Legacy (Capitol Chronicles Book 5) Read online

  LEGACY

  BY

  SHIRLEY HAILSTOCK

  Copyright @ 2013 Shirley T. Hailstock

  Published by Shirley T. Hailstock

  ISBN: 978-1-939214-07-2

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: Shirley T. Hailstock PO Box 513, Plainsboro, NJ 08536-0513.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Photo Credit: Shirley T. Hailstock

  Photo Credit: canstock.com

  Dedication

  To William D. Bennett, who taught me math and chemistry,

  but left me with a legacy that only be expressed in

  words if accompanied with friendship and happy tears.

  THE POINT OF NO RETURN

  "Not now," he whispered, placing his hands on either side of her face. He stared at her. Erika's eyes were huge and confused. Between them, something was happening and he didn't know if he wanted to stop it, or even if he could. Michael lowered his head and brushed his mouth over hers. Her lips were full and soft, yielding. This could be his undoing. He didn't want just any woman. He wanted her.

  It wouldn't take much for him to crush her against him, devour her mouth, peel this red suit from her warm body and take her on the bed only a few feet from where they stood.

  He wouldn't do that. He couldn't do it. There was something about her that told him she was fragile and easily broken. He kissed her tenderly, cradling her head between his hands. She returned his kiss with equal gentleness, opening her mouth to his enticing persuasion, accepting the fullness of his tongue as it swept inside and tasted the sweetness of her being.

  Michael tore his mouth from hers. He stared down at her, both of them breathing raggedly. "Make no mistake about this, Erika," he said in a voice thick with emotion. "I want to make love to you." She started to say something. "Shhh . . ." He put his finger to her lips.

  Her tongue darted out and licked it. Michael nearly lost his power of speech. A spiral of emotion fissured through him.

  "Erika, this isn't part of our agreement. We're awfully close to stepping across a line that hasn't been defined. There is a point of no return."

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Dear Reader Letter

  About the Author

  Books by Shirley Hailstock

  Excerpt from Under the Sheets

  Prologue

  "Money, Erika, like poverty, is one of life's true burdens." Carlton Lipton-Graves fell back against the pillows. He was pale, white and small, never having stood more than five-feet, five inches, even in his prime. Now a withered old man in his nineties, he looked like a dwarf in the huge bed, its heavily carved headboard stretching nearly as high as the ceiling. Erika St. James sat on the white coverlet, watching him die. She'd been doing it for nearly a year, and the strain took its toll on her energy level. "Some want to take it from you," Carlton continued. "Swindle it from you, con you out of it, even steal it. They'll try any means." He slapped the bed weakly with his fist. "Some want you to give it to them, as if somebody gave it to you." He muttered the last. "Others criticize you for what you do or what you don't do with it." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His small rib cage expanded and contracted. Erika thought he'd dissolve into racking coughs as he'd done in days past, but surprisingly he remained calm and coherent.

  "Carlton, what are you talking about?"

  "It's no favor I've done you, Erika." His gaze was steady, although his eyes were faded and aged. "You or Michael?"

  "Michael?" she frowned. "Who's Michael?"

  "I'm sorry, Erika. I'll tell you that now." He continued as if she hadn't spoken. "It'll probably do him good. Get him off that damn hill. Been up there too long. Time for him to join the living, not the dying."

  Erika thought it a strange comment from a man who probably wouldn't last the night. She berated herself for thinking such a thing. She and Carlton had been friends since she was a child of eight, for twenty-six years. He was sixty years older. Together they had formed a special friendship. A bond existed between them that only the very young and the very old can understand. She had lived in California for the past eight years, and her visits were frequent, but never had he mentioned anyone named Michael. When had he met him? For a moment Erika thought Carlton might be senile, but quickly abandoned the idea. At ninety-four, Carlton had a mind as sharp as it had been when she’d first ran through his gate. He was rambling, but he was entitled, and she was obliged to listen, tired or not. Tonight was possibly his last night on earth. He could do whatever, say whatever, he wanted. Erika didn't mind. Tears gathered in her eyes. Carlton had called her a year ago, almost to the day, and asked her to return. She knew he was ill. There had been nothing to keep her in California, certainly not Bill Castle, her former fiancé, a man who'd run off and married another woman without the courtesy of breaking it off with her first. Carlton's request was a blessing, a chance to escape the sympathetic eyes and hushed whispers that had followed her entrance into a room.

  Bill Castle, an entertainment lawyer, was invited to the best celebrity parties, and Erika joined him in his high profile lifestyle. The two attended premiers, openings, back-stage parties, rubbed elbows with the rich, famous and infamous. It was common knowledge that the two were engaged. Erika sported a ring large enough to ice skate on. Bill’s abrupt marriage had left her reeling and emotionally stung. He was no better than her mother. When Carlton called, needing her, she came here—home. The only place she'd called home since they'd met. A place that welcomed her, made her feel safe and loved.

  Carlton closed his eyes. She remembered the day she'd met him. She'd been running from some horror, long since forgotten. Without thinking, she'd run through the hedges and over the lawn. There wasn't a gate then. Nothing had impeded her need to get as far away from her mother as possible. She ran through the front door and smack into him. He wasn't as tall as her father had been—he was only half a giant—but his strange white hair and scowling expression put fear in her heart and closed her throat, even to the scream that lodged there. Then he laughed. Not a booming, from-the-belly-laugh, but a happy laugh. She hadn't relaxed even then. Grown people often began with a laugh, but ended by being angry. Carlton hadn't.

  He invited her to tea. They drank it in his garden, a wonderful place full of flowers and smelling of sunshine and fall. She remembered that smell to this day. He invited her to come back whenever she was free, and she'd left smiling. Only her father had ever
treated her with the kind of kindness that Carlton had.

  Erika came back to the present. Carlton lay quietly, his eyes closed, his breaths even. Brushing a nostalgic tear away, she moved to get up. She wouldn't leave him. It was her duty to stay, a duty she considered more an honor than a command. Erika had resigned herself to the fact that he wouldn't recover from his illness. It had been diagnosed as heart disease, but his body was simply giving out from use. Another tear escaped her.

  He stopped her. "Where are you going?"

  "I thought you were asleep," she said, resuming her position on the spread.

  Erika wore a satin robe. It was a luscious green and contrasted with the white spread. Carlton had given her the robe for her last birthday.

  He took her hand. His fingers were thin and felt bony against her flesh. "I won't sleep again. I know that now. When I close my eyes it'll be for the last time."

  Tears sprang to Erika's eyes. She didn't contradict him. The doctor had said to keep him comfortable, agree to anything he said, and give him whatever he wanted. Medical science had done everything it could. It was up to a higher authority now.

  "I did want to see Michael again, but . . ."

  Erika thought he was talking more to himself than to her. Who was Michael? Maybe she could call him. Have him come as quickly as he could. Carlton interrupted her train of thought.

  "I guess you'll have to tell him for me."

  "Tell him what?" she whispered. "Who is Michael?"

  "My grandson."

  Grandson? This was the first she'd heard of him. She knew Carlton had had a son. He died three years before Erika met Carlton, the same year her father had died. The commonality gave them the foundation for their alliance. It was rare for the old man to mention his son. Erika thought about him. She understood. She hadn't been able to explain her pain after her father died. But a grandson!

  "Where is he?" Erika asked, unable to keep an incredulous note out of her voice. "He should be here." She had known Carlton for twenty-six years. How old was his grandson? Thirty? Thirty-four? He had to be at least as old as she was. What had happened to him? Why had he never come to see his grandfather? Why, when Carlton knew he was dying, had he called for her, and not his own flesh and blood? Of course she'd been glad to come back. Not just because Carlton was her friend, but because her life in Los Angeles had gone sour. Bill was no longer a consideration. Her position as Vice President of Marketing for a manufacturing company that made polyurethane products and sold them, mainly to the fantasy factories of Hollywood, meant nothing, and she was fed up with the shallow personalities of the west coast.

  Returning to Philadelphia to help Carlton had seemed a perfect reason to leave the stares behind and begin anew. But even knowing Carlton was ill hadn't prepared her for his dying. She knew she'd have to help him at Graves Enterprises, and she'd looked forward to the opportunity. Carlton had been her teacher more than any of her college professors at UCLA. When applying for jobs, she'd stood head and shoulders above other candidates in her ability to analyze a market and understand the dynamics of trending and competitive advantage. From the time she was a small child, Carlton had taught her how to run a diverse business.

  "He should be here. Doesn't he know . . ." She stopped, realizing what she was about to say—did he know his grandfather was dying? "I'll call him, Carlton." Erika leaned forward. A phone sat on the nightstand next to Carlton's bed. The ancient black instrument sat incongruously among brown plastic bottles of prescription drugs and a silver pitcher of water. The ice inside caused droplets to form on the shiny surface. Erika noticed a drop slide down the side to disappear into the white cloth at its base. She reached in the pocket of the robe and remembered she’d left her cell phone was in her room.

  "No phone. He's stuck on that mountain and no one can get him off." Then Carlton looked at her. His eyes cleared and he stared as if he was seeing her for the first time in years. "Maybe you can, Erika. I'm counting on you. Get Michael to come back."

  Erika felt manipulated. She wouldn't promise a dying man she would do something she wouldn't. She couldn't. Promises were the most sacred things one person could offer another. She'd had enough of them made to her and broken. No matter what Dr. Mason had said, she was not going to promise Carlton anything having to do with his grandson.

  "Carlton, I didn't even know you had a grandson."

  "He needs someone, too," Carlton said.

  Erika swallowed. She knew exactly what Carlton meant. When she was eight she'd needed a friend and Carlton had been there. Erika, at thirty-four, knew that need didn't disappear with adulthood.

  "Promise me, Erika?"

  She hesitated. "Carlton—"

  "Promise me," he interrupted, grasping her hand in his bony one.

  Erika peered into his eyes.

  "Promise me!" He raised his voice, a shuddering, weak imitation of the voice she remembered from childhood.

  She nodded, hating Carlton for forcing her to do something she didn't want to do.

  "Get me the book." Carlton pointed toward the large, ornate desk in the corner of the room. It had been used by generations of Graves since the 1800s. Erika went to it. She didn't see any book. "In the drawer," he whispered, his voice weak.

  She pulled a drawer open and found file folders, each neatly labeled by Carlton's secretary. She closed it and opened another. "Bottom," he said, raising himself up on his elbows. She could see the effort costing him all his energy.

  She found it, a leather-bound photo album with the name Michael Lawrence Lipton-Graves embossed on it in gold letters. It was obviously old and well-worn. The leather was soft, with small creases brought on by age and the number of times it was opened and closed.

  "Bring it." He reached toward the album, a gesture that looked like begging. Erika could tell the book was precious to him. She had albums that bore witness to her growing years. Carlton proudly displayed them on a shelf in the library. Yet this well-worn chronicle of Michael Lawrence Lipton-Graves was apparently for Carlton’s eyes only.

  She carried it back to him and placed it within reach. He lay back against the pillows, clutching it to him as if holding something precious. His eyes softened and clouded for a moment. Erika had never seen him look so vulnerable. She'd seen him weakened by age and pain, but this photo album had added a weakness that only love could cause.

  Erika only barely remembered that kind of love. She never got it from her mother, but her father had loved her unconditionally. She knew Carlton, too, loved her, but not with the same passion as for someone whose bloodline flowed in his veins. Michael Lawrence Lipton-Graves alone held that distinction. When Carlton left this earth, surviving his corporeal body would be a part of himself.

  Carlton opened the soft leather album, using his gnarled, arthritic fingers, which must be in pain. Turning the book toward Erika, he pointed to a photo. A small black child of about ten years old looked up from the time-encased shot.

  "Michael," Carlton said. . .and died.

  Chapter 1

  Michael woke with a start. It wasn't the dream this time— but the crate against his back had fallen away. He lay on the small wharf next to the rowboat. The bobbing had relaxed him and he'd fallen into a light sleep. Pulling the crate back into place, he repositioned himself. The August sun warmed his face, but fall came early in the mountains and winter's snow would soon follow it. Michael liked winter. He liked the freshness in the air, even when he'd lived in the city. Winter days were fresh, biting sometimes, but always clear enough to get his mental juices flowing. Maybe this winter he'd finally get rid of Abby's image.

  Looking up, he saw birds, in the standard V formation, flying southward in the sky. Trees swayed in the light breeze. It was quiet, relaxing. Yet he felt disturbed. He'd dreamed of Abby last night, and since then hadn't been able to shake the helpless feeling that he should have done something. Over and over he'd replayed that dream in his head. He couldn't have done anything, didn't have time to react before everything wa
s over. Yet she haunted him from time to time. Just when he thought she was going away, she'd show up again.

  A movement from the side caught Michael’s eye. He saw her. For a millisecond he thought Abby had stepped out of his dream, but watching her come forward he realized she was just another lost tourist—tourist or weekender coming up to the mountains for the weekend who couldn't find the campgrounds. Why did they think camping meant going to a park and plugging in all the amenities they had at home?

  She came toward him, one hand raised against the sun. She wore pants, not jeans like most of the tourists but slacks like women wore to offices, and shoes, not tennis sneakers. Her blouse was white, long-sleeved, and soft. The breeze pressed it against her breasts. Her gait was confident and purposeful. Despite her shoes, she didn't tiptoe over the stones that defined the path to the jetty where Michael had a small rowboat. Something stirred inside him. For the first time in a long while he felt the beginnings of arousal. Michael gauged her gait. She walked as if she knew where she was going. She reminded him of a fast car, dark and sleek, with underlying power. He'd had a car like that once.

  She had to be from his office. Although he'd never set eyes on her before, somehow he recognized that corporate control, that I-can-do-the-impossible attitude.

  Stopping in front of him, she studied the mountains in the distance as if she were assessing the place, looking it over with thoughts of buying it. It wasn't for sale.

  "Are you Michael Lawrence?" She asked the question without looking at him.

  He eyed her, not moving from his position. She had long legs and short hair. If he stood up she'd probably come to his shoulder. He was six foot two. That made her tall for a woman. Her skin was flawlessly smooth and as richly brown as a thoroughbred's coat. No one had come looking for him in the year he'd been here. Except for the last week, when a car had come three times to deliver telegrams he hadn't bothered to open, he'd seen only lost tourists. Now this woman was here specifically for him.