you a nice new home.”
2
Henry Paxton, attorney-at-law, newly divorced at thirty-five, lived quietly in the former chauffeur’s apartment of Hilltop, the bucolic Pennsylvania estate thirty miles outside of Pittsburgh. The estate had been built by a Pittsburgh steel magnate who died richer than anyone except maybe John Rockefeller. Since then, subsequent Hydes had summered at Hilltop, raised horses, apples, and Charolais cattle in a gentlemanly way, leaving the dirtying of hands to their employees while they partook of the fruits of the estate. They had turned the land around Hilltop into a park the likes of which Capability Brown would have wept over.
For Henry, it was like living in a Merchant-Ivory movie. And while his former fraternity brothers were still sitting in sports bars watching arena football and scoring with pretty waitresses who needed orthodontia, he had found real luxury. And he loved it.
He stayed on the estate thanks to the largesse of his only client, Dorothy Richardson-Hyde, the ninety-two-year-old matriarch of the Hyde family. Conveniently for Henry, Dorothy spent most of her time in a coma in a nursing home, regaining consciousness only now and then to assure her family that the well-being of Hilltop should be entrusted to her lawyer, Henry Paxton, Esq., who didn’t mind dirtying his hands.
The rest of the family resented the arrangement, though, and Henry frequently uncovered evidence of their Machiavellian plots to get him kicked off the premises.
But so far, he’d hung on.
On this Friday evening in October, he had dressed himself for a gala at the nearby country club. Many members brought along their daughters for such evenings—young women who had long, suntanned legs and seemed to be studying art history at European graduate schools. None of the young ladies hung out in sports bars. They were all beautiful, and they were gracious—if a little unimaginative—when bestowing their sexual favors. But it was their parents whose faces lit up when Henry arrived in his evening clothes—a young, eligible, and presumably successful young man who would provide well-behaved grandchildren and vote Republican when the time was right. For the moment, Henry was very popular at the country club.
Upon returning home late that night, he stripped off his dinner jacket. As he unfastened the cuffs on his crisp shirt sleeves, he almost heard the voice of his ex-wife, Pamela.
“You look smooth, Henry.”
He smiled at his reflection. Perhaps the compliment hadn’t been given with sincerity at the time—Pamela had decided to leave him after a series of mistakes including a drunken kiss he’d shared with her best friend, Nikki Viets—but Henry appreciated the word. Smooth. If anything, he endeavored to be smooth in everything he did. Even the less than savory duties.
The phone rang, interrupting the admiration of his reflection.
By habit, he checked the caller ID.
Fair Weather Village. The nursing home where his benefactress currently resided.
Henry winced.
For years, he had braced himself for this phone call. Eventually, Dorothy was going to slip gently into that good night, and the estate would pass into the hands of her moneygrubbing heirs. When that happened, Henry would be tossed out of his happy home. Of course, even if other plans failed to project him into the financial stratosphere, his legal fee for the estate work was going to be enough to buy himself a beach condo in the Caribbean as well as a ski house in Vail—perhaps with one of the long-legged art history students in tow by then—but Henry would be sorry to leave Hilltop.
With regret, he thumbed Tiger Woods off the plasma TV, then sat down in an armchair and picked up the phone. He adjusted his voice to sound both somber and crisply efficient. “Henry Paxton.”
“Paxton? You need to get your ass over here to Fair Weather.”
He recognized the foghorn bellow of that awful woman in charge of Dorothy’s care. One-handed, he
2
Henry Paxton, attorney-at-law, newly divorced at thirty-five, lived quietly in the former chauffeur’s apartment of Hilltop, the bucolic Pennsylvania estate thirty miles outside of Pittsburgh. The estate had been built by a Pittsburgh steel magnate who died richer than anyone except maybe John Rockefeller. Since then, subsequent Hydes had summered at Hilltop, raised horses, apples, and Charolais cattle in a gentlemanly way, leaving the dirtying of hands to their employees while they partook of the fruits of the estate. They had turned the land around Hilltop into a park the likes of which Capability Brown would have wept over.
For Henry, it was like living in a Merchant-Ivory movie. And while his former fraternity brothers were still sitting in sports bars watching arena football and scoring with pretty waitresses who needed orthodontia, he had found real luxury. And he loved it.
He stayed on the estate thanks to the largesse of his only client, Dorothy Richardson-Hyde, the ninety-two-year-old matriarch of the Hyde family. Conveniently for Henry, Dorothy spent most of her time in a coma in a nursing home, regaining consciousness only now and then to assure her family that the well-being of Hilltop should be entrusted to her lawyer, Henry Paxton, Esq., who didn’t mind dirtying his hands.
The rest of the family resented the arrangement, though, and Henry frequently uncovered evidence of their Machiavellian plots to get him kicked off the premises.
But so far, he’d hung on.
On this Friday evening in October, he had dressed himself for a gala at the nearby country club. Many members brought along their daughters for such evenings—young women who had long, suntanned legs and seemed to be studying art history at European graduate schools. None of the young ladies hung out in sports bars. They were all beautiful, and they were gracious—if a little unimaginative—when bestowing their sexual favors. But it was their parents whose faces lit up when Henry arrived in his evening clothes—a young, eligible, and presumably successful young man who would provide well-behaved grandchildren and vote Republican when the time was right. For the moment, Henry was very popular at the country club.
Upon returning home late that night, he stripped off his dinner jacket. As he unfastened the cuffs on his crisp shirt sleeves, he almost heard the voice of his ex-wife, Pamela.
“You look smooth, Henry.”
He smiled at his reflection. Perhaps the compliment hadn’t been given with sincerity at the time—Pamela had decided to leave him after a series of mistakes including a drunken kiss he’d shared with her best friend, Nikki Viets—but Henry appreciated the word. Smooth. If anything, he endeavored to be smooth in everything he did. Even the less than savory duties.
The phone rang, interrupting the admiration of his reflection.
By habit, he checked the caller ID.
Fair Weather Village. The nursing home where his benefactress currently resided.
Henry winced.
For years, he had braced himself for this phone call. Eventually, Dorothy was going to slip gently into that good night, and the estate would pass into the hands of her moneygrubbing heirs. When that happened, Henry would be tossed out of his happy home. Of course, even if other plans failed to project him into the financial stratosphere, his legal fee for the estate work was going to be enough to buy himself a beach condo in the Caribbean as well as a ski house in Vail—perhaps with one of the long-legged art history students in tow by then—but Henry would be sorry to leave Hilltop.
With regret, he thumbed Tiger Woods off the plasma TV, then sat down in an armchair and picked up the phone. He adjusted his voice to sound both somber and crisply efficient. “Henry Paxton.”
“Paxton? You need to get your ass over here to Fair Weather.”
He recognized the foghorn bellow of that awful woman in charge of Dorothy’s care. One-handed, he
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