Karen possessed a different kind of beauty. Hers was the active, tennis-pro look. She had long, dark hair and a lithe, athletic body. People had trouble believing that she and Leslie were mother and daughter. They looked and acted completely different. Leslie preferred to curl up in a fluffy blanket and read, while Karen was relentlessly active. She was a fresh-air-and-exercise fanatic. For the last six years Karen had jogged around Lake Harriet every morning, dragging Leslie with her. That was how they’d met, the three of them.
Mike had been coming home from an all-night party, camera slung over his shoulder, when he spotted them. He was always on the lookout for a photogenic subject and he’d stopped to take a few pictures of the lovely black-haired runner and her towheaded child. It had seemed only natural to ask for Karen’s address and a day later he was knocking at her door with some sample prints in one hand and a stuffed toy for Leslie in the other. The three of them had formed an instant bond.
Leslie had been fascinated by the man in her mother’s life. She was five then, and fatherless. Karen always said Leslie was the image of her father—a handsome Swedish exchange student with whom Karen had enjoyed a brief affair before he’d gone back to his native country.
They made an unlikely trio, and Mike grinned a little at the thought. He had shaggy brown hair and a lined face. He needed a shave at least twice a day. Karen claimed he could walk out of Saks Fifth Avenue, dressed in the best from the skin out, and still look like an unemployed rock musician. The three of them made a striking contrast in their red Land Rover with MIKE HOUSTON, PHOTOGRAPHER painted on both doors.
Mike was so busy thinking about the picture they made that he almost missed the house. Karen’s voice, breathless in his ear, jogged him back to reality.
“Oh, Mike! Stop, please! Just look at that beautiful old house!”
The house was classic; built before the turn of the century. It sprawled over half of the large, tree-shaded lot, yellow brick gleaming in the late afternoon sun. There was a veranda that ran the length of the front and around both sides, three stories high with a balcony on the second story. A cupola graced the slanted roof like the decoration on a fancy cake. It struck Mike right away: here was the perfect subject for a special old-fashioned feature in Homes magazine.
“That’s it, isn’t it, Mike?” Leslie’s voice was hushed and expectant, as if she sensed the creative magic of this moment. “You’re going to use this house for a special feature, aren’t you?”
It was more a statement than a question and Mike nodded. Leslie had a real eye for a good photograph. “You bet I am!” he responded enthusiastically. “Hand me the Luna-Pro, honey, and push the big black case with the Linhof to the back door. Grab your Leica if you want and let’s go. The sun’s just right if we hurry.”
Karen grinned as her husband and daughter made a hasty exit from the truck, cameras in tow. She’d voiced her objections when Mike gave Leslie the Leica for her ninth birthday. “Such an expensive camera for a nine-year-old?” she’d asked. “She’ll probably lose it, Mike. And it’s much too complicated for a child her age to operate.”
But Mike had been right this time around. Leslie loved her Leica. She slept with it close by the side of her bed, along with her fuzzy stuffed bear and her ballet slippers. And she’d learned how to use it, too, listening attentively when Mike gave her instructions, asking questions that even Karen admitted were advanced for her age. Leslie seemed destined to follow in her stepfather’s footsteps. She showed real talent in framing scenes and instinctively knew what made up a good photograph.
Her long hair was heavy and hot on the back of her neck and Karen pulled it up and secured it with a rubber band. She felt a bit queasy but she knew that was natural. It had been a long drive and she remembered getting carsick during the time she’d been carrying Leslie. Just a few more months and she would begin to show. Then she’d have to drag out all her old maternity clothes and see what could be salvaged.
Karen sighed, remembering. Ten years ago she was completely on her own, pregnant and unmarried, struggling to finish school. But once Leslie was born it was better. While it had been exhausting—attending decorating classes in the morning, working all afternoon at the firm, then coming home to care for the baby—it was well worth any trouble. Looking back, she could honestly say that she was happy she hadn’t listened to all the well-meaning advice from other women about adoption or abortion. They were a family now, she and Mike and Leslie. She hadn’t planned on getting pregnant again so soon, but it would all work out. This time it was going to be different. She wasn’t alone. This time she had Mike to help her.
Karen’s eyes widened as she slid out of the truck and gazed up at the huge house. It was a decorator’s paradise, exactly the sort of house she’d dreamed of tackling when she was a naive, first-year art student.
She found Leslie around the side of the house, snapping a picture of the exterior. As soon as Leslie spotted her mother she pointed excitedly toward the old greenhouse.
“Oh, Mom! Look at this! You could grow your own flowers in here! Isn’t it super?”
“It certainly is!” Karen gave her daughter a quick hug. Leslie’s excitement was contagious and Karen’s smile widened as she let her eyes wander to take it all in. There was plenty of space for a children’s wing on the second floor and somewhere in that vast expanse of rooms was the perfect place for Mike’s studio and darkroom. The sign outside said FOR SALE. The thought of owning this house kindled Karen’s artistic imagination. They had mentioned looking for a house only last week and here it was. Of course it would take real backbreaking effort to fix it up, but she felt sure it could be done. It would be the project she’d been looking for, to keep her occupied the next six months. With a little time, patience, and help from Mike with the heavy stuff, she could turn the mansion into a showplace.
They were peeking in through the glass windows of the greenhouse when they heard voices. Mike was talking to someone in the front yard. They heard his laugh and another, deeper voice. Karen grabbed Leslie’s hand and they hurried around the side of the house in time to see Mike talking to a gray-haired man in a sport jacket. There was a white Lincoln parked in the driveway with a magnetic sign reading COMSTOCK REALTY.
Rob Comstock had been driving by on his way home from the office when he saw the Land Rover parked outside the old Appleton Mansion. He noticed the painted signs on the vehicle’s door and began to scheme. Out-of-towners, by the look of it. Making a sharp turn at the corner he drove around to pull up behind the truck, shutting off the motor of his new Continental. He’d just sit here and let them get a nice, long look.
This might be it, he thought to himself as he drew a Camel from the crumpled pack in his shirt pocket. He’d wanted to be rid of this white elephant for years. It had been on the books since his grandfather bought it eighty years ago. Rob leased it out whenever he could but that wasn’t often enough to make a profit. Tenants never stayed for more than a couple of months. It was too large, they said, or it was too far from the Cities. Even though the rent was reasonable, they still made their excuses and left. He’d been trying to sell it for the past ten years with no success. Houses like this one had gone out of style in his grandfather’s day. It was huge and inconvenient, and keeping it up was a financial disaster. It seemed nobody wanted to be stuck with an eight-bedroom house . . . especially a house with a reputation like this one.