Книга - Bad Heiress Day

Bad Heiress Day
Allie Pleiter


What would you do with $1 million?That's a question Darcy Nightengale never thought she'd need to answer. But a sudden inheritance of just over $1 million begs a more immediate response. And when Darcy learns of her father's last request that she "give it all away," she discovers just how quickly big money makes big problems.Her husband believes that charity begins at home. His home. And her children are sure it's only a matter of time before the presents start rolling in. Right? Darcy wants to do the right thing–as soon as she can figure out what it is. Can the path of righteousness be paved with gold? Darcy's surprising answer turns her world on end.







Bad Heiress Day


To Martha,

in honor of her father and his legacy of faith.

And because she told me,

“I think you can do more.”




Bad Heiress Day

Allie Pleiter







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Acknowledgments


It is an author’s job to take the kernels of truth everyday life offers up and spin them into a compelling story that somehow takes us beyond daily life. The details and plotlines bubble up from an author’s imagination, but the stories that touch us most do so because they spring from people and situations we all know. As such, this story belongs to all of us who have lost our parents, wrestled with an estate and come out stronger for the struggle.

First and foremost, my thanks must always go to my husband and children, for they are on the front lines of my daily life. They endure the crankiness and the rapidly multiplying stacks of paper that invade our house, and hear me continually talking about book characters as if they were real people. Although you told me I was “calmer for this one,” Jeff dear, I doubt that made it an effortless task. For the many times you’ve walked beside me as I trudged through first drafts and rewrites, thank you. For my children, Mandy and CJ, whose choruses of “Allie Pleiter, Famous Writer” are the best cheering section any mom could hope for—may I someday live up to the moniker with which you’ve blessed me. My special thanks to you, Mandy, for saying “Yes, Mom, you’ve GOT to buy a tiara now!”

To my friends and extended family, who continue to offer up gobs of support whenever needed. Had I a crate of tiaras, you’d all get one of your very own…and may still.

To Karen Solem, my agent and wise counsel, who has been advising me to write this book for years before my muse finally kicked it out of me.

To my editor and instant friend, Krista Stroever, for believing in me from the first ten pages, and for loving Friendly Fribbles as much as I do.

To the city of Cincinnati, and its lovely people. You lured me once years ago, and rekindled the affection again as I returned to write this book. I hope I have done you proud—and not botched too many of the local details. My thanks to Bill and Lorraine Downing at the Grace and Glory Bed and Breakfast, who were my gracious and encouraging hosts during a frenzied writing-and-research visit.

To Len Harrison at LVM Capital Management, who patiently answered far too many “what if” questions, and to several attorneys at Huck, Bouma et al. who did the same.

And finally to God, for the gift, the grace and the guidance. Without those, I am nothing but a clanging cymbal. May the words You have given me draw others closer to You.




Contents


Chapter 1: Chocolate, Grease & Diet Coke

Chapter 2: The Twelfth of Never

Chapter 3: Little Orphan Heiress

Chapter 4: Comfortably Drastic

Chapter 5: The Paul Hartwell Memorial Parking Lot

Chapter 6: Heiress Lessons

Chapter 7: The Torture Man Cometh

Chapter 8: Loose Ends on the Loose

Chapter 9: Joan of Arc, but with Hot Dogs

Chapter 10: Ain’t Nobody Here But Us Chickens

Chapter 11: Taking Everythings Personally

Chapter 12: It's Never Just a Ball

Chapter 13: God is in the Details

Chapter 14: All the Way Home

Chapter 15: It’s in the Cards

Chapter 16: The Stuff of Legend

Chapter 17: Anyone Worth Their Salt

Chapter 18: Fluffheads under Fire

Chapter 19: Hens with Antlers?!?

Chapter 20: Pithy But Engaging Holiday Greatings

Chapter 21: 'Twas the Night Before Christmas, and Down in the Kitchen…

Chapter 22: Just the Tiniest Bit Willing

Chapter 23: Every Woman Should Own One

Chapter 24: The Oreos of Life

Chapter 25: Advanced Discipline for Rambunctoius Upstarts

Chapter 26: Little Boy Blue

Chapter 27: The Evil of Unemployed Elves

Chapter 28: The Virtues of Kooky But Amazing

Chapter 29: The Snazziest New Customer




Chapter 1

Chocolate, Grease & Diet Coke


Cincinnati, Ohio

September 15, 2001

“Lovely man.”

“Such a waste. Sixty-five is still so young these days.”

“I’m sure his faith was a comfort to him.”

Platitudes—sincere and otherwise—were flying fast and furious in the narthex of the Ohio Valley Community Church. One woman spent a whole ten minutes telling Darcy Nightengale what a pillar of the community her father had been. The next woman smiled as she told Darcy how the universe now welcomed her father in his new state of pure energy. After that last “unique” remark, Darcy’s husband, Jack, softly hummed the General Electric theme, “We bring good things to life” in her ear. It made her laugh. A small laugh, but it was a gift none the less.

Somehow, the fact that a joke could still be made—in the current state of both the world and the family—was a foothold of hope. The Tuesday of this week, September 11, had been a day of national tragedy. Thousands lost their lives. Darcy had lots of company mourning a loved one.

For Darcy, though, September 11 was more still. September 11 was the last day she saw her father’s eyes. The last day he spoke. For a man who’d been dying for months, Paul Hartwell chose a really lousy last day on Earth. It was like a cruel afterthought to lose her father in the early hours of September 12. The day after the world shook on its foundations. Darcy remembered looking up from the hospice center bed in the roaring, breathless silence, and wondering if anyone would even notice.

But they had. The church was crowded with friends offering their sympathy. It had been a rough day. Between the ceremonial pressure, the endless handshaking and the spurts of intense conversation, Darcy was running on adrenaline. After the months of dying, Dad’s death felt more like the finish line of a long and weary marathon than any kind of mourning. She had stood beside Dad and seen him through to the end. Literally. When she dared to be honest, Darcy admitted that woven in through all the grief was a clear gleam of relief. Jack put his hand on the small of her back, as if holding her up, as an older woman told tales of Paul’s kindness to her little dogs.

“That’s the last guest,” came a deep voice behind her. Ed Parrot was the epitome of a funeral director, subdued and dignified. Except that he had a voice like Darth Vader and a body just as large. The fact that he always wore a black suit just intensified the effect. It made for a creepy image every time he spoke to her—as if the telltale Vader breathing sound effect would kick in at any moment. He took her hand in his with an experienced clasp. With an exhale he looked into her eyes and said softly, “It’s over.”

Over. What a potent choice of words.

His expression told Darcy that he meant both the best and worst of it. Here was a man who knew how grueling the rituals of grief could be. The time would come soon enough when the small box of ashes would go to their final spot, but this day’s duties were done.

Done. The word hung in Darcy’s thoughts like the last chord of the Beatles’ “A Day in the Life”—the one that echoed on at the end of the record for what seemed like forever.

“Kate’s in the driveway,” Jack said suddenly, loosening his tie. Darcy noticed that Jack and Mr. Parrot were exchanging looks. She raised an eyebrow.

“She’s going to go take you to dinner. The kids and I will head back home—I rented a movie for them and bought a vat of popcorn.”

She blinked. It hardly felt like time to hit a restaurant, but she couldn’t even form a coherent protest.

Jack kissed her lightly on the cheek and pressed his hand into the small of her back again. “Go, hon. You need it.”

In that moment, seeing her own weariness reflected in Jack’s eyes, Darcy realized she did.

Boy, did she.



Only a best friend like Kate Owens would know to do this, and only Kate would dare.

When Darcy walked out the church’s back door, Kate was in her little red Miata convertible. On the passenger seat was a pair of Darcy’s jeans, a T-shirt, sneakers, the instantly recognizable red-and-white stripes of a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken—extra crispy, Darcy was sure, with extra biscuits—and a box of chocolate-covered graham crackers. Darcy wanted to cry for the understanding of it all. Jack and Kate knew, even before she knew it herself, that what she needed most at this moment was to unwind and do something that felt normal.

Kate’s smile made words unnecessary. She winked back a tear and said, “We’ll hit Graeter’s Ice Cream Parlor if you’re still hungry later, but for now, let’s get out of Dodge.”

“You betcha.”

Kate reached over and opened the door. “Get in, girl.” She pulled the car out through the parking lot’s far exit so that they didn’t have to pass any of the lingering guests Darcy saw talking to Jack. Jack was earning Husband of the Year points for this one, to be sure.

Speeding onto Victory Parkway, the evening’s cooler air washed over Darcy like a balm, whipping her hair and streaming around her upstretched fingers. The weight of the last two hours slowly eased up off her shoulders. Of course, wiggling out of the control-top panty hose within thirty seconds of being in the car helped matters, too.

They stopped at a United Dairy Farmers convenience store to switch clothes in the ladies’ room, ditching their somber suits for the familiarity of jeans and T-shirts. Darcy felt as if she began to breathe softer air.

They ate on benches in Overlook Park, the quaint pond behind them, the river valley stretching out before them. In a silence broken only with sighs, the pair watched the Ohio River wind its way under the bridges. The serene scene spread out in postcard-style perfection. Bit by bit the evening sky appeared, washing the landscape in pastels and pinpricks of light. You’d never even know New York was still smoking.

Kate licked her fingers loudly and she threw yet another bare drumstick bone into a paper bag. “We just raised our cholesterol a dozen points, you know.”

Darcy chuckled. “I don’t care. I’ve never enjoyed a bucketful of drumsticks so much in my life. But shame on you for getting all dark meat. We’d probably have added only five or six points if you’d have sprung for all white.”

“No way. This was pure indulgence. White meat would have been too responsible. And just for that ungrateful remark, I’m going to eat all the cookies!” She made for the package, but Darcy lunged first.

“Over my dead body!” she yelled, then stopped short at the choice of words. They both held still for a moment. Oh man, just when she’d actually almost forgotten about it for a while. Even her own language couldn’t get out from the death all around her.

Kate tore open the cookie package and handed a stack to Darcy. “It rots,” she declared sharply. “It just rots. All of it. Your dad, those terrorists, the planes. My kids think they’re going to be blown up if they go to the mall. It all just rots.”

Darcy had to admit “rots” was putting it rather bluntly, but there was a useful truth in Kate’s choice of words. Fourth-grade-style vocabulary aside, it felt good for someone not to try to put a sympathetic, comforting spin on whatever they said to her. It did rot. No amount of greeting card-worthy verse would change that. “It does,” Darcy agreed. “It rots. It rots!”

They looked at each other. “It rots!” they yelled together, listening to the satisfying way it echoed over the steep hillside. So they did it again. Granted, it was childish and undignified, but it felt wonderful. When they began to laugh from the ridiculousness of it all, Darcy didn’t care who else in the park stared. No matter what the shape of the world this week, she needed to laugh far more than she needed to care who saw it.

“Oh, if Thad could see me now, he’d turn purple from embarrassment,” Kate said behind a mouthful of chocolate and graham cracker.

“That son of yours has heard worse. Actually, by the eighth grade, Thad’s probably said worse.” Darcy plucked another cracker from the plastic sleeve. “Actually, I think ‘rots’ is rather restrained given the circumstances. I can think of far worse words that apply. A dozen or so, to be exact.”

They fell quiet again for a while, pondering the sorry state of the universe.

Kate finally broke the silence. “I went to the safe-deposit box.”

“And…” Darcy’s heart did a small, tense somersault.

“Well, it was just like you said. They weren’t going to let me near the thing until I showed them the letter you wrote and about twelve forms of ID.”

“I suspected as much.”

Kate turned to her. “Dar, why did you want me to do this? This is your dad’s box we’re talking about. Private stuff and all. Why me?”

Darcy leaned back against the bench. “I dunno. It just seemed like one too many things to do. There’s been so many picky details in the last couple of days I just couldn’t handle one more.”

Kate leaned back to meet her eyes, not letting her off the hook. Darcy knew Kate would get into this with her. “So have me fetch flowers or drive Aunt So-and-So someplace, but why the box?” Kate pointed at her with the half-eaten end of a graham cracker. “I know you, Darcy. You’re avoiding something. What did you think would be in there?”

“I don’t know what’s in there,” Darcy said, more sharply than she would have liked. Why did Kate always have to know her so well? Of course she was avoiding it. With the bombshell that’d been dropped on her at the lawyer’s office, she was terrified to find other secrets lurking in her dad’s private affairs. She thought she knew everything about her dad, that nothing had gone unspoken between them. It had been a comfort of sorts as she was forced to watch her father’s long, agonizing exit from life.

Just goes to show how wrong a person can be.

Dad had left a great big secret for her to find. Intentionally hid it from her—at least that’s what it felt like. Now she discovered Dad had left strict instructions with Jacob the Kindly Lawyer for her to remove the contents of the box upon his death. What now? What else was going to come crashing down upon her head?

Darcy didn’t want to ignore her dad’s instructions, but she surely didn’t think she could handle another startling revelation at the moment. Things were feeling as if she were on The Jerry Springer Show as it was.

Kate wasn’t backing off for a second. “Darcy. You knew something was in there. Something big and worth going to all this trouble to avoid.”

“Okay, okay, you’re right.”

Kate was getting up. No, Kate, don’t get up. Don’t go get whatever it is now. I can’t handle this now. Kate was getting up anyway, trotting back to the car to flip open the trunk and pull out a small, official-looking box.

Don’t make me open it. Not in front of you. Not today.

Kate sat back down, plunking the box squarely between them. “Look Dar, I put the stuff from the bank into this box. I know what’s in here. There’s no body, no bloody knife or anything that looks like Colonel Mustard did it with the pipe in the library. There’s no long-lost cousin, no crown jewels. There’s two bibles, a stack of what looks like wartime love letters between your parents, some collectible-looking coins, and a letter addressed to you. And as near as I can figure it, there must be some reason you wanted to open this with me instead of Jack, and today can’t get much worse, so you might as well get it over with.”

Darcy stared at her. She didn’t get it, did she? After all she’d been through this week, and what she’d learned at the lawyer’s office, a mere letter was worth a dozen bloody knives in this family.

“Look,” insisted Kate, not letting up even though Darcy glared at her, “I got four more boxes of cookies up in the car. We have enough grease, Diet Coke and chocolate here to get over a crisis of monumental proportions.” She pushed the box over to Darcy. “You’ve been looking like you’re ready to explode for three days now. Jack told me something was up but he wouldn’t say what. I only know that he’s worried enough about you to willingly handle two kids who are jumpy and crazed because they’ve just had to sit through a funeral. Maybe it’s time to light the fuse and let it go off now before somebody gets hurt.”

Kate wasn’t being mean. She was being loving in the rarest sense of the word. Willing to stand by and watch it get ugly if it meant helping her friend through a tough time. And Kate was right—she was ready to explode. Jack had said much the same thing. It’s probably why he agreed to this little picnic in the first place. If she didn’t get it out somehow, it might—no, it probably would—come out in a way that everyone would regret.

Darcy put her hand on the top of the box. A sensation close to an electric shock pulsed through her fingers. Somehow touching it, that ordinary sensation of cardboard, made it both easier and frighteningly real. She took a deep breath and then let it out again. Kate wrapped her hand around the paper cup of Coke, settling in for a good spell of listening.

“There’s something you need to know. First, I mean. Well, you don’t actually need to know it, but I need someone besides just Jack to know and you’re elected, Miss Nosy Pushy Best Friend.”

Kate nodded.

Darcy exhaled, staring at the river. “I found out something about Dad when I went to the lawyer’s office.”

“I gathered as much.”

Darcy tried to find an eloquent way to put it, but couldn’t. She opted for blunt. This was Kate, after all. “Dad was…well, rich.”

Kate thought for a moment. “Yeah, well I knew he was well-off. I mean, he had good medical care and you weren’t getting all worried about money like any of my other friends with sick parents, but so?”

“Really rich.”

“Like Regis Philbin ‘Is that your final answer’ really rich? What are we talking about here?”

“One and a half Regis Philbins to be exact. And that’s after taxes.”

Kate gurgled unintelligibly and dropped her Coke. “Your Dad? Mr. Coupon-clipper Dad?”

This time it was Darcy’s turn to merely nod. Kate’s shock felt comforting. It made her feel more at home with the shock waves she’d been feeling since she’d known.

“No, really, Darcy. You’ve got to be kidding. There’s no way your—excuse me but you know it’s the truth—tight-wad of a dad could be a millionaire. The guy drove an eight-year-old car.”

“I know. I couldn’t believe it. I don’t get it, either. He had so much. There was so much he could have done that he didn’t.”

Kate stuffed another cracker in her mouth and offered Darcy the box. “Whoa, Dar. This is big stuff. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know yet. I had no idea Dad had that kind of money. It’s actually scary when you think about it.”

It flashed back at her before she had a chance to even name it. An avalanche of angry scenes. Dad arguing with a clerk over not getting the senior discount. Eating dinner at 4:00 p.m. to get the early bird special. A million little—okay, she was going to use this phrase—cheap impulses that used to drive her crazy back when Dad was well enough to be up and about. Buying store-brand knockoffs when what she really wanted was honest-to-goodness Oreos. Why would a man with enough money to live three lifetimes spend—no, not spend—waste so much energy penny-pinching? Her throat began to tighten. There was so much lost. She turned to Kate. “I’m mad at him for doing this. For hiding it and springing it on me like this. It’s not fair to make me deal with this now. I thought we’d cleared the air completely between us, Kate, but he kept this huge thing from me.” The words came spilling out, pouring from the open wound in her heart. “Why would he put me through this? I feel like I’m on some sort of sick, twisted game show and it’s his doing. Sure, it’s a cartload of money and I suppose that’s good. It solves a lot of problems. But it’s bad, too. I’ve spent the last week wondering what else don’t I know. Are there more secrets lurking out there waiting to do me in?” The tears sneaked up on her before she had a chance to stop them. Darcy slumped against the bench, lay her head down on Kate’s shoulder, and cried. For both the hundredth time and the first time.

Kate stroked her shoulder and let her cry, fishing tissues for her out of her purse because Darcy had gone through every one of the dozens of tissues she’d stocked her pockets with this morning.

“I don’t know,” Kate said finally, and Darcy could hear the strain in her friend’s voice. “I think you may have been better off with something like The Princess Diaries. He should have left you queen of something. I was only joking about the crown jewels bit, but now I’m thinking…”

“I know, I know.” Darcy laughed, glad to have her friend’s thoughts follow her own. “I was thinking I need a tiara or something.”

“It’s gonna change your life forever, Dar. I mean, think about it. Okay, I realize his methods—” she narrowed her eyes for emphasis “—rot, but the game show metaphor isn’t all that far off. You’re loaded. Think about all you and Jack can do. Mike can go to that snazzy math academy you’ve been eyeing for all these years.”

Kate had hit the nail on the head. “That’s just it, Kate. Mike can go to Simmons Academy now. But Mike could have gone to Simmons Academy all along! Dad knew how much we wanted him to be able to do something with his math skills. He knew we couldn’t afford to do it. How could he just sit there and not help if he had all that money lying around?” It was unkind, but it was spilling out of Darcy and she didn’t care. “One point six million is enough for three lifetimes Kate, and he knew he didn’t have much more time. He’s known for two years. Why, why, why did he feel he had to keep it from us? And you know what? I don’t even care about the dollar signs, I care that he kept such a big, huge, important thing from me. From me! I could change his bedpans but I couldn’t be trusted with his finances? Why keep secrets now, of all times?” Darcy crossed her arms. “It hurts. It hurts a lot.”

“It rots.”

“Yeah, it rots all right.”

Kate kicked her legs out in front of her and giggled just a bit. “But at least it rots all the way to the bank.”

God bless Kate. Darcy knew she’d done the right thing in telling her. She bumped Kate playfully with her shoulder and sighed.

“You have no idea why he’d do this? Hide this from you?”

“Not one. Not a one.” Darcy stuffed an entire graham cracker in her mouth.

“Well, at least now I understand why you weren’t in any hurry to open that box. You’ve got a license to be gun-shy on this one.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You know, Dar,” said Kate, pulling up one knee to sit facing Darcy on the bench, “you’re forgetting something.”

Darcy turned to look at her friend.

“What if the why is in the letter?” she offered. “What if it’s not a time bomb, but an explanation? Mr. Lawyer Guy said you were to open the box shortly after your dad’s death, right?”

Darcy nodded, her brain straining to put the pieces together. What if there was some kind of reasoning, some explanation in the letter? Darcy wasn’t sure she was ready to see it. But another part of her began to give in to the curiosity. Knowing why would help the coping process a lot more than chocolate graham crackers.

“You know what?” Kate offered suddenly with a smirk. “I was wrong. We don’t have enough chocolate to deal with this. It’s gonna take a whole gallon of Graeter’s mint chocolate chip to cope with this baby.” She began gathering up the food and wrappers. “And on the way, you can tell me what Jack said about all this.”




Chapter 2

The Twelfth of Never


“Four more spoonfuls and then I’ll open it. I’ll save the rest of my ice cream sundae for the aftermath.” Darcy was feeling better bit by bit.

Kate counted down Darcy’s spoonfuls and added a drumroll to the last one for effect. There, in the front seat of Kate’s car in Graeter’s Ice Cream Parlor parking lot, she took a deep breath and pulled the lid from the box.

Kate was right. It did look ordinary. She didn’t know if she expected some hand to come out and grab her like something from The Addams Family, but it looked tame enough. She started with something safe, like the coins.

“Gold,” Darcy said as she pulled one from the wax paper envelope that held it. “From Africa. At least I think it’s gold—it’s heavy enough. I’ll have to take them someplace to have them appraised. Dad told me he got these when I was born.” There were four of them, two pairs of different kinds. Okay, safe enough. Nothing shocking there. Good. She laid them gently back into the box.

The first Bible was soft and worn, the aged leather flaking off a bit in her hands. It was a woman’s bible, with swirly lettering stamped on the elegant beige of the cover. Her mother’s. Darcy realized she’d never seen her mother with it. She imagined it tucked in a nightstand drawer next to a velvet jewelry box and hankies.

Mom. Her death in 1982 seemed like ages ago now. As a shy seventeen-year-old, it had been so hard for Darcy to come to grips with the automobile accident that had taken her mom’s life. Actually, it hadn’t taken her life, just made her give up on the life she had until it ebbed right out of her.

Maimed.

Darcy had always thought that was an odd choice of words for people to use. Her mother’s left hand looked just as it always had, but it was rendered lifeless. Limp and useless. Her mother had survived all the other bumps and bruises, and had lived for years after the accident, but never gave a hint of ever recovering. Or even wanting to. Clara Hartwell had been a violinist, and life without a left hand didn’t seem worth living. “But it’s just a hand,” Darcy remembered thinking, even arguing with her mother.

All arguments, all pleading, all encouragement had proved as useless as Clara’s fingers. It had been a hideous, awful time.

“Mom’s,” Darcy offered to Kate, surprised by the lump in her throat when she spoke. “I’ve never seen it before.” She ran her hands through the impossibly thin pages, fingered the faded red ribbons that were meant to mark pages. Each ribbon left a pale-pink line on the page it had sat in over the years. Darcy ran her fingers across the monogram gracing the bottom corner before she laid it back in the box.

She recognized the second Bible. Hard-bound, it was tattered and dirty. This was the small Bible her dad talked about carrying through the war. The one he carried for years until he wore it clean out and Darcy gave him a new one for his birthday. Thumbing through it, Darcy saw hundreds of tiny scrawled notes in the margins. Names of people. Question marks and exclamation points with arrows to particular verses. “Harry—forgive him” was one, with an arrow to a passage in Luke which read “But he who hath forgiven little loves little.”

Darcy looked up. “Dad’s.”

Kate said nothing. There wasn’t anything for her to say, really. Except maybe “So, open the letter.” Darcy was glad she didn’t say it.

There it was. Sitting in the corner of the box. Small and thick, with “Darcy” in her father’s handwriting on the front. His handwriting the way it used to be, before his letters got sloppy and shaky from weak hands. This penmanship was strong and careful.

Darcy felt Kate’s hand on her shoulder. “You know, if you want to be alone, I could go get more ice cream or something. Maybe you need to do this in private.”

Darcy swallowed hard. “No. I think I need you here. I’m not going to read it aloud or anything—at least not yet, but I don’t think I want to do this by myself. You just sit over there and polish off that fudge, okay?”

“Got it.”

“Okay. I’m gonna do this.”

“I’m right here, kiddo.”

Darcy counted to five and then slid her finger under the back flap. The paper was still strong, the seal still solid. Darcy guessed it was written about two years ago. Just about when her dad’s diagnosis was finalized.

She pulled up the flap and slid the papers out. Five sheets—filled on both sides—appeared. Small, stationery-size—the kind nobody used much anymore because it didn’t fit into computers, and who even wrote letters anymore?

Unfolding the pages carefully, she let her eyes travel up the lines of dark-blue ink until they hit those fateful words: “Dear Darcy,”

All right then, here we go.

Darcy read the letter.

Dear Darcy,

I’ve been wondering, as I sit down to write this letter, just how upset you will be when you read this. If you’re holding this paper, it means I’m gone now, and you’ve been to see Jacob. And you’ve learned the one piece of my life I’ve kept from you. And, I assume you’re not happy to learn I kept such a thing from you. I had reasons, and you will learn them before this letter is done.

I’m not feeling sick yet, but I know I will be. I know, too, that you will have been there, for you’re that kind of person. They tell me the end won’t be pretty, but I will step out in the faith that I have in you and thank you now for sticking by me when it got messy. I wonder if I will have even known, when it is time, everything you have done on my behalf. If I didn’t, and somehow didn’t recognize or acknowledge your care in the end, forgive me. I know it now, and I’ll take these lucid moments to thank you. The words hardly seem sufficient for what I can only imagine is coming, but I have no others.

Darcy’s chest heaved in a sob. How she had longed for that last, clear, look of acknowledgment from her dad in those final hours. It had never come. He was far away and already lost to her and looking frightened. She ached from his death all over again. For the body now reduced to ashes, the spirit long since left. She forced herself to continue reading:

I worry about you now. I’d have never said it before, but I worry about you and Jack through all this. The strain is sure to be huge. Jack’s so independent, and our tiny family is about to become as dependent as it gets. Know that I have prayed for you and Jack and your marriage. And I will continue to send down blessings and prayers after I am gone, because I have a feeling that’s when things will be the worst. I’m not kidding myself to think I’m not making things harder by what I’ve done.

All right, little girl, I’ve sidestepped the issue long enough. This letter, as I said before, is to tell you why I’ve done what I’ve done. No doubt by now you know the extent of my financial assets. I’m sure you’ve eaten a gallon of Graeters—if you’ve not eaten three by now…

Darcy laughed at her father’s foresight. It helped to stem the tears lurking like an undertow just beneath the surface. “He’s betting I’ve eaten Graeter’s already.” She offered the explanation to Kate just to break the aching silence.

“He knew you” is all Kate replied, her eyes tearing and her sundae untouched.

…and I’m sure you’re in shock. Probably mad, too, for we never kept secrets from each other. Wondering, if I know you, what else you don’t know about me. Let me put your mind at rest, Darcy, and tell you this letter is all there is. There are no other secrets. I didn’t like keeping this one much, but I had reasons.

Where did it all come from? That’s a painful episode in your mother’s and my history that I hope we’ve successfully shielded you from. There were discussions—arguments really, and bad ones—after your mother’s accident. I knew, just by how she was talking and acting, that Clara had no intention of continuing to live. Some people are strong enough to recover from a tragedy like that. Clara wasn’t one of them. No amount of convincing from the doctors could change her mind. They even had some lady with two prosthetic legs come and talk to your mother, but she wouldn’t hear it. To her mind, her body had been so badly damaged that she didn’t want to be in it anymore. I was angry with her for wanting to leave me, to leave you, over her one hand. But you know Mom and her music, and what it did to her to have that taken away from her. Clara needed someone to pay for the awful thing that happened to her.

In truth, I began to as well. Clara just plain stopped being my wife and your mom when her hand stopped working. We argued all the time—I hope you don’t remember how much.

Drivers didn’t have to have car insurance back then. So, when we won the lawsuit against the driver who hit Mom’s car, it cleaned the poor guy out. Our $250,000 award meant he had to sell his house, his car, everything.

Clara was glad we ruined his life for hers. I was, too. But even all that money couldn’t bring your Mom back to us. I woke up one day, after she was gone, and realized I hated how much her vengeance had become such a part of me.

I should have realized earlier and tried to talk her out of it. In truth, Darcy, I suppose I didn’t want to stop her from doing the one thing she seemed to feel was left on Earth for her to do. I suppose I thought it might keep her with us for a bit longer if she felt she still had some purpose. I loved my wife and was blinded by grief into letting her do anything to keep her alive.

I told her once, in a moment of anger, that I would give it away. The money, that is. I wanted to, after I realized it didn’t help. Having lots of money never meant much to me, anyhow. My experience has been that money never solves problems, only makes new ones.

Well, Clara went so hysterical she ended up back in the hospital and almost died. So there, with her life on the line, it seemed, she made me promise not to give it away. On my honor. Before God.

Even Clara never got what she wanted. Despite taking everything Harry Zokowski had, we ended up with only $150,000. But that was still a lot of money back then. To me, though, it was just a reminder of how vengeful I’d become, and I wanted it far from my hands. The life insurance and casualty insurance more than paid for her bills anyway, what use did I have for one lonely old man’s life savings in exchange for my lost wife?

By now you’ve been to see Jacob, and you can trust him—even if he is a lawyer. Jacob has kept the money for me, and seen to its wise investment over the years. Over time, he convinced me to let him take some of the interest off the money for when things get expensive with all those medicines and nurses I’m sure I’ll need. I didn’t much like it, but it made sense to me, because it means I won’t be a financial burden to you and Jack. Jacob has the authority to draw off funds whenever he needs to ensure that my accounts have enough to pay the bills. That’s why you’ve only seen the accounts you’ve seen. At least up until now.

So now, if I guess correctly, you’re looking at something over $1.5 million. Can you believe it? It feels like a fortune, but it’s not. It’s not, Darcy, and don’t fool yourself into thinking that it is.

I could never give it away, Darcy, I promised your mother. But you can.

I don’t know what your life will be like in my last years, so I won’t require you to do this. I won’t command you to do anything. I don’t have that right after all I’ve just put you through.

But I can ask you to. Give it away, Darcy. Do this for me. I know that sounds crazy to you right now, there’s so much you and Jack could do with that kind of money, but don’t keep it, honey. Take your Dad’s advice this time. It’s ill-gotten money, no matter what the legal system says. Keeping it will keep you from moving on. I’m not sure I can explain it, but the cost is dear. You’ve already lost so much in this life. Don’t let this money take away anything more. Whatever you think it will buy you is an illusion, anyhow.

I don’t expect you to understand this right away. Please don’t do anything yet. Just talk to Jack, talk to people you trust and who are right with God, seek His wisdom, and know I am praying for you every moment. Now I can mean it when I tell you I’ll love you forever. Remember when I used to sing to you “Until the 12th of Never, I’ll still be loving you”? Now it’s true, and never forget it. God loves you, Darcy. Loves you still. Your faith will always lead you to the right decisions in life. That’s the best treasure I can leave you.

I love you. I’ve always loved you. Your mother has always loved you, even when she couldn’t show it anymore. God loves you always. I will love you forever, sweetheart, beyond the 12th of Never.

Love,

Dad

Darcy closed the pages, her face streaming with tears. “Oh, Daddy,” she said quietly, and dissolved into sobs on Kate’s shoulder.




Chapter 3

Little Orphan Heiress


The little red Miata pulled into the driveway just after eleven. The living room lights were off, but Darcy could still see the TV’s flickering colors. She wondered which James Bond movie—Jack’s favorite indulgence from the video store—he had chosen. Live and Let Die, most likely, or maybe even You Only Live Twice, because that one started with James Bond’s own funeral.

“You have Jack to help you with this. That man’s a dream. And me. I’m dreamy too, aren’t I?” Kate put her arm around Darcy. “Dar, you’re going to be okay. You know that, don’t you?”

“No.” Darcy let her head fall back against the car seat.

“Look,” said Kate, “why don’t you let me take the kids tomorrow morning so you and Jack have some time to sort this out. They’ve canceled soccer practice and Thad is going nuts because I won’t let him turn on the TV.” Kate rubbed her eyes, and Darcy thought for the first time how long this day had been for her, too. “I don’t want him seeing all the stuff that’s on right now—some paper showed a photo of someone jumping from the Twin Towers yesterday.” She shook her head. “Everybody needs a distraction—something normal feeling. The kids can get together and play and then I’ll take them out for pizza.”

The images from the paper had left Darcy feeling cold herself. “The gates of hell” one fireman in New York City had called it. Her father was to have spent his last day at the gates of heaven, not watching the gates of hell open up in New York City and Washington, D.C. It killed her inside to know that such a gruesome day had been Dad’s last hours on earth. Cruel.

“Dar…?”

“Yeah. That’s probably a good idea.”

“I’ll pick them up at nine-thirty. Go get some sleep. It’ll all still be here in the morning. All of it.”

Darcy picked up the chicken bucket and the bank box from off her lap. She sat still for a moment. “Thanks.”

Kate just nodded.



Jack looked up to see Darcy coming through the front door, her hands full of clothes and boxes. She looked better. Exhausted, spent, but some of the tension had eased from her shoulders. He’d have to thank Ed Parrot for his suggestion next time he saw him.

Darcy tilted the boxes so that the bucket of chicken slid to the coffee table in front of Jack. “Let me guess,” he said, pulling off the lid, “extra crispy, all drumsticks.”

She smiled, sort of. “There’s even a few left. Dig in.” There was an explosion on the television and she turned to it. “Let me guess, Live and Let Die or You Only Live Twice?”

Jack grinned. “Both. It’s been that kind of day. Plus, it was two-for-one at the video store.” They knew each other so well. He paused in thought before asking softly, “How are you?”

Darcy kept staring at the television. “I don’t know. Okay, I suppose. But not really. Tired.”

An idea struck him. “Go get your pajamas on and come watch. The bad guy is just about to reveal his plan for world domination.” They used to do it all the time. Zap up a bucket of popcorn and watch Bond flicks in their pajamas.

Darcy returned, clad in soft pink cotton, and sat down beside him. Without a word, he wrapped one arm around her. With his other arm he pulled the throw from off the back of the couch and tugged it over her. She lay her head on his lap and exhaled. He felt her soften against him as he stroked the blond waves of her hair. How long had it been since they’d had time to do this?

Just as the last drumstick was gone and 007 was getting his girl, Jack looked down at Darcy to notice she’d fallen asleep. Her breathing was soft and peaceful. The knots gone from her shoulders as she lay against him.

When the movie was over, he hit the VCR remote and watched the blank blue glow of the TV screen fill the room. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and legs and picked her up. Jack held her there for a moment, the sensation taking him back. Back to when they were younger, before kids and middle school and dying parents and flaming office buildings. They would watch Bond movies on the couch and Darcy would always fall asleep. Always just half an hour before the end. The feeling of her asleep against him was warm and familiar. He’d scoop her up on those nights, like he did just now, and carry her to the bedroom.

There, in the blue glow, that younger woman returned. So much had changed. It’d been months since he’d seen her look like that. She’d been exhausted and beaten down by the endless care of her dad. It was like the life was draining out of both of them at the same time. She’d aged a dozen years in the last two months. Their life had dwindled down to Paul and everything else fell second to him.

And so much of everything else fell second to him.

She smelled of chocolate. They’d been to Graeter’s. Mint chocolate chip, if he knew her.

And he did. There was a small smudge of it at the corner of her mouth.

He kissed her forehead softly. She made a soft sound that hummed through him. No matter how unfair to Paul, Jack yearned to be the most important man in her life again.

“Movie’s over,” he said quietly.



They lay together later in the moonlight, listening to the night sounds waft through the open window. The moon had seemed harsh and cold when she’d been up nights with Paul. Now, the light poured rich and creamy through the window to play across Jack’s shoulders. She laid her hand on his chest and turned to rest her chin on it. Jack put an arm behind his head so he could look into her face. He smiled as he fingered a lock of her hair.

“Jack?”

“Hmm?”

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

“You’ve been spending your nights with another man.” It was a tasteless joke, but somehow Darcy was glad for the irreverence. Everything had been so very serious for so very long.

She swatted him softly with her free hand. He caught it in his and held it. “No, seriously. There was something in Dad’s safety deposit box. About the money.”

That got his attention. “More stuff we didn’t know?”

“Well, not exactly. It was a letter. From Dad to me. For me to open after he died.”

“The guy had a flair for drama.”

Darcy couldn’t suppress a small smile. “This does sound like a bad novel, doesn’t it?” She paused, formulating the right words in her head. She hadn’t even wrapped her own mind around her father’s request, much less figure out how to explain it to Jack. “I’m not sure I even get it myself.”

Jack cocked an eyebrow, encouraging her to go on.

“Well, for starters, he told me where the money came from. It was from a settlement on Mom’s accident. She sued the old man who hit her—or at least started to—before she died.” Darcy’s throat tightened a bit at the thought of her mother, so bitter, angry and hopeless.

“I had a feeling that’s where it came from. Your dad was tight with a buck, but all that couldn’t have come from just clipping coupons. I figured it was from insurance settlements, though, not from lawsuits. Paul doesn’t seem the suing type.”

“There was a time when he was. Or Mom convinced him to be. He says—said—he tried to stop her.” Darcy still couldn’t get used to talking about her father in the past tense.

“And…” Jack was trying to help her, but somehow that only seemed to make it harder.

“They cleaned out the guy who hit her—he had no insurance. Once they got the money, though, Mom was already too far gone. Dad stopped wanting it, I guess. Hated what the lawsuit did to him, how it only ruined another life. Oh, I still don’t really get it. But he ended up promising her he’d never give it away.”

“So, what? He just hid it?”

“That’s a good way to put it, I suppose. He hid it. All these years. Never touched it.”

“Well, at least he had the good sense to find an interest-bearing hiding place.”

“I suppose. It seems sad, in a way.”

“It’s amazing when you think of it. All that money, just waiting, sitting. If I ever wanted to teach Mike about the magic of compound interest, I’ve got the ultimate real-life example. I’ve been thinking a lot about this Dar, and we’re going to have to do some serious research on how to manage it. The stock market is already taking a nosedive from the attack, and if we go to war, who knows what will happen? There’s a guy at work who’s really into all that stuff—”

“Jack,” Darcy stopped him. “There’s more.”

“Okay.”

“He asked me to give it away.”

Jack’s eyes flew wide open. “He what?”

“The letter asks me not to keep the money, but to give it away. He couldn’t—he’d promised Mom—but I can. At least that’s how he put it.”

Darcy could feel Jack’s chest tighten under her. Hadn’t she had the same reaction when she read the letter? “Well, that takes a lot of nerve. After all you’ve been through, after keeping it from you—from us—in the first place.”

“I know, I’m sick to death of bombshells going off around here.”

“Let me get this straight.” Jack’s hand left hers to rub across his eyes. “Your dad leaves you a small fortune, but you have to give it away? First you play nurse, now you have to play Santa Claus? I tell you, Dar…”

“I think he had good intentions.”

“I’ve got a thing or two to say about his methods.”

“I’m still not sure just why….”

“I just don’t get it. Was he not in the room when we were talking about struggling to find college money for the kids? It hasn’t exactly been easy street around here since you quit your part-time job at the library so you could spend more time with him. You practically shut down your life—our life—to take care of him. And he pays us back with a stunt like this? Who does this to their own daughter?”

Darcy slid off Jack and sat up, her own anger growing. It wasn’t fair. This was a lousy thing to do, no matter how many dollar signs or good intentions were involved. “I don’t know, Jack. I don’t get it. I’ve read the letter a dozen times and I still don’t get it. Why on earth did he need to pile this on top of everything else I’ve had to handle?”

Jack pulled himself up to a sitting position, his elbow jabbed onto one bent knee. “I’ve put up with a lot from your dad over the years, Dar. I’ve put up with his weird mission trips and Bible speeches and all the cancer stuff and who knows what else, but this takes the cake.” He stared right at Darcy. “Since when is it okay to be religious and deceptive at the same time?”

Darcy could only repeat the phrase that had been echoing in her head all day, “I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.”



“Darcy, it’s Aunt Jenny.”

Oh, no. Not Aunt Jenny. This woman had single-handedly started dozens of family arguments.

“Good morning, Aunt Jenny,” was all Darcy could manage, still holding a box of Pop-Tarts in her other hand. She could already hear the usual hurt edge in the woman’s voice.

“I just had to call and ask, what were you thinking, child? How could you be so hurtful to the rest of your family? You know we couldn’t get there for the memorial service. They’ve only just now opened up the airports again. Honestly.”

“Look, Aunt Jenny, I know…” Darcy picked up a Handi Wipes and began mopping up crumbs in an effort to keep from jumping down Aunt Jenny’s throat.

“You know I would have wanted to be there. We’re all that Paul had left. Would it have killed you to put off the service until the family could come pay their respects?”

All that Paul had left, huh? “Aunt Jenny…” For a second, she considered that hanging up might be the wisest course of action—she was sure to say something she’d regret if Aunt Jenny kept it up.

“I just wanted to ask how you could be so inconsiderate. Why, Charles is just livid.” Darcy could imagine just how livid Uncle Chuck could be. The man rarely got off his La-Z-Boy for anything. One of Aunt Jenny’s favorite tactics was to project her self-righteous anger onto Chuck—whom everyone knew to be permanently disinterested—as if he were some sort of emotional ventriloquist’s dummy. Darcy doubted that Chuck had done much more than hoist a beer in her dad’s honor and tell Jenny to go buy a nice card and send flowers.

And she hadn’t even done that much.

Darcy wrung out the cloth, trying not to visualize it as Jenny’s neck. “There didn’t seem to be much point in waiting. We didn’t know how long travel would be disrupted. We can always have a nice little family service in the summer.”

“How very convenient for you. I don’t see the hurry in all this.”

Darcy whirled around at the harshness of the woman’s words, the phone cord knocking over a glass of juice Paula had left too near the edge of the counter. Her patience shattered with the glass. “I’m sorry you’re upset, Aunt Jenny, but Dad had said his goodbyes. Perhaps you should have paid your respects to him while he was still alive.” She hadn’t intended to be so cruel, but her anger at all the people who stayed away because it was hard to be with Dad came tumbling out. Jenny had never come. Not once in two years. “You never once came to visit him while he was sick, why start now?”

Jack looked up from the breakfast nook and began to ease himself off the chair. Aunt Jenny’s wounded silence filled the phone. Darcy shut her eyes, fighting for control. Acting like this wouldn’t solve anything. She didn’t fight Jack when he took the phone from her hands.

“Jenny, perhaps we should leave this conversation for another day. You can understand it has been a hard time.”

“Jack, I’d have thought you would have been—” came the woman’s shrill voice through the receiver.

“I’m sorry, Jenny, but Darcy and I have an appointment and we really need to go.”

Darcy shut her eyes. She heard Jack mutter something less than kind as he thrust the handset back into the cradle.

“You knew she’d react that way,” he said as he bent over the broken glass, picking shards out of the puddle of orange juice with his fingers.

Darcy sniffed. “I can hope.”

“It’s gonna get worse when she finds out about the money.”

“She’s not going to find out about the money,” Darcy replied. It was hard enough to deal with her own reaction, she wasn’t going to add vicious Aunt Jenny into the mix. “Dar—”

“I’m not dealing with her. Not now. She’s been invisible for two years, she doesn’t get to show up and play loving sister now.”

“Yes, I know she’s horrible, but she was horrible before. She’s always been—”

Darcy cut him off. “Who’s side are you on, anyway?”

He tossed the shards into the garbage. “Yours. Ours. But we’re all just going to have to try to be reasonable….”

“Don’t do that!” Darcy snapped. She wasn’t ready to be reasonable. She’d been reasonable and responsible and reliable for months, and she’d been repaid with deception and death. There was nothing reasonable about that. She’d earned the right to act out. To be unreasonable.

But not to Jack. For God’s sake, he didn’t deserve this. She wasn’t handling this well. Tears tightened her throat.

“Jack, I’m…”

“Not handling this well,” he said softly, as he stepped over the juice puddle to take her in his arms. “But it’s only your first week on tour as Little Orphan Heiress.” He’d coined the term late last night after they lay in bed talking. It was so crass, so full of disrespect for the situation at hand, that it made her laugh. Awful but truthful. She should have slapped him on the cheek for the hideous remark, but somehow she loved him for daring to say it. For the absurd honesty of it. “We’ve got a lot to work out here, and that last remnant of your bonkers family isn’t helping.” He kissed her forehead. “But I’m on your side, here, remember?”

“No, I’m on the side. You’re standing in the middle of the orange juice.”




Chapter 4

Comfortably Drastic


Despite death and national security, Monday came.

After seeing everyone off to work and school, Darcy sat alone in the quiet of her deserted kitchen, watching the steam make graceful curls out of her teacup. The frenzied desperation of the last week had filtered down to a kind of dead calm. A low tide, still and dry. Darcy remembered the feeling from her childhood home on the Gulf Coast. A flat void of mud and tidal leftovers, baking to a slightly foul smell in the hot summer afternoon.

Low tide.

If life had a low tide, she had hit it.

Her dad was right about one thing: the money meant almost nothing in the face of her life’s tangled messes. It offered no real comfort, just complication. Darcy wondered if the odd sensation of useless abundance had struck her father when the lawsuit had been won. Money, she guessed, was a poor substitute for a living wife. She sure knew it was a poor substitute for a living father.

The house gaped open and empty around her. She wondered, aimlessly, when the last time was she washed this bathrobe? Or when was the last time she’d bought anything new for the house? Had a haircut? Put on lipstick?

The idea rose in her chest and surfaced with a small, quiet, pop. Today was Monday. Mike had science club, Paula had dance lessons. And, for once, it was everybody else’s turn to carpool. She cast a hopeful eye at the kitchen calendar, grateful to see a blank square. She had the whole day.

Granted, there were about two dozen responsible things Darcy ought to be doing today, not counting the massive stack of paperwork for her father’s estate.

But responsibility wasn’t coming along today. Darcy Nightengale was going to be her own best friend today, and the rest of the world could just wait until tomorrow.

She grabbed her address book and the yellow pages and made three phone calls, not taking no for an answer on any of them.

She was out the door in seventeen minutes flat.



“Mercy! What have you done with Darcy Nightengale? I know she went in there half an hour ago. Where’d you put her?” Kate let the magazine she was holding fall into her lap. Darcy reveled in the way Kate’s eyes lit up. Kate’s look was exactly the way she felt.

Ernestine came up behind her. Ernestine, whom she’d never met before today. Yet, the minute she sat in her salon chair, Darcy felt one of those instantaneous, giftlike connections with the woman. Ernestine picked up immediately why Darcy had come to the salon and seemed to know just what to do. A large woman with complicated black hair and a South Seas type of accent, Ernestine winked at Kate and made a clucking sound with her tongue.

“It does do wonders for the woman, don’t you think?”

Kate nodded from above her pedicure. “Dar, you look wonderful.”

“Comfortably drastic,” Darcy quoted, using Ernestine’s perfect phrase for what she needed. Turning to the mirror, she admired again the oh-so-up-to-date flippy thing her hair was doing. “I’m just hoping I can achieve the home version. What do you think about the color? I’ve never done highlighting before.”

“It suits you. Really. Hey, when do I get to do ‘comfortably drastic’? And Ernestine, would you consider moving closer to Cincinnati? Tomorrow? One look at Darcy and I could garner you a full client base in about forty minutes.”

Ernestine smiled. “You drove out here once. You’ll drive it again. I don’t plan to be going anywhere. And as for you, redhead, I get my hands on you in twenty minutes—after your toes dry.”

“Mmm,” sighed Kate, wiggling her toes, “I can hardly wait.”

The idea to come here had sprung itself on Darcy in a heartbeat. She’d scrambled through the yellow pages to find a full-scale salon sufficiently out of town and ordered the works for two. She wanted no chance of encountering a judgmental eye wondering why a grieving daughter was popping for beauty treatments two days after the funeral.

Darcy eased into the pedicure chair next to Kate and accepted a fantastic-smelling cup of tea. “I feel like a snake shedding its skin.”

The hip young man filling her tub, who looked suspiciously like a relative of Ernestine’s, gave her a wide grin. “I am looking at these heels and thinking you are not too far off. These feet have been through a lot, mmm?” Somehow he managed to make such a potentially judgmental comment come off as warm and understanding. That made Darcy sure he was a relative of Ernestine’s.

“Uh-huh.” Both women agreed simultaneously, and then broke into a giggle fit worthy of middle school girls.

“Oh, I can’t believe how good this feels,” murmured Darcy as her feet slid into the warm bubbles. “I swear, I feel like I’ve just joined the human race again.”

Kate looked at her. “I think you have. Welcome back.” She hesitated just a moment before adding softly, “We’ve missed you.”

She had been gone, hadn’t she? Lost to a world of crisis and catheters. Far away from many of the people she loved. Who loved her. Caught up in her dad’s ever-tightening world until she couldn’t see beyond its edges. And Darcy was just now coming to see the cost. That didn’t mean the attention she gave her father wasn’t worth it, but somehow—maybe even for her own sanity—she’d managed to ignore the consequence of that drastically narrow focus.

She fingered her wispy hair again. “Do you think Jack will like it?”

Darcy was sure Kate was going to say something like, “He’s missed you most of all.” But she didn’t. As a matter of fact, she didn’t say anything. She just sneaked her hand over to give Darcy’s hand a quick squeeze. The gesture said a million things at once.

Something was happening. Something was seeping into Darcy’s skin along with the creams, lotions and treatments. The outward pampering was becoming a foothold of sorts back into a life she’d almost forgotten. The non-urgent facets of life. Something inside her was remaking itself. Coming up for air out of the deep sea of crisis. It was hard to describe and felt a bit shallow coming from hand cream and hair dye. But it was there. And remarkably potent. Almost magical in how the outward care changed her on the inside.

“I’d have to say you’ve pretty much covered Christmas and my birthday on this one. I’m definitely liking the best-friend-of-heiress gig. Although, I’m rather certain this isn’t what your dad had in mind when he told you to ‘give it all away.’”

Darcy’s heart felt like it stopped beating momentarily.

There.

Yes, that. That was it.

Kate kept gushing on about marvelous everythings but Darcy didn’t hear her. She was staring into thin air, watching the pieces of an extraordinary idea weave themselves together in front of her.

As if it wasn’t even her own thinking. As if the concept came pouring down out of somewhere to coat her consciousness. Faces came into view. Faces from the hospice center. Hands cracked and drying from the disinfectant and endless washing. Bodies aching from nights in vinyl armchairs. Drawn cheeks and red eyes. The haphazard griminess of clothes and bodies roused in the middle of the night for what might be a loved one’s final hours. Unkempt. Ignored. Unnurtured while nurturing someone else. They were like dried leaves, all of these people—herself included, colorless and brittle and swirling at the mercy of the death’s unpredictable wind.

Within the space of four seconds she could name six women who needed this as much as she. Needed that inexplicable renewal that comes from caring for a body long overlooked. And the faces and names kept coming. Piling into her thoughts. The gallery of faces became like walking through a brown and sere garden….

…And…

…And…

She’d just been handed water.

Gallons and gallons of it.

Darcy’s body hummed with the realization. She stretched her limbs, practically testing their pliancy. She wasn’t dry and brittle anymore. Certainly not on the outside, and less than she had been on the inside. There was something about this reckless luxury—the pampering, the time with Kate, the permission to do something nice for herself—that healed her.

“Kate. Oh, Kate, I’ve got it.”

“Got what?”

“The Dad thing. What I’m going to do. I’ve got it.”

“Who knew a good manicure could solve life’s major problems?” quipped Kate, staring a bit quizzically at Darcy.

“I got it,” Darcy said again softly, still reeling from the power of this idea. And it was powerful. She recognized its power the moment it sprung into her thoughts.

“Okay,” Kate said slowly, cueing, “So you got it. And it is…”

“Time to do something with this amazing red hair of yours, madam,” came Ernestine’s voice from the next room. Her wild braids popped around the doorframe. “It’s Kate, isn’t it? Come, lady Kate, let’s see what we can do for you.”

Kate eased up out of her chair. “Dar, you look like you’re going to explode. You okay?”

“Fabulous,” said Darcy. “I’ll tell you all about it over lunch.”



Darcy didn’t even remember the rest of the pedicure. Her brain launched somewhere far away. This was the right thing to do. She knew it, down to her newly cranberry toenails. It felt right. The plans kept zinging into her thoughts until she was working it out to the small details by the time Kate appeared from under Ernestine’s magic hands.

And appear Kate did. Ernestine was an artist. Kate’s hair had always been beautiful before, but it was just plain stunning under Ernestine’s hand. Silky red layers framed Kate’s face and made her look younger. In the space of twenty minutes Kate had gone from suburban mom to babe. Major, head-turning, knock-your-socks-off babe. Kate knew it, too, for a swingy little bounce had found its way into her walk. In fact, it was edging closer to a strut. Who could argue with the woman? Darcy had to admit she felt the same way.

“Man alive, Kate, Don is going to go nuts when he sees you tonight. You look fantastic.”

Kate admired herself in the same mirror that Darcy had. “I do, don’t I? Ernestine, you sure you won’t move to Cincinnati? Today?”

“You sure you’re going to come back to me again?”

“Uh-huh,” confirmed Kate, still eyeing herself in the mirror from different angles.

“Then I don’t have to go anywhere, now do I?”

“No, ma’am, I think I’d probably crawl over broken glass to get back to you.”

Ernestine clasped her hands together like a teacher making an announcement. “Now, you go two doors down to Stephano’s for lunch, there are some splendid salads waiting for you and some dessert that’s going to make you feel like the treasures you are. I’ve had his chocolate mousse, dears, and it’s absolutely heavenly. Off with you now. You come back at one-thirty for facials and massage.”



“Oh. Oh, this is fantastic. I’d ask for seconds if I didn’t feel like such a pig already. And even that might not stop me.” Kate was leaning back, eyes closed, savoring the chocolate dessert before her.

“Worth every despicable calorie,” murmured Darcy, her own mouth full of the spectacularly smooth, silky mousse. The meal had been wonderful. What she’d eaten of it, that was. She’d spent the majority of the time outlining her brainstorm to Kate. Darcy was glad Kate seemed to like the idea as much as she did.

“Really.” Kate finished off another spoonful and licked her fingers. “I love your idea of giving women under the strain of care a day of respite just like the one we’re having. Who knows better than you what happens to people when they spend such a long time in dying-loved-one mode? It’s taken so much out of you, Dar. And not just you. Jack and the kids, too.”

“I know,” agreed Darcy, thinking of the way Jack looked the other week. “Even with everybody trying to make the best of it, things have been wearing pretty thin at our house. Jack and I have argued more in the last six months than in our whole marriage. I’m fried, he’s tired of my being fried, the kids act up, and no one wants to say anything because how can you blame a man for dying? Nobody wants it, but it…rots—” she pointed her spoon for emphasis on their new catchphrase “—just the same.”

Kate leaned in. “But you see, that’s the great thing about this. It does rot and you can’t blame anyone. Near as I can tell, there’s this sort of unwritten rule that you can’t get angry at it. You have to be noble and enduring, because it’s your parent and all, but it shreds people from the inside out.” Kate sucked in a breath and looked down, as if she hadn’t meant to be so direct about the state of affairs at the Nightengale house. “It’s been hard to watch all of you. There’s nothing I can do to make it better. Your dad was going to die, you had to practically put your life on hold to deal with it, and there wasn’t a thing I could do to change it. If someone had given you a nudge to take care of yourself, the kind of reminder you’re talking about, then things might not have gotten so bad.”

Darcy swirled her spoon in the rich, brown ripples. “Things have gotten ‘so bad,’ haven’t they?” she asked softly.

“Jack’s been a saint, but he’s human. You can see the frustration in his eyes. Look, Dar, no one can blame anyone. There doesn’t seem to be a painless way to do this. Damage happens. I don’t know that I wouldn’t turn into an absolute shrew under the circumstances. I’d doubt anyone can guess what it’s like to go through what you’ve been through.”

“Things are still messy. But I feel better. Loads better. Maybe if I feel better, than things can get better. Or at least I can start making them better.” She paused for a moment before adding, “Dad had his daughter’s attention for a long time. Maybe it’s time Jack gets his wife back.”

Kate winked. “Oh, but he’s not getting his wife. He’s getting a new, improved version. I’d give anything to see the look on his face when he sees you.”

They laughed. And Darcy realized things were already on their way to getting better. She pulled a pen from her purse and snatched a paper place mat from the next table, flipping over to the blank side. She wrote a number one in a big, bold hand.

“First, I think we need to run a test. See if every woman gets the same boost from the pampering. Today ran us about four hundred dollars, including lunch. It’s got to be the women and a friend—this would be no fun alone, and I’m betting these ladies haven’t had lunch with a friend in weeks, if not months. If we pull two thousand dollars, we can run a five-pair test group. I thought of more than six names off the top of my head from women at the hospice center. They run a gamut of ages, too, so we can try a good mix.” She wrote “Test Group” in capital letters after the number one.

“Ernestine?” Kate suggested.

“She’d be fabulous, but I think we’d better stick closer to home. Any ideas?”

“We can ask Ernestine to suggest someone, but I have a friend who does the spa thing all the time. The lady’s nails are perfect every waking moment. She’d know where to go.” Kate admired her own newly perfect nails.

“Okay, but not too posh. We want really nice, but not too over the top. I wouldn’t want to sit in the pedicure chair listening to a bunch of country club types talk about their latest trip to the Virgin Islands, would you?”

Kate pointed her spoon at Darcy. “Good point.”

Darcy penned a number two. She spread her hands on the table, her mind whirring. She didn’t even have words to describe the sparkling sensation in her chest. “We need a go-between. Someone to let the women know they’re receiving this gift. I think we have to do this anonymously.”

“What?” balked Kate. “You don’t want to be known as the patron saint of martyr beauty?”

“That’s a good one,” Darcy replied, laughing. “I’ll put it on my business cards. But I’m sure we need to do this without anyone knowing who we are. And we need someone who can convince these women that this is on the level, and that it is important and worth taking the time. Someone from the hospice, like…Meredith. She’s the hospice center’s executive director. Oh, she’d be perfect. She’s got that sage-wise-woman quality about her that makes you listen to what she has to say.” Darcy wrote “Contact—Meredith?” beside the two. She looked up to find Kate staring at her. “What?”

“Business cards. Dar, that’s the first joke I’ve heard you crack in nearly three months.”

Darcy thought. “It is, isn’t it?”

“And what’s with the ‘we’? Nobody left me a fortune to give away, you know,” Kate added, hesitantly.

Darcy stopped short. She’d never even considered that she ought to ask Kate if she wanted to be involved. Perhaps that was a bad assumption. But she needed her. Badly. She looked at Kate intently. “You’re in on this, aren’t you? Kate, I can’t do this without you. You’ve got to be in on this.”

Kate’s smile was as rich as the mousse. “You betcha. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She held out her hand. “Partners.”

Darcy shook it, manicure to manicure. “Maybe co-conspirators is more accurate. But that sounds too…I don’t know…too criminal.” Darcy pondered. “What’d Robin Hood call his buddies?”

Kate narrowed her eyes, thinking. “The Merry Men, wasn’t it?”

“Ick. We need something better than that.”

“Bandits of Beauty?”

“Ugh. Even worse.”

“Drive-by Pamperers.”

Darcy laughed. “That sounds like we’re chucking diapers out of a minivan window. Definitely not.”

“I’m stumped.”

“Me, too.”

Kate folded her hands under her chin. “Well, how do you feel? What word would you give to what’s happened to you today?”

Darcy considered the question for a long moment. She finally said, “Healed. Put back together. Restored.”

“Restored. I like the sound of that. That fits.”

Without another word, Darcy put her pen to the top of the page and wrote, “The Restoration Project.”

Kate nodded in agreement. “So it is written, so may it be done.”

Darcy raised an eyebrow. “Where in the world did that come from?”

“Prince of Egypt. Jessica watches it constantly. She loves the funny camel faces.”

Darcy held out the paper. “‘So it is written.’ Massage, partner dear?”



Perhaps it would have been wiser to wait until she had it worked out better before telling Jack. Dinner had been great fun. Jack’s ogling of the “new and improved Darcy” was a terrific high. Jack took in her hair and nails and generally saucier new demeanor with manly fascination. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d surprised Jack, much less with the kind of surprise that made him look like he’d give anything to have the kids somewhere else for a few hours.

All of which went out the window when she mentioned she’d had the beginnings of an idea of what to do about the money. Darcy hadn’t realized, until just that moment, that Jack had never even considered going along with her dad’s instructions. Granted, she still felt a long way from sure about her father’s request, but she hadn’t moved it completely from the realm of possibility—the way Jack obviously had.

What started out as a whopping pile of money was quickly turning itself into a whopping load of conflict. Oh, great. Just what we need. When she told him about The Restoration Project, Jack stared at her as though she’d mentioned it might be a nice idea to sell the children into slavery. He was still holding the glass of Cherry Coke halfway to his mouth, frozen in astonishment.

“You’re serious,” he said, almost under his breath.

“Well, I don’t know yet. It’s just an idea.”

Jack ran his hand through his hair the way he always did when baffled. “I never thought…”

“Yes, well, that’s pretty clear.” Darcy amazed herself at how her dander got up so quickly defending an idea she’d not even settled on yet.

Or perhaps she had. Her mind raced back to the sensation, the energy bolt that shot through her when the idea first came. As though someone had opened up the top of her head and poured something warm and sparkly into it. No, Darcy Nightengale wasn’t ready to say no to this, even though she wasn’t completely ready to say yes. She sure wasn’t ready to have it totally knocked out of consideration. Darcy turned, pacing the living room, groping for the words. “Jack, I don’t know what I’m going to do…what we’re going to do,” she corrected herself, “about this. But I have to tell you, this idea just does something to me. I’m not sure I can explain it yet. But there’s something there. Something I really want to think about.”

Ugh. She wasn’t making sense. Ah, but one look at Jack told her he was already putting things into neat order. Usually, she loved him for his ability to take control of things. To make sense of chaos. To put life in order. He’d been the anchor that kept her from going completely over the edge during the craziness of Dad’s illness. He was Jack.

But this whole thing had defied perfect sense from the moment she opened that envelope. One of the tiny sparkles left in her chest from this afternoon kept insisting that it would never be about logic. It was a leap of faith of an altogether different kind.

Leap of faith? Darcy had never used those words before. Those were Dad’s words. What was going on here?

“Are you telling me you want to give the money away, Dar?” His tone was an unnerving mix of question and statement.

“No, I’m not saying that at all. I’m saying I don’t know what to do yet. I don’t even know what to want to do yet. I’m not ready to say yes to Dad’s request, but I’m not ready to say no, either. I mean, we don’t have to decide now, do we? We don’t have to decide a year from now.” She turned and looked at him. “But I really like this idea. Couldn’t I at least try it? See what happens?”

Jack was trying. Darcy could practically see his brain stretching to get around the idea of giving away some of the money. It was like watching Paula try to hug the big oak tree in the backyard—she would try mightily to get her arms around the thick trunk, but her fingers would always be just out of reach of each other. Dad’s view of the world was always just out of Jack’s reach.

Mostly out of hers, too. Until this morning.

They stood there, thinking hard, staring at each other, until Paula barreled up the stairs from the den. “Daaad! Mike keeps telling me to go away!”

Mike’s rebuttal came howling up the stairway. “I’m trying to do my homework and she’s bugging me. She wants to play with my calculator and she won’t quit it.”

Darcy glanced at her watch—eight-fifteen. Consideration of the Nightengale brand of philanthropy would have to wait. Baths and bed were a more pressing concern. Not to mention the small mountain of dishes still gracing the kitchen counters.

Little Orphan Heiress may have a new killer hairstyle, but she was still sadly lacking in maids and butlers.

Jack cracked her a smile. Something in his eyes told her he’d had the same thought. “Which do you want? Kids or dishes?”

Both might ruin the new manicure, but at least she could put on rubber gloves to do the dishes. “I’m opting for the sink and gloves, honey.” She wiggled her fingers for effect.

“Gloves, huh? Well, all right, Paula-bear, let’s get your shower started. We gotta give mom’s manicure a fighting chance at survival.”




Chapter 5

The Paul Hartwell Memorial Parking Lot


Darcy drew her finger around the curved edge of her coffee table. “How do I feel? I don’t know. I don’t imagine I feel anything different than any other person in this boat.”

Doug Whitman said, “I see,” in that I’m-not-going-to-comment-one-way-or-another-so-you-say-more kind of tone she knew psychiatrists were prone to use. Darcy didn’t suppose she could blame Pastor Doug; they were only passing acquaintances. Whitman liked her Dad; it was clear from both his eulogy and the string of stories he told her today. Darcy wished, though, that the guy had been less comfortable with the gaps of silence in their conversation. He hadn’t even bothered with the customary “How are you?” usually accompanied by a firm clasp of her arm and a polite show of concern. The kind of question that implied anything too deep in response would be unwelcome.

The kind she’d heard a dozen times a day in the week since Paul Hartwell slipped his mortal shell and upgraded to Heaven. No, Pastor Doug went straight to the real questions, the ones that required real answers.

“How do your days feel?”

Like hours. Like nanoseconds. Like endless blank journal pages. Darcy wasn’t sure which answer would get Pastor Doug off her back, and off her couch, and out the door fastest.

“Feel?”

“Yes. What is it like for you to get through the day this week? Hard? Easy? All of the above?” Doug kept trying to poke his straw through the lemon floating in his ice tea. The effort he put into the pursuit was almost amusing.

“I don’t know. They feel…plain.” She took a drink while she searched for the right answer to satisfy him but not open up a deeper conversation. Doug clearly wasn’t going anywhere until he’d either speared his lemon or “connected” with her somehow. She made a mental estimation that it would be eleven sentences before the word Jesus came up in conversation. “Empty, I suppose. I’ve spent so much time in crisis mode that it feels…well…odd to be doing normal stuff. Good, but odd. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, then I stop myself and realize it already has.”

Doug shuffled a bit in his seat. “Was there anything about Paul’s death that surprised you?”

Now, there was a loaded question. How much to reveal? If Darcy spoke of the inheritance, would Pastor Doug kick right into Building Campaign oh-but-we-need-that-new-nursery-wing mode?

“No.” The minute the word left her mouth, Darcy knew it had too much bite. Now there was no way the good pastor was going to back off his ministries. She took out her regrets on a Mint Milano, biting the crispy cookie rather than indulge the urge to bite off her own tongue.

He reached for a cookie himself, far too comfortable with the silence. His eyes took on just a shade of a faroff look—was he praying for her? Getting God’s permission to pry further? Did he need permission? Wasn’t prying an occupational skill for reverends?

“Darcy…” he began.

Darcy anticipated the patronizing tone of voice, that politely compassionate edge that colored nearly everyone’s attempts to “comfort,” ready to jump down his throat the minute she heard it. “I understand how you must feel…Time will ease your pain, let me tell you about the time my…I’m sure your children are such a comfort to you….” Darcy’d heard it all—and believed about two percent of it. She could smell it coming a mile away by now.

“…are you surprised at how angry you are at Paul for leaving the way he did?”

What?

“I think I would be. Hospice is never as peaceful as we imagine it will be. The dying leave us long before they’re dead. I’d be weary and bitter, and probably more than a little ticked off if I were in your shoes.”

Darcy nearly choked on the cookie. Before she could stop herself, she blurted out, “Are you supposed to say stuff like that?”

Doug inspected the chocolate inside his cookie. “I’m not supposed to say anything. I mostly try to figure out what’s true, and go from there. Near as I can tell, the truth very rarely turns out how we think it’s supposed to be.”

A sharp, white-hot crack split through Darcy’s chest. Yes, she was angry. Livid. And everyone was so busy giving her permission to grieve, to cope, that she hadn’t realized until this very moment that no one had given her permission to be royally ticked off. Except for Jack, who seemed to be ticked off enough for the both of them, forcing her into defending Dad’s indefensible actions. No, nobody had given her a chance to spout off. Like it had at the park, the anger erupted out of her, unbidden and unstoppable. Darcy didn’t really want to be so exposed in front of this man, but the force of what he’d started was more than she could stem. Half in self-defense, she sprang up off the couch to pace the room.

“Yes.” That one word opened the gates full force. “I am. I’m really mad. I did everything a good daughter’s supposed to do. I turned my life inside out to take care of Dad. And I wanted to—I didn’t do it out of some weird only-child obligation, I wanted to take care of him, to keep him comfortable.”

She ran her hand along the fireplace mantel, half gripping it, half wanting to knock things off it. “But he wasn’t comfortable. He was delirious and drooling, and pulling his bedsheets off in fear of something and choking and making sounds like he was drowning and…it was awful. It wasn’t supposed to be like that. He was supposed to have a peaceful end. Meeting his maker and all. Going home to Jesus. But no, it was just nuts. People were running everywhere and everyone was freaking out because of the terrorist attacks so it was like no one even noticed he was dying. Noticed he was gone.”

She stopped, her back to Doug, catching a sob. Her mind replayed the sound of his last breath. The halting, broken rasp. Then, the trailing, endless exhale.

It had been so far from what she expected, what she wanted.

It all had been so far from what she expected.

“How could he let me go through all that and then do what he did? How could he let me do all that disgusting stuff, handle all of those medical—” she searched for the word, trying not to be graphic “—indignities, and then hide his checkbook? How could he not trust me with this? How could he spring this on me and live with himself!”

The illogic of her last phrase, the way death kept winding itself into her speech like some sort of mean joke, stung Darcy.

She turned to look at Doug, half surprised that he wasn’t reaching for his coat and eyeing the door.

“Am I mad? Yes. I’m furious!”

Again, he said nothing, just looked her straight in the eye. No judgment, not even surprise, just looking.

Embarrassed, Darcy plopped back down on the chair, snagging a tissue on the way around the end table. She tried to blow her nose as politely as possible, dabbing her eyes. “Well,” she offered, “you asked.”

Doug folded his hands. “Yes, I did. And I’m glad you answered. You need to talk about this kind of stuff. It will eat you alive if you pretend it isn’t there. It isn’t disrespectful, it’s just human.” He looked up, and for an awful moment Darcy thought he was going to clasp her hand or some other pastory thing, but he simply continued. “Look, Darcy, if Paul left you with debts, we have some people who can offer you some good counsel in that area. It happens. You wouldn’t be the first to find out how expensive it is to die.”

The fiscal cat was practically out of the bag now. Might as well tell it all. Even if it did end up as the Paul Hartwell Memorial Parking Lot.

“No, it’s not that. Actually,” Darcy added, almost laughing, “I think that would be easier. There are no debts. Just the opposite. I went to a lawyer just after Dad died—Dad told me I had to, you know, back when he was still…with us mentally. The lawyer told me Dad had a whole bunch of money he’d never touched. Tons of it. And, well, now they’re my tons of it.”

Darcy looked up to check Doug’s expression. He looked genuinely surprised. That somehow made her feel better. “Well,” he offered, “that is big.”

“Yeah, you’d think. But evidently it wasn’t big enough for Dad. He had to take it a step further.” She took a deep breath before she continued. “Now, not only do I have one point six million shiny new dollars, I have to decide if I’m going to do what he says to do with it.”

Doug paused a long while before he asked, “What did he tell you to do with it?”

Darcy hedged. The Paul Hartwell Memorial Parking Lot and Hospitality Wing played across her vision. But Pastor Doug didn’t seem to be waxing predatory in front of her. She was gaining a sense, unfounded or not, that she could trust him. After all, Dad had.

Well, to a point. Which was as much as he’d been with her. Why not tell him?

“He told me to…he asked me to give it away. It was money won from a lawsuit over my mom’s accident. He didn’t want the money, but he’d promised her he’d keep it. It’s complicated. Anyway, he promised he’d keep it, but since I never made a promise like that, he says I can give it away like he always wanted to.” Darcy felt an odd, nervous laugh slip from her lips. “Death’s a good way to pass the buck, it seems.”

She felt stupid for laughing, uncomfortable at revealing something he could so easily pounce on. Darcy waited, watching for dollar signs to appear in his eyes like some Looney Tunes cartoon. But he kept looking at her. At her. Not mentally calculating the tax benefits of a major donation, just looking at her. It was the weirdly warm smile on Pastor Doug’s face that stumped her most. “Literally,” he quipped.

He quipped.

Darcy was so surprised, it took her a full thirty seconds to get the joke. A joke. Not at her, but with her. Yes! she thought, another person who found the situation absurd enough to joke about. Maybe Doug wasn’t so bad after all. Perhaps the Paul Hartwell Memorial Parking Lot and Hospitality Wing and Community Baptismal Pool wasn’t such a bad place to dump a fortune. Maybe it wasn’t so bad he knew.

He pulled his hands down over his chin, shook his head a bit, and chuckled. “Your dad was a surprising man. Every time I was sure I’d figured him out, he’d throw me a new curve. I have to admit, though, this is a good one—even for him.” Doug looked up at her. “Darcy, I haven’t the foggiest idea what I’d do in your place. What are you thinking you’ll do?”

I’m sure I know what I’d be doing if I were in your place, Darcy thought. I give it ten minutes tops. “Well, Jack and I have been discussing the issue practically nonstop. Everybody seems to have an opinion. And there are a lot of options.”

Doug pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he got a “Say, I’ve got an idea” look on his face. This guy was good. Not even three minutes, and it looked genuinely spontaneous. Darcy decided she didn’t really blame him. He probably had a furnace on the brink of death, stained nursery carpeting, two dozen committees to fund and all those poor hungry souls to feed.

“Darcy, I have an idea for you.”

Darcy smiled. Not even a month into Little Orphan Heiress and she could smell ’em coming already.

“We have a couple in our church…”

…Who feed tribes in Africa and teach them fractions, Darcy finished in her head.

“…who deal with this sort of thing every day. They are quite wealthy, but they seem to know how to handle it well. Ed’s a self-made man—grew a fortune going from selling newspapers to buying printing companies. I can’t help thinking you’d like them. And I’m sure they’d like to meet you. Maybe they can help.”

Darcy fought the urge to shake her head. “Huh?” was all she gulped out.

“Okay, it was a bad suggestion. I’m sorry to pry, I was just thinking—”

“No, wait, back it up a minute. You just…um…surprised me. Who are these people again?”

“Ed and Glynnis Bidwell. A couple—an older couple, actually—from our church. They have sizeable financial resources, but in my estimation they seem to know how to keep it in perspective. It was just a hunch…I’m sorry if I—”

“He’s not Chairman of the Contributions Committee or anything?”

“Ed? No, he’d never—Wait…Darcy, did you think I was going to ask you to give your dad’s money to the church?” He was putting the pieces together right in front of her. Astounding. Truly, the idea hadn’t entered the guy’s head yet. What kind of pastor was this guy?

Darcy shut her mouth, realizing that it was hanging open. Do you tell a white lie to a pastor?

“Ugh. Of course you did. Why wouldn’t you? Oh, Darcy, I’m so sorry I gave you the wrong impression. I don’t know what your dad told you about me, but in truth I am the most abysmal fund-raiser in history. Please, please believe that I knew nothing about what he left you. Oh, I’ve botched this.”

“No, really,” Darcy said, just because he looked so mad at himself.

“No, I should have said something right off the bat when you told me. I was just so…so…dumbfounded.” Doug stood up, pacing the room. Honestly, he looked like he was going to walk over to the wall so he could pound his head against it. “No, look, Darcy, I want you to know—right now—how I see things. If Paul had wanted our church to have that money, I know he’d have told you so. Paul himself used to lecture me about how I need to be more aggressive in seeking funds for the church. No, Paul’s got something else in mind for you. He’s—he was—a man who never left things to chance when he had an idea. If he didn’t tell you where to donate the money, then I truly believe he wants you to go through that decision process. And, even though my Stewardship Committee would probably boil me alive if they heard me say it, I’ve a good guess that it’s not Ohio Valley.”

“I don’t really know what I’m—we’re—going to do yet. Really.”

Doug sat back down. “I don’t think you can know what to do yet. That’s a huge, broad issue. Darcy, I really think the Bidwells could be helpful to you. Will you let me give them your phone number? If you don’t like them or they’re not helpful, you can never see them again, but I don’t think it will go that way. You’ll really like Glynnis. Please, Darcy, will you let me do this for you? After I’ve been such a jerk?”

Who could say no?

The pastor left after a dozen more apologies, not one sentence of Christianese, and not a single plea for money. Who’d have thunk it?




Chapter 6

Heiress Lessons


Jack practically craned his head out the window to take in the snazzy sports car in Ed Bidwell’s driveway. It was small and shiny—a take-no-prisoners red color—and slick enough for its own Bond movie. “Wow. Getta load of that thing, will you?” Jack had been none too keen on keeping this brunch date, but Darcy smiled to herself at Jack’s sudden change of heart. Evidently Pastor Doug knew just how to get Jack Nightengale’s attention. Or Someone Else did.

Not quite ready to chalk it up to divine intervention, Darcy surmised that all well-to-do men indulged in fancy cars. A testosteronized version of the three-stone, multi-carat ring every well-to-do woman seemed to own. The rings in the magazine and television ads, with adoring husbands shouting their affections in Italian streets and other wildly romantic venues.

Her brain flashed a quick, unlikely scene: Jack, in black turtleneck—unheard of—and leather sport coat—fat chance—and hair with just a touch of gel to make it look truly dashing—possible but not likely—by the Tuscan seashore. Crusty bread and Brie replacing Doritos and onion dip, a deliciously small black velvet box in his hand. Surging waves of violin music filled the air. With an elegant flair and a twinkle in his dark eye, he flips the lid to reveal one of those anniversary rings that are supposed to let you know he’d marry you all over again. Three whopping stones, cuddled next to each other in a bed of gold. Dazzling. Adding elegance to any hand, even one picking Play-Doh off the couch cushions….

“Dar?”

Jack was already out of the car, standing outside her door, hand ready to knock on the window if that’s what it took to get her attention. How long had that little daydream gone on?

“Oh, I get it,” Jack said, “I’m supposed to open the door for you and such now. This is a high-class affair.”

Darcy fumbled with her purse. “No, I just…My mind went somewhere.”

“No kidding.” Jack actually looked a little nervous. Darcy had to admit she felt the same. The whole setup felt odd and unnatural. Jack nudged Darcy with his hip, a gesture he’d done when they first dated. “Can I get one of those?” he said, pointing to the four-wheeled wonder.

“A two-car garage? Sure, hon.” She nudged him back. Wow. She couldn’t even remember the last time they’d done that to each other.

“Very funny.” Jack ran a fidgety hand through his hair as they started up the walkway to the Bidwells’ front door. “This feels weird. I don’t know about this. I mean, we don’t know these people from Adam.”

“I know. But it’s one brunch. Maybe they’re really nice. It couldn’t hurt. Besides, if you behave, maybe Ed will let you near that car….”

Jack rubbed his hands together in a let-me-at-’em gesture just before he pushed the doorbell button. “Think there’s a butler?”

Darcy giggled just a bit. “Jack…”

The door swung open to reveal Ed Bidwell. Or a man who Darcy guessed was Ed Bidwell. He didn’t look anything like she was expecting. He looked more like everybody’s favorite grandfather than a printing magnate. He had a round, jovial face framed by a balding wreath of white hair. Gold wire glasses, hosting a pair of rather thick lenses, gave his water-colored eyes an oversize, magnified appearance. He had on an ordinary-looking plaid shirt and khakis, but Darcy noticed his belt and shoes were of a thick, soft, expensive-looking leather. He held his hands out.

“Jack. And Darcy. Saw you come up the walk. Ed. Ed Bidwell. Come on in. Come on in.” He called down the hall as he took Darcy’s coat. “Glyn, honey! They’re here!”

“I can see out the windows just the same as you, Bid. I’m coming.” Both their voices held the tint of a Southern upbringing, but softened from what sounded like years in the Midwest. Glynnis Bidwell came down the hall, tossing a dish towel on a side table as she did.

She was the pepper to her husband’s salt—all dark but graying hair and wide brown eyes, her skin olive-colored to his fair skin. They were like a pair of ceramic salt shakers, the two of them: same size, same jovially heavy build, same sparkle in the eyes. They looked like the kind of couple you’d ask to play Mr. and Mrs. Claus at the church Christmas bazaar. That is, if Better Homes and Gardens ran your church Christmas bazaar.

“Darcy, so nice to meet you. I’m Glynnis Bidwell.” She reached out a friendly hand. Well manicured, still damp, and boasting a one-stone ring. It was, however, a rather large stone. Darcy chided herself for even looking.

“See you’ve met Ed. And you must be Jack. Glad to meet you, too. Don’t think I didn’t see you eyeing Ed’s baby out there in the driveway. Go on, Bid, show your toys off. I’d much rather have the two of you out of my hair than in the kitchen anyway.” She shooed the men off as if telling her grandsons to go play in the yard.

Ed smiled, not bothering to hide his enthusiasm. “Glyn never misses anything.” He winked at Jack. “Makes it hard to misbehave, but God must’ve known I needed watching, hmm?” Jack shot Darcy a quick you-didn’t-tell-me-they-were-one-of-those looks, hopefully too quick for Glynnis to catch. “Like Coke, do you Jack? I got a thing for Cherry Coke. Keep a whole fridge of it in my garage. Can I stand you a drink, sir?”

Jack put up no resistance whatsoever as he let Ed Bidwell guide him into what must surely be a Man’s Wildest Dream of a garage. Cool cars and Cherry Coke. Maybe Someone had known just how to put those two together.

Darcy looked back from watching them leave to find Glynnis eyeing her with one hand on her hip. Ouch. She had seen Jack’s quick glance. Funny though, she didn’t seem annoyed. More like she’d just received confirmation of a suspicion. “Jack wasn’t itching to come here, was he?”

“Well,” Darcy hedged, thinking she should be polite, but also quite sure no one pulled anything over on Glynnis Bidwell, “all of this has got us rather…baffled.”

Glynnis shrugged a bit in her orange cardigan, fastening the two bottom buttons. “The world’s a baffling place these days. Don’t blame you one bit for feeling like someone’s just shook the inside of your snow globe.” She looked up from her buttons. “If even half of what Doug’s told me is true—and I know he’s only told me the half of it—then you were up to your eyeballs in sticky issues even before the world went on red alert.” Glynnis turned, tucked Darcy’s arm in the crook of her elbow and headed toward the kitchen. “Let those boys drown themselves in sugar water.” She snatched the dish towel as she went past. “I’ve made us some ice tea.”

Darcy wondered if the sugar water remark was a joke as she watched Glynnis dump not two but four spoonfuls of sugar into her own ice tea. “I like life sweet. And I think saccharin is for the birds, even if my thighs might be thinner for it,” she said, catching Darcy’s glance. Man, this woman did not miss a trick.





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