That's My Baby!. Vicki Thompson Lewis
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of a fireplace in use. That heartened him, although he doubted the setting was as cozy as the living room at the Rocking D in Colorado. But he didn’t need cozy right now. He needed information. He hoped to God her parents had some.
He turned toward the driver. “Listen, I don’t know how long I’ll be, so I’m sure you could wait in the house, where it’s warmer.”
“Nah. Thanks, anyway, but I’d rather stretch my legs and have a smoke, if it’s all the same to you. I’ll be here whenever you’re ready to go.”
“Okay.” Nat was too impatient to argue the point. “Knock on the door if you change your mind.” Leaving his backpack in the cab, he exited the car and mounted the steps to the front door, which looked as proper as a starched shirtfront. He lifted the brass knocker and rapped twice.
Almost immediately a uniformed butler opened the door.
Nat introduced himself. He was ushered quietly inside and relieved of his leather jacket. The butler had a strong British accent, and Nat remembered Jessica mentioning him. Barclay. Her father had hired him away from the Savoy.
The foyer lived up to the promise of the outside. A crystal chandelier sprinkled light over antiques that had been waxed and buffed until they shone. A table against one wall held a small bronze that Nat thought might be famous. He wasn’t up on art, but it looked familiar.
On a larger table in the center of the large entry, a bouquet of fall flowers filled a blue-and-white urn taller than a two-year-old child. Nat would bet the flowers were replaced every day. Their scent mingled with the tang of paste wax, and something else—maybe the smell of money, Nat thought. The contrast with the poverty he’d recently left made the elegant setting seem almost obscene.
“Mr. and Mrs. Franklin are in the library,” the butler said. “If you’ll follow me.”
As Nat walked down the hallway, an Oriental carpet that looked old and priceless cushioned his steps. He glanced at the gleaming railing on the stairway spiraling up to the second floor, and a vivid image of Jess sailing down the banister tugged at his heart. She’d only gotten away with it once, she’d said, but she’d never forgotten the joy of risking the forbidden.
He’d been having trouble finding evidence of her in this formal setting, but the banister looked as if it had been made for sliding down. Still, she’d probably never swung on a tire in the backyard or played hopscotch on the front walk. He was glad he’d seen this place, if only to understand Jess better.
His last picture of her tortured him—her long red curls tousled from lovemaking, her brown eyes filled with angry tears. Don’t you love me enough? she’d cried.
He’d left without answering the question, which effectively gave her an answer. He’d heard some object hit the door and shatter after he’d closed it behind him.
For Jess, love meant marriage and children. He hadn’t been willing to give her either one, because he’d thought he’d be lousy at it. He still thought so, but she’d haunted him the entire time he’d been gone. Another worker in the refugee camps, a sweet and willing woman, had offered herself. He’d gladly accepted, but to his chagrin he discovered that he couldn’t make love to anyone but Jess.
Finally he’d faced the truth. Sometime during the year he’d been seeing Jess, while he’d thought he was guarding his heart, she’d crept past the gates and set herself up as a permanent resident. He could either live the rest of his life alone, or he could try to overcome his fears and give Jess what she wanted.
Bad risk though he was, she’d been eager to take a chance on him once. He wondered if she still would. In the refugee camps he’d dealt with people who’d been ripped away from loved ones by force and had to scratch for every bit of human connection. After witnessing that, tearing himself from Jess seemed like ego run amok. He’d been offered so much, and he’d foolishly rejected it.
The thought of having kids still scared him to death, but maybe, in time, he could get used to that, too. If he expected to create an adoption program for war orphans, he’d be a real hypocrite if he didn’t at least consider that option for himself.
But first he had to find Jess. And he had no clue where she was. For seventeen months he’d pictured her in her little Aspen apartment. When he hadn’t been able to locate her there, he’d gone slightly crazy.
The butler paused in the doorway of the library to announce him, and Nat was so lost in thought, he nearly ran into the guy.
“Mr. Nat Grady to see you, sir,” the butler said.
“Show him in, Barclay,” boomed a voice from the interior of the room.
The butler stepped aside and Nat tried to control his eagerness as he walked forward. These people could lead him to Jess.
Russell P. Franklin, a robust, silver-haired man, rose from a leather wingback in front of the fireplace and came toward him, hand outstretched. Mrs. Russell P. remained seated in her wingback. She strongly resembled Jess, but Nat assumed the red hair was a beauty-salon copy of the color she’d been born with. Still, he couldn’t help thinking that this might be how Jess would look in twenty-five or thirty years. He wanted to be around to see that.
Adele Franklin smiled a greeting, but at the same time she surveyed him carefully. Under her scrutiny Nat remembered how grungy he was in comparison to his hosts. No doubt their sweaters and slacks were everyday casual wear, and they probably cost three times what Nat would spend on his hotel room tonight. Good thing neither Adele nor Russell knew yet that he had designs on their only daughter, or he’d probably be thrown out on his ear.
“Glad to have you stop by, Grady,” Russell said. His handshake was warm and firm. “Come over by the fire. What will you have? A drink, something to eat?”
“Scotch would be great.” Nat didn’t plan to drink much of it, but he’d been a real estate broker long enough to know the value of accepting someone’s hospitality if you wanted to make the sale. This might turn out to be the most important sales call of his life. He would have preferred a beer, but this didn’t look like a beer-drinking household.
“Good.” Russell looked pleased as he signaled to Barclay. “And have the cook rustle up a few sandwiches,” he added. “This man’s been existing on airplane food.”
Airplane food was gourmet fare compared to what the refugees had to eat, Nat thought. But this wasn’t the time to tell them that. “I hope you’ll excuse the way I look.” He stroked his beard. “I came straight from the airport.”
“No excuse necessary,” Russell said. “A man involves himself in a cause such as you have, he doesn’t have time to worry about appearance.”
“It does rearrange your priorities.” Nat sat on a love seat positioned between the two wingbacks and directly in front of the marble fireplace. The stout logs crackled smartly, as if aware of the honor of adding heat and ambience to Franklin Hall.
Windows on either side of the fireplace looked out on the inky flow of the river and the dark shore beyond, where only an occasional light showed signs of civilization. Books, mostly leather-bound, lined the other three walls of the room. There was even a rolling ladder to reach the top shelves.
Adele and Russell each had a book resting on a table beside them, a bookmark inserted in the pages. Then he realized there was no television in the room. Apparently the Franklins still believed in reading as a way to pass an evening.
Nat’s career in real estate had centered primarily on land, but he’d handled a few homes, and some had been real showplaces. None of them equaled this house. The cost of running Franklin Hall for a day would probably feed a refugee family for months.
Adele leaned forward. “You are quite a humanitarian, Mr. Grady. The rest of us may have sent a little money over to help those poor people, but you invested something far more precious—yourself. I commend you.”
Her voice startled him. Jess’s voice. He wanted to close his eyes and savor it. “I don’t really