Blood Is Quicker Than Water Read online

  Silence.

  When her mother-in-law spoke again, it was in a brusque tone. “Well, this will be perfect then. Timothy sounds like he needs his family, and that does include us, dear. We’re going up to Thirty Birches in a few days. I’m planning a party for Gerald’s birthday. We’d like you two to come. It will be a relaxed occasion. Anne and Stan are going to be there, Michael is invited, and the two of you.”

  Michael? Things were going from awful to unbearable at a fast clip. Her chest felt tight with tension. And she didn’t imagine for a minute it would be just a family occasion. She’d learned a long time ago that with an invitation like this one, there was usually an agenda of some kind.

  Biting her lip, Cassandra raced for an excuse. “I don’t know. The antique shop has been very busy—”

  “Then just send Timmy. I hate to put it this bluntly, my dear, but we have rights.” Her mother-in-law’s voice was very cool, very precise. The tone implied politely that there was a pack of lawyers employed by the Beaumonts that would ensure those rights were thoroughly honored.

  You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Cassandra thought darkly. Having my son all to yourself without me. Fat chance.

  “Actually, I think I can get away. When exactly shall we meet you there?”

  If Marie Beaumont was disappointed or triumphant, her voice didn’t show it. With her usual elegant and formidable self-possession, she said, “Three days from now—on the tenth. We’ll expect you, my dear.”

  “Great.” Sweat trickled slowly down her back as she hung up the phone. She felt chilled, even though she was sweating on a summer day in Chicago.

  Forget Michael, she told herself; maybe she was looking at this the wrong way.

  If she left town, she’d be out of touch, away from unwanted contacts and threatening phone calls. Thirty Birches was like an elegant fortress, the closest thing to a castle that she could think of in this country. A summer home built in the grand old style and stuck up high on the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, she couldn’t think of any place more remote or more inaccessible.

  Maybe this invitation was actually a godsend.

  * * * *

  Michael sat on the terrace and stared over the vastness of light, form, and movement, raising the glass to his mouth in slow automatic rhythm. The city seemed to hum with electric energy, even when it should have been long asleep. Office windows here and there shone with the hunger of late-night ambition, cars crawled along darkened streets, and the occasional faint but definite blast of music floated upward in ghost-like echoes, telling him that there were people out there on the prowl, looking for God-knew-what and probably finding it.

  After all, this was New York.

  “God, I hate this damned place,” he muttered into the night air.

  “Then why the hell are you here, Beaumont?”

  Startled, Michael turned his head and stifled a low laugh. A tall, middle-aged man wandered through the open French doors of the apartment. “How did you get in, Gary?”

  “Key—from that trip to France you took last month. I came to return it.” His visitor held up the object in question.

  “Oh yeah, I forgot. Since you still have it, keep it and take in my mail again for the next few weeks, will you? You keep the plants alive better than I do anyway.”

  “Do I know her?”

  “It’s not a her.”

  Gary smiled, a shark-like gleam of white teeth. “I won’t even bother to ask if it’s a him, more’s the pity. Family thing?”

  “Unfortunately.” Michael couldn’t keep the sour note out of his voice.

  “Chicago?” Gary Rivers dropped into an opposite chair and lifted an elegant eyebrow. He was wearing khaki knee-length shorts, a navy shirt that spanned his thin shoulders, and had a heavy gold watch on one wrist. His blond hair was thinning but still brushed back perfectly from his broad forehead and his features were regular and unremarkable—until he spoke. Then something … rare, a spark of humor and undeniable intelligence lent that bland face all the charm of Cary Grant on a good day.

  Michael shook his head. “Not Chicago. Michigan.”

  “A return to the rustic family homestead, eh?” Gary indolently lifted a glass of what looked like scotch to his mouth. The glass was the finest English crystal. He must have brought it with him, because Michael sure as hell didn’t own anything so perfectly elegant. Gary’s loafers were slim, soft, very expensive leather. His legs crossed casually at the bare ankles as he asked, “I thought you hated the family scene almost as much as you hate New York.”

  Michael admitted, “Pretty much. But it’s my father’s birthday, so I don’t have a real choice. I haven’t been up to the place in about five years. I’m sure the whole ordeal will be a lesson in the different ways people who are supposed to love each other achieve nothing but alienation and discord.”

  In mock disgust, Gary shook his head. “Good God, you are jaded. I get so tired of you tortured artists disliking everything and everyone.”

  “Don’t forget that proverbial thin line between love and hate.” Michael grinned. “It gets the creative juices flowing.”

  Thin brows lifted and the ice in the scotch glass did a little dance. “Yes, I heard about the show. Big success. Congratulations.”

  “Didn’t see you there,” Michael commented dryly.

  A vague look of horror crossed Gary’s face. “Dear heart, I hate that post-modernist shit you paint, you know that. It takes practically all the courage I have just to walk through your living room. I find that if I just look straight ahead and don’t glance at the nightmares hanging on the walls, I’m okay.”

  “I was joking, don’t worry. I didn’t expect you, and in truth, you didn’t miss much.”

  “Now,” Gary smiled without humor, “if you would do what you’re really good at, I’d be your biggest fan, first in line with my checkbook. I have a need to be immortalized for all time.”

  “There isn’t a market for portraits.” The argument was an old one. Michael often regretted agreeing to paint a portrait of Gary’s mother. Somehow his friend had got it into his head that Michael had some sort of genius for reproducing the human form.

  “Perfect. I doubt you need the money.”

  “Shit, Gary, you know it isn’t about money. It never was. If someone decides they are going to paint for money, then they had better find the nearest building, put on a pair of coveralls, and pick up a roller. We could have this argument every day.”

  “We almost do.”

  Michael gazed at his empty glass. He wanted more wine but didn’t have much enthusiasm for getting up and going inside to get it. His whole body felt like lead. The next week yawned like the jaws of hell.

  Thirty Birches.

  His family.

  Cassandra.

  Damn.

  Getting to his feet with a resigned sigh, Gary said, “After all these years as friends and neighbors, I can read you like a map. Your unfairly handsome face is practically screaming depression. Here, give me your glass. I’ll get the wine.”

  “Thanks.” Michael transferred the glass to Gary’s hand and moodily contemplated the lit window of an apartment across the street. Through the blinds, it appeared the occupant was either doing aerobics or having incredibly gymnastic sex, bobbing into view again and again. Since Michael knew the resident was an extremely good-looking young man who worked at the gym down the street, either scenario seemed possible.

  Gary came back with a full glass of dark ruby liquid, passed it on, and sank back down as he noticed the direction of Michael’s gaze. His lips quirked as he remarked, “Makes one wonder where he gets the energy. Too bad I know for a fact he’s straight.”

  Considering Michael felt as if a grain combine had backed over him several times, he simply lifted a brow.

  “I’m wondering about something else that has nothing to do with our vigorous neighbor.” Gary thoughtfully clinked the ice in his glass and looked bland. “Will your ex-girlfriend, slash sister-in-law, be attending this little north woods soiree?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “Hence the pensive mood?”

  Michael stirred in his chair and felt his face tighten involuntarily. “What pensive mood? I’m just sitting here, tired as hell and dreading at least a week of my dysfunctional family’s antics. If that’s defined as pensive, all right, I’m pensive.”

  “Don’t forget defensive.”

  “Gary, lay off.”

  “Hey, that girl did a number on you once. I just wondered if maybe part of your avoidance of anything remotely to do with the Beaumont family hasn’t a great deal to do with her.”

  Michael fought the urge to shift again uncomfortably in his chair. Instead he fastened his gaze on the winking lights of a jet circling in the velvet night sky. The air smelled slightly of exhaust tinged with the musky scent of the potted geraniums scattered around them on the stone terrace. He muttered darkly, “I thought you were a stockbroker, not a shrink.”

  “My new hobby.”

  “Couldn’t you have taken up needlepoint or something more appropriate to your sexual orientation?”

  Gary chuckled, once again crossing his very elegant ankles. “The stereotypical insult draws no blood, my friend. Apparently I’m good at this. I believe I’ve struck a nerve.”

  Michael shook his head. “Don’t pat yourself on the back too soon. The truth is, I could care less about that greedy little bitch.”

  Chapter 2

  Cassandra carefully lifted the vase from the packing in stunned disbelief, letting the shredded newsprint drift over the counter without care. Glancing up, she could not help smiling. Her question was one swift word. “Where?”

  “Pawnshop in Cicero. Can you believe it?” Ella Parker cracked a laugh that sounded m
ore like a gunshot than an expression of humor. Her sharp dark eyes gleamed in a face that was plain and angular, free of any cosmetics that might have downplayed the lines and telltale creases created by the inevitable passing of time. Dressed in a faded flannel shirt and old jeans that hung on her spare body, she looked more like a down-on-her-luck homeless woman than the wife of the president of one of Chicago’s largest banks. “I was looking for old costume jewelry, got the idea from a friend of mine who collects it. She says there is a market for the stuff. I thought we might need to add a display.”

  “Sure, partner. Whatever you say.” Cassandra gazed at the beautiful object in her hands with awe. “Who would pawn a Tiffany vase? For that matter, I’m impressed the pawnshop owner would recognize it and hand over cash for it.” Cassandra reverently ran a finger along a beautifully done flower etched in the glass. “It’s flawless.”

  Ella snorted. “Oh, honey, he didn’t recognize the signature or the real value—at least not as what it is. He thought the piece was pretty, but the mark meant nothing to him. Otherwise, I would have had to pay more than twenty bucks for it. Some old woman brought it in and he felt sorry for her.”

  Twenty dollars. God in heaven. The thing was worth thousands.

  “A sympathetic pawnshop owner, who would have thought? I almost feel guilty at such a stroke of luck.” Placing it cautiously back in the protective nest of box and paper, Cassandra felt the familiar quickened heartbeat of elation over such a valuable find. The two of them had made some good purchases in the past couple of months, building up stock from auctions and thrift shops, but this was a windfall of the highest magnitude.

  “Luck?” Ella leaned one skinny hip against the counter and looked offended. “Hardly, missy. I worked hard for that vase. I had to dress in these old rags and scuff through every nasty dive in that part of town before I found a damn thing worth buying. If anyone I knew had seen me, they would have fainted dead on the spot. Luckily, none of them would venture within miles of where I’ve been today. As a treasure hunt, it wasn’t the most glamorous, I assure you.”

  Cassandra moved toward the back of the store where a door led to the office. She said tentatively over her shoulder, “But still better than an afternoon of playing bridge with Chicago’s most distinguished matrons?”

  The older woman’s smile was genuine and rueful. “Yes. I admit when you mentioned you were going to open this place, I thought that owning an antique shop sounded like perhaps the most boring thing on earth next to one of Beatrice Wright’s cocktail parties. You know, the ones where she chooses a theme?”

  Going through the door into the office and opening a cabinet, Cassandra gave a small shudder. “I know. Robert and I went to one or two. Pretty awful.”

  “An understatement, yet we all show up. Why is that?”

  Cassandra gave a smothered laugh. “I have no idea. I’d hate to think we had nothing better to do. Tell you what—it’s almost closing time. Shall we have a glass of wine to celebrate?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll just go ahead and lock the door.”

  Cassandra took a bottle of white burgundy out of the tiny refrigerator and searched for the corkscrew in one of the drawers while Ella went off with keys in hand. The office had once been the kitchen of the old house that she and Ella had bought together for their intended business venture. They’d had the old scarred cabinets torn out, the counters removed, the floor sanded and stained. Besides the necessities of microwave and refrigerator, an old farm table sat in the middle of the space, mismatched wooden chairs surrounding it. In the corner, by a stained glass window that was original to the house, sat a lovely rolltop desk with a computer, printer, fax machine, and all the other various modern necessities for running a business.

  Cassandra loved this room. It reminded her of her grandmother’s homey old farmhouse and represented her ability to get away from the life she had adopted when she had married into the Beaumont family. Deftly uncorking the bottle of wine, she filled two glasses half-full and turned to hand one to Ella as she came into the office.

  “Thanks.” Ella took a sip, lifted her finely plucked brows in appreciation, and sat down at the table. Plunking her elbows inelegantly on the smooth worn surface, she said, “To our growing business. May we have more days like today. Finding that vase was a rush, honey, I loved it. As I said, I thought this whole thing would be dull as a butter knife.”

  “Then why’d you ask me if you could invest?” Cassandra didn’t sit, but rather leaned a hip against the edge of the desk, holding her glass. It was a question she’d wanted to ask for all of the past five months but didn’t know how. Especially when the already surprising offer to put up half of the money turned into even more astounding active participation. “I was very surprised.”

  “Don’t know what exactly prompted it.” The older woman shook her head, her tousled gray curls at odds with her normal perfect coiffure. “Maybe it was because everyone at the club, the committees, the damned theme parties, they all were talking about it like you were insane, and I thought to myself, she needs something to do. Her husband died, she’s alone, she’s beautiful and bright and wealthy enough to never have to worry about money in her life, and she still needs something. And she thinks this antique shop is going to give it to her.”

  It was too close to the truth. Cassandra took a large uncomfortable mouthful of wine. A fly buzzed drowsily at the colorful window. “I majored in art history in college. I love beautiful objects, old or new. And antiques are all the rage. It sounded fun.”

  “Art history, really?”

  “In New York.” She let the brief statement stand. Her days in school seemed like a distant dream, something that happened to someone else.

  “I see.” There was a pause. “I don’t know if you understand this, but—” Ella hunched her shoulders. For a moment, her elfin face looked unutterably weary. She stared at her glass and her slim fingers, absent of the usual array of impressive diamonds and other gems, toyed with the stem. “You know, honey, I realized that I needed something too. Always had, maybe, something of my own. Richard, he’s always had the business. He lives it and breathes it. Oh, sure, the kids were a distraction, but they’re grown now, and even when they were little we had nannies because we traveled so much.”

  The wine made her throat feel tight. Cassandra said hoarsely, “I let our nanny go the week after I got out of the hospital after the accident. I have someone who comes in during the day when I’m here, but I mostly take care of Tim.”

  Dark eyes rose and regarded her steadily. “You have the option, don’t you? Your husband is gone.”

  Yes, Robert was dead. Oh, God.

  “Anyway,” Ella lifted her glass and swirled the bright contents, “I thought to myself, hey, why not? Young Mrs. Beaumont wants to collect old things and sell them; you like antiques and have a lot of time on your hands. Maybe she would welcome a partner. It isn’t too late, you can work a little, see if you like it, if not, get out. It wasn’t like I was particularly enjoying my life before. What exactly did I have to lose?”

  When the very elite, very formidable Mrs. Parker had approached her with her offer of a partnership, Cassandra had been floored. They knew each other only casually on a social basis, their forty-year age difference as much a seeming barrier as their husbands’ opposing political views.

  “You know,” Cassandra fought to keep her tone even as she fingered her wine glass, “most people would condemn both of us for complaining one bit. Because of our husbands we have everything we could possibly want right at our fingertips, Ella. Big houses, servants, expensive cars—”

  “More public exposure than any human being could possibly endure,” Ella interrupted smoothly. “I don’t know how you handled all those reporters following you around, snapping pictures every minute, plastering your picture on the front of their slimy little rags. At least the press and their love affair with you seems to have died down.”

  Due in large part, Cassandra thought bleakly, to the fact that she had accepted being a virtual prisoner in her own home and offered them nothing to sink their sharp little teeth into. “Robert was a public figure, I knew that when I married him. I guess I just didn’t expect that one photograph from the funeral would promote such—”