Enright Family Collection (71 page)

“Most people don’t change quite that drastically.”

“Well, Ben did. I didn’t like him very much.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sweetie.” Delia bit her lip, wondering what had happened over the years to change him so. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing him again.”

“Well, I wouldn’t waste my time, if I were you.” Zoey’s sigh was heavy and weary. “I wouldn’t even bother.”

“That makes me very sad, Zoey. There has to be some explanation.”

“Well, I for one am not so certain that I’d be interested in finding out what that might be.”

Gracie strolled into the room, openly ignoring Zoey, then stretched what could well have been every muscle in her long feline body.

“Your cat has decided to make an appearance,” Zoey told her mother.

“Ah, how is my sweet Gracie?”

“Sweet,” Zoey said dryly. Gracie glanced up imperiously,
then began to lick her paws and wash her face daintily.

“Well, I am infinitely grateful to you for giving her a home away from home. You know how she hates the kennel. Which reminds me, Zoey. Would you mind keeping her for just a few extra days?”

“Of course not. Did your publicist add a few more cities to the roster?”

“Not exactly. I just wanted to make a stop in Boston on my way back. It should only be a day or two.”

“Stopping by to see Linda Lee?” Zoey shuffled through the day’s mail. Linda Lee Patterson, Delia’s best friend since first grade, now lived in a Boston suburb.

“Yes.” Delia had seemed to hesitate just a little, prompting Zoey to ask, “Mom, is Linda Lee all right?”

“She’s fine, sweetie. Oh, here’s room service with my dinner.”

“Staying in tonight, are you?”

“Yes.” She put her hand over the receiver and called, “Yes. I’ll be right there. Zoey, love, I have to go. I’ll call you over the weekend. And let me think on this Ben thing. Something is just not right there. Oh—and kiss Grade for me.”

“Kiss Grade?” Zoey raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think so.”

Delia laughed, then hung up the phone, going directly to the door of her hotel room, which she opened to admit both room service and the private detective who had, for the past several years, been a member of her private staff.

Tonight they would have a lot to talk about.

“Pauline, do you think you might ask someone to find Zoey Enright and ask her to stop down to see me today? At her convenience, of course.” Ben had decided that the longer he put off apologizing, the more difficult it would be.

“I’ll call downstairs and see when she’s expected.”

Ben tapped anxiously on his desk, wondering what exactly he would say.

“I’m sorry I was such an obnoxious moron” might be a good place to start.

“Ben, Zoey won’t be in until Thursday,” Pauline told him through the intercom. “She’s off for a few days. Do you want me to try to get her at her home?”

“No, that’s okay. Thank you.”

Ben tried to visualize what Zoey’s home might look like, how she might be spending her time. He had no clue, could not, he realized, even venture a safe guess. He had known her well as a child. Her tastes had been simple and eclectic. She had loved the out-of-doors, loved sports, loved to read. . . . She had pretty much loved most things, he recalled. But this grown-up Zoey was a stranger. What did he know about her?

Nothing,
he thought dryly,
and I am not likely to get much opportunity to find out, since I so cleverly managed to morph into a jackass before her very eyes.

Sighing with disgust, he turned his attention to familiarizing himself with the company’s financial reports. By noon his desk was piled with spreadsheets and computer-generated sales reports. Before he knew it, the day had ended and Pauline was straightening her desk. He stuck his head out through the door and told her, “You can leave any time you like, Pauline. I have a few more reports I want to go over.”

“I hate to leave you high and dry, as they say, but William is waiting outside to drive me back to New York.” She smiled up at him. “I will be back on Thursday to interview a few more secretaries for you.”

“Isn’t this commuting starting to get to you? Two days here, three days in New York?”

“Having such luxurious door-to-door service makes it an easy pill to swallow. I sit back for a few hours, read a good book, perhaps watch a little television, take a nap, and leave the driving to William. Your grandfather always makes certain there’s a lovely dinner waiting for me in the limo, and I am relaxed, well fed, and stress free by the time I arrive home.” She patted him on the back. “And besides, I want to interview the last of the secretarial
candidates before you do. Just to make sure that the skills are there.”

“Well, anyone who passed your scrutiny would be fine, as far as I’m concerned. But tell me the truth”—he leaned over and whispered in her ear—“did Delaney tell you to weed out all the young, pretty ones?”

“No. Only the obvious gold diggers,” she whispered back, and he laughed. “I did interview one woman today that I thought might be a contender.”

“Why don’t you call her back for Thursday, then, and we’ll meet with her? I hate to keep imposing on your time when I know my grandfather depends on you so much.”

“Oh, he’s getting along just fine in New York without me.”

“Pauline, he called here seventy times for you today. He can’t function without you.”

Pauline just smiled at him and continued to pack up the items she wished to take home with her.

“I’ll see you on Thursday morning, Ben. If you need anything tomorrow, Betsy next door in Personnel will be happy to give you a hand. And of course, you have the number of the office in New York.”

“I’ll try not to bother you.”

“It’s no bother.” She picked up her tote bag and swung her pocketbook over her shoulder. “Well, I’m sure I’ll speak with you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Pauline. And thank you for everything.”

The building seemed very quiet once Pauline had departed. Ben returned to his office and folded up the papers he’d been studying all afternoon. He packed a few sales reports into his briefcase and started off down the hall, searching his pockets for the keys to the car that the leasing company had dropped off earlier that day. He signed out of the building and passed through the front door toward the parking lot. The BMW Roadster sat in the first reserved spot. He unlocked the door, tossed the briefcase onto the front seat, and climbed in, carefully folding in his right leg.

It had been some months since he’d driven, and he had missed it terribly. From the day he had turned sixteen, he had loved driving, loved cars. He took a few minutes to familiarize himself with the instrument panel and adjusted the seat, then worked both the gas and the brake pedals with his still stiff right foot, vowing to begin some home therapy that night in the whirlpool tub in Delaney’s condo. He started the engine and gingerly stepped on the brake. There was still some pain, but he would overcome that. He’d been idle long enough. First thing in the morning he’d call London and have his X rays sent over, then he’d locate the orthopedic surgeon his grandfather had suggested. He’d make an appointment to have the foot looked at, and get a prescription for some intensive physical therapy. Before long, he promised himself, he’d be as good as new—or at the very least, as good as he was going to get.

He tried to ignore the nagging suspicion that maybe this was as good as it was going to get, but swept it from his mind. He wasn’t ready to deal with the possibility that racing could well be a thing of the past.

He rummaged in the briefcase for the CD he’d brought with him that morning, anticipating having a car with CD player and Bose speakers again. He slipped in the disc, and tapped the button until he located the song he wanted to hear. The live version of Dire Straits’s
Telegraph Road.
He pushed all those prickly thoughts from his mind and cranked up the volume and the car filled to the very seams with the sound of guitar, drums, piano, and thousands of hands clapping out the rhythm.

For just that momemt, he tried to believe that all was right in the world.

Chapter
13
 

“Addie would sure be pleased to see what-all you’ve done with the house, Zoey.” Wally leaned over the fence that enclosed the garden in Zoey’s backyard.

“Do you think so?” Grateful for a legitimate reason to take a break, she stood up and leaned against the rake she had been using to remove debris from the flower-beds, as her mother had firmly insisted she do.

“Give the soil some sun, for heaven’s sake.” Delia had frowned upon seeing that the several inches of leaves that had covered all back in October covered all still. “Let’s see what’s under there, Zoey.”

Zoey had sighed and headed out to the nearest garden center for some implements with which to work. It was that or suffer having Delia show up early some morning with her gardener. Although right now, she reasoned, after three hours of raking leaves and picking up twigs and piles of yard debris, the gardener would be mighty welcome. The early April sun had been stronger than she had expected, and she peeled off the dark sweatshirt she had thrown over a long-sleeved T-shirt.

She stepped back to admire her work. It did look
better, she thought, though she still didn’t have a clue as to what might grow there come summer.

“Next I guess you’ll be wanting to restore Addie’s garden.” Wally let himself in through the gate and sauntered over to see how the roses had fared through the winter. Satisfied that Addie’s favorite old-fashioned dusty lavender tea rose had fared well, he began an inspection of the grapevine. “I have some photographs somewhere that should help you out. Show you what she had where.”

“I wasn’t intending to restore anything out here, Wally.”

He ignored her.

“Now, I’ll just bet that you are burning with curiosity, wondering why the garden is laid out in four sections like that.”

He pointed to the four big squares that were set off by overgrown paths.

“No, actually, I wasn’t.”

“Well, I’m going to tell you anyway.” He sat himself down on an old stone bench, taking a moment to light his pipe. “Addie Kilmartin was a scholar of the Bard, you see, and she—”

“You mean Shakespeare?”

“Of course I mean Shakespeare.” He gave her a stern look. “Who else is referred to as the Bard?”

“Does this have anything to do with why there are four square beds in the garden?”

“Has everything to do with it. And I’m going to explain it to you as soon as you stop interrupting me.”

Chastised, Zoey tried to look contrite and began to rake the bed nearest the spot where Wally sat.

“Now then, being a scholar of the Bard, Addie spent a great deal of time reading his plays. She knew whole long passages by heart. Whole scenes.”

“Was she an actress?”

“No. No, Addie was no actress. She chose to interpret his works in another way entirely.”

“What was that?” Zoey felt compelled to ask.

He pointed to the garden’s beds. “That, young missy, was the biggest, most complete Shakespeare garden in all of the Delaware Valley.”

“I have this feeling that I should be impressed, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“A
Shakespeare
garden,” he repeated.

“I heard you clearly the first time. I just don’t know what you mean.”

“It’s a garden that has only plants that were mentioned in Shakespeare’s writings.” He puffed on his pipe. “The Victorians called ’em literary gardens. Some used the writings of Chaucer, some used Spencer’s, some used Shakespeare’s. They’re still popular in some parts of England, by the way. Now, many formal gardens, you might be interested in knowing, are marked by a hedge of English yew, but for some reason or another, Addie never seemed to have much luck with yew. So she bordered all her beds with English lavender instead. That’s that dried, dead-looking silvery looking stuff there.” He pointed to the edge of the nearest bed. “Cut it back and it will grow bushy again by summer.”

“Wally, I’m not going to cut the lavender back, and I’m not going to restore the garden. I don’t have the time.”

“Oh?” His eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Yes. I’m very busy.”

“Hmmph. Funny, I haven’t noticed you doing much more than going to work these past few months. Guess something I don’t know about has come along and kick-started that near dead social life of yours.”

She didn’t answer him, couldn’t without looking foolish. She had no social life to speak of, and he damn well knew it.

“I don’t like to garden,” she told him.

“Funny. You just don’t strike me as the type of woman who doesn’t like to get her hands dirty.”

“Getting my hands dirty does not bother me.”

Wally peered into the bowl of his pipe, where the fire had gone out. He appeared to be debating whether or not
to relight it before knocking the ashes out of the bowl by banging his pipe on the side of the stone bench.

“Spent many a fine spring afternoon right here on this bench, watching Addie bring that garden back to life after a long winter,” he told her wistfully as he packed his pipe into the front pocket of his flannel shirt. “Yep, many a fine afternoon.”