Chapter Two. Seven thousand miles away, Annabel Worth was burying her aunt Annie

Seven thousand miles away, Annabel Worth was burying her aunt Annie. It was a small private ceremony and she was one of a handful of mourners who tossed roses onto the coffin as it was lowered. Glancing about, she recognized a couple of distant cousins and several tearful older women, friends of her aunt’s. Annabel’s parents were represented by a lavish wreath in the shape of a cross, the closest they could come to having the last word, she guessed cynically. Her aunt would have hated it, pagan that she was.

When the prayers were over, Annabel slowly approached the edge of the grave, her black Bally heels sinking into the soft lawn. People were drifting away in twos and threes, probably returning to their hotels to prepare for the discreet gathering later in the day. The sun seemed indecently bright. Annie would never see it again, her niece thought sadly. She took a handful of earth and released it onto the gleaming coffin, staring down at her own reflection mirrored across the ebony surface.

She wished she had spent more time with Annie recently, but work had been hell and she had allowed the weeks to trickle by, not realizing how quickly her aunt would fail. Annie had left her home in the South Pacific a few months ago to spend the rest of her borrowed time in her San Francisco apartment. Annabel had flown out from Boston when she first arrived, and she had seemed well, if a little thin. Typically proud, Annie had avoided telling anyone how ill she was for as long as possible.

Four weeks ago, Annabel and her mother visited her once more, and everyone had seemed confident she still had months. They had been profoundly shocked when her doctor called just last week, telling them she was critically ill. Cancer could suddenly accelerate, a woman from the hospice had said. Annie had died while Annabel was still on the red-eye, trying to reach San Francisco in time to kiss her goodbye.

Holding back tears, she pushed a clod of earth into the grave with her foot. It made a soft, distinctive thud.

“Miss Worth? ” A voice behind her made her turn quickly. She was faced by a short, perspiring young man who thrust a damp business card at her.

“Jessup. Bryan Jessup of Swain, Buddle & Jessup, ” he told her. “Walter Jessup’s my father, ” he added, as though that explained everything.

Disconcerted, Annabel retreated from the grave’s edge. “I take it you are a lawyer.” What other professional would collar the bereaved before the coffin was even fully lowered?

“We are, ” her companion confirmed loftily.

Annabel waited. He just stood there staring, as though confronted with a rare zoo specimen.

She finally prompted, “What may I do for you, Mr. Jessup? ”

“Yes… excuse me.” He cleared his throat. “We wrote after your aunt passed, God rest her soul. I imagine you did not receive our letter before leaving Boston.”

“You imagine correctly.”

“Please forgive this intrusion in your hour of… er. We thought we might catch you here before you left town, you see. To arrange an appointment.”

“An appointment? ” What on earth did Swain and so forth want with her?

“To discuss your aunt’s affairs, ” Jessup added.

Annabel raised an eyebrow. Her aunt’s affairs. Now that would make for interesting conversation. But not with a sweaty young California lawyer. “You mean before her will is read? I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Jessup, ” she said in dignified old Boston. It produced immediate results.

“Of course.” He mopped his forehead. “Allow me to offer our sincere condolences, Miss Worth. Your aunt’s untimely death must have come as a great shock.” He glanced past her toward the grave with obvious discomfort. “You will be aware that you are named in her will of course. But for certain reasons it is desirable that we—”

Annabel cut him off. “Is it really necessary to have this conversation now? ”

Jessup, Jr. blinked, apparently accustomed to getting a warm reception from eager relatives salivating over the prospect of a fat inheritance. “Your late aunt left specific instructions that we were to contact you immediately, ” he said with a hint of chagrin. “We have a letter from her for your eyes only. My father felt it was important to make you aware of this as soon as we could.”

“I see.”

“Might I er… walk you to your car or drive you somewhere? ”

Annabel hesitated. “The latter works for me, ” she said, glancing along a meandering pathway to the funeral director’s limousine in which she had arrived. Returning to Russian Hill in its grim luxury was a ride she would gladly pass up.

Obviously thrilled to have scored this coup with a client he wanted to impress, the young attorney led the way to a silver Porsche and opened the door with a flourish. He attempted to assist her in, but Annabel was an expert at avoiding eager hands. She was yet to meet a man who did not behave like a complete fool around her, staring as if he’d never seen a blonde in a country that had cornered the world peroxide market.

People had stared at her all her life, some even assuming they had the right to touch her as one would a curiosity on a store shelf. She had never really grown accustomed to it and for years had loathed her appearance, her paper-white skin, her peculiar pinky-blue eyes, and the hair that was blonder than Barbie’s. Other girls paraded about in bikinis— she wore a sundress. With sleeves. Other girls could wear makeup. Against Annabel’s albino complexion it looked as stark as paint.

Her painful self-consciousness had never quite vanished, even after she’d ‘successfully’ married. What a dismal mistake that had been. How naive she’d been back then, she thought cynically.

After avoiding males throughout high school and college, she had finally met Toby Simpson, a new employee of her father’s. Clever, polished, ambitious Toby. Desperate to feel normal and approved of, Annabel—with a little prompting from her mother—had convinced herself she needed a husband and had accepted Toby’s convenient proposal.

The marriage lasted only six months, and she slunk out of it even less confident in herself than before. That had been nearly ten years ago, and she was no longer a wimp. But men still stared, and to her profound irritation, she was still unnerved by it. The last thing she felt like today, of all days, was trying to keep her close-fitting black silk skirt over her knees while Jessup, Jr. drove her all over San Francisco.

Settling into the black upholstery with an edge of irritation, she said, “I’m staying at my aunt’s apartment in Russian Hill.”

“No problem. I know the address.” He gunned the motor for her benefit, then seemed to remember where they were. Mumbling something apologetic, he cruised through the cemetery with a display of reverence.

Annabel stared out the window. Tall trees and man-made lakes formed a sylvan backdrop for manicured lawns that seemed unnaturally green and shrubs that were too neat for nature. Flowers punctuated this serene vista with shameless bursts of color. Each orderly row of monuments they passed made the reality of Annie’s death sink in deeper. It was so unfair, Annabel thought numbly. She was only in her sixties—a good and decent person. With all the scumbags there were to choose from, why had the Grim Reaper taken her?

Feeling tears threaten, she shifted her attention to the street. Colma, otherwise known as “the city of souls, ” was a necropolis, not a metropolis. Instead of fast food and fashion stores, the main route was lined with florists, tombstone engravers and ‘funeral shoppes.’ Home to over a million dead and a mere 1, 500 living, the town greeted visitors with a sign that warned It is unlawful to drive through any funeral procession. This was where San Francisco had relocated its dead half a century earlier.

Annabel was surprised that Annie had chosen to be buried here and not in the islands she loved so much. Most people wanted to come home in the end, she supposed.

“Did you know my aunt? ” she asked Jessup, Jr. after some particularly flashy driving. They were on the freeway now and he was bent on showing her how a real man handles a sports car.

“I had the pleasure of delivering documents to her on many occasions, ” he said, cutting off a guy in a Pontiac Firebird. “A very colorful lady, if I may say so. And kind.”

“Yes, she was, ” Annabel said quietly. “I’m going to miss her very much.”

The guy in the Firebird pulled alongside and Jessup stepped on the gas. Great, Annabel thought. I’m going to be killed on my way back from a funeral.

Jessup glanced at her sideways like a puppy that had just eaten your favorite Manolos and expected praise for his feat.

What the heck, she decided. Life wasn’t that great anyway. Producing her toothiest smile, she said, “Wow, this thing really kicks ass.”

Which was all the encouragement he needed.