She was not part of his family, not one of the five Colebrook siblings whom he spotted on the bridge or in the lobby below. She did not work for him—not anymore, now that the garden she’d designed was finished. She would never curry his favor like the politicians and business leaders, like the executives from companies owned by Colebrook International, not even like her own husband and her husband’s partner, the architects who’d designed this building.
Lily MacKenzie Porter. Her son was not his. Her life was not his. She was another man’s wife.
But she had belonged to Artemas since the day she was born.
“Help! I’m caught in the zipper.”
“Hold on, mister, you’ll rip off something important. We’d have to call you Stephanie instead of Stephen.” Kneeling in the loamy mulch among the plants, trying to ward off her six-year-old’s helpful hands, Lily tucked and zipped, then straightened his child-sized tuxedo. “Next time you have to pee, you tell me before you get desperate. This place has more toilets than the Atlanta stadium. I’ll find one for you. Okay?”
“Okay. But I want to see Daddy give his talk.”
“Daddy’s just going to go up on the bridge and say, ‘Yep, we built the whole doggoned thing. Thank you very much.’ ”
“Him and Frank and Mr. Grant and
you
.”
“I just did the garden.”
“I like the garden best of all.”
“That’s because you’ve got farmer blood in you.” Lily ruffled his red hair. “Can’t let you look
too
neat,” she whispered, grinning at him. “Daddy wouldn’t recognize you.”
She led Stephen from the garden, and they sat on the marble edge while she slipped her feet back into the high-heeled black shoes she’d dumped there. Her back, though covered by the gown’s sheer black yoke, felt exposed and cold. A bead of perspiration crept down her spine.
She wondered if Artemas was still high above them,
watching. After tonight, thank God, she could retreat from the memories and the unceasing sense of accusation.
The number of times they’d seen and spoken to each other over the past few years could be counted on the fingers of one hand. And each time he’d been unfailingly polite, even distant. No hint of their history had escaped, no ungallant invitation to forget her marriage vows, no attempt to remind her that he’d given this project to Richard’s firm because he thought it fulfilled an old debt of honor to her.
He’d done nothing to make her think about him when she made love to her husband. Yet he probably hoped she did. That was a torment she’d never admit to anyone and had fought with every ounce of loyalty to Richard.
“Where have you two been?” asked Richard, walking out of the crowd around them and clamping a hand on their son’s shoulder. “I like to know where you are.”
Lily looked up into her husband’s flushed face. Big and stocky—he could have played football in college if he’d had the kind of brutal streak the sport demanded—Richard was, instead, as gentle and dependable as a tame bear. She loved him, even if she wanted to shake him sometimes just to hear a growl.
Brown hair shagged over his forehead, and she knew he’d been running his hands through it again. His neck was red and splotchy above the white collar of his dress shirt; his black bow tie was askew. Richard belonged in muddy hiking boots, flannel shirts, and faded jeans, with a calculator in his shirt pocket and a roll of blueprints under one beefy arm. He always looked uncomfortable in the custom-tailored tux, which he wore only when forced to by social proprieties.
Tonight he looked as if he might split a seam. Lily stood, laid a hand along his jaw, and resisted an urge to ruffle his hair the way she’d ruffled Stephen’s. “Take a deep breath, sweetie. You and Frank have gone through hell to make this place what it is, and tonight you ought to enjoy it. Think about your award from the American Institute of Architects. Relax.”
“I just want this over with.” He bent close to the diamond cluster on her right ear and whispered, “It’s been bad enough having Julia Colebrook ranting and raving every minute of the past three years, but tonight we’ve got the whole goddamned Colebrook tribe. I wouldn’t be surprised if Julia takes them on a tour of the men’s rest rooms to point out that the urinals are an inch higher than she thinks they ought to be.”
Lily frowned. The Colebrook siblings were a clannish group, all six of them—reclusive, infinitely loyal to each other but especially to Artemas, the eldest. They were unpretentious for people who had a famous name and so much money, and every one of them worked in the family businesses. Together they owned an overwhelming majority of the public stock. Together they’d saved a ruined china company from bankruptcy and their family’s name from disgrace.
And when Artemas gave one of them a project, impressing him and the rest of the family became an obsession. Julia Colebrook was thus obsessed. She would probably make Richard miserable until the last hurrah. The whole project from its beginning had twisted Lily’s own emotions into knots as well.
She gave in and ruffled Richard’s hair, then said grimly, “Julia Colebrook just doesn’t like to bump her balls when she squats.”
Richard managed a wan smile. Lily caught a whiff of his breath. Alarm and surprise scattered goose bumps down her spine. Other than an occasional beer, Richard never drank. He thought her nightly glass of wine with dinner was one step from Baptist hell. “Your breath smells like free-samples day at a package store,” she said, casting a glance at Stephen, who, to her relief, was gazing up in distracted wonder at the bridge overhead.
“I’m nervous,” Richard answered, ramming his hands through his hair. Lily stared at him. Nervousness in Richard was as rare as hen’s teeth. He had always radiated the unshakable serenity of a man who, while not dull-witted
or ignorant, embraced life simply. Simple goals guided him—love for her and their son, rigid honesty, hard work.
“I have to go,” Richard said. He cupped her face in his hands, looked at her with a brand of anxiety she’d never seen before, and kissed her on the forehead. “Stay right here, all right? I’m coming back as soon as the ceremonies are over. I want to get out and go home. I love you, Red.”
“I love you too. And you’re going to be great up there.”
He swallowed hard. “Your trust is one of the best things that ever happened to me.”
He knelt in front of Stephen and hugged him. Stephen wrapped his arms around his father’s neck and beamed at him. “I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you, too, you little turnip.” Richard drew him close, clasped the back of his head, and shut his eyes as he held the boy As Lily studied Richard’s drawn expression, she put a hand on his shoulder. His eyes were full of tears when he looked up at her.
Stunned, she finally said, “You come back as fast as you can. I want to talk to you when we get home. You need a vacation.”
He nodded, rose, and set Stephen aside, then disappeared into the crowd. Lily stared after him, worried and confused.
She felt Stephen’s hand in hers, breaking her train of thought. “Daddy doesn’t like giving talks, does he, Mommy?”
“No, he doesn’t. And this is the most important project he’s ever worked on. But he’ll be all right.”
Frank’s arrival cut Lily’s brooding short. He came through the crowd in a flurry of elegant steps that propelled his dapper, lanky body between the guests without brushing a sequined elbow or tuxedoed arm. Richard’s partner had the blue-blooded social training of a prince and the ambition of a mobster. She wondered where he’d been all evening. Usually he and Richard were inseparable.
“She says she wants to start the ceremonies in five minutes,” he told her, throwing up both hands in defeat. The
she
was undoubtedly Julia Colebrook. “I told her they’re
scheduled for eight-thirty, not eight-fifteen. She changed the program. Damn her. I can’t find Oliver. And where’s Richard?”
“Richard just headed for the bridge. Oliver’s probably in hiding. I heard Julia introduce him to her sisters as ‘the contractor from hell.’ They looked at him as if he’d hidden corpses in the walls. I watched one of the most respected building contractors in this part of the country turn red and mumble like a fool.”
“That’s what she’s reduced us to,” Frank said, rubbing a high, elegant forehead with a hand that bore a diamond pinkie ring. “I can’t believe she’s going to twist the knife right until the end.”
“Yes, it’s hard to imagine why she’d hate your guts. All you did was break off your affair by sticking a ‘Dear Julia’ note to a blueprint you sent her.”
“Thanks a lot. That was a year ago.”
“I wouldn’t forget in one year’s time if I were Julia.”
Frank sighed. “I’ll go find Oliver. We’ll meet Richard on the bridge.”
Stephen grabbed Frank’s coattail. “Can I go with you? I think Daddy needs me to hold his hand.”
“It’s up to your mother.” Frank was scanning the crowd. A sheen of perspiration gleamed on his forehead. Frank, as cool as he was brilliant, was no less rattled than Richard tonight.
Stephen tugged on Lily’s hand. She looked down into his solemn blue eyes. “Please? I want to be with Daddy when he gives his talk.”
“All right. But be a quiet little gentleman, okay? And if you have to go to the bathroom again, tell Daddy the minute you need to.” Lily dropped to her heels, hitching her snug gown up a little, and stuck her fingers in her mouth. She combed Stephen’s mop of hair with long red nails. “I knew these false fingernails would be good for something besides scratching itches,” she teased. “There. You’re handsome. Go and tell Daddy we love him.”
“I will.” They traded hugs, then Frank picked the boy
up and walked wordlessly into the crowd. Lily waved as Stephen twisted over Frank’s shoulder and blew her a kiss.
After he faced forward again, she stood in pensive thought, her hand still in the air. A movement high above her caught her eye. Without thinking, she glanced upward, past the willow, the bridge, up the beehive of offices around the atrium. Colebrook had demanded a design more like a hotel than offices, Richard complained. It wasn’t practical.
No, it wasn’t. It was grand and soaring, a statement, part of a vision. Her gaze rose compulsively, up, up, until it reached him.
Artemas still stood on the balcony, looking down at her. He nodded slightly. She dropped her hand to her side, realizing it appeared as if she were paying homage to him.
Michael was coughing, his inhaler in one hand, when Artemas reached the lobby floor and went to him. “Are you all right?” Artemas asked, laying a hand between his shoulder blades, feeling the ridges of his spine even through his clothes. Michael nodded wearily. “I must be allergic to some of the plants in the garden. My asthma kicked in. No big deal.” He shook his head slightly, warning Artemas not to make an issue of it. His allergies and asthma were nothing new, and since the devastation of his wife’s death, he’d become even more aware that the family viewed him as frail, which he hated. But the irritation was tempered with a smile, as usual.
“Okay,” Artemas said, slapping his shoulder and moving away. Cassandra stood nearby, flicking ashes from a long, slender cigarette into her empty champagne glass and enviously eyeing Elizabeth, who was eating yet another miniature cheesecake she’d taken from a passing tray. “Where’s James?” Artemas asked, moving into the central spot his three siblings gave him in their midst.
“Over there near the stairway to the bridge, talking sports with some pompous fart from the Atlanta Braves management,” Cassandra answered. “While Alise tries to keep from yawning.”
Artemas glanced toward one of the marble stairways that descended from either end of the bridge like down-turned wings. Satisfied when he located James and his wife, he raised his eyes to the bridge, where Julia had commandeered the small dais at its center like a chic blond general in an Adolfo uniform. She was thumping the microphone. No detail, not even these last, minor ones, escaped her. Artemas had asked her to take full charge of the new building shortly after the family had agreed that costs and quality of life made the move from New York to Atlanta a smart business decision. Eager to impress the family with her coup, she’d made it clear that no one, not even Artemas, was going to look over her shoulder.
A grim smile came to his mouth. He’d distanced himself from the project admirably
Lily had been right to accuse him of maneuvering himself into her life, unwanted, when he’d hired her husband and his partner to design Colebrook International’s new headquarters and when he’d made it difficult for her to turn down his request that her small landscaping firm create the interior gardens, but she could never accuse him of any motive except a desire to win her respect again.
Julia turned and spoke to Richard Porter. Artemas watched the husky, broad-faced architect and thought how solid and intelligent and plodding he was, according to Julia’s reports. Like a goddamned mule.
Frank Stockman made his way through the crowd on the bridge, carrying Lily’s son. Artemas felt a mixture of emotions for the boy—resentment because he was Porter’s blood, but affection because he was Lily’s. With the curly red hair—just like Lily’s hair—tousled on his forehead, he looked as cheerful and sweet as a Raggedy Andy doll.
Artemas watched, surprised, as Richard frowned at his partner. Richard brushed past Julia and took Stephen from the other man’s arms.
Elizabeth’s soft, startled voice broke Artemas’s concentration. “What was
that
?” his sister said. He pivoted and saw her staring at the lobby’s white-marble floor.
“I felt it too,” Michael said, tucking his inhaler into an inner pocket of his dinner jacket and frowning.
“What?” Cassandra demanded.
Elizabeth looked up at Artemas worriedly. “A tremor.”
Alert, instantly aware of his command, Artemas swept a shrewd look around the crowded lobby. Other than a few murmured remarks and quizzical looks, the crowd seemed unfazed. He relaxed. “Probably a sonic boom. Something going on at the Dobbins airfields. A Lockheed test.”
Cassandra exhaled a puff of white smoke and crushed her cigarette into her fluted glass. “Are you kidding? With our connections? The United States Air Force had better not rattle a Colebrook party.”