“Didn’t look too poisonous, that young man,” Willa said. “’Course, men ain’t the same as snakes. None of ’em are completely harmless.”
“He asked me to dinner. Naturally I refused.”
Willa peered over the top of her cup at Mari. “Wanted to go, didn’t you?”
“Whether I did or not, you know I couldn’t.” Mari set down her mug and leaned across the table toward the older woman. “Oh, Willa, am I doing the right thing? I’m so confused about all this.”
“Seems like you got to go and find out, that’s what I say.”
“If only Uncle Stan had talked to me first.”
“Once that man makes up his mind, he’s not much for waiting around.”
Mari sighed. “Or for asking anyone’s opinion, either. It’s just that everything has all happened so fast. I don’t know Joseph Haskell. I never even heard of him until he came on TV to ask his long-lost daughter to come home.”
“Stan sure enough thinks she was your mother. For all any of us know, she could’ve been.”
“My mother could have been anybody!” Mari cried, blinking back tears. “I loved Aunt Blanche. Why didn’t she ever tell me the truth—that my mother was some stranger she’d befriended?”
“I expect ’cause she got to fearing she might lose the baby she loved. Might be she and Stan couldn’t’ve adopted you if it got around there was no blood relationship. They weren’t exactly spring chickens at the time. As for your uncle, he did what he thought best for you.”
“I suppose. But this may turn out to be a wild-goose chase. Maybe I ought to wait and see….” Her words trailed off. Wait for what? Mr. Haskell’s phone call to Uncle Stan had made it clear his present health was too poor for him to travel to Nevada, and that he was sending his private jet so Mari could fly to Mackinac Island to his summer cottage. This evening.
“If you don’t go, you’ll never know whether your mother was Isabel Haskell or not, will you?” Wilma pointed out. “Best you get to packing. And never mind that young man. If he’s interested he’ll show up again, and then you can decide if he’s worth troubling yourself over.”
Show up again? Mari wondered as she headed for her bedroom. She wouldn’t be here if he did, so a lot of good that’d do. Time to forget Russ Simon and concentrate on what else to toss in her suitcase. Although most of her clothes were for riding or casual wear, she figured she’d better take at least one dress and a pair of dressy sandals. She had to admit—she was scared to be going alone to a place she’d never been to meet a stranger who might be her grandfather.
Uncle Stan could hardly come with her, since he had to take care of the horses and other ranch animals. Willa might be spry for her age, but it was too much to ask her to do ranch work, and they couldn’t afford to hire anyone else for the task. In fact, they were already one mortgage payment behind. The money Russ had paid for Lucy would help, but it was touch and go.
As for asking Willa to come with Mari, that wasn’t possible, either. Willa couldn’t take much time away from her own ranch because she supported herself by raising rattlesnakes, milking their venom and selling it to labs that made antivenin. No one wanted to snake-sit for her.
By the time the limo arrived to pick up Mari and take her to the Carson City Airport, she was ajangle with nerves. Twenty-seven-years old and she’d never ridden in a limo, much less a private jet. Maybe she ought to be feeling like Cinderella going to the ball, but she felt more like the untransformed cinder girl. If she’d been traveling as Mari Crowley, it wouldn’t be this way. She’d always been confident in her ability to handle almost any situation. But she might no longer be a Crowley, she might be a Haskell, and that thought was unsettling.
Never mind, you’re still Mari, she told herself as she hugged Uncle Stan and Willa in farewell. You can cope. Once the chauffeur settled her inside the limo and they drove away from the ranch, though, the tears she’d fought gathered in her eyes.
When they reached the airport, Mari still wasn’t sure she was doing the right thing. But her tears had dried by then and she allowed herself to be led by the chauffeur to where Mr. Haskell’s jet waited on the tarmac. He helped her aboard. Inside, a uniformed man showed her how to fasten her seat belt, telling her he was George, the co-pilot, and introducing the pilot as Tom. George pointed out where she could find soft drinks and sandwiches once they were underway. It took her a minute to realize she was alone in the jet except for these two men.
As the plane took off, climbing quickly up and up, circling to the northeast, she closed her eyes, not wanting to see Carson City fade from sight below her. To distract herself from the disturbing realization that she was leaving everything familiar behind, she picked up a magazine from among several in a rack, but didn’t open it. The cinder girl was heading for the castle without the benefit of a fairy godmother or a waiting prince.
Without Mari willing it, Russ Simon’s face flashed into her mind’s eye. Her prince? The thought made her smile. Far-fetched as it seemed right now, maybe they’d meet again someday, as he’d said he hoped they would. She opened the magazine, Joseph Haskell’s name popped out at her and she began to read the article about him. By the time the jet landed on Mackinac Island, Mari knew a lot more about her possible grandfather than she had before.
Since the article had stressed how wealthy he was, when she arrived by horse and buggy at the “summer cottage” he’d mentioned to Uncle Stan, Mari shouldn’t have been surprised to find herself looking at what must be at least a fourteen-room Victorian mansion. But she was. Her jitters returned full force.
A trim, fortyish woman opened the door. “I’m Pauline Goodwin, the housekeeper, Ms. Crowley,” she said.
Mari nodded as she was ushered in. “Please call me Mari. Is Mr. Haskell—?”
“An hour before you arrived, he was airlifted to Columbia Presbyterian Hospital in New York City. My orders are to make sure you settle in comfortably while he’s gone.”
“Oh, my, is he seriously ill?”
“We don’t know when he’ll be returning,” Pauline said stiffly. “This way, please.”
What kind of an answer was that? Mari wondered as she followed the housekeeper up a winding staircase. It must be his heart. He’d told Uncle Stan he had a “bum ticker.” Whether he was her grandfather or not, she truly hoped he’d be all right.
The room she’d been given was decorated with white-painted wicker furniture, and paintings and photos of horses hung on the walls. Mari was looking at the paintings when Pauline said, “Frank will bring up your suitcases. Will there be anything else you need?”
As Mari thanked her and shook her head, she wished for something Pauline wouldn’t have been able to provide. What she needed was a friend. Someone to talk to who she knew and trusted, someone who’d assure her she’d been right to come here. She worried how it might affect Mr. Haskell’s health if it turned out they weren’t related. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt him.
On TV he’d claimed he was a lonely and ill old man who regretted alienating his only child, Isabel. Mari had felt sorry for him, even though, at the time, she hadn’t the slightest idea Stan was even then speculating that Isabel might have been her mother. Had she been?
I’d like to have a grandfather, Mari thought as she got ready for bed. I have no family at all except for Stan.
That was really why she’d come here—to find out if Mr. Haskell was family, a blood relation. It’d been a terrible shock when her uncle had confessed that Aunt Blanche had never told her the truth about her birth.
Though Mari had wondered if sleep would elude her, Mr. Sandman, as Willa would say, found her immediately, and she