The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [80]
“No, thank you.”
“Some coffee, then, or tea?”
“Coffee, yes, that would be fine.” Betsy turned and glanced back at the housekeeper, who had worked for the Pierce family for the past twenty years. These days Betsy had someone else come in to do most of the cleaning, leaving Mrs. Brady to act more as cook and personal assistant than housekeeper. Mrs. Brady, like Betsy, was no longer young.
“Did you find my note about lunch?”
“Yes. Lunch for three at half past twelve. On the back terrace.”
“Do we have strawberries?” Betsy asked.
“No, but I can make a run out to the Wayne Farmers Market and see what’s available, if you like.”
“Thank you. I would like that.” Betsy turned to her and said, “We’ll be having company for another day or so. With any luck, they’ll stay for more than one night. Mrs. Brady, did I tell you that my niece is coming?”
“Your niece . . . ?” Mrs. Brady frowned. As far as she knew, Miss Pierce had no niece. . . .
“Yes, my niece.” Betsy turned back to the window. “So we really have to have strawberries for dessert.”
“I’ll see what I can find,” Mrs. Brady assured her as she left the room, wondering about this sudden mention of a niece. She went straight to the kitchen and the nearest phone, where she intended on calling her husband and asking him what he knew about a niece. . . .
“Please do.” Betsy smiled and leaned closer to the window, resting her elbows on the wide sill. “Blythe always loved strawberries. . . .”
The coffee sat untouched in the cup, and the chair had not moved from the window. It was ten minutes before eleven when the white Explorer came over the hill and slowed just before the next rise. Her heart pounding, Betsy wheeled herself to the front door and opened it, not bothering to wait to see if this was the car. She knew with all certainty that it was.
She watched as it drove slowly up the lane, watched as the driver parked on the circle in front of the house, watched as the trim young woman alighted and looked around as if trying to take it all in.
Betsy stared numbly.
My God, she looks just like Blythe. . . .
Jude got out from the passenger side of the car, but Betsy barely noticed her until the two women started up the walk. They both stopped, suddenly and in unison, when they saw Betsy in the doorway.
“Dina.” Betsy forced herself to speak, forced down emotions that had been held in check for years.
“Hello,” Dina said, not smiling.
“I wondered if you’d ever come,” Betsy said, unable to take her eyes off Dina. The resemblance to Blythe was chilling. “All these years, I’ve prayed you would. . . .”
Dina froze where she stood, not knowing how to respond to the raw emotion in the woman’s face and in her voice.
Finally, Betsy turned to Jude and said gently, “The years have been kind to you.”
“Betsy, I had no idea,” Jude stammered.
“Oh, the wheelchair?” Betsy glanced down at her still legs. “It has been a long time, hasn’t it?”
“What . . . ?”
“Riding accident.” Betsy turned to Dina and asked, “Do you ride?”
“Not really, no.”
“Best not to take a jump before your mount does.” Betsy smiled weakly, then wheeled herself back into the foyer. “I’m forgetting my manners. Please come in.”
“Betsy, I’m sorry for giving such short notice,” Jude was saying.
Dina stepped gingerly inside, as if she was almost afraid of what she’d find there. The foyer was wide and cool, the floors covered with vintage Oriental carpets and the walls covered with photographs. Oh so vague memories stirred within and swirled around her.
“Short notice?” Betsy paused in the doorway. “I’ve been waiting for twenty-five years, Jude.”
“I’ve been here before,” Dina whispered, as if not certain that it was true.
“Oh, a long time ago.” Betsy nodded. “I can’t believe you’d remember. I don’t think you were more than four or five.”
“I remember her.” Dina pointed to a painted portrait that hung over a handsome Eastlake-style table, a portrait of a young woman with a gentle face wearing a low-cut gown and a pearl choker trimmed in red stones.
“That’s your . . .” Betsy paused, then looked at Jude for but a second