say?”

I nodded.

Jake came across the room in a few strides, put his arms around me, and brought me into his warm and loving embrace.

“Listen, sweetheart, there’s nothing she can do to you now. Not anymore. You’re no longer a little girl at her mercy. You’re a grown woman, a war correspondent, a woman who has faced every kind of danger, looked it in the eye, and stared it down. You can see her anytime, Val, you don’t have to prepare yourself. That’s silly. Just pick up that phone, dial her number, and tell her about Donald’s visit today—”

“She’ll already know about that!” I exclaimed, cutting him off. “He’ll have told her everything.”

“Okay. Maybe. Just tell her you’d like to see her tomorrow. I’ll go with you if you want.”

“I do want,” I said, and immediately felt somewhat foolish about my attitude of a moment before. What was Margot Scott Denning going to do to me? Nothing, of course. It was just that I had so many bad memories of her and I always felt nervous at the prospect of being in her presence. Not that I’d seen her since my grandfather’s funeral.

“All right,” I agreed, “I’ll do it now.”

“Good girl.”

I went over to the phone, picked it up, and dialed the number of the apartment on Park Avenue.

When she answered, I said, “It’s Val. Donald says you want to see me.”

“Yes, I do,” she said quietly. “How are you, Valentine?”

How am I, I thought. What a damned nerve she has. That was practically the first time she had asked me how I was in my entire life. Instantly my suspicions spiraled into alarm. I said, “When can we meet? How about tomorrow?”

“Well, I—”

I cut her off coolly. “We’d better make it tomorrow afternoon. At about four. It’s really the only time I have available.”

“Very well,” she said. “I’ll see you at four.”

“Fine,” I answered, and hung up.