anymore. Maddy had been gone so long now. He still felt the clutch of emptiness in his gut when he thought of her and the night the police came to the door to tell him about the accident. The first few years he’d been in a daze, working, trying not to think, hurting. He owed everything to Elaine. She’d given up her job in Atlanta and come to help and be there for the kids. The kids loved their aunt.
He felt guilty every time he passed the first bedroom on the second floor that had been Elaine’s room. Now she lived in the cottage not far from the gazebo. She’d acted as if the new quarters were fine. Maybe she liked the cottage, but she didn’t like Cleo any more than the kids did. Cleo had insisted Elaine needed a life of her own. After all, she’d done a good job with the kids. Maybe she’d like to go back to Atlanta. But Elaine had been on the island for so many years now. She had her friends, a life she’d built, and of course Tommy was still in high school. That was another problem. Well, Tommy had acted up. He had to find out who was boss. The matter was settled.
Anger was everywhere around him. Pat Merridew had worked for the firm for so many years, but Cleo had insisted Pat was frumpy and they needed a young and charming receptionist. Firing Pat hadn’t saved money. Cleo was paying the new girl even more. Glen hated to remember the ugly look on Pat’s face when he saw her yesterday on the street. And then there was Kirk . . .
Glen shied away from thinking about Kirk. It would be a relief not to have to face him every day. They’d given him two months to close down his cases. Three more weeks and he’d be gone.
Cleo told him to buck up. Everything would get better.
The money flow would have to get better soon.
Richard Jamison parked his rust-streaked 2004 Pontiac in the shade of a live oak. He left the windows down and pulled a stained duffel from the trunk. The house looked just as he remembered it, a gracious Lowcountry antebellum home, tabby exterior moss green in the June sunshine. Wicker furniture on the shaded verandah looked inviting. He’d like to settle in a rocker with a rum collins. He and Glen could talk over old times. He’d have to go cautiously with Glen. It would never do for Glen to realize that Richard had come to the island to seek financial backing. If he presented everything just right, he could persuade Glen that he was giving him a good investment opportunity.
Richard hefted the duffel. He was curious to meet his hostess. He’d been in Singapore when Glen remarried. Maddy had been dead for six years now, maybe seven. He wondered how the kids felt about a stepmother. Especially a stepmother who was only a few years older than Laura. And how did Glen’s sister, who had since then served as chatelaine of the antebellum home, feel about the new Mrs. Jamison?
Kids . . . As he climbed the front steps, he gave a slight shake of his head. Not kids anymore. Laura must be about twenty-four. Kit was in graduate school. Tommy was in high school.
An old friend had written him about Glen’s second wife. “Cleo’s hot, a tall brunette, sultry brown eyes, leggy but stacked. Cleo’s one lucky lady. Whatever she does succeeds. High school beauty queen. Top grades in law school. Bowls over guys with one glance. Her favorite game’s roulette. The ball always seems to fall in her pocket. Don’t know what she saw in Glen except he’s top drawer when it comes to an old Southern family and her roots are middle class. She grew up in Hardeeville, mom a teacher, dad a fireman. They lived in a modest frame house on an unpaved road. Plus, Glen used to have a lot more cash till the meltdown in ’08. Cleo came to work at the firm, made partner in a year, married Glen the next year.”
Richard shifted the duffel, punched the doorbell. He’d selected his wardrobe with care, a boring blue oxford- cloth shirt, poplin slacks, and cordovan loafers, a far cry from his usual frayed tee, baggy shorts, and flip-flops. He’d shaved the stubble that he preferred, even sported a short haircut. He hoped the preppy look would reassure Glen that his wild cousin Richard could, with the proper financial backing, become a pillar of the community.
When the white door opened, Cleo Jamison pushed the screen, held it wide for him. Dark brown hair cupped a long face with deep-set brown eyes, a straight nose, and full lips. A summery blouse emphasized the curve of her breasts. Sleek jade slacks molded to her legs. She smiled. “You must be Richard.” Her throaty voice made him think of cast-aside pillows and rumpled sheets. She reached out a perfectly manicured hand, the fingers long, slim, and warm, to take his hand.
Richard felt a flood of desire. His response was immediate and instinctual. For an instant, a hot current sizzled between them.
Cleo relinquished his hand. Her gaze was abruptly remote. Her lips curved in a conventional, polite smile.
He stepped inside, once again under control. But she’d responded for a flicker of an instant. Hadn’t she?
A door opened toward the end of the hall. A tall man walked wearily toward Richard and Cleo.
Richard felt an instant of shock. Glen’s fair hair was silvered, his face drawn and tired; his clothes hung too loosely on his body. “Hey, Glen.” Richard forced a robust shout.
Glen’s slightly reedy voice was raised in welcome. “Hey, little buddy, welcome home.”
Cleo was well aware that Kit Jamison had been in her father’s study for almost fifteen minutes. She felt a surge of triumph. It had taken all her cleverness to delicately maneuver Glen into a state of acute dissatisfaction with his daughter. He’d almost proved intractable, but Cleo’s will had prevailed. Funny that he should be so devoted to unstylish, awkward, socially graceless Kit. Of course, she looked like her father, fair-haired, fair-skinned, slender, but her pale blue eyes were humorless, her thin face ascetic. Sure, Kit was academically brilliant, but she didn’t have the smarts to go after a well-paying career. Kit’s plan to go to the Serengeti to help catalog declining lion populations as a volunteer biologist might be admirable, but let her manage on somebody else’s dollar. Asking Glen to support her intellectual and nonpaying lifestyle would have been all right a few years ago, but Glen not only lost half of his savings in the crash, he’d been panicked enough to sell when the Dow was plunging down toward seven thousand. Cleo’s lips thinned. He should have asked her. But he hadn’t.
Despite the thickness of the walls between Glen’s study and hers, the sounds of acrimony penetrated.
Cleo rose from her chair. She paused in the sunlight that poured through the large, wide window to admire the glitter of the emerald bracelet on her wrist, a gift from Glen, then strolled toward the hallway. She knocked briskly on Glen’s study door, swung it wide.
Kit jerked to face the door, her narrow face folded in a furious frown. Without makeup, her fair skin was pallid, though marred now by red patches of anger.
Cleo’s voice was pleasant. “Kit, won’t you stay for lunch?”
Kit flung out one hand. Her hands were graceful and elegant despite chipped nails. “I’d rather eat with hyenas.” Head down, she rushed toward the door.
Glen pushed up from his chair. “Kit, come back here. Apologize to Cleo.”
