Michael stepped back, tilted his head to one side, trying to ascertain how old Emma had been when she had sat for this portrait. Most probably in her late thirties, he decided. With her chiselled features, flawless complexion, reddish-gold hair and those extraordinary green eyes, she had been a great beauty as a young woman: there was no doubt about that whatsoever.
Little wonder his own grandfather had been madly in love with her those many years ago, and ready and willing to leave his wife and children for her—according to Kallinski family gossip, at any rate. And from what he understood from his father, David Kallinski had not been the only man to fall under her mesmeric spell. Blackie O’Neill had apparently been bewitched by her, too, in their youth.
The Three Musketeers. That’s what Emma had called them—his grandfather, Blackie and herself. In their early days together, at the turn of the century, they had been considered an unlikely trio… a Jew, an Irish Catholic and a Protestant. Seemingly they had not paid much attention to what people thought of them or their friendship, and they had remained close, almost inseparable, throughout their long lives. And what an unbeatable trio they had proven to be. They had founded three impressive financial empires which straddled half the world and three powerful family dynasties which only went from strength to strength with the passing of time.
But it had been Emma who had been the real mover, the doer and the shaker, always pushing ahead with vision and enterprise, the two men following her lead. Anyway, that was the way his father told it, and he had no reason to disbelieve him. And he knew from his own experience of her that Emma had been absolutely unique. As far as the younger members of the three clans were concerned, she had certainly left her imprint on each one of them, himself included. Her indelible stamp, his father called it.
Michael smiled to himself, remembering exactly how Emma had been thirty-odd years ago… rounding them up as children and carting them off to Heron’s Nest for the spring and summer holidays. They had called her ‘The General’ behind her back, and the house in Scarborough had been affectionately referred to as ‘the army camp’. She had put them through their paces and instilled in them her own philosophy of life, had taught them the meaning of honour and integrity, the importance of the team spirit and playing the game. And all through the years of their growing up she had given unstintingly of her love and understanding and friendship; they were better people now for having known her then.
A look of love washed over his face, and he touched his hand to his forehead, gave the portrait a small salute. She had been the very best… just as her granddaughters were the best. A rare breed, the Harte women, all of them, and most especially Paula.
The sound of the door opening prompted him to swing around quickly.
His face lit up at the sight of Paula.
‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting!’ she exclaimed, looking apologetic, hurrying forward to greet him.
‘You didn’t, I was early,’ he replied, going to meet her in the centre of the floor. He gave her a huge bear hug, then held her away, stared down into her face. ‘You’re looking wonderful.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the portrait, then brought his gaze back to hers. ‘And you’re beginning to resemble that legendary lady more than ever.’
Paula groaned, gave him a look of mock horror as they drew apart.
‘Oh God, Michael, not you too! Please. There are enough people who call me the Clone behind my back without you giving voice to the idea.’ She shook her head. ‘That’s all I need from a dear friend…’
He burst out laughing. ‘I sometimes think you’re all clones, actually. The lot of you… Emily and Amanda, as well as you.’ He swivelled to face the portrait. ‘And when was that painted, by the way?’
‘In 1929. Why?’
‘I’d been trying to figure out how old Emma was when she sat for it.’
‘Thirty-nine. It was started and finished just before her fortieth birthday.’
‘Mmmm. I guessed as much. And she was beautiful then, wasn’t she?’ Not giving Paula a chance to reply, he went on, with a small grin, ‘Do you realize that you and I would have been related if David had left my grandmother Rebecca and run off with Emma?’
‘Let’s not get into all that old history today,’ she said with a light laugh, moved rapidly towards the desk, sat down and added, ‘Anyway, I feel as if we are, don’t you? Related, I mean.’
‘Yes.’
He followed her across the room and seated himself in the chair facing her.
There was a brief silence, then he remarked quietly, ‘Blood might not be thicker than water as far as some families are concerned, but it is when it comes to the three clans. Our grandparents would’ve killed for each other, and I think their kind of loyalty has been passed down to our generation, hasn’t it?’
‘I should say so—’ She cut herself short when the phone rang and reached to answer it. After saying hello and listening for a second she put her slim, tapering hand over the receiver, explained, ‘It’s the manager of the Harrogate store, I’ll only be a minute.’
He nodded, sat back in the chair, waiting for her to finish her call, quietly studying her as he had studied the painting only a few minutes before.
Michael Kallinski had not seen Paula for over two months, and because he had been away her uncanny resemblance to Emma had struck him more forcibly than ever when she walked in. Her colouring was different from Emma’s, of course. Paula had hair as black as pitch and eyes of the deepest darkest blue. She had inherited Emma’s clear, finely wrought features, though, and the famous widow’s peak, which was extremely dramatic above those large eyes set wide apart. With the passing of time the two women seemed to merge more and more, to become identical, to him at least. Perhaps it had something to do with the expression in Paula’s eyes these days, her mannerisms, her pithiness, the way she moved—swiftly, always in a hurry—and the habit she had of laughing at her misfortunes. These characteristics reminded him of Emma Harte, just as her attitude in business did.
He had known Paula his entire life and yet, oddly enough, he had not really known her until they were both in their thirties.
When they had been children he had not liked her one little bit, had considered her to be cold, standoffish and indifferent to them all, except for her cousin Emily, that roly-poly pudding of a child whom she had forever mothered, and Shane O’Neill, of course, whom she had always striven to please.
Privately, Michael had called her Miss Goody Two Shoes, because she had been just that, a child who appeared to have no faults whatsoever, one who was always being clucked over, praised and held up as an example to them by their respective parents. His brother Mark had had his own name for her… Paragon of Virtue. He and Mark had secretly laughed at her, made fun of her behind her back, but then again, they had scoffed at all the girls from the clans, had never wanted to spend time with them, had preferred to be roistering around with the other boys. They had banded together with Philip, Winston, Alexander, Shane and Jonathan, who had been their boon companions in those days.
It was only in the last six years that he had come to know Paula and he had discovered that this shrewd, hardworking and brilliant woman hid a deep emotional side behind her cool air and her inbred refinement. The aloof manner was merely an outward manifestation of her shyness and natural reserve, those traits he had so misunderstood in childhood.
Discovering that Paula was quite different than he had believed her to be had come as something of a shock to him. To his astonishment, he found she was so very, very human. She was vulnerable, warm, loving, fiercely loyal, and devoted to her family and friends. Terrible things had happened to her over the past ten years, devastating things which would have felled most other people, perhaps even destroyed them. But not Paula. She had suffered deeply, yet had found strength from adversity, had become a most compassionate woman.
Since they had been working together they had drawn closer, and she was his staunch supporter in business and an ally in every
way, whenever he needed one. It occurred to Michael now that he would not have been able to cope with his messy divorce and his dreadful personal problems without Paula’s friendship. She was always willing to listen to his woes at the end of the phone, or make herself available for a drink or a meal when the going really got tough. She had cornered a special place in his life, and he would be forever grateful that she had.
For all her success and sophistication and self-confidence, there was something about Paula—an endearing little-girl quality—which tugged at his heart, made him want to do things for her, want to please her. Frequently he went out of his way to accomplish this, as he had in New York recently. He wished the interminable phone call from the Harrogate store would come to an end so that he could impart his news.
Paula put down the receiver, made a little moue.
‘Sorry about that,’ she apologized. Leaning back in the chair, she went on, in an affectionate tone, ‘It’s lovely to see you Michael… and how was New York?’
‘Terrific. Hectic. I was up to my neck with work, since our business is going well over there right now. Still, I also managed to enjoy myself, even had a few weekends out in the Hamptons.’ He leaned closer to the desk. ‘Paula—’
‘Yes, Michael?’ she cut in, eyeing him astutely, alerted by the urgency in his voice.
‘I think I may have found it… what you’ve been looking for in the States.’
Excitement flew onto her face. She sat forward slightly, her eagerness only too apparent. ‘Private or public?’
‘Private.’
‘Is it for sale?’
‘Isn’t everything—if the price is right.’ There was a hint of mischief on his face as he held her eyes.
‘Come on, don’t tease me!’ she exclaimed. ‘Is it actually on the market?’
‘No, it isn’t. But what does that mean in this day and age of the takeover? The owners can be approached… it doesn’t cost anything to do that.’
‘What’s the name of the company? Where is it? How big is it?’
Michael chuckled. ‘Hey, steady on, I can only answer one question at a time. The company is called Peale and Doone and it’s in the midwest. It’s not big, only seven stores… suburban stores. In Illinois and Ohio. But it’s an old company, Paula, founded in the 1920s by a couple of Scotsmen who settled in the States and at first dealt only in Scottish imports. You know, woollen goods, tartans and plaids, cashmeres and the like. They extended their inventory during the ’forties and ’fifties. But the merchandise is supposedly stodgy and the company’s in the doldrums, management-wise that is. Quite solid financially, or so I’ve been led to understand.’
‘How did you hear about Peale and Doone?’
‘Through a lawyer friend who’s with a Wall Street law firm. I’d asked him to be on the look-out for a chain and he heard about this company through a colleague in Chicago. My chap thinks they’re ripe for a takeover.’
Paula nodded. ‘Who holds the stock?’
‘The heirs to Mr Peale and Mr Doone.’
‘There’s no guarantee they’d sell, Michael.’
‘Correct. On the other hand, often stockholders don’t know they want to sell until they’re actually approached to do so.’
‘That’s true, and it’s worth investigating further.’
‘You bet it is, and although this chain is small, it might well be perfect for you, Paula.’
‘It’s just a pity the stores are in the boondocks,’ she murmured, and with a grimace, thinking out loud, ‘Big cities like Chicago and Cleveland would be more my speed.’
Michael gave her a sharp stare. ‘Look here, with your flair and expertise you can easily put your own special cachet on any store anywhere, and you know that. Besides, what’s wrong with the boondocks? There’s plenty of money to be made out there.’
‘Yes, you’re quite right,’ she answered quickly, suddenly realizing she may have sounded ungrateful after the effort he had made on her behalf. ‘Can you get some more information, please, Michael?’
‘I’ll ring my friend in New York later in the day and ask him to pursue this further.’
‘Does he know you were inquiring about retail chains for me?’
‘No, but I can tell him if you like.’
Paula said very briskly and firmly, ‘No. I think not. At least not for the moment, if you don’t mind. It’s better no one knows. The mention of my name could send the price skyrocketing. If there’s going to be a price, that is.’
‘Point well taken. I’ll keep Harvey in the dark for the time being.’
‘Please… and thank you, Michael, for going to all this trouble for me.’ Her smile was warm, sincere, as she added, ‘I really do appreciate it.’
‘I’ll do anything for you Paula, anything at all,’ he replied, his eyes filling with affection for her. Then he glanced down at his watch. ‘Oh, it’s getting late! We’d better be going. I hope you don’t mind, but the old man’s invited himself to lunch.’
‘Of course I don’t mind,’ she said, her voice rising slightly. ‘You know I adore Uncle Ronnie.’
‘And the feeling is mutual, I can assure you.’ He threw her an amused look. ‘The old man dotes on you… he thinks the sun shines out of you.’
She picked up her black patent bag and moved across the room. ‘Come on then, let’s go. We don’t want to keep him waiting, do we?’
Michael took her arm, escorted her out of the office.
As they went down in the elevator he could not help thinking about his father and Paula, and their special relationship which had developed over the past few years. The old man treated her like a beloved daughter, whilst she seemed to revere him. Certainly she behaved as if he were the shrewdest man alive, which, of course, he was. Dad’s become her rabbi, Michael thought suddenly with an inner smile, and a substitute for her grandmother. Not surprising that some people considered their friendship peculiar and were jealous. Personally, he applauded it. Paula filled a void in his father’s life. Perhaps he did in hers.
Chapter 3
Sir Ronald Kallinski, chairman of the board of Kallinski Industries, walked across the impressive marble lobby of Kallinski House at a leisurely pace.
Tall, slender, a man of dominating presence, he had black wavy hair, heavily frosted with white, and a saturnine face. He had inherited the eyes of his father David and his grandmother Janessa Kallinski; they were of the brightest cornflower blue and seemed all the more startling because of his weatherbeaten complexion.
Renowned for never appearing ruffled or dishevelled, no matter what the circumstances, he was always perfectly groomed and elegantly attired. This morning he was wearing a charcoal grey three-piece suit with an impeccable white shirt and a pearl-grey silk tie. Although he was almost seventy, he was in such robust health and was so vigorous for his age he looked like a much younger man.
As he strolled through the vast entrance foyer, he nodded graciously to several people who recognized him, and paused to admire the Henry Moore reclining figure in the centre, which he had commissioned from the great English sculptor who also happened to be a Yorkshireman born and bred. Sir Ronald was as proud of his north-country origins as he was of his Jewish heritage.
After a brief moment of contemplation in front of the imposing piece of bronze, he continued on his way, pushed through the swing doors and stepped out into the street. He drew to an abrupt halt after taking only two steps, recoiling as the intense heat hit him. He had not realized how hot the day had become.
Sir Ronald could not abide heat of any kind. Upstairs in his executive suite, a series of handsomely-furnished rooms spanning the entire top floor of the giant office complex bearing his name, the atmosphere was icy cold, thanks to the air conditioning that was permanently turned up high and the well-shaded windows. This area of Kallinski House was generally referred to as ‘Antarctica’ by those who occupied it with him. Doris, his secretary of twelve years, had grown used to the freezing temperature by now, as had other e
xecutives who had been with him for more than a year or two, and none of them bothered to complain any more. They counteracted the chill simply by wearing warm sweaters in their offices. Even in winter, Sir Ronald kept the executive suite and his various homes as cold as he possibly dared without eliciting violent protests from staff, family and friends.
Earlier that morning he had contemplated walking to the Connaught Hotel; now he was relieved he had changed his mind and had ordered his car up from the garage. It was sizzling out here, and oppressive, hardly the kind of weather for sauntering through the busy streets of Mayfair.
His chauffeur had spotted him the instant he had emerged from the building and was already standing stiffly to attention next to the back passenger door.
‘Sir Ronald,’ he said, inclining his head respectfully, and opened the door wider.
‘Thank you, Pearson,’ Sir Ronald responded with a half smile, stepping into the burgundy coloured Rolls-Royce. ‘The Connaught, please.’
The car pulled away from the kerb and he settled back against the seat and stared absently ahead. He was looking forward to lunching with Paula and Michael. He had not seen her for several weeks and his son had been in New York for over two months and he had missed them both… in different ways.
His son was his good right hand, his alter ego, his heir apparent, and his favourite. He loved his younger son, Mark, very much; but Michael had a special hold on his heart. He was never quite sure why this was so. How could one explain these things? Sometimes he thought it was because his son was very much like his own father had been. Not that Michael looked anything at all like David Kallinski, being so much more Anglo-Saxon in appearance with his fair complexion and blondish hair. It had to do with a similarity of character and personality, and just as Sir Ronald had enjoyed a marvellous camaraderie with his father until the day of David’s death, so did he now with his son. It had been thus ever since the boy’s childhood, in fact, and he noticed Michael’s absences most acutely these days, was frequently lonely when his first born was travelling.