Hidden Riches by Nora Roberts Page B

aspect—though, of course, she could have had a brilliant career on the stage.Truly brilliant,” he said with some regret. “But she chose the world of retail. Genes are a peculiar thing, don’t you think?”
    â€œI haven’t given it a lot of thought.” A lie, he thought. A basic one. He’d spent a great deal of his life thinking about inherited traits. “Listen, I need to finish this before I lose the light.”
    â€œWhy don’t I give you a hand?” Quentin said with the unexpected streak of practicality that made him a good director as well as an actor.
    Jed studied the padded belly, the red suit and flowing white cotton beard. “Don’t you have elves to handle this kind of thing?”
    Quentin laughed merrily, his booming baritone echoing on the windy air. “Everything’s unionized these days, boy. Can’t get the little buggers to do anything not in the contract.”
    Jed’s lips quirked as he turned on the sander again. “Once I finish here, you can help me put it up.”
    â€œDelighted.”
    A patient man, Quentin sat on the bottom step. He’d always liked to watch manual labor. “Watch” being the key word. Fortunately, a modest inheritance had kept him from starving while pursuing his acting career. He’d met his wife of thirty years during a production of The Tempest, he as Sebastian and she as Miranda. They had entered the brave new world of matrimony and had traveled from stage to stage, with considerable success, until settling in Philadelphia and founding the Liberty Players.
    Now, at the comfortable age of fifty-three—forty-nine on his résumé—he had whipped the Liberty Players into a respected troupe who performed everything from Ibsen to Neil Simon at a steady profit.
    Perhaps because his life had been easy, Quentin believed in happily ever after. He’d seen his younger daughter tidily wed, was watching his son staunchly carrying the family name onto the stage. That left only Dora.
    Quentin had decided that this healthy young man with the unreadable eyes was the perfect solution. Smiling to himself, he pulled a flask out of Santa’s pillow belly, took a quick nip. Then another.
    â€œWell done, boy,” Quentin said half an hour later as he heaved himself up to pat the banister. “Smooth as a lady’s cheek. And it was a pleasure to watch you work. How does one secure it in place?”
    â€œTake a hold,” Jed suggested. “Carry your end up to the top.”
    â€œThis is fascinating.” The silver bells on Quentin’s boots jangled as he climbed the stairs. “Not that I’m a complete novice, you see. I have assisted in the building of sets. We once constructed a rather spiffy Jolly Roger for a production of Peter Pan. ” Quentin twirled his white moustache, and a look of menace gleamed in his eye. “I played Hook, naturally.”
    â€œI’d have bet on it. Watch yourself.” Making use of Brent’s electric drill, Jed secured banister to post. Throughout the procedure, Quentin kept up a running conversation. Jed realized it was as easy to tune him out as it was to tune out the background music in a dentist’s office.
    â€œAs easy as that.” Back at the base of the steps, Quentin shook the rail and beamed. “Steady as a rock, too. I hope my Izzy appreciates you.” He gave Jed a friendly slap on the back. “Why don’t you join us for Christmas dinner? My Ophelia puts on an impressive production.”
    â€œI’ve got plans.”
    â€œAh, of course.” Quentin’s easy smile didn’t reveal his thoughts. He’d done his research on Jed Skimmerhorn much more thoroughly than anyone knew. He was well aware that Jed had no family other than a grandmother. “Perhaps New Year’s, then. We always throw a party at the theater. The Liberty. You’d be welcome.”
    â€œThanks. I’ll