Heir to a Fortune
Cliff House, located on a cliff overlooking the North Atlantic, was as grand and ornate as any of the millionaires' famed summer "cottages" that attracted hordes of tourists to Newport, Rhode Island, every year. Dora Talbert, whose late husband, Howard Talbert, had built the elaborate seaside mansion as a wedding present for her, lived in the house for the next half a century.
On the seventy-fifth anniversary of her birth, the widow held a dinner party to not only to celebrate her birthday but also to announce the heir, or heirs, to both her Massachusetts home and her considerable fortune. Since Dora and Howard had never been blessed with children, Dora's heirs were to be selected from among the children and grandchildren of her husband's first marriage.
As she tried fastening her housecoat, Dora fumbled with the tiny buttons. She sighed, realizing she was not nearly as dexterous as she used to be.
"Here, Madame, let me do that," offered Marie, her personal maid.
"Thank you, my dear."
"Have you decided what you want to wear tonight?" Marie asked, walking toward the old woman's closet.
"I'll wear the blue Dior. No doubt, it's far too extravagant to wear to dinner with Howard's family, but, given the occasion, I want to appear regal and matriarchal."
"You'll look like a queen," Marie assured her.
All the staff at Cliff House admired their employer, and those who knew her for any length of time came to love her. Not one of them, however, liked her stepchildren or their progeny. That was to be expected since Howard Talbert's four children and three grandchildren usually exhibited the worst of human qualities.
After she took the Dior gown out of the closet, the maid discussed the day's schedule with her employer. Dora was to have her bath, facial and manicure at two; the hairdresser would arrive at four; by seven, she would have to be dressed and ready to receive her guests.
"You should find time to squeeze in a nap this afternoon. You don't want to overdo it."
"Thank you, Marie, but I'll be fine. I'll go downstairs now, have some breakfast and talk to the cook about tonight's menu."
"Yes, Madame," the maid said as she began gathering the lingerie and accessories the old woman would wear with her blue gown.
Meanwhile, Dora bypassed the grand staircase and headed toward the elevator. Her doctor insisted she avoid the stairs since a fall at her age could be disastrous. When the elevator doors opened on the first floor, she walked into the foyer—an inadequate word to describe an area that was larger than most people's homes.
On the wall, at the base of the staircase, was a five-foot-high portrait of Dora Talbert, painted the year construction of Cliff House was completed. She had been twenty-five at the time and newly married.
It's hard to remember when I looked like that, she thought, staring up at the flawless complexion, the fiery red hair and the emerald green eyes.
Dora was one of those remarkable women who did not mourn the passing of her youth or desperately attempt to recapture it. She had lived a full life and enjoyed almost every minute of it. She tarried only a moment before her portrait and then continued on to the kitchen.
"If you wanted breakfast, why didn't you ring?" the cook asked. "I'd have brought it up to you."
"Don't be silly," she laughed good-naturedly. "I'm not an invalid."
"What can I get for you? Eggs? Pancakes?"
"Good heavens! Nothing so heavy this morning. I'll just have a cup of coffee and some toast. Rye, if we have any."
"Coffee and rye toast, it is."
"About tonight ...."
The cook turned her head to hide the scowl on her face. Unlike the other servants who merely disliked her employer's extended family, she absolutely detested them.
"No need to worry. I've got everything under control," she replied. "I've chosen for the appetizer escargot de Bourgogne with spring garlic and truffle butter, topped with gruyere cheese. The soup will be bisque of Langoustine lobster in a savory cognac and cream. I'll prepare two entrees, rack of lamb with ...."
"Enough!" Dora laughed. "I'll trust you to properly feed my guests. Although don't count on Vanessa eating anything you make. She'll most likely dine on celery sticks and Perrier. What she doesn't eat, I'm sure her daughter, Gloria, will."
"That one would eat dog food if I piled it on her plate!"
Both women then enjoyed a good laugh at Gloria's expense.
* * *
The doorbell rang at 6:30. Gregory Talbert, Howard's only son, was the first to arrive, followed shortly by his boy, Logan. Howard's unmarried daughter, Stella, arrived on the heels of Eva Talbert Lafferty, her older sister. Andrew Lafferty, Eva's son, arrived precisely at six, while Vanessa Talbert Claypool, Howard's youngest daughter, and her only child, Gloria, were fashionably late. As per Dora's request, all guests came alone—a rarity for Logan, who usually had a shapely beauty clinging to his arm.
The butler, a faithful retainer who had been with Dora since before she was married, showed them to the formal parlor to await their hostess.
"Would anyone care for a drink?" he asked.
"I'll have Evian with a twist of lemon," Vanessa replied.
Her daughter, although legally old enough to drink, asked for a Coke; and the others wanted alcoholic beverages.
While the butler was playing bartender, Dora entered the room. Although advanced in years, she looked chic in her Dior original.
"Mother!" Gregory exclaimed and walked over to kiss her cheeks. "Happy birthday!"
Dora had known Gregory since he was a child of seven, and this was the first time he addressed her in such a way. It was funny what changes came over people when there were millions of dollars at stake.
"I'm glad to see you all," she said, smiling at the faces of her late husband's family.
In truth, she wasn't happy to see a single one of them, but it would be bad manners to reveal her true feelings.
Gregory was the only one to extend a warm greeting; the others couldn't even feign affection for the elderly woman. Logan was only interested in women under thirty, and Andrew never had a kind word for anyone. And as for the women in her husband's family, they thought only of themselves.
Just when Dora believed she couldn't bear another moment with her insufferable step-family, the butler returned and announced that dinner was served.
"What's this?" Stella asked, picking up a small, elegantly wrapped package she found beside her plate.
Six similar packages lay alongside the plates of the other six guests.
"I bought each of you a present."
"Mother, you shouldn't have!" Gregory said.
"Nonsense! I'm your stepmother, or step-grandmother in the case of you younger ones. Why shouldn't I give you each a token of my regard?"
"Should we open them now?" Stella asked.
"Yes, please do," Dora answered.
The girl yanked off the ribbon and bow and tore through the wrapping paper, to reveal a blue velvet jeweler's box.
"Oh, it's a watch," she said with unconcealed disappointment in her voice when she opened the lid.
"I take it you don't like your gift?" Dora asked.
"It's only that I never wear one," Stella said.
"Yeah, it's not as though she has a job," her cousin Andrew sniggered.
"Please, let's try to get along for one evening," Dora asked. "After all, this might be the last time we're all together."
It was a prospect that did not sadden a single person sitting at the dining table.
* * *
While eating his appetizer, Gregory felt his cell phone vibrate in his jacket pocket. When he saw the caller's number on the display, he excused himself from the table.
"I have to take this call," he explained to his hostess.
"Feel free to use the study," Dora told him.
"I'm sorry for the interruption, but that's the drawback to doing business with Japan and China. You get calls at the most inconvenient times."
As Gregory made his way to the study, the phony smile he had been wearing all evening promptly disappeared from his face.
His business was conducted quickly, but Gregory did not immediately return to the dining room. Instead, he went to the antique mahogany desk and began looking through the drawers, hoping there were financial statements or other evidence of his stepmother's wealth. He knew the old woman was loaded but did not have any idea of just how much money she controlled.
Gregory reached into his pocket and took out the gift his stepmother had given him. Like his niece, he had received a watch. An ugly, inexpensive trinket that looked like it came from Walmart.
"Did that stupid woman think I'd actually like this?" he said as he took off his Rolex and put the cheap watch on his wrist. "Oh, well, it's just for tonight. Anything to butter the old broad up."
The watch said 8:45, but it was only 7:30. As Gregory attempted to set the watch, the tiny knob broke off in his hand.
"Walmart," he said, confirming his assumption.
Not that Gregory Talbert had ever purchased anything from the retail giant. In fact, he'd never even crossed the threshold of one of its many locations. His only connection with Sam Walton's discount empire was that he owned stock in it—a good deal of stock, at that.
Stocks and investments took center stage in Gregory's life. He prized them as most men did their wives and children. When it came to the world of finance, he was no fool. He had never made a bad investment and never failed to turn a profit on a capital outlay.
Howard, his late father, had been a self-made man, a blue collar car mechanic who came up with a good idea at the right time. While he was not much of a businessman, his revolutionary fuel optimizer was in such high demand that he made millions in spite of his ineptitude.
Unlike his father, Gregory had been born into money, and the driving force in his life was to make more of it. In the past ten years alone, he had doubled his own net worth, and he was not content to stop there.
Once I get my hands on the old lady's money ....
There was a knock on the door, and Gregory's concentration was broken.
"Yes?" he asked impatiently.
The door opened, and the butler entered the study.
"Soup is being served, sir. Would you like me to keep yours warm in the kitchen?"
"No, that won't be necessary. I'm through with my call. I'll be returning to the dining room momentarily."
* * *
Shortly after his father had left the dining room, Logan Talbert saw Marie, the maid, walk past the dining room doorway. His uncanny ability to find the most attractive female in any given environment was as reliable as radar. Furthermore, his success rate with women was remarkably high, due to either his family name and wealth or his rugged good looks, or perhaps the combination of both.
"I'm afraid you must all excuse me, too," he said. "I think I left my car door unlocked."
"No one is going to steal it here," his cousin Andrew said. "Not in this godforsaken place."
"You can never be too careful when it comes to a Ferrari," Logan laughed.
Then he walked out to the hallway and headed in the direction the maid had taken moments earlier.
"You startled me," Marie said when her employer's step-grandson entered the room.
Her surprise quickly turned to concern.
"Is it Mrs. Talbert? Is something wrong?" she asked with a slight French accent.
"No," Logan replied, smiling his most captivating smile.
There was genuine relief on her face.
"She must pay you a pretty good salary for you to care so much about her welfare."
Anger flashed in Marie's blue eyes.
"My affection for your grandmother has nothing to do with money."
"Step-grandmother," he corrected her.
Not one of the potential heirs accepted Dora as a member of the family, even though she had married Howard Talbert when all four of his children were under the age of eight.
"A pretty girl like you shouldn't be waiting on little old ladies. You ought to live in a grand house and have servants of your own."
Marie smiled and replied, "Ah, yes, and I should have furs, jewelry, designer clothes ...."
"Exactly," Logan agreed in a soft, seductive voice, his face only inches from her own.
"That's not what I want," Marie said, purposely putting distance between them.
"Then what do you want?" Logan asked.
"A husband, children, a comfortable house with a white picket fence."
"What a shame! Domesticity will cause you to grow fat and old before your time. Why not enjoy your life while you're still young and pretty?"
With three quick steps, Logan was upon the maid. He pulled her into his arms, and kissed her hard on the mouth. She nimbly wriggled out of his grasp.
"You've got the wrong idea. I'm not interested in becoming one of your conquests."
Rejection was a new experience for the handsome playboy, and it was one he didn't like.
"I've bedded movie stars, royalty and society dames. I won't take 'no' from a common servant."
Suddenly, the butler entered the library. With a look of gratitude toward her coworker, Marie quickly exited the room.
"Excuse me for interrupting your conversation, Mr. Logan," he said, "but I believe the security alarm on your Ferrari is going off."
"Thank you, Jeeves," Logan said sarcastically.
"You're quite welcome, sir," the butler replied, hiding his amused smile from the irate lothario.
Logan went outside, turned off the alarm and locked his door. Marie, whose services would not be needed until after the party, passed him in the driveway on her way into town.
"Damned little tease," he swore, sitting on one of the marble benches that aligned the perimeter of Dora's flower garden.
When he reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, his hand encircled the gift box that had been beside his dinner plate.
"They say good things come in small packages."
He tore off the wrapping paper and opened the jeweler's box.
"But, in this case, they're wrong."
He looked at the glow-in-the-dark hands: the time read 8:45. Without bothering to set the correct time, he fastened the cheap watch on his wrist.
* * *
Moments after Logan had left the table to stalk the maid, the butler put a bowl of lobster bisque soup in front of Stella. Her nose immediately curled up with distaste; she hated seafood. She pushed the bowl toward her niece, Gloria, who never said "no" to any kind of food.
This night seems like it will never end, she thought, even though it wasn't quite eight o'clock yet.
Bored with both the meal and the conversation, she toyed with the gift Dora had given her. She looked at the face of the watch and wished it really were 8:45. At least she would be closer to the time she could return to her own home.
Meanwhile, the smell of the lobster and the sound of Gloria slurping her soup, made her ill.
"I'm not feeling well," she announced.
The people that were still seated at the table took no notice of her; they had long grown used to her hypochondria.
"Would you mind terribly if I went up to your guest room and lied down for a while?" she asked her stepmother.
"No, not at all," the hostess replied.
Stella had taken only two steps from her seat, when Dora called to her, "You forgot your gift."
"Don't worry. I'll get it before I leave."
Nevertheless, Dora was insistent. She reached across the table for the watch and strapped it onto the young woman's arm.
"If you wear it, there's no chance you'll leave it behind."
It didn't take Stella long to find the nearest guest room. When she shut the door behind her, she immediately kicked off her shoes, plumped up the pillows and stretched out on the bed. Then she reached over to the nightstand for the television remote control. Random surfing was not necessary; she knew what programs were on every channel.
She turned to the USA Network, which was broadcasting a marathon of Law & Order SVU reruns. Although she'd seen every episode at least twice, she never got tired of seeing Stabler and Benson combat the sexual predators of New York.
During the station break, there was a commercial for a cruise ship line that featured athletic adults dancing, swimming, golfing and gambling. Stella couldn't understand why people spent good money and traveled to exotic places so they could overexert themselves by behaving like children. Playing tennis and volleyball didn't appeal to her. Even miniature golf took too much effort.
Stella's idea of a good day was to sit in her overstuffed recliner, in front of her sixty-inch Sony, with a cup of coffee in one hand and the remote control in the other. She eschewed real-life love and drama, preferring instead to live vicariously through the lives of television and movie characters.
Make-believe was not nearly as emotionally and physically exhausting as reality.
* * *
The appetizer and soup dishes were cleared away, and it was time for the main course. Vanessa, who had consumed nothing more than water with lemon, was the next to excuse herself from the table.
"I have to go powder my nose. And look, Dora," she added, raising her arm, "I'm wearing my watch."
The fact that she hadn't bothered to set the watch (which showed the incorrect time of 8:45) didn't seem important to her. By simply putting the dreadful piece of jewelry on her wrist, she was violating her innate sense of fashion, and the old woman ought to grateful for her sacrifice.
Later, as Vanessa was washing her hands in the bathroom sink, she couldn't help staring into the mirror above the vanity. She turned her head one way and then another, critically examining her reflection from several different angles.
Not perfect, but not too bad for a woman in her early fifties, she thought. I just need a few touch-ups.
Vanessa opened her purse and took out her cosmetic bag. A little mascara, a couple of dabs of powder, a few brushstrokes of blush. When her cheeks and eyes looked their best, she took out her lipstick and lip liner. Lastly, she ran a comb through her perfectly coiffed hair. A single strand of gray brought a frown to Vanessa's mouth. She took a pair of tweezers from her cosmetic bag and plucked the offending hair from its root. She also made a mental note to speak to her hairdresser. Even one stray hair slipping through the coloring process was something Vanessa could not tolerate.
As she walked into the hallway, closing the door to the powder room behind her, the thought of going back to the dining room made her cringe. She hated having so much food paraded in front of her. Didn't anyone understand that she had to watch every bite she took and that she constantly had to stand guard against the calories that threatened to widen her slender figure?
No. I won't go back in there, she decided.
Gregory, Logan and Stella had all managed to escape the oppressive dinner party, why shouldn't she?
If memory serves me correctly, there is a delightful little sitting room on the first floor of this place.
It didn't take her long to find the brightly lit room just on the other side of the ballroom—yes, Cliff House had a full-size ballroom where Dora and Howard Talbert once hosted lavish parties.
The sitting room proved to be the perfect setting for Vanessa. Three of its walls were painted pastel rose, a color that always flattered her, and the fourth was covered by a floor-to-ceiling mirror in which she could admire her own face and form.
* * *
Four people were left at the dining room table when the butler rolled in a cart bearing dishes of lamb and filet mignon.
He served his employer first.
"Lamb or beef, Madame?"
"I'll have the filet mignon, please."
He next went to Gloria, who was finishing her third helping of soup.
"Lamb or beef, Miss?"
"Can't I have both?" she asked, with her mouth filled with Langoustine lobster.
"Certainly," the butler replied.
"Honestly, I don't know where you manage to put it all," Andrew said, shaking his head at the amount of food and drink his cousin had already consumed that evening.
"Don't pick on her," Eva ordered.
Andrew did not respond well to his mother's admonishment.
"I'm not picking on her," he shouted. "I'm making a simple observation. If I wanted to pick on her, I'd tell the cow to stop feeding her fat face."
"Stop it! You'll make her cry."
Gloria, however, took no notice of her cousin's remarks. She was far too intent on sampling the dishes in front of her.
"Look at her!" Andrew continued, his irritation rising. "She's grown as big as a house. She can barely fasten the old lady's ugly watch around her enormous wrist."
Gloria didn't mind that the watchband was cutting into her skin—any more than she minded that the hands pointed to 8:45.
"Andrew, apologize to your step-grandmother at once!" Eva demanded.
"Why? So she'll put our names in her will? That's why we're all here, isn't it, to kiss her wrinkly old ass?"
"That's enough!" his mother cried. "Leave this table at once."
"Gladly! I detest sitting next to that pig. She makes me lose my appetite."
At the doorway, Andrew turned and delivered one last hate-filled salvo, this one directed at his hostess.
"And I won't bother to thank you for your gift. It was a cheap, unsightly watch, that doesn't even keep the proper time."
"I'm sorry for my son's behavior," Eva said. "His anger management sessions don't seem to be working quite as well as I'd like."
"No need to apologize," Dora replied graciously. "He's at that difficult age, after all."
Gloria, who was scooping heaping spoonfuls of sour cream onto a liberally buttered baked potato, was oblivious to the exchange.
After the sound of Andrew's stomping footsteps faded away, there was silence in the room, but it was quickly broken by the sound of Gloria's chewing.
Why can't I have a normal family? Eva thought, and not for the first time.
Tears came to her eyes, and she reached up a hand to wipe one from her cheek.
"Forgive me," she whimpered and fled the dining room, wanting to be alone in her misery.
Eva passed the study where she glimpsed her brother, Gregory, sitting at the desk, talking to his stockbroker. She heard Logan's voice coming from the library. He was also on the phone, trying to arrange a late-night tryst with an attractive married woman, whose husband was out of town on business. She also avoided the ballroom, where her son, in the midst of a full-blown tantrum, was overturning the furniture. Finally, she found sanctuary in the formal living room.
Eva's crying bout was interrupted by the Westminster chimes of the grandfather's clock. It was 8:30.
She took a tissue out of her pocket and wiped her face. With red eyes and nose, she was certain she looked absolutely dreadful.
It isn't fair, she thought for the umpteenth time. Why did Vanessa get the looks in the family? Why did Gregory get the brains, even if he uses them only for lining his already bulging pockets? Why couldn't I have been born pretty, or smart ... or at least talented? Why, why, why?
Not once in Eva's whole miserable life had she ever been content with what she had. Rather, she always compared herself unfavorably to her siblings or peers. Her college roommates had gotten better grades. All her neighbors had nicer houses, happier marriages and better behaved children. Even Dora, her stepmother ....
Eva's tear-swollen face grew hard. Her father's second wife had been young and beautiful, witty and intelligent, admired by her friends and adored by her husband. She even had money and a magnificent house.
Why not me? Why can't I have what she has?
It just wasn't fair!
* * *
Gloria scraped her plate with her spoon, wanting to get every last drop of gravy.
"What's for dessert?" she asked her hostess.
"I'm not quite sure."
"Why don't you ring for the butler and find out?"
As Dora reached for the bell, she noticed the time on her own watch: it was 8:43. She smiled and put the bell down without ringing it.
At precisely 8:45 p.m., the grand mansion known as Cliff House was consumed by flames.
Marie, the maid, saw the blaze on her way back from town and burst into tears. The following day her worst fears were confirmed: although the cook had found her way to safety, no one else had gotten out alive.
* * *
Thomas Wilding, Esquire stared at the beautiful young woman who sat across the desk from him.
"You say you're Dora Talbert's niece?" the lawyer asked. "I was under the impression the poor woman had no family."
"I'm afraid Aunt Dora and my mother had a falling out some years ago."
"And is your mother still alive?"
"No. She passed away last year."
The young redhead, who looked like Dora Talbert's portrait come to life, reached into her handbag and took out her aunt's duly signed and notarized last will and testament.
"Everything appears to be in order," Wilding concluded after having carefully scrutinized the document the young heiress had given him. "Other than generous bequests to her cook and maid, your Aunt Dora left everything to you."
The young woman nodded, but said nothing further.
"I'll begin probate at once."
* * *
Eleven months later, an exceptionally beautiful young woman was sailing on a private yacht off the coast of Greece. Her handsome companion, a wealthy British hotelier, was scrutinizing a set of blueprints.
"When will my—I mean our—house be finished, darling?" the redhead asked.
The woman's butler walked out on deck, pushing a cart of mixed drinks.
"Surely by the time we get back to England," her new husband replied. "In fact, let me go call the builder now and straighten out this matter of the walk-in closets in the bedrooms."
The billionaire's wife gave him a grateful smile before he disappeared below deck.
"A toast, my dear," the butler announced, handing the woman a cocktail. "To the next fifty years."
"Thank you, old friend. And thank you once again for those watches. I would have hated sharing our fortune with Howard Talbert's awful family. They were simply vile!"
Kronos, once the youngest Titan on Mount Olympus, laughed.
"And who is to blame for their contemptible behavior? Surely not I!"
Dora—short for Pandora—sighed.
"Will you never stop reminding me of my blunder? I made a mistake! I was curious, so I opened the damned box and peeked inside."
"And released all those dreadful traits that make humans such despicable creatures."
"Ah, yes," Pandora laughed, teasing the Titan, "those same traits the gods of Olympus exhibited long before they breathed life into a lump of clay and made the first human."
We all know which of the seven deadly sins Salem is most guilty of!
