Hide and Seek Page 11

  He’d done much worse things than a little cocaine—but he’d gotten away with them. It had cost him—a sizable bribe every week to his beloved brother—but at least he was still free and on the loose. He wasn’t in prison for the rest of his life.

  Will and Palmer had decided he ought to live somewhere other than London for a while. The little bastard Palmer had insisted on it, actually. It was a part of their “deal.” For some reason, Will found himself drawn to New York anyway.

  He sublet an apartment on the East Side, and loved it so much he went looking for a house. He happened to read in the Times that Maggie Bradford had a place in Westchester. So did Winnie Lawrence. Will decided to look in Westchester first.

  He was still a huge fan of Maggie’s songs. Her music was healing; he was convinced of it. He’d even talked to his hotsy-totsy Fifth Avenue shrink about the songs, especially the lyrics. The doc was also a Maggie Bradford fan, so he understood what Will was talking about—at least he thought he did.

  Will fantasized about meeting Maggie one day in Westchester. He was certain it could be arranged somehow. He was clever enough to accomplish that, wasn’t he?

  CHAPTER 46

  THIS IS THE part that doesn’t make much sense. Maybe that’s why it fascinates so many people, holds their attention over weeks and even months as the murder trial approaches. This is the real mystery—even for me it is. My time with Will Shepherd, my dark night of the soul. How could it have happened? How did it happen?

  After Patrick’s death, his heart attack, I kept to myself, with only Jennie and Allie, and stayed miles away from the media, whom I had come to dread and despise during my pregnancy. On a lushly green spring morning nearly a year after Patrick’s death, I was working in the garden. Allie was playing by my side. We were interrupted by the security guard, hired to keep away unwelcome visitors—which meant, just about everybody.

  “There’s a Mr. Nathan Bailford here,” he said. “Knows you don’t want to see anyone, but says it’s very important.”

  Nathan was a neighbor I didn’t know well. I did know he was a high-powered lawyer, and that he was instrumental in keeping Peter O’Malley from interfering in the completion of The Cornelia. What could he want? Why was he here now? Was there more trouble with Peter?

  “Let Mr. Bailford come up,” I reluctantly told the guard. “We have company,” I told Allie. “Let’s go get pretty.”

  The lawyer was in his late fifties, but looked about forty-five. He smiled in greeting, but his charcoal gray suit, white shirt, and a crimson-and-gold rep’s tie were lawyer-serious, and not one silver-and-black curly hair was out of place.

  Nathan Bailford took my outstretched hand in both his own. “You know, I’ve driven by I don’t know how many times since the funeral. I’ve thought of you often, didn’t know whether to barge in or leave you alone.”

  “I’m glad you finally decided to come.” Patrick’s friend is my friend, I thought, and tried to be hospitable.

  “So, are you okay?” he asked.

  “Oh, it comes and it goes,” I told him. “The nights are the worst. I’m kind of having a bad decade.”

  Nathan Bailford didn’t know how to answer. Finally, he just smiled. Good decision. I liked him for that.

  “Actually, I’m here on business,” he admitted, when coffee was served on the patio. “It’s something—well, it just couldn’t wait any longer. As you know, it’s been almost a year since Patrick died. I had to stop by today.”

  He sipped his coffee and I noticed that his hand shook. He loosened his tie. “Patrick’s will is finally scheduled to be read. It’s been an incredible mess. Never seen anything like it. My staff and I have been preparing everything according to his explicit and typically complicated wishes. Maggie, I’ve got to tell you. It’s going to mean a bad fight. Peter O’Malley is not a happy camper right now. Patrick was right about his son—Peter can be a real bastard. He is one.”

  I wasn’t ready for this. I had given no thought to Patrick’s money or his estate, and Nathan’s edginess frightened me. The idea of a fight with Peter was disturbing, but the thought of the media hearing of it bothered me even more.

  “What’s that got to do with me?” I asked. “Nathan, I really can’t get involved in all this.”

  Nathan Bailford stared into my eyes. “Patrick’s left controlling interest in the corporation to you, Jennie, and Allen. He’s bequeathed Peter a flat sum, a tremendous sum, of course, but twenty-seven percent of the business is yours and your children’s.”

  I couldn’t believe what I had heard. I couldn’t believe it! “H-how much is it worth?” I asked. I actually stuttered.

  “Over two hundred million dollars in cash, stock, and real estate holdings. Give or take a few mil. A lot, Maggie.”

  I felt a crazy burst of anger. “Oh, Nathan, why? I don’t need twenty-seven percent or any percent. I’ve got money, more than I need. I don’t want anything to do with it. I really don’t.”

  All of a sudden, I found myself laughing, which made Nathan Bailford sit back in his chair.

  But God, it was funny! It really was. I had just inherited something like two hundred million dollars, and I felt as though I had been put in prison.

  CHAPTER 47

  HE WAS CARRYING Jennie! How could that be? I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, but I was seeing it. There it was. Bada-boom.

  Will Shepherd, the soccer player who had tried to pick me up at the Trevelyans’ party in London, was at my front door, carrying my daughter! It definitely was he. No mistaking that. I’d never forget the long blond hair and his face, and a few other things about him as well.

  The guard had called from the front gate saying that Jennie had hurt herself and that a man from the neighborhood was bringing her up to the house. When I saw who it was, I was absolutely stunned.

  This was insane.

  I didn’t ask about Jennie—she looked too comfortable, dressed in a sweatsuit, her legs dangling from his arms.

  “Put her down! Please put Jennie down,” I loudly told him.

  “Where, ma’am?” Will Shepherd said in a soft, calm voice. Jennie was no more difficult for him to carry than a pillow.

  “There. On the couch in the living room is great. Please, put her down!”

  He looked at me with troubled eyes, which gave me pause. “Hey,” he said, “she was hurt. I nearly hit her with my car. Lucky thing she jumped aside and only twisted her ankle. It happened right in front of the Lawrences’. That’s where I’m staying. I was just going out. Didn’t see her.”

  “It’s kind of you to have brought her. Thank you,” I managed. My voice was cold. “Now please leave. Thank you though. I mean that.”

  Jennie sat up on the couch where he had placed her. “You could at least offer him some coffee,” she said. “Something?”

  “I’m sure Mr. Shepherd’s done enough for us and wants to get on about his business.”

  “You know who I am?” he asked. Now he looked even more puzzled. The bastard.

  “We’ve met,” I said. Curt, just like that.

  He seemed surprised. “Really? Where? I don’t go backstage, though I’ve heard you sing. It was at the Albert Hall. The Queen was there.”

  “Not at a concert. At a party.” Curt.

  “If so, I don’t remember, and I’d remember meeting you. I’m quite certain of that.”

  He knelt to check Jennie’s ankle. “Doesn’t seem like there’s anything broken,” he said. “I’ve broken enough bones to be a decent judge of that. Still, you should probably call a doctor.”

  “As soon as you go, that’s what I’m going to do. Thanks for the advice.”

  He rose slowly. “Nice to meet you, Jennie. Hope you feel better soon.” He turned toward the door.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Shepherd,” Jennie said. Suddenly, I suspected some shenanigans on her part in this. She and her friends occasionally “stalked” rock stars, so why not a sports celebrity?

  “I don’t want you ta
lking to him again,” I told her when the door had closed.

  She stared at me, her face red. I’d never seen her this angry. “How could you act that way? Mother,” she cried. “God!”

  She leapt from the couch, gave a small cry, and collapsed. She had been hurt. Maybe Will Shepherd had done the right thing in helping her home. Maybe I had been wrong about him this time.

  CHAPTER 48

  MY HOUSE WAS next door to one of the better Westchester country clubs, the Lake Club in Bedford. The members of the Lake Club paid astronomical dues and fees to ensure that the finest chefs and groundskeepers were employed there. Its carefully manicured lawns and private gardens reminded me of Gstaad, Lake Forest, Saint-Tropez, places I had visited on my concert tours of Europe.

  I was at “the club” for a party in late September. It was one of my first forays back into the real world.

  I had to stop to catch my breath at the top of the steep fieldstone steps that led from the driveway to the main clubhouse. The last big party I had been to was for the opening of The Cornelia, and a memory of Patrick came back so clearly that tears welled up in my eyes.

  “Damn,” I whispered. Get a grip, Maggie.

  The beautiful lawn was filled with people. Dimly, I became aware of a wet bar, and a jazz combo playing quietly beside it. I said hello to a few Bedford residents, smiled at others whose names I should have known but didn’t. A Broadway producer took me aside to insist that I name a price and the talent I wanted around me for a show. I told him that the offer was flattering, but really premature, and that I would call him when I was ready. I was pressured by his intensity though, and began to feel an all-too-familiar anxiety building.

  The recluse of Greenbriar Road strikes again! I thought. It was too much too fast. I shouldn’t have come. Damn it, damn it!

  Soon I excused myself, and went to be alone in the gardens that branched off the Lake Club’s riding ring. I felt like such a fool; a loser, outcast, freak. I remembered being that way all the time when I was younger; too tall for most boys, and a stutterer as well.

  The gardens were empty, and I inhaled the fragrant air, relaxing into a kind of hazy satisfaction. This was better.

  “ ‘The loss of grace is the saddest trip … but grace can be rewon, Maggie.’ ”

  My words, whispered close behind me. I wheeled to face the man who spoke them.

  Will Shepherd was standing next to me.

  I actually jumped.

  CHAPTER 49

  I TOOK A step back, but not too far. Somehow, he didn’t seem quite as threatening in the colorful gardens and in broad daylight.

  “I came to find out why you were so cold to me when I brought your daughter home.”

  My eyes rolled involuntarily. He couldn’t be that thick, I thought. “You really don’t remember, do you?”

  He shook his head. Sunlight bounced off his blond curls.

  “What are you talking about? Please tell me,” he said.

  “The costume ball at the Trevelyans. You asked me to go home with you—be with you. You were very crude. Worse than crude, actually.”

  “I don’t remem—” He stopped, and slapped his forehead. He actually blushed. “Oh my God,” he said. “Oh shit. You have to forgive me. I was drunk, maybe drugged, and completely crazy.”

  “And disgusting,” I added. “Don’t forget that. Well, nice seeing you again. Good-bye.”

  I turned and began to walk back toward the party.

  He ran to catch up with me.

  “I’m not drunk now, not drugged, and I’m just a little crazy. Please talk to me for a moment. It’s important. To me it is. Please? I think I can explain my behavior.”

  “But do I want to hear it?” I said to him.

  “Fair enough. I’m sure I deserve that, though I still don’t remember much of what I did.”

  I studied him for a few seconds. He was dressed in a rumpled white linen suit, and the color of his hair seemed gold. He was tan, and definitely handsome—I had to give him that.

  “I only want to tell you one thing,” he said, affecting a sincerity I couldn’t believe was genuine. “You’re an inspiration to me, to a lot of people. I heard you sing at the concert for the Queen, and I thought you were singing to me. I know you weren’t, but that’s what I felt. You touched me, so thank you. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  Despite myself, I turned toward him. I saw pain in his eyes. “ ’Loss of Grace’?” I asked.

  “That song more than any other, though I loved them all, well, most of them. I was going through a bad patch at the time. You reminded me that grace could be rewon.”

  “Yes. Well. Have you rewon it?” I asked.

  His expression grew sadder. He suddenly seemed very genuine, almost human. “No, I’m afraid not. Not in this lifetime. Not after … my performance in Rio.”

  I shook my head. I was lost.

  “In Rio? I’m sorry.”

  For the first time, he smiled. I hadn’t seen him smile before, and it was something to see. “You mean you don’t know?”

  “I’m afraid not. I seem to remember that when we first met I told you I knew nothing about sports. Sorry, but I don’t keep a little scrapbook of your clippings. We have one Michael Jordan mug from McDonald’s at the house. That’s about it for our sports collection.”

  “Well thank God about that,” he said. The smile remained. Turned down, but still present.

  We were silent for a moment. He’s shy with me, I thought. He doesn’t know what to say next.

  Oh boy, Maggie, don’t start this. You won’t, of course, but don’t even think about it.

  “I ought to go back,” I said. “My date—”

  “He can wait a few more minutes, can’t he? Take a walk with an old retired gent first.”

  I hesitated. “I was about to leave.”

  “Don’t leave yet. Please. We were talking about you last night at dinner. Winnie Lawrence, June, and I.”

  “Oh?”

  “They told me about Patrick O’Malley. I’m very sorry.”

  “Yes. It was terrible.” There was nothing I wanted to add.

  We walked through a tunnel of drooping pine trees, a lamplit watercolor undercourse. We began to talk of all sorts of unexpected things: the old Harlem River Railroad line (Will was a bug on railroads); how rural Westchester compared with rural England; a recent Jeffrey Archer novel we both had read. He was as correct with me as a schoolboy, and I felt my own shyness coming back.

  I did fear I was being conned. But I figured he was trying so very hard … and he was sweet that day. And, I have to admit, to be truthful, he was gorgeous to look at.

  A patch of laughter, scattered party applause, snuck through the blackthorn bushes. I looked at my wrist-watch.

  “I don’t believe it. We’ve been talking for over an hour. I do have to go. It’s my night to cook. Will, I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not. Not a bit. I’m some terrific guest of honor though. This could be my last retirement party. I’d better go back too.”

  As we walked back to the clubhouse, he took my arm for a second, a gentle touch on my elbow, then let it go. “I needed that,” he said. “I haven’t talked to anyone like this in a long, long time.”

  “I haven’t either.” I admitted. I smiled. “There—we’ve shared a secret.”

  “Could we see each other again? I’m really not the way you think.”

  I knew he would ask, and I knew my answer. “I’m afraid not. It’s too soon for me.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “Besides, there are far better men for you than a retired football bloke.”

  I liked his self-deprecation, at the same time suspecting it might be part of his seduction routine. It must be terrible for an athlete to retire, to be finished with a career so young. How would I feel if I had to give up singing?

  “And there are younger and more beautiful women for you,” I said to him.

  “I’m looking for something a little deeper than tha
t now,” he said. “And besides, you are beautiful. Don’t you know that? … You don’t, do you, Maggie?”

  “I really have to go now,” I said.

  But I already realized he was different from what I had originally thought. He had substance, but he was very complex. Interesting.

  CHAPTER 50

  MAGGIE BRADFORD WAS everything that her songs promised, and maybe even more, Will thought. She wasn't aware of it, but she was very attractive as well.

  She was the one who could save him. He was convinced of it, and he began to be obsessed by her. He had to see her again. He listened to her songs constantly, at home, and in his car.

  He planned everything carefully, beginning with a long letter asking not for a meeting, but for her understanding. Another time he wrote of his mother's desertion when he was a boy, then of his father's suicide. He told Maggie how her songs soothed and helped him, and asked only that she respond in some way.

  There was no word from her, and, as was the usual case, he turned to other women. He lashed out at one of them. Nothing as bad as Rio, but scary anyway. The werewolf of New York.

  But out of the blue, Maggie wrote him a letter. She told him that the first step was to face his pain, as he so obviously had. He finally called her and asked for a meeting—just once, in New York, and only for lunch.

  They met at one o'clock, November 12, at the Oak Room in the Plaza Hotel. The locale was meant to be as nonthreatening as possible. He had it all figured out. He was going to win Maggie over. He couldn't bear to lose again.

  He planned to seduce her.

  He planned to win.

  He had no doubt that he would.

  CHAPTER 51

  A MONTH AND a half passed before I saw Will again. He wrote to me several times. The letters revealed even more than talking with him had. He was deep, and also sensitive. When he finally called, I was ready to see him again. Just a lunch. Harmless enough, or so I thought.