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The Widow And The Wastrel
The Americana Series: Ohio
By Janet Dailey OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1977 Janet Dailey
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-1522-9
CHAPTER 1
ELIZABETH CARREL stepped through the door of her home, a tennis racquet tucked under her arm. It was another hot August day. The heat and exertion had combined to leave her feeling drained and exhausted as she leaned tiredly against the hardwood door.
"Elizabeth, is that you?" The mature, feminine voice held an authoritative ring.
Pushing the thick, raven-black hair away from her face, Elizabeth straightened away from the door, the vulnerable look leaving as her canvas shoes carried her farther into the brick-tiled foyer.
"Yes, Rebecca," she answered, not bothering to glance into the priceless antique mirror hanging on one wall of the entryway.
At the archway into the living room, she paused, her green eyes gazing at the smart, sophisticated woman within. Perfectly styled silver-gray hair gleamed from beneath a summer hat of blue flowers, an exact match to the opaque flowered dress of pale blue, impeccably tailored to show off the slender form of the much older woman. A brooch of amethyst and sapphires was the only jewelry. A bone-colored handbag to go with the bone-colored shoes sat on an oak table.
"I thought you would have left for your luncheon by now," Elizabeth commented.
"I would have," Rebecca Carrel replied. The melodic smoothness of her tone carried a hint of censure. "But I sent your daughter to her room an hour ago to get ready for her music lesson and she hasn't come down yet. Perhaps you will see what's keeping her."
Elizabeth smiled wanly at her mother-in-law. "I'll see."
The stairway leading to the upper floor of the old home was in a hallway of the foyer. Her shoes made little sound on the hardwood steps, the patina of many years adding to their high polish. At the door to her daughter's room, Elizabeth paused and knocked once.
The action brought a curious smile to the full curve of her lips. It hadn't been prompted by a reluctance to enter Amy's room without permission, but by a silent demand that the formal atmosphere of the house made. After a grumbling acknowledgment from the room, she entered.
There was an understanding light in her eyes as Elizabeth looked at the sullen figure staring out the window. Rebellion was outlined in the erect frame and squared shoulders.
"Hello, Amy."
The cap of curling brunette hair turned at her mother's voice, brown eyes snapping with displeasure. "Mother, do I have to have my lesson today? Can't I miss it just once? If I was sick you wouldn't make me go."
The impulse was there to agree, but Elizabeth held it back, and walked farther into the room. Her daughter was rebellious enough as it was without adding impetus to her fight.
"I think you'd better have your lesson today. There will be other days when you'll have to miss because of some special thing that's planned," she reasoned.
"I'll bet," Amy pouted openly.
"Your grandmother's waiting for you downstairs."
"I know." The admission was made through gritted teeth. "I just hate these lessons, Mother! Mrs. Banks keeps making me do the same thing over and over and over. And that fan keeps making horrid noises and it's so hot."
"I thought you told me that you liked playing the piano." Elizabeth prompted gently, a smile held in check at the vehemence in her daughter's voice.
"I like playing the piano, but I don't like lessons and practising those stupid scales!"
"In order to do one, you have to do the other."
"Oh, Mom!" Amy sighed.
The reverting back to the less formal mode of address signalled the agreement of her daughter. This time Elizabeth didn't hold back her smile, but let the warmth of her love show through as she tilted up the downcast chin.
"You'd better get your music books and get downstairs or your grandmother will be late for her luncheon," she ordered lightly.
"The sooner I go, the sooner I can leave," Amy sighed again, widening her eyes with mock adult resignation.
"Such enthusiasm!" Elizabeth laughed softly and pressed a quick kiss on her daughter's forehead before pointing her in the direction of the door.
She didn't follow Amy down the stairs, but remained at the top of the landing near the door to her own room staring after the youthful form going down the steps. She was a beautiful child wile would be an even more beautiful adult. Unconsciously Elizabeth marveled that this exquisite little human being had come from her flesh and blood. She had long ago ceased to remember that Amy's father had played any part in the creation.
When Elizabeth stepped into her room, the photograph on the dressing table reminded her. The man in the picture was a stranger to her. Their marriage had been of such a short duration when he was killed in an automobile accident. At the time, she hadn't even known she was carrying Amy. It was difficult to remember she had ever been married, so brief had been their interlude together.
Of course, she had been married to Jeremy Carrel or she wouldn't be living in his family's house today. And Amy resembled her father with her dark brown hair and eyes, but her attitude and personality was totally dissimilar to his. Jerry, who had never been a mother's boy, had accepted the role his family played in the community, society, business, and leadership. When Elizabeth had married him, he had been marking time and preparing for the day when he would take command of the Carrel law firm and its holdings from his father. Never once did he strain at the invisible bonds of what was socially acceptable as Amy did. He never did anything in excess except what was accepted.
Turning away from the photograph, Elizabeth saw her reflection in the full-length mirror standing freely in the corner of her room in its self-supporting oak frame. Her tennis whites accented the gleaming bronze shade of her shapely legs, slimly rounded hips curved into a slender waist, then the line curved back out to indicate the adult fullness of her breasts. She didn't need the reflection to tell her that she was a beautiful woman, hardly looking old enough, to have an eight-year-old child.
Perhaps, Elizabeth decided as she turned from the mirror to remove her tennis clothes, Amy's stubborness did come from her father's unshakable determination. And from her own as well. She simply hadn't been able to steer Amy's self-will into a constructive outlet. The minor rebellions seemed to have increased in the last year. Elizabeth wondered if the lack of a male figure in her daughter's life was the cause.
Amy's grandfather, Jerry's father, had been taken from them quite suddenly with a heart attack almost two years ago. He had never spent much time with Amy even though they lived in the same house. Nor had Amy ever indicated any great affection for her grandfather, but sometimes Elizabeth found it difficult to know exactly what was on her daughter's mind.
Hesitating in front of the open door of her closet, she shrugged away the thought of dressing and reached instead for the cotton caftan. Its loose-fitting folds would be much more comfortable on this hot, stickily humid day.
Downstairs again, Elizabeth paused in the roomy, old-fashioned kitchen long enough to fix herself a cold glass of lemonade. She had already had a light lunch with her tennis partner and friend, Barbara Hopkins. Besides, with the house quiet, this was the perfect time to read through the plays the local theatre group was considering using this season.
Although there was no longer a Carrel in the business community, Rebecca Carrel had not relinquished her leadership in the other areas. Elizabeth had the impression that now that her husband was gone, her mother-in-law actually enjoyed being the sole center of attention, no longer needing to share the spotlight with her husband. It was a mean thought since Elizabeth knew at first hand how devoted Rebecca had been, always the perfect wife, the perfect helpmate and the perfect confidante to her husband, while maintaining her own social position and never allowing the two to conflict.
Rebecca Carrel was a marvel of organization and Elizabeth had learned considerably from her. Now she played an active role in the 'right' social clubs of the community. She was a Carrel, and the younger set sought her out in much the same way as her mother-in-law. Her life was full to the point that there was rarely an empty moment. Maybe that was why she never missed Jerry as much as she thought she would. In the beginning, Rebecca had not allowed her the time to grieve, although Elizabeth had felt more shock than grief. Then there had been Amy. And now—well, now there was now.
As she entered the living room, Elizabeth stopped and, with a smile, walked to the piano in the small alcove. She ran her fingers lightly over the ivory keys, remembering her own young rebellion at practising scales. Amy seemed to have an aptitude for the piano, expressing an enjoyment similar to what Elizabeth had known. Certainly she had never pushed Amy into learning.
Setting her lemonade glass down, she began experimentally picking out the melody of a song. More memories came flooding back as the nimbleness of her fingers increased. It was at the piano recital that she had met Jerry. He had come with his parents and they had been introduced for the first time at the reception that followed the recital.
Not that Elizabeth hadn't known who he was all the time. She doubted that anyone in the county hadn't known Jeremy Carrel. Nearly everyone had given up expecting that he would marry a local girl. When she had seen that admiring light in his dark eyes, she knew there was hope. If she played her cards right, Elizabeth had realized that she could catch the most eligible bachelor around—and in truth, that was exactly what she had set out to do. It had been terribly easy to let herself fall in love with Jerry.
Mary Ellen Simmons, the aunt who had raised Elizabeth after her parents had died when she was eleven, had not entirely approved of the marriage. She had insisted that at seventeen Elizabeth couldn't possibly know that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with Jerry Carrel, fearing that her niece was more impressed with his background than in love with the individual. Her suspicions were never proved one way or the other. In fact, Elizabeth hadn't given them a thought until this minute.
Curious. Her fingers slipped into a slower, more pensive tune. Why was she suddenly dwelling on what happened so many years ago? She had never questioned before whether she had truly loved Jerry or not. It was a moot question that had no definitive answer.
A surge of restlessness burst through her for no apparent reason. Her fingers clanged on the keyboard, discordant and harsh. Anger turned inward that she had wasted time with useless daydreaming that could have been better spent studying the theater's plays.
Sliding to the edge of the piano bench, Elizabeth reached for her lemonade glass. With it safely in hand, she turned to rise impatiently and froze. A figure was leaning against the wooden frame of the living room archway.
A cold chill ran down her spine at the unkempt appearance of the man; a sweat-stained shirt of light blue was half-unbuttoned to accent a masculine chest tanned teak brown. Lean hips were covered by slacks that were probably a darker blue, only they were too dust-covered to be certain. The stubble of unshaven beard darkened the chiseled angles of his face. A windbreaker was over one shoulder and a much used duffle bag was sitting on the floor beside him. Thick, tobacco brown hair had been combed away from the tanned face by the fingers of one hand. Hazel gold eyes were watching Elizabeth with lazy intentness.
"What are you doing in here?" she breathed, suddenly conscious of how isolated the house was in its country setting.
"Is the concert over?" his deep, husky voice asked.
She rose to her full five feet six inches, making her shaky voice sound icy and imperious. "You have no right to be in here. I suggest that you leave immediately before I contact the authorities." There was a flash of white in the beard growth as the man smiled and remained where he was. "If you're looking for a handout, you'll get none here. The highway is a half-mile down the road. I'll give you five seconds to leave and I'm phoning the police."
With the threat voiced, she walked to the telephone and picked up the receiver. Any second she expected him to pull a gun or knife and assault her.
"I didn't expect the fatted calf," he drawled, "but I did think I would at least be offered a meal."
"You'd better leave." She dialed the first digit, ignoring his comment.
"You're going to feel like a fool, little sister. It might be interesting to see a Carrel with a red face, even one claiming the name by marriage," he chuckled softly.
For the second time, Elizabeth froze, her green eyes swinging back to the stranger in the archway, confident, not the least bit intimidated by her threat. She didn't know him, but he seemed to know her, or at least he was aware of her connection with the Carrels.
"Who are you?" she demanded. Her fingers were still tightly clenching the receiver.
"Have I changed that much in all these years?" A brow lifted in mock inquiry. "I would have recognized you anywhere. I like your widow's weeds. Jerry always did like you in blue."
The receiver nearly was dropped from her hand. "Jed?" she whispered in disbelief.
"The one and only," he confirmed, straightening from his slouching position against the door. "Had you given me up for dead?"
"We haven't heard from you—" Elizabeth began, then stopped. "Jed, your father—he had a heart attack almost two years ago. He's ... he's dead." There seemed no way to put it less bluntly.
"The house hasn't changed much," was his comment as his tawny gold gaze swept the room, then it returned to the sympathy etched on her oval features. "I heard about Dad," he said finally with little emotion visible on his unshaved face. "Mother's letter caught up with me about a year ago. There seemed little point in returning by that time."
"Why ... why have you come back?" she asked.
His tongue clicked in mock reproval. "It's bad manners to ask probing questions, Liza."
"Elizabeth," she corrected automatically, and he laughed.
"Still striving for status, I see."
"I don't like the name Liza. It sounds—"
"Common was the adjective I believe you used before," he reminded her. "It was shortly after you became engaged to my brother and you were trying to appear the poised and sophisticated young lady to impress my mother. You became very angry when I called you that in front of them."
"I remember." A tautness crept into her expression as she averted her eyes from the watchfulness of his.
"Where's Mother?"
"At a luncheon in town," Elizabeth replied.
"Of course, it's Thursday, isn't it? I had forgotten that she holds court every Thursday." A hard smile moved over his mouth, somewhat cynical and derisive.
"If you would like to clean up, the room at the end of the stairs is empty. You can put your things there. There are fresh towels in the bathroom."
His expression didn't change. "Is that a subtle hint that you find my appearance less than presentable?" Jed Carrel queried mockingly. "It was a hot, dusty walk out here."
"Do you mean you walked from town?" She frowned at him in surprise.
He glanced down at his dust-covered shoes and slacks. "My feet were the only transportation available. The local taxi was no doubt ferrying Mother's lady friends to their weekly luncheon with the Queen."
"You could have waited," Elizabeth murmured automatically.
"I was anxious to see if Thomas Wolfe was right, that you can't go home again. So far I would say hers right. My old room at the head of the stairs is in use?"
"It's Amy's now." She bristled faintly at his implication. They had met only once. They were virtually strangers, so why should he expect her to welcome him back with open arms?
"Amy?" Jed questioned with a dark brow arched in inquiry.
"My daughter." Her chin lifted fractionally to a defiant angle.
Again there was the cynical movement of his mouth that was supposed to resemble a smile. "Oh, yes," he nodded. "I remember Jerry left you with a child. Amy, that was my grandmother's name."
"That was her namesake," Elizabeth admitted.
"Mother must have liked that. Or was it her suggestion?"
His mocking jibe struck home, but Elizabeth wouldn't acknowledge it. "Several names were discussed before Amy was born." She turned away abruptly. "Have you eaten? Would you like me to fix you a light lunch?"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Widow And The Wastrel by Janet Dailey. Copyright © 1977 Janet Dailey. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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