The Necklace Read online

  “As I was,” she said.

  “As you are.” And more quietly he added, “I would have done it, too.”

  She shoved one hand against his chest, surprisingly hard. “I never could resist you.” She was breathing through her mouth, trying for control.

  He smiled at that, enjoyed being irresistible, though she had been nothing but scrupulous. “No,” he said.

  “It’s wrong,” she said, and his heart skipped a beat at her thought process.

  “Your definitions are small.” It sounded flippant and joking, but he was serious. “Think broader.”

  When she turned back toward the house and stormed off down the field, he didn’t follow her.

  THE SPEAKEASY

  Louis drives Nell downtown to a former speakeasy where the twenty-dollar cocktails are crafted by attractive ladies with full-sleeve tattoos and pin-up makeup.

  “Slice of the Northwest, right here in the Midwest,” Nell says when they sit facing the burl-wood vintage bar.

  “The lumberjack trope is actually quite close to the steelworker cliché. Brothers from another mother,” he says.

  “Sisters from a different mister.”

  “Both of which have become mythic recently, right? I had a feeling the lady doesn’t like beer.”

  “The lady does not,” Nell says, and orders a sidecar from the leather-bound bar tome.

  They’re halfway through the usual date questions, questions about where they went to school and where they’ve been living, where they’ve traveled and where they’re going.

  “So this apportionment thing,” Nell says, “I’m thinking it might cut both ways, right? If she knew what it was, she would have planned out the taxes, insured it. Since she didn’t do that, they can make an argument that she didn’t know what it was or what she was doing.”

  “I forget you’re smart,” he says, hooking his foot under her bar stool and dragging her closer. She notes he’s finished his cocktail. “Because a civilian in your position would be terrified right now.”

  “Having drinks with an attractive attorney? Didn’t know that was military-grade risky.”

  “I like that word, ‘attractive,’ ” he says, before ordering another drink. “But I just meant she knew what she was doing. I kept asking her if I could see the thing, if she could find the necklace for me. Don’t know if you know, but she played dotty fairly well. ‘I misplaced it.’ ‘I’m looking for it.’ I should have known. She knew what it was. It was up there with her the whole time. Maybe not specifically what it was worth in today’s dollars, but she knew.”

  “It’s just so out of character. On so many levels.”

  “Tax apportionment is a card for you to play. Also, it doesn’t really matter, because everything I draft is watertight.”

  “Like a ship?”

  “Like a friggin’ battleship.”

  She smiles as his second drink arrives, further loosening his tongue. “It occurs to me that I might have some reporting duty,” she says. “It is stolen, after all.”

  “You don’t know it’s stolen. You don’t even know for sure if it’s the Moon of Nizam.”

  “I saw it on Reema Patel’s screen,” Nell says.

  “Who cares? Doesn’t mean that’s what you have. I’d bet you have a good amount of gray area to play with here. To figure out what’s what before anyone else gets involved.”

  “Patel could be calling in the cavalry—UNESCO, Interpol, Homeland Security.”

  “Did you just say Interpol to me right now? Like this is Mission: Impossible or something?”

  She shrugs her shoulder over into his then, in the middle of the crowded bar, her mind full of squirrelly thoughts. When he shifts his weight into hers in response, with even a little more force, she wants to grin.

  “Patel wouldn’t do that. She wants to get her hands all over it as much as you do,” he says with a roguish grin. “Let me look into it for you.”

  Really, men are so easy. A slight pressure on the shoulder, a slight something they can fix, a way they can finagle being needed, and it’s on.

  There’s a moment before his lips touch hers, before they start down this path, when she thinks maybe the anticipation is enough. The tension. She considers bailing out. And as if reading her mind he says, “It’s good, right? The buildup?”

  She kisses him then, because it’s too perfect not to. And it’s a perfect sort of kiss—soft and open and overwhelming in a way that sends blood racing through her body.

  Louis leans away from her on his bar stool. “This was stupid,” he says. “I shouldn’t get involved with a client.”

  “There’s going to be involvement?” To her delight he actually blushes, and it’s a heady thing to have this man, all sinew and smarts, a little flustered. “I’m not your client,” she says, thrilled and powerful.

  “Technically, as executor, you are,” he says pedantically, eyes on her mouth.

  She moves in close, going slowly, but the moment still feels fast. And she has a thought for whether she’s reading this situation correctly, whether this whole trip hasn’t been a brewing pot of emotion now about to boil over. When their lips touch again, he tastes as good as he smells.

  With closed eyes he simply says, “Come home with me.”

  No pretense and no apology, no ramp-up or side winding. She can’t match his bluntness; they’d barrel on with no brakes. Then again, they both know where this is going.

  “I think I promised to feed you,” she says.

  “Not hungry,” he replies.

  “I’m staying out at the farm,” she tries, a lame obstacle.

  “Stay with me,” he says, coming in to kiss her again.

  “Why so bossy?”

  “Why so tempting?”

  “I like that word, ‘tempting,’ ” she says.

  “You are. So come,” he says, sliding his keys across the bar toward her, acknowledging her half-drunk cocktail next to his second. “With me.”

  THE DUCK HUNTING

  Ambrose was in the bathroom gargling water and bicarbonate of soda when his brother appeared in the doorway. Ambrose startled, swallowed half, and choked on the other.

  “Not expecting me?” Ethan asked.

  Ambrose braced both hands on the pedestal sink as he sputtered and coughed, clearing his throat. “You’re silent,” he said.

  “Are you ill?” Ethan asked, with genuine interest.

  “A bug, I think.” Ambrose shouldered past Ethan, feeling seedy and horrifically guilty, which made him annoyed and angry. The twisted bed linen and general odor of a distillery gave away the true nature of his illness.

  “Shall I ring for another egg yolk?” Ethan asked, glancing out of the side of his eye.

  Dinner with O’Brennan last night had been a tense affair, lightened only temporarily by Arabella’s arrival. But Ambrose had watched as she sailed in on silk and pearls and slowly deflated as she sat at a table that became as leaden as the gluey attempt at Vichyssoise Glacée the cook sent out for the first course.

  The atmosphere at the table set May on edge. Ambrose could see it. O’Brennan tried to engage her in society gossip. But she was distracted, stepping on the buzzer set in the floor to send back the soup and asking the maid to fill the already full water glasses.

  Loulou arrived late and sat down as they were clearing the soup. Her excuses were both weak and flustered, as if she’d been summoned at the last minute.

  Ambrose couldn’t get what May had said in the field out of his mind. She couldn’t resist him. He’d felt elated, then abashed, next angry, and finally bewildered, wondering how this entire scenario had actually happened, him eating at May and Ethan’s table as a guest. Ambrose tried to keep up his side of the conversation, but nearly everything that came out of his mouth was flat. O’Brennan couldn’t engage any of them, not for lack of trying, as he lit up a volley of failed topics that flared over the silver candlesticks and then flamed out. Loulou faded into the walls with her watchful, silent air.
Even Arabella was quiet, no doubt feeling the tension eddying around the table.

  As a result Ambrose drank quite a bit more than usual. By the time May excused herself before dessert was served, claiming a headache, he was quite drunk.

  The moment she left the room, Ethan and O’Brennan rose, saying they’d have rye in the gunroom. Both O’Brennan and Ethan had avoided any mention of what they’d been talking about that afternoon. Ambrose thought it was Ethan’s good manners—no business at the table—but it dawned on him that this censoriousness was in deference to May.

  When Ambrose followed them, Ethan stopped him at the door.

  “You’re being rude. Go talk to Arabella.” Ethan’s unscarred hand pushed at Ambrose’s chest with finality, and then he shut the gunroom door in Ambrose’s face.

  How expertly his brother had maneuvered things. Ambrose would have to knock on the door like a pitiable outsider to gain entrance, and Ambrose refused to beg.

  He’d had to draw himself up before heading into the living room where Arabella and Loulou sat in superficial conversation, trying to skim over the disaster of the dinner with small talk about Arabella’s new dogs.

  Arabella rose when she saw him and told him she’d be leaving with a knowing little pat on his arm. She’d managed a conspiratorial eye roll toward the closed gunroom door on her way out, which made him feel better. But his initial spark of anger flared when he came back in the room and saw Loulou sitting up straight, as if she had news to deliver.

  “You have to stop,” she said.

  “You’re right. I probably should.” He put down the half-full decanter he’d brought into the room.

  “I don’t mean that,” she said nodding her head. “But it’s a good idea, too. I meant you have to stop this whole charade.”

  Ambrose was quiet, both relieved and on the defensive to be caught out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She sighed. “I hate this pretending. We both know what you’re doing. You’re pretending you’re back here to, I don’t know, be brothers. Anyone who sat at that dinner table tonight knows what you’re doing.”

  “I’m not doing anything.”

  “Yet.” Loulou got up then and went straight for the decanter, where she poured a generous dram but only managed a small sip and a grimace.

  “I love you,” she said. “You’re my brother, but so is he. It’s killing me watching you two. This isn’t our family. This isn’t how we do things.”

  “What do you know about how this family does things?” Such sentiments always raised Ambrose’s ire.

  “I saw you,” Loulou says. “I saw you and May head down to the pond at your going-away party. You think I’m still some naïve little girl, but I know those feelings don’t just disappear. And really, how could they?” She abandoned her drink next to the decanter. “I understand. I really do. But you made your choice. Now it’s time to live with it.” She turned to face him. “I think you should leave.”

  “Father’s house is not going to help me. I know that much.”

  “Leave town,” she said. “Leave the state. I know how you can be, and you’re just going to cause heartache.”

  “Gee, thanks, Lou.” He was trying for levity.

  Loulou was in earnest. “It was better when you weren’t there. For everyone.”

  Ambrose picked up the decanter, pondering the heavy lead crystal stopper, thinking how satisfying it would be to throw it through the window. Loulou turning against him, pushing him away, stung.

  But he turned for the stairs instead and Loulou’s silence as she watched him, not calling him back, not trying to reassure him, made his spirits sink deeper. He’d paused at the top of the stairs. Listening for what, he didn’t know exactly. Loulou to call him back and apologize, to tell him they would all be okay. If he’d heard May, he would have gone to her, but still silence greeted him, and he turned for his room.

  Now, in the morning light, Ambrose turned his back on his brother, picked up his trousers off the floor, and buttoned them on. “What can I do for you?” he asked, tensed for a confrontation, but doubting one all the same. Ethan wasn’t like Loulou. He was rarely direct.

  Ethan perched on the foot of a chaise longue, the only place in the room not covered with clothes, books open and breaking the spines, and brimming ashtrays. He was staring at Ambrose’s bare chest, his arms, and then he looked away. “You’ve made yourself a little nest up here.” He picked up a shoehorn and slapped it against his thigh.

  “You’ve been kind.”

  His brother inclined his head in acknowledgment. “You should build out here. Calvin Van Alstyne has a pretty parcel he wants to sell.”

  Ambrose hadn’t seen the Van Alstynes since that night in Mandalay when he’d sat next to them on the riverfront, drinking champagne. Calvin Van Alstyne had since bought a thousand acres of land next to Ethan’s farm. May was the reason the area was becoming fashionable.

  Ambrose didn’t miss the implication in his brother’s comment—get your own place. “Where?” he asked.

  “Next to the duck pond. Good for shooting. Know how you love it.”

  Ambrose could think of few things more dreary than shooting harmless mallards on a tiny pond next to his brother for the rest of his life. His enjoyment of the hunt, of almost anything really, was related to the dangerousness of the quarry. The desire to leave rose up in him again. Maybe Loulou was right. Maybe he should leave. He willed himself into silence, to wait for Ethan to get to the point. Perhaps Ethan had noticed something, perhaps he had accusations. Well, if he wanted a confrontation, Ambrose found he had a few accusations of his own.

  He was sure now that May still loved him, had never stopped, and had only married Ethan out of duty and pity. And Ethan had calculated on that pity when he’d asked her to marry him. Ambrose wondered, for the first time since he’d seen them dance together at his party those years ago, if Ethan loved her or if he merely wanted what Ambrose had. Ethan never could resist besting him. He’d done it in business, by emulating their father, and now by stealing May. If Ethan wanted to address any of this, Ambrose was ready. Was looking forward to it, actually.

  “Father’s been called to testify about the fire,” Ethan said.

  Ambrose slumped back into his bed, felled by the unexpected. “Columbus?” He realized then that the telephone had been ringing in the background all morning. He’d thought that’d been typical.

  “Washington. We’re taking the train this afternoon.”

  Ambrose pushed himself up on his elbows, lodging three pillows behind his head.

  And in that moment he felt an inkling of that long-lost affection for his brother. A kinship that he hadn’t felt since before he’d left. The command that Ambrose help work through a crisis—how could Ambrose say no? Though he’d be working for his father.

  “I’ll get up.” A wave of nausea crashed over him. He lay back in bed, knowing another hour or two of sleep would cure him.

  His brother tapped the shoehorn on the nearly empty decanter from last night, ringing the crystal. “I just spoke with Father and he asked . . . well, we agreed . . . you need to look after things from here.” At Ambrose’s face he added, “In town.”

  When the light stopped pulsing behind his eyes, Ambrose said, “I’ll feel better after a bath, just give me a minute.”

  “There are going to be decisions. We need someone here. We need someone downtown at the offices.” His brother’s saying “we” rang in Ambrose’s head. Ethan was hiding behind “we” all the time now.

  Ethan was scratching his scarred, lifeless hand with the edge of the shoehorn. “Father’s been patient. And generous, too. What do you plan to do here if you’re not interested in making a contribution?”

  “Right,” Ambrose said, sitting up. “That’s why I should go with you.”

  “You need to do what’s asked of you. I know . . .” And here he looked off, something catching his eye at the window. “I know that’s not your strong suit.” />
  Ambrose felt the indignity rising in him. He felt sure his brother was referring to May, to her request those years ago that he stay. And he saw again the shifting of alliances, a glimpse of the close familiarities between husband and wife.

  “I want to help,” Ambrose said. But the rest of his brother’s statement lay unanswered between them.

  It had become a rare thing in his life now to feel guilt. Yet since he’d been home, he was presented with it nearly constantly—a feeling almost as sickening as his hangover.

  In the silence, Ethan stood and walked to the window overlooking the driveway. He deftly drew up the sash one-handed, letting in the clean morning air and a cacophony of birdcalls. A breeze moved over the sheets, a reprieve from the close smell of the room. Ambrose sat up, scrubbing his face.

  His brother seemed distracted, watching something in the front. And then he angled his face toward the sunlight, warming himself like a cat.

  “Why don’t I come with you to the train station? We can go into town and talk about who’ll go on,” Ambrose said, finding his clothes in the bureau next to the bed and taking them into the bathroom with shaking hands. “Father has plenty of people who can stay behind,” he called. After quickly shaving and dressing, he lit a cigarette and emerged a few minutes later to find the room empty, his brother gone.

  When he went downstairs, the maid told him that his brother had just left in Mr. O’Brennan’s car. Mr. O’Brennan had arrived about five minutes ago and hadn’t even gotten out of his car before Mr. Ethan joined him and they drove off, she said.

  THE CARRIER PIGEONS

  To: Cornelia Q. Merrihew, Esq.

  From: Louis S. Morrell

  Re: Notice of Letter

  Ms. Merrihew:

  I’m in receipt of a letter from your cousin putting me (and you) on notice that she intends to pursue claims concerning your bequest. I am copied on the original and I would like to confirm your receipt of same.