Authors: Brenda Joyce

The Third Heiress (15 page)

BOOK: The Third Heiress

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Jill sat down at the desk, trying not to think about anything other than finding the letters. She began going through the drawers, one by one, methodically, determinedly, her jaw set. She had to find the letters. She ignored his bills and receipts. His desk was neat, because his life had been photography, which meant he had spent far more time in his dark room than in his home office. She riffled through his papers, and froze when she found an address book.

Instantly Jill opened it to G. Her name and number were printed there. She hesitated, intending to close it and put it back in the drawer. But she could not help herself. She went through it carefully, trying not to feel guilty. Lucinda’s number was there, both her home number and her work number at Uxbridge Hall. So was Marisa Sutcliffe’s.

Jill put the address book away. Going through it had been a mistake. It had only upset her—and of course he would have had Marisa’s number and address—he had known her for years and years.

But now Jill was distressed, and Kate was no longer on her mind. A small voice inside of her head told her that if she snooped into his private life now, she would be sorry. In the next instant she found his AT&T long distance telephone bill. Her heart felt like it was working its way up into her mouth. Do not look at it, she told herself. Stay focused. Look for the letters.

But Jill’s hands did not obey her mind. She quickly scanned it.

There were quite a few calls to London, and not to the same number. Jill had known that he talked to his family often, and it should not be a surprise. But he had been calling three different London numbers frequently. Shaking a bit, Jill opened his address book. He had dialed Marisa’s number ten times in the last month.

Jill slammed the address book shut. Her pulse raced wildly. A telephone call was not an act of deception. It did not mean that he had still loved Marisa. It did not mean that he had been cheating on her—or that she was merely a fling. It did not mean that he had not loved her, Jill, with all of his heart.

Or did it?

Jill jumped to her feet. Coming to Hal’s apartment had been a mistake. She was more upset than ever, she had not been ready for this, she would come back another time, when she was calmer—she had to leave, now.

She needed air.

Why had he called Marisa ten times in the month before he died? Why?

The answer was so obvious. Thomas was right. Hal intended to marry Marisa, and once he had known of her divorce, he had broken up with Jill so he could go home and do so.

But how did Kate fit in?

Suddenly Jill could not breathe. She ran from the office, grabbing her tote and jacket and racing across the living room to the front door. She pushed it open and stood outside in the hallway, sucking down air. She would come back to search for the letters when she wasn’t sick with doubt and grief, when she was stronger.

At that moment, the elevator door opened, and Thomas Sheldon stepped into the hall. Jill could not believe her eyes.

He was the very last person she wished to see. “What are you doing here?!” she cried.

“The doorman said you were up here and I could not believe it,” he responded. His eyes were wide, he appeared as disbelieving as she. “What do you mean, what am I doing here? What are
you
doing here?”

Jill fumbled for a reply. “I left some things,” she began. She stopped. It was clear from his expression that he was highly skeptical of her.

“You have a key to the apartment,” he stated. He did not wait for a reply. “May I have it?”

She blinked at him. “What?” If she gave him her keys, she wouldn’t be able to come back and search the apartment.

Suddenly his gaze became searching. “Are you ill? Are you going to faint?”

In that instant, Jill knew she was going to blackout. “I need to lie down,” she whispered. She could not take the stress anymore.

Thomas walked past her, unlocked the door to the co-op, and stood aside.

Jill’s intention was to go right to the couch. But the moment she entered the apartment, her insides heaved and she knew she was about to lose her breakfast. Jill ran into the bathroom, where she was violently sick.

When the retching ceased, Jill clung to the toilet bowl, unable to believe what had happened. It felt like one of the singularly worst and most embarrassing moments of her life. But she did not move, waiting for the light-headedness to ease.

She heard his footsteps. Jill did not want to turn. She knew he was standing in the open bathroom doorway. She had not had time to close the door.

He was silent. Then he said, “I’ll fetch a glass of water.” He walked away.

Jill wondered if he was, suddenly, being kind. She doubted he had a kind bone—or a sensitive one—in his entire being. She got to her feet, shut and locked the door, and began to rinse out her mouth and wash her face. Jill stared at her pale reflection, once again noticing that her face was too thin, the circles under her eyes far too dark, her jaw-length layered hair a mess—noticing once again her startling resemblance to Kate.

He knocked on the door. “Are you all right?” he asked, his tone absolutely neutral.

“I’m fine,” she called, trying to sound normal when she was breathless and shaking. But at least she felt stronger now. She cupped her hands and drank some water, praying for more composure.

She heard him retreat.

Jill took one final glance at herself in the mirror, wincing.

When Jill stepped out of the bathroom it was to find him standing in the center of the corridor, and their gazes briefly met. “I’m sorry,” she said.

He handed her the glass of ice water. Jill sipped it, sitting down in the closest chair, a huge leather affair. She watched him pace and stare out of the huge windows at the co-op’s stunning views of Central Park, so green and lush, the cherry trees in full bloom.

Thomas turned. “Do you have the flu?” His hands were on his hips. His shirt was cream-colored, his tie mostly turquoise blue with a multicolored gold and black print. His Rolex glinted on one wrist.

Jill shook her head. “No. I’m very run-down.”

He continued to regard her. “What are you doing here?”

Jill tensed. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“I own this apartment,” he said evenly. “I have every right to be here.”

She gaped at him. “This is Hal’s apartment.”

“What are you talking about? I own this co-op. I bought it five years ago because I’m in New York so often. When Hal moved to New York, I told him to go ahead and move in. It would have been absurd for him to rent another flat.”

Jill was stunned. “Hal told me that this was his apartment.”

“You took him too literally.”

Jill knew that had not been the case, not at all. He had lied to her. Why? What had he to gain by lying? Jill could not understand. Another lie, another deception …

“Could you be pregnant?” Thomas cut into her thoughts.

Jill gasped. “Pregnant?”

“Yes, pregnant.”

Jill stared at him, thinking about KC’s reading. Thinking about that
card, the Empress. “No. I am not pregnant.” The odds, she had told herself, were a zillion to one against it; they had always been extremely careful. But now she knew she had to face the possibility; she would pick up a home pregnancy kit on her way downtown.

“You seem uncertain,” he said, studying her. “You seem nervous.”

“You’re scaring me,” she cried. “But you want to scare me, don’t you?”

Thomas’s eyes darkened. “Why would I want to scare you, Miss Gallagher?”

“I don’t know,” Jill said honestly. “Because you hate me. Because you blame me for Hal’s death.”

Thomas sat down on the couch facing her, unbuttoning his jacket as he did so. Then he ran one hand through his thick, sun-streaked hair. His signet ring glinted as he did so. “I’m not trying to scare you.” He looked up at her. “I thought I’d pack up his things,” he said slowly. More to himself than to Jill. “But I don’t know. I think I’ll have someone else do it.” He grimaced.

Jill knew she could offer to do it—and have an excuse to come back—but she wasn’t up to that task, either. Jill hugged herself. In spite of herself, she felt a vast understanding for what he was going through. “I need to pack up some of his things at my place, too. It’s terrible.”

Their eyes met for the very first time.

They both looked quickly away.

“It feels like he’s still here,” Jill said, glancing around the sunny apartment and once again almost expecting to see Hal standing in the doorway.

Thomas jerked, his regard piercing. “What do you mean? You think his ghost is here?” He was incredulous, yet there was something else in his voice, and Jill didn’t know whether it was hope or fear.

“I don’t know. His energy, maybe.” She couldn’t smile reassuringly. “I forgot how much you Brits believe in ghosts. It’s not like that over here.”

Abruptly Thomas glanced at his watch and reached into his breast pocket, but came up empty-handed. He said, “I’m late and I must change an appointment. I forgot my phone.”

Jill regarded his back.

Then he said, without turning, “I can’t seem to keep my head on straight these days. I’m constantly missing appointments, forgetting and misplacing things.” He turned, his slight smile wry, shrugging in a self-deprecating manner.

Jill had never seen him smile before and now she could guess the extent of his sex appeal. No wonder he was a playboy. With his looks, his
blue blood, his wealth, he probably had women falling over at his feet. “At least you’re functioning,” Jill said, thinking of her own straits.

“Well,” Thomas said after a heavy pause. “Shall we go?” Clearly he did not wish to discuss either his or her behavior since Hal’s death. Jill didn’t blame him. She didn’t want to compare those kinds of notes either. They weren’t friends; they never would be.

Outside of the door, which he locked, Thomas turned to her. “May I have your key?”

Jill froze. He waited. Their gazes connected again and this time held for a long moment.

His eyes were the exact same amber color as Hal’s. He was so much like Hal. The same high cheekbones, the same patrician nose, the same sensual mouth, the same hair. But there was also a vast difference. No one would ever mistake Thomas for his brother or vice versa. For it was like comparing a rough, uncut diamond with one cut and faceted and polished to perfection. But there was even more. Thomas had an arrogance and self-assurance that Hal had never had.

Still, it hurt to look at him.

“There’s no reason for you to have a key to this apartment,” Thomas said.

Jill turned away from Thomas, her pulse drumming, not wanting Thomas to glimpse her expression. She had no choice now but to hand over her keys. She’d never get back into this apartment without his permission, being as they got along about as well as an inbred schnauzer and an alley cat. Yet she had to find Kate’s letters.

Jill dug into the pocket of her jeans and handed them to him. “I want to apologize. I shouldn’t have come here without permission, but then, I didn’t know the apartment was yours. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have just walked in.”

“Apology accepted,” Thomas said. Jill believed him now. Somehow, they’d buried the hatchet—warily. She followed him to the elevator, which opened the moment he pressed the DOWN button. “Please.” He stood back so she could enter first. Hal had been the same way.

The door closed, leaving them together in the small mirrored space. His reflection was everywhere, and hard to avoid. “Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked.

Jill, about to brush her bangs out of her eyes, froze. “I wasn’t looking for anything,” she said.

He did not reply.

SIX

T
he buzz of the intercom woke Jill from her deep sleep. It was five o’clock in the afternoon—she had slept on and off for most of the day. Jill had followed KC’s advice, and had gone back to her doctor for a prescription to help her get through the next few weeks. Perhaps that was why she’d finally had a decent night’s sleep and then slept all that day as well.

She had also let her doctor draw blood for a pregnancy test. He had called her a few hours ago with the results. Thank God, the test was negative.

Jill stumbled to the intercom and woke up fully when the voice on the other end announced himself to be UPS. The box from her aunt had arrived.

Jill opened her front door, waiting for the delivery, more than awake now—she was filled with excitement. The UPS man emerged from the single, exceedingly slow elevator and Jill quickly signed for the medium-sized carton. Then she turned and looked at the box containing her parents’ things. Excitement seized her.

Good night, pumpkin.

Jill had been about to run to get a knife, but her father’s voice, so loud and clear in her mind, halted her in her tracks. It was a voice, she realized, that she would never forget.

Sweet dreams.

Jill closed her eyes, leaning on the kitchen counter, suddenly able to visualize her mother clearly for the very first time. She had been petite and slim, with wavy golden hair and Grace Kelly features. Her smile had been gentle and serene.

The memory was as wonderful as it was painful. Jill did not know why, after all of these years, it had suddenly surfaced. Clinging to the image, Jill found a knife and went to the box and slit it open. Then she began to go through their things, her eyes moist, her vision blurred.

Jill sorted through slowly, cherishing every single item she withdrew. Her aunt had saved mostly papers, which Jill set aside for last. Otherwise, there was an odd assortment of their belongings, from her father’s ties and cuff links to several of her mother’s scarves, all vibrant early seventies prints, a crystal beaded evening bag, and a genuine pearl necklace. Madeline had saved her father’s law school textbooks, her mother’s cookbooks, including an early edition of
The Joy of Cooking.
There was also a book on gardening and, oddly enough, a
TV Guide
for the week of May 1, 1976.

Jill grew very somber. That was the week of the car accident.

She put aside the
TV Guide.
Madeline had saved several of her mother’s dresses. Jill smiled at the sight of a mini-dress in a Pucci kind of print and then at a blond hairpiece. Why had her mother added that hairpiece to her shoulder-length hair?

And there was a map of Great Britain and an accompanying travel guide.

Jill sat down on the floor, her mother’s pearls in one hand, the yellowing map and outdated travel guide in the other. She stared at the three items.

Had her parents visited England? Or had they been planning to go? And if so, why?

Jill told herself that they had gone as tourists, nothing more. But in her heart, it felt like another coincidence connecting her to Kate Gallagher.

She would never really know the reason for their trip, or intended trip, she decided.

Jill bent to the task at hand once again. She finally turned to the large manila envelopes stuffed with papers that she had removed from the box first. She opened the bulging one first and dumped the contents out on the floor beside her.

The first thing she recognized were their passports. Jill’s heart began to hammer, hard.

She opened them both, first Shirley’s, then Jack’s. She finally had pictures of them. Tears gathered in her eyes. “Oh, God,” Jill said. She realized,
with a pang, that she looked like her father. And her mother was every bit as blond and beautiful as she had just recalled her to be.

Jill suddenly reached for her father’s passport. She opened it to the back pages. And sure enough, she found a stamped entry that showed he had entered the UK in 1970. Her mother’s passport had the same entry. They had visited Great Britain the year before she was born.

Jill shook her head to clear it of confusion. This probably was a coincidence—but she wanted it to be so much more. She wondered if she could find out more about their trip—where they had actually gone while abroad.

The next thing she saw were several of Jack’s diplomas, including his law school degree. She found his birth certificate, he had been born November 24, 1936, and then she riffled through everything and came up with Shirley’s birth certificate as well. She had been ten years younger than Jack.

She saw and seized their marriage license. She was surprised to find that they had been married by a judge, not in a church. There were two witnesses whose names seemed to be Timmy O’Leary and Hannah Ames.

Jill checked to make sure the envelope was empty, and then she opened the second one, which was very thin, unlike the first. A handful of photographs fell out, followed by some papers.

Jill froze. In that instant, she realized the papers were letters, the photographs were of her parents and herself. Several were baby photos of herself. Her parents were so happy in each photo, clearly they had been in love. Tears gathered in Jill’s eyes.

Jill gave up trying not to cry when she saw the next picture. She was only a toddler in a ridiculously lacy dress, but her parents were holding hands and leaning over her in her high chair, their faces glowing with parental love. Jill was beaming. This, then, was what she never had.

No, this was what she’d had but could not recall.

Shaken, Jill sorted through four or five more family photographs, realizing that although she hadn’t found anything to link her to Kate, she’d finally found the missing pieces of her own past, which she would cherish forever. And then she discovered that the very last photograph was of her parents’ wedding party.

There were a number of people in formal dress standing around and behind the bride and groom, who were beaming and holding hands. They all seemed to be standing on the steps of a government building. For one moment, Jill admired Shirley in her billowing white wedding
gown, and her father in his white tuxedo. Immediately, she recognized the Lewises, her mother’s parents, directly behind Shirley, their smiles wide and happy, but she did not recognize the young man beside Jack or the young woman beside her mother. She assumed they were the best man and maid of honor.

She stared at the single, older man with gray hair standing beside her father, also in a white tux with a red carnation in his lapel. He seemed familiar—even though she had never glimpsed him before. Her heart began to pound.

Who was he? Why did he seem so familiar to her?

Jill turned the photo over and read, “Our wedding day, October 1, 1969, Jack and myself, Timmy and Hannah, Mom and Dad and Peter.”

Peter. Jill flipped the photograph, on her feet now, staring at Jack’s father, Peter Gallagher, with scrutinizing intensity. She still didn’t know why she had recognized him. Jack didn’t look like him at all. Maybe, she decided, she had met him as a toddler and had some latent memory that she could not consciously recall.

Jill sat back down on the floor, overwhelmed now by all she had found. Her gaze moved across the photographs, the letters, which she’d read at another time, the passports and birth certificates. What a treasure trove, even if she hadn’t found a clue about her Gallagher ancestry.

Suddenly Jill was disturbed. Something was off here. She pushed everything around, trying to pinpoint what was bothering her—and among all the clutter she kept espying the photos of Jack and Shirley, her own baby photographs, Shirley and the Lewises, and Jack, Shirley, and the Lewises. Jill suddenly realized that her mother had all kinds of memorabilia relating to her family, while Jack had nothing at all—except for his father’s presence in the single photograph of his wedding party. It was more than odd.

It was a glaring omission.

But what did it mean?

Had Jack despised his father? Had there been a falling out between them? Or had he been avoiding something from his past, from his background? Had he even been hiding something?

Jill did not have a clue. She reached for her mother’s letters—and another piece of the puzzle seemed to fall into place.

A
s Jill unlocked the door to her studio, having gone out for groceries, she heard the stereo playing one of her CDs from inside. She froze, not pushing
the door open. Had she left the CD player on when she went out? She did not think so. In fact, she was certain she had not.

In the next instant, Jill knew that KC had let herself into her studio with her spare key—as she sometimes did. For one awful moment, she had been panicked, thinking the worst, forgetting all about her best friend’s penchant for just moseying on over.

Her mind was not functioning as it usually did. She had become distracted, forgetful. Last night she had not slept at all in spite of the Xanax. She had been too revved up, thinking about one of Shirley’s letters to her mother.

Jill had found out the reason that her parents had gone to England. Peter had died that year of heart failure, in 1970. His death had come as a shock. He was only sixty-two, and everyone had assumed that he was as healthy as a horse. But then again, father and son were not close, and now, according to Shirley, Jack was blaming himself for their estrangement and even his father’s untimely death.

It was Jack who had insisted they go abroad—he had wanted to see the country where his father had been born. Her parents had spent three weeks in Yorkshire, trekking about the countryside as tourists, with Jack in a state of grief and guilt and confusion. Peter had been born in Yorkshire, and Jack thought, but was not sure, that he had been born in the city of York. Shirley had ended the letter by telling her mother that she was thrilled they were returning home—and that she was finally pregnant.

Jill had done some quick math when she had read and then reread that letter. Peter had been born in 1908. The year of Kate’s disappearance.

It could not be a coincidence, and Jill got goose bumps every time she thought about it.

Now KC was pacing the studio. She froze in midstride when she saw Jill. “I’m so glad you’re back! We
have
to talk, Jill. Do you know that you left your door unlocked?”

Jill halted, having just closed her door. “You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not.” KC came forward. She was wearing a tiny pink tank top and a long, flowing print skirt. Her long blond hair was pulled back into a single braid. “Jill, you look terrible!”

“Thanks,” Jill said. She and KC had missed each other repeatedly since Jill’s return. They’d left messages on each other’s machines in lieu of having had the chance for a friendly—and long—chat. “I can’t believe I left the door unlocked,” Jill said.

“Maybe it’s that drug the doctor put you on.”

Jill was suddenly relieved. “That must be it.”

“Oh, you poor dear!” KC suddenly flung her arms around Jill, hugging her hard. “Britain sounded just awful!”

Jill wasn’t demonstrative by nature—and she’d never had much practice at it anyway, except, briefly, with Hal. She pulled away, feeling awkward. “It was the pits.” That, Jill knew, was an understatement.

“They sound like nasty people,” KC said. “Jill, that last message. I hope I didn’t get it right. You’re not going back to London, are you?”

“I am. But I need your help, KC. I have to sublet this place before I go. I’m pretty broke.”

KC looked aghast. But then, KC was dramatic. “You can’t go back. I’m really worried about you, Jill.”

Jill stared uneasily. “Why?” She could hardly get her next words out. “What have you seen, now?”

KC shook her head, but tears filled her eyes. “It was just a dream, Jillian, but it was horrible.”

Jill relaxed slightly, because dreams did not interest her. And KC had never talked about dreams before. They did not seem to be a part of her repertoire. But KC said, “I dreamed about that woman, Kate Gallagher. She was locked up, Jillian.” KC started to cry.

Jill stared as tears ran down her friend’s cheeks. “Why are you crying?” she whispered.

“It was so dark, and she was so afraid, so terribly afraid,” KC whispered back. “But then …” She paused.

“Then what?” Jill asked sharply.

KC shook her head again. “I don’t know. It was just a dream. I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not psychic and I don’t predict
anything
in dreams.”

The two women glanced at one another. “At least,” KC whispered, “I never have before.”

Chills swept Jill. She hesitated. “What did she look like? In your dream?”

KC wiped her eyes. “She was young and beautiful.”

“And?”

“I don’t know.”

Jill almost felt relief.

Then KC said, “She had beautiful hair. Long and red, curly.”

Jill’s pulse went wild. “She did. How could you have known that? Did I tell you that?”

BOOK: The Third Heiress

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