Winning Amelia Page 14

  “But the chemistry or hormones or history or whatever you want to call it that’s going on between us is irrelevant,” he said. “We both have our priorities straight now. Our partnership isn’t personal, it’s strictly business.”

  His declaration should have pleased her. She’d wanted their relationship to be professional from the beginning. She didn’t need any more complications. No, indeed. She’d told herself countless times to focus on the ticket. “I can’t believe you’re serious about taking twenty percent.”

  “Why not? Sentiment doesn’t pay the bills. Only a fool would pass up a chance at getting that kind of money.” He waited until the light had changed, looked both ways to ensure the intersection was clear and drove forward. “You see, I may be slow on the uptake, but I do learn my lesson eventually.”

  She wished she could say the same about herself. This was the second time she was about to lose a fortune to a man.

  Yet she still couldn’t equate Hank to Spencer. Her husband had left her with nothing. Hank wanted to leave her with the lion’s share, and he was being up front and honest about it.

  And eighty percent of fifty-two million was still a fortune. It would be more than enough to help her family and put her on the path to a promising future. Now that the truth was out, she and Hank could direct their efforts to recovering the ticket itself rather than the painting, and thus had a better chance of actually succeeding.

  Regardless of what it would cost her, this deal was her best bet.

  So Amelia suspected the sense of loss she felt during the long, tense trip back to Port Hope wasn’t entirely due to the money.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Mystery Millionaire

  1, 3, 4, 17, 23, 29 are someone’s lucky numbers, but the $52,485,720 prize in the August 3rd Lotto 6/49 draw remains unclaimed. According to the Ontario Lottery and Gaming commission, it is not unusual for lottery winners to delay coming forward, particularly in the case of a near-record jackpot. Many winners wish to ensure they have a financial plan in place in order to deal with their newfound wealth, as well as measures to address media interviews and personal security issues. Meanwhile, speculation as to the identity of the winner continues to build. An OLG spokesperson confirmed that the single winning ticket for the August 3 draw was purchased in Northumberland County, a region located east of the Greater Toronto Area. Ticket holders are urged to check their numbers—if the prize is not claimed within one year, the winnings are forfeited and the money is returned to the pot.

  HANK SCROLLED TO the end of the article, but didn’t bother following any more links. All the Toronto papers had posted similar stories on their websites. So had the TV networks. Sure. Who wouldn’t be interested in $52,485,720?

  Or in his case, $10,497,144?

  He leaned back in his chair, stacking his hands behind his head as he contemplated his office’s thrift-store decorating scheme. Once he got his share of the money, he could spring for new furniture and maybe some real art on the walls. Those ink drawings he saw at the gallery yesterday weren’t half bad. He could get a faster computer with a bigger screen that would make the research he did easier on the eyes. For those jobs that involved surveillance, he could use a more powerful telephoto lens for his digital camera, a few more of those miniature video cameras and maybe a portable DVR to monitor the feeds. He could move to a better office, one with an air conditioner that could keep up with the midday heat.

  But he liked this building. It had character that money couldn’t buy. He liked the dips in the wooden stairs that had been worn down by more than a century of passing feet. He enjoyed the sense of history that permeated the age-darkened mahogany trim in the hallway. The funky, old doors with the frosted-glass windows could have come straight from the set of an old black-and-white detective movie. That appealed to him, too. This office might be hot in the summer, but in the winter when the leaves were down, if he angled his head just right, he had a great view of the lake. And he’d just gotten this chair nicely broken in.

  On the other hand, if he had ten million dollars, would he bother coming to the office at all? He wouldn’t need to work. He could go fishing every day if he wanted to. He pictured his favorite fishing spot, up a trail a few miles north of town, where a grove of willows overhung the riverbank. Nothing much would be biting at this time of day, but it would be cool in the shade. Quiet, too.

  Fishing wasn’t complicated. That’s why he liked it. You chose your bait, you made a cast, you reeled it back in. Sometimes the hooks might snag on a tree branch or on a rock on the bottom, but if the line snapped, it was no big deal, as long as you weren’t foolish enough to have risked a lure that you really cared about.

  It was smart to be cautious. Otherwise, you left yourself open for disappointment and pain. He’d believed he’d learned that lesson solid—it was how he’d led his life from the day his mother had died—but obviously he’d needed a refresher course.

  You hide behind your caution like a kid under his security blanket.

  The image of the fishing spot winked out. So did the daydream about money he didn’t yet have. Instead, he saw the look on Amelia’s face when she had agreed to take his deal. Her jaw had been tight with anger. His threat to retrieve the ticket on his own had left her no choice, and she would have hated being finessed. He’d expected that. What he hadn’t expected was the hint of pain in her gaze. It had been easy to recognize. He’d seen the same thing in the mirror more than a decade ago.

  Hank rocked his chair forward, propped his elbows on the desk and tunneled his fingers through his hair. He’d long ago accepted the fact that he was a fool over Amelia. It was no coincidence that her parents had named her after the famous aviatrix. She’d been born to fly, to soar, to dare, to push the limits. She’d fascinated him in large part because they were so different. There was just something about her that made him put his common sense on standby.

  Not anymore. It had been crazy to hope, even for an instant, that he might have a second chance for a future with her. He was a grown man. It was high time to let go of the past. They had been a mistake the first go-around, and nothing had changed.

  But he wasn’t going to compound that mistake by walking away from a chance at ten million dollars. That would be downright certifiable.

  “What are you running in here, a sauna?”

  Hank resisted the urge to sigh. He lifted his head. “Hi, Dad.”

  Basil Jones loosened his tie as he looked around the office. Despite his complaint, he didn’t appear to be suffering from the heat. His shirt was crisp and wrinkle-free. No hint of dampness marred his graying hair or gleamed on his forehead. He was remarkably fit for a man of sixty-four, and he worked out regularly to keep his body trim and his posture straight. He was the same height as his son, and people often commented how alike they looked, but the resemblance was purely superficial.

  Their values and temperaments clashed constantly. The older they got, the more apparent those differences became. It was true, as Hank had told Amelia, that matters had improved after he had moved out of his father’s house. That’s because the less Basil saw him, the fewer opportunities he had to find fault with him.

  “You need a new air conditioner,” Basil said.

  “I’m working on it. How are you doing?”

  “Busy. We’re always swamped this time of year, clearing inventory off of the lot before the new models come in. I don’t know why everyone wants to take their vacation time now.”

  “It is summer, Dad.”

  “That shouldn’t matter. A man’s got to set his priorities, especially in this economy.”

  “The kids go back to school in a few weeks. Most people want to spend their holidays with their families.”

  “Most people could use better time management.”

  Hank pictured another fishing spot, not on a riverbank, but on a long, shallow lake that was bisected by an old, sunken rail bed. The shore was ringed by swamps. He and his dad used to go trolling for pickerel
near one particular bay dotted with rafts of cattails. They would load the gear in the station wagon and hook up the boat trailer the night before, and then leave the house before dawn so they could be out on the water by sunrise. Their lunches usually consisted of sandwiches his mother had made, washed down by cans of root beer or cream soda. Whatever they ate always tasted better when they were out on the lake. Sometimes they would stay out until dark, talking about hockey or football or just listening to the slap of the waves against the aluminum hull.

  But that had been a long time ago, back in the days when his father did take vacations during the summer, when he’d had different priorities.

  Basil brushed off the seat of the leather visitor’s chair and sat, pinching the creases of his trousers to keep the fabric from stretching over his knees. “How about you? Keeping busy?”

  “I’m doing okay.”

  “You didn’t look too industrious when I came in. If you put your mind to it, you could take on a lot more cases than you do.”

  “As a matter of fact, the case I’m working on now is fairly promising. It should bring in a substantial amount of money.”

  “Good, good,” he said absently. “I should have some credit checks for you to do next week. That should help.”

  “Sure, whatever you want.”

  Basil glanced around the office. “Do you remember Ian Taylor? Hammond Taylor’s boy? You went to high school with him.”

  “He was a few years behind me. I didn’t know him well.”

  “He’s a real go-getter. He’s expanded his uncle’s real estate company. Doing great, from what I heard. Specializes in commercial properties.”

  “Good for him.”

  “You might want to give him a call.”

  “Why?”

  “He could find you a better location.” Basil lifted his hand toward the wall behind the filing cabinet. There was a rough patch in the corner near the ceiling where the plaster had been repaired last spring. “This place is old, and the office could use some sprucing up. You wouldn’t want to leave the wrong impression on your customers, would you?”

  “And what impression would that be? That I happen to like historic buildings?”

  “You know very well what I’m talking about, Hank. If you want to be successful, you should make an effort to look as if you are.”

  He’d heard variations of this speech before. It was usually preceded by the mention of someone else’s son who had become a dentist, or was running for mayor, or was tearing down a corner grocery store and building a Tim Hortons franchise. Or was expanding his uncle’s real estate company. In other words, sons who made their fathers proud.

  Normally, the jibes rolled off him. Today, they stung just as badly as when he’d been a teenager. He strove to control his temper. “Is there anything else you wanted to talk about, Dad?”

  His father readjusted the creases of his trousers. “In point of fact, yes. I heard you’ve been seeing that Goodfellow girl again.”

  “Amelia’s hardly a girl anymore.”

  “Don’t be difficult. Do you think that’s wise?”

  No, it wasn’t wise. It had been one of the dumbest things he’d done in fifteen years. He shrugged.

  “In your kind of business, it’s important to maintain a good reputation,” Basil continued. “Your clients are relying on you to be trustworthy. It makes no difference that Amelia beat the charges against her—her reputation is still stained. This is a small town, and people talk. You should be keeping as far away from her as possible.”

  It wasn’t funny, but Hank had a sudden desire to laugh. His father wasn’t worried that Amelia might tramp all over Hank’s heart, he was only worried she might be bad for business. But that was Basil Jones, wasn’t it? If something couldn’t be valued in dollars and cents, it held no worth. In that way at least, his father and Amelia had something in common.

  Would Basil change his tune if he learned about Amelia’s ticket? Would he be proud of the way his son had coerced her into agreeing to split it? Probably. He would have ridiculed Hank’s initial decision to work for free. He would be pleased to hear he’d smartened up. “Don’t worry about me,” Hank said. “I’ve got my eyes open as far as Amelia’s concerned.”

  “Good.” He slapped his knees once, then rose to his feet. “One more thing. About that father-son golf tournament this Saturday?”

  Hank nodded. He didn’t particularly care for golf, but his father did, so he’d made sure to keep the date open. A few hours straight in each other’s company was a rare occurrence, and one of them had to make the effort. Besides, playing golf gave Basil something neutral to focus on. “Starts at ten, right?”

  “I’ll have to cancel.”

  “Why?”

  “A leasing company rep I’ve been trying to make a deal with is going to be in town for the weekend. Saturday morning’s the only time he’s got free.”

  “Sure, no problem.” Hank picked up a pen, opened his day planner and drew a line through the entry for Saturday.

  “We’ll play a few rounds some other weekend.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Basil seemed uncomfortable with Hank’s even responses. Or maybe he was simply hot. He flashed a tight smile. “You understand, don’t you, son?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “We’ll get together for lunch sometime soon. I promise.”

  Hank nodded a goodbye and watched him leave, then methodically scratched more lines through the calendar entry. He didn’t stop until the pen wore a hole in the paper.

  * * *

  AMELIA SMOOTHED THE pieces of foam-backed, insulating fabric along the length of the futon, lining up the selvages carefully. She had learned the rudiments of sewing in Miss Weir’s grade eight home-ec class, but hadn’t made anything since the gingham apron that had been her final project. It had rated a B-, which had been the lowest mark she’d received in any subject throughout her school years. Fortunately, curtains were fairly simple, which was why Jenny had allowed her to help. She took the box of pins from the sewing table and sat cross-legged on the floor.

  “What are you going to do now?” Jenny asked.

  “I’m going to pin this seam.”

  “I meant about Hank.”

  She leaned over the curtains-to-be and inserted a pin. She had told her sister-in-law that Hank had learned about the ticket, but she hadn’t told her what he’d revealed afterward about their personal history. She wasn’t ready to talk about that. She was still sorting through it herself. “He said he wanted to do some background research on Whitcombe and his gallery. We’ve scheduled a meeting tomorrow to discuss our next step.”

  “You don’t sound happy about it.”

  “It’s my ticket, Jenny. I don’t like having to split it.”

  “If it wasn’t for his help, you wouldn’t know where it was. Giving him twenty percent sounds fair. It’s like a commission, or a finder’s fee.”

  “He did it to get back at me.”

  “Can you blame him? I told you not to lie.”

  The next pin lodged in Amelia’s fingertip. She jerked her hand back and stuck her finger in her mouth.

  “You’re lucky he’s still willing to work with you.”

  She withdrew her finger, watching a bead of blood form on the tip. “Don’t start with me. Please. I feel rotten enough about deceiving him, but I thought it was the right thing to do at the time. And I was planning to pay him a reward, a really big reward, but not as big as ten million dollars.”

  Jenny’s trademark hmph was lost in the whir of the sewing machine as she stitched up the hem on a set of panels that were already joined. She had bought the heavy material a few months ago, designating it for the windows in the new bedroom Will had built in the basement. Owen and Eric would be moving into it as soon as the drywall was sealed and painted, which was likely what Will was doing now, since the smell of primer was wafting through the house.

  He’d skimmed pond scum at the yacht club again this mor
ning and had gone to work on the basement renovation immediately after lunch. The older boys had joined him, eager to help their dad with what they called “guy” stuff. Though it was questionable how much help a ten-year-old and a six-year-old could actually provide, Will had made sure to find small tasks to make them feel useful.

  Naturally, Toto had somehow acquired skunklike stripes of white primer down the center of his back, and Timmy had taken an extra hour to calm down for his nap after his brothers had pretended to use his yellow bunny for a paint rag, but that just meant the family was back to normal. Will and Jenny’s argument had blown over as quickly as a summer thunderstorm, and like a storm, it had cleared the air. The two of them seemed closer than ever. The kids had relaxed again, too. It was amazing that they could be so happy, since nothing else had changed. Will didn’t have steady work, Jenny’s baby was due in a matter of weeks, and the about-to-expand family was still packed into this house like sardines, in spite of the extra basement bedroom.

  The sewing machine whined to silence. Jenny picked up a pair of scissors, snipped the threads and transferred the finished curtain section to the ironing board she’d set up beside the table. The pile was growing at an impressive rate.

  Amelia popped her finger back in her mouth to get rid of the blood, then dried it on her shorts before she handed the fabric she’d pinned to Jenny. “You’re really good at sewing,” she said, hoping to change the subject. “I think it’s great how you and Will can do things yourselves.”

  “I made every curtain and drape in this house myself because it was a fraction of the cost of buying them ready-made.”

  “Well, whether they’re cheaper or not, they look terrific.”

  “Did you ever make curtains for your condo, Amelia?”

  “Uh, no. The decorator handled that.”

  “Do you think Eric and Owen would be happier if their curtains were custom-made by a professional decorator?”

  “I doubt it would make a difference.”