The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [39]
“I miss it terribly. It’s the only thing I really do miss,” Betsy said wistfully. “Oh, I can still sit atop a horse and ride in a somewhat limited fashion, but it’s the jumping I miss. This is hunt country, you know.”
“And has to be some of the prettiest country I’ve ever seen.” Simon smiled, then, nodding to the beds where bare-caned rosebushes and mounds of newly green leaves broke through the still-cool soil, added, “I’ll bet your gardens are beautiful in the summer.”
“Oh, the gardens were Dad’s,” Betsy told him as they followed the drive around to the front of the house. “My grandfather was an amateur horticulturist. He planted up these beds, and after he died, my dad kept them up with the help of a gardener. The good news is that Dad’s gardener has stayed on with me, or it would look like a jungle out there. The bad news is that the gardener has terrible arthritis and can only do a little bit at a time. I never did develop a taste for growing things, lacked both the touch and the inclination. Blythe had both, though. She spent hours out there, working alongside Granddad. . . .”
She paused, as if remembering, then added, “Some of those roses are fifty years old. The peonies, which are just starting to shoot up now, are even older. And there are specimens of several rare perennials. You should plan to stop back in June. You’ll be able to see for yourself just how beautiful they are.”
“Perhaps I’ll do that.” Simon stopped several yards from his car.
“I’ll look forward to it.” Betsy’s eyes narrowed suddenly, as if sizing him up; then, just as quickly, her smile returned.
“Thank you again for your time. You’ve been more helpful than I can say.”
“If you catch up with Jude, please give her my best.” Betsy’s smile was still in place but now appeared to be touched with a hint of nostalgia. “Tell her . . . tell her that the door is always open.”
“I’ll be sure to do that.”
“Might I ask a favor?”
“Of course.”
“Perhaps if you could be in touch. If you learn something.” Betsy’s voice faltered ever so slightly. “Whatever you find, it may be the last . . . the last I have of Blythe.”
“Certainly,” Simon promised as he opened the door of the Mustang and slid behind the wheel. “And you’ll let me know if you find that report from the investigator.”
“I will. I have your card right here in my pocket.”
Simon backed up the car and turned around, then waved as he passed by the old stone farmhouse and the woman who sat in the stark chair on the gray stone.
“Good-bye, Mr. Keller,” she said softly as she watched the red car grow smaller as it traveled back down the lane.
Still she sat, long after the car had disappeared.
When the day grew colder, she turned her chair back to the house, wondering if she’d have cause to regret the events she may well have just set in motion.
She retraced her route and returned to the warmth of the room where she had visited with Simon. Lifting the album, she turned the pages, then smiled to find that the loose photograph she’d left there was missing.
Somehow, she’d known he wouldn’t be able to resist.
Betsy returned the album to the shelf, then wheeled herself to the piano, where she idly picked out the notes of a song for which she could no longer recall the name, trying to ignore the prickling of her conscience.
For one thing, she hadn’t been exactly honest with Simon Keller.
Over the years, there had indeed been inquiries about her sister, mostly about her sister’s relationship with Miles Kendall. Of all of them, Simon had been the only one who’d cared more about how Blythe had died than how she had lived.
But was that reason enough to trust him with so much?
Only time would tell.
Besides, if not Simon Keller, she rationalized, eventually someone else would be probing. Sooner or later, someone might even find the truth. Perhaps Simon Keller might be that someone.
Betsy shivered with the anticipation of what that truth might bring to her door.
After all these years, wasn’t it time?
CHAPTER NINE
Under any other circumstances, Simon would have considered himself