The Reluctant Nude - Meg Maguire [73]
He never replied to the messages she’d left or the note she’d sent. No phone call, no letter. She was so antsy she toyed daily with emptying her savings account to fund a flight back to Halifax to demand some answers. She was poking around online for airline deals when Rachel came home late one Tuesday evening, face pale.
“Hey, Rache. How was school today? You look wiped.”
“I have some bad news.” Rachel set her purse on the coffee table and sank into the couch cushions.
Fallon swiveled her chair around, fear launching her heart into her throat. “What?”
“Josh was in Connecticut this afternoon, coaching the varsity boys’ basketball game.”
“Oh, God, is he all right?”
“Yes, yes, he’s fine.” Rachel swallowed. “But he drove separate, and on his way back he swung by Gloria’s place, just as a detour? To see how it was holding up.”
“Oh. And?”
“Forrester lied to you,” Rachel said, wincing. “He’s already developing there.”
Fallon’s jaw dropped. “What?”
She nodded. “Josh said there’s scaffolding up. Whatever Forrester’s got planned, he’s not waiting for you anymore. I think he knows, Fallon. I think he knows there’s no statue coming.”
At eight the next morning Fallon pulled into the driveway of her first real home, kicking up gravel and swinging open the car door before she’d even got the key out of the ignition. The big white house was as it should be, looking as it had when she’d lived there as a teenager, plus a bit more peeling paint. The scaffolding she’d expected to find surrounding it was erected a hundred yards away, at the far perimeter of the huge backyard, butted up against the looming granite cliff at the edge of the property.
What was Donald doing? Dynamiting away the frigging landscape?
She flipped her phone open and found his number in the call history. He picked up after several rings.
“Fallon,” he said warmly.
“Fuck you.”
“Well, aren’t we a little wound up. Whatever’s the matter? And how is my statue coming along?” He sounded calm and casual. Infuriating.
“It’s probably coming along just fine. So tell me this—exactly what are you doing to Gloria Engels’ property?”
“My property,” he corrected. “And nothing, at the moment. I agreed to Mr. Emery’s extension, and I’m a man of my word. That gives you until…this coming Monday. So I am doing absolutely nothing. By then I hope to have my masterpiece and you will have my assurances that your precious childhood home will not be touched.” The last few words left his mouth dripping with acid and saccharin.
“Oh, yeah? Then why the hell are there cranes and scaffolds all over the yard?”
“Pardon me?”
“Don’t play coy, Donald. I’m right here. In Connecticut. Now. What are you doing to her property?”
“My property. And what are you talking about?”
Fallon sensed she was getting nowhere with Forrester and slapped the phone closed. She stalked across the lawn, green and tidy when it had been her teenaged sanctuary, overgrown and strewn with construction debris now. She approached a beefy man in a hard hat studying a clipboard. He looked up, pink face blank.
“You can’t be out here without a hard hat, lady. This is a falling-rock area.”
“What are you doing here? What’s Donald Forrester doing to the cliff?” Her voice shook and she felt tears stinging her eyes.
“Some kind of memorial,” he said, clearly not impressed by her tone but intimidated by the crying.
“A what?”
“A huge friggin’ statue. Who’re you?”
She ignored the question, heart pounding. “Who’s in charge here?”
“He’s busy.”
Fallon was fighting to keep from hyperventilating. “Is he here? Bring him over. I have to talk to him, now. Tell him Fallon Frost needs to talk to him, right now.” Her voice broke. A thousand thoughts jockeyed for her attention.
“I can’t interrupt him. His orders—hey!”
Fallon dodged the wide man and easily outran him. The cliff was hidden