he approached the area, he could tell the price of real estate was going up. The housing developments were farther and farther from the main road, and when he reached theirs, he found a manned security gate. After he had shown his ID and the guard had called the Haverstons to verify that they were expecting him, the guard gave him explicit directions as to where to park and then opened the gate to let him through.
A woman in her early twenties opened the door when he rang the bell and asked him to follow her. She was dressed in a dark gray maid’s uniform and led him down an entrance hall lined with expensive paintings. The floor was covered with various-sized oriental rugs, and although she walked on them as if they were nothing, he felt guilty stepping on them. They were of museum quality. When they reached an arched opening, she stepped to the side and waved him through.
The room he entered was done completely in white: white furniture, white walls, white carpet, white curtains, and white throw pillows. The only color was provided by the ornate collection of blown glass that was scattered about on every flat surface in the room.
Clarissa Haverston was draped over one of the long white couches in a flimsy dressing gown that was probably advertised as a hostess gown and sold for hundreds of dollars. She was smoking a cigarette in an eight-inch holder and drinking champagne out of a flute. Marvin Haverston stood next to the fireplace in a red velvet smoking jacket, complete with ascot. He had a pipe in one hand and a shot glass with an amber liquid in it in the other.
As Pallor entered, Mr. Haverston raised his glass in greeting and said, “Would you care for a shot of thirty-year-old Laphroaig? Sorry I can’t offer you anything older, but the last time we were in London, they were out of the forty-year-old.”
Pallor shook his head and said, “No, thank you. I’m driving, and I’m not familiar with the area, but I do appreciate the offer.” He had an incredible urge to laugh. The whole thing looked so staged. Surely these people didn’t live like this. No one did.
Mr. Haverston waved with his pipe towards one of the chairs. “Have a seat, my good man. Are you sure there’s nothing we can get you?”
“No, really, I’m fine,” Pallor said as he sat on the edge of the chair Mr. Haverston had indicated. “If you don’t mind, I’m a little pressed for time. I just arrived in Aspen a couple of hours ago, and I have to catch a plane out of here tomorrow, and I do have a few questions that I’d like to ask.”
“Anything,” Mrs. Haverston said, “and please, call me Clarissa.”
Pallor thanked her and said, “ It’s obvious that you’re well off, and I feel sure that you would qualify for a child with the regular adoption agencies. Could you tell me why you’re interested in a private adoption?”
Clarissa fluttered her eyes and said, “I have a feeling we can trust Mr. Stewart. Don’t you, dear?”
Mr. Haverston grunted. “I guess so, but we can’t take any chances that anything we tell you will get back to Mummy.”
Pallor had the urge to laugh again, but he stifled it and nodded. “Anything you tell me will be kept in strictest confidence.”
Clarissa and her husband looked at each other for a moment, and then he nodded, so she said, “When I was younger, about seventeen, I made a little boo-boo and had to have it taken care of. Only the doctor wasn’t that good a doctor, and I ended up unable to have babies.”
When Pallor didn’t say anything, Haverston cleared his throat and added, “You see, Mummy considers it my duty to provide her with a grandchild, preferably a grandson, to carry on the family name. She’s been after us to get pregnant ever since the wedding, and lately she’s started threatening to cut us off if we don’t. Only Clarissa can’t and we can’t tell her why. If Mummy knew about Clarissa’s past, she’d have our marriage annulled.”
Clarissa nodded.
Lindsay Paige, Mary Smith