gave an awkward nod. Even now that she no longer had to please her, being in the same room with this bastion of Philadelphia society still made her uncomfortable. “Sarah.” She cleared her throat. “This is quite a surprise.”
“I’m sure.” Then, because Grace still hadn’t invited her in, she added, “Have I caught you at a bad time?”
“Sort of, but it’s all right. Come on in, and don’t mind the mess.”
Once inside, the inspection continued, moving from the chintz sofa and matching chairs to the authentic Tiffany lamp and the bright throw rugs scattered over the hardwood floor. Her gaze stopped on the stale bagel. “Did I interrupt your lunch?”
“That was breakfast. Cold pizza is on the menu for lunch. If you care to stay.”
Sarah’s sense of humor was practically nonexistent, but a corner of her mouth curved a little, mimicking a smile. “I won’t stay long.”
Grace removed an art magazine from one of the chintz chairs and set it on the coffee table. “Please, sit down. Can I get you anything?”
“No, thank you.” Only then did she notice the suitcase Grace had taken down from the living room closet earlier. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Napa Valley, to visit my dad.”
“He lives in California now?”
“He finally gave in to a lifelong dream of becoming a winemaker. He moved out west a few years ago.”
“Please tell him I wish him well.”
“I will.” Why all this civility? Grace wondered. And why hadn’t Steven warned her that his mother was planning on paying her a visit? Unless he didn’t know. Sarah loved catching people off guard.
“Grace.” Sarah removed her black leather gloves, one finger at a time. “I need your help in a little matter.”
That was another surprise. Sarah had a slew of people who took care of her “little matters”—attorneys, close friends, servants. And even if she didn’t, Grace would be the last person she’d come to. From the moment Steven had brought her to meet his mother, Sarah had made it clear that she didn’t approve of his choice for a wife. Grace was a working girl, a commoner, and as such, she would never understand what it took to be a Hatfield, to stand by her man, to keep a perfect home, to give lavish parties and to sit on the board of half a dozen organizations.
But it wasn’t until Steven had announced that he wanted to become an artist and not a politician like his father and grandfather before him, that Sarah’s wrath had come to full bloom. Angry at her son’s decision to break a century-old family tradition, she had cut off all financial support and told him not to bother sending her a wedding invitation.
Grace would never know whether or not the wedding would have taken place. Just as she was beginning to have serious doubts about marrying into a family that would probably never accept her, she had learned of Steven’s affair with a young artist. Almost relieved, Grace had broken the engagement, and never saw Sarah again. Until today.
“Does this little matter have anything to do with art?” Grace asked, wondering why Sarah was taking such a long time to come to the point. “Because if it does, I’m sure Steven could help you better than—”
“No, he can’t.” For the first time, Sarah’s gaze faltered. “Steven is dead.”
Two
For a moment, Grace was incapable of a reaction. Dropping onto the couch, she just sat there, numbed by the news. When she found her voice again, it was barely audible. “Dead? Steven? How?”
“He was murdered. Shot at point-blank range in his gallery.”
Grace’s head was spinning. Murdered. Shot. Those weren’t words she could easily associate with Steven, who had always been a peaceful, happy-go-lucky kind of guy. What could he possibly have done to arouse such wrath?
The answer came to her in the next second. “Was a woman involved?” she asked.
“A married woman,” Sarah replied. “Her name is Denise Baxter. Apparently, her husband found out about the affair, went to look for Steven and shot him in the heart.”
Grace covered her mouth with both hands. “Oh, God, Sarah, how awful. How truly awful. I’m so sorry.”
“I warned him that someday his antics would bring him more trouble than he’d be able to handle. He didn’t listen. He never listened.”
“When did this happen?”
“A week ago.”
Grace’s back went rigid. “And you didn’t let me know?”
“Why would I? You and Steven broke up more than ten years ago.”
“But we remained friends, and we kept in touch. In fact, I talked to him less than a month ago.”
“I wasn’t aware of that,” Sarah said stiffly.
“Why are you telling me now?”
“Because of the will.”
The surprises just kept on coming. “I’m mentioned in Steven’s will?”
“He left you the gallery.”
This time Grace fell back against the cushions, too stunned to say anything.
Sarah reached into her black alligator bag, extracted a sheaf of paper, folded in three, and handed it to her. “This is a copy of the will. You may want to look at page four.”
Grace took the will from Sarah’s hand, flipped to the fourth page and read. It was just as Sarah had said, written in legalese but quite clear. Steven had left her the Hatfield Gallery in New Hope, Pennsylvania. After she read the paragraph again, she shook her head. “I can’t accept it.”
“He thought you’d say that. Please read on.”
Grace read the next paragraph. “In the event that Grace McKenzie turns down my bequest, I ask that she spend one week at the gallery before making her final decision. If, after that time, her position remains unchanged, the gallery shall go to my mother, Sarah Hatfield.”
“Have you seen the gallery?” Sarah asked as Grace slowly refolded the document.
“No. Steven had invited me to the grand opening, but the museum was preparing for an important exhibition at the time and I couldn’t get away.” Actually, she hadn’t wanted to run into Sarah. “I had made plans to drive down the following year, but didn’t.”
“A pity. You would like it.”
“I’m sure of it. Steven was very proud of it.” She handed the will back, but Sarah made no move to take it. “I wish you had called,” Grace said. “I would have saved you a trip.”
“It’s clear that Steven thought very highly of you, as a person and as an art expert.”
She
