The Saint (8 page)

“I have a riding mower and an electric edger and a grass whip. For your yard, I'd probably charge a hundred a month. I'd come every week from now to October, then twice a month in the winter.”

She tilted her head. “That sounds great. Although I should warn you, sometimes I need a little extra attention. If I'm going to have a party or something I might need you to come an additional time or two.”

“Of course,” he said. “That's how it is with all my customers.”

Still smiling, Mrs. Tremel dug in her purse and pulled out a wad of twenties. She held out her hand. “Then it's a deal, Mr. Mackey. And here's the first month in advance, just to make things official.”

He started to say no, no that wasn't necessary. No one paid in advance. But then he thought about the earrings. A hundred dollars would put them on hold. Next week the Gordons would pay him for June, and then the little silver lariats would be his.

And Binky Potter, too.

Although suddenly he wasn't sure prissy Binky Potter was quite woman enough for a man like him.

 

A
URORA
Y
ORK'S ELEGANT
four-poster with satin sheets and down comforters just might be the most comfortable bed Claire had ever slept in.

Or maybe it was simply that, for once, Claire didn't have to toss and turn all night, wrestling with
unanswerable questions. Her path, right or wrong, had been chosen. She was going to marry Kieran McClintock, and she was going to do it in a small ceremony two weeks from today, orchestrated by Aurora York.

Whatever the reason, it was the best night's sleep Claire had had in a long time, and she was very glad she'd let Aurora talk her into staying here instead of at the hotel.

Though she woke once, around seven, she had felt no morning sickness at all. She hadn't heard anyone stirring in the house, so she lay back down. To her amazement, she didn't wake up again until almost one in the afternoon.

Sunlight was pouring through her third-story window, dappled gold and green by the nearby sourwood tree. More than sixty feet tall, it towered over the house, and yet it was near enough that Claire could have reached out and picked one of its delicate white clusters of flowers, which looked so much like lily of the valley.

Through its branches, she could almost see into the third-floor windows of Kieran's house next door. She could have stayed there, of course—it was plenty big enough. But Aurora wouldn't hear of it. It might be the twenty-first century, with a whole new social-moral code, but in Aurora York's world it was still completely unacceptable for a young woman to spend an unchaperoned night under her fiancé's roof.

The houses were so close, however, that it was almost a technicality. Here, just blocks from the center of town, even the mansions rubbed elbows with one another. It wasn't until you got several miles
outside Heyday that you found the old farms and plantations, many of them run-down and abandoned.

Kieran's house, on the other hand, had been maintained like the architectural jewel it was. It was a classic Federal-period mansion, painted a creamy coffee color with white accents on column and cornice. Deep-brown shutters flanked each window, matching the front door and roof.

On the street side, the house was serenely simple. Its front porch was narrow but elegant, with Ionic columns rising to a formal, filigreed cornice. Looking down at it now, Claire could hardly believe she had found the courage to mount that porch last night and ring that intimidating bell.

From this vantage point, she had her first glimpse of the beauty behind the house, away from the prying eyes of solicitors, tourists and envious nobodies.

In the long, narrow backyard a geometric sculpted garden drew intricate patterns of greenery around an oval swimming pool. A tiny octagonal summerhouse, flowers winding through its latticed walls, anchored the far end of the formal garden. Just far enough from the main house to be perfect for assignations.

But that wasn't all. Behind the summerhouse, an overgrown flagstone path led to one last shady alcove, where she could just glimpse a wrought-iron bench and a trickling fountain between the drooping branches of a weeping willow.

Secrets behind secrets. This was where the real lives were played out, hidden behind the placid facades these eighteenth-century mansions presented to the street. Claire wondered what it would be like to
go beneath the surface. To enter those secret gardens, to learn the private truths behind the public faces.

“Ah, you are up!” Aurora knocked once at the bedroom door, then entered without waiting for an answer.

Claire turned from the window and smiled.

“Yes,” she said. “Finally. I'm sorry to have slept so late. I can't imagine what got into me.”

“Too much excitement.” Aurora had brought a tray with her, and she put it on one of the tables in the room. It seemed to be loaded down with fruit and cheese and sandwiches. “People forget that even thrilling changes are stressful. I told Kieran that when he showed up this morning. Let her be, I said. She's sleeping, and she's going to stay sleeping. Go bother someone else.”

Claire smiled. Imagine anyone talking like that to a McClintock. Kieran said Aurora had been like a grandmother to him. Apparently he hadn't been kidding. “How did he take it? What did he say?”

“He said I was an infuriating old tyrant, which is true, of course, and he said to tell you that he had to go out of town to talk to somebody about something, I forget exactly what, something about Anderson's will, I think. Stupid will, bringing in that bastard son after all this time. Anderson never breathed a word to me about it, I'll tell you. If he had, I would have given him a piece of my mind.”

Aurora waved her hand at the tray. “So, what are you waiting for? Eat up. You're too skinny.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Claire sat down next to the table and wondered what was most likely to stay down. She settled for a wedge of cantaloupe. “This looks
wonderful. But you didn't have to. I don't want to be a nuisance. I really could stay at the—”

“It's no bother. Cook did it. I just carried it. And I told you already, Kieran's fiancée will not be staying at any hotel, not while I'm around. We went through all that quite thoroughly last night.”

That wasn't technically true. Claire and Kieran had
tried
to go through it last night, but Aurora had refused to listen. Finally, after arguing endlessly and getting nowhere, they had given up and allowed her to win. At the time, it had seemed like their only hope of getting any sleep at all.

Claire had expected to discuss it further with Kieran the next time they were alone. Was he really willing to let Aurora host a wedding ceremony? Didn't that take the charade to a new, uncomfortable level? Aurora had promised to keep it simple, something she could arrange in two weeks, not a day longer. And just a few people. Just their very best friends.

Not that Claire had any friends in Heyday, really. She didn't have many in Richmond, either. What would Aurora make of that?

Clearly, Claire needed to talk to Kieran, but still she had been dreading it. How should they act? The situation was without precedent, at least in her life.

They would have to appear affectionate in public—they had already begun that part of the charade last night when they had stood together, his arm around her shoulders as they accepted congratulations. But when they were alone…then what? Would he decide to keep it cool and practical, like business partners or roommates? Or would he decide to be
warm and friendly? Which would ultimately be easier for them both?

It was like embarking on a very long, very complicated theatrical event…a performance on which her child's future depended.

“Did he say when he'd be back?”

Aurora was bustling about opening drapes and running her fingers across the glossy wooden furniture, as if double-checking her housekeeper's dusting. Claire had never seen a seventy-five-year-old woman with so much vitality.

“Who? Kieran? Not really. Late tonight? Tomorrow? Soon, anyhow. But you and I are going wedding-dress shopping, so he can just be patient.”

Claire set down her cantaloupe. “Wedding-dress shopping? Today?”

“Heavens, no. The stores we want aren't open on Sundays. Did you think we were going to buy your wedding dress at K-Mart?” Aurora laughed, enjoying her little joke. “We'll shop tomorrow. Actually, today I have a Garden Club meeting. Would you like to come with me? Don't worry—we don't waste time talking about flowers and such. We go straight to the juiciest gossip.”

And today Claire herself would undoubtedly be the main course. She tried not to shudder, imagining it. “Thanks,” she said, “but I have a few things I need to do around town, if you don't mind.”

“Of course not,” Aurora said. “You probably have friends to visit, too, young people. We're all a hundred years old at the garden club. But mind you don't overtire yourself. We're going to be very busy. I told Kieran that this morning. I said, we've got a lot to do, so don't you get in the way. I said you're
going to have the rest of your life with that girl, so you might as well let someone else have the next couple of weeks.”

She sat down in the chair next to Claire and plucked a sandwich from the tray.

“Besides,” she added, peeling apart the bread, apparently determined to investigate whether the cook had assembled the proper ingredients. “You and I definitely need some time to get to know each other better.”

Claire smiled weakly, glad that her mouth was full, and she couldn't politely respond.

Time to get to know each other better.

If only Aurora knew the truth. That was exactly what Claire and Kieran needed, too.

B
Y MIDAFTERNOON
,
the wind had picked up, and the sun had hidden behind a bank of pewter clouds. The storm had seemed almost charming in Kieran's hilly Riverside Park neighborhood, where the raindrops fell in diamond chains through the leaves of the stately elms and then nestled, scattered and twinkling, on the velvety green lawns.

But in the dingy lowlands of East Yarrow Street, things were very different.

The sky seemed lower here, as if the lack of trees had let the gray clouds sink oppressively toward the earth. Lawns were spotty, and the rain splashed up from muddy puddles to stain the rusty wheels of overturned tricycles and the fat legs of plastic gnomes.

The neighborhood looked exactly the same as the day Claire had left. And not very different from the day, fifteen years ago, that she, her mother and Steve had moved into it.

She remembered how proud and happy her mother had been that day. The square brick house might be uninspired and, compared to the historic mansions of Kieran's street, a little tawdry, but it had been their own.

Their first real house. No more apartments. No more landlords, no more footsteps stomping over
head, no more loud music pumping through thin walls in the middle of the night.

Only in the past couple of years had Claire fully appreciated what a major accomplishment buying a home was for her mother, an underpaid legal secretary, a single parent with two young children to care for.

Claire parked just down the street from her old house, not wanting to draw attention to herself, even though the house looked empty. She debated whether to get out. She hadn't brought an umbrella, and what was there to see, anyhow? A For Sale sign had been planted in the front yard, with an attached plastic tube full of flyers that looked untouched.

But after a few minutes the rain began to let up a little, and she realized she couldn't resist getting a closer look. She opened her car door and, carefully stepping around a pothole, she made her way up the cracked sidewalk to get one of the flyers. That seemed legitimate enough, in case anyone saw her.

Seen up close, the house appeared fairly well cared for. Someone had painted it. She wasn't surprised that it was for sale, though the current owners had bought it from her just over a year ago. They had paid a ridiculously low price, even for Yarrow Estates, and they'd probably always planned to resell for a quick profit. Had they ever lived here at all?

She had just extracted one of the soft, damp pieces of paper from the tube when, to her shock, she heard a shrill voice coming through one of the open windows.

“I don't give a good goddamn if there's a
hurricane
outside. You promised you were going to fix that back step today, and if you don't drag your ass
here in the next ten minutes, don't bother bringing it home at all.”

The sound of a phone slamming into its base cracked like thunder. And then a baby began to squall.

“Shut up!” The woman sounded beside herself with fury. “Just shut up!”

Claire looked at the front door, horrified, wondering if she should intervene. She was surprised at how indignant she felt. How could these vicious vibes be coming from
her
house?

The little Strickland family had known plenty of tough times here. Claire and Steve had bickered, like any children, and their mother had scolded and fussed, especially when she was overburdened. Claire remembered one winter when the power had been cut off briefly until the next paycheck came through, and their mother had let them roast marshmallows and sleep by the fireplace, turning it into an adventure. But later that night Claire had heard her crying softly, when she thought no one would hear.

It had never been easy. And, of course, the house had been witness to two unnecessary deaths, and the unspeakable pain that followed.

But it had never known this kind of bitterness. It had never been so utterly devoid of warmth and love.

The volume went up on the baby's cries. Claire heard the sound of something breaking. She began to back away, staring at the door, the door she no longer had a right to enter. It was raining again, harder than ever.

She shouldn't have come. Steve was gone, and so was his memory. These pitiful, shrewish people had driven it away.

After only about four steps, though, she collided with another body. She turned, gasping.

It was Kieran. He put his hands on her wet shoulders. “Steady,” he said. “I didn't mean to startle you.”

“You didn't,” she said. “You didn't. I was just— I was just leaving.”

But suddenly the front door opened. Claire glanced around long enough to see a thin, nicely dressed woman standing there peering at them through the rain.

“You two want to see the house?”

Kieran looked at Claire, a question in his eyes. She kept her back to the house. The baby was still screaming. Almost imperceptibly Claire shook her head, hoping Kieran would understand. He must have, because he eased the flyer out of her hand and held it up cheerfully.

“No, thanks, not right now,” he said. “We just came by to pick up an information sheet.”

“You don't need an appointment. I can show you around.”

“Thanks, but we really haven't got much time right now. We'll call later, if that's okay.”

“Sure.” The woman seemed to hesitate. “You call later, then.”

Kieran nodded. He turned around, put his arm across Claire's shoulders and began walking her back to his car, which was closer than hers. He opened the passenger door and helped her in. Then he went around to the driver's side, climbed in and shut the door.

“Just till it lets up,” he said. “Then I'll drive you to your own car.”

She nodded. “Thanks.”

For a minute after that they didn't speak at all. He reached across her, opened the glove compartment and pulled out a small pack of tissues. He peeled off a few for himself, then handed the rest to her.

“Thanks.” Carefully opening the tissues, she began to wipe her cheeks and throat dry. By the time she got to her forearms, the tissues were falling apart.

She looked over at him. He seemed relaxed, interested only in drying himself off a little.

“I didn't mean to be jumpy like that,” she said. “I was just surprised to see you. I thought you had gone out of town.”

As she said the words, she realized suddenly that his absence was the main reason she'd chosen this afternoon to make her pilgrimage. She had assumed he'd never know. And if the memories upset her, she'd have time to recover before she needed to face him again.

“Yes, but I only went to Grupton,” he said. Grupton was the next little township over, not more than twenty minutes outside the Heyday city limits. The McClintocks owned almost as much of Grupton as they did of Heyday. “I was only gone a couple of hours.”

“Oh. I see.” She wadded the soggy tissue up in the palm of her hand. She looked out the rain-drenched window. The drops were running so thick she almost couldn't see the house anymore. “How did you know I'd be here? I didn't mention it to Aurora.”

“I didn't know for sure,” he answered, speaking a little slowly. “I tried the cemetery first. I thought maybe you'd want to—”

“No,” she said. She swallowed. “Not yet.”

He paused. “Well, anyhow, then I went to…I checked a couple of other places….”

She knew what he meant—she could tell by the discomfort in his voice. He thought she might have driven by Poplar Hill.

Why would she have gone there? To see the slashing scar in the tree that had ended Steve's life? Kieran really didn't understand her, did he? She had no interest in haunting the places she associated with Steve's death. If she decided to revisit the past, she'd want to go back to where he'd been alive and happy.

“Anyhow, then I remembered about your old house, so I came here.”

“Why were you out looking for me at all? Did you need something?”

He lifted one shoulder. “I thought maybe you'd like to talk. It's going to be kind of difficult to get time alone now that Aurora has commandeered the situation.”

Claire tried to smile. “Yes, she's a bit of a dragon, isn't she? But she seems devoted to you.”

“She's extraordinary.” He took a deep breath. “She pretty much took over the role of mother in my life from the time my real mother died. My father's wives were, for the most part, not very well suited to that job.”

Like everyone else in Heyday, Claire knew all about Anderson McClintock's serial marriages. Each wife younger and flightier than the last.

“And that's why you feel you have to let Aurora put on a wedding?”

He looked at her calmly. “That's why I'd
like
to let her.” He smiled. “I think she's been dreaming of
this for years. But if the idea makes you uncomfortable, I probably can talk her out of it.”

Of course the idea made her uncomfortable, especially now that she knew the entire town of Heyday had instantly deduced this was a “shotgun” wedding. She'd be standing up there in satin and baby's breath, and the people behind her would be snickering about her choice of bridal white and speculating about the exact measurements of her waistband.

But how could she tell him to hurt his dear friend just because it made her uncomfortable? She had understood when she came here that her proposed solution wouldn't be the “easy” path. Just the right one.

“No,” she said. “If you can live with it, I can, too. I just—I just would like to generate as little gossip as possible.”

His answering smile was wry. “You might as well try to stop a dog from chewing on a bone. I'm afraid our situation presents too much fresh meat. Especially with—our past.”

Of course. Their past.

But what was that, exactly? One date, one death, and then one stupid, stupid night in each other's arms. How could that simple, terrible recipe have created such disaster?

Unable to answer him, she delayed by dabbing at the wet piece of paper he'd put on the seat between them. It was blurred, but the words were still legible. “Sturdy fixer-upper, family house, 3/2, 1,300 sq ft. Good schools.”

A fuzzy photo—and then the price. Her eyes wid
ened. The new owners were asking twice what they'd paid her for this house only a year ago.

Now that she had this new responsibility, this child who would arrive so soon and need so much, she realized she'd been shortsighted to sell her one big asset cheaply. But back then she had simply wanted to get rid of it. She'd been desperate to sever any ties that connected her to this street, to this town, to the haunted football field and the scarred tree and the little marble cross in the shady corner of Forestlawn Cemetery.

She had just wanted to run. And she'd almost made it.

Ironic, wasn't it? Now, because she had been weak and stupid, because she had fallen into Kieran's arms that one fateful night in Richmond, she would never be free of Heyday. Now her child, her own flesh and blood, would be a McClintock.

And the McClintocks didn't just own Heyday. They
were
Heyday.

 

“A
PPARENTLY THE RUMORS ARE TRUE
,” John Gordon said as he and Kieran came out of the city manager's office into the Monday morning summer sunshine. “You really are a saint.”

“Shut up, John.” Kieran rolled his eyes. “You're my lawyer. You know better than that. What's saintly about giving things away when you already have more than you could possibly use?”

“You've got a point. Still, can you imagine your brother Bryce giving away his inheritance? When everything finally makes it through probate, he'll probably just sell every square inch of it. And get top
dollar, too. The devil has damn little love for Heyday. He hasn't set foot in it in, what, twenty years?”

“Fourteen. But who's counting?” Kieran shrugged. “Bryce has his reasons, though, John. The last time he was here, things got pretty ugly.”

John nodded, and for a minute, Kieran thought the lawyer might ask him for details. The gossips had about six different and increasingly salacious versions of Bryce McClintock's final summer in Heyday, but people knew better than to talk about it in front of Kieran.

Bryce had always carried around a chip the size of a boulder on his shoulder, and he had never shown the slightest affection for any of the other McClintocks. But still, like it or not, they were brothers, and Kieran wasn't going to trade juicy Bryce stories with anyone.

“You may be right, though,” Kieran said. “Bryce doesn't have a sentimental bone in his body. Owning a little town like this would probably strike him as just too ridiculous.”

It struck him that way, too, sometimes. Kieran looked around the little municipal complex they'd just exited, trying to comprehend the notion that everything in sight actually belonged to him—well, to him and Bryce and that unknown quantity, Tyler Balfour.

Four-fifths of all the land in the Heyday city limits. Half the buildings. The library, the bank, the bookstore and the beauty salon.

The police department, the fire department, city hall and the plots those buildings stood on… Some people even said that the politicians working inside
city hall had been listed assets in his dad's will, too, although that part was pure spite.

Kieran gazed at the neat little fire department, a brick building that pretty much consisted of a huge garage and a brightly lit common room above it.

“Hey, John,” he said. “Did you know I used to want to be a fireman?”

John grinned. “No kidding.”

“No kidding. When I was about ten, I thought sliding down that pole and holding that huge hose would just about be heaven.”

“Very Freudian.” John winked. “So how come you didn't? You decided there was more money in the saint business, or what?”

“My dad didn't like the idea. He said McClintocks weren't civil servants.”