Chapter 12: Mrs. Crane Has a Price

The buzzer sounded at ten past seven.

Claire was standing at the kitchen counter in Weston's shirt, with a cup of coffee she had not touched.

Ross came down the hall with a flat, unreadable face.

"Mr. Crane," he said. "The doorman says there's a gentleman in the lobby who won't give a name."

"Does he have a silver head?"

"He does."

Weston put down his cup.

He had slept two hours, and it showed.

"Tell him I'm out."

"Let him up," Claire said.

Both men looked at her.

"He's your father," she said. "He's standing in your lobby because he can't wait until Saturday."

"I want to see what he does when he thinks nobody's watching."

"He'll be charming."

"I've met charming. I was engaged to his son."

Weston studied her face, and something moved in his.

It was not quite a smile.

"Send him up, Ross."

Thurston Vanderveer came through the door at an easy pace.

He was taller than the photographs.

He wore a dark overcoat and no hat, and he had the easy, forward lean of a man who had never had to ask for a chair.

He stopped just inside, and for a moment all the charm went out of him, and he only looked at his son.

"Weston."

"Thurston."

It was a small word, and it landed hard.

"You've cut your hair."

"Eight years ago."

"Ah," said Thurston.

Then he turned, and the charm came back.

"And this is Mrs. Crane."

"Claire."

"Claire." He took her hand in both of his, warmly, and she let him.

His fingers were dry and strong.

"My daughter-in-law. I like that."

"I've wanted to say it to someone for a long time, and it's a pleasure to say it to someone with a spine."

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