Liz Talley – Sweet Talking Man (страница 2)
“Well, if it does a better job, we’ll both be embarrassed.” Bart gave a dirty laugh. “Seriously, if people visit and see that, they’re gonna think you’re a perv.”
Simeon took a few seconds to allow the disappointment inside him to settle. He still couldn’t believe guileless Brenda had given birth to someone as low as Bart. The boy made him feel as if he needed to wash his hands. “Bartholomew, I’m sorry to say I’ve done you a great disservice all these years.”
Bart’s Adam’s apple bobbed slightly as he swallowed. “A disservice?”
“Yes, a grave disservice,” Simeon said, stroking the white goatee that brushed his knotted cravat, reaching for calmness, asking the gods to give him the right words.
Bart uncrossed his legs, adjusting his position in the chair. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ve provided for you because I loved both my sister and niece. Celeste and Brenda made mistakes in their lives, lives shortened by heartbreak, but each was free of selfish motive.”
“Do you think I don’t appreciate all you’ve done for me, uncle? Because I do,” Bart said quite prettily, using a cajoling voice and a soft smile.
Trickery.
Bart had blown through half the money he’d inherited on his twenty-first birthday and came to Simeon several times a year to beg for more. His handsome great-nephew always brought presents, like the fine velvet pajamas or Victorian erotic art he knew his uncle treasured. He also exploited his uncle’s loneliness by reminiscing about old times, times where laughter echoed through the halls of Laurel Woods. Though the boy was incredibly selfish and dissolute, he was hypodermically sharp.
“I care about you, Bart, and that’s the reason I’m changing my will.”
“Oh.” Bart straightened, his eyebrows lifting. “Ah, what...” He paused as if unsure what position he should take. Buttoning his mouth, he elected to wait.
“You’ll continue to receive the money remaining in the trust, but I’ve decided the estate will be given to the Laurel Woods Art Foundation on my death. I want the good work we’re doing for artists and the community in general to continue after I’m gone.”
Bart’s eyebrows lowered. “You’re joking.”
“Not a joke. I firmly believe you’ll never change, never grow up, as long as I continue to feed you money. You have two legs—it’s time you learned to stand upon them.”
At that moment his nephew did. Rising abruptly, Bart moved toward him, hand outstretched. As usual. “Uncle Simmy, please. I’m not a bad person. Didn’t I bring you chocolates from the place on Magazine Street you like?”
Simeon looked at the box he’d already opened and sampled from. “A nice gift, Bartholomew.”
“Yes, a nice gift,” Bart said, dropping his hand. “And I think the art foundation is deserving of your generosity. But to give the whole estate to a bunch of fruitcakes who make crap—” he picked up a piece of driftwood carved to look like a sleeping heron “—is insane.”
“I beg your pardon?
“Leave the world a better place with this stuff? You’re mad.”
Simeon chose to ignore that remark.
Bart turned. “I can’t believe you would do this to me. I’m your own blood, the child of the niece who cared for you when no one else would. I’m a Harvey. You can’t do this. You just can’t.”
“Of course I can. The estate belongs to me. The money you inherited from your mother was gambled away at the track. You think I don’t realize why your hand is stretched out so often? You think I don’t know about the people you owe money to? Dangerous people who would sooner slit your throat than piss on you.”
His nephew jabbed a finger toward him. “I’ll get an attorney and fight this. Harvey money belongs to a Harvey—not a nest of freaks.”
“Do what you wish, but you’ll lose. I know people whisper that I’m odd, and I suppose I am, but being different makes you more anticipatory. Think I’d leave any avenue open for you and some half-assed attorney? No, Bartholomew. I may wear silk underwear and eat macaroons, but my balls are steel.” Power surged through Simeon. He hadn’t felt this way in years. So alive. He had been a millionaire all his life, a burden, he’d often thought, but sometimes it felt good to exert the force his millions gave him.
“Don’t do this,” Bart said, his color fading, a look of panic emerging. “We’re family. I’m—”
“Going to be better off depending on yourself rather than the money my father made. Trust me. You’ll thank me one day.”
A thump below drew their attention.
“Simeon?” a woman called out. “Are you presentable? I wanted to show you the new sketch for the library piece.”
“I’m up here, Calliope,” he called, turning to shoot Bart a warning. He didn’t like to discuss personal affairs in front of his artists, especially the lovely Calliope. Of course, they weren’t “his” artists, but they stayed at Laurel Woods because he fed and housed them, as well as commissioned their art for the town and surrounding businesses. The house and grounds his mother had loved so had been turned into a place of solitude, a place birthing beauty. It was a legacy that would continue with the huge allocation of resources upon his death. Until then, he’d continue to provide for the foundation.
“Oh, shall I come up?” she called.
“Make her go away. We’re not finished yet,” Bart said.
“No, we are finished,” Simeon said, rising. He didn’t want Calliope to see inside his rooms. Hattie hadn’t come to clean in a few days because her grandson was ill. A pair of pajamas on the floor and rumpled bedclothes weren’t an acceptable tableau for receiving a lady. “I’ll come down.”
Even if it meant another flare-up of pain.
“Is that the one the town says is after your money?” Bart asked, his voice low, still panicked.
“Pish posh, that girl isn’t after my money. But Calliope is the person I’ve chosen to run the foundation. She’s bright, talented and—”
“A whore. I’ve heard about her. Seducing all the men in town. Barefoot, no bra—she’s a dirty heathen. And that’s who you want to give the money to? Some fruitcake hippie who has slept with half the men in town?”
“Well, if it isn’t the pot,” Simeon said, picking up the ebony cane and moving at a turtle’s pace toward the open door. “Seems rather a double standard from a man who’s paid for two abortions.”
As Simeon entered the upper hall, he caught sight of the loveliest artist he’d ever had the pleasure of hosting. She’d already turned and was heading down the stairs toward the marble-tiled foyer, her elegant hands gripping a sketch pad. She wore a broom skirt and her unbound blond hair just touched the curve of her buttocks. She padded barefoot, soundless on the curving staircase, a lithe sprite, full of energy and light. He’d never felt an attraction for a woman before, his tendencies leaning toward nubile young men, but he fancied he had a crush on the ethereal sculptor.
Something about her pulled at him.
Just as he reached the stairs, he felt Bart behind him.
“Please,” Bart begged. “Please don’t do this, uncle. We’re family.”
Simeon shook his head, turning back to tell Bart to stop groveling. Simeon felt his weight shift oddly, the foot that dangled over the first step downward found only air. He grasped for the banister, the cane falling from his hand and clattering to the tile below. And then he fell, slamming into the wall with enough force to make the sconce flicker, striking his head hard. Needles of pain flew at him from all directions as his body crashed down the marble staircase.
He heard the terrified scream and didn’t know if it came from him or someone else. And just before he surrendered to the darkness coming for him, he saw the angel. Her eyes were wide, the color of the hydrangea still blooming at his door. Her silken hair, golden like the sunrise. She reached out for him, radiating comfort.
And then he was no more.
December, present day
ABIGAIL ORGERON GLANCED back at her twelve-year-old daughter as they approached the small white house located directly behind the antebellum home where they lived. Birdie resembled a prisoner sentenced to hang, trudging as if the happy cottage was the scaffold.
Birdie looked at the house with the stained glass and bamboo wind chimes, soulful eyes roving the charcoal shutters, regret shadowing her face. Not even the string of large-bulb Christmas lights could erase the dread from her face.
Well, Birdie shouldn’t have stooped to spying on the lone occupant of the house if she didn’t want to face the consequences of her actions.
“Please, Mom,” her daughter said, her glance sliding to meet Abigail’s.
“Sorry, but you must,” Abigail said, her lips automatically dipping when she noticed the makeup Birdie had applied. Over the past year, her daughter had grown rebellious, doing things she knew her mother did not approve of. “Are you wearing eyeliner?”