Morning, Noon, and Night by Sidney Sheldon

“I can’t believe Father isn’t going to be inside, waiting for us,” Kendall said.

Woody grinned. “He’s too busy trying to run things in hell.”

Tyler took a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

As they approached the front door, it opened, and Clark, the butler, stood there. He was in his seventies, a dignified, capable servant who had worked at Rose Hill for more than thirty years. He had watched the children grow up, and had lived through all the scandals.

Clark’s face lit up as he saw the group. “Good afternoon!”

Kendall gave him a warm hug. “Clark, it’s so good to see you again.”

“It’s been a long time, Miss Kendall.”

“It’s Mrs. Renaud now. This is my husband, Marc.”

“How do you do, sir?”

“My wife has told me a great deal about you.”

“Nothing too terrible I hope, sir.”

“On the contrary. She has only fond memories of you.”

“Thank you, sir.” Clark turned to Tyler. “Good afternoon, Judge Stanford.”

“Hello, Clark.”

“It’s a pleasure to see you, sir.”

“Thank you. You’re looking very well.”

“So are you, sir. I’m so sorry about what has happened.”

“Thank you. Are you set up here to take care of all of us?”

“Oh, yes. I think we can make everyone comfortable.”

“Am I in my old room?”

Clark smiled. “That’s right.” He turned to Woody. “I’m pleased to see you, Mr. Woodrow. I want to—”

Woody grabbed Peggy’s arm. “Come on,” he said curtly. “I want to get freshened up.”

The others watched as Woody pushed past them and took Peggy upstairs.

The rest of the group walked into the huge drawing room. The room was dominated by a pair of massive Louis XIV armoires. Scattered around the room were a giltwood console table with a molded marble top, and an array of exquisite period chairs and couches. An ormolu chandelier hung from the high ceiling. On the walls were dark medieval paintings.

Clark turned to Tyler. “Judge Stanford, I have a message for you. Mr. Simon Fitzgerald would like you to telephone him to tell him when it would be convenient to arrange a meeting with the family.”

“Who is Simon Fitzgerald?” Marc asked.

Kendall replied. “He’s the family attorney. Father has been with him forever but we’ve never met him.”

“I presume he wants to discuss the disposition of the estate,” Tyler said. He turned to the others. “If it’s all right with all of you, I’ll arrange for him to meet us here tomorrow morning.”

“That will be fine,” Kendall said.

“The chef is preparing dinner,” Clark told them. “Will eight o’clock be satisfactory?”

“Yes,” Tyler said. “Thank you.”

“Eva and Millie will show you to your rooms.”

Tyler turned to his sister and her husband. “We’ll meet down here at eight, shall we?”

As Woody and Peggy entered their bedroom upstairs, Peggy asked, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Woody snapped. “Leave me alone.”

She watched him go into the bathroom and slam the door shut. She stood there, waiting.

Ten minutes later, Woody came out. He was smiling. “Hi, baby.”

“Hi.”

“Well, how do you like the old house?”

“It’s…it’s enormous.”

“It’s a monstrosity.” He walked over to the bed and put his arms around Peggy. “This is my old room. These walls were covered with sports posters—the Bruins, the Celtics, the Red Sox. I wanted to be an athlete. I had big dreams. In my senior year in boarding school, I was captain of the football team. I got offers of admission from half a dozen college coaches.”

“Which one did you take?”

He shook his head. “None of them. My father said they were only interested in the Stanford name, that they just wanted money from him. He sent me to an engineering school where they didn’t play football.” He was silent for a moment. Then he mumbled, “I could’a been a contenda…”

She looked at him puzzled. “What?”

He looked up. “Didn’t you ever see On the Waterfront?”

“No.”

“It was a line that Marlon Brando said. It means we both got screwed.”

“Your father must have been tough.”

Woody gave a short, derisive laugh. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said about him. I remember when I was just a kid, I fell off a horse. I wanted to get back on and ride again. My father wouldn’t let me. ‘You’ll never be a rider,’ he said. ‘You’re too clumsy.’” Woody looked up at her. “That’s why I became a nine-goal polo player.”

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