Читать книгу: «True Colors»
Dear Reader,
True Colors was one of the first mainstream novels I wrote. It is still one of my favorites, a powerful story of revenge and its ultimate price, as well as the terrible danger of jumping to conclusions. I love this book, and not only for its plot. I wrote it in 1991, when I first went back to college, in my forties. I was bristling with courses in American history and anthropology and I had a ball putting some little-known facts into print.
I have studied the Little Big Horn battle for many years, and I mentioned some key qualities of Native American culture in this book. The heroine had Crow ancestry, but my fascination for all the protagonists in the fight has always carried me mostly toward the mysterious and intelligent Crazy Horse, who was Sioux. In fact, this great war chief was Oglala, which is one of the tribes of the Lakota (as the Sioux people I mention in the book more properly call themselves).
If you’ve read my books, you know that I frequently deal with the issues of native peoples. My extended family is heavily Native American. I also have a small connection to the Lakota people, since this year I established a nursing scholarship at the Oglala Lakota College in Kyle, South Dakota, in memory of my mother.
To my friend Marilyn Pourier at the Oglala Lakota College, and also to Nursing Department Chair Sarah Coulter Danner and President Thomas H. Shortbull of the same institution, I send my most heartfelt respect for your hard work and your dedication to the field of higher education.
Sincerely,
Diana Palmer
MILLS & BOON
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Diana Palmer
True Colors
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER ONE
MEREDITH STOOD by the window watching the rain beat down on Chicago, while her companion watched her with worried eyes. She knew her face was showing the strain of business, and she’d lost weight, again. At twenty-four, she should have had a carefree outlook on life. What she had was a burden of pressure twice the size most women could carry.
Meredith Ashe Tennison was vice president of Tennison International’s huge domestic enterprises, much more than a shadowy figurehead who avoided publicity like the plague. She had a shrewd mind and a natural aptitude for high finance which her late husband had carefully nurtured during their marriage. When he died, she had stepped into his shoes with such capability that the board of directors reversed their decision to ask her to step down. Now, two and a half years into her term of office, company profits were up and her plans for expansion into new mineral and gas reserves and strategic metals were well under way.
That explained the set of Meredith’s thin shoulders. A company in southeastern Montana was fighting them tooth and nail over mineral rights they currently owned. But Harden Properties was not merely a formidable rival. It was headed by the one man Meredith had reason to hate, a shadow out of her past whose specter had haunted her through all the empty years since she’d left Montana.
Only Don Tennison knew the whole story. He and his late brother, Henry, had been very close. Meredith had come to Henry a shy, frightened teenager. At first Don, to whom business was a primary concern, had fought against the marriage. He relented, but he’d been faintly cool since Henry’s death. Don was now president of Tennison International, but also something of a rival. Meredith had often wondered if he resented her position in the company. He knew his own limitations, and her brilliance and competence had impressed harder heads than his. But he watched her very carefully, especially when she drew on her nervous energy to take on too many projects. And this fight with Harden Properties was already taking its toll on her. She was still getting over the aftereffects of a rough bout with pneumonia that had come on the heels of a kidnapping attempt on her five-year-old son, Blake. If it hadn’t been for the inscrutable Mr. Smith, her bodyguard, God only knew what might have happened.
Meredith was brooding over her forthcoming trip to Montana. She felt she had to make a brief visit to Billings, home of Harden Properties and Meredith’s own hometown. The sudden death of her eighty-year-old great-aunt who had lived there had left Meredith with the house and a few belongings of Aunt Mary’s to dispose of. Meredith was really her only surviving relative, except for a few distant cousins who still lived on the Crow Indian reservation several miles from Billings.
“You arranged the funeral over the phone—couldn’t you do that with the property, too?” Don asked quietly.
She hesitated, then shook her head. “No, I can’t. I’ve got to go back and face it. Face them,” she amended. “Besides, it would be a God-given opportunity to scout out the opposition, wouldn’t it? They don’t know I’m Henry Tennison’s widow. I was Henry’s best-kept secret. I’ve avoided cameras and worn wigs and dark glasses ever since I took over.”
“That was to protect Blake,” he reminded her. “You’re worth millions, and this last kidnapping attempt almost succeeded. A low public profile is invaluable. If you aren’t recognized, you and Blake are safer.”
“Yes, but Henry didn’t do it for that reason. He did it to keep Cy Harden from finding out who I was, and where I was, in case he ever came looking for me.” She closed her eyes, trying to blot out the memory of the fear she’d felt after her flight from Montana. Pregnant, accused of both sleeping with another man and being his accomplice in a theft, she’d been driven from the house by Cy’s mother’s harsh voice while Cy looked on in cold agreement. Meredith didn’t know if the charges had ever been dropped, but Cy had believed she was guilty. That was the hardest to face.
She’d been carrying Cy’s son, and she’d loved him so desperately. But Cy had used her. He’d proposed to her, but she’d learned later that it had only been to keep her happy in their relationship. Love you? he’d drawled in his deep voice. Sex was pleasant, but what would he want with a gangly, shy teenager in any other respect? He’d said that in front of his vicious mother, and something in Meredith had died of shame. She remembered running, blinded by tears, her only thought to get away. Great-Aunt Mary had bought her a bus ticket, and she’d left town. Left under a shadow, in disgrace, with the memory of Myrna Harden’s mocking smile following her….
“You could give up the takeover bid,” Don suggested hesitantly. “There are other companies with mineral holdings.”
“Not in southeastern Montana,” she replied, her soft gray eyes fixing on him calmly. “And Harden Properties has leases we can’t break. They’ve made it impossible for us to get any mineral leases in the area.” She turned and smiled, her oval face and creamy complexion framed by an elegant sweep of blond hair. She had the look of royalty, and the graceful carriage. That confidence was a legacy from Henry Tennison, who’d given her far more than control of his business empire by the time he died. He’d hired tutors for her, to teach her etiquette and the art of hostessing, to educate her in business and finance. She’d been an eager, willing pupil, and she had a mind like a sponge.
“He’ll fight,” the thin, balding man said stubbornly.
She smiled, because Don looked so much like Henry when he set his lips that way. He was ten years Henry’s junior and ten years Meredith’s senior. He was a good businessman, even if he wasn’t her best friend in the world. But Don was conservative, and Meredith was aggressive. More than once they’d locked horns over company policy. The domestic operation was her baby, and Don wasn’t going to tell her how to run it. Her steady, level gaze told him that.
“Let him fight, Don,” she replied. “It will give him something to do while I’m taking over his company.”
“You need rest,” he said with a sigh. “Blake’s a handful by himself, and you’ve been ill.”
“Flu is inevitable with a child in kindergarten,” she reminded him. “I didn’t expect it to go into pneumonia. Besides, the takeover bid is crucial to my expansion plans. Regardless of how much time or energy it takes, I have to give it priority. I can ferret out a lot of information while I’m deciding what to do with Great-Aunt Mary’s house.”
“There shouldn’t be a problem. She left a will. Even if she hadn’t, Henry paid for the house.”
“Nobody in Billings knows that,” she said. She turned from the window, arms folded over her high, firm breasts as she nibbled her lower lip thoughtfully. “I wrote to her, and she came out here to see me several times. But I haven’t been to Billings since—” She caught herself. “Not since I was eighteen,” she amended.
But he knew. “It’s been six years. Almost seven,” he added gently. “Time is a great healer.”
Her eyes darkened. “Is it? Do you think six years or sixty would be enough to forget what the Hardens did to me?” She turned toward him. “Revenge is unworthy of an intelligent person. Henry drilled that into me, but I can’t help what I feel. They accused me of a crime I never committed, sent me out of Billings in disgrace and pregnant.” Her eyes closed and she shivered. “I almost lost the baby. If it hadn’t been for Henry…”
“He was crazy about Blake, and about you.” Don grinned. “I’ve never seen a man so happy. It was a shame about the accident. Three years out of a lifetime isn’t long for a man to find and lose everything he values.”
“He was good to me,” she said, smiling with the bittersweet memory. “Everybody thought I married him because he was wealthy. He was so much older than I was—almost twenty years. But what nobody knew was that he didn’t tell me just how rich he was until he talked me into marrying him.” She shook her head. “I almost ran away when I knew what he was worth. This—” she gestured around the elegant room with its priceless antiques “—terrified me.”
“That’s why he didn’t tell you until it was too late,” Don mused. “He’d spent his whole life making money and living for the corporation. Until you came along, he didn’t even know he wanted a family.”
“He got a ready-made one.” She sighed. “I wanted so much to give him a child….” She turned away. Thinking about that would do no good at all. “I have to go to Billings. I want you to check on Blake and Mr. Smith every day or two, if you don’t mind. I’m so nervous, about both of them, after that kidnapping attempt.”
“Wouldn’t you like to take Mr. Smith with you?” he asked hopefully. “After all, there are Indians up there. Grizzly bears. Mountain lions. Crazed Winnebago drivers….”
She laughed. “Mr. Smith is worth his weight in gold, and he’ll take very good care of Blake. There’s no need to have much contact with him, since he disturbs you so much.” He didn’t look convinced. “Blake loves him,” she reminded him.
“Blake isn’t old enough to realize how dangerous he is. Meredith, I know he’s worth his weight in gold, but you do realize that he’s a wanted man…?”
“Only by the state police in that South African country,” she said. “And that was a long time ago. Mr. Smith is forty-five if he’s a day, and we did commandeer him from the CIA.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t the KGB?” He threw up his hands. “All right, I’ll try to keep watch. But if I were you, I wouldn’t have that animal of his near me.”
“Tiny lives in an aquarium,” she said defensively. “And she’s very tame.”
“She’s a giant iguana,” he muttered.
“Iguanas are vegetarians, and she’s not quite that big. Yet. Besides, he’s still grieving for Dano.”
“Dano was a five-foot iguana,” he said. “He actually petted the horrible thing. I think it ate my dog, that day you and Blake visited me and he brought the vile thing with him.”
“Your dog ran away. Iguanas don’t eat dogs.”
“And he’s raising a replacement for it,” he moaned. “Can’t he put it up if I have to come over here?”
“I’ll ask him. It’s just for a few weeks, until I see to Great-Aunt Mary’s property and organize a way to get those mineral leases away from the Hardens. I’ll have to do some scouting first,” she added. “I want to see how the Hardens are placed these days.” Her face darkened. “I want to see how he’s placed.”
“He probably knows who you are by now, so be careful.”
“No, he doesn’t,” she replied. “I made a point of finding out. Henry was very protective of me at first, so he never told people anything about me. Since he always called me ‘Kip,’ there’s very little likelihood that Cyrus Harden has any inkling about my connection with Tennison International. He only knows me as Meredith Ashe. If I leave the Rolls here and don’t flash my diamonds, he won’t know who I am. More important,” she added coldly, “his mother won’t know.”
“I’ve never thought of Cy Harden as a mama’s boy,” he mused.
“He isn’t. But Mama is a prime mover, a secretive manipulator. I was eighteen and no match for her shrewd mind. She got rid of me with ridiculous ease. Now it’s my turn to manipulate. I want Harden Properties. And I’m going to get it.”
He opened his mouth to warn her but after a second thought gave up. She’d known Cy Harden as a man, even as a lover. But she knew nothing about the business head on those broad shoulders, and if she pursued the takeover bid, she was going to find herself in over her own head. Others had tried to take on Harden, to their cost. He was a formidable foe, among the most ruthless of businessmen. He and Henry had butted heads several times. Probably Harden didn’t know why Tennison hated him so, or deliberately tried to foil deals for him. It had been a shock to everyone when Henry was invited to sit on the Harden Properties board of directors. Harden had engineered that move so that he could keep an eye on Tennison’s business deals, but it had worked to Henry’s advantage as well, so he’d accepted. Naturally Don went to the meetings, and Meredith’s name was never mentioned.
“You don’t think I can do it, do you?” she asked, narrow-eyed.
“No,” he said honestly. “His is a family-based company. He holds forty percent and his mother has five. That means you have to get his great-uncle’s ten percent and the fifteen percent held by his directors and the remaining shares from his unrelated stockholders. I don’t think any of them are brave enough to go against Cy, despite the financial rewards.”
“By the time their next board of directors meetings rolls around, I expect to have those proxies,” she told Don firmly. “And is Mr. Harden due for a surprise when I show up with them, and you, in his boardroom.”
“Just be careful that your surprise doesn’t backfire,” he cautioned. “Don’t underestimate him. Henry never did.”
“Oh, I won’t.” She stretched lazily. “What’s on the agenda for this afternoon? I have to do some shopping.” She indicated her expensive suit. “Little Meredith Ashe could never have afforded anything like this. I don’t want anyone to think I’ve prospered.”
“‘O what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive,’” he quoted dryly.
“And hell has no fury like a woman scorned,” she shot back. “Don’t worry, Don. I know what I’m doing.”
He shrugged. “I hope so.”
DON’S MOROSE TONE haunted Meredith all day. As she packed her new clothes that evening in Mr. Smith’s borrowed secondhand suitcase, Blake sprawled on her queen-sized bed in their Lincoln Park home, frowning.
“Why do you have to go away?” he muttered, his little face dark and sullen. “You’re always going away. You’re never here.”
She felt a twinge of guilt. Her son was right. But she couldn’t afford to give in to that stubborn determination of his. Blake was as formidable in his young way as she was.
“Business, my darling,” she replied, smiling. She stared at him lovingly. He looked nothing like her. He was his father, from his dark hair to his deep-set brown eyes and olive complexion. He was going to be tall like Cy, too, she guessed.
Cy. Meredith sighed heavily and turned away. She’d loved him so much, with all the passion of her young life. He’d taken her chastity and her heart, and in return he’d given her grief and shame. His mother had done her part to break up what might have been an honest love affair. God knew, he’d always felt guilty about her. Probably he’d have felt even more guilt if he’d known that she was only eighteen to his twenty-eight. She’d lied and told him she was twenty. He’d said even then that it was like robbing the cradle. But his passion for her had been a helpless, deeply resented one that had cost him his stoic self-control time and time again. She often thought that he’d hated her for that, for making him vulnerable.
His mother had hated her, certainly. The fact that Meredith had been living with her great-aunt and uncle on the Crow reservation—and the fact that her great-uncle was a respected elder at that—had been a scandalous shock to Mrs. Myrna Granger Harden. Myrna belonged to the social set and made no secret of her snobbery. That her son had dared to embarrass her by dating the niece of one of his employees had haunted her, especially when she’d already hand-picked a wife for him—one Lois Newly, a local debutante whose people had property in Alberta, Canada, and could trace their ancestry back to royal England. Myrna had never even bothered to ask Meredith if she was Indian. She’d taken it for granted, when actually Meredith was only related to Uncle Raven-Walking by marriage.
There were dark-skinned people in Cy’s background. Myrna swore they were French, but Meredith had once heard someone mention that Cy’s ancestors contained a full-blooded Sioux on his father’s side. Many Plains people had mixed ancestry, but most of them weren’t as prejudiced and snobbish as Myrna Harden.
Blake Garrett Tennison would someday have to be told the truth about his parentage, Meredith thought worriedly. She didn’t relish that at all. For now, he accepted that the tall, fair man who used to laugh and bring him things was his real father. In most senses, he was. Henry had spoiled Meredith shamefully, attended LaMaze classes with her, treated her pregnancy as if he’d been responsible for it, and showered her with luxuries when little Blake was born. He stayed with her through the delivery, and he cried when the child was placed in his arms. Oh, yes, Henry really was Blake’s father in so many ways. He’d earned the right.
She often wondered why Cy had apparently never considered the possibility of Meredith becoming pregnant during their brief affair. Presumably his women were usually on the Pill, because he’d never even asked if she was. Not that he’d been in any condition to ask, the first time or the others. She dreamed about him sometimes, about the fierce pleasure he’d taught her to share with him. But she never told Henry about the dreams or compared him with Cy. It wouldn’t have been fair. Henry was a gentle, skillful lover, but she’d never attained the heights with him that Cy had taken her to so effortlessly.
Blake cuddled his plush toy alligator. “Isn’t Barry the Alligator nice?” he asked. “Mr. Smith let me pet Tiny. He says you should let me have an iguana, too, Mommy. They make very nice pets.”
She laughed gently at Blake’s adult-sounding speech. He was almost six, and he already had a tremendous grasp of language. He would be ready to start first grade next year. This year he attended private kindergarten until one each afternoon, and he was learning fast. Meredith knew that Cy had never married. She allowed herself to wonder for one long instant what Myrna Harden would think of her grandson. It was unlikely that the elderly woman would covet him, of course, since he was Meredith’s. And a grandchild would tarnish the youthful image she tried so hard to project.
“Can’t I have an iguana?” Blake persisted.
“You can pet Tiny, when Mr. Smith lets you.”
“Doesn’t Mr. Smith have a first name?” he asked, frowning.
She laughed. “Nobody has the nerve to ask,” she whispered.
He laughed, too, his young voice delightfully carefree. Had she ever been that happy, she wondered, even as a child? The premature death of her parents had left scars. Thank God there had been Aunt Mary and Uncle Raven-Walking to look after her. They’d loved her, even if nobody else ever had.
Blake sighed. “I wish I could go with you.”
“One day soon,” she promised. “Then I’ll take you to the Crow reservation and you can meet some of your Indian cousins.”
“Real Indians?” he asked.
“Real Indians. I want you to be proud of your ancestry, Blake,” she said seriously, smiling at him. “One of your distant relatives actually scouted for General Custer before the battle of the Little Bighorn.”
“Wow!” he said, all eyes. He frowned. “Who was General Custer, Mommy?”
“Never mind.” She shook her head. “Time enough for that when you’re older. Now, I have to pack.”
“Blake!”
The thunderous voice echoed along the upstairs landing.
“In here, Mr. Smith!” Blake called.
Heavy footsteps echoed down the hall, and a tall, balding hulk of a man walked into the room. Mr. Smith had a Marine Corps tattoo on one brawny arm, and he wore khaki slacks with an olive drab T-shirt. He was the ugliest, and the kindest, man Meredith had ever known. He had to be in his middle or late forties, but nobody knew just how old he was. He had a spotless service record and had come from a successful career in the CIA to work for Henry Tennison. After Henry’s death, Meredith had inherited him, so to speak. From his big nose to his green eyes and square face, he was a treasure. He’d aborted the kidnapping attempt on Blake. And nobody bothered Meredith when he was with her. She raised his salary every year without his having to ask. Next to Blake, he was the most treasured person in her private life.
“Bedtime for you, mister,” Mr. Smith told Blake without cracking a smile. “Front and center.”
“Yes, sir!” Blake saluted, laughing, and ran to the big man, to be swung up on his shoulders.
“I’ll settle him for the night, Kip,” he told Meredith. His eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t go. You need another week in bed.”
“Don’t fuss,” she said gently, and smiled at him. “I’m all right. I have to do something with Aunt Mary’s things you know. And it’s a dandy opportunity to reconnoiter the opposition.”
“Recon what?” Blake asked.
“Never mind,” she told him. She leaned forward and kissed his rosy cheek. “Sleep tight, my lad. I’ll be along to tuck you in.”
“Mr. Smith is going to tell me about Vietnam!” Blake told her excitedly.
Meredith grimaced. Vietnam War stories hardly seemed the proper bedtime tales for a young boy, but she didn’t have the heart to argue.
“I want to hear about the snake again.”
She frowned at Blake. “The what?”
“The snake. Mr. Smith is teaching me about all the animals and stuff in Vietnam,” he continued.
She flushed. She’d thought the stories were about something else entirely.
Mr. Smith saw the flush and almost smiled. “Fooled you, huh?” he asked smugly. “That’s what you get for misjudging innocent people.”
“You’re not innocent people,” she pointed out.
“I’m innocent of a few things,” he argued. “I never shot anybody twice.”
She looked toward the ceiling. “My bodyguard, the saint.”
“Keep that up and I’ll go back to the government,” he promised. “They treat a guy right.”
“I’ll bet they never bought you kidskin moccasins and your very own Jacuzzi,” she said haughtily.
“Well, no.”
“And they don’t give you three weeks’ paid vacation and offer you free hotel rooms and carte blanche at restaurants,” she continued.
“Well…”
“And they don’t hug you like I do,” Blake exclaimed, throwing his arms around Mr. Smith’s thick neck as hard as he could.
Mr. Smith chuckled, returning the hug. “Got me there,” he admitted. “Nobody in the CIA ever hugged me.”
“See?” Meredith asked smugly. “You’re well off and don’t know it.”
“Oh, I know it,” he said. “I just like to watch you squirm.”
“One of these days,” she began, pointing a finger at him.
“That’s our cue to leave, Blake,” Mr. Smith said, turning with the boy in his arms to head for the door. “She’s good for an hour on that subject.”
Meredith hid a smile and went back to her packing.
TWO DAYS LATER she arrived in Billings on the bus. She could have flown, but that was an admission that she had money. A bus ticket was considerably cheaper, and besides, the bus station was located next door to the office of Harden Properties, Inc.
She waited for her suitcase, her hair loose around her shoulders, wearing a pair of jeans and a faded denim jacket over a sweatshirt. She wore a pair of scuffed boots she’d used for riding back home, and she’d left off her makeup. By and large, she looked very much as she had the day she’d taken the bus out of Billings six years before. Except that she had a different secret now, one she was going to enjoy keeping until the proper time.
In an office building just catercorner to the bus station, a man sitting at a desk happened to notice the movement of passengers disembarking. He got out of his swivel chair and moved to the one-way window, staring down with dark eyes that seemed to burst with mingled emotions.
“Mr. Harden?”
“What is it, Millie?” he asked without turning.
“Your letter….”
He had to force himself to turn away from the window. Surely not, he thought. That couldn’t be her, not after all these years. He’d seen her in crowds before, only to get closer and find another face, the wrong face. But he felt as if it were Meredith. His heart began to beat with the fierce rhythm she’d taught it. He felt alive for the first time in six years.
He sat down, his tall, fit body in a dark blue suit so striking that even his secretary of many years stared at him. He was thirty-four now, but sometimes his lean, deeply tanned face seemed older than its years. There were lines around his eyes, too, and threads of gray in his thick, black hair. He had an elegant look for a man whose primary interest was agricultural properties and acquisitions and who had a ranch and spent time with cattle and horses.
“Forget the letter,” he said abruptly. “Find the address of Mary Raven. Her husband was Crow—John Raven-Walking, but they’re listed in the phone directory as Raven. They moved into town two or three years ago.”
“Yes, sir.” Millie left to find the address for him.
Cy continued to sit, turning to read some new contracts and an inquiry from one of his directors about a few mining leases he’d refused to cede to Tennison International. He looked at the papers without seeing them as memories flooded back, memories six years old of a woman who’d betrayed him and left town under a cloud of suspicion.
“Sir, there’s an obituary here,” Millie said as she returned thumbing through the local paper. “I saw it last week and meant to mention it. Well, I remembered, you know, about that Ashe girl who was involved in the theft six years ago.”
Cy bristled. “Her part in it was never proved,” he corrected.
Her eyebrows arched, but she was concentrating on the column and hardly heard him. “Yes, here it is. Mrs. Mary Raven, and here’s the address—they print it, you know. She was buried two days ago. No family is listed at all. I suppose they didn’t know about Miss Ashe at the newspaper….”
“Give me that.” He took the paper and pored over it. Mary was dead. He remembered her from the Crow reservation, where she and Raven-Walking had lived until the old gentleman’s death two years ago. Mary had moved into town. God only knew how she’d managed to afford a house on her Social Security. Cy hadn’t seen the house but knew about it because he’d seen her one day in Billings. He’d questioned her harshly about Meredith, but she wouldn’t tell him anything. She was frankly evasive and even a little frightened. He grimaced, remembering his desperation to find Meredith. The old lady had practically run to get away from him. He hadn’t followed her, but he’d been tempted to go and see her. Then he’d realized that it would accomplish nothing. He’d only upset her more. Besides, the past was dead. Meredith was probably married by now, with a house full of kids.
The thought hurt him. He sighed angrily. Well, she’d be coming back, surely. In fact, that could have been Meredith he’d just seen. Someone would have to tie up all the loose ends that Mary’s death created. He knew that Meredith was Mary’s closest living relative.
He sat back in his chair, scowling. Meredith was here. He knew she was. He didn’t know whether he was sorry or glad about it. He only knew that his life was about to be disrupted all over again.
