way with a big surprise I want to get for you. Have a good evening, darling. I love you extravagantly.
Proud of himself, he pocketed his phone just as Annabelle headed his way.
“That sweater didn’t work for Cee Cee. I’m ready to go to the other mall.”
Before they had left the greenhouse, Annabelle had scrubbed the dirt off her hands at the sink in the corner. But if she thought a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt that said Keep American beautiful…stay in bed made her ready for anything, especially to be seen in the company of an Allistair, she had a lot to learn.
Fortunately, he didn’t care whether she learned the lesson or not.
“Great,” he said. “Let’s go.” He flashed his smile then escorted her to the SUV and opened the passenger door.
See. He was such a gentleman he congratulated himself all the way around to the driver’s side.
As he slid behind the wheel, he briefly considered sending Lily another text, a little P.S. to express his undying love for her and his joy at getting to spend an evening alone with his future daughter. But he didn’t want Annabelle to see him using his phone. She might discover she didn’t have her own, and ask him to stop and let her search for it. Or worse yet, borrow his.
“I’m thinking about getting Mom a Kate Spade purse?” Annabelle said. He hated the teenage habit of making every statement a question when they weren’t sure of themselves. “Unless it’s too expensive?”
“The sky’s the limit!” He was trying for jovial and carefree, even youthful, but the look on Annabelle’s face said he’d overdone it. Stephen corrected course. “You don’t have to be on a budget with me or even look at the price tag.”
“Wow! Really?”
“Really. Today you’re going to learn what it’s like to be an Allistair.”
Her grin was huge. She thought he meant that as a harbinger of her future.
If he hadn’t had his hands on the wheel, he’d have rubbed them together. All his plans were falling right back into place, just as he knew they would.
Chapter Twenty
Lily watched from her window until the car carrying Graden and Toni passed through the security gates and turned in the direction of the airport. Then, filled with apprehension and dread, she went to the east wing and turned the borrowed key in the lock. The massive door swung inward, and she blinked until her eyes adjusted to the dim interior.
Row after row of file cabinets filled the room.
Where was Wyler, and why would Toni make up such a story? Maybe Lily could find a light switch and then find something in the files that would prove or disprove Yancy’s theories about Clive and Graden.
She spotted a door at the far end of the room and made her way through the archives. Suddenly it swung open, and a blaze of light silhouetted the man in the doorway.
“You came.” His voice was rusty and old-sounding. He was tall, and he wore a loose sweater that bagged around his thin frame.
“Wyler?” He nodded. “I’m Lily Perkins. Your wife said you wanted to see me.”
“Follow me.”
He led her into a spacious living room with stark, white walls. It was filled with plush velveteen sofas and chairs in olive and gold that would have looked glamorous in the nineteen eighties but now had the worn look of outdated furniture. Eighties-style lamps cast shadows across Wyler’s face, softening the lines and sagging skin of age. It was easy to see he’d once been a handsome man. It was also easy to see the resemblance to Stephen.
Without a word, he pulled out a chair for her facing a massive portrait of Clive in his prime. Apparently the elder Allistair had turned gray prematurely. With his mane of hair and his fierce expression, he put her in mind of a marauding lion. Why on earth would anyone want to look at that every day?
Wyler stood gazing at the portrait, lost in it. He wore an expression of unutterable sorrow. Had he forgotten she was there?
“Wyler?” He didn’t look her way. “Mr. Allistair.”
He turned his head toward her, his eyes tragic. “Death devours all lovely things.”
“I got your note. I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me.”
He put his finger over his lips in the classic shushing motion, then crossed the room and took down Clive’s portrait. The wall behind it was covered with writing in both pen and pencil—names, snatches of phrases, bits of poetry. There were a