A Proper Wife. Sandra Marton
right, all right. I suppose you know that my eighty-seventh birthday is fast approaching.”
“So you gave yourself an early gift? A meal that would make your doctors tear out their hair if they saw it?”
“This is my life, not theirs.” James’s eyes met his grandson’s. “Do you remember any of what you learned in Sunday school, my boy?”
“Well,” Ryan said carefully, “that depends.”
“I’m referring to the biblical injunction that a man is entitled to live three score years and ten.” James smiled. “I’ve done a bit better than that.”
Ryan smiled, too. “You always managed to get a good return on your investments, sir.”
“I went on that hideous no-fat, no-sugar, no-taste regimen seven years ago at the urging of my doctors. They convinced me that a man of eighty, who’d survived the sort of surgery that kills men half that age, might improve his lot by eating wisely if not well.”
“It was good advice.”
“It was—until now.”
“Come on, Grandfather. You’re not going to throw in the towel just because you’re turning eighty-seven in a couple of months!”
“I had my semiannual checkup last week.” James’s tone was brisk. “The doctors suggested I make certain my affairs were all in order.”
Ryan’s smile faded. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that not even a diet of pap can keep a man living beyond his time—which is as it should be. No one should take up room on this overcrowded planet forever.”
“That’s nonsense!”
“It is absolutely logical, and you know it. And before you ask... yes, I have sought a second medical opinion. It confirms the first. It’s time to tally up the books.”
Ryan felt his gut twist. He loved his grandfather fiercely. James had been his surrogate father and his professional mentor. He’d been everything, all the family Ryan had ever known. The years had passed—of course they had. Still, in a way that had nothing to do with rational thought, he’d expected to have more time.
“There’s no reason to look so bleak, boy. I’ve enjoyed my life. Truly, I have no regrets.”
Ryan cleared his throat. “What about seeing another doctor? A specialist?”
“I told you, I already have. A battery of them. They’ve all muttered their magical incantations and read their chicken bones—and they’re in complete agreement.”
Ryan got to his feet and paced across the room. “There’s got to be something you can do.”
“There isn’t.”
“Something I can do, then!”
“There is.”
Ryan swung around. “What? Tell me, and I’ll do it.”
“Will you?” James said softly. “Can I count on you to do something that may, at first glance, seem...difficult?”
Ryan’s eyes narrowed. “Have I ever let you down, sir?”
The old man smiled. “No. No, you have not.”
“Tell me what you want and I’ll take care of it.”
James hesitated, then cleared his throat.
“I had a visitor last week,” he said. “Two visitors, actually. Your brother’s widow—and his stepdaughter.”
Ryan frowned at the abrupt change in topic. “Bettina came to see you?”
“Yes. With her daughter, the offspring of husband number one, Gordon’s unlucky predecessor twice removed.”
“But why? I mean, Gordon’s been dead more than a year.”
“Oh, Bettina babbled on and on about family for a while but eventually she got down to basics.”
“I’ll bet.” Ryan’s tone was harsh. “What did she want?”
“Money. Not that she said so. Whatever else she is, Bettina’s not stupid. She’d never be so obvious.”
“She’s obvious enough. The only one who never saw through her was Gordon.”
“Evidently he did, at the end.”
“What do you mean?”
“He not only left Bettina, he cut her out of his will.”
Ryan’s eyebrows angled in surprise. “Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. He left his money to charity and his house in San Francisco to me.”
“Damn,” Ryan said softly. A slow grin crept over his mouth. “Now Bettina wants you to do something about it.”
“What she wants, as she so delicately put it, is for me to remember that she is one of us.”
“The hell she is!”
James nodded. “I agree. But there are other considerations.”
“What other considerations? The woman’s no good. She must have slept in a hundred different beds before she set her sights on Gordon.”
“Including yours?”
Ryan swung toward James. “No,” he said harshly, “not including mine—but it wasn’t for lack of effort. She made that clear enough.” His eyes narrowed. “How did you know?”
James smiled. “I was only seventy-nine when she married Gordon,” he said wryly. “A man in his prime can always read a woman like that.”
“Gordon couldn’t,” Ryan said, his expression still stony.
The old man sighed. “This isn’t about your brother’s inability to see the truth, it’s about responsibility.”
“Are you saying you feel sympathy for this woman?”
“I’m not talking about sympathy. I’m talking about responsibility. And family obligation. Those things are important, Ryan. Surely you know that.”
Ryan looked at James’s lined face, at the hand holding the cognac glass and its slight but perceptible tremor, and he forced himself to swallow his anger.
“You’re right, so if you’re about to tell me you’ve decided to deed Bettina that house in San Francisco or include her in your will, you needn’t worry. What you do with your estate is your business, sir. You don’t owe me any explanations.”
“But you wouldn’t approve.”
“No. I wouldn’t.”
James laughed. “Direct, as always.”
Ryan smiled back at the old man. “I wonder where I could possibly have picked up such a trait?”
“Believe me, my boy, I have no intention of giving Bettina anything. I’d never countermand Gordon’s desires.”
“Well, then, I don’t see—”
“Did I mention that her daughter was with her?”
“Yes.” Ryan crossed the room and poured himself some more cognac. “She must be...what? Seventeen? Eighteen? The last I saw her—the only time I saw her, come to think of it—was the evening before Gordon moved to the coast. He brought Bettina and the girl here for dinner.”
“Your memory is better than mine. I didn’t remember the girl at all.”
“That’s because there’s nothing to remember. The child sat like a lump. She was a gawky-looking thing, all bones and knees, decked out in frills that didn’t become her.”
James smiled.