The Inheritors by Harold Robbins Page A

the problem of where you will live.
    “Your parents appointed me the executor of their estate, but did not provide a legal guardian for you. Under the law, the court must appoint one until you are of age.”
    My aunt and I turned to look at each other at exactly that moment. I could feel myself being drawn into her. I didn’t wonder any longer how she felt about me. I knew.
    “Mr. Blake,” I said, still looking at her. “Couldn’t my Aunt Prue—I mean, isn’t it all right for Aunt Prue to be—”
    There was a moment’s silence, then we both turned to look at him. He was smiling. “I was hoping you would say that, Stephen. There shouldn’t be any problem at all. Your aunt is your closest living relative.”
    Aunt Prue got out of her chair and came over to me. She took my hand and I could see the tears in her eyes. “I, too, was hoping that was what you would say, Stephen.”
    Then, suddenly, I was in her arms and I was crying and her hand was stroking my hair gently. “There, Stephen, there. It will be all right now.”
    A month later when I came down from school for summer vacation, I went straight to Aunt Prue. It was late in the afternoon and the warmth of the day was still hovering over the station. A few other passengers got off, but they soon left the platform and I was standing alone. I picked up my valise and trudged toward the small wooden station, wondering if my aunt had received my telegram.
    Just as I reached the station door a battered Plymouth coupe pulled up and a young girl got out. She looked up at me for a moment; puzzled, then she spoke. “Stephen Gaunt?”
    I stared down at her. There were smudges of paint on her face and her long sun-bleached brown hair hung down over the blue denim work shirt she tucked carelessly into a faded pair of men’s levis. “Yes,” I said.
    She smiled in relief. “I’m Nancy Vickers,” she said. “Your aunt sent me down to pick you up. She couldn’t come because she’s right in the middle of a class. Throw your bag in the backseat.”
    She got into the car and I followed her. Expertly she shifted gears. She looked at me and smiled again. “You surprised me,” she said.
    “How?”
    “‘Go down to the station and pick up my nephew,’ your aunt said. I thought you would be a kid, I guess.”
    I laughed a little flattered.
    “How was the trip down?” she asked.
    “It was a train. Dull. Stopped every twenty minutes or so to let some express go through.” I took out a package of cigarettes and held it out to her. She took one. I lit her cigarette first, then mine. “Do you work for my aunt?”
    She shook her head, the smoke curling up around her eyes. “No. I’m one of her pupils. I also model.”
    “Oh,” I said. I hadn’t known that Aunt Prue taught art.
    She took my word for something else. “It’s not so bad,” she said. “Modeling helps me pay for my own lessons.”
    “What are you studying?”
    “Painting mostly. But I take sculpture twice a week. Your aunt says it helps with form.”
    I glanced at her and grinned. “You look like you need help.”
    She caught my glance and laughed. “How old did you say you were?”
    “I didn’t,” I said. “Seventeen, if you want to know.” I added a year.
    “You look older,” she said. “You’re big for your age. I’m not that much older than you. I’m nineteen.”
    We were out just past the edge of the small town and turned left on a road that seemed to lead to the beach. We were almost there when she made a sharp right turn into a hidden driveway.
    The house was on a small knoll overlooking the water. It was sheltered from the road by a row of northern pines. She stopped the car in front of the house. “This is it,” she said.
    I looked out. The building was a typical Cape Cod cottage, but of course much bigger. There were two small painted wooden signs on either side of the picket gate.
    The one on the left read, CAPE VIEW INN AND COTTAGES FOR SELECTED GUESTS. Later I was to learn