Up Close and Personal. Fern Michaels
the point, why was Sarabess Windsor interested in Trinity? Sarabess had to be aware of his feelings where she was concerned. Over the years he’d never made a secret of those feelings, to his father’s chagrin. Yet, Sarabess had sent his father to plead her case. “Well, lady, you can plead till the proverbial cows come home, and I still won’t give you the time of day.”
Jake rinsed his coffee cup, set out some food and water for Elway, and left the apartment. The minute he reached the office he was going to do an Internet search to see if he could locate his old playmate. Something was going on, and he wanted to know what it was.
Chapter 5
Sarabess Windsor, dressed in beige linen and sensible heels, walked through her garden’s early-summer flowers. While she appeared to be admiring the colorful blooms, her thoughts were far away. Then she looked down at the begonias, which were huge and healthy-looking. There were no yellow leaves on the geraniums. The borders of impatiens were more vibrant than in any other year in her memory. Maybe she should think about giving the gardener a raise. She realized the improbability of that. She sniffed as she strolled along the cobbled garden path. She loved the sweet scent of the Confederate jasmine that was carried throughout the garden by the warm June breeze. Emily had always loved the scent of jasmine.
Sarabess plucked one of the small white blooms and brought it to her nose. She threw it on the ground immediately because it brought back too many memories of Emily. As she hurried down the old path, the sweet scent chased her relentlessly.
Sarabess stood at the split rail fencing that afforded her a spectacular view of the entire town of Crestwood. From where she was standing she could see the gravel road that led uphill to her front door. She took a deep breath when she saw Rifkin’s car. She stomped her foot in irritation when she saw there was only one person in the vehicle. Yet, in truth, she wasn’t all that surprised that Rifkin’s son wasn’t with him. Perhaps he would come to the Hill later in the day. If not, she’d just have to go into town to his office. He wouldn’t dare refuse to see her. Then again, he might just do that because he was just like his crazy Aunt Mitzi, who marched to some unseen drummer, according to Rifkin. Only God and Rifkin Forrest knew how much she hated Mitzi Granger.
Sarabess’s heartbeat quickened as she watched Rifkin get out of his car. For some reason her pulse always quickened at the first sight of the man walking toward her. He looked incredibly handsome in his business suit, pristine white shirt, and power tie, a tie she’d given him not too long ago. She adored his tallness, his long-legged stride, and the smile that was just for her. She smiled in return even though she knew he wasn’t bringing good news.
“It’s all right, Rif. I think we both knew he wouldn’t come up here. I appreciate your coming to the Hill to tell me as opposed to calling me. I can always go into town. Don’t look so stricken, it’s all right.”
Rifkin reached for Sarabess’s hand. She gave a gentle squeeze in return. No one but servants were there to see, and they couldn’t care less what the mistress of Windsor Hill did or didn’t do.
“I did my best, but my best wasn’t good enough. Jake is…he’s incredibly stubborn. He’s also bitter where I’m concerned. It eats at me, but there’s nothing I can do about that, either.”
“What you wanted, Rif, was a chip off the old block. Your son is his own person, and that’s admirable. I’ll think on the matter and go into town when it’s time. I know you’re running late, so go along. Dinner this evening?”
“Absolutely.” Rifkin exerted some of his own gentle pressure on Sarabess’s hand before he turned to go back to his car. The car door open, Rifkin looked over his shoulder, and said, “Jake has a cat!”
Sarabess laughed. “Really!”
Rifkin grinned as he climbed into the car and turned on the engine. He laughed all the way downhill and into town. He had no idea why he was laughing.
Sarabess waited until she could no longer see Rifkin’s car before she walked back into the mansion. She walked through the rooms, touching this, looking at that. She was upset. For the first time since Rifkin Forrest came into her life, he hadn’t been able to give her what she asked for. No one had ever said no to her before. She didn’t like the feeling. Not one little bit. She corrected the thought. Mitzi Granger said no to her on a regular basis.
Sarabess continued to walk through her impeccably decorated house. She’d lost count of how many times she’d redone the entire house. Just to have something to do so she wouldn’t think. Choosing fabrics, looking at paint swatches required one’s undivided attention. She’d striven for hominess, but it was an impossible task. The house simply didn’t allow for a home-and-hearth décor. Once she’d gone the antique route, and Rifkin had laughed his head off. The next day everything had been carted off. She rarely made a mistake, but when she did, it was what Rifkin called a doozy.
Always, when she got upset like this, Sarabess wished she had a hobby instead of the obsession that haunted her day and night. If you believed what you read in the slick magazines, everyone had a hobby of some kind, but she imagined few people were obsessed. Maybe there was something wrong with her. Nothing in the world interested her except Rifkin, and she lived for his visits. How in the world had her life come to this?
She was at the door with no memory of walking down the hall to get here. She never just opened the door. Oh, no, that was too easy. She had to go through the painful ritual of casting her mind back in time, back to when her beautiful little girl inhabited the fairy princess room.
Sarabess squeezed her eyes shut so the burning tears wouldn’t roll down her cheeks. She inserted the little gold key she wore around her neck. She turned the knob, her eyes open now. For some reason she always gasped at the beautiful room. It truly was fit for a princess. Her little princess. The canopy bed had sheer pink netting gathered at each of the four posts with sparkling white ribbon. The bedspread was pale pink, with appliquéd ballerinas dancing across it. Even the pillows were covered with miniature ballerinas. A crystal lamp with a frilly pink shade stood on each night table.
Sarabess sat down on the edge of the bed. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she could detect the faint scent of Confederate jasmine, or maybe it was a gardenia scent. Emily had loved having her bedding sprayed with the scent. When the delicate little flowers were in bloom there was always a vase of them on the nightstand. She got up and looked around the enormous room—which was part bedroom, part playroom, part schoolroom—surprised that after all these years the carpet was just as white as the day when it was installed.
So many books. Books that hadn’t interested Emily. Every toy known to a child sat in the playroom. And yet, Emily had rarely played with anything. The schoolroom section of the room was relatively bare except for the white desk, the white chair with a pink cushion, the blackboard with pink chalk, the pink Princess telephone. A pity there had been no friends to call. The rambunctious youngsters Emily’s age, even those younger or older, had no time for a semi-invalid. They wanted to play ball, climb trees, chase each other, go swimming in the pond, ride their bikes. All Emily could do was watch from her window on the Hill. The princess in the tower.
Sarabess walked over to one of the diamond-pane windows and opened it. The warm summer air swooshed inward, the sheer organza curtains billowing in the breeze. She closed her eyes, remembering other times she’d done the same thing. The scent of jasmine invading the room was almost overpowering. With shaking hands, Sarabess closed the window and straightened out the crisp white curtain.
She took one last look around. Did she have the guts to dismantle this room? Could she donate all these things to some worthy cause? What would she do then? Just paint the room, change the carpeting and curtains, then walk out and lock the door?
Sarabess walked down the hall to her own bedroom and picked up the phone. She punched in the numbers she knew from memory. “This is Julia Barrows, and I’d like to make an appointment with Mr. Forrest. The young Mr. Forrest.” Five minutes later, Sarabess hung up the phone. She had an appointment for eleven o’clock the next morning with Jacob Forrest.
It was midafternoon when