The Keepers

By H. L. Chandler

Jesse Nolen has troubles enough.

Most of the time her mild psychic abilities keep her slightly off balance. Her daughter has a case of teenage attitude. her husband, Stan, is cut off from work, and her son is terrified by his own powerful clairvoyance.

But when an ancient evil group picks Stan as their next inductee, Jesse learns what real trouble is.

And it's her family that is going to pay the price.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781590884164

H. L. Chandler

This author writes in several genre: thrillers, science fiction, adventure, and mysteries. H. L. Chandler has also written stories for children. She has lived across the U.S. and for a short time in Canada.  

Book preview

Greed, power, and family are the themes of H. L. Chandler’s novel, The Keepers. In this horror/thriller, Chandler mixes the super-natural and the strength of family in the involved and compelling tale.

Chandler’s writing is fluid and detailed; establishes a strong sense of place and provides the reader with an in depth look into the souls of her characters. The Keepers is an exciting and passionate read that seduces and commands attention.

—Melissa Levine

Midwest Book Reviews

What a thrilling ride H.L. Chandler brings us in this exciting, plot twisting, never-know-what’s-gonna-happen-next type of storyline. The characters were brilliantly created… some you love, some you hate. The mixture of horror/suspense is blended perfectly. The Keepers has you scared one second…and at the edge of your seat the next.

I, personally, can’t wait to see what H.L. Chandler has in store for us next.

—Karrie Cameron

In The Library Reviews

The Keepers

H. L. Chandler

A Wings ePress, Inc.

General Fiction Light Horror Novel

Edited by: Marilyn Kapp

Copy Edited by: Dianne Hamilton

Senior Editor: Dianne Hamilton

Managing Editor: Leslie Hodges

Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens

Cover Artist: mpmann

All rights reserved

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Wings ePress Books

http://www.wings-press.com

Copyright © 2005 by Louise Chandler Guffy

ISBN 978-1-59088-416-4

Published by Wings ePress, Inc. at Smashwords

Wings ePress Inc.

3000 N. Rock Road

Newton, KS 67114

Dedication

With gratitude, to the readers of this story.

Prologue

London, England—June 6, 1865

Nelly Milton lay on a smooth marble slab, her mind foggy and dazed. She had a vague memory of the tingling chill that had raced across her shoulders when they first touched the icy stone. The sensation had brought a dim awareness that quickly faded. Now the hard surface, warmed by her body, was no longer cold.

Nelly’s head rolled to one side. Her eyelids fluttered and, heavy as weighted gates, finally lifted. It took several minutes to focus and even then, a gauze-like, misty fog clouded her eyes. She made a feeble attempt to move but her arms and legs were stiff and unresponsive. Confused, and searching for the reason, Nelly gazed down the length of her right arm. At the wrist was a twisted binding of red velvet and her mind, fuzzy as her vision, sent a hazy signal to cease the struggle; for lor if it wasn’t silly when a body was hand and foot tied down.

The restraining velvet ropes stirred up the first tinge of true fear. Still…mightn’t it be a dream? Oh, glory yes. That must be the way of it. In a few seconds, the scary nightmare would stop and she’d come wide-awake to find Robert beside her; both of them rosy with sleep under a white muslin sheet that smelled of mown hay and bright sunshine. Then, from his cradle in the corner, Christopher would cry; hungry for her breast as he had been the whole six months of his precious life. Nelly swallowed and lay waiting. Waiting with every nerve now honed to exquisite sharpness. Waiting for the dark eerie scene to fade.

It did not.

She was in the center of a large cavern. A line of blazing sconces hung against the gray stone walls. The light shed by the flames turned the chamber to a flickering orange, red, and black. To her bewildered senses, now further crazed by an awful growing dread, it appeared the antechamber of hell. Several feet out from the wall stood a half circle of ten chairs: high-backed, Tudor-style upholstered in rich red velvet. The chairs stood empty suggesting a coming judgment, and all of Nelly’s past sins crowded in upon her.

Every minute Nelly became more aware, while a swirling black panic threatened to sweep away any sensible thoughts. She clenched her teeth and shook her head, which, indeed, was all she could move.

Get hold on yourself, Nell, she scolded. Nothing was ever gained using a head filled with feathers. Some terrible thing has happened, but Robert will know and won’t he just cause a proper dust-up! That’s the right road now, think of Robert and how he’ll be a hunting, turn the city end over end, he will. Still, it didn’t mean lying stiff as a corset stay, not even trying to work free.

Nelly strained and jerked against the velvet ropes; they held fast. Nelly was strong and healthy, she never failed in any task she undertook, but now fear sapped that strength. Being helplessly bound on the marble platform forced tears of despair and frustration to slip down her smooth, round cheeks. She kept a kerchief in the pocket of her everyday blue ticken dress. Her wet trickling tears made her wish for it.

Suddenly her back stiffened as if some nasty and clammy thing were sliding down between her shoulder blades. She was not wearing her own clothes. Her arms and shoulders were bare; the black silk began just at the curve of her full, milk-swollen breast and covered to her trembling ankles. An elegant, indecent shroud. Shame and panic took her by turns. Her feet, free of the rough, round-toed shoes, tingled in their vulnerable state. Oh God, she promised, never again would she wish for fine or fancy clothes. The coarse cheap cloth of her dress and the heavy, chafing shoes were blessing enough.

Her exposed condition, like a fierce wind, blew away the last clouds leaving her mind raw and alive to the horror of her situation. An unbidden scream ripped from her throat and slammed against the stone and mortar walls that echoed back the depths of her fear. Then, another cry rang in the cavern piercing Nelly’s lingering scream.

Christopher’s warm, lusty crying rolled out in heavy waves freezing Nelly’s heart. Instantly an all-consuming terror sent icy blood pounding through her veins. She jerked her head to the left twisting to see over the corner of the marble slab. In the hollowed out, cradle-like, middle of a low stone Christopher waved his tiny fists and pumped his chubby knees up and down. Nelly wildly bucked and fought against the bonds. A prickling sweat popped out from her crown to her soles, every inch of her skin was set burning as if it were being jabbed with a million red-hot needles.

Hush now. Oh hushabye, Christy. Your Mam is here. Nelly spoke through lips dry as winter leaves.

Christopher paused a moment but then, without the comfort of her lifting arms, set forth another howling insistent cry. Despite her panic Nelly’s body instinctively responded; wet circles widened on the tight black silk stretched across her breast. In a frenzied surge Nelly lunged and strained to break free while only Christopher’s small voice kept the madness at bay.

Finally, limp and drained, Nelly fell back against the hateful stone with a strangling, bitter sob. She was caught in a ring of blazing blue-white fear and her heart pounded on near to bursting. The flesh on her bones shriveled to a quivering helpless mass leaving just mind and tongue capable of movement.

Our Father in Heaven, look down upon us in mercy. Hear us, Oh Lord, in this our hour of need...

~ * ~

When Robert arrived at the mansion on Grovesnor Square, the sun’s last rays were staining the glass of the tall oriel window a pinkish gold. He stood a minute studying the gray stone building, its high roof and massive chimneys thrusting up hard and dark against the lavender sky. An abode of the rich, another symbol of their wealth. A familiar bile-tasting film clung to the back of his throat. Robert longed for a good strong drink of whiskey, the sort that went down smooth and filled a man’s belly with strength, not the cheap, watered swill served at Dinker’s Tavern. He was sick to death of being poor; it was an accident of birth and he had lived twenty-five long years choking on bitterness. Had he sprung to life in the womb of a noblewoman there would be no need of standing here now. Entering life under poverty’s curse the chance for escape came, if at all, once in a lifetime.

Robert arched his eyebrow, a caustic laugh tumbling from his finely shaped lips. Yes, once in a lifetime. Every sixty-nine years to be exact. Then to only one man. Or so Sir Chester Stanhope claimed. Should the old toady be wrong, Robert had already decided to kill him. He would not be played for the fool. Not by anyone. Robert settled the silk top hat firmly on his head and, giving a downward tug to his white waistcoat, started up the wide stone stairs. A new, blue velvet coat lay smoothly across Robert’s broad shoulders and tapered sufficiently to fit his slender waist; for the first time, he was properly clad. Chester’s tailor was a churlish snob, yet Robert did concede the man knew his trade.

A tight-lipped manservant opened the heavy carved walnut door and viewed Robert with a haughty, pained expression. Robert brushed past him into the polished black and white marble floored center hall. He whipped off his top hat, slinging it toward the servant. He’d had enough of people looking down their noses. Still, the richness of the great mahogany staircase, the obviously fine paintings lining the paneled walls and the shimmer of the delicate crystal candleholders put a dent in his anger-induced courage.

This way, please. The words carried the hint of a smirk.

Robert was ushered to a set of doors, which slid back to reveal a large drawing room. A thick wine-dark carpet covered the middle of the floor. Heavy velvet drapes hung across two tall windows, shutting out the night. Robert had never been in so grand a room. The ten men gathered there turned toward him. The expressions on their faces, seen through a haze of cigar smoke, ranged from mild amusement to hard assessment. Soundlessly the doors closed behind him and Robert forced his most charming, confident smile.

Robert, m’boy. Chester set his brandy glass on the long table backing a rose, satin covered Queen Anne couch and, hand extended, came to greet Robert.

Sir Chester Stanhope was as round and bounding with robust health as a country squire. Everything about his corpulent person bespoke a life in want of nothing. Chester was Robert’s sponsor at this meeting and proudly steered him round making introductions.

Ah, MacDermott. Chester clapped his chunky hand to the shoulder of a tall red-bearded man. This is young Milton. The fellow who after tonight will be overseer of my newest woolen mill. For a bit at any rate, until he gets his feet under him. Well, go on. Ask him what you will. I vow he’ll not disappoint you in his character or spirit.

MacDermott’s pale green eyes glimmered like sun-struck waters and a slow smile appeared in the depths of his bristling whiskers. I have nae questions, Stanhope. I can see by the look of the lad ye’ve made a wise choice.

As they moved away toward a group of three others Robert leant near Chester. You think he finds me acceptable, then?

Chester stopped and frowned. Of course he does! Exactly as all the others do. Haven’t I told you how we’ve been over the record of your life from top to bottom and back again?

Robert nodded.

Well, now, be a stout fellow and carry through this night as I’ve instructed and every dream and wish you ever had will be yours for the taking.

Upon hearing the promise again, Robert trembled. At his sides his hands clenched and unclenched in eagerness. Perhaps he should have investigated these men as they had done him, but his position did not allow it. They had everything. He had nothing. Nothing except a ravenous hunger and raging desire to gain his rightful place in life. For the past week, a small niggling voice kept insisting that all things had their price. He stilled it with the harsh truth. He would make the payment. No matter how dear.

You spoke of this night as being a test of sorts, yet you haven’t explained what that test might be. I think it more likely I should pass with a bit of explanation.

Robert fought to keep the hostility from his voice. He still suspected they might be toying with him, some cruel game for the amusement of the bored and jaded rich.

Chester guided him toward a rosewood table in the corner where a silver tray held bottles of whiskey, brandy, and other liquors sparkling in the candlelight.

You could do with a drink, Robert. What will it be?

Robert indicated the whiskey in the square, cut-glass bottle. As Chester poured the drink, his jovial manner disappeared. His jaw swelled like the pink, scraped rump of a butchered sow. He splashed a scant swallow of the deep gold liquid into a small glass and handed it to Robert.

Drink it slowly, there will be no more for you until this night is over. A man must be in full possession of all his faculties to become a member of this chosen group.

Robert swallowed a sip of the whiskey and it was as he knew it would be, smooth and bracing, like smoky honey laced with fire. The taste of it confirmed the certainty that he could never again settle for less.

I understand. Robert nodded and tried to sound as wise and worldly as the other men in the room looked.

I doubt that, Robert. However, your understanding is not needed. Your desire and ambition led us to you, but your unquestioning obedience will be the deciding factor. Look around, these men possess more power than all the crowned heads of Europe, or leaders of any nation. There, talking with MacDermott now, that is Hermann Steiner, ever hear of him? No, of course not. Yet, should you mention that name to the Chancellor of Prussia I’d wager you’d receive a marked reaction. Not that he’d for a minute admit Steiner’s contribution. Still, Bismarck well knows the thanks he owes Hermann. Chester’s laugh was dry as sand and just a grating.

A unified Germany suits our purpose as well. I’ll wager it won’t be five years before Hermann achieves this goal. The fellow is most remarkable. Not a word of this outside The Group, mind you, but a meeting will be arranged at Ems between King William and the French ambassador. A report of what takes place will be sent back to Bismarck. Oh, I tell you, Hermann’s inventiveness is boundless! By that time, Hermann will have Otto’s complete trust. When he suggests a few changes to the report and that it be released to the press there’s not a doubt Otto will be quick to follow Hermann’s instructions. The revised content of the report should in turn outrage the French sufficiently to attack.

But to bring about a Franco-Prussian war...and by forged documents...surely that’s madness. What if Bismarck refuses, or supposing Hermann talks him into it and Prussia loses such a war?

"Never you mind, Robert. Tonight is for listening and learning. This is by way of an introduction to the members and their work. Now, Alvaro Diaz, he’s just there standing next to Leland Kellerman. I’m sure our friend, the third Napoleon, thought it all his own idea when he made Maximilian Emperor of Mexico last year. But that won’t last long. France will be quick to withdraw in the face of a united neighbor to the north. I should like to see Maximilian’s face when he finds the limb sawn off behind him. Oh, I tell you we are on the brink of great things. While Diaz is busy in Mexico, Leland Kellerman is creating some interesting situations in America.

The assassination of Lincoln two months ago was a stroke of brilliance. Now he’s bringing a group together in one of the southern states that will make a mark in the future. Oh, nothing spectacular, still these little bands are useful. Actually, it should be MacDermott’s doing seeing Kellerman has decided to call it a clan. Haven’t heard the full name yet, though I gather it’ll be something something clan. Spelled with a ‘K’. Rather clever of Kellerman, wouldn’t you say? Putting his mark on it that way? Chester’s round face glowed with excitement.

Robert stared at Kellerman; he was a man who commanded attention. Tall, raven-haired, and extremely handsome, except for the deep valley of a scar slashing down the right side of his face. The small amount of whiskey in Robert’s stomach boiled; he desperately wanted to believe what Chester was saying, but it sounded so fantastic.

Steady, m’boy. You seem to have gone a bit off color. Possibly you fear you’ve stumbled into a den of madmen.

Robert managed to shake his head and give a weak smile. Chester patted his shoulder.

Oh, I know how it is at first. However, it will all come clear. Actually, it’s most simple. The world moves by directives from an unseen realm. Those of us lucky enough to be chosen as agents are greatly rewarded. And the cream on the pudding is the extended lifetime in which to enjoy it. I say, doesn’t that have the sound of something worth any sacrifice?

The empty glass in Robert’s hand was warm and slick with sweat. Now...he thought, as he carefully set the glass down on the rosewood table...now, we come to the nub of the thing. Suppose I believe you, that all this is possible, and do whatever you ask. What security is there that I’ll be rewarded in this manner?

As Robert spoke Terrance MacDermott stepped to his side and poured a glass of claret from the warming carafe.

So, you’ve come to the quid pro quo of the thing have you? He cast a half smile at Chester. I canna’ say I’m surprised, Stanhope. It’s very like you to leave something this important to the last minute.

Now see here, Terrance. I’ll thank you to let me bring Robert along as I see fit. I believe I know the boy well enough!

Easy man, I’ll nae be questioning your judgment. It’s only that we’re growing impatient for the fine supper you’ve promised. MacDermott’s smile broadened to show a set of strong white teeth and a wicked glint flashed through his pale green eyes.

The least word of advice I’d be giving, Stanhope, is that ye’d best not be letting him speak over long with Georgi. With that, MacDermott sauntered away and began talking with Mr. Trello and Roland Perry, a slender artistic looking blond man. Robert watched for a minute, still puzzled by his last remark. He frowned at Chester.

Who is Georgi?

Georgi Mezrulvili. He’s the one over there, slumped in the armchair by the fireplace.

The man appeared to be no more than thirty, but his thin shoulders were rounded as with the burden of age. He was folded in upon himself, like a paper fan, making it impossible to tell his height.

I’m afraid Georgi is showing his true colors tonight. Rather awful of him, I’d say. The man has had his six hundred ninety years. And damn me, if they weren’t full ones. Despite what MacDermott says I think Georgi should be just the one to settle your doubts. As I’ve told you our group is limited to ten, a new member added every sixty-nine years...

Then it’s his place I’m to take, he being the oldest member. Robert stared in wonder; he found it difficult to believe Georgi was so ancient.

Chester beamed. Certainly. As the newest member you’ll be stepping out into a six-hundred-ninety-year span more bedazzling than your richest dreams. Come now, let’s see if we can’t jolly the old dog out of his doldrums.

It wasn’t long before Georgi Mezrulvili’s dark mood lifted. The constant refilling of his brandy glass helped, but it seemed the recounting of all those years (more history than Robert’s dizzy mind could grasp) that brought a fire to Georgi’s black eyes and loosened his tongue. Several times Samuel Nokato or Marius Trello added some forgotten detail. They had joined The Group sixty-nine and one hundred thirty eight years after Georgi. They spoke of centuries as others mention weeks or months. They talked of the Crusades, the Black Death, the Spanish Inquisition, and of the year Henry VIII came to the throne; and yet, more than three hundred years had passed since that date. As the stories spun out the faces in the lamplight reflected a glow of triumph. Several threw their heads back and laughed as only men at the pinnacle of power can do.

Robert’s heart pounded with the longing that the words they spoke be true. They must be; or it was as Chester had suggested, he had fallen into a den of madmen. Still, there was no denying the tremendous wealth of these men. As to the power, well, didn’t the two go hand in glove? He narrowed his eyes and looked round The Group. A deep abiding certainty settled in the marrow of his bones. He would give anything to share what these men had, even if they were lying about the six hundred ninety years.

Georgi rose, clumsy and tottering, stumbling a few steps and then flopping a long skinny arm across Robert’s shoulders. It rested heavy as a dead man’s arm. Georgi slumped forward and spoke into Robert’s face; his breath came in hot, spirits-laden blasts.

It is our night, my friend, Georgi slurred. My last feast and your first. A joy for me, a sorrow for you. But don’t despair, at midnight when I depart the joy will be yours and the sorrow mine.

Perplexed, Robert raised his eyebrows at Chester. Chester frowned at Georgi.

Come now, Georgi, don’t muddle the boy with your arcane babbling. So saying, Chester motioned Robert to follow him.

Happy to disengage himself from Georgi’s drunken embrace, Robert slipped away to join Chester. Behind him, Leland Kellerman took a strident lead in a lively discussion of The Group’s future activities.

I’m positive of it! His scar stood out white against a face reddened with the heat of conviction. "America is the place for us in the next century, possibly two. I tell you gentlemen, there will be great opportunity for influencing world events in that country. Don’t be fooled by this wave of industrialization England is caught up in. Oh, I grant it’s the coming thing and will spread to any country with the ability to adapt, but everything is being poured into it. Agriculture is already beginning to suffer and the importing of raw materials is growing every day.

This frenzied leap into mechanization will congest England, whereas it will stretch out and bind the United States together, giving their natural abundance the means to fully develop. The world is a huge rotting apple, we must move on to the still juicy, succulent parts.

But they are in such turmoil, so weakened by their civil war... William Gresheim raised a halfhearted objection.

Marius exhaled a blue fog of cigar smoke and picked up Leland’s place in the discussion.

Kellerman is right. As for the turmoil and confusion what better cover for our activities? And we all know, if things go according to plan, what is ahead for the European countries.

Robert’s ears were like funnels, their words flooding his mind. Chester tapped his arm to get his attention.

Enough of that for now, Robert. You must concentrate on the matter at hand. You’ll soon have your turn to play the game.

Robert pulled his gaze away from the other men.

Is it true then? Can this small group actually control such important events?

Chester fingered the heavy gold chain across the bulging front of his waistcoat and nodded.

But how?

Simply, m’boy. Money in the right hands, a bit of information to the right ears, and when necessary the removal of a stubborn party. After a while it becomes child’s play. A crafty smile pushed his fat cheeks higher, squeezing his small eyes into narrow slits. But the ease doesn’t lessen the enjoyment.

Chester led him out of the drawing room and across the wide center hall and through the dining room to an alcove which was once a minstrel’s gallery. But, Robert surmised there would be no music to entertain the guests tonight. There were no servants in sight and Robert had the distinct impression that the one who had opened the door for him was gone for the evening. The eleven seemed completely alone in the huge old mansion. Chester sank down on a small Chippendale chair, which quickly disappeared under his voluminous bulk. Robert stood for a moment surveying the richly appointed room and then placed himself on a settee opposite Chester.

To Robert’s left, the long dining table was covered in sparkling white-on-white damask laid with silver. Plates, knives, forks, and goblets were all of the polished precious metal. The yellow glow of two candelabra struck the neatly placed dishes and bounced off in glittering bursts, the sharp dazzling reflections were almost a sound rather than a sight. Chester beamed with satisfaction.

We don’t always perform the ceremony in such luxurious surroundings. Much of it depends upon our new member. I can see we were right in judging your tastes.

Then Chester got down to the business of explaining Robert’s price of admission to The Group. As Robert listened, he chilled, the knuckles of his clenched fists blanched as white as the table covering. He grew faint and lightheaded, as if his own blood were being poured out into the silver goblets. Yet behind it, a powerful fiery liquid surged into his veins filling him with a desire that demanded satisfaction. It seized him like an unbearable ravenous hunger. Soon he understood completely. Yet, what was being offered was of such tremendous value that the payment grew more and more insignificant.

Are you ready, then? Chester’s eyes sparkled and he ran the tip of his tongue over his cherry pink lips.

Robert jumped up and laughed. His head reeled as if he were drunk. At last, ah, at last! Already plans were forming, what Kellerman had said made sense. It was a task he could throw his heart and soul into; he’d be the greatest of them all! How fortunate they were in gaining him as a member.

Chester stood beside him and clapped him on the back. Robert resisted the urge to throw off the pudgy hand; no one could touch him this night. A few short hours and the world would be his. Chester seemed to understand. He quickly withdrew his hand.

Come now, the others will have already donned their robes. We’ll do the same and then it’s down to the cavern for us all.

Chester bubbled with boyish glee and every part of his stocky body seemed to vibrate in anticipation, while his hands slithered one over the other.

I say, Robert, you’re going to do me proud. I can see it in your face.

One

All the sins and evils

In the heart of man concealed,

Will stand as feeble efforts

When the last great Evil is revealed.

H. L. Chandler

Ft. Lauderdale, Florida—2003

Stan Nolan got off the elevator, at the third floor in the red brick building on Sunrise Boulevard, and headed toward the frosted glass door of Jenkins, Withers, and Kendal: Attorneys at Law. Each time the toe of his ten-year-old wingtip Florsheims touched down on the cinnamon colored carpeting, he counted his steps.

Twenty-five.

The number didn’t mean a damn thing. Had it come up thirty-six, his age, that could be a good omen. But thirteen might have shattered the composure he was struggling to maintain. Thirteen was unlucky; it was also the number of months he’d been out of work this last time. Stan patted the breast pocket of his blue plaid sport jacket; the letter there crackled reassuringly. He was sure as hell due some good luck, and if he pulled this off, he’d have it.

The construction business was slow; at least it was for Stan. When he and Jessie first came to Florida there had been a couple of good years, but after that nothing went right. If he wasn’t thrown off a job for one soup-simple thing it was another. Yet, what could you expect working for some two-watt dim bulb? If Jess hadn’t hung in at Southeast Bank, they’d be on welfare by now.

Stan brushed his sandy hair back from his broad tan forehead and reached out to open the door. The brass knob was cool and smooth against the hot stickiness of his palm. For an instant anger stiffened Stan’s back. He despised being nervous. It was a sign of weakness. Still, if anybody had a right to be on edge he sure did. By now, he should be a big time contractor, with crews out on several locations. When he thought of all the things that had gone wrong, it twisted him into a knot and spiked his anger to higher peaks. Quickly Stan put the brakes on the negative nagging whispers; after all, he wasn’t here for an interview. With any luck, this could be better than getting a job.

The receptionist behind the glass and chrome desk was about twenty-two, blonde, long red fingernails, and displaying an extremely bountiful bosom. Standard decoration for any successful front office. There wasn’t a scrap of paper on her desk, just a white phone that she toyed with lovingly. The chairs in the waiting room were strips of black leather stretched taut above shiny metal legs, and if they had ever been sat upon, there wasn’t the slightest sag to suggest it. The whole room looked lifted from the pages of Modern Office Design, shiny, spotless, and untouched.

As she asked Stan for his name, the receptionist continued smiling, and she kept one red-tipped hand on the white telephone. Then, proudly demonstrating her command of the instrument, she buzzed another office. While he waited, Stan glanced around. The Time and Newsweek magazines on a low glass and chrome table were slick and wrinkle-free as though they, too, had never been touched. They matched the pristine view from the window behind the table. In the distance the Ft. Lauderdale strip of the Atlantic ran a sea green band at the base of a cerulean blue sky.

Mr. Nolan?

At the sound of an older, more mature voice, Stan swung around. A woman stood in the doorway to the inner office. She wore a starched, white long-sleeved blouse and her smoke-colored hair matched the gray of her linen skirt. She stood prim and proper enough to be the receptionist’s maiden aunt.

Come this way, please.

Stan followed her into a darkish office lit by filmy natural light streaming through an east-facing window. In a shadowy corner lurked a waist-high Oriental vase: deep, blood red, covered in a design of navy-black leaves and twisted branches. A Tiffany lamp, its shade supporting a cluster of purple grapes, set on the desk, which was a massive carved mahogany monstrosity. It was like stepping into an antique shop in Dania. A place where spiders might confidently weave their webs, except here the heavy chairs, tables, and tall grandfather clock against the far wall were all gleaming, as if minutes before they had been wiped down with lemon oil. For a second Stan caught the odor of oily citrus mingled with musty old wood. The office of Clayton Withers was the exact opposite of the waiting room.

The small man behind the huge desk popped to his feet with the precision of a toy soldier, and came toward Stan with his hand outstretched. He smiled and his bright amber eyes, behind sparkling rimless glasses, came alive with intense vitality. Stan hadn’t known what to expect, but surely not this elf of a man surrounded by a collection of ancient furniture; yet, what he lacked in size he made up for in energy.

Right on time, Mr. Nolan. How considerate. I appreciate that in a man. Here, have a seat. He indicated a squat, round-backed chair in front of the desk. Would you like some coffee?

No, thank you.

When Stan sat down, he moved as stiff as a rusty hinge, he almost expected to hear an accompanying squeak. The coil of tension in his stomach tightened a full turn, cranking up the nervousness again. He tried to loosen it with logic. After all, he was gambling in an unknown game against undisclosed odds; the strain went with the risk. Mr. Withers took his seat behind the desk. The light from the window behind him spun his thin white hair into a lacy, silvery cap above a face left in shadows.

Thank you, Mrs. Henderson. That will be all for now, he said.

Stan swiveled toward her, but the woman was gone. He just caught sight of the door swinging shut. Stan sat up straighter, his moist fingers curling over the ends of the chair’s padded arms. Then he waited for what would happen next. He had been waiting for two days now, since receiving the letter.

Two

Three months ago Stan had given up the pretense of looking for work. He was left with nothing to do except shuffle down the sandy driveway of the trailer court in Davie and pick up the mail. That and waiting for Denise and Andy to come home from school were the highlights of his day. Then the letter came, and it shattered his dull routine like a brick hurled through a plate glass window.

The stationery was a deep cream color, not the thin white stuff sent by bill collectors, and it stuck out stiff and imposing among the advertisements and throwaway papers. Clearly, it was something important. As he had walked back to their rented trailer, parked across from the cinder block laundry room, Stan opened the letter. When he finished reading, Stan came to a stunned, abrupt halt on the patio. His uncle, Farley Pritchard, had died. He, Stanley Andrew Nolan, was the heir and sole beneficiary. Would Mr. Nolan please contact Mr. Clayton Withers as soon as possible? Stan’s armpits grew damp under his tee shirt and his toes clutched the edges of his rubber thongs.

This was fantastic news.

There was only one thing wrong. Stan never had an uncle named Farley Pritchard!

All afternoon Stan slouched in the plastic lawn chair outside the trailer and read the letter time after time. It didn’t give a clue as to what this old guy might have left in his will. It could be anything from a junk car and some old clothes to a million bucks. Several times Stan almost went inside to call the number printed on the letterhead, but he didn’t. Instead, he kept racking his brain in an effort to graft the dear departed Farley onto his family tree. Stan squinted into the clear Florida sunlight.

His dad had a brother in California, but naturally his name was Nolan and Stan hadn’t seen him since his dad’s funeral back in 1989. Then in 1992, his mother had married a man named Harris and they moved to Trenton, New Jersey. His mother was an only child, and if this Pritchard were anyone from the Harris family the money, or whatever, sure wouldn’t find its way to Stan. Harris had three kids of his own.

Stan even thought about Jessie’s family. Maybe this Pritchard was a bachelor with something against women and thought the money should go to the husband. Stan shook his head and gave up there too. He didn’t know much about Jessie’s relatives. Her parents had died in a car wreck when she was two years old, the same smash-up that had left Jessie unconscious for three days. After that an aunt and uncle took her to raise, but from what Jessie said they never cared much for her. It was probably true because all she got when they passed on was a call from a distant cousin. It didn’t seem likely there would be anything coming from that direction.

Stan got up, the letter still in his hand, and went inside for a beer. He flipped the top off a Busch, tossed the ring into the trashcan, and ambled back outside. He would wait and talk to Jess when she got home from work. No use calling her, she would ask a bunch of questions that he couldn’t answer. Besides he wanted to go slow and make sure he managed this thing right. He was sick of other people scooping up what should be his, shoving him aside and screwing up his chances, he deserved a shot at some high living as much as anyone. Maybe more because he would know what to do with it.

The afternoon sun sent lemon-colored beams slanting into the drooping Ficus tree that kept the concrete patio shaded and cool. Stan sat there staring up into the tree and thinking. He was still sitting outside when Denise and Andy came down the street. As usual, Denise was far ahead of Andy. At fifteen, she had no patience with her nine-year-old brother, and secretly Stan sympathized with her. When Denise was born Stan had wanted a son, but by the time she was a few months old Denise’s charm had began to work. Since that time Stan had remained dazzled by the small dark-haired girl who was fast turning into a beautiful woman. She was going to be taller than Jessie, already was by an inch. She had Jessie’s same great figure, but in Denise it was all refined somehow and, although Jessie was pretty, Denise would be stunning.

Stan watched Denise’s saucy walk, her head high, and her skirt swishing around her legs. She was getting to a worrisome age, what if she took up with some scuddy character and ran away? Still, that wasn’t Denise’s style. He’d overheard her talking to Jessie, telling all her big plans. Stan smiled. She wanted to be rich and beautiful and travel all over the world. She wasn’t going to end up with two kids stuck in a lousy trailer park. Stan had winced at that, but there was still time. He would get there yet. What he liked best about Denise was her ambition and intelligence. He also liked to think those traits were his contribution to Denise. If he were putting money on it, he’d bet Denise would make it someday, and so would he.

Hi, Daddy.

Denise’s wooden-soled clogs clonked against the patio as she sauntered toward him. She dropped her schoolbooks in the other lawn chair and leaned over him to brush his cheek with her lips. She smelled of sun-warmed skin and Juicy Fruit gum.

Hi, baby. How was school?