The Coltons: Fisher, Ryder & Quinn. Justine Davis
Читать онлайн книгу.
Shading his eyes, he watched the bird circle and then light on a second-story railing. For years, he’d nurtured a hope that his aunt might be alive. To this day, he was sure that he’d caught a glimpse of her at his college graduation ceremony. His roommate Franco had told him that it was just some kind of wish projection, but Jack hadn’t been entirely convinced. Then there’d been the anonymous fan letters that he’d received during the eight years he’d spent abroad, covering stories and writing the articles that would become his first book. At times, he could have sworn he heard his aunt’s voice and phrasing in them. But none of them had been signed, and the postmarks had all been from different places.
Turning, Jack glanced down at the dark water as it pushed against the pilings. It had been twelve years, and it all came back to the same question. If his aunt was alive, why hadn’t she ever contacted him in person? One thing he was sure of—Benny Lewis held the key to answering his questions.
With Corie at his side and the threat of scandal if the story of an illegitimate daughter wasn’t handled “properly” in the press, Benny Lewis would have to finally grant him an interview. Then he could complete his work on crime families and send it off. His publisher was already pressuring him to think about a series of articles on the Middle East, so the clock was ticking.
Jack pushed himself away from the railing and began to pace. Why in hell wasn’t he celebrating the fact that he’d convinced Corie Benjamin to fly out here?
“You got a problem, you face it head-on.” That’s what his aunt’s advice would have been. Well, his problem was Corie Benjamin. He’d never before been so curious about a woman. The more he got to know her, the more puzzling she became.
There was her voice for one thing. At times, there was a shyness in it that went hand in hand with the image he’d formed of her in his mind—mousy hair tied into a bun, a baggy sweater worn with a shapeless dress and sensible shoes.
Frowning, Jack gazed out across the water. But at other times there was a hint of steel beneath the soft tone. He’d heard it loud and clear when she’d demanded that makeover.
“What in hell do I know about arranging for a woman to get a makeover?” He couldn’t imagine any other woman in his acquaintance admitting that they even wanted one.
“She’s different, Aunt Mel.”
And that was part of the problem. Corie Benjamin was different. And he hadn’t been completely honest with her. If he had, she probably would have stayed in Fairview. So maybe that was why he felt so…protective of her.
“But I was right to persuade her to come out here.” He had to believe that. Lifting his hands from the railing, he rubbed them over his face. What was the matter with him? Corie Benjamin was going to be perfectly safe. Benny Lewis certainly wasn’t going to jeopardize his reputation as one of San Francisco’s leading philanthropists just because his long-lost daughter showed up, not when the mayor was going to honor him for the new wing that was being dedicated at the San Francisco Memorial Hospital this coming Friday.
“There isn’t a safer time for her to make her appearance in his life.” Even though he’d been over and over it in his mind, it helped him to say it out loud. “And everything should run like clockwork.”
Jack lifted a hand and rubbed at the back of his neck to ease a prickling sensation. He felt as if someone was watching him. As his heart began to race, he whirled and scanned the pier.
Empty—except for a man tapping a white cane along the wooden planks on the lower level. A blind man taking a morning stroll with his dog. So much for the strange feeling he’d had that he was being watched. Jack frowned again. He was going to have to get a grip on his nerves. A good reporter always kept a cool head.
He pushed himself away from the pier and started a slow jog back to his car.
2
JACK PULLED INTO HIS SLOT in the underground garage of his apartment building and opened the door. Before he could close it, Franco Rossi, his old college roommate and current landlord, hurried toward him.
“Well, do you think she got on the plane?”
During his globe-trotting years, Jack had met his share of colorful and eccentric characters, but Franco still remained at the top of the list. For the past eight years Franco had lived in New York City, subsidizing his acting career with a job as a doorman at a posh Central Park West apartment building, and he’d acquired an…unusual wardrobe.
“She told me she was coming, and I have a feeling that once Corie Benjamin makes up her mind, she sticks to it.”
“Wonderful!” Franco rubbed his hands together. “Wonderful!” This morning he was wearing a bright red kimono, a souvenir from his performance in an off-Broadway production of Tea House of the August Moon. Beneath the spiked hair and the orange-rimmed sunglasses, who would suspect that there lurked a man who was a black belt in karate? And Jack was pretty sure no one would guess that Franco owned the apartment building he lived in. The lovely old Painted Lady had been his sole award in a palimony suit against his former longtime lover.
Franco whipped a notebook out of his pocket. “What else do you know about her? I’ve decided she’s the perfect heroine for my screenplay.”
Jack urged Franco back into the building. “You say that about every woman you meet. Your place or mine?”
“Yours,” Franco said, glancing at his watch. “My Monday-Tuesday tenant hasn’t moved out yet. Besides, you have better coffee, and I just French-pressed a pot of your Arabica.”
“Make yourself at home,” Jack said dryly as Franco used his passkey to let them in. Until he sold his screenplay, Franco had decided to live as frugally as possible. Therefore, he was presently renting out his second-floor apartment on a per diem basis to two women who lived there on different days of the week while Franco had moved into the old maid’s quarters in the basement.
Franco poured two cups of coffee and settled himself on the couch that swept around two walls of the sunny living room while Jack filled him in on what he knew about Corie Benjamin.
“So, the opening scene is eleven-fifteen at the airport. I can see it now. Sun pouring down through all that glass as our heroine walks wide-eyed through the gate into a brave new world.” Grabbing the notebook that was never far from reach, Franco began to jot down notes.
“This isn’t a movie,” Jack said.
“It will be. Corie Benjamin’s perfect—a shy little country mouse coming to the big city. My agent will be very excited about it.”
“I thought he was interested in the other two plots you’re hatching,” Jack said.
“Those too.” Franco waved his hand, then continued to scribble notes.
Jack moved to the window. Across the street, the construction workers were taking their places on the scaffolding that decorated two houses. In a matter of moments, a cacophony of ear-numbing noises would begin.
Turning back to Franco, he said, “I told her that she could use your apartment for the entire week and perhaps more, if she decides to extend her stay.”
“No problemo. I spoke with the two women who use the apartment now on different days, and I’m sure she can work something out with them.”
“There’s just one more thing.” Jack ran a hand through his hair. “She wants a makeover—the kind they’re always doing on TV talk shows. Do you know what she’s talking about?”
Franco glanced up. “A makeover! That will be perfect. It’s just what I needed—a Pygmalion theme. Eliza Doolittle meets Vito Corleone! That is sooo high concept! My agent will definitely be able to sell it!”
Jack crossed to the couch and sat down. Sometimes his friend needed a firm hand. Taking Franco’s notebook and pen, he then set them on the table. “Forget about the screenplay for a minute. Can you handle the