For All Their Lives (54 page)

“The ones I lost
over there,
I lost because there was no way in hell anyone else could have saved them either. But a ruptured appendix! Well, at least I got it out of my system.”

“I'm glad,” Singin said.

“Now, Doctor,” Luke said, “you set the table and I'll put a rush on the bird. Dinner is in ten minutes.”

Two hours later Luke pushed his chair away from the table. “I cooked. I do not clean up. Singin and I are going to walk off this wonderful repast. When we get back, we expect coffee and liqueurs in the living room.” He snapped his fingers twice to make his point. Casey threw a dish towel at him and Maline gave him the finger. Casey burst out laughing. Singin was so startled at his wife's behavior, he wagged a finger in her direction to indicate she should be ashamed. Her middle finger went up again. Luke guffawed as he pushed his friend through the door.

“This is the good old U.S. of A., Sing. Maline is a modern Thai so it stands to reason she will be a modern . . . whatever, while she's here. She did it in fun so don't get bent out of shape. You're among friends.”

“Too damn modern,” Singin sputtered.

“Forget it. Come on, let's check out the hill behind the church to see if there's enough snow to sled. There's an old Flexible Flyer in the attic. Jeez, I wonder if the runners are rusty.”

“Candle wax will solve your problem,” Singin said happily as he trotted along behind Luke. “It must have been wonderful growing up here,” he said wistfully.

“It was. But that was then and this is now. I don't belong here anymore. I don't know how or why that happened.” Luke turned to his friend. “I'm glad you could make it today, Sing, for whatever reason. I appreciate your listening.”

“When it's my turn to unload, I hope you're as generous as I am.” Singin grinned. “Look, Luke, there are children on the hill.” He rushed ahead.

They were both huffing and puffing when they reached the top of the hill. “This is good, real good,” Luke said happily. “See, there's just enough snow covering the grass. Hey, kid,” he called to a six-year-old boy, “I'll give each one of you five bucks if you let us have a turn on your inner tube.”

“Let's see the money, mister,” a boy of ten or so said. Luke peeled off two five-dollar bills. “My treat,” he said expansively. “Now, Sing, what you do is sit your ass in the tire and let it drag on the ground. This is going to be like greased lightning. If you see a tree coming up, roll out. You got all that?” Luke demanded as he took possession of a fat rubber inner tube.

Singin ticked off the points on his finger. “I have it down pat,” he said solemnly.

“Hey, mister, you have to bring the tubes back up,” the kid called, pocketing the money Luke gave him.

Luke peeled off two more fives and handed them over. “We're old men, kid, we could never make this hill again. We'll leave them at the bottom of the hill. Is it a deal?”

“Yeah, okay. Guess you are pretty old.” The boy grinned.

 

“I
T WAS THE
most hair-raising, exhilarating, awesome, horrendous thing that ever happened to me!” Singin said to his wife. “And I made it to the bottom without having to roll out. Luke didn't make it to the bottom, but it only cost us ten dollars each. Luke paid. I loved it.”

Maline smiled indulgently.

Casey poured coffee, Maline filled the brandy snifters. Casey thought it a perfect ending to a wonderful day. She held her brandy aloft. “To good friends,” she said, clinking her glass against Luke's. “It was a wonderful dinner, Luke, more wonderful because you prepared it for us. Friends sharing this day is . . . I don't know . . . I think we're all blessed. I want to thank all of you for sharing this day with me.”

“It was my pleasure,” Luke said gruffly. Singin and Maline echoed his sentiments.

“I hate to say this, but if you want to make your flight, I think we're going to have to leave for the airport. The snow is coming down pretty heavily,” Luke said fretfully. “Another hour and we might get held up on the highway.”

“We can't miss our flight,” Singin said, gulping at his coffee.

It was as though Luke's words were an instant command. Casey carried the cups and saucers to the kitchen.

“When are you going to tell her?” Luke hissed.

“I was just getting ready when you made your announcement,” Singin said tightly. “I'll tell her in the car.”

 

T
HE MEMORIAL SERVICE
at St. John the Divine was filled almost to capacity by all those wishing to pay their final respects to Alan Carpenter. Casey sat dry-eyed. How, she wondered, had all these people found out about Alan's death? She must remember to ask Singin. She wanted to shed tears for Alan but her eyes remained dry. Singin was unashamedly wiping at his, as were many others. She turned then and saw Marcus Carlin. Their eyes met. She was the first to look away. She didn't see any tears glistening in his eyes. Of course he would be here, he and Alan were friends. What was he doing now that he retired? She wondered if he would speak to her, not that she cared one way or the other. Perhaps she should walk up to him when the service was over, before she caught a cab to take her to the studio.

To her left was Steve Harper. She watched as his shoulders slumped. He blew his nose, stuffing his handkerchief into his coat pocket. His shoulders remained slumped.

She, however, stood straight and tall the moment she realized Alan hadn't rejected her after all. Yesterday and all night she'd been too consumed with grief to think about anything but the fact that she would never see Alan again. She wished the minister would say something truly meaningful so she could draw strength from it in the days to come, but then how could he? He didn't know Alan. Alan had never come to this church. The urge to run to the front of the church and kick the minister was so strong, she found herself gripping the edge of her seat with both hands so that she wouldn't jump up.

“Thank you all for coming,” the minister said.

Outside in the cold air, Casey turned up her coat collar. To her boss she said, “Don't wait for me. I'll catch a cab. I want to say good-bye to my friends.”

Harper nodded and lumbered off. Maybe he would fire her now that Alan was dead. She realized she didn't care. She wished she didn't have to go into the studio at all, because today was the day she had to call Mac Carlin's office to set up an appointment for his interview.

Maline was crushing her, kissing both her cheeks and whimpering. “I'm so happy for you that things turned out so well. We will always be friends. I know it here,” she said, tapping her chest. “I truly believe you were the reason Singin and I finally got together. It is nothing I can explain in words. Do you understand?”

“Of course. But it would have happened anyway, Maline. How can I ever thank you for what you did for me? All those hours, all the time you sat with me . . . how do I . . .”

“I was trained to do whatever I did for you. It was my job. You now have a small piece of my heart. Singin's too. All we want for you is what you should want for yourself—happiness. Luke Farrell loves you very much. But if you do not love him in the same way, then you must look elsewhere for your happiness.” She winked roguishly.

“So you really are a matchmaker.” Casey smiled tearfully.

“It is my turn, Maline. This one, she is so selfish since she has come here,” Singin said playfully. “We will meet again. Write to us, please, and let us know what you are doing and where you are. We must never lose touch. We must be friends all our lives. Maline and I will name our first child, if it is a girl, after you. A boy will be called Alan Luke Vinh.”

“Oh, Singin,” Casey cried tearfully as she hugged him tightly. “Yes, for all our lives we'll be friends. I wouldn't have it any other way. Have a safe trip and enjoy Disneyland.”

“Good-bye, my friend,” Singin said, kissing her one last time. Maline stepped in and squeezed her tight. “Promise,” she whispered, “that we will always be friends.”

“I promise.”

Casey watched until the cab they climbed into was out of sight. She continued to wave, tears streaking down her cheeks. She brushed at them with her gloved hands.

When Casey turned away, her intention was to walk to the studio so she could clear her head. She wanted to think, and it was a way of postponing the inevitable call to Mac's office.

“Miss Ashley.”

“Yes?” she said, turning around to meet Marcus Carlin's gaze.

“I need to talk to you about Alan. Would you care to have some breakfast with me, or perhaps a cup of coffee? It's rather important,” he said when it looked as if she were going to refuse.

What was another hour out of her life? At least it would postpone the call. For sure Steve would fire her, though once again she realized she simply didn't care.

Sitting across from Marcus Carlin in a cracked leather booth in a coffee shop that smelled of old grease and cigarette smoke, Casey was stunned at the way he had aged since she'd seen him almost a year ago. She couldn't help but wonder if his resignation had anything to do with the bitter look in his eyes. He'd given the excuse for his retirement as poor health, but he didn't look sickly, just older.

Casey stared down at the cup of coffee in front of her, wondering if it was safe to drink. Marcus Carlin was staring at his cup too, probably wondering the same thing. He reached out and pushed his cup to the side. She noticed the fine white monogram on his cuff. She hadn't liked the man when Mac spoke of him so bitterly. She didn't like him at all when she'd met him last Christmas at Alan's house. Now, she liked him less and wasn't sure why.

The judge cleared his throat. “As you know, I'm Alan's lawyer. I drew up his will, and now I need to go over a few things with you.”

“Why, Mr. Carlin? I have nothing to do with Alan's estate. And if it's your intention to ask me questions about Alan, I won't answer them. I really don't have much time, I have to return to the office,” Casey said, preparing to get up. “It was nice seeing you again, and I'm sorry it was under these sad circumstances.”

“Did you know about Alan's open heart surgery?”

“No, Mr. Carlin, I didn't. He told me he was going to retire to Spain to write his memoirs. Yesterday was the first I heard about it.”

She had her coat on, her scarf tied around her neck. She was pulling on her gloves when the judge said, “You're Alan Carpenter's sole beneficiary. Aside from a few bequests to his domestic help and two fully paid medical scholarships, you will inherit his entire estate. It's quite sizable, even after inheritance tax. Around three million or so.”

Casey's jaw dropped. “There must be some mistake,” she said carefully. The judge watched as she pulled on her other glove. She licked at her dry lips. It appeared to the judge that she wanted to say something else but couldn't find the right words.

“It's no mistake. When I met you last Christmas, Alan and I and his lawyer finalized the will right there in his study. His cook and housekeeper witnessed his signature. You are a very wealthy woman, Miss Ashley.”

“No,” Casey said vehemently. “No. I don't want Alan's money. I could never take his money. He should never have done this,” she added desperately. “I'm sorry, Mr. Carlin, but I have to get to the studio. Give it back, do whatever you have to do. I don't want it.”

“It doesn't work that way, Miss Ashley. If you don't want it, you can do with it whatever you like
after
you take possession of it. I can't go back on . . . it isn't done,” he said coldly. “I suggest you think about this and what it means to you. I'll call you in a day or so. In the meantime, I will call Richards, his lawyer, and get things under way.”

Casey stared after the judge in stupefied amazement when he rose from the booth and marched out of the diner without paying the check. She laid two one-dollar bills on the table and left the diner. Her thoughts were in a turmoil.

When she paid the taxi driver and entered the studios of Tri State News, the only thing truly clear in her mind was that Alan hadn't rejected her. He'd been ill, certain he wouldn't live long, and therefore wouldn't tie her to him. The legacy was to make up for his lie. There was no way she was going to keep Alan's money.

“Glad to see you finally made it,
Miss Ashley
,” Steve Harper snapped.

“Do you have a problem, Steve?” Casey snapped in return. “Why don't you just fire me? Look, I'm sorry about taking the time off, and I'm sorry about this morning. But if you hadn't given me the time off, I would have quit. That's how important all of this was to me. Now, shall we start over and say good morning like the civilized people we are, or should I turn around and walk out of here? I can stay late, as late as you need me to make up the time. I can be here by six tomorrow morning. It's your call,” Casey said coldly.

“I'm sorry too,” Steve muttered. “I want this thing locked up with the senator. I sent him a personal letter several weeks ago, and he hasn't responded. When was the last time you went through the mail?”

“Steve, I don't have time for the mail. You said Donna was doing the mail. Oh, I see. She's been out sick, and no one went through it. All right, I'll do the mail. Tell me this, do you want the mail done first or do you want me to call the senator and firm it all up?”

“Use your best judgment. I'm sorry about Alan, Mary. I hate funerals and memorial services. They remind me of my own mortality. Let's have lunch after the newscast.”