Buch lesen: «Tangled Memories»
“Welcome to Savannah. Your home-if Baxter Manning isn’t making the biggest mistake of his life in believing you.”
Corrie stiffened at the flash of steel under Lucas’s lazy drawl.
“If Mr. Manning wants to invite me here, I can’t see that it’s any of your concern.”
“Anything that affects the family concerns me. Especially a con artist trying to convince an old man she’s his long-lost granddaughter.”
“I’ve told the lawyers and Mr. Manning. Now I’ll tell you. I don’t want anything from him.”
“No secret dreams of being the missing heiress, coming into all that lovely money?” He smiled slowly, his eyes intent on her face, as if he tried to see beneath the surface. “Then we have to make sure you enjoy your time here, don’t we?”
MILLS & BOON
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MARTA PERRY
has written everything from Sunday school curriculum to travel articles to magazine stories in twenty years of writing, but she feels she’s found her home in the stories she writes for Love Inspired.
Marta lives in rural Pennsylvania, but she and her husband spend part of each year at their second home in South Carolina. When she’s not writing, she’s probably visiting her children and her beautiful grandchildren, traveling or relaxing with a good book.
Marta Perry
Tangled Memories
You know me inside and out,
You know every bone in my body;
You know exactly how I was made, bit by bit,
how I was sculpted from nothing into something.
—Psalms 139:15
This story is dedicated to my grandson,
Bjoern Jacob Wulff, with much love from Grammy.
And, as always, to Brian.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
ONE
For twenty-nine years, Corrie Grant had thought she’d never know who her father was. Now she knew, and no one would believe her.
No one, at this point, was represented by a pair of smooth, silver-haired attorneys with Southern drawls as thick as molasses. They looked about as expensive as this hotel suite, where she sank to the ankles in plush carpeting. The denim skirt and three-year-old sweater she usually wore for her monthly shopping trip had definitely not been right for this meeting. She hadn’t known Cheyenne, Wyoming boasted a hotel suite like this.
She slid well-worn loafers under her chair and straightened her back. You’re as good as anyone, her great-aunt’s voice echoed in her mind, its independent Wyoming attitude strong. Don’t you let anyone intimidate you.
“I’ve already told you everything I know about my parents.” Her words stopped one of the lawyers—Courtland or Broadbent, she didn’t know which—in mid-question. “I came here to meet Baxter Manning.” Her grandfather. She tried out the phrase in her mind, not quite ready to say it aloud yet. “Where is he?”
“Now, Ms. Grant, surely you understand that we have to ascertain the validity of your claim before involving Mr. Manning, don’t you?”
Courtland or Broadbent had the smooth Southern courtesy down pat. He’d just managed to imply that she was a fraud without actually saying it.
She gripped the tapestry chair arms, resisting the impulse to surge to her feet. “I’m not making any claims. I don’t expect anything from Mr. Manning. I just want to know if it’s true that his son was my father.”
Twenty-nine years. That was how long Aunt Ella had known about her mother’s marriage and kept it from her. Corrie could only marvel that she hadn’t pressed for answers earlier. She’d simply accepted what Aunt Ella said—that her mother had come home to Ulee, Wyoming, pregnant, at eighteen. That she’d died in an accident when Corrie was six months old. That her mother had loved her.
Pain clutched her heart. Was that any more true than the rest of the fairy tale?
The attorneys exchanged glances. “You must realize,” one of them began.
She shot to her feet. “Never mind what I must realize.” Coming on top of the struggle to stretch her teaching salary and the meager income from Last Chance Café to pay Aunt Ella’s hospital bills and funeral expenses, she didn’t think she could handle any further runaround. “I’m done here. If Mr. Manning is interested in talking to me, he knows where to reach me. I’ll be on my way.”
She was halfway to the door when the voice stopped her.
“Come back here, young woman.”
She turned, pulse accelerating. The man who’d come out of the suite’s bedroom was older than either of the lawyers—in his seventies, at least. Slight and white-haired, his pallid skin declared his fragility, but he stood as straight as a man half his age.
“Mr. Manning.” It had to be.
He lifted silvery eyebrows. “Aren’t you going to call me ‘Grandfather’?”
“No.”
He let out a short laugh. “Fair enough, as I have no intention of letting you.” He extended his hand to one of the attorneys without looking. The man gave him the copies she’d brought of her mother’s marriage certificate and her own birth certificate.
“The birth certificate doesn’t name a father.” He zeroed in on the blank line, his gaze inimical.
She’d learned, over the years, to brace herself for that reaction whenever she had to produce a birth certificate. You’re a child of God, Aunt Ella would say. Let that be enough for you.
Not exactly what a crying eight-year-old had wanted to hear, but typical of the tough Christian woman who’d raised her. Ella Grant had taken what life dished out without complaint, even when that meant bringing up an orphaned great-niece with little money and no help.
“According to my great-aunt, when I was born after my father died, my mother was afraid her husband’s family would try to take me away. Later, she decided that they had a right to know.” She kept her gaze steady on the man who might be her grandfather. “You had a right to know. She left for Savannah to talk to you about me when I was six months old. She died in an accident on the trip.”
An accident—that was what Aunt Ella had always said. It was what Corrie had always believed, until she’d been sorting through Aunt Ella’s papers after her stroke. She’d found the marriage license and a scribbled postcard, knocking down her belief in who she was like a child’s tower of blocks.
He made a dismissive gesture with the papers. “Grace Grant never returned to Savannah after my son died.” His voice grated on the words. With grief? She couldn’t be sure. “If you are her daughter, that still doesn’t guarantee my son was your father.”
Her temper flared at the slur, but before she could speak, one of the lawyers did.
“A DNA test,” he murmured.
Manning shot him an annoyed look. “From what I’ve learned, that’s not likely to be conclusive with the intervening generation gone.”
“Nevertheless—” The lawyer’s smooth manner was slightly ruffled. Obviously the attorneys would prefer that he let them deal with this situation.
“I have no objection to a DNA test.” Why would she, if there was even a chance that it would answer her questions?
Who am I, Lord? I know I’m Your child, but I have to know more.
Manning tossed the papers on the table, bracing himself with one hand on its glossy surface. “It doesn’t matter. You won’t get anything from me in any event.”
“I don’t want anything.” That was what they seemed incapable of understanding. “All I want is to know something about my father. Nothing else.”
His mouth twisted. “Do you really think I’ll believe that?”
The truth sank in. Manning didn’t believe her, and he wouldn’t help her.
“No, obviously you can’t.” She wouldn’t offer to shake hands. If her father had been anything like this man, maybe she was lucky he’d never been a part of her life. “I can’t say it’s been nice meeting you, Mr. Manning, but it’s been interesting.”
She turned toward the door again, holding her head high. Aunt Ella wouldn’t have expected anything less. But the disappointment dragged like a weight pressing her down, compounding her still-raw grief.
“Just a minute.” Manning’s voice stopped her again. “I have a proposition for you.”
“Proposition?” She turned back slowly, not sure she wanted to hear anything else he had to say.
A thin smile creased his lips. “I won’t claim you as a grandchild, understand that. I won’t give you anything. But you may come and stay at my house in Savannah for a few weeks.” The lawyers were twittering, but he ignored them. “If you mean what you say, that will give you a chance to learn something about my son.”
“If you don’t believe I’m your grandchild, why would you want me there?” She eyed him, wondering what was in his mind.
His smile grew a bit unpleasant. “Ever heard the expression, ‘putting a cat among the pigeons’? I suppose not. Never mind my motives. They are not your concern.”
“Mr. Manning, we really don’t think this is a good idea.” Courtland and Broadbent exchanged glances.
Manning transferred his grip from the table to the back of the chair, leaning heavily, obviously tiring. “You make the arrangements. She can go now, while I’m still out of town. Lucas will take care of her.”
“Lucas?” She grasped at the unfamiliar name, trying to make sense of this.
“Lucas Santee. He was married to my niece’s child. He runs my companies.”
“The young woman hasn’t agreed to go.” And the lawyers obviously hoped she wouldn’t.
“She will.” Manning sent her a shrewd glance. “Won’t you?”
She didn’t like his attitude. Didn’t like the feeling that he was manipulating her for some reason she couldn’t understand. If she acted on instinct, she’d walk right out the door and go back to Ulee. She had plenty there to keep her busy until school started again.
But she wouldn’t, because if she did, she’d never know the answers to the questions that haunted her. I hope this is what You want, Lord.
“I’ll go,” she said.
Corrie leaned against the leather seat of the town car that had been waiting at the airport in Savannah. From the window, everything was so much softer, more verdant than she’d expected. Palmettos lined the road, and beyond them she could see rank after rank of tall, straight pines.
“Too bad the azaleas are past their prime.” The grizzled driver, Jefferson, he’d said his name was, turned from the highway onto a residential street. “I always say you haven’t seen Savannah until you’ve seen it with the azaleas blooming.”
She watched the city flow by—streets lined with cream-colored walls, wrought-iron fences, twisted live oaks draped with silvery Spanish moss. Flowers bloomed everywhere, so lush and colorful they almost looked artificial. The houses seemed to hide behind their colorful barrier, as if holding secrets closed to her.
“Does the family live in this section of town?”
Jefferson nodded. “Not far. This here’s the old part of town.” He waved a hand vaguely toward the left. “River Street’s over that way. You’ll want to see that while you’re here. Right now I’m to stop and pick up Mr. Lucas, then take y’all to the house.”
Corrie’s nerves tingled. Manning had said Santee ran his company. What else did he run? Santee obviously intended to vet her before exposing the rest of the family to her. She felt a tingle of apprehension. “Are we picking him up at his office?”
“At the construction site. They’ve been having problems at the new building. Nothing Mr. Lucas can’t handle. He can handle anything.”
That was another view of Lucas Santee. He could handle anything. Maybe the implication was that he could handle her, too. In a moment she’d have a chance to decide for herself just how much of a challenge Lucas Santee was going to be.
Thanks to the briefing the lawyers had reluctantly provided, she knew that a number of Savannah businesses bore the Manning name. Lucas Santee ran the largest, the construction firm, and oversaw the rest since Manning’s retirement.
The driver stopped the car next to a wooden construction barrier. “Here we are, miss. I’ll just go find Mr. Lucas.”
Jefferson disappeared into the construction site, but Corrie was too restless to wait. She was keyed up and ready. The plane trip had been a prelude. Her quest was about to start. She slid out of the car and followed Jefferson on to the construction site.
The three stories of what was going to be a new bank, according to the sign, were at the stark girder stage. The building loomed over her, surrounded by heavy yellow construction vehicles.
She didn’t see Jefferson, so she smiled at the nearest worker. “Where’s Lucas Santee?”
The man gave her the once-over before pointing to the third level of the building. “Up there. The suit.”
Actually, Lucas Santee had shed his suit coat, but Corrie understood. The other man was short, round and rumpled in workmen’s overalls. Santee’s shirt was dazzling white, and his dark slacks had a knife-edge crease she could see from here. He stood confidently on a girder, as self-assured as if he stood in a boardroom.
Santee said something that looked emphatic, motioning to the building around him. The other man appeared to object, but Santee cut him off with a quick, definitive gesture.
Santee stepped into the open cage of an elevator. With one hand braced against the metal on either side, he descended. Was he looking her way? She couldn’t be sure.
The cage jolted to a stop, and he stepped out lightly. He took a suit coat from the outstretched hand of one of his lackeys and handed over the yellow hard hat he’d been wearing.
Jefferson leaned close, murmuring something, and Santee sent a sharp glance at her before turning back to his men. He kept her waiting a few more minutes while he conferred with several people. Finally he detached himself from the group and started toward the car. He stepped from the shadow of the building, and the late-afternoon sun hit him like a spotlight.
Golden, that was the only word that came to mind. The sun tipped brown hair with gold. Even his tanned skin seemed to have a golden sheen. He covered the space between them in an unhurried, controlled stride.
Corrie’s nerves tightened. He reminded her of a mountain lion. There was that same sense of feline grace, of muscles rippling under smooth, golden skin, of danger hidden under a shining surface.
Santee stopped a few feet from her, surveying her from top to toe. Looking for Manning family resemblance? Or just trying to intimidate her?
“Ms. Grant,” he said finally, his voice a lazy baritone drawl. “I’m Lucas Santee.”
He held out his hand, and after an infinitesimal pause, Corrie took it. His fingers were warm and callused against her skin, surprising her. Surely he didn’t actually work with those hands.
“Guess I should say welcome to Savannah,” he said. “Your ancestral home, if Baxter Manning isn’t making the biggest mistake of his life in believing you.”
Corrie stiffened at the flash of steel under the lazy drawl. She pulled her hand away. “If Mr. Manning wants to invite me here, I can’t see that it’s any of your concern.”
Santee’s eyebrows lifted. “Anything that affects the family concerns me. Especially a con artist trying to convince a sick old man she’s his long-lost granddaughter.”
Somehow it sounded even more insulting in his molasses-slow drawl, though she ought to be getting used to the doubt by now. “I’ve told the lawyers and Mr. Manning. Now I’ll tell you. I don’t want anything from him.”
“No secret dreams of being the missing heiress, coming into all that lovely money?”
“Obviously the money is important to you. Not to me. I agreed to this visit to find out about my father. Nothing more.”
He smiled slowly, his eyes intent on her face, as if he tried to see beneath the surface. “Then we have to make sure you enjoy your time here, don’t we?” He took her arm, the warmth of his grip penetrating her sleeve. “Jefferson’s waiting,” he said. “Shall we go?”
Corrie had expected a bigger battle, and this swift surrender took her off guard, leaving her with nothing to say. She slanted a look at Lucas Santee’s face as he walked beside her to the car.
No, not surrender. Round One might have ended, but behind that smooth facade Lucas Santee was gearing up for future battles. This had just been a minor skirmish.
He held the door and then slid onto the leather seat next to her. The car purred onto the street.
Corrie stared out the window, acutely aware of the man beside her. Obviously she hadn’t thought this through enough. She hadn’t anticipated the hostility of people who feared she was trying to take what was theirs.
She straightened, pressing her back into the cool leather. These people had had it easy all their lives. Maybe that was behind Baxter Manning’s odd attitude—he wanted to expose them to the uncertainty most people lived with.
She glanced at Santee and found him watching her. His eyes were an odd shade of brown up close, with flecks of gold that made them look like amber.
“Plotting your strategy?” His voice was pitched for her ears only, even though Jefferson had closed the glass partition. “Thinking about how you’re going to worm your way into the heart of the family, so to speak?”
She felt anger color her cheeks. “I’m not trying to convince anybody of anything.”
“Right. You’re willing to travel across the country to move in with people who’ll hate you on sight, but you’re not trying to convince anybody you’re Baxter Manning’s grandchild.” His fingers closed around her wrist. “Try that story on someone who might believe it, sugar.”
Corrie stiffened. His intensity grated on her, but she wouldn’t let him think he intimidated her.
“Your opinion doesn’t really matter, does it?” she said. “The only thing that matters is what Mr. Manning believes.”
His grip tightened until she thought he’d leave fingerprints on her skin, and fury darkened his eyes. “Baxter Manning wants to think he’s found an unknown grandchild, but you and I know differently, don’t we?”
“Do we?” Corrie raised her eyebrows. At least she’d managed to dent that facade of his.
“I don’t know who you really are, Corrie Grant. But I’ll find out, I promise you that.”
It didn’t sound like a promise. It sounded like a threat.
He’d let this woman ruffle him, Lucas realized, and that shouldn’t have happened. Dealing with her was going to be a delicate matter, particularly since he hadn’t been able to tell what Baxter really thought of her from their brief phone conversation.
That was typical of Baxter, of course. He’d run his companies and his family with an iron hand all his life, and he didn’t intend to let advancing age or illness stop him. He’d been maddeningly vague when Lucas tried to find out what he really thought of Corrie Grant.
Take care of her, he’d said. Let her see what she can find out about Trey. That’s what she says she wants to do.
Trey Manning. He had a few vague memories of Trey, the golden boy who’d been a prep school athlete when Lucas had come to the Manning house as a child. Trey had been the only person who’d ever successfully stood up to Baxter, and look how that had ended.
And now this woman had come, claiming to be Trey’s daughter. Worry gnawed at him. Baxter was too old and, he suspected, too ill to be on guard. So he had to protect the family.
The thought sent a wave of weariness over him. That had become a full-time job since Julia’s death, and he didn’t expect it would ever end.
The car drew smoothly to the curb and stopped. He roused himself and opened the door, holding it for Corrie. “Welcome to Savannah,” he said again, knowing she understood how little he welcomed her.
Corrie slid onto the sidewalk and just stood for a moment, looking at the graceful sweep of steps with their glossy black wrought-iron railing. Visualizing herself owning the place, perhaps? Or feeling reluctant to go in and face what waited for her there?
“This is Mr. Manning’s house?”
“It is.” He almost imagined that was a bit of awe in her clear blue eyes, but that hardly seemed likely. An accomplished fraud would surely have boned up on the place.
Maybe it was those big blue eyes that had caught Baxter’s attention. Trey had had the blue eyes and curling blond hair, too. But not the freckles that dusted Corrie’s lightly tanned cheeks or the snub nose that made her look like a classic girl next door, if the girl next door happened to be a con artist.
“I didn’t realize…” She stopped, as if unwilling to share whatever she didn’t realize with him.
“That it was so old?”
She slanted a sideways glance at him, nodding.
“The house was built in 1835 in classic Regency style and restored in the early sixties when the historic district was in the midst of a wave of preservation.” He launched into the familiar recital. If you lived in Savannah’s historic district, you could do it in your sleep. “The compound has four town houses, built around a shared courtyard. Baxter lives here, and Eulalie Ashworth, his niece, has the next one.” He nodded to the adjoining house, identical in design and decor.
“I see.” She looked as if she were trying to take it all in. Maybe she never had been out of Wyoming. If so, Savannah was going to be a shock.
“The two houses that face the alley are smaller but similar in design. My son and I live in one. The other one is rented to a family friend, Lydia Baron.” He paused for an instant. “That was originally Trey’s house.”
He thought there was a small intake of breath, but otherwise she didn’t react. Maybe she was tougher than she looked.
“Shall we go in?” He gestured to the curving stairway.
Corrie hesitated. Then, with her face wooden, she started up.
He followed, running his hand along the polished rail. He couldn’t help but love introducing his city to a stranger, even an unwelcome one like Corrie. Savannah was bred in him. For all the city’s faults, he’d be a foreigner anywhere else.
“The main floor in many of Savannah’s historic homes is on the second floor—the parlor floor. The downstairs is called the garden level.”
She paused in front of the glossy black door. Heavy pots of alyssum stood on either side of it, perfuming the air. “I understand Mr. Manning hasn’t returned yet.”
Corrie, naturally, would be more concerned with the man she hoped to impress than with the decor.
“Not yet.” He reached past her to turn the brass knob. “But I’m sure some of the family is waiting to meet you.”
And ready to behave, he hoped. He’d warned all of them not to give this woman any ammunition to use against them with Baxter. He could just hope they’d paid attention.
He opened the door. They stepped into the long entrance hallway, rich with the mingled aromas of polish and potpourri. Two people waited for them: Eulalie, his mother-in-law; Deidre Ashworth, his sister-in-law. He shot Deidre a warning look.
“Eulalie, this is Corrie Grant.” He smiled reassuringly at Eulalie, knowing she was torn between her innate Southern courtesy and her fear that Corrie would somehow supplant her two children. “Corrie, this is Eulalie Ashworth, Mr. Manning’s niece. Who may, or may not, be your…let’s see, second cousin.”
“Of course she is not our cousin.” Deidre took a step forward, hands curling into fists as if she’d like to throw Corrie out bodily. “She’s a fraud, and she’s not welcome in this house.”
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