2

Verity had not been a month old when her parents purchased the house. Margaret Hawke, employing her considerable taste and her greater fortune, found exactly the place to suit them in a moneyed, well-managed, and discreet neighborhood at the southern extremity of Brookline, Massachusetts. Boston was less than fifteen minutes away by automobile, and at night the clouded sky might be red with the city’s reflection, yet the setting was one of strictly European formality.

The oldest part of the house had been built in the early 1920s, in the French Provincial style. The façade was narrow, uninviting, private. The house stretched far back, and then turned left into an L. The grounds were a modest three acres, and neighboring homes had at least as much to boast; privacy was as much thought of in the area as fine views and the right gardener. In the front of the house vast chestnuts stood resolutely in a graveled parterre. In the summer these ancient trees masked the house entirely from the private road on which the property was set, and in the winter their stark, tan, leafless forms lent the place an air of well-bred bleakness. In the back of the house, however, were thick stands of spruce, maple, dogwood, and mimosa. In her first season there, Margaret Hawke planted five Japanese magnolias between the garage and the kitchen garden, to remind her of Marlborough Street, where she had grown up and where the magnolias bloomed in profusion every March.

A nine-foot cobblestone wall—constructed before zoning laws constrained fencing to a meager six feet—surrounded the property. An arced gravel driveway went right up to the double-door entrance of the house.

The formal rooms of the house were long, rather low-ceilinged, and elegant. The hallway floors were marble, and the walls were painted a soft gray. The living room was in blue and orchid, and Margaret Hawke had furnished it with pieces taken from her grandmother’s house in Back Bay. The room was stately but comfortable. There were a maple-paneled office and two walk-in cloakrooms—one for men and one for women—at the very front, and at the back, a large dining room with a carved marble fireplace and three sets of French windows opening onto the back lawn; its walls were painted with the scenery of the upper Charles River. This entire floor, with suitable decorations, was prominently featured in the Christmas issue of Architectural Digest for 1965.

Two guest rooms and the master bedroom suite were located above this formal part of the house.

The stem of the L contained the kitchen, the breakfast room, and the servants’ rooms—it was thought innovative in 1922 to have the servants sleep on the ground floor. Upstairs were the four bedrooms, playroom, nursery, and three baths in which the three Hawke children were brought up.

Jonathan now lived in Back Bay, in a condominium in one of the Prudential Center residential towers. His father had gotten it for him at a ridiculously low price. Cassandra still occupied the bedroom she had had since infancy, and Verity’s, at her father’s order, was kept always in readiness—with weekly airings and changing of linens—against her unexpected but always hoped-for return.

Two of the family’s boats were kept in the garage, and the third space was taken up by Richard’s Mercedes. Jonathan’s yellow Porsche, Cassandra’s black Audi, the Buick station wagon that was kept for the use of the servants, and Louise’s lime-green Toronado were often arranged in a curved line along the gravel drive. The keys to all these vehicles were kept in a basket on the table in the front hall, so that the cars could be used or moved about at will.

The entire household worked that smoothly. There were dates, inexorable as Christmas, when the winter drapes were taken down and the summer drapes put up, when the gardener was sent down to Truro to open up the summer house, when the iron garden furniture was repainted for the coming season, when furs were taken out of storage for the winter. All this was now Cassandra’s province. Richard rarely concerned himself with the workings of the house, but turned his energies to the running of his prestigious Newbury Street realty office. In colder months he often worked well into the night and on weekends. Late spring through early autumn, his spare time was devoted to navigating his sailboat along the upper reaches of the Charles River. To his children, Richard Hawke was a polite handsome stranger who knew a lot about winds and tides and each year at Christmas took them to the Boston Ballet’s production of the Nutcracker.

The relationship of the Hawke children to their late mother had been no less distant. Verity, Jonathan, and Cassandra had spent their first years under the loving care of a nurse and gover­ness. Their mother they remembered best appearing in the bedroom door, kneeling to kiss them, smiling—and saying good-bye. The only time that Margaret Hawke spent six consecutive months in the house was the last year of her life, when she was confined to her bedroom with the cancer that killed her. When she died, Verity was eleven, Jonathan ten, and Cassandra eight. At her funeral none of the children displayed any emotion over their loss. Not long after, Verity and Jonathan were sent off to private schools in Vermont and New Hampshire. Cassandra followed them within a year. Verity, who eventually went to Bennington, was a fine student, and would have been a brilliant one if she had only applied herself. Jonathan was best in the sciences, and eventually graduated cum laude from Harvard, with a degree in anthropology. Cassandra went to Radcliffe and worked for a specialized major of comparative literature. She managed to graduate summa cum laude and Phi Beta Kappa. After college Verity and Jonathan had returned, at least for a time, to the mansion in Brookline. But with their father they maintained relationships of only the politest forms of affection. Verity moved out at the time of her marriage and did not return when the marriage broke up. Jonathan left following a terrible argument with his father, begun around a disagreement on what shoes to wear to church. For the past year Cassandra had lived alone with her father, but without any increased intimacy.

Verity pushed the doors of the dining room shut behind her. She slid her hands into the pockets of her slacks and waited for someone to speak.

“All right,” she said. “I know. I missed the party. I’m sorry.”

Verity pushed at the bridge of her dark glasses and looked her sister over. Cassandra was dressed in a white silk high-necked blouse with ribs of lace down the front. Her black skirt uncharacteristically touched just above the calf. She wore conservative gray-toned hose and square-toed, heavy-heeled shoes of black leather. Her thick auburn waves were brushed back from her pale, sharp-featured face.

“We’ve just come back from Mount Auburn,” said Eugene Strable.

“The cemetery?” asked Verity in a small voice. She was suddenly aware that the family lawyer seemed much older than when she’d last seen him. The lines about his mouth and forehead were more pronounced and his short dark hair had grayed at the temple.

Cassandra moved across the room toward her sister, but Verity became suddenly very stiff. “Am I going to have to play Twenty Questions?” she asked, then demanded, “Where’s Father?”

“Father died on Wednesday night,” said Cassandra. “In Atlantic City.”

“Atlantic City!” repeated Verity in surprise.

“Father and Louise went down for a three-day convention of real-estate brokers,” Cassandra explained.

Verity turned to Louise Larner, who had remained seated at the head of the table.

“Brokers of luxury properties,” added Louise, her expression betraying no emotion.

Louise was tall and slender with a ruddy, smooth complexion. Her figure was shapely, and she did not show all of her forty-five years. Her hair was jet black, glossy, and fell in thick waves that just brushed her shoulders. Louise spent at least two lunch hours a week in a fashionable beauty salon three doors down from the Hawke Associates Realty Company.

“How did Father die, Louise?” Verity asked levelly.

“It was his heart,” Louise returned quickly, “but you see . . .” Louise looked at the three Hawkes, and went suddenly silent. She slipped forward a little in her chair, as if waiting anxiously to be prodded to speak more.

“His heart?” Verity cried. “He never—”

“It was completely unexpected,” Eugene Strable said gently. His eye, however, was on Louise. “It took us all by surprise. When I heard . . .”

Verity moved distractedly away from her sister, shunning her touch. At the French doors, she stopped and turned back to the lawyer. Then she looked at Louise. “Tell me how it happened.”

Louise began to speak, but Jonathan stood up from the hearth, where the fire had begun to blaze. “Now isn’t the time, Verity,” he said.

Louise sat back in the chair. She tugged at one of her wide shirt cuffs.

Verity looked up at him. “Now is the time. I want to know exactly what happened.” Verity closed her eyes a moment, then sat down at the end of the table, directly opposite Louise Larner. Cassandra came forward and placed her hand on her elder sister’s shoulder, but Verity writhed out from under it.

“I think,” the lawyer said to no one in particular, “she probably should hear about Richard, even though . . .”

“Even though what?” demanded Verity. “Why isn’t anyone speaking?” Verity looked straight at each person in the room.

“Your father and I flew down to Atlantic City last Monday,” Louise began, before anyone else spoke. “Richard and I have been involved for some time in a big new development project. So much of our time has been spent in lining up investors—wooing them, Richard called it. And as it turned out, two of our biggest prospects are real dyed-in-the-wool gamblers, so Richard thought it would be a good idea if we met them down at Atlantic City, so—”

“For God’s sake, Louise!” snapped Verity. “Nobody cares about that!”

Louise took a noisy little breath expressive of having taken offense, but she went on more to the point: “Anyway, Richard and I were in Atlantic City, on business. And you know how your father was when he traveled—no matter how tired he was, it was almost impossible for him to get to sleep. Wednesday night we had dinner and your father wanted to get up early the next morning so he went to bed and took sleeping pills. Sleeping pills don’t always work, you know, and this time they didn’t work at all. I guess he took some more of them, without thinking, of course, and they still didn’t work, so he got up and dressed and went down to the lobby to have a few drinks and do a little gambling.”

Louise paused in a show of consternation.

“Go on,” said Verity.

“He had a heart attack,” said Louise slowly. She touched a hand to her neck, fingering the large onyx broach there. “At the blackjack table,” she added with a grimace.

“My God,” whispered Verity faintly and sadly. “Where were you? Why didn’t you stop him from drinking after he took those pills; he—”

“Verity, I didn’t know he had done it! I was so exhausted by all the meetings that day. I didn’t find out about it until they came upstairs to get me. I don’t need to tell you that I was devastated! I still am.” Her voice rose in pitch and strength: “Especially since—” Louise left off abruptly, and glanced questioningly at the lawyer. “I think now is the time to tell them, don’t you?” she said in a low voice. “Now that Verity’s here?”

“Tell us what?” demanded Verity. “There’s more? What more could there be? Father’s dead.”

“Now,” sighed the lawyer.

Cassandra and Jonathan exchanged puzzled looks. Eugene Strable stepped up to the table and rested his hands on the back of a chair. Louise sat up straight and stiff. Her stockings whined as she uncrossed her legs.

“Louise and your father were married last Saturday,” said Eugene Strable. “It was a civil ceremony in the Brookline town hall. Jeannette and I were witnesses.” There was a long moment of stunned silence.

“It was very solemn and lovely,” said Louise quietly. She folded one hand over the other in her lap.

Jonathan sat slowly in one of the wingbacks by the hearth. Cassandra drew her breath loudly. Verity mumbled, “Oh, Jesus! Last week?”

Louise nodded. “The trip to Atlantic City was business, of course, but it was a sort of honeymoon too. We were going to announce the marriage at Cassandra’s party. Then of course Richard died. We couldn’t find you, Verity, because you were on the road, but you promised to be here in time for the party. That’s why we scheduled the funeral today,” she added with a touch of reproach, “because you had promised you’d be back.” She looked from one to the other of Richard’s children. “I know this won’t mean much to you right now, but I want you all to know that Richard was very, very happy this past week. We only had four days together—but they were perfect days.”

The fire popped and crackled, and quickly the room became too warm. Louise sat very still and expectant, most evidently waiting for someone to speak words of welcome to the family, or words of consolation on the loss of her husband. Jonathan, Verity, and Cassandra all maintained their silence, until it became oppressive. Louise rose and hurried through the swinging door into the kitchen. Verity sat at one end of the Sheraton dining table, well away from the fire. Cassandra took the chair next to her. Jonathan described the well-attended public funeral and the private graveside service at Mount Auburn.

When he was done, Eugene Strable turned so that he faced the three of them. There was genuine concern in his pale gray eyes. “I want you to do me and yourselves a favor. The three of you have lost your father, and I’ve lost my best friend—but Louise has lost her husband. She’s trying hard to maintain her composure, but I know for a fact that she is deeply grieved. I know that there’s been a little friction between you and Louise, but I’m going to ask you to put that aside for now.” He looked from one to the other.

“I can’t deal with this,” said Verity, turning away.

A moment later, Louise came back into the dining room, bearing a large silver tray laden with cups, a steaming silver pot, half a dozen tiny spoons, and a silver sugar and creamer. The tray was obviously heavy. Eugene Strable made a quick movement to assist her, but she motioned him out of the way. She placed the tray on one corner of the table.

“I thought we all could use a little bolstering,” she announced with cold dignity. “The cemetery was very damp, after all.”

Cassandra made a distracted, almost imperceptible nod of her head.

Louise poured and Eugene passed out cups. When everyone had been served, Verity took a single sip from her cup and grimaced. “God,” she said, “this tastes like creosote.”

“It’s Lapsang Souchong,” said Louise defensively. “It’s all I could find. I’m not as familiar with the house as I should be . . .”

A few minutes later, Eugene Strable got up to go. Verity politely stood and shook his hand. Grasping her hand in both of his, he again offered his sympathy and his regret that it had all come as such a shock to her. He left, refusing Louise’s offer to see him to the door.

Richard Hawke’s three children and his widow remained in a rigid and lengthening silence in the dining room.

“You haven’t asked about Eric,” Louise said to Verity at last.

“I didn’t intend to.”

“He was at the funeral, of course. I’ll be seeing him again this evening. I’ll tell him to be sure and call you tonight.”

“Please don’t, Louise. I’ve had enough to contend with
today.”

“All right, dear.” Louise was silent a moment, then said, “But I’ll leave his number on the hall table, in case you change your mind. He lives in Cambridge now.”

When she still got no reaction, Louise went on, in a slightly offended voice. “I think you owe it to Eric. Owe it to him for what happened at the funeral today. He was horribly embarrassed.”

Jonathan and Cassandra looked up sharply and questioningly at this.

“What on earth happened?” asked Verity curiously. “I’ve never seen Eric embarrassed.”

“That man you had an affair with showed up at the cemetery, looking for you.”

“Which one?” Verity pursued dryly.

“Ben James,” said Cassandra. “Louise, Ben James was a friend of Father’s. That’s why he was at the funeral.”

Ben James had been at Harvard with Richard Hawke, and his daughter had been Verity’s Bennington roommate. His affair with Verity had ended shortly before her marriage.

“I told him you were out of town,” said Louise. Then she sighed. “It was a terrible moment for Eric.”

“I told Ben to call tomorrow,” said Jonathan.

“Good,” said Verity, smiling at her brother.

“I’m going to run out to the greengrocer’s now,” said Louise, standing. “I volunteered to fix dinner for the four of us this evening.”

“Where’s Ida?” asked Verity. “And Serena? And Cara?”

“The servants are off, of course,” replied Louise. “I suggested Cassandra let them have the day off to mourn in their own fashion­.”

“I see,” said Verity.

“Is there anything you want me to pick up?”

Cassandra and Jonathan replied in the negative, and Louise started out. She had just opened the double doors and was stepping through, when Verity’s voice halted her. “Oh, Louise!”

“Yes?”

“I think my car’s blocking yours. The keys are in the hall basket. Don’t bother about the bags in the backseat, I’ll have someone bring them in later.”

Cassandra stepped closer to the fire, staring into the flames for a long moment before shifting her glance to her sister. The fire was reflected in the large dark lenses of Verity’s glasses.

Verity smiled ruefully. “I feel as if I’ve just been trampled by all ten thousand runners in the Boston Marathon.”

“I need a drink,” said Jonathan. He knelt before a Chippendale commode and opened the doors. Second of the three children, he was twenty-seven, tall, thin, and clean-shaven, with sandy hair a shade lighter than Verity’s. When he smiled he was almost handsome, for a smile showed off his perfectly aligned teeth and gave definition to his jaw. He had the same sharp nose and highly defined cheek lines of his sisters—these they had all inherited from their mother. “Who else wants one?”

“I do,” said Verity. “A vodka gimlet.”

“I don’t know how to mix that.”

“Then Canadian Club and Seven. Light on the Seven and skip the ice.”

“Verity,” Jonathan said, rummaging for the whiskey, “I get the distinct idea that you saw the inside of a lot of bars in Kansas City.”

“I did. Bar crawling is the favored sport of the elite in Kansas City.”

“Are you going back?” Cassandra asked.

“I would rather walk naked through the fires of hell on a Saturday night than go back to Missouri.” She took a long swallow of the drink.

“So you’ll stay on for a while?” Jonathan asked.

“At least until the reading of the will, I guess.”

Cassandra seated herself on the floor beside her sister’s chair, her legs folded beneath her. The firelight played about her face and made glossy highlights in her hair. Verity absently reached down and grazed her sister’s cheek with the back of her hand.

“I could get you a good position in the company,” Jonathan offered. His company was the Commonwealth & Providential Life Assurance Corporation, headquartered in Boston. For the last three years he had had a job as an assistant director of personnel; he had already found cushy jobs for half-a-dozen Exeter and Harvard classmates.

“Thank you, Jonathan. Really,” said Verity after a disapproving moment. “But I’ve suffered terrible job burnout recently, and it may take me a while to get over it.”

“Cassandra, do you want a drink?” asked Jonathan.

“Sherry,” she replied.

Verity shook her head. “So, what are we going to do about dinner?”

“Louise is fixing dinner,” said Cassandra.

“Not for me, she’s not. She going to show up with Eric and an armful of broccoli. I’m going out; who’s going with me?”

“I will,” said Jonathan.

They both turned to Cassandra. “It wouldn’t be right,” she said. “Not this evening.”

Verity shrugged. “If you think I’m going to spend this evening watching Louise smile bravely in her tacky widow’s weeds, you’re out of your head. I certainly do not want to hear her version of the last four days of Father’s life.”

Cassandra tossed her hair and looked up at her sister and brother, Jonathan standing with his back to the fire, his shadow falling across Verity’s face. “All right, we’ll go out. After all, it’s not Father’s death that’s upset me so much, it’s the prospect of having Louise underfoot from now on.” She took a breath, and said, “Poor Father.” But there was no regret or remorse in her voice. “I haven’t been able to mourn him at all yet. I guess I keep expecting him to come back from Atlantic City. I don’t know who I thought it was they were burying in that casket today! The funeral home put rouge on his cheeks, and they parted his hair on the wrong side.”

“Do you know what I’m going to miss most?” said Jonathan. “I’m going to miss the calls to tell me there’s a sale on at Louis or at Brooks Brothers.”

Cassandra’s laugh was short and bitter. “And his giving me advice on how to hire and fire.”

“He didn’t actually know us very well,” mused Verity. “Nor we him.”

“I wonder what’s in the will?” said Jonathan.

“Knowing Louise,” said Verity, “don’t you imagine that she got Father to change it in her favor?”

“They were only married for four days,” exclaimed Cassandra. “There wouldn’t have been time.”

“Well,” said Jonathan reassuringly, “even if Father left everything he had to Louise, none of us is going to be left out in the cold exactly. Father’s death doesn’t affect the trust fund.” He paused a moment, and then glanced at his sisters. “At least I don’t think it does. We should be all right, even if worst comes to worst and Father didn’t leave us anything at all.”

“Don’t say that,” said Verity. “Father did leave us something—something very important.”

“What?” asked both Jonathan and Cassandra.

“Well,” said Verity bitterly, “Father’s left us Louise Larner Hawke—our very own wicked stepmother.”