in his own family. Who else could have gone into Tarrant House and not been seen by someone? They all lived there, you know, because he was generous, giving food and board to grown men with wives who should have worked hard enough to earn the money for their own residences. But not Whitney or Milam.' She made no effort to wipe away the tears. Annie's heart contracted.
'Couldn't the Judge have helped his sons, made money available so they could have had their own homes?' Max inquired.
'What would that have taught them about standing on their own two feet?' she retorted angrily. 'That would have been the worst possible thing to do.'
Max was looking both bemused and appalled. Since he had never understood Annie's staunch devotion to the Puritan work ethic, it was unlikely the Judge's approach would impress him. As far as Max was concerned, money, which his family had and shared in abundance, was marvelous because it afforded freedom. The idea that a person's worth should be equated to how much money that person possessed or could earn was utterly foreign to him.
Annie offered up a silent prayer of gratitude for Laurel. Dear, flaky, unpredictable, impossible Laurel, who had successfully inculcated her economic beliefs in her offspring. They were rich, yes. They enjoyed being rich, yes. But they never thought possessing money made them special or better or worthy of deference. They thought it made them lucky.
'Oh, no, you look at those lazy Tarrant boys,' Nelda ordered. 'Just one problem after another, the Judge had. Whitney and that graspy wife of his. Milam and that sad little woman he married. And the Judge's wife.' An odd look crossed her face. She started to speak, paused, then said, 'Funny, how things come back. I was thinking about the Judge on that last day, a Friday. Of course, I don't see how it could matter now, nothing came of it, and she's been dead so many years, too. But that afternoon, he put me to callingcondominiums in Florida, to see about buying one for his wife, Amanda.'
Sybil answered the door. 'Where have you been all day?'
She didn't wait for an answer. Turning on her heel, she marched into the dining room. One full wall, including the Federal fireplace, and the wainscoting on the other three walls were paneled with rich red cypress. But little of it could be seen and little of the magnificent, equally richly red Chippendale table and matching chairs. Photographs, large and small, were propped on every level space and against the walls.
Annie felt her breath catch in her chest.
Photographs of Courtney Kimball, at all ages, from babyhood to the present. They captured the girl's beauty and the unusual, almost gaunt, configuration of her facial bones. She was elegant, elusive, fascinating.
As Annie looked from the photographs to Sybil, she realized that Courtney was very much her mother's daughter. The resemblance could be missed at first because Courtney was so fair. Her ash-blond hair, porcelain-white skin, and Nordic blue eyes were all a heritage from her father, Ross. But the reckless gleam in those sapphire-blue eyes was a spark of the unquenchable fire that burned in Sybil's and that remarkable, unforgettable bone structure was the legacy of her dark and dangerous mother.
Sybil stood, her arms folded across her chest, looking from one photograph to another: Courtney on horseback, playing tennis, as a baby, as a debutante, at Christmas, on Valentine's Day, her birthday, wielding a hockey stick, at slumber parties, as a cheerleader. 'God. Isn't she beautiful? Isn't she wonder ful?'
Despite her beauty, Sybil looked haggard. Tight lines etched the corners of that sensual mouth. Her cheekbones jutted too sharply, her velvet-dark eyes were red-rimmed. She was, as always, dramatically and exquisitely dressed. But her crimson blouse was partially untucked, and her white linen
slacks wrinkled. Even her vivid makeup had the look of an afterthought.
She reached out tenderly and picked up a photograph. In it, Courtney must have been about twelve. She wore faded jeans, a pink T-shirt, and a mischievous grin. She leaned precariously out from a rickety, wood-slat tree house, high in an old live oak.
'I had a tree house once.' Sybil swallowed and said gruffly, 'They were good to Courtney, those people who took her.' She looked at them piteously. 'I would have taken good care of her.'
'Of course you would have,' Annie said warmly. She darted a helpless look at Max. She was out of her depth here. Nothing in her experience had prepared her to deal with this kind of anguish.
'They're looking for her, looking everywhere now.' Sybil crooked the photograph in her arm and began to pace. 'I put the fear of God into Wells. They're really looking now.' She stopped and gripped Max's arm with her free hand. 'They can still find her, can't they? Maybe she was hurt and wandered away. That happens, you know. Sometimes.'
Max put his hand over hers. 'Sometimes,' he said gently.
Haunted eyes clung to his face. 'You think she's dead. I can tell. So does he. He said there's no trace of her, none. Her credit cards haven't been used, not since that day. No one's seen her. She hasn't cashed money out of her account. They think she would have—if she were out there somewhere. If she could.'
